How do you like the new digs? I find this new design to be a little chaotic, but it's growing on me.

Chaotic, though, can be okay. Like I'm feeling a little chaotic right now, but it's kind of nice. My brain can skip along from topic to topic, and I don't have to feel that I'm giving you short shrift by not sticking to a point.

For example, I'm going to leap right into telling you about my very favourite set of pencils.

My most-favourite-ever-in-my-whole-life set of pencils were given to me by someone, but I can't remember if it was in my Christmas stocking or at a birthday party. Oh, they were definitely from my Christmas stocking, because every birthday party I went to as a child sucked. Seriously. I went to one party at my friend Jody's when she turned seven, and I was the only kid who didn't have any quarters in her cake, and guess who didn't get a goodie bag when they came up one short at the end of the party? Me. So, those pencils were definitely from Christmas.

They were miniature pencil crayons, and there were ten of them. They were about twice the thickness of fat wooden matchsticks. One end was sharpened, the other was painted the colour of the pencil lead, and the main body was painted white. A tiny Snoopy or a tiny Woodstock was painted on each one next to the name of the colour. My favourite was the one that said Sky Blue, but there was also Coffee Brown and Apple Red and Grass Green. I liked Coffee Brown quite a bit, but I reserved its becoming my favourite for when I grew up and was more mature.

Nowadays, I would probably go for the Apple Red or the Sun Yellow, but then, it was the Sky Blue that did it for me. I was an obsessive kid, and I focused a lot of energy on that blue pencil. I wouldn't colour with it, because I wanted to keep it forever and ever. I wouldn't colour with any of the other pencil crayons, either, because I thought that if they got shorter, then I would have to even everything out by using the Sky Blue one a whole bunch, and then it would eventually get used up, and that would destroy any chance I had of growing old with Sky Blue.

The set of ten came in a tiny, see-through plastic case with yellow trim and a yellow handle just big enough for me to hook two of my seven-year-old fingers through. It was the shape of a miniature suitcase, and I love rolling the idea of my miniature suitcase full of smooth, perfect, little coloured pencils around in my head. The whole situation with those pencils was so tidy, so carefully ordered with all their exactly sharpened points and painted ends and their names all following the same object-colour naming pattern.

They had one flaw, though: they did not smell. I really wanted them to, because that would have rounded out my whole pencil crayon experience, but they didn't. With love, you sometimes have to forgive shortcomings.

One morning, while I was walking across the school yard on my way to class, I stopped in the field and took out my beloved pencils. The tip had snapped off Apple Red, and Ink Black had a nick in its white, lacquered side, but my love for Sky Blue (and its perfect placement, second from the right in the front row) was such that I was able to feign ignorance of these imperfections. I held my small plastic suitcase up and enjoyed how yellow the trim looked against the slant of the morning sun, how the light sparkled through its rippled transparent sides.

I was just getting into a real groove over how Sky Blue played so beautifully off its neighbours, Sun Yellow and Midnight Blue, when a jolt sent my sweet miniature case reeling into the air against a bank of clouds. I turned my head to see a boy from another class, Duncan, situated too close in front of me to still be sitting on his bike and yet be facing me the way he was, and then the pain started.

My crotch suddenly erupted with a searing heat, and I could feel my mouth stretching in a silent scream. I thought I would never move again; I had become so rigid; I was stone. I would die there. I would die there and be late for school. I had just learned a new word, and I forced it windily through my tight throat: asshole.

Duncan had run into me head-on with his bicycle, and his front tire was wedged firmly against my genitals. The wretchedness of what my crotch was experiencing, the sheer inescapable agony of having my clitoris crushed, filled me with Duncan-hate. I hated him with every fiber of my sixty pound body.

In my seven-year-old mind, I decided I hated him most with my regina (I was a little confused about the pronunciation). My regina hated Duncan. My regina wanted to put the hurt on Duncan with a fierceness I had never before experienced. My regina was flooded with the burning heat of Duncan-hate.

Duncan looked at my angry face, chuckled, and said, "You can't tell on me. Nobody'd believe you got hurt there. You're a girl."

After school that day, I took my coloured pencils out of my book bag and tucked them into a drawer in my dresser. I didn't want to carry them everywhere anymore. Whenever I thought about how they looked in the sun, I thought of Duncan and his smirk and the pain in my regina and how much my regina wanted him dead. Also, a bit of paint had fallen out of Ink Black's nick, and the rest of the set just wasn't holding up its tidiness the way it used to.

Oh, wait. I was all about the chaos when I started this story. I was going to tell you a bit about the pencils and then a bit about how I ate potato chips for supper again and then a bit about how I went to see Elliott Brood play last night, and then I was going to throw in the bit about how that pube I mentioned in my last entry is still on the bathroom floor at work eyeing me up and down every time I pee.

Damn. I'm my own worst enemy.

On this day of sky-blue bears
Running across quiet eyelashes,
I divine beyond the blue waters
In the cup of my eyes an order to wake.

The silver spoon of my extended eyes
Offers me a sea buoying a storm petrel;
And I see how the Russian bird flies
Through unknown lashes to the roaring sea.

A sea of heavenlove has capsized
Someone's sail in the round-blue water,
But the first storm is hopeless and gone
And from now on the journey is spring.

- "On This Day Of Sky-Blue Bears" by Velimir Khlebnikov, 1919