If you saw me in the morning
all sleepy eyes
and swollen lips
Would you care about me? If you saw me over breakfast
with milk mustaches
and dripping hair
Would you see I'm normal? If you saw me at work
brows all furrowed
and biting nails
Would it change your mind? If you saw me in the evening
feet on the table
and relaxed smiles
Would you understand? If you saw me differently
not easy or lonely
or simply there to hurt
Would you see me as me or just as something you can use?
Friday, April 10, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
5, 7, 5
cows under the yellow moon
don't tip them over
I have a haiku problem. I just can't write them. For some strange reason they always come out wrong. Not even "oh, that's not so good" wrong. It's a full-on "is this even poetry or am I in the middle of a brain aneurysm" wrongness.
peering at your groceries
judging your baked goods
What's strange is that I used to be able to write them. I had the same teacher for 2nd and 4th grade ( Mrs. Bulmer...best teacher EVER) who introduced me to the style. I remember sitting at my desk and clapping for each syllable as I penned masterpieces about snow and blueberries and horses. While definitely the work of a 2nd and 4th grader, those poems are recognizable as haikus and they make sense. So somewhere between 4th grade and now...I lost the ability to haiku.
dripping on my forehead
call a plumber now
Is Adult-Onset Haiku Deficiency (AOHD) a real thing? Do you think there are treatment programs for this? Do those programs involve lots of Japanese art and thinking about nature? Or am I just doomed to keep producing these same disasters?
under a banana peel
wasted happiness
Friday, March 13, 2009
Things I’ve almost written
Last night was one of those nights. You know the kind. Your fingers itch, your mind races and you long to put words to paper. But for some reason nothing worked out. My writing stuttered all night, each new idea dying out just after conception. It was terribly frustrating and not just because I felt impotent. Some of these ideas were really interesting!
- “The Littlest Thief” – An epic ballad of a young girl from New Jersey and her quest that turned her into a camel thief.
- A series of limericks that mocked cable news pundits.
- “Foster!” – An opera about people who give temporary homes to wild animals.
- “The Telltale Pea” – Dramatic retelling of the DVD remote that got lost under my mattress.
- Short fiction piece with the prompt “Don’t you wear those on your feet?”
- An essay on the importance of bread choices in sandwich making.
- “Hammering Bones” – A love poem about pianos (or possibly a skeleton)
Okay, I said they were interesting…I didn’t say they were good.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Writing as a kid
When I was little my ideas for stories far outpaced my ability to write. Luckily I had people around me (friends, teachers, family) who were willing to help. I just recently found a copy of The Silence, a story my mom wrote down for me when I was six. The paper is yellowed with age, the pencil is faded and the story obviously comes from the mind of a six-year-old. Maybe it's the obvious insert of my friends and sibling's names, or the title that I remember fretting over, or just the fact that it's in my mothers handwriting but there is something wonderful about it.
The Silence
In the shadow of a lonely hill lay the small village of Hudson. The people of Hudson led happy and peaceful lives until one spring unusual things began to happen. It started when Josh Hewitt, a small boy of six, began disappearing while playing outside. Although he always turned up and seemed alright, he could never answer questions about where he had been. Most people were not concerned because they knew small children have a habit of wandering away, to chase a butterfly, follow a bug or walk toward someone or something seen off in the distance.
People began to notice a silence that seemed to cover the village during Josh’s disappearance. No breezes stirred, no sounds of animals and not even sounds from the large city on the other side of the hill could be heard.
The leaders of the village met to discuss the problem. They decided the best plan of action would be to follow Josh. For several days they tried this and found they could not keep up with a six year with unlimited energy and imagination. A decision was made to use other children to help. Three children were chosen, Lee Park, Susan Winningham and Lily Park. They were to spend time with Josh instead of following him. The next day the four children spent the entire day together. After Josh had gone home Lee, Susan and Lily reported back to the village leaders. They said they had all been with Josh every minute and nothing had happened. The leaders thanked the children and sent them home. After the children left the village leaders faced one another with worried looks in their eyes. Twice during the day the silence had come and both times all four children had been missing.
Now the problem was whether to risk sending more children and maybe still have no answers or to try again with adults. A decision was made to have a village picnic. Tha way everyone would be in the same area and surely someone would catch Josh and the other children before the silence began. All the villagers were invited, from the youngest to the eldest, and all the answers came back that they would attend. The date was set and all the plans were made.
The day of the picnic began with warm sunshine, gentle breezes and the calming sounds of animals and birds. The people of Hudson gathered near the village school for a picnic and a search for an answer.
As the man and woman walk along the empty fields in the shadow of a lonely hill they talk about the old stories. The stories that have been passed down for many, many years about a village named Hudson. Of how one day the village and all of it’s people disappeared and nothing was left behind to show it had ever been there. They talk and laugh about how stories start and grow and how only the young or foolish believe in them. As they turn to walk away a silence seems to cover the area the breezes stop stirring and the birds overheard can longer be heard. Instead they hear the sounds of children laughing and playing and of adults talking and visiting, in fact it seems to be the sounds of a village picnic.
The End
In the shadow of a lonely hill lay the small village of Hudson. The people of Hudson led happy and peaceful lives until one spring unusual things began to happen. It started when Josh Hewitt, a small boy of six, began disappearing while playing outside. Although he always turned up and seemed alright, he could never answer questions about where he had been. Most people were not concerned because they knew small children have a habit of wandering away, to chase a butterfly, follow a bug or walk toward someone or something seen off in the distance.
People began to notice a silence that seemed to cover the village during Josh’s disappearance. No breezes stirred, no sounds of animals and not even sounds from the large city on the other side of the hill could be heard.
The leaders of the village met to discuss the problem. They decided the best plan of action would be to follow Josh. For several days they tried this and found they could not keep up with a six year with unlimited energy and imagination. A decision was made to use other children to help. Three children were chosen, Lee Park, Susan Winningham and Lily Park. They were to spend time with Josh instead of following him. The next day the four children spent the entire day together. After Josh had gone home Lee, Susan and Lily reported back to the village leaders. They said they had all been with Josh every minute and nothing had happened. The leaders thanked the children and sent them home. After the children left the village leaders faced one another with worried looks in their eyes. Twice during the day the silence had come and both times all four children had been missing.
Now the problem was whether to risk sending more children and maybe still have no answers or to try again with adults. A decision was made to have a village picnic. Tha way everyone would be in the same area and surely someone would catch Josh and the other children before the silence began. All the villagers were invited, from the youngest to the eldest, and all the answers came back that they would attend. The date was set and all the plans were made.
The day of the picnic began with warm sunshine, gentle breezes and the calming sounds of animals and birds. The people of Hudson gathered near the village school for a picnic and a search for an answer.
As the man and woman walk along the empty fields in the shadow of a lonely hill they talk about the old stories. The stories that have been passed down for many, many years about a village named Hudson. Of how one day the village and all of it’s people disappeared and nothing was left behind to show it had ever been there. They talk and laugh about how stories start and grow and how only the young or foolish believe in them. As they turn to walk away a silence seems to cover the area the breezes stop stirring and the birds overheard can longer be heard. Instead they hear the sounds of children laughing and playing and of adults talking and visiting, in fact it seems to be the sounds of a village picnic.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
30 Minute Story A Day - It's Not Easy Being a Ninja Pirate
It's not easy being able to see both sides.
"That's a little harsh, don't you think?" Stan tugged at his collar worriedly. "I think they're intimidating."
"With those stupid hats and lame poofy pants? They're a total joke!"
"Maybe..." Stan paused as he pulled his mask over his face. "Maybe they think we look silly too."
It's not easy being a visionary.
"I'm not sure this is such a good plan." Stan said quietly, peering out over the dark sea.
"What's so hard to understand, Stanley? We find them, we fire, they surrender, we win."
"We're in this giant thing with a flag and there's all the singing and buckling of swashes and it's a bit obvious."
"What do you suggest, running around in black bodysuits and masks?" The deck broke out in laughter and Stan cringed, turning back to the sea.
"Something like that, yeah."
It's not easy being shunned.
"Enough. Take off that ridiculous getup."
"But you can't even tell I'm wearing an eyepatch under this mask!" Stan replied, staring into the mirror.
"You're either with us or against us, Stan."
"I am with you!" Stan insisted. "I'm just sort of also with them. At the same time."
"No, Stan. You're not with either of us."
It's not easy being on your own.
"Give me your valuables." Stan growled, brandishing his sword.
"Are you supposed to be talking? Aren't you guys all silent and menacing?"
"I'm not like them."
"You jumped through my window."
"I've got a sword and...and an eyepatch!"
"Oh. So you're a..."
"Yeah."
"Then why are you dressed like...?"
"Ugh." Stan sighed. "Forget it."
It's not easy being a ninja pirate.
"That's a little harsh, don't you think?" Stan tugged at his collar worriedly. "I think they're intimidating."
"With those stupid hats and lame poofy pants? They're a total joke!"
"Maybe..." Stan paused as he pulled his mask over his face. "Maybe they think we look silly too."
It's not easy being a visionary.
"I'm not sure this is such a good plan." Stan said quietly, peering out over the dark sea.
"What's so hard to understand, Stanley? We find them, we fire, they surrender, we win."
"We're in this giant thing with a flag and there's all the singing and buckling of swashes and it's a bit obvious."
"What do you suggest, running around in black bodysuits and masks?" The deck broke out in laughter and Stan cringed, turning back to the sea.
"Something like that, yeah."
It's not easy being shunned.
"Enough. Take off that ridiculous getup."
"But you can't even tell I'm wearing an eyepatch under this mask!" Stan replied, staring into the mirror.
"You're either with us or against us, Stan."
"I am with you!" Stan insisted. "I'm just sort of also with them. At the same time."
