Insomnia
He stood still black body hidden against the walnut floor He stayed still beside my bare right foot a finger-width away He waited still 8 legs spread silver-dollar wide hairy thorax like a fat dime He watched still as my hand stretched out reached for a murder shoe Clickety-clack quick-skittered into a crack beneath the wall The wall beside my bed
Why does this exist? (a stuffy artist statement)
Because I nearly heart-attacked myself the other day when I accidentally locked myself in my tiny bathroom with an enormous spider. And now I don’t have to be terrorized alone. You’re welcome.
Something that stuck with me this week:
A friend sent me a picture of an inner forearm with a tattoo that ran down its length. The text of the tattoo has been bouncing around my head all week:
“joy is not a trick”
I looked it up, and it’s from the soul-warm poet Joy Sullivan. Mmm, glorious.
An Irish blessing (just because I like them):
Experience is the comb that life gives a bald man.
I post on Friday mornings
Just so you know what to expect. I may also post at other times, but for sure on Friday mornings (6:00am PST delivery so we can sip coffee together and celebrate another week done). See you then!
About Rachel
Working on a scifi book series about a girl who just wants to heal her father from his terminal illness but inadvertently sparks an intergalactic incident instead.
Also writing poetry, essays, short stories, and whatever else leaks from my pen.