Today
I ate
a blackberry with cream.
It was
a dream
in purple and white,
staining my lips
with every delicate
bite.
It was heavenly
Ice cream.

Remember; Whales eat Krill.

I bought a little painting this week. It's actually a Coke advertisement from 1936. It shows an old fisherman sitting on a red dory, holding a green glass bottle of Coke. His beard is thick and white against his lined, tanned face. He wears a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up past his wrists, worn leather boots, and a twinkling smile, for he has had a good catch this morning. Standing in front of him, her bare feet buried in the sand and salt water is a little girl, perhaps six years old. She wears a little green dress with a wide, white collar, all tied up behind her, and white bloomers peek out underneath. Her mother curled her hair last night, and this morning put a green bow in it to match her dress. The afternoon sun kisses her face and neck, making them glow. She too holds a bottle of Coke, only she has a straw to sip it with.
One isn't sure who gave who a Coke, but I think the little girl asked her mother for one to give to the 'dear old fisherman who looked so hot yesterday, mama. And he smiled so kindly at me, can I please give him a Coke? I'm sure he would like it.'

I stood in the deoderant aisle, sniffing all the differant scents, trying to decide between Secret Platinums Ambition, the Teen Spirit Berry Breeze, or the Lady's Choice Coconut Lime, when I was struck by the silliness of the situation, and cracked up in hysterical laughter. People passing by gave me weird looks, that said "Oh gosh, now teenagers are getting high on deoderant fumes.":

I have always been fascinated with my piano teachers house.
Since I was a little girl of eight, I have come nearly every week in the fall, winter, and spring, sat on her oversized, abstract couches and stared at her shelves, longing to touch and handle everything. She and her husband travel often to Europe, and have a whole collection of various figurines, dishes, and art.
Next to the window stands a proud little row of blue and white pitchers, some filled with dried bunches of flowers, others waiting expectantly with their matching sets of cups, as if wanting to be filled with black tea or fresh milk. On the shelf below, are exotically painted pipes and wooden eggs; a little wooden man standing in a chair, his coat and bowler hat painted olive green, a little black gun poking over his shoulder; a porcelin peacock and two matching French women, their hands hidden in red muffs, their curls tucked up under flimsy little bonnets. Wooden cows, engravings of the saints, and a statue of the Virgin Mother. The wall beside is covered in paintings of European cities, street corners, and countryside, looking so magical and pure.
And the clocks! They are never on time, but are each of them so intricate and beautiful. The two cuckoo clocks with tiny little doors, and hanging pine cones seem to have come straight out of a black and white movie. One clock looks like a castle, with glass windows, and a brass wall around the top.
On another window sill sits an array of severe porcelin busts of the composers, frowning down at us little students who so cruelly botch up their brilliant music. Beethoven, Chopin, Handel, Debussy. Bach wears a ridiculous headband with foam music notes shooting up like antennas, making him scowl all the more fiercely at the mockery of it.
Now around the room, across from the red brick fireplace, and next to the white closet door are two rows of little blue plates, perhaps three or four inches in diameter, all depicting lovely scenes of great and important buildings in France, Italy, Spain, and England. Above the piano hands a gigantic framed sheet of old music in a foreign language. You always wonder what it says.
Despite all of these weird and wonderful things, the room is a cold and barren place. The walls are sterile white. The bookshelves are filled with tedious titles on subjects in which you have no interest. Bach glares down at you, chiding you if you're not sitting on the piano bench, reminding you of every mistake if you are. But you learn to pay him no mind after a time. You turn your attention to study other things - the oriental rug beside the baby grand; the perpetually broken coat rack; the side table with dusty red antique music books whose titles you never remember to read, or never get the courage to make the treck out of your chair and across the white shag rug, under the watchful eyes of the saints and composers.
I have always been fascinated with my piano teachers house.

'"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations and leading to the most outre` results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."'
~The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes:
A Case of Identity

Despite the fact that we just got a Home Depot and a Super WalMart in our town, and despite the fact that the locals are feeling pretty darn proud of the fact that we're really a city now, it's an undeniable fact that our 'city' is full of small town folks.
After a long hard day of waitressing, I went out to lunch by myself and reveled in the quietness and warmth of my little corner table. The food was superb, I didn't have to get my own water, and I didn't have to remember a single thing. Across the room from me a British couple who moved here quite a few years ago had ordered two cups of soup and a side of corn fritters. Two ladies who could by no means make up their minds what to order sat at the table next to them. When the food arrived for the British, one of the other ladies jumped up and asked what on earth they ordered. She was wild about corn fritters, but had never tried these, so the British couple gave her a bite of theirs, with their fork.
Correct me if I'm mistaken, but that could only happen in a small town.

I walk alone.

Through masses of people
By the rows and rows of shops
In the second floor of the mall.

Sliding my eyes across
Cheap merchandise, all the same
All demanding my attention.

Sick of the human race
The lack of class we've achieved
The disregard for finer things.

But wait, a striking scent
Of mens cologne awakes me
And brings the smile to my lips.