"No, Stan. You're not with either of us."
It's not easy being on your own.
"Give me your valuables." Stan growled, brandishing his sword.
"Are you supposed to be talking? Aren't you guys all silent and menacing?"
"I'm not like them."
"You jumped through my window."
"I've got a sword and...and an eyepatch!"
"Oh. So you're a..."
"Yeah."
"Then why are you dressed like...?"
"Ugh." Stan sighed. "Forget it."
It's not easy being a ninja pirate.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
30 Minute Story A Day - Nancy & Cassandra
"Does this strike you as weird?"
"Many things strike me as weird. What 'this' are you talking about?"
"This this. The two of us as the sole members of the junior prom committee."
"Well, it's certainly not what I thought I'd be doing today but I don't know that I'd call it weird."
"We've never even been to a dance."
"It's not like it's a totally foreign concept."
"What about the fact that nobody showed up to help?"
"Maybe they all came to their senses and realized that school dances are an outmoded form of forced social mating that honors materialism and male posturing."
"You think?"
"No. It's more likely that they formed their own committee after we got assigned here for detention."
"That sounds more like them."
"They're probably meeting in a darkened room right now, going over renegade caterers and how to score a disco ball on the black market."
"Streamers and tulle that fell off the back of a truck?"
"A covert plan to liberate their choice of DJ."
"Viva La Prom!"
"I kind of want to go to that prom."
"Me too. Of course, we do have full reign here so we could shape this prom into something awesome."
"And crush the spirit of those rebel party planners!"
"Settle down, Noriega. Let's concentrate on keeping our own spirits uncrushed."
"I never get to have any fun. What's on the our list of doom?"
"Let's see, come up with an original yet timeless theme that embodies the true character of the student body."
"Which is more timeless, apathy or ignorance?"
"Toss up, really."
"Or the race to gain materialistic goods even if it kills you."
"You just want zombies."
"Who doesn't?"
"We're already in detention."
"Good point. Under the sea?"
"Under the sea."
"Many things strike me as weird. What 'this' are you talking about?"
"This this. The two of us as the sole members of the junior prom committee."
"Well, it's certainly not what I thought I'd be doing today but I don't know that I'd call it weird."
"We've never even been to a dance."
"It's not like it's a totally foreign concept."
"What about the fact that nobody showed up to help?"
"Maybe they all came to their senses and realized that school dances are an outmoded form of forced social mating that honors materialism and male posturing."
"You think?"
"No. It's more likely that they formed their own committee after we got assigned here for detention."
"That sounds more like them."
"They're probably meeting in a darkened room right now, going over renegade caterers and how to score a disco ball on the black market."
"Streamers and tulle that fell off the back of a truck?"
"A covert plan to liberate their choice of DJ."
"Viva La Prom!"
"I kind of want to go to that prom."
"Me too. Of course, we do have full reign here so we could shape this prom into something awesome."
"And crush the spirit of those rebel party planners!"
"Settle down, Noriega. Let's concentrate on keeping our own spirits uncrushed."
"I never get to have any fun. What's on the our list of doom?"
"Let's see, come up with an original yet timeless theme that embodies the true character of the student body."
"Which is more timeless, apathy or ignorance?"
"Toss up, really."
"Or the race to gain materialistic goods even if it kills you."
"You just want zombies."
"Who doesn't?"
"We're already in detention."
"Good point. Under the sea?"
"Under the sea."
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
30 Minute Story A Day - Algorithm & Blues
The man on the TV show says that everything is math.
Personally, I've always thought that man was insane.
You see, math makes me inordinately depressed. And I'm a cheerful person. If everything was math and math makes me depressed, then I could not be a cheerful person. See?
I said I was a cheerful person, not necessarily a logical one.
Unfortunately I do know that math makes up a lot more of my life than I know. More than I like, for sure. And there's no question that at this very moment, math is causing me considerable pain and most likely going to make me wind up in jail. The clink. The pokey. The big house.
You see, I am currently robbing a bank because of math.
Oh, math couldn't just be satisfied to torment me all through school. It couldn't gain its pleasure by just making me tear out my hair when I try to balance my checkbook. Math couldn't be content with confusing me on an almost daily basis. No, it had to go above and beyond to completely ruin my life.
It all started with snack food. I really wanted a cupcake after my morning meeting. I work hard. I'm a hard worker. I'm a girl who deserved a cupcake. I perused the aisle of the local coffee shop until I saw one gloriously large chocolate cupcake with a 'day old' sign proclaiming it to be 33% off. I foolishly ignored the math and marched up to the counter with a dollar in my hand only to be terribly embarrassed when the checkout girl told me it was more. Instead of making the others in line wait while I fished out change, I just took out my debit card and paid, silently cursing math all the while.
Since I had never quite grasped the math involved in percentages and the coffee shop had never quite grasped the idea of just writing a price on their cupcakes, I now had to make a trip to the bank and switch money over from my savings to checking. I finished my cupcake on the way, which made me sort of forgive math for it's dirty little 33% trick and I entered the bank to find all the teller lanes empty.
Of course, that was because everyone was currently lying on the floor. I stared in shock at the huddled customers and then stared dumbly at the two armed robbers standing in front of me. I would have stared in some other sort of emotion except my brain kicked into gear and told my feet to take me back out the door. I probably would have made it except there was this potted plant and a counter and, oh yeah, those two guys with guns. I ended up on my butt next to a ficus and staring up at two guys who looked even more confused than me.
They also looked angrier than me, but that honestly could have been the guns. Or the fact that I had just recently consumed 1/3 of my weight in chocolate and my serotonin levels hadn't quite come down. It took several minutes to convince them that I was not a cop, a fed or a highly trained and beautiful assassin. They didn't use 'beautiful' but I'm sure it was implied. After discovering that I was nothing more than a girl on a math-based errand, they were eager to tell me to move over with the other customers. Until, once again, math interfered.
I was standing in front of the robbers when a high pitched alarm rang across the room. There were screams and shouts and shots and I dove to the floor in a graceful and expedient manner. Which meant I stumbled over into the nearest robber and fell on my butt, again. There were sheepish explanations from the elderly man in the corner who said his watch alarm was just alerting him to take his meds but I was too busy being yelled at by the robber I had knocked over who had somehow twisted his ankle. My landing on it, despite his frankly rude declarations, probably had nothing to do with it.
Robbers, apparently, have plans. These things are not entered into lightly, and therefore, plans are made. Plans, that despite my interference, needed to be carried out with two people. By virtue of being totally and completely at fault, I was drafted into helping. I knew I was in trouble before we even got behind the counter but the moment the first robber started talking about us moving all those bags, I realized that I was sunk. Math, once more, was laughing in my face. I'm sure the man on TV would have detailed the problem nicely on his chalkboard. 1 girl + 1 robber + 1 gun = 3 bag carrying hands. Take that and divide by the amount of bags, times the length of the bank, throw in a few equations about wind speed and floor quality, toss in a vector or two and you've got...well, you've got something that I probably wouldn't understand but would basically add up to the fact that me and the robber weren't going to be moving all those bags before the cops showed up.
Which, to be honest, I wasn't looking forward to. I mean, I had waltzed into the middle of a robbery, fell over, got up, almost got shot, fell over again, injured a robber, became a robber and was now lugging bags of money out the back door of a bank. I'm sure that I could explain all this to a police officer but I was pretty sure I'd be explaining it from the back of a cruiser. Or a paddywagon. Do they even have paddywagons anymore?
Sure enough, time and math wait for no one, not even a robber and his reluctant but plucky assistant. I was on my 11th trip out the door (and if you want to know how many bags I had moved you can just call up the man on TV and ask him for the math) when sirens and lights and lots of shouting stunned me to a halt. I immediately raised my hands before realizing that made me look guilty. I dropped my hands before figuring that guilty was better than shot. I raised them again and realized that lifting two sacks of money was heavy enough without doing some sort of exercise routine with them in front of the entire police force and dropped them onto the pavement.
I was about to start my very long explanation of how none of this was my fault when robbers number 1 and 2 came careening out of the bank. There was more gun waving and shouting and several times when the pronoun "we" was used and I tried in vain to explain by miming that "we" didn't include "me". But since I was standing all of about 3 feet from two armed robbers with a couple of sacks of money at my feet, I'm not sure it got across. It's possible I also suck at miming.
To me, it looked like it was all over but the arresting, but at one simple sentence I knew that things weren't going to be resolved so quickly. When the officer in charge shouted about how we "had to the count of 10" I sighed in resignation. Math had been out to get me all day, I knew it wasn't ready to give up yet.
Personally, I've always thought that man was insane.
You see, math makes me inordinately depressed. And I'm a cheerful person. If everything was math and math makes me depressed, then I could not be a cheerful person. See?
I said I was a cheerful person, not necessarily a logical one.
Unfortunately I do know that math makes up a lot more of my life than I know. More than I like, for sure. And there's no question that at this very moment, math is causing me considerable pain and most likely going to make me wind up in jail. The clink. The pokey. The big house.
You see, I am currently robbing a bank because of math.
Oh, math couldn't just be satisfied to torment me all through school. It couldn't gain its pleasure by just making me tear out my hair when I try to balance my checkbook. Math couldn't be content with confusing me on an almost daily basis. No, it had to go above and beyond to completely ruin my life.
It all started with snack food. I really wanted a cupcake after my morning meeting. I work hard. I'm a hard worker. I'm a girl who deserved a cupcake. I perused the aisle of the local coffee shop until I saw one gloriously large chocolate cupcake with a 'day old' sign proclaiming it to be 33% off. I foolishly ignored the math and marched up to the counter with a dollar in my hand only to be terribly embarrassed when the checkout girl told me it was more. Instead of making the others in line wait while I fished out change, I just took out my debit card and paid, silently cursing math all the while.
