On graph paper?

I can't write on graph paper, my brain gets confused.

Yep, bringing a 'lil spiral then buying something pretty in Europe sounds like the way to go.

Oh, cool. Only our math books were graph paper. Well, not the fine graph -- .5cm increments, not 1mm. God, we had such paper rules in school. They controlled that more than the uniforms.

I carry the little 3" x 5" notebooks for random thoughts, addresses of people I meet, records of how much a trinket cost (for customs), odds and ends. Also if I am traveling with someone and sharing expenses, how much each of has spent for dual things, like meals, lodging, etc.

These little memory joggers are wonderful years later. Also money conversions. I find out how much the currency is worth in my familiar money (dollars) so I can bargain or shop. On Oct 1, lordy knows what year, the British pound was worth 1.473 dollars. 35 pounds was $51.56.

Remembering the paper fixations from school during the first nine years of my life (pre-USA), and shuddering. I thought I'd been unlucky about the fixations on size and weight...

Teppy! New topic?

graph paper

Yes, that is what I meant. I don't think all notebook paper is like this, but it seemed like much more of it was than wasn't.

(Until last year, my permanent currency conversion was 1 pound = $1.50, more or less. Last year, I discovered that it's more like $1.85, which was depressing.)

Topic topic topic....

Challenge #61 (two people in a small space; written [or not] in a genre) is now closed.

Challenge #62 comes from a confluence of little things that inspired me, including the "easy listening" radio station that's on in the office, as well as a note on my computer reminding me to listen to Fresh Air this afternoon, to hear Christian Bale talk about being Batman.

Anyway. Challenge #62 is the air we breathe.

Go for it.

drabbling

There's less of it now than where I grew up. I'm near a mile high here (Denver's not that unique). I thought I'd die those first few months, sea-level lungs wringing air out of an attenuated atmosphere.

I went home later. My mother looked over at me. "Are you breathing?"

"Of course I'm breathing, why?"

"I can't tell."

"Mountain people, you know. We get down in this lowland soup and we only have to breathe every other minute."

I ran up some stairs without breathing hard. It was nice.

Heh.

Kiss

I know what power is.

It's what happens when we're face to face, eyes narrowed, pupils dilated, because, for each of us, the other blocks out the rest of the world.

It's what happens when one of us breathes, lips parted slightly, soft air, the treasure stored in lung and throat, moving into the confinement of that narrow highway, that slender unmarked road between my lips and yours.

It's what happens when one of us lifts a hand, stirring the air, generating energy, power -breath, lung to throat to lip.

Have I mentioned that you are the air I breathe?