Frankenstein.

You know small communities? Small community of post-office people you run into while getting a stamp; the guy who likes to get a dig-in on the kinda stamp you choose, or the counter girl who shucks your overstuffed-with-chapbook envelope. The small community of your corner store. The boozehound buying cigarettes and googling the ankle skin showing from beneath your long skirt. The small community of your neighbours, watching you park your car crooked, bump into the gate if you haven't unhitched it all the way, and bruise your leg on sharp pokey sticks growing from landlord's The Nightmare Before Christmas-inspired garden backyard retreat thing.

And then there's that small community of writers.

I could swear someone's writing my biography, the way some folks carry on about gathering information.

In other news, Forbidden Planet is soon slated to begin production in my attic. I will be requesting the assistance of local talent to fill in for Anne Francis, Robby the Robot, and of course, Caliban (among others, who will be poked and prodded for the sake of art -- yes, art). And the bugdet is: $0. Looking forward to pulling things from the trash (again).

love.