Since I had never quite grasped the math involved in percentages and the coffee shop had never quite grasped the idea of just writing a price on their cupcakes, I now had to make a trip to the bank and switch money over from my savings to checking. I finished my cupcake on the way, which made me sort of forgive math for it's dirty little 33% trick and I entered the bank to find all the teller lanes empty.
Of course, that was because everyone was currently lying on the floor. I stared in shock at the huddled customers and then stared dumbly at the two armed robbers standing in front of me. I would have stared in some other sort of emotion except my brain kicked into gear and told my feet to take me back out the door. I probably would have made it except there was this potted plant and a counter and, oh yeah, those two guys with guns. I ended up on my butt next to a ficus and staring up at two guys who looked even more confused than me.
They also looked angrier than me, but that honestly could have been the guns. Or the fact that I had just recently consumed 1/3 of my weight in chocolate and my serotonin levels hadn't quite come down. It took several minutes to convince them that I was not a cop, a fed or a highly trained and beautiful assassin. They didn't use 'beautiful' but I'm sure it was implied. After discovering that I was nothing more than a girl on a math-based errand, they were eager to tell me to move over with the other customers. Until, once again, math interfered.
I was standing in front of the robbers when a high pitched alarm rang across the room. There were screams and shouts and shots and I dove to the floor in a graceful and expedient manner. Which meant I stumbled over into the nearest robber and fell on my butt, again. There were sheepish explanations from the elderly man in the corner who said his watch alarm was just alerting him to take his meds but I was too busy being yelled at by the robber I had knocked over who had somehow twisted his ankle. My landing on it, despite his frankly rude declarations, probably had nothing to do with it.
Robbers, apparently, have plans. These things are not entered into lightly, and therefore, plans are made. Plans, that despite my interference, needed to be carried out with two people. By virtue of being totally and completely at fault, I was drafted into helping. I knew I was in trouble before we even got behind the counter but the moment the first robber started talking about us moving all those bags, I realized that I was sunk. Math, once more, was laughing in my face. I'm sure the man on TV would have detailed the problem nicely on his chalkboard. 1 girl + 1 robber + 1 gun = 3 bag carrying hands. Take that and divide by the amount of bags, times the length of the bank, throw in a few equations about wind speed and floor quality, toss in a vector or two and you've got...well, you've got something that I probably wouldn't understand but would basically add up to the fact that me and the robber weren't going to be moving all those bags before the cops showed up.
Which, to be honest, I wasn't looking forward to. I mean, I had waltzed into the middle of a robbery, fell over, got up, almost got shot, fell over again, injured a robber, became a robber and was now lugging bags of money out the back door of a bank. I'm sure that I could explain all this to a police officer but I was pretty sure I'd be explaining it from the back of a cruiser. Or a paddywagon. Do they even have paddywagons anymore?
Sure enough, time and math wait for no one, not even a robber and his reluctant but plucky assistant. I was on my 11th trip out the door (and if you want to know how many bags I had moved you can just call up the man on TV and ask him for the math) when sirens and lights and lots of shouting stunned me to a halt. I immediately raised my hands before realizing that made me look guilty. I dropped my hands before figuring that guilty was better than shot. I raised them again and realized that lifting two sacks of money was heavy enough without doing some sort of exercise routine with them in front of the entire police force and dropped them onto the pavement.
I was about to start my very long explanation of how none of this was my fault when robbers number 1 and 2 came careening out of the bank. There was more gun waving and shouting and several times when the pronoun "we" was used and I tried in vain to explain by miming that "we" didn't include "me". But since I was standing all of about 3 feet from two armed robbers with a couple of sacks of money at my feet, I'm not sure it got across. It's possible I also suck at miming.
To me, it looked like it was all over but the arresting, but at one simple sentence I knew that things weren't going to be resolved so quickly. When the officer in charge shouted about how we "had to the count of 10" I sighed in resignation. Math had been out to get me all day, I knew it wasn't ready to give up yet.
30 Minute Story a Day - Glass and Iron
I've been slacking on the writing lately so I decided to go back and do the old S.A.D. (wow, that's an unfortunate acronym) titles that I missed. Because I'm bored, I'm limiting my work on them to only 30 minutes so I don't overwrite. Yes, I do know that my goals for writing seem to be falling and falling fast. I foresee in a month from now I'll just be telling myself "write one word on a post-it, Jen! Just one word!" ;)
She was all smiles when I met her at the airport. Full of laughter and mischief and reminding me so much of home that, for a moment, I forgot where I stood. It wasn't hard to recognize her, even with the added makeup and the added years. I took comfort in the fact that the girl that I loved was still the same.
She whistled down a taxi like a pro and I gave a brief round of applause, delighting in the fact that I could still make her blush. Friendships like ours lent themselves to easy humor and easier humiliation. I'm sure that she had plenty for me in her arsenal. I couldn't wait to be at her mercy.
Dinner churned my stomach with spicy Thai food and the unease that comes with change. Change in the world. Change in my comfort zone. Change in her. She spoke fluently with the waiter. She nodded politely at power couples in the restaurant. She swallowed a pill and chased it with a drink.
She stayed with me in my hotel room, assuring me that it was better stocked than her apartment by yards. I bit back a joke about the minibar, unsure of the woman in front of me. She spoke with my friends voice and laughed with her eyes. She sat on the edge of my bed and I struggled to see past the girl I loved and recognize the woman she'd become.
She rose with the sun the next morning and I watched her pacing in front of the window, the entire city as her backdrop as she negotiated with terse words and low threats. She was a modern warrior, confident and strong. Facing the glass and iron of the city, she was no longer that girl with laughing eyes and golden pigtails. She had changed when she had come to this place, changed into a person I didn't know.
Yet, as she turned from the window and smiled, mouthing a quiet but happy hello, I decided that it wouldn't be hard to love this woman just as much as the girl I remembered.
She was all smiles when I met her at the airport. Full of laughter and mischief and reminding me so much of home that, for a moment, I forgot where I stood. It wasn't hard to recognize her, even with the added makeup and the added years. I took comfort in the fact that the girl that I loved was still the same.
She whistled down a taxi like a pro and I gave a brief round of applause, delighting in the fact that I could still make her blush. Friendships like ours lent themselves to easy humor and easier humiliation. I'm sure that she had plenty for me in her arsenal. I couldn't wait to be at her mercy.
Dinner churned my stomach with spicy Thai food and the unease that comes with change. Change in the world. Change in my comfort zone. Change in her. She spoke fluently with the waiter. She nodded politely at power couples in the restaurant. She swallowed a pill and chased it with a drink.
She stayed with me in my hotel room, assuring me that it was better stocked than her apartment by yards. I bit back a joke about the minibar, unsure of the woman in front of me. She spoke with my friends voice and laughed with her eyes. She sat on the edge of my bed and I struggled to see past the girl I loved and recognize the woman she'd become.
She rose with the sun the next morning and I watched her pacing in front of the window, the entire city as her backdrop as she negotiated with terse words and low threats. She was a modern warrior, confident and strong. Facing the glass and iron of the city, she was no longer that girl with laughing eyes and golden pigtails. She had changed when she had come to this place, changed into a person I didn't know.
Yet, as she turned from the window and smiled, mouthing a quiet but happy hello, I decided that it wouldn't be hard to love this woman just as much as the girl I remembered.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Story A Day: Elephant Bones
The elephant in the room wasn't actually an elephant.
It was a man. A man named Frank. And nobody was talking about Frank.
They talked about the weather, and the latest radio show, and which neighbor they thought was going to have the most outlandish holiday decorations. But nobody talked about Frank.
Because Frank was dead.
As a doornail. Or a doorknob to be more precise, which was what was lying just inches from Franks head. They were sure that if they got up and compared, the knob would match the rather suspicious looking dent in the side on his temple. But comparisons might require talking about Frank and that was something that no one was willing to do.
It wasn't as if they were heartless. Earlier in the week, they had talked about Frank a lot. They couldn't stop talking about Frank. About what he had done and where he had worked. About the life he lived. They talked about Frank and all the reasons why he ended up dead.
The first time.
The problem was that Frank had developed a nasty habit of dying.
The first time had been his slow slouch into a soup saucer. There had been gasps and screams and calls for help but in the end, Frank was dead. They spent the night talking about Frank and around Frank as he lay supine in the parlor. Then in the morning of their mourning, Frank lifted his head out of the casket and asked about oatmeal. The doctors cried miracle and the men cried hoax and the women just cried. They talked about Frank even more, speculating and studying and generally wondering.
Then Frank fell into the fire in the foyer. The doctors checked three times before assuring a toasty death and once again he was laid to rest. They gathered again to talk about Frank, handkerchiefs held over their noses as whispers of rumors and gossip wafted through the smoke. All the talk, though whispered and shameful, was still about Frank. In the morning they held their breath as they waited for Frank to wake and ask for oatmeal but he was a disappointment. Instead he requested sausages.
Doctors were called who called more doctors until the house was full of people talking about Frank. They sat around him and chattered and babbled and poked and prodded until Frank yawned and totted off to bed. The doctors all left, with more questions than answers, and the household sat quietly for dinner. They sat without fire and ate without soup and talked quietly of Frank and what dangers could still befall him. When they could talk no more, they retired to bed and hoped morning would bring sense.
But dawn's bracing light did nothing but illuminate more problems as Frank slid on soap in the shower and died once again. The calls to the doctor were less frazzled and more frustrated but they still winced as Frank was placed in the casket. They still whispered quietly and wiped tears from their eyes. The next evening when Frank choked on a chunk of cranberry chutney, the whispers started to die off. The following day found Frank expiring from equine evisceration, and the night after Frank was battered to death by a breaking bookshelf, and the next morning Frank accidentally lynched himself on a laundry line of linens. Each time they cried less, mourned less, and talked less.
