I’m really out of energy for this right now; in the last few days I’ve thought about approximately 6 different blog entries I could write and been unable to muster up the wherewithal to actually spit them out. So I am sorry. I don’t like letting the dates go by without an up, but I just… got nothin’ tonight.

I did, however, write this today. And not too long before that I wrote this, and the week before I wrote this. They were all great fun to do, and they all started with other people’s wonderful images. Maybe if I stopped writing about my own (very enjoyable, but not very dramatic) life for a change, that would help. Hmmm. That gives me an idea, and if I get a refill of “It” over the weekend I might just try it out. We can only wait and see. :-)

Kisses, lovelies. I’m just tired, is all. I miss you. All. More soon.

What is it about sounding an alarm that is so irresistible to the human animal? Why do our fingers tingle when they are close to glassed-in levers, axes, tiny red buttons underneath screaming red signs? Why, when traveling on a train, does the dangling emergency cord seem to dangle right into our chortling imaginations, which envision with glee a string of carriages jerking to a stop with screeching sounds, and the train conductor huffing towards us with a face like a paper white mask of evil? Is it the same thrilling, irrational impulse that makes us lean over the edges of parapets, or some strange ancient reflex that makes us want to check the connections between ourselves and our communities, make sure that the system for signaling the need for emergency action really does work? Maybe it’s a sense of existential boredom; a deep desire for change and upset, for some break in the endless triviality, no matter how confused and chaotic. Or maybe it’s Poe’s sly old imp of the perverse sitting on our shoulders. Whatever the reason, every time I look at this picture I itch to feel that cool metal tab in the grip of my fingers, and I can almost feel the exact exertion of pressure it would take to slide it ever… so… gently… down.

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In other news: I saw Bill Clinton today, through the window of his black SUV. Hiya, Bill! And I learned a new word in the company spelling bee (held as part of a month-long charity drive and which I attended but did not participate in): the musical direction scherzando — to play in a merry, playful or even joking manner. Lovelies, may the music of your evenings be full of scherzando themes.

Hey, remember how I told y’all about Poverty Fighters? And put the button on the right over there? ————————->

Well, in case you haven’t been reading the news (or the right kind of news, at any rate ;-)), I thought I would mention that the Nobel Peace Prize Committee made a most fantastic choice of laureate this year. It awarded the 2006 prize jointly to Muhammad Yunus of Bangladesh, and the Bangladeshi bank he founded, Grameen Bank: for their “efforts to create economic and social development from below” through work in micro-credit loans. Hooray! I told you micro-credit was cool. I told you clicking that thing every day would make a difference. I bet you didn’t really believe me. But now I’ve got the Nobel Peace Prize Committee on my side, baby.

So go ye forth and click some more. You are working for peace every time you do. Peace.

Click.

Edit: Heh. Perhaps due to increased visibility, Poverty Fighters has cleaned up their website and is working on making it even better (it does look prettier). So my button has temporarily disappeared, making that arrow up there look very silly indeed. But STILL.

:-)

I’ll let you know when I put a new button on.

Ross and I spent dinner discussing the colonization of other planets as a way of ensuring the survival of the human race after we completely exhaust the sustainable resources of the earth we were so beautifully designed (by nature) to live on, and encountered a fundamental difference of opinion.

He thinks sending pioneers to the Moon or Mars would be one possible solution to the problem of our extinction: pretty much a no-brainer, in fact, if we can pull it off; I, on the other hand, think that if we get to the point where we are no longer able to live on this incredibly hospitable orb because we’ve destroyed so much of its life-giving properties, and must consider aggressively transforming the very surface and atmosphere of another hurtling rock in order to keep ourselves alive, well — at that point, I generally think we’d be better off slowly (or quickly, depending on how much momentum our history of foolish and selfish acts has gathered) dying off.

Ross finds it difficult to grasp why I am not emotionally committed to the survival of my species. I say, just think how much more wonderful things would be without us around! Hey, maybe a new form of intelligent life would evolve from some species of arthropod, and the earth would be filled with strange, beautiful dragons.

(Many of you will disagree with my point of view, which is totally understandable. Someday I may disagree with my point of view. But if you really care, hit me up for a conversation in person sometime, ok? Ross and I only managed to have as good a discussion as we ended up having with the help of a bottle of red wine, and the internet, lovely as it is, is sadly lacking in intoxicating properties.)

There is a scene in a Season 4 episode of Buffy (otherwise a somewhat disappointing season) in which the following dialogue takes place:

TV Announcer: Sunnydale is still reeling from news of the crime. A source in the coroner’s office tells us that the boy was stabbed with what looks like some kind of large skewer and his body was then mutilated. Police have not named a suspect and the killer is still at large.

BUFFY: That probably would have sounded more commanding if I wasn’t wearing my yummy sushi pajamas.

Ever since then I have wanted a pair of yummy sushi pajamas. And tonight, my friends, I am here to tell you that I am wearing such a pair. They look like this, and they are fuzzy, and they make me feel like a slayer.

When I was little and my sister and I would dilly-dally (do they say “dilly-dally” here?), my dad or mum would say “Come on, shake a leg!” to make us hurry up.

My best friend’s mother hated it when she sat with legs crossed and shook one foot rapidly up and down. She thought it was the height of crassness.

When your legs are shakin’, it means you’re impatient — you’ve got somewhere else to be — you’re on your way and you don’t have the time or the grace to hang about sitting quietly.

The past few days have been exhausting. Absolutely wonderful, but exhausting. The next few promise to be just as busy. I feel like I really need to shake a leg so I can get things done, so in the meantime I’ll have to rely on these pictures of several very peaceful (and pretty) feet to remind me of a lovely evening when I didn’t have any responsibilities except fetching myself another glass of wine, listening to the conversation of friends, and celebrating the happiness of two people who were made for each other.