Street-Walkin' Cheetah...

Woke up to a typical foggy Seattle morning with Iggy Pop blasting through my synapses and a drowsy salt-and-pepper witch curled up in my arms. Outside, the breeze dances plants around our neighbor's yard like triffids on ecstasy. Orange scatters on the trees like faded pumpkin sunlight. It's been raining again, but that's no big surprise. Outside, our neighbors dump a clashing heap of last night's drinking into our glass recycling bin. Maybe if they'd cut back on that a bit, they might be able to hold jobs for more than three or four weeks at a time.

Two cups of cold chai later, and my imagination smashes through the glass window of an abandoned mansion once owned by an Anne Rice wannabe and now occupied by a feral squatter who used to be her fan. 40,000 words to go on a novel that began as a short story and now races to hit the NANOWRIMO finish line. A dredlocked cat slumbers on the living room rug while I cue up Metallica and get to work again.

I'll say this about my life - I'm often restless, hectic, playful or all of the above, but I'm very rarely bored.