Until they sat around him now, chatting about baseball and tinsel and dry spells while Frank bled silently into the floor. Maybe if they didn't talk about Frank this time, if they completely ignored the body in the room, things will be different.
Maybe this time, Frank will stay dead.
It was a man. A man named Frank. And nobody was talking about Frank.
They talked about the weather, and the latest radio show, and which neighbor they thought was going to have the most outlandish holiday decorations. But nobody talked about Frank.
Because Frank was dead.
As a doornail. Or a doorknob to be more precise, which was what was lying just inches from Franks head. They were sure that if they got up and compared, the knob would match the rather suspicious looking dent in the side on his temple. But comparisons might require talking about Frank and that was something that no one was willing to do.
It wasn't as if they were heartless. Earlier in the week, they had talked about Frank a lot. They couldn't stop talking about Frank. About what he had done and where he had worked. About the life he lived. They talked about Frank and all the reasons why he ended up dead.
The first time.
The problem was that Frank had developed a nasty habit of dying.
The first time had been his slow slouch into a soup saucer. There had been gasps and screams and calls for help but in the end, Frank was dead. They spent the night talking about Frank and around Frank as he lay supine in the parlor. Then in the morning of their mourning, Frank lifted his head out of the casket and asked about oatmeal. The doctors cried miracle and the men cried hoax and the women just cried. They talked about Frank even more, speculating and studying and generally wondering.
Then Frank fell into the fire in the foyer. The doctors checked three times before assuring a toasty death and once again he was laid to rest. They gathered again to talk about Frank, handkerchiefs held over their noses as whispers of rumors and gossip wafted through the smoke. All the talk, though whispered and shameful, was still about Frank. In the morning they held their breath as they waited for Frank to wake and ask for oatmeal but he was a disappointment. Instead he requested sausages.
Doctors were called who called more doctors until the house was full of people talking about Frank. They sat around him and chattered and babbled and poked and prodded until Frank yawned and totted off to bed. The doctors all left, with more questions than answers, and the household sat quietly for dinner. They sat without fire and ate without soup and talked quietly of Frank and what dangers could still befall him. When they could talk no more, they retired to bed and hoped morning would bring sense.
But dawn's bracing light did nothing but illuminate more problems as Frank slid on soap in the shower and died once again. The calls to the doctor were less frazzled and more frustrated but they still winced as Frank was placed in the casket. They still whispered quietly and wiped tears from their eyes. The next evening when Frank choked on a chunk of cranberry chutney, the whispers started to die off. The following day found Frank expiring from equine evisceration, and the night after Frank was battered to death by a breaking bookshelf, and the next morning Frank accidentally lynched himself on a laundry line of linens. Each time they cried less, mourned less, and talked less.
Until they sat around him now, chatting about baseball and tinsel and dry spells while Frank bled silently into the floor. Maybe if they didn't talk about Frank this time, if they completely ignored the body in the room, things will be different.
Maybe this time, Frank will stay dead.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Story A Day: Black Noise
I knew a man who always spoke in green. Not that he talked about recycling or saving the planet. His words just always were the color green. Bright and fresh, like new grass, his words were many but shallow.
My choir teacher sang in a rich, deep purple that coated the floors of our church in its brilliance. It was easy to believe in the majesty of the song when I could see it so clearly around me.
Ernie, my first love, whispered orange nothings into my ear. I should have known not to trust the color of autumn leaves. They trick you with their lovely coats, but they're quick to change and fall away.
Voices speak with every color; yellow lies and red hurts, pale blue promises and deep amber love. Peach greetings melt into gray goodbyes, each tint coloring the world they enter and painting it with rainbows of noise.
Notes: Yeah, I never could figure out what black meant. It seemed too simple to make it fear or anger or confusion and too Hallmark-y to make it a combination of all the feelings. So I ended up with this...which, if illustrated, would make an awesomely trippy commercial for HP printers. ;)
My choir teacher sang in a rich, deep purple that coated the floors of our church in its brilliance. It was easy to believe in the majesty of the song when I could see it so clearly around me.
Ernie, my first love, whispered orange nothings into my ear. I should have known not to trust the color of autumn leaves. They trick you with their lovely coats, but they're quick to change and fall away.
Voices speak with every color; yellow lies and red hurts, pale blue promises and deep amber love. Peach greetings melt into gray goodbyes, each tint coloring the world they enter and painting it with rainbows of noise.
Notes: Yeah, I never could figure out what black meant. It seemed too simple to make it fear or anger or confusion and too Hallmark-y to make it a combination of all the feelings. So I ended up with this...which, if illustrated, would make an awesomely trippy commercial for HP printers. ;)
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Story A Day: The Cardboard Butterfly War Dolls
I blame this all on Mary Poppins.
You heard me, that no-nonsense British nanny with her voluminous bag and gravity defying umbrella is the villain in my story.
You see, I really liked the part of the movie where Mary Poppins sang about feeding the birds. It was sweet and heartwarming and every time the music started I thought "yes! Yes, Mary Poppins! I will give her tuppence for a bag!" I should have known something was wrong even then, after all...I didn't have a clue what tuppence was. But I didn't recognize the danger and I was indoctrinated into the Mary Poppins school of thought.
It didn't just stop at the willy-nilly giving away of tuppence. I felt the desire to dance on rooftops with manual laborers and fly kites with suffragettes. I developed an uncontrollable fear that my umbrella being turned inside out meant that I had lost a job at a bank. It wasn't long before I was inventing my own words, which as you know, is a dangerous gateway crime.
My thirst for whimsy couldn't be sated. I looked for new adventures around every corner. I met new people. Tried new things. Stopped to dance with passing penguins. But as I grew older I realized that whimsy wasn't just going to happen. I had to make it happen.
They say that once you make the decision to cross that line...there's no coming back. I gotta tell you, it's the truth. The first time I dipped my toes in that pool, well I'm not going to lie to you, it was amazing. Beyond amazing. I couldn't wait to go out and create even more whimsy. Sure, I knew that I should be quiet and dull and spend my days doing my job and wearing sensible shoes. But every time I would get close to coming to my senses, a little voice would whisper about spoons and sugar and like a brainwashed lackey, I'd be back in the saddle of frivolity.
The longer I got away with it, the bigger acts of whimsy I created. It got to the point where I wanted someone to stop me. Life can't all be chalk drawings, you know? I started getting careless. Reckless. The newspaper said it was a cry for help. Maybe that's true. Maybe that's why this last one got so out of hand. So big and bright and...odd.
Maybe I just wanted someone to stop it. Stop me. Stop Mary Poppins before another falls victim to her whimsy.
You heard me, that no-nonsense British nanny with her voluminous bag and gravity defying umbrella is the villain in my story.
You see, I really liked the part of the movie where Mary Poppins sang about feeding the birds. It was sweet and heartwarming and every time the music started I thought "yes! Yes, Mary Poppins! I will give her tuppence for a bag!" I should have known something was wrong even then, after all...I didn't have a clue what tuppence was. But I didn't recognize the danger and I was indoctrinated into the Mary Poppins school of thought.
It didn't just stop at the willy-nilly giving away of tuppence. I felt the desire to dance on rooftops with manual laborers and fly kites with suffragettes. I developed an uncontrollable fear that my umbrella being turned inside out meant that I had lost a job at a bank. It wasn't long before I was inventing my own words, which as you know, is a dangerous gateway crime.
My thirst for whimsy couldn't be sated. I looked for new adventures around every corner. I met new people. Tried new things. Stopped to dance with passing penguins. But as I grew older I realized that whimsy wasn't just going to happen. I had to make it happen.
They say that once you make the decision to cross that line...there's no coming back. I gotta tell you, it's the truth. The first time I dipped my toes in that pool, well I'm not going to lie to you, it was amazing. Beyond amazing. I couldn't wait to go out and create even more whimsy. Sure, I knew that I should be quiet and dull and spend my days doing my job and wearing sensible shoes. But every time I would get close to coming to my senses, a little voice would whisper about spoons and sugar and like a brainwashed lackey, I'd be back in the saddle of frivolity.
The longer I got away with it, the bigger acts of whimsy I created. It got to the point where I wanted someone to stop me. Life can't all be chalk drawings, you know? I started getting careless. Reckless. The newspaper said it was a cry for help. Maybe that's true. Maybe that's why this last one got so out of hand. So big and bright and...odd.
Maybe I just wanted someone to stop it. Stop me. Stop Mary Poppins before another falls victim to her whimsy.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Story A Day: Born Into Light
[Notes: Yeah. I'm not so sure about this one. Feel free to offer help because I know it's messed up and I can't figure out how to make it better.]
Rena took a deep breath before entering the waiting room. She wasn't sure what she expected to find inside, but it wasn't the relatively normal room holding two other angels. "Um...hello?" She blinked as the tall man in the corner burst into tears at her greeting.
"Don't worry," said the young woman sitting in the nearby chair. "It's not you, he's been like that all day. I think he must be the angel of grief." Walking over and holding out her hand, she smiled. "I'm Tabbris, but please, call me Tabby."
"Oh, that makes sense." Rena took the offered hand eagerly. "I'm Rena, the angel of peace." She cringed and shook her head. "That...came out a little lame, didn't it? I think I've been announcing myself to humans too much, I'm beginning to sound like a Hallmark card."
"It was a little cheesy." Tabby agreed.
"That's actually why I'm here today. I've had to announce myself way too often lately. I think my invisibility booster is busted."
"Uh-huh." Tabby eyed her for a moment. "I'm sure that excuse will fly."
