Afternoon in Solace and Mercenary Thoughts.
“Don't you just love those long rainy afternoons in New Orleans when an hour isn't just an hour - but a little piece of eternity dropped into your hands - and who knows what to do with it?”
Tennesee Williams had it right. And he wasn't talking about Katrina, either, though that must've been a Hand of God moment, everlasting.
I like short turquoise skirts. I don't like crowds. I want to be that pigtailed 3 year old again, who hid among the circular clothes rails and spun them around to terrify shoppers. Or the beastly 15 year old who, dragged out to Marks 'n Sparks with her older sister by their mother, managed to reconcile with the former for an afternoon of terrorizing the latter as revenge for being taken to the lingerie apartment. Popping up like meerkats among the apple-catcher bras and voluminous knickers, more often than not wearing them on our heads a la Biggles. She never took us shopping together again.
As it was, I behaved just enough to buy said turquoise skirt and a few other fripperies (money seeps through my fingers like Stigmata blood) before revealing my inner child, and tripping up a real one in an aisle.
Countdown to tonight.
Posted via m.livejournal.com.
Tennesee Williams had it right. And he wasn't talking about Katrina, either, though that must've been a Hand of God moment, everlasting.
I like short turquoise skirts. I don't like crowds. I want to be that pigtailed 3 year old again, who hid among the circular clothes rails and spun them around to terrify shoppers. Or the beastly 15 year old who, dragged out to Marks 'n Sparks with her older sister by their mother, managed to reconcile with the former for an afternoon of terrorizing the latter as revenge for being taken to the lingerie apartment. Popping up like meerkats among the apple-catcher bras and voluminous knickers, more often than not wearing them on our heads a la Biggles. She never took us shopping together again.
As it was, I behaved just enough to buy said turquoise skirt and a few other fripperies (money seeps through my fingers like Stigmata blood) before revealing my inner child, and tripping up a real one in an aisle.
Countdown to tonight.
Posted via m.livejournal.com.