What rock have I been under?

So there are three types of birds in Edinburgh that I see everywhere:

Gulls
Pigeons
Crows

But there is a fourth that I have occasionally seen. I can only describe them as pigeongulls. They look like exactly half of each. Very strange.


The other night, I took a walk down to Princes Street to see the city at night. I really like North Bridge and everything looks lovely in blues and golds. Drunk guys, couples holding hands, the shadow of the castle over everything -- this city breathes at night. Anyway, I was coming back and I was freezing because it was colder than I anticipated and I was just wearing my sweatshirt. Tom Petty pulsing loudly in my ears, singing about falling free. I was just in front of Hunter Square and, as a result, Hotel Ibis. (That's where Teddy stayed while he was in town.) And this guy catches my eye as I walk past him -- wicked German, wicked fast. He's cute, I think. Then I do a Scooby-doo double-take. Of course he's cute, hand-rolled cigarette and all.

It's the guy from the coffee shop.

So, so, so good. I didn't say anything and he didn't see me, but I was sort of shell-shocked. I stared for a second, shook my head to clear it, and thought, "Really?" Then I walked back and listened to Jackson Browne. "Pretty little girl running up and down the street with no shoes on." Anyway, it basically made my walk worth it. And then I went past the darkened Festival Theater and thought, April 3rd, mi amor.

We read Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl" in creative writing the other day and I totally got geek all over the place. Stace had us read that when we looked at flash fiction and all I could think was, "This story smacks me in the face old-school style with a blistering edge." It's a pretty fantastic example of what you can do with short fiction, and with a single sentence, and punctuation.



Yellow flower, nine letters, third letter 'T.'

Buttercup. (He laughed and I felt like I had won...)


I'm trying to figure out what to write my story for Raj about. Sara's argument is, "When in doubt, stick to the bogs." Which, yeah, okay. That's fair. Write what you know, and all that jazz. I'm just angsting all over lately.

Gauguin has fewer questions than I do.

But then in the morning, I walk outside and it's sunny and warm and just slightly breezy. The flowers have popped, purple and white covering the ground. And this afternoon there was a real hailstorm. Little hail, not golf-ball sized hail. But hail. And this city is so charming and pretty -- I'm very fond of it. There are a good number of Scottish people here.

But there's still this nagging uncertainty under everything. And I think it's just the imminent due date for my Div III proposal. But I can't decide what kind of tea or hot chocolate I want, what I want to write about, where I want to do, who I want to be when I grow up, and I for sure cannot decide how I feel about specific people and events. I'm not qualified to decide if it's safe to cross the street; how can I decide anything else?

I just don't trust my judgment when people leave me alone with it.



Anyway, the new Kelly Clarkson is hilariously eerie. I enjoy Kelly Clarkson music to no end. And I'm not ashamed. Why should I be?