"You think?"
"Like it's got lead wings."
"It was worth a shot." Rena sighed. "It's just...it's just hard! I get so excited when I see them calm down and I want to rejoice with them. The first few times I just fell right out of invisibility but it was so much fun that I just kept going!"
The sound of a door opening drew the angels eyes to the end of the hallway. A slight breeze rustled around the room, whispering a name. The man in the corner stood, tears still streaming down his face, and walked slowly towards the door. Rena and Tabbris both watched in silence as the large door shut behind him.
"What do you think is going on in there?"
"I think he just let the grief go to his head." Tabby replied, her eyes fixed on the door. "He'll probably tell him to remember His joy and give him time to recuperate."
"A vacation?" Rena grinned, wondering if she would get off so lightly. "That doesn't sound so bad."
Tabby turned and met her eyes, smirking a little. "Don't worry. I'm sure you're not in big trouble either. It's not like you were operating out of pride. He will probably laugh and tell you that He can hear you even when you're invisible and send you right back to work."
"You sound like you've been here before." Rena said. "Tabbris? That's...self-determination, right?"
"Close. I'm the angel of free will." Tabby waved her arm to encompass the waiting room. "And yeah, I've been here a few times."
"Is it hard? Being that kind of angel?" Rena asked cautiously. She couldn't imagine being called here more than once.
"You have no idea." Tabby sighed, leaning back against the wall.
"Is that why you're here. Burnout - like the grief guy?"
"No. Unlike him or you...I'm really in trouble this time."
"It can't be that bad."
"I'm so jealous of free will that I'm angry at Him for not giving it to me."
"Oh." Rena winced. "That is...bad."
"Yeah." Tabby sighed. "I haven't actually done anything yet, but I'm sure He heard my heart screaming out."
"But that's good! If you haven't messed up, then just apologize and don't feel like that anymore!"
"Just-" Tabby's eyes widened in disbelief. "You don't understand how hard it is for me! You're not like me!"
"Yes, I am. We were both born into light."
"Sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes it feels like I was created like them. Out of dirt and air and clay."
"Tabby." Rena shook her head sadly. "I'm su-"
"Do you know what it's like?" Tabby interrupted. "To foster the desire in them for something that I'll never have? To push them to want something that He never gave to me?"
"Well, of course it's not the same but-"
"Please!" Tabby scoffed. "You give them peace! It's not like you don't get to feel that yourself. I have to give them free will, not too much and not too little. Always the edge of this fine line and it makes me crazy! I just want to explode and jump over the line myself."
"...you do?"
"No. Yes. Maybe? I know why it would be horrible but...my heart longs for free will so much that I think I want to satisfy that more than I want to live with
Him."
"Tabby." Rena sat heavily in the nearest chair. "Tabbris, why did you let it go so far? Why didn't you come to Him and ask for help?"
"Oh, sure." Tabby slid down to sit on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. "That would have gone well. How exactly does one have that sort of conversation? 'Hi, I think You messed up making me and giving me this job because now I think that I should be able to do my own thing.' Do you think He'd give me a chance to pack my things before kicking me out of Heaven?"
"It wouldn't be like that." Rena said nervously. "I'm sure if you explained that you still wanted to be His angel...Tabby?"
"Yeah?"
"You still want to, right? I mean, you still want to be His?"
"Yes!" She cried, burying her head in her knees. "Of course I do. It's just so hard when-"
The sound of the door opening interrupted them and they turned to hear the wind whisper its summons. With a last sniffle, Tabbris stood and straightened her shoulders, looking determinedly at the door.
"Rena?"
"Yes?"
"Pray for me."
Rena took a deep breath before entering the waiting room. She wasn't sure what she expected to find inside, but it wasn't the relatively normal room holding two other angels. "Um...hello?" She blinked as the tall man in the corner burst into tears at her greeting.
"Don't worry," said the young woman sitting in the nearby chair. "It's not you, he's been like that all day. I think he must be the angel of grief." Walking over and holding out her hand, she smiled. "I'm Tabbris, but please, call me Tabby."
"Oh, that makes sense." Rena took the offered hand eagerly. "I'm Rena, the angel of peace." She cringed and shook her head. "That...came out a little lame, didn't it? I think I've been announcing myself to humans too much, I'm beginning to sound like a Hallmark card."
"It was a little cheesy." Tabby agreed.
"That's actually why I'm here today. I've had to announce myself way too often lately. I think my invisibility booster is busted."
"Uh-huh." Tabby eyed her for a moment. "I'm sure that excuse will fly."
"You think?"
"Like it's got lead wings."
"It was worth a shot." Rena sighed. "It's just...it's just hard! I get so excited when I see them calm down and I want to rejoice with them. The first few times I just fell right out of invisibility but it was so much fun that I just kept going!"
The sound of a door opening drew the angels eyes to the end of the hallway. A slight breeze rustled around the room, whispering a name. The man in the corner stood, tears still streaming down his face, and walked slowly towards the door. Rena and Tabbris both watched in silence as the large door shut behind him.
"What do you think is going on in there?"
"I think he just let the grief go to his head." Tabby replied, her eyes fixed on the door. "He'll probably tell him to remember His joy and give him time to recuperate."
"A vacation?" Rena grinned, wondering if she would get off so lightly. "That doesn't sound so bad."
Tabby turned and met her eyes, smirking a little. "Don't worry. I'm sure you're not in big trouble either. It's not like you were operating out of pride. He will probably laugh and tell you that He can hear you even when you're invisible and send you right back to work."
"You sound like you've been here before." Rena said. "Tabbris? That's...self-determination, right?"
"Close. I'm the angel of free will." Tabby waved her arm to encompass the waiting room. "And yeah, I've been here a few times."
"Is it hard? Being that kind of angel?" Rena asked cautiously. She couldn't imagine being called here more than once.
"You have no idea." Tabby sighed, leaning back against the wall.
"Is that why you're here. Burnout - like the grief guy?"
"No. Unlike him or you...I'm really in trouble this time."
"It can't be that bad."
"I'm so jealous of free will that I'm angry at Him for not giving it to me."
"Oh." Rena winced. "That is...bad."
"Yeah." Tabby sighed. "I haven't actually done anything yet, but I'm sure He heard my heart screaming out."
"But that's good! If you haven't messed up, then just apologize and don't feel like that anymore!"
"Just-" Tabby's eyes widened in disbelief. "You don't understand how hard it is for me! You're not like me!"
"Yes, I am. We were both born into light."
"Sometimes it doesn't feel that way. Sometimes it feels like I was created like them. Out of dirt and air and clay."
"Tabby." Rena shook her head sadly. "I'm su-"
"Do you know what it's like?" Tabby interrupted. "To foster the desire in them for something that I'll never have? To push them to want something that He never gave to me?"
"Well, of course it's not the same but-"
"Please!" Tabby scoffed. "You give them peace! It's not like you don't get to feel that yourself. I have to give them free will, not too much and not too little. Always the edge of this fine line and it makes me crazy! I just want to explode and jump over the line myself."
"...you do?"
"No. Yes. Maybe? I know why it would be horrible but...my heart longs for free will so much that I think I want to satisfy that more than I want to live with
Him."
"Tabby." Rena sat heavily in the nearest chair. "Tabbris, why did you let it go so far? Why didn't you come to Him and ask for help?"
"Oh, sure." Tabby slid down to sit on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. "That would have gone well. How exactly does one have that sort of conversation? 'Hi, I think You messed up making me and giving me this job because now I think that I should be able to do my own thing.' Do you think He'd give me a chance to pack my things before kicking me out of Heaven?"
"It wouldn't be like that." Rena said nervously. "I'm sure if you explained that you still wanted to be His angel...Tabby?"
"Yeah?"
"You still want to, right? I mean, you still want to be His?"
"Yes!" She cried, burying her head in her knees. "Of course I do. It's just so hard when-"
The sound of the door opening interrupted them and they turned to hear the wind whisper its summons. With a last sniffle, Tabbris stood and straightened her shoulders, looking determinedly at the door.
"Rena?"
"Yes?"
"Pray for me."
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Story A Day: Deep - Fried Moose
No phone number.
No address.
Not even a last name that didn't sound like it was ripped straight from a soap opera.
There were so many reasons why Sally shouldn't hire the quiet young man leaning against the stove. Being right off the old highway meant that Sally had seen her fair share of folks looking to make a fresh start and most of those people had been running away from something. She didn't have a problem with people running away from nastiness in their past, it just bugged her when that nastiness showed up on the doorstep of her diner.
This boy, with his tired eyes and quiet voice, he was in the running away camp. Even worse, from the twitch he gave whenever the bell over the door rang, even he wasn't sure if he had run far enough. Even after studying him for the last half-hour while he cooked, she didn't have a clue on what he trouble he had gotten into. He was too healthy for drugs, too clean for poverty, too nervous to be a criminal. Sally didn't know what trouble might be sliding up to her counter in the near future. And she sure as shooting didn't know that she wanted to fight someone else's battle.
In fact, there was only one thing Sally did know. The kid could cook up a mean deep-fried moose.
Notes: Man, this story fought me from beginning to end. Sally had so much extra information that really didn't fit in the story, info that I really liked. Sally's real name is something else, but she bought the diner from a 'Sally' and the name came with it, the restaurant is called "The Six-Niner Diner" (and you know how I love a cheesy rhyme!) and Sally only makes one thing on the menu, a cheese apple pie. Sadly, none of those things fit in the story. Also, I have no idea if Sally hired the young man in the end.
No address.
Not even a last name that didn't sound like it was ripped straight from a soap opera.
