utter and complete writer's block, except for the line, "bats with baby faces in the violet light", which plays through my head like the last chords you hear on the radio while you're in the car but is not from the book i finished twice over. i hate powdery smells and the appeal of baby powder scents is lost on me, apparently only me. the exception to the rule is the powdery fragrance of certain lavenders, because i had a canister of peter rabbit lavender talcum powder from my grandparents when i was tiny tiny and i made it last for years. now i have a hydrosol that i spray over myself when I'm hot and fitful in bed and the air conditioner pushes it away from me while i ruminate on all the splinters and projectile moments that make their way through chinks in faulty mental armor on a minute to minute basis. the cloud of lavender reminds me of ghosts in her fearful symmetry who are at first cold and know hardly anything. and have to be confined to drawers before they can gather the strength to slide a planchette. i don't suppose there's any rule that says that stream of consciousness can't be embarrassingly hollow. it's an exercise in pink jellied vulnerability to leave it hollow rather than erasing it for the sake of a blog. i wanted to post an image of highgate, because that's where i am, well not physical like. but i never found out how to post a cemetery thing without it looking trite-trite. the best i can do is a piano.
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