Saturday, November 29, 2008

Scouting mission

I made a few rounds to local stores picking up certain goodies for next week's party. Got two key ingredients for egg nog, hurray for rum and bourbon!

I will pick up the torch and ramekins for the creme brulee tomorrow (my sister says it's too complicated but I like a challenge.

I considered mulling some spiced wine but I figure what I have in beverages is plenty.

I may do some fresh guacamole, I will decide the final menu tonight.

Some may wonder, "Why do you do all this?" Because I can. Because it makes me smile to see others enjoying themselves.

I do hope those who show up leave with full bellies and warm hearts...and they brag to everyone who could not make it. ;-) Ha ha just teasing.

Monday, November 24, 2008

Well that's just GREAT

I am feeling under the weather and I come home from work to find TWO rejection notices waiting for me.

TWO, with form letters telling me to buzz off. HA!

Trust me, I know that the publishing world, much like the rest of the economy, is hurting. This is the worst time to try to get my foot in the door.

But I'm not done. Oh no, I am NOT FRIGGING DONE.

I just need to reassess and attack again.

I will get published, I will have a party and then all see I am no wannabe, quitter flake, etc...

And what do you have to say about all this, Kenshiro?

Sunday, November 23, 2008

I have returned...

I'm back home, unpacking, deflating, looking for a snack to eat...

I'm glad I did this trip. It wasn't the French Riviera but I didn't need that this week. More soon, my tummy is rumbling...

Flame and Bone

When I was made from fire
Poured into the tender vessel of caution
That keeps my smoke from rising
Quickly did I discover that apart from crisp drizzles or falling snow
The world chilled my touched
Walking the narrow cornered gap between girders and cut stone
One learns to tuck his shoulders in or risk
Jostling a neighbor passing by rapt with want
For a clear path without the distraction
Of another man's boiling eyes
The tip of a finger
That oldest of all weapons
Grown deadlier and pristine in its invention
Gathers a mote of a cinder on its bare flesh
And turns pondering how best to scratch the impious itch
Prying open the tender seam
Where the oil of thought dews
Offering a new wick to ignite
Squirming alive as a salamander of mischief
That yearns for a taste of air it is so ready to devour
The steam of breath betrays me
Before the glint of orange spreads
In popping bright waves
Eroding the fibers feeding it
Leaving naught but ash
As my shell of quietude falls away