Old Friends 

"I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign"...my scabies story.

I realized that I sometimes avoid situations the way I avoided holding my daughters hand during the past weeks. She would grab hold of my hand, I would find a way to fanagle not having my hand there while at the same time not freaking her out by mentioning about The Bugs.

First, it started like an allergic reaction to soap or something, maybe some sort of enigmatic hives...it itched and caused her some distress, not to mention the skin was peeling away from between her fingers. Ew. Athlete's Finger, par chance? Too many cartwheels on the grass? Chemlawn? Eh? Dunno...

It is odd to think of Tiny Whos from Whoville actually LIVING inside the skin of someone you love, though, as we all know there are a myriad of itsy bitsy humanoid-lovin' parasites out there. Just. Well. You don't usually have to wash all of the clothing, linens and pillows in your abode to avoid terrible itching.

Crabs. In fact. What a hell of a name. Crabs. Scabies. Ick of the subcutaneous variety. Makes one think of the Ganges, or of fly ridden bellies in Bangladesh. But, it is, in fact, a phenomenon that knows no class, no gender, and certainly picks unwilling participants without their knowledge.

By the time you itch, it is too late.

Love is sorta like that, too, I guess. Funny, I don't try to avoid *that* so very much.

Six Cymbal smashes for a sunny day...

I thought the gills were coming. I could feel them growing on the side of my head, and the word "cubit" kept circling round my cranium in a low and undeniable hiss. Too many, far too many, days without sun...Boston lingered on the verge of distinction, the dinosaurs laughing in their long forgotten graves and tar pits, laughing at us mere humans who skitter about like ants looking for the Best Deal, for the Most Fastest, and for the Less Carbs.

I seem to have forgotten how intense and hurtful the light is to my retinas. Ow. And the sound of the rustling leaves doing their chlorophillic dance in the breeze is loud, as loud as was the rain, but a deeper and wavy sound that rushes about in distances and different forces. Forces to be reckoned with.

So this is the beginning. Or, erm, bloggining...