There were so many reasons why Sally shouldn't hire the quiet young man leaning against the stove. Being right off the old highway meant that Sally had seen her fair share of folks looking to make a fresh start and most of those people had been running away from something. She didn't have a problem with people running away from nastiness in their past, it just bugged her when that nastiness showed up on the doorstep of her diner.
This boy, with his tired eyes and quiet voice, he was in the running away camp. Even worse, from the twitch he gave whenever the bell over the door rang, even he wasn't sure if he had run far enough. Even after studying him for the last half-hour while he cooked, she didn't have a clue on what he trouble he had gotten into. He was too healthy for drugs, too clean for poverty, too nervous to be a criminal. Sally didn't know what trouble might be sliding up to her counter in the near future. And she sure as shooting didn't know that she wanted to fight someone else's battle.
In fact, there was only one thing Sally did know. The kid could cook up a mean deep-fried moose.
Notes: Man, this story fought me from beginning to end. Sally had so much extra information that really didn't fit in the story, info that I really liked. Sally's real name is something else, but she bought the diner from a 'Sally' and the name came with it, the restaurant is called "The Six-Niner Diner" (and you know how I love a cheesy rhyme!) and Sally only makes one thing on the menu, a cheese apple pie. Sadly, none of those things fit in the story. Also, I have no idea if Sally hired the young man in the end.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Story A Day: Roscoe Falls Reflections
“Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the tie.” Roscoe Falls sat on the edge of his bed, and repeated the list to himself. “Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the tie.”
Roscoe's date for tonight began in exactly 47 minutes and he wasn’t sure he was prepared. The corsage had been ordered, the reservations triple-checked and the floor mats of his car had all been steamed cleaned. Each extensive list he had made for himself had been completed and yet he still wasn’t positive it was enough. He could go have a conversation with everyone in the kitchen, although that was, at times, more trouble than it was worth.
“Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the...tie?” Roscoe paused; he couldn’t remember if wearing a tie was appropriate for this type of date. Ties were usually worn with suit jackets and he was wearing a button down shirt tonight. His breaths started to quicken and he reached to grab the medicine bottle on the side of the bed. Roscoe didn’t immediately pry open the lid and take the little orange pill. The medicine was an option, of course, and if Roscoe was honest with himself, probably the healthiest one. But healthy didn’t always mean right and it certainly didn’t mean comforting. With a determined nod, Roscoe placed the bottle back on the nightstand and headed into the kitchen.
“If you ask me, you should be wearing dress blues.” Roscoe had barely taken a seat at the table, when the General started in on him. He turned to meet his eyes across the table. “None of these namby-pamby civvies.”
“I think he looks darling.” Mrs. Mayberry smiled. “Just darling! Don’t you think so, April?”
“He looks like…” April tilted her head and Roscoe mirrored the motion, wondering what she was looking for. There was a long pause before she dissolved into giggles. “Like a stupidhead!”
“What he looks like is a geek who’s not going to see any action.” Darrin chimed in. “Nice tie, nerd. Why not add the pocket protector and go for the whole gimmick?”
“The tie!” Roscoe lifted the offending item and looked across the table. “Can I wear a tie without a jacket? Or do I need to find a jacket? I didn’t iron one, but I might have time.”
“Now, I don’t know about that. In my days the young men always wore a jacket. Or at least a smart sweater.”
“If you were wearing your uniform, you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“I think jackets make you look fat!”
“One more piece of clothing means one more piece you gotta take off to do the deed.”
“I-I-I’m not g-g-going to…you know.” Roscoe blushed and noticed the same reddening of Mrs. Mayberry’s cheeks. “This is just a first date. I’ll be a g-g-gentleman.”
“I know you will, sweetie. You have good morals.”
“Fine upstanding young man. Although your salute needs some work.”
“I was just joshing ya, kid. Though you should try and at least kiss her.”
“Ew! That is soooo gross!”
Roscoe looked at April, the two of them engaged in a staring contest for several moments until they blinked simultaneously.
“Fine, you’re not gross. Much. She'll like you.”
“Thank you.” Roscoe smoothed his shirt and ran through his list once more, the kitchen silent as he mentally checked off everything again. “Alright, I think I’m ready.”
“You know, you’ve got a wrinkle in that shirt.” Darrin said with a smirk.
Roscoe pulled at the edges of his button down. “Where? I don’t see it!”
“Don’t tell him that!” April whined. “You know it’s just going to make him crazy.”
“That wasn’t nice, Darrin.” Mrs. Mayberry tutted. “There are no wrinkles, love.”
“He’s a grown man, for petes sake! Back during the – “
“During the war we ate wrinkles for breakfast. Blah, blah, blah.” Darrin interrupted.
“Please?” Roscoe pointed at his chest. “Wrinkles?”
“Not as crisp as I’d like it, solider, but you’ll do.”
“You’re fine, sweetie. Now you just go on out and have a good time.”
“We want the play-by-play later.”
“But not any kissing parts! Gross!”
Roscoe pushed his chair back from the table, watching as the five people around him stood as well. Smoothing the crease in his shirt one last time, he nodded at the now empty mirrors propped up in the kitchen chairs and headed out for his date.
Roscoe's date for tonight began in exactly 47 minutes and he wasn’t sure he was prepared. The corsage had been ordered, the reservations triple-checked and the floor mats of his car had all been steamed cleaned. Each extensive list he had made for himself had been completed and yet he still wasn’t positive it was enough. He could go have a conversation with everyone in the kitchen, although that was, at times, more trouble than it was worth.
“Ironed the pants. Ironed the shirt. Ironed the...tie?” Roscoe paused; he couldn’t remember if wearing a tie was appropriate for this type of date. Ties were usually worn with suit jackets and he was wearing a button down shirt tonight. His breaths started to quicken and he reached to grab the medicine bottle on the side of the bed. Roscoe didn’t immediately pry open the lid and take the little orange pill. The medicine was an option, of course, and if Roscoe was honest with himself, probably the healthiest one. But healthy didn’t always mean right and it certainly didn’t mean comforting. With a determined nod, Roscoe placed the bottle back on the nightstand and headed into the kitchen.
“If you ask me, you should be wearing dress blues.” Roscoe had barely taken a seat at the table, when the General started in on him. He turned to meet his eyes across the table. “None of these namby-pamby civvies.”
“I think he looks darling.” Mrs. Mayberry smiled. “Just darling! Don’t you think so, April?”
“He looks like…” April tilted her head and Roscoe mirrored the motion, wondering what she was looking for. There was a long pause before she dissolved into giggles. “Like a stupidhead!”
“What he looks like is a geek who’s not going to see any action.” Darrin chimed in. “Nice tie, nerd. Why not add the pocket protector and go for the whole gimmick?”
“The tie!” Roscoe lifted the offending item and looked across the table. “Can I wear a tie without a jacket? Or do I need to find a jacket? I didn’t iron one, but I might have time.”
“Now, I don’t know about that. In my days the young men always wore a jacket. Or at least a smart sweater.”
“If you were wearing your uniform, you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“I think jackets make you look fat!”
“One more piece of clothing means one more piece you gotta take off to do the deed.”
“I-I-I’m not g-g-going to…you know.” Roscoe blushed and noticed the same reddening of Mrs. Mayberry’s cheeks. “This is just a first date. I’ll be a g-g-gentleman.”
“I know you will, sweetie. You have good morals.”
“Fine upstanding young man. Although your salute needs some work.”
“I was just joshing ya, kid. Though you should try and at least kiss her.”
“Ew! That is soooo gross!”
Roscoe looked at April, the two of them engaged in a staring contest for several moments until they blinked simultaneously.
“Fine, you’re not gross. Much. She'll like you.”
“Thank you.” Roscoe smoothed his shirt and ran through his list once more, the kitchen silent as he mentally checked off everything again. “Alright, I think I’m ready.”
“You know, you’ve got a wrinkle in that shirt.” Darrin said with a smirk.
Roscoe pulled at the edges of his button down. “Where? I don’t see it!”
“Don’t tell him that!” April whined. “You know it’s just going to make him crazy.”
“That wasn’t nice, Darrin.” Mrs. Mayberry tutted. “There are no wrinkles, love.”
“He’s a grown man, for petes sake! Back during the – “
“During the war we ate wrinkles for breakfast. Blah, blah, blah.” Darrin interrupted.
“Please?” Roscoe pointed at his chest. “Wrinkles?”
“Not as crisp as I’d like it, solider, but you’ll do.”
“You’re fine, sweetie. Now you just go on out and have a good time.”
“We want the play-by-play later.”
“But not any kissing parts! Gross!”
Roscoe pushed his chair back from the table, watching as the five people around him stood as well. Smoothing the crease in his shirt one last time, he nodded at the now empty mirrors propped up in the kitchen chairs and headed out for his date.
Ideas
I have no idea how to write a script for a movie, despite the fact that I once retooled a story into one. It was tedious and confusing and I felt like I had lost everything that made the story unique. I hated it. Also, I'm pretty sure I did it wrong.
But when my cousin said that we should write an action movie together, it actually sounded like fun. (the writing together part, not the script part) So I sat down and filled up pages with ideas. It never went past the idea stage, but it was fun to do, especially the list of things that I like and don't like in an action movie.
This is a list of sidekick characters for the heroes. I had so much fun with this.
Soccer Mom
"We'll take my van!"
"Let me get the first aid kit."
"Don't take that tone with me!"
"We've got juice...or juice."
High School Science Teacher
"This is not my job!"
"Wait! Wait! I knew...*huffs for breath*...knew I should have taken that coaches job."
"I babysit teenagers around chemicals all day. I can make anything explode."
College Student
"I can download the latest hit song, not get codes for a nuclear submarine."
"I've got 2 notebooks, an iPod, my latin textbook and flip-flops."
"Cool! Free stuff! Do you think they'll care if we take these?"
