There is no truce with the furies ...

Do you know those days when you put your game face on?

And everything is so tightly locked down physiognomically (I had to check that that was a real word) that nobody has a scooby what's going on behind the mask...

... but your thoughts are so fierce and raw in there that you can't quite believe they're not being telegraphed out of your eyes like mad robot electro-fireworks?

Yeah - That was my Friday.

I then got completely vexed that I could neither articulate that feeling very well, nor could I convey it in any of the pictures I took. (I had plenty of blinding ideas, creative little synapses were firing away all over the place, but could I hell breathe any life into them).
Gah!

On the upside, I was moved to dig out the R.S. Thomas prose that I love, which in turn triggered a ramble down iTunes memory lane with the manic street preachers, and included a quick emergency shot of Monkey's eyes and a 5 minute tutorial on Photoshop. Every day a learning day!!

I'm now going to indulge in my latest guilty pleasure.
i.e. Meandering through blip - with a glass or several of some cheeky red - longingly wishing I was better at getting what's IN my head, OUT of my head.

(And Jesus Christ do I need to get out more if that's a "guilty" pleasure!!)
For the record, I'm sure I was a wild, invincible 17 yr old for at least 30 of my years.
Wonder whatever happened to her ;-)


*The R.S.Thomas prose I referred to ...

The furies are at home in the mirror, it is their address.
Even the clearest water, if deep enough, can drown.
Never think to surprise them.
Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore.
There is no truce with the furies.
A mirror's temperature is always at zero.
It is ice in the veins, it's camera is an x-ray.
It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion,
where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity, never your own.