count the stars. at first the phrase feels like the title of a sophomore album from a pop star ready to own up to her 'real self.' it can be plain and naive, it can also be hopelessly hopeful.

then again, it just might be the title of that would-be album i'd like to produce someday. there was an episode of frasier in which niles and daphne fretted about the impossible waiting lists at private lists and so, they decided to fill up an application form on behalf of their hypothetical baby, with nary a presence in daphne's womb. they couldn't decide on the name of their non-existent offspring (taylor crane? tanner crane? bob crane? milton crane?) finally, roz broke the deadlock and offered to jot down a name on the weary form unbeknownst to the couple.

(fast forward to five years later. the admissions committee is contemplating the application of a certain crane. first name: ichabod. you can imagine to which pile it went.)

while soaping off the plates, i thought of appropriating count the stars for my blog. why, i asked myself. bananaducky has served you well. and what of the wonderful details fictionboy has done for the blog?

methinks that while bananaducky has been part of my identity for x number of years, some parts of it no longer fit. i don't know, i'm not quite sure.

still, i think of that phrase that flashed: count the stars. it's quiet. it's naive. it gazes in wonder. the viewer is forced to acknowledge her speck-size existence. still, it is cause for celebration.

* * *
i haven't quite done this in a while, this sordid business of postscripts. but it's unavoidable: the image has been weighing heavily the past few days. i did what i could to scratch it and scratch i did. to no avail? i'd like to think not.

i say to myself, please remember why you left in the first place and why you've retained a mere wisp of a thread. yarn is too generous.