Blog Note: I am off! Unless there is more volcanic ash! And also some poetry.

Hello my loves!

In theory, I am flying to Dublin tonight, assuming the volcanic-ash-in-the-sky-and-fucking-with-the-flights debacle has been all worked out (the Dublin airport was closed again this weekend).  So, everyone pray for strong winds or something!  (My name is Gayle fucking Force, I should have this covered, I know.  I am working on it).  The conference I am attending, about international law in domestic courts, the theme of which is the hierarchy of international law norms in human rights (or: WHATEVER, I DON'T KNOW, I was supposed to read literally like 500 pages for this thing and have read maybe 60.  WHOOPS) is only a day and a half long, and thus a massive flight delay could kinda mean I miss most of it.

My laptop is coming with me, but I don't really know how much internet time I will have, or whether I will have online access in my room.  I might be pulling a disappearing act until I get back, on Sunday night.  Also, I have never been to Dublin, and Readers, I love you, but I am ditching you for Ireland.  I will bring you back pretty pictures, though!  I will try and get comments published as often as I can, and I heart comments and smart musings, so please do leave them, if you like.  They will show up eventually, I promise.  Consider this to be an open thread!

Ok, so to leave you, I went poking around my old poetry, and I found a poem about unwelcome touch, which, appropriate, given the last post.  The moral of the poem is: don't ever touch Gayle when she doesn't want to be touched because she may write a poem about killing you and stick it on the internet so everyone can read about what a jerk you are THE END.  Everyone take care of themselves, and be healthy, and happy, and like, blow really hard in the direction of the UK from time to time to generate some wind, I don't want to miss this conference.

 Quiet

in the backyard
i killed them both
like cutting cherry pie;
their lips, finally still.
lay light and pale as petals.
i put pink carnations
over their eyes
to match.
they are rotting fast
beneath the garden,
all the living scraps of them
nearly gone
into loam.
i've had other lives, you know.
ones that did not so surely
end in hell.

i've paid in full for my ride
in the handbasket.
they touched me in all
the wrong places,
and i suppose that we
had all been doomed
from the beginning,
too caught up in our roles
as tragic, pathetic creatures
to do anything
but wrong.
tonight i will drink
too much poison too quickly,
put on another set of skin,
one with matching purse,
and baggage,
and wait for you
to put your hands
in all
the wrong places.