Meter Maid/Traffic Cop
"You know that you parked this thing in a loading zone, right?"
"And that's for blocking the sidewalk!"
"Your meter has expired!"
"I'm not armed! I'm a meter maid! They don't even let us wear long pants!"
But when my cousin said that we should write an action movie together, it actually sounded like fun. (the writing together part, not the script part) So I sat down and filled up pages with ideas. It never went past the idea stage, but it was fun to do, especially the list of things that I like and don't like in an action movie.
This is a list of sidekick characters for the heroes. I had so much fun with this.
Soccer Mom
"We'll take my van!"
"Let me get the first aid kit."
"Don't take that tone with me!"
"We've got juice...or juice."
High School Science Teacher
"This is not my job!"
"Wait! Wait! I knew...*huffs for breath*...knew I should have taken that coaches job."
"I babysit teenagers around chemicals all day. I can make anything explode."
College Student
"I can download the latest hit song, not get codes for a nuclear submarine."
"I've got 2 notebooks, an iPod, my latin textbook and flip-flops."
"Cool! Free stuff! Do you think they'll care if we take these?"
Meter Maid/Traffic Cop
"You know that you parked this thing in a loading zone, right?"
"And that's for blocking the sidewalk!"
"Your meter has expired!"
"I'm not armed! I'm a meter maid! They don't even let us wear long pants!"
Monday, September 29, 2008
A little drabble from the other night
Some people have a great sense of hearing. Others can taste a multitude of flavors. Me, I can see faces where no faces exist.
I've always had this odd ability to find faces. A bit of mussed paint on the wall. A crumpled towel on the bathroom floor. Oil in a puddle. Berries in a muffin. For some reason, my eyes seek them out so clearly. While fodder for my imagination as a child, the ability has become quite problematic of late.
See, the faces are beginning to look back at me.
For as long as I can remember there has a been a young man in the folds of my shower curtain. He's always stared forlornly at his reflection in the mirror, as if hoping he could wipe the tiny yellow flowers from his brow. Long ago I dubbed him the Reluctant Hippie, because I fancy myself as funny. Through hot showers and warm baths, the Reluctant Hippie keeps staring sadly. Until recently.
One morning, I walked into the bathroom and the Reluctant Hippie had turned to stare out the window. It wasn't just a tilt of the shower curtain, or a trick of the light. The face had turned. Somehow. This ordinary morning the face in the shower curtain had made the decision to look out the window. I stared for a long moment, wondering just what sort of response was appropriate. Do I scream in fright? Do I run in terror? Do I destroy the shower in a fit of anger? Do I find out just what is so interesting out the window?
In the end, curiosity won out. I edged around the curtain and peered out the window, looking for anything that would draw the attention of an inanimate image of a face. The view was the same as any morning. The same gray blue sky. The same thorny tree. There was nothing extraordinary. No wildly colored birds or floating balloons. Not even a passing airplane to draw the attention of my shower curtain face. I turned to check and from here it was even more apparent that the Reluctant Hippie was staring resolutely towards the window. I bent a little, trying to line up just where his gaze ended and then turned back to the window.
Which is when I saw it. A new face. A smear of paint and condensation which made up the visage of a very angry man. A very angry man who was glaring right at me. I blinked and turned back around to the hippie in the shower curtain. It was painfully obvious now that he hadn't just turned to face the window, he his whole expression had changed. He wasn't sad anymore.
He was scared.
I've always had this odd ability to find faces. A bit of mussed paint on the wall. A crumpled towel on the bathroom floor. Oil in a puddle. Berries in a muffin. For some reason, my eyes seek them out so clearly. While fodder for my imagination as a child, the ability has become quite problematic of late.
See, the faces are beginning to look back at me.
For as long as I can remember there has a been a young man in the folds of my shower curtain. He's always stared forlornly at his reflection in the mirror, as if hoping he could wipe the tiny yellow flowers from his brow. Long ago I dubbed him the Reluctant Hippie, because I fancy myself as funny. Through hot showers and warm baths, the Reluctant Hippie keeps staring sadly. Until recently.
One morning, I walked into the bathroom and the Reluctant Hippie had turned to stare out the window. It wasn't just a tilt of the shower curtain, or a trick of the light. The face had turned. Somehow. This ordinary morning the face in the shower curtain had made the decision to look out the window. I stared for a long moment, wondering just what sort of response was appropriate. Do I scream in fright? Do I run in terror? Do I destroy the shower in a fit of anger? Do I find out just what is so interesting out the window?
In the end, curiosity won out. I edged around the curtain and peered out the window, looking for anything that would draw the attention of an inanimate image of a face. The view was the same as any morning. The same gray blue sky. The same thorny tree. There was nothing extraordinary. No wildly colored birds or floating balloons. Not even a passing airplane to draw the attention of my shower curtain face. I turned to check and from here it was even more apparent that the Reluctant Hippie was staring resolutely towards the window. I bent a little, trying to line up just where his gaze ended and then turned back to the window.
Which is when I saw it. A new face. A smear of paint and condensation which made up the visage of a very angry man. A very angry man who was glaring right at me. I blinked and turned back around to the hippie in the shower curtain. It was painfully obvious now that he hadn't just turned to face the window, he his whole expression had changed. He wasn't sad anymore.
He was scared.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Stream of Consciousness
When I want to write but can't think of what to write about, I just start typing and hope that something sticks. Like in this instance, a lot of times it just ends up being a mismatched collection of thoughts.
Things always look different from above. Standing on the top of a building gives you such a different perspective. The potholes seem smaller. The streets seem shorter. Nothing seems too big to handle from high enough. I wonder if that's why God can do what He does. If it's because He's so high in the air that he's able to get the perspective that He has. Of course, being God probably doesn't hurt. Sure, I can stand here on the top of my own little world and muse about perspective and distance and tiny ant-like people. But I'm not omnipresent. I'm not omniscient. Which is a good thing. I wouldn't want that sort of hassle. To listen to everyone’s heart.
Not their thoughts, mind you. Their thoughts I wouldn't mind. Buy more milk. Does he like me? I want to look like Brad Pitt. Even the more upsetting thoughts wouldn't throw me for a loop. I think that I could deal just fine with being a mind reader. It's a heart reader that would make me cry. I can't imagine what the cry of a heart sounds like. I would think that it would be the most heartbreaking sound. I know that my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages and it would be a shock to hear it out loud.
Just what would my heart say? I'm not sure. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too hard. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too lonely. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. Like I said, my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages. Trying to decipher it is like trying to speak a foreign language from a guidebook. You may make a sentence, but who knows if it will be understandable.
Friday State workers and construction workers look a lot alike. The blue jeans and tired expressions are the thing that ties them together the most. Although in this heat, the sweat does that as well. Actually, the main difference isn't dusty boots or briefcases; it's the look on the state workers faces. They are done with their work. They’ve toiled and now they are on their way to rest. The faces of the construction workers are still focused. Still hard. That relaxing of the muscles, that lightness of the eyes isn't something that they have yet. It'll get there. In a few hours, when the machines have stopped and the lights are turned off, they'll head home and once again, it will be difficult to name their profession as anything other than human being.
Oh look! The clock is wrong. Or maybe I just can't tell from here. It looks like it's still at 4:55, but maybe its inching closer than what I can tell. Time is funny that way. Depending on where you are, it can be slow or fast. Taking days to inch forward a second or going by in the blink of an eye. I wonder how hard it was to measure time in the beginning. Sit five people down and tell them to speak up when a minute has passed would most likely garner you five different answers. But I suppose that's the trick of time. The trick that it plays on us all. A day is just 24 hours, conveniently measured for us, but time flits around like a poodle on pixie sticks. One moment she flies past as we try to grasp her, keeping just out of our reach. Other times she clings to us
heavily, sleeping and keeping us stuck in a mire of timelessness.
I've always wanted to drive construction equipment. I wonder why. Is it the size of the vehicles? The idea of piloting something so massive? Is it the usefulness? The thought that I could be doing something to help, to fix or create? Or is it simply the beep? The sound that trucks make when backing up. At times I feel like a kid who wants to make a lot of noise by gunning my engine and beating the horn and making the backing up beep sound.
Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not allowed to drive a cement truck.
Yeah, dude, that's just peachy. I'm sure that you in your big truck and your booming stereo don't really care that you've just blocked me in my spot. Of course, your passenger could get out before mine, but that's just an assumption. Mine could be on their way right now and here you sit, blocking my exit. Sometimes the rudeness of people just astounds me. I came in here and although there was no one in these two spots, I took the time and care to angle my car to take up only one spot. I not only wanted to make it easier for the person already parked to get out, I wanted to give someone else an option to park next to me. It wasn't something that was easy. I had to back up and twist and turn and make an effort. Kindness should take an effort It should be hard, should be difficult. Should take more than just mindlessness. And when it does take that effort, when it does require someone to be just a bit selfless, then it should be rewarded. Or at least respected. It shouldn't just be ignored and forgotten as you satisfy your own self love.
Isn't that just the crux of where rudeness comes from? Not from hatred or spite or callousness. It comes from self-love. The desire to make yourself happy or content and the complete disregard of anyone else. The thought of only one person in the world, you.
Things always look different from above. Standing on the top of a building gives you such a different perspective. The potholes seem smaller. The streets seem shorter. Nothing seems too big to handle from high enough. I wonder if that's why God can do what He does. If it's because He's so high in the air that he's able to get the perspective that He has. Of course, being God probably doesn't hurt. Sure, I can stand here on the top of my own little world and muse about perspective and distance and tiny ant-like people. But I'm not omnipresent. I'm not omniscient. Which is a good thing. I wouldn't want that sort of hassle. To listen to everyone’s heart.
