quinbrowne

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it's automatic for me... to wake up, sit on my sofa, sip my coffee, read a bit, then face the rest of the day. it's automatic for my spouse to talk during this time, nudge me to do some odd chores she thinks need doing and i feel are find left alone. i have my agenda--and she has one for me. the twain do not meet. so, i changed my agenda a bit to accommodate her. now, when i'm sitting sipping reading, if she forgets that change, and falls back on giving me her version of my day, it's automatic for me to back hand her across the face. i've found it makes my life far more enjoyable in a variety of ways.

scarves

the idea of scarves had never crossed her mind in the past. she'd seen them, crayon shades on display on vendors tables in every corner of the city. cashmere, cotton, sheer fabric, long, short--each kind was represented and shilled by men with strange accents, willing to bargain a little if the day was right. scarves filled a drawer in her dresser now. they covered her bald head, her thin shoulders--draped and tied to hide the worse of the disease and it's equally horrific cure. she was glad for them, for the warmth, the rich colors--the sense of beauty she sought in a world of needles, therapeutic poisons and pain.

vase

I'd never worked in pottery before.. the whole idea of getting my hands dirty with clay was far beyond anything I felt like doing. Still, I'd watched 'Ghost' six times, and the instructor was hot...so, why not? One night, I stayed late--he'd almost given up on my ever centering a lump of clay. I'd almost given up on his ever noticing the gap in my shirt every time I leaned over the pottery wheel. Sometimes, things change. He discovered my, um, talents lay beyond making cups and vases...and I discovered art tables weren't just for art. Sometimes, creating art can take on many forms--right?

brave

She wasn't very brave...not really. Her courage extended to dealing with children's cuts and scrapes and fishing the cat out of a tree. The one thing that was beyond her comfort zone were spiders. Those, she killed from a safe distance with a can of hairspray and a match. Little black spots on the walls were worth the ability to kill and scream at the same time.

writing since 1969 · 41 entries · 40 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Quin showed up.

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on this day 17 years ago

Quin wrote about match
“i need a piece of liver, because mine is shot. she told me. your sister said she'd give me a piece of hers, and i can't figure out why you don't love me enough to offer me a piece of yours. this is …”

the words Quin reaches for

lovesatdonefarheartsitnowfoodeyesfulllazymakinggymwatchedpiecematch