Week in Seven Words #155
The dog criss-crosses her leash around and through my legs.
The weather, in a way, is perfect: a cloudy cold day, not too cold, the air fresh and scented with herbs and flowers. Because the garden is only half-alive, a sunny day might have made it seem burned out and dead. But the winter mist brings out every hint of color in the broken twigs and grey-green leaves.
Neighborhoods laid down side by side: slums and fast food joints giving way to gabled homes with chocolate trim.
The bench, sheltered in the gazebo, overlooks the garden, the pale river, and the clouds.
Maps fire the imagination. This one has names like 'conifer slope' and 'aquatic garden' that sound intriguing but turn out to be a sodden hill and a fountain that isn't active in the winter.
Cacti of all kinds: some look like rosettes on a cake, others like cold sorbet fuzzy with ice, others like balls of electricity.
I like when the subway climbs out into the light and rattles alongside rooftops and billboards.
Week in Seven Words #156
A cold wind that seems to scrape out the inside of your skull.
Gristly duck and faded decor in a restaurant that was once great.
In a span of five blocks we see something like 10-15 people in Elmo costumes. One of them has terrible body odor, so no one stands next to him.
A dusting of snow on the curbs and benches.
Making money off my writing gives me a really good feeling.
When the ghosts start swarming out of sewer vents and subway stations, the dog yaps at the TV.
Through her dolls she tries to cope with her anxiety about broken bones and reassure herself of a speedy recovery.