Jackie Chan is so bloody cool.
Jackie Chan is so bloody cool.
I got to thinking about the relationship, the very real relationship, between inner and outer beauty. I've seen myself in the mirror, seen photographs of me, enough to know what a difference a few tweaks in this and that make.
There's a reason why the grey shorts and the bug shirts and the yellow shirts have been strictly set aside as home-wear. There's a reason why I've been trying to wear my hair down whenever possible. There's a reason why I put on concealer and lipstick when I go out (or try to).
I know how unlovely I look when I look like I'm not taking care of myself (pale lips, blotched skin, cross expression, unflattering clothing). I've seen, also, photographic evidence (as well as anecdotal evidence from others) that when I do have my hair arranged, my makeup done, and my clothes right, I'm striking, lovely, and even beautiful. And no matter how happy I look without makeup and in battered clothing, I always look better with color in my lips and with the illusion of clearer skin.
I may not be Marilyn Monroe or Bettie Page. But what I've got, I'll flaunt.
I'm growing stronger after my month-and-a-half of forced inaction due to the foot. I can walk for longer, and walk faster. Near the mall skate facility, two to three girls were fighting, hitting each other, ripping at permed-and-streaked hair. I dodged in to tell an employee to call security; when we came out, the girls were gone.
The library was cool. I returned my five books. I always take notice of the shy teenage young men in the science fiction section. This one was too reserved for me to share book recommendations with.
I walked back through the mall in Patricia McKillip's Winter Rose. This attracted the attention of a giggle of teenage girls. "She's reading a book in the mall!" they called to each other, finding this the most hilarious thing ever.
I stopped in at one of the cheap glasses places and got new nosepads on my prescription sunglasses. One had fallen off, and I noticed it just before setting out. A bruise on the right of the bridge of my nose is courting me.
There was a long wait for the bus; the Red Line arrives early, and waits until its prescribed time for takeoff. The driver was in the mall getting coffee. I sat in the sun and read, then sat on the bus and read more. I'd thought of getting orange chicken, but the little shop is closed on Sundays, and I don't think I want to range far from home when my mind is slipping into spaces unseen...
Winter Rose does that to me. It looks to have elements of Tamlin... that story always throws me for a loop. It's so familiar...
The writing bug has bitten again. I have a story seed, "Body Log", and have gotten the first few paragraphs of The Necromancer's Prayer to disk.
It depresses me to hear him with Little Fayoumis trying to do something serious, because of the many levels they're not communicating on. They're working on what looks to be an art project, and Little Fayoumis agreed to it gleefully. Marx has a certain vision of how it should be, and Little Fayoumis has never really worked with very many art things in this household.
Little Fayoumis doesn't have the word/shape connections yet in all cases; he doesn't have the artist's eye yet. He knows how to cut paper, how to draw, how to get what he wants on paper -- but not the words to say, "A robot's head is square, with rectangular eyes and a circle mouth." He doesn't have the practice to separate the elements of the drawing into the basic shape of the head and the details; to him, the whole thing is the shape, and any difference makes it not-so.
Combine this with a grown-up, impatient artist, who is great at playing with kids, but still needs more practice in working with them, and his artistic vision of the finished product?
I walked in my room and shut the door, because the tension was just too high. They'll sort things out, between them, but I'm not to be there while that's happening.
I'm a communications specialist. (I really need to get my CIS degree and re-enroll as TCOM.) Since Little Fayoumis couldn't say it in words, and the words were confusing him, (and I am sure that the reason he did not say, "I don't understand what you mean", to Marx was because he knew he would get something more he didn't understand, or a lecture about how he should have been listening even though he was trying to) I showed up with a piece of paper and a pencil and asked him to draw the robot head so they'd know what they were talking about.
That, fortunately, worked.
And I went and I swept out of the kitchen and I locked the door, which is shielded.
We shall see.
Now it works right again.
Have you seen the movie American Pie? (Warning: movie has nothing to do with Don McLean.)
And the sequel?
Assuming for the sake of argument you were local enough to, would you want to see American Wedding, the third movie in the trilogy, with me?
And, are you local enough to?
...That was one of my favorite books as an early teen. It's a good yarn, but the execution is... well... it's a poster child for the "Show, don't tell" thing. It is, of course, being the bad example...