Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Out With Friday And Remembering A Swiss Music Box

Oh, my. If you read my last entry, you will know that I signed off at the end saying that I was going to head to a local pub and indulge in a minor sorrows-drowning. The Fiery One left the continent again yesterday and I was notified that my bunny’s ashes are ready for pick-up, so I was in no mood to be very productive or adult about the state of things as I saw them. Shortly after I posted yesterday’s entry, Friday left me a comment in which she offered to join me in my pity party. Yay! thought I, and I called her up.

Within half an hour, we were sitting in a chilly, smoky pub, avoiding a table of acquaintances desperately trying to recruit hockey players for a team that doesn’t exist yet when they can’t even skate themselves. The poor blokes even tried to recruit me twice, but the fact that I only own figure skates and can’t skate backwards disappointed them. I, on the other hand, was not disappointed, because I couldn’t care less about hockey or sports in general, really. Apparently, they were even working up a team logo, but I was not fooled. In truth, they might one day cobble together a hockey team, but they are more likely to skip the game and be content to drink in the locker room than they are to wobble around on ice hockey skates peering myopically down the rink in search of the puck. Uh oh, I’ve gone off track here. Where was I? Oh, yes…

So, Friday and I talked for a brief while, just the two of us, and I feel apologetic about my behaviour. I felt agitated and kept grabbing for my pint glass and smoking compulsively, and I am pretty sure that my eyes were darting around quite a bit. You know how it is when you don’t know what to do with your hands? Well, my whole body felt like that last night. (Friday, I must assure you that you were not the cause of my discomfort. I was just being a big freak after a stressful day, and I had only eaten an egg and a bowl of soup in the last twenty-four hours). A couple of other people joined us and the alcohol started kicking in, so eventually my corkscrewedness abated for the most part.

I still felt all tight in the chestal area, though, so I decided to overcompensate on the beer side of things, which is an incredibly stupid decision on a Tuesday night. I should get into yogic flying or astral travel or some such thing to relieve stress on work nights and reserve the beer-swilling for the weekends. (I am so kidding about the yogic/astral thing). I’m hoping that my behaviour was above board (anyone know the origins of that phrase?), and that Friday does not regret extending her offer to accompany me. I have a sneaking suspicion that I may have been a little annoying. If you will let me blame it on the grief, I will promise to be better next time. Scout’s honour, cross my heart and hope to die, pinky swear.


I am plagued so often with annoying music stuck in my head that I rarely bother to mention it. Today I’m mentioning it, because it is not the usual sort of pop ballad or Christian camp song this time, and the tune is not annoying me for once. In fact, this may be the first time that a tune being stuck in my head is a welcome experience.

The tune playing around in my head is from a music box my parents had when I was a child. One of my uncles was living in Switzerland, and he had sent back this music box as a present. It was made out of wood and looked like a typical Swiss house in the mountains. The tiny windows were all sectioned panes of glass and had little window boxes filled with surprisingly intricate yellow and red flowers in beds of green moss. The roof lifted on hinges at the back, which released the pin that let the stiff, metal tines plink away over the nubs on the cylinder.

My favourite part about the music box house, though, was the sound the little pin made when I slowly lowered the roof down onto it. It made this sound that was almost like the sound a rubber balloon makes when you rub your finger against it and it sticks a little. There was something about making that tiny friction noise only I could hear that was deeply satisfying to my five-year-old ears.


Flower power.

I have been reading Democratic Underground.

And don’t forget Today in Literature.

Gone are the days of hiding your report cards.

Swaggart’s gone off his nut.

An Awful Excuse For An Entry, But Excuse Enough When It Comes To My New Scanner

How Many Whatevers And Gordon's Ashes