Anything can be made better with a judicious application of Inigo Montoya.

One of my favourite taglines during the ramp-up to the invasion of Iraq: "My name is George W Bush! You defeated my father! Prepare to DIE!"

I'm sitting here with an acoustic guitar and one of my earlier drabbles, In Winter Darkness, which was a poem written for the "Holiday Hell" challenge. It was suggested it ought to be a song lyric.

It's kicking my ass. Something about the structure wants to be almost Gregorian chant or church music or Edmund Purcellish, and I can't work it out.

Feh.

"My name is George W Bush! You defeated my father! Prepare to DIE!"

I'm sorry, nothing can beat the good Goofy bad Goofy sitting on the voter's shoulders, "My dad wears pants." "I invented pants!"

That was adorable, but was it Inigo-related? (memfault)

I'm asking this here because it's less "noisy" than hte other threads--tonight notwithstanding--and Susan's generally here.

I'm reading Jane Austen's "Northanger Abbey," and our heroine is in Bath. One of the fashionable places she's hanging out is the pump room.

What the hell is the pump room? The only mental image I'm getting is the turbine rooms of huge hydroelectric dams, and it's screwing up the appreciation of fashionable people wandering around and seeing and being seen. All those trains and feathers would be hell to manage around the turbines.

Allyson -- why don't you see what you want to write, and I'll see if any of the bits of my life make me feel oogie.

Okey dokey. I've been thinking over what I want to add, and it's more about my own embarassing moments than adding stuff about you, personally, which I think will protect your privacy.

I'm thinking about adding something about the World's Hottest Security Team as well.

I was talking to Strega last night and she sort of talked me through the more interesting points. It was "dangerous" to invite you in. I didn't know you. You could have robbed me blind or hurt me in some way. You could have betrayed my privacy. You could have been a different person than the one you are, and it never occured to me that you were anyone but who you said you were.

I'm having trouble getting the point across that it wasn't a naive view on my part. There are few people to whom I'd extend that sort of invitation. I could count them on one hand, if that hand was missing three fingers.

It's hard to describe instinct.

I guess the only way to "prove" that my instinct that you were who you said you were, incapable of hurting me or betraying trust, is to say that a couple of years later, I'm still entrusting my safety to you.

And people will say, "she could have stolen everything. she could have killed you in your sleep. she could have told everyone about the unfortunate freak-out with the peel-and-stick linoleum in the bathroom."

And all I can say about that is, "but she didn't."

Allyson, there's the universal theme again: trusting one's own instinct.

I picked ita up at SFO at half past two in the morning and she spent, IIRC, three nights in my house. We'd never met. It never occurred to me not to believe my own instinct, that the woman I'd been hanging out with online for a solid year was not likely to be somehow grossly different from the one I'd invited into my house.

connie, the Pump Room was a Georgian conceit, I think; all the Dandy crowd and the Prince Regent hung out there.

edit: Pump Room, Bath

Funny...Allyson talking about that and the Buffy Quote right now is DAWN: I feel safe with you. SPIKE: Take that back!

Well, like all of you, I'm finding the topic difficult, and particularly painful just at the moment. I thought about doing drabbles on each of my former residences, but instead I did this. Twice the length. Not in the mood to edit.
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laundry list
The house in Canton. Never saw it.

The Avalon Inn. "Play, mommy, otay?" at three am.

Warren and my youth. 20 acres, woods, a pond, fruit trees, horses, living room dancing with southern sunlight.

Coshocton. No closet space but independence.

Zanesville and my adolescence. Years in a rental and a fall down the stairs.

Tennessee. Dorm. Waterfalls and death. Midnight elopment phone call.

Indianapolis. Studio. One-bedroom. Racecar drivers. Sex.

Wichita. The castle house and a landlord's ghost.

The loft apartment. Blues and brewery beer. An old hotel's crooked floors.

Pinetop. Three people and fifty instruments in a two room cabin. Sweet sticky pine sap.

Dzil na'oodilii. The pink house. Cedar burning in the fireplace. A sleeping dog.

The home left to me stank of sewage and I needed to leave it.

Only safe in our van; we eat, sleep, dream, create there.

A vandal tosses an idle rock and my last delusion of home shatters.

Floor plans. Library books. Conversations. Fundraising. My next home waits uncertainly in the fringes of my imagination. Tremulous, ethereal, unreal.

There is no home. Not yet.

Oh, Liese. Shit. Hard one.