there's a girl on the stairs (a short short story)

she steps into the winter evening and glares
someone somewhere is calling her names, telling people she is not effective, she does not affect
he even went so far as to look her in the eye, say 'i do not love you anymore'
she slapped him and walked away
that is the way of things, air moving between flesh and emotion
creating sound, the words from her mouth,
they form on the air, a cold winter chill, 'fuck it all'
she stands on the ground for a moment,t hen feels something stronger
the air, it lifts, and soon she is smiling, letting the fingers caress her tear-stained cheaks
before she can breath, she is off her feet, still laughing
it is like taking a buble bath, she thinks, but without the soapy mess
although the air on her skin will likely chap her, like water-wrinkles but colder
she feels the ground leave her, feels the sky join her merry reverie
she has stopped laughing finally, when the moon comes out from his clouds
gently, she reaches for him, unclothes the night, and sees the stars
her skirt is high above her knees and she is glad for her mother's old winter coat
a black mass of fur to match her black silken hair, spun from misery as much as love
the world is a mixture of metals and fluids, she thinks, why can't there be more air?
and she rises, and she falls, and she leaves the story behind
the sky not large enough, the night not deep enough, the man nor the moon-man lithe enough
to catch her melody, her voice on the wind
'there's a girl on the stairs
there's a girl who isn't there'

i keep dreaming about being a famous writer
i think that i will go to the towns i love and some towns that i hate and i will see so many people
and they will have loved my books or my writing or my drawings, and there will be old friends, people i would have forgotten but then there they are, living their lives, or old enemies, who i will sneer at and give inappropriate directions to invisible events
where they will get lost and be terribly vexed
i have had this same dream since i was very young
i don't know why i think that i should be famous, that anyone should like my writing; i personally don't think it's all that great, thus the stopping, the not writing so often, the pursuit of academic degrees

i wonder if i've given up on it before it started
if maybe the dream was there before or after i even thought of it, and it's been trailing me, waving its arms wildly and shoutinng 'HELO?!' and i've just been puching it in the face and saying 'no, no, you don't understand, i'm crappy at that;
or maybe i'm being realistic, who knows?

the reason i discuss this is that phoebe (that illustrious writer/artist/prof) was talking about how someone said they loved her in a public place on her blog and i realized that i would have just thought 'oh, no you don't' and walked away after shouting maybe an 'ok' or 'that's great'
probably because i hate people

which brings up another question, what the bloody hell am i doing studying other people when i hate human beings? sure, we've got great poetry and prose and tv and such, but i bet if someone had the mind to translate bird and bug speak, i'd like it better....

here are some photos of my home in bton!