Very nice drabbles.

I'm all filled with writing business and marketing plans at the moment, but hopefully the dancing drabble I feel tugging at the edges of my mind will assert itself soon.

An anthology of drabbles? That could be cool.

Do you know how hard it is to type erotica with one hand? Jive kitten...

Belly Dance

It starts out slow: here are the rhythms, set early on. The slow movement of eye meeting eye, dilation of pupils, recognition - no backbeat yet, just the bass, the first movements into motion.

Into your arms, drumbeats, BOOMboom, setting the temp for hands and hips. Lips, tongue, hands, it's the guitar, setting the midrange, Chuck Berry, swamp dancing.

Legs give way, freefall, belly to belly, five beats, Bo Diddley, bumpdebumpdebump, pause, bebumpBUMP, and here's the piano, all eighty-eighty keys, from the thunder of the low end to the tiara trill of coupling.

Play on, baby. Let the dance begin.

Actually, I find it relatively expected, Deb.

Nic pointed out to me that the men writing those letters to Penthouse write porn using just one hand all the time...

of course, I write everything that way for the most part because my left hand's not incredibly helpful. Doing research...having one of those "You have a stupid life and know nothing. What the hell are you thinking?!" moments

of course, I write everything that way for the most part because my left hand's not incredibly helpful.

Mine's heading down that road; it was the first thing to be affected by the MS. Different level of "not helpful", though. Yours is way more definitive.

Doing research...having one of those "You have a stupid life and know nothing. What the hell are you thinking?!" moments

I spent three hours researching a fucking phrase in Scots Gaelic, and two lines of grammar in Lallans (the Scots broad lowland speech). The result was three paragraphs of text. I keep telling myself that once I'm done, I can go back to Kinkaid and start London Calling....

Yeah, it can hit the Shift and stuff like that, but my attempts at two-handed typing are mostly failures because if I concentrate on keeping Lefty in the game, I can't think about what I'm typing anymore...it's just finger therapy. And, despite knowing the keyboard very well after typing for over twenty years, I still have to look. Trying not to look messes up my rhythm. And really, since the ideas are the point, I guess I can look like an amateur. Yeah, I guess you can't break the space-time continuum to confirm what you need to know anymore than I can really be a male cop that put in his paper...I need to get over that voice that says "it's because you're a helpless freak, you know." I didn't actually need to sell crack to write about a guy that does. Whether I sell that story EVER, I can't wait to show it to the next person that comes on like "Oh, honey, did you write that yourself?" That happened to me once before, actually. I wrote a story as an answer to a story my teacher wrote(my first fic!) because Women Don't Do whatever he was having this chick do, so arrogant me, I was like "This is how to write like a woman."(luckily, he loved the story, which was about a giant homewrecking slut. I gave her some humanity, though, which he didn't.) Anyway, we had a guy work on our carpet, and he was really stoked that I was a writer, in a Very Special Arts way...he had an acquaintance who painted with her mouth or something, and so he wanted to see something of mine. The slut story was the latest...and I didn't think about the shock he must have sustained until he never said another word to me.

I'm amazed and gratified that I can still play guitar; I think it's because, having done it for forty plus years, the fingers know where to go. My father was a worldclass musician, developed adult onset type 1 diabetes after he was wounded at the end of the Second World War and it got infected and suppressed his immune system. The diabetes took exactly three weeks to basically render his hans inoperable, and he'd been a piano player and a banjo player and, above all, a killer violinist.

Man, we are so damned frail, we humans.

Yeah, but so resilient in our fucked-up way.That said, repetitive-stress in this hand would ruin what is unruined in my life, and it's bad enough I ended up one-eighth Indian without a jump shot, you know?