The heart of darkness.

No one is really sure where the ring came from. It just showed up in the house, sitting quietly on the cabinet in the bathroom. I thought it was one of Jessica's crazy rings, but she says it's not hers.

The gold-colored setting is adjustable and is crowned by an oval dome of clear resin. Beneath the resin is a flat plane of black with a few bits of glitter here and there. Gwynne never wears gold, so it can't be hers.

Yesterday when I was getting dressed, I chose the ring instead of my usual silver cuff bracelet. Now, I am not extremely superstitious, but I’ve read enough trash and seen enough movies to be wary of mysterious jewelry; I just felt that it was a ring day. Everyone believed it to be a mood ring, but the color never changed during my zesty walk to work. And though the plane of black and sparkle remained the same, I was in quite a nice mood.

I was sitting at the loading dock during my break and enjoying the Forsyte Saga, the sun and a cig. Looking down at the ring, I thought that perhaps it would change in the sun. No color change. “But wait,” I thought, “what is that in there?” I peered down through the resin, carefully scrutinizing the dome. Nothing. Then I turned it sideways and looked at an angle through the clear bump. Embedded atop the black not-so-moody-mood-ring plane is a small black heart. About the thickness of a sharpie line, the heart sits smugly and almost hidden in the ring. Why would someone embed a black heart in the midst of a ring? Did the ring once change with mood?

As I am sure my friend Charley Sunshine can attest, the color of my heart has often come into question. Or, as Professor Trelawney said to Hermione (and Charley looked knowingly my way), "You may be young in years but the heart that beats beneath your bosom is as shriveled as an old maid's, your soul as dry as the pages of the books to which you so desperately cleave." To this I protest. If indeed the ring is a sign that my heart is black, I must imagine that despite its unfortunate color, the organ does its job.

Perhaps having a black heart is not all that bad. At least for now it is only on my finger and not lying withered in my chest or pulsating wildly on my sleeve.

Dearly Beloved, we Are Gathered Here Today...

I like this word: Susurrus. Onomatopoeia. Susurration gives me the wiggins. In a good way.

I don't like this word: Ain't. Not because it recalls my redneck childhood surroundings, but because I don't understand how one makes a contraction of "am not," into "ain't." Wouldn't it be "ai not"?

Last night I drank some wine and watched an episode of the third season of Six Feet Under with Flux the feline. Not many shows can make me laugh out loud in solitude or cry to a blubbering point. Or maybe that's just what I needed last night. A release in the form of a gay man's funeral. It was really very sad. "I just want it to be worth it," said David to Keith. Me too. If I end up sharing a large portion of my life with someone, I just want it to be worth it.

Then we began to watch Purple Rain which is a VERY VERY good/bad movie. Cheese factor: monstrous. I just can't ever get over the fact that his highness is such a very small man.

Tonight: cake baking, house cleaning, Buffy watching, dinner making, dress-up, booty shaking.