For the Dead Travel Quickly (Longer than drabble length. But I needed to write it.)

So many places, so many windows, so many freeze-frames. All of them seem to be missing something.

London, 1978: an apple tree, rhubarb growing, a bed of bearded iris. The neighbour's cat, Motheringay, stalking caterpillars in the grass. By summer of 1979, there will be a pram under the tree, a baby sleeping in the July heat.

Nice, 1990: Talkative sky, the sea moving to the south, cars and tourists, Africa in the distance where the storms come from. From the second bedroom, the Cathedral of Ste. Reparata, whose acts, it seems, are now considered "spurious".

Paris, 1997: a 12th century church wall, saints bleeding forever in glass. My bedroom, off the Boulevard Fauberge St. Honorè, has a tiny terrace. I drink my morning coffee there, coming indoors when it rains.

Montevarchi, 2000: olive groves, climbing the hillside the way Hannibal once did. My window frames the olives to the north; to the south, our hosts' horses drink and doze, among lemon trees heavy with sourness and grapevines creaking when the wind moves.

So many places, so many roads, all supposed to heal me. All missing something.

Forgotten, unforgiven, I pack up my suitcases and my ghosts, and move on.

snow day

Yesterday my view was uninteresting, a uniform matte grey. But I loved it because I knew it meant that today's view would be this.

Candy crystal white covering everything. The branches of the sagebrush prickly with snow. Ice dripping in perfect stillness from the unbudded trees. Whiteness nestling in the crevices of the mesa. And in the distance, the morning sun golden as it trails its fingers across the mountain's spine.

I sip my hot cocoa and breathe the steam while the sparrows chatter and jays scold. Paw prints trail behind soft-footed creatures as they move silently through the dawn.

not the view

A parking lot, sidewalk. The decrepit side of an old warehouse. Customers browsing the Catholic bookstore on the floor below. It's not much.

The tang of cigar smoke from the martini bar. Barbecue roasting for the workmen's lunch. The faint hint of oil that skims the pavement after the rains.

The buzz and whine of the amplifiers from that old warehouse. The slow, lazy strains of blues from the patio soundcheck. Seems like it's acoustic guitar at the brewery. Some dance band at the club. Hmm. The blues band is the best tonight, think we'll head over there after dinner.

Liese, those are lovely vignettes. I like the "what I hear out the window" take, as well. A sort of audio view.

a too-close neighborhood

We put posters on the window when we realized that anyone washing dishes in the kitchen of the next house had a perfect view of the bed. The only thing separating the houses is ten feet of weeds and a driveway. Not enough.

"So I told the summabitch I didn't want him in my house anymore, and the kid probably i'n't his anyway."

"Oh, God," Hubby mutters. "It's an episode of Trailer Park Stories again."

I peek through the gap to see the neighbor woman toss back her badly bleached hair and switch cellphone and cigarette from hand to hand. Hubby turns up the stereo.

"Hey!" Miss Trailer Trash yells. "Turn that down, my kids are trying to sleep!"

"So maybe you don't want to share your opinion of the son of a bitch so loudly, then," I call back.

"Huh?"

"Close the curtain, sweetheart," Hubby sighs. "She'll be kicked out soon enough."

It's funny, 'cause the "out the window" immediately triggered that apartment for me. But when I thought about it, it had nothing to do with the view. But I loved being able to stick my head out the window and listen to the soundchecks. I loved being able to walk down the street to hear the bands. It was a great "view," just not one I could see.

Meanwhile, today the dog & I went out and romped in the yard, joyfully messing up all the pristine whiteness. So much fun.

I'm losing my mind waiting for word from the editors who requested a full and my marketing plan.

It'll be two weeks on Monday. I'm bursting out of my skin.

Longer is better. No is short, you know?

My mind is going to all the bad places! Maybe they forgot to tell my agent they're not buying!

You're sweating after two weeks?

Allyson, oy. Ask the nice agent lady how long this particular editor generally takes on a submission. If she says two to three months, you'll get a glimmering of why the rest of us develop ulcers. Because that's pretty common.

But longer is better. She didn't read the first chapter and send it back with a "no thanks".