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The surreal:

English's crazy friend (the one that thinks just like me) coined the "chicken knickers" one. There is this Dominoes Pizza dish called "chicken kickers", evidently because they are spicy. English's crazy friend mis-heard it. "Chicken knickers?!" (Of course, English mis-heard that, but that mis-hearing was neither polite nor printable. I'll leave it at the mental image of a rooster in panties, thanks very much.)


As I was driving home, an opening line to something popped into my head. So I repeated it to myself, trying to make it stick with me so that I could write it down when I got home. Then more followed it. I repeated those over and over to myself. I tried to exploit my voice dial feature (I can call Livejournal hands-free, because I have that set up with voice recognition) but alas, that's one of the numbers that's down. So I just kept on repeating it to myself, over and over. And the lines smoothed themselves out, resolved little snarls, and added more things. They didn't come out in full sentences. I just kept repeating them over and over because otherwise I'd lose them, but if I had the flow of them, I could keep them going.

Eventually, the timed and paced delivery of my voice (it was a poem, of sorts) gave way to song. The tune picked out things that were weak, and showed me where the strengths were. I worked through version after version of minor changes, singing the sad poem out into the cool wet night as I drove for home and paper.

I parked and pulled my journal from my purse, grabbed a pen from the car, and wrote with my door open and the dome light on. It took more paper than I expected. It was such a small thing in my mind when I was singing it. It was compact, there. On paper, it sprawls larger than life. A promise made and broken long ago.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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