Felt

As I write, my palm rests upon the page. Felt tip. Starless. As my words move left to right the side of my hand soaks up the surface, darkens in a self-induced shadow, and slurs my thoughts.

I'm left-handed. Right-brained.
Absent-minded. Present tense.

For whatever reason, I've spent the early part of this week in a haze. We had this defcon one thing going on at work, visiting dignitaries from the ivory tower, the kind of audit that makes your bosses freak out and the sewage run downhill until the danger is passed. The flood rose enough that even I started to get worried about it, and I spent a good part of my weekend cleaning up classrooms and tidying up appearances so that I wouldn't be the bruise on the otherwise shined surface of the apple.

The templars never darkened my door, and apparently the danger passed without incident. But the rush to make the grade has made the rest of this week seem fogged, unreal even. My mind is (of course) other places, lost in memories and distractions, looking for footholds among paperwork and planning.

Among the rubble I found myself attempting a valentine. A cautious message of remembrance and affection, wrapped in waters without ripple, tied at the top with a wink and a bow. But the words kept fumbling. The ink kept streaking under the weight of my dragging palms.

Frustrated, I ended up browsing YouTube, ignoring work to be done.

They have Mystery Science Theater 3000 clips on there now.

Later on you call me on the phone with a joke "only I would get."

The ink smeared
The palms dark
...Starless

Felt.

[Listening to: My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult, "Kooler Than Jesus"]