too literary...

Tara, the walking rug that keeps me company while I write, is a curious beast. Daschunds tend to be, and long-haired daschunds moreso. I've known a few in my day.

Perhaps they know, deep down, that they look kind of silly. Elongated, sausage-like and earnest. Tara is a lovely dog but ridiculous. Her hair drags grass-cuttings, twigs and all sorts of detritus through the house. She has a beard, snauser-like. Sometimes she feigns back pain to convince Christina to lift her onto the couch, sometimes she deftly leaps to the couch herself, when she thinks that no one's looking. When she's excited to see you, she'll rise to her hind feet, back pain forgotten, and try to give you a hug.

It's endearing. It's also laughable and absurd.

I find myself making fun of Tara. Not in a hurtful way. In a soft voice, usually while scratching her belly or behind her ears. I make fun of her beard, the way her butt shakes when she walks, how badly she smells. The fact that she's a bit thick. I push her away when she tries to lick me.

As long as it's with a gentle voice and looking her straight in the eyes, her feelings don't get hurt. She still tries to lick me and we get along just fine. I reconcile my affection for her with my incredulity at her silliness.

I've been a bit nicer today. More scratches behind the ear and fewer soft-spoken jibes. Her silly presence is welcome.

An email arrived this morning. It was complimentary and vague, written softly. It spoke of how they enjoyed my chapters (but never what they enjoyed about them). It ended the soft compliments with the regret that it was 'too literary' for their agency.

I suppose it's better than being 'too rubbish' or 'too vacuous'.

I could use a hug right now. No words or consolation, just a long, quiet hug.
Instead I'll scratch the belly and behind the ears of a smelly long-haired daschund who I won't even let give me a kiss.

new extinct things.

They found a new dinosaur! A new species, no less. How cool is that?

Well, I think it's cool.

So there.


Listen to I Still Remember and Sunday by Bloc Party.

snap and tang

The sun roof's open, so are the front windows. A warm breeze billows into the car from all directions. The M90 moves apace, The Who belt out Baba O'Reilly, and the road bridge pops onto the horizon. Downhill and up again, the motorway twists and turns. Goosebumps rise on my forearms, and the bridge is just ahead.

The air changes. It drops several degrees. The breeze doesn't billow; it whips and snaps into the car, chilled with the salt tang of the sea.

The windows stay down, the sunroof stays open and the sunlight stays bright.

Scotland in the summer is wondrous. When it's not grey.

And sometimes when it is.

Limbo

–noun, plural -bos.

1.	Roman Catholic Theology. a region on the border of hell or heaven, serving as the abode after death of unbaptized infants (limbo of infants) and of the righteous who died before the coming of Christ (limbo of the fathers or limbo of the patriarchs).

2.	a place or state of oblivion to which persons or things are regarded as being relegated when cast aside, forgotten, past, or out of date: My youthful hopes are in the limbo of lost dreams.

3.	an intermediate, transitional, or midway state or place.

4.	a place or state of imprisonment or confinement.

lim·bo2

–noun, plural -bos.

a dance from the West Indies, originally for men only, in which the dancer bends backward from the knees and moves with a shuffling step under a horizontal bar that is lowered after each successive pass.

I prefer the latter.