His arms are folded across the heaving sea.

The Slave and I did a dry run tent-raising, and I cannot begin to express the amount of love I have for my pink tent. It is tres fab. I snuggle it.

I wish wish wish I could take a picture but alas I can haz no camera. Boo.

Today has been pretty whack in terms of actually getting anything done. In theory, I’m supposed to clean my house and organise stuff to pack and do home school with Sprog the Elder. I’ve done like . . . half of these things.  Failcake surprise!! Only not really, because we all know I am a lazy lazy person.

This morning I managed to write a staggering 323 words. But then a Very Important Potato pointed me at this bonsai story tree at critters. Ans so I spent the morning creating bizarre word poems out of old and new manuscripts.

 Heavy velvet curtains fell from outside influence.

and

 and double-checked the fact that the day is a bizarre orange shade

and

 His fingers are blinded at the flapping lines.

Or even this

 The sun was still scraping by, but he unfolds his pockets, and he finally stands there, trembling.


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cat_hellisen

I write.

2 thoughts on “His arms are folded across the heaving sea.”

  1. I tried the Bonsai tree thing with a section of one of my biographies that I have been writing and part of a romance novel. It had body parts, buttons, hot moist breath, and odd commentary all over the page!

    Very surreal!

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