Not much going on: the sun has risen again, and reality is busy not conforming precisely to any rules or patterns we understand, yet appearing predictable enough–the bird lands, the neighbor’s dog diligently sniffs the same spot of fence, and I wait for a new feeling. Most days there are no new feelings. That’s alright. I’m an adult. I’m shriveling and hardening. I don’t join so easily in the games and the laughs. I’m reaching an apex and from there I will fall back. But sometimes there is a new feeling. Then I can see how thinly language is stretched across my senses. So thinly that sometimes it isn’t there, and something new can reach in and punch me on the nose.

The little gesture of adjusting a verb from future continuous to present perfect continuous–it requires a little flick of the wrist, kind of like swinging a racket. Sometimes I even congratulate myself on how smoothly it goes (punch me please).

At Panty Connoisseur I’ve been posting about panties.