I do love "dw" words immensely, though, at the moment, I can only think of two, "dwelling" and "dwindling", both of which I use quite a bit. The word "dwelling" seems to conjure in mind an image of a a moss-covered cottage, hidden by the thorns of long-long ago, and "dwindling"--well, dwindling food supplies, perhaps, and a warehouse riddled by a trillionaire's greed. Speaking of conjured images, today we did a project in class focusing on writing about a time in which we imagined ourseves as something else when we looked at something. I looked at a map and immediately imagined myself as a cartographer shut up in a tower drawing with a feather pen on a sheet of vellum. (As a cartographer, this is rather heavy on animal products. Adrianna would cringe.) I copied and pasted mine into here (by the way, it's third person. "She" is myself):
She looked at the map inquisitively and an image came into her mind, a sage of sorts bent over a sheet of fine vellum like that of the days of the lore of gods, a sheet like that from the days when maps were drawn by hand by sages in sepulchers. She was the sage, in a robe crinkled with the use of an eon, layered in a film of dust like sand on a mussel’s shell. She wielded a pen of ink from a river of thought, thoughts so sharp that a sword of Hephaestus’s make could not compare. Slowly the Mongols crept across the wrinkled vellum border; slowly the ink filtered through so Luxembourg, Andorra, lived; the blue Danube waltzed its way across in ink of blue jay-blue; the pilgrims inched across to Plymouth Rock, and slowly, Lewis and Clark made their way past the prairie dogs. New Lands of centuries; deserts of millenniums; names upon the sepia vellum in a spidery script. The map was spread across the table, the table’s wood fine but insignificant to the wise, with jaded minds; all the lands and all the men that maps had turned to mimes. The map progressed like a sage’s action, not so quick as thought, and, quick as a sage’s action, the sage turned to face a weather-beaten table marked by a day of scratches, faces she knew to be of no recent renown, and the map upon the wall that had conjured the magic.

We forced our teacher to write one as well. Hers was quite funny; the image sprouted from a flawless flower planter, exploring a world of TV microwaved popcorn dinners and stark banality. In class, I won the Review Quiz for the third time in the row. At the moment we are studying the Civil War and its many characters. My favorite, so far, is General Winfield Scott, otherwise known (my preferred title for the man) as Fuss n' Feathers. His name is of much debate in our classroom. We are unsure of whether it is spelled Winifred or Winfield, having seen it spelled both ways. We went on a walk today after dinner, with our mom, dad, and Adrianna, and played a merry game of Tag in the "safer" boundaries of Nike Park (namely, the playground). Adrianna, disobedient soul she is, brought her bike despite protests, and was forced to lug it back down (mostly rocky terrain, and too dark for pleasant riding). It was sunset, beautiful in its piercing red (though as we trudged back, grinning soldiers from a warfield looking forward to rewards, it was much later, dusk), red like the strawberry popsicles we licked triumphantly back home. Sadly, the Spirit of Washington Dinner Train, a slow journey through picteresque landscape on train, will soon be closed down ("why doesn't King County buy it and make it a commuter train?" our dad says, pounding his fist upon the table in a fit of intellectual rage), to make way for a highway. In any case, it's ten thirty seven PM.


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