Not their thoughts, mind you. Their thoughts I wouldn't mind. Buy more milk. Does he like me? I want to look like Brad Pitt. Even the more upsetting thoughts wouldn't throw me for a loop. I think that I could deal just fine with being a mind reader. It's a heart reader that would make me cry. I can't imagine what the cry of a heart sounds like. I would think that it would be the most heartbreaking sound. I know that my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages and it would be a shock to hear it out loud.
Just what would my heart say? I'm not sure. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too hard. Maybe it would cry out that life is just too lonely. Honestly, I couldn't tell you. Like I said, my thoughts and my heart speak two different languages. Trying to decipher it is like trying to speak a foreign language from a guidebook. You may make a sentence, but who knows if it will be understandable.
Friday State workers and construction workers look a lot alike. The blue jeans and tired expressions are the thing that ties them together the most. Although in this heat, the sweat does that as well. Actually, the main difference isn't dusty boots or briefcases; it's the look on the state workers faces. They are done with their work. They’ve toiled and now they are on their way to rest. The faces of the construction workers are still focused. Still hard. That relaxing of the muscles, that lightness of the eyes isn't something that they have yet. It'll get there. In a few hours, when the machines have stopped and the lights are turned off, they'll head home and once again, it will be difficult to name their profession as anything other than human being.
Oh look! The clock is wrong. Or maybe I just can't tell from here. It looks like it's still at 4:55, but maybe its inching closer than what I can tell. Time is funny that way. Depending on where you are, it can be slow or fast. Taking days to inch forward a second or going by in the blink of an eye. I wonder how hard it was to measure time in the beginning. Sit five people down and tell them to speak up when a minute has passed would most likely garner you five different answers. But I suppose that's the trick of time. The trick that it plays on us all. A day is just 24 hours, conveniently measured for us, but time flits around like a poodle on pixie sticks. One moment she flies past as we try to grasp her, keeping just out of our reach. Other times she clings to us
heavily, sleeping and keeping us stuck in a mire of timelessness.
I've always wanted to drive construction equipment. I wonder why. Is it the size of the vehicles? The idea of piloting something so massive? Is it the usefulness? The thought that I could be doing something to help, to fix or create? Or is it simply the beep? The sound that trucks make when backing up. At times I feel like a kid who wants to make a lot of noise by gunning my engine and beating the horn and making the backing up beep sound.
Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not allowed to drive a cement truck.
Yeah, dude, that's just peachy. I'm sure that you in your big truck and your booming stereo don't really care that you've just blocked me in my spot. Of course, your passenger could get out before mine, but that's just an assumption. Mine could be on their way right now and here you sit, blocking my exit. Sometimes the rudeness of people just astounds me. I came in here and although there was no one in these two spots, I took the time and care to angle my car to take up only one spot. I not only wanted to make it easier for the person already parked to get out, I wanted to give someone else an option to park next to me. It wasn't something that was easy. I had to back up and twist and turn and make an effort. Kindness should take an effort It should be hard, should be difficult. Should take more than just mindlessness. And when it does take that effort, when it does require someone to be just a bit selfless, then it should be rewarded. Or at least respected. It shouldn't just be ignored and forgotten as you satisfy your own self love.
Isn't that just the crux of where rudeness comes from? Not from hatred or spite or callousness. It comes from self-love. The desire to make yourself happy or content and the complete disregard of anyone else. The thought of only one person in the world, you.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Lost
One small notebook. College ruled. Pen stolen from Days Inn stuffed in the spine.
Filled with:
Phone numbers to various restaurants
Grocery shopping math
Corrected grocery shopping math
Haiku about cows
Unfinished fanfiction for Scrubs
Several short stories
List of places where I want to ride public transportation
Packing list for upcoming vacation
Letter to landlord
Collection of used post-its
If found, please correct spelling and return.
Filled with:
Phone numbers to various restaurants
Grocery shopping math
Corrected grocery shopping math
Haiku about cows
Unfinished fanfiction for Scrubs
Several short stories
List of places where I want to ride public transportation
Packing list for upcoming vacation
Letter to landlord
Collection of used post-its
If found, please correct spelling and return.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Random
So many of my notebooks are filled with random things. Half forgotten story ideas, lists of rhyming words, doodled pictures and lines of pithy dialogue. I'm in a weird mood tonight so I thought I'd share some of my favorite random finds.
"You can't be her mother, you're an elephant!" - written down the side of a shopping list
"Dolores - Dorthea - Dorsey - Dogbreath " - name ideas for a story (I probably didn't choose the last one)
"Sorry Sport, I was thinking about soup." - Quote from Scrubs that I liked enough to write down.
"Man in red polo, dark jeans, sunglasses, logo has diamond shape, first letter 'P'" - no idea, could be a description of a character or someone who had just robbed me
"2,4,6,8 Who do we appreciate? PEOPLE WHO STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER!" - I'm going to go out on a limb and say this one was written in class. There is a lovely stick-figure cheerleader doodled nearby. I like to commit.
"Baloney- It's not just for sandwiches anymore." - This is actually at the top of a otherwise blank page. I'm not really sure of the purpose behind this statement. Was I tired of the same old sandwiches? Was I contemplating the varied dishes I could make with the meat? Had I discovered an undiscovered alternative energy source? The world will never know.
"You can't be her mother, you're an elephant!" - written down the side of a shopping list
"Dolores - Dorthea - Dorsey - Dogbreath " - name ideas for a story (I probably didn't choose the last one)
"Sorry Sport, I was thinking about soup." - Quote from Scrubs that I liked enough to write down.
"Man in red polo, dark jeans, sunglasses, logo has diamond shape, first letter 'P'" - no idea, could be a description of a character or someone who had just robbed me
"2,4,6,8 Who do we appreciate? PEOPLE WHO STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER!" - I'm going to go out on a limb and say this one was written in class. There is a lovely stick-figure cheerleader doodled nearby. I like to commit.
"Baloney- It's not just for sandwiches anymore." - This is actually at the top of a otherwise blank page. I'm not really sure of the purpose behind this statement. Was I tired of the same old sandwiches? Was I contemplating the varied dishes I could make with the meat? Had I discovered an undiscovered alternative energy source? The world will never know.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Last days
The sun always seems hotter in September,
The wind weaker, the grass drier.
The sun always seems hotter in September,
As summer refuses to let go.
I found that scribbled poem on the back of a receipt a few weeks ago and almost threw it away because the rest of the stanzas were really bad. Actually, this isn't all that wonderful either, but I realized how true it was today.
September is a month that I both love and loathe. It's the month in which me and all my siblings were born, the month that both my parents and my sister were married. It's the month of notebooks and lunchboxes and freshly sharpened pencils. It's also a month of change and loss, bad memories and best-forgotten hurts. Out of all the months of the year, this is the one that stands out the most in my memories.
I want to love September because it heralds the end of summer and the slow descent into winter, my favorite season. The end of muggy heat and endless sun makes me happy and the first glimpses of fall colors on the trees is a beautiful sight. The only problem is that summer always has a hard time leaving. It seems like every year just when it seems like it's getting cooler and fall is on the horizon...summer comes back with a vengeance.
Sitting downtown tonight in 90 degree heat with no wind and listening to the lovely sounds of major road construction, I decided that the poem was right. It isn't like the temp wasn't this high in July, or that the wind was any better in August. It's just that it seems worse in September. Summer has already had it's fun and it's time for fall and winter to have the stage, but it just refuses to let go.
The wind weaker, the grass drier.
The sun always seems hotter in September,
As summer refuses to let go.
I found that scribbled poem on the back of a receipt a few weeks ago and almost threw it away because the rest of the stanzas were really bad. Actually, this isn't all that wonderful either, but I realized how true it was today.
September is a month that I both love and loathe. It's the month in which me and all my siblings were born, the month that both my parents and my sister were married. It's the month of notebooks and lunchboxes and freshly sharpened pencils. It's also a month of change and loss, bad memories and best-forgotten hurts. Out of all the months of the year, this is the one that stands out the most in my memories.
I want to love September because it heralds the end of summer and the slow descent into winter, my favorite season. The end of muggy heat and endless sun makes me happy and the first glimpses of fall colors on the trees is a beautiful sight. The only problem is that summer always has a hard time leaving. It seems like every year just when it seems like it's getting cooler and fall is on the horizon...summer comes back with a vengeance.
Sitting downtown tonight in 90 degree heat with no wind and listening to the lovely sounds of major road construction, I decided that the poem was right. It isn't like the temp wasn't this high in July, or that the wind was any better in August. It's just that it seems worse in September. Summer has already had it's fun and it's time for fall and winter to have the stage, but it just refuses to let go.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Reflections
Found in a small notebook that I used to carry with me when I spent time outdoors.
Everything looks pretty in reflection. Rocky bits, dirty hills, bare trees, gray clouds; they all shine in reflections. Even the plainest feature takes on a measure of elegance when reflected on water.
Even the means of reflection is ordinary on its own. Muddy water over dirty shores aren't all that beautiful. The water doesn't excel until it shows something other than itself. It's transformed into a thing of wonder when it smooths into glass and reflects the surrounding settings.
That's where the true beauty of reflections lie. Not in the individual pieces that make up the whole, but the combination of the two. Not the image, but the act.
Everything looks pretty in reflection. Rocky bits, dirty hills, bare trees, gray clouds; they all shine in reflections. Even the plainest feature takes on a measure of elegance when reflected on water.
Even the means of reflection is ordinary on its own. Muddy water over dirty shores aren't all that beautiful. The water doesn't excel until it shows something other than itself. It's transformed into a thing of wonder when it smooths into glass and reflects the surrounding settings.
That's where the true beauty of reflections lie. Not in the individual pieces that make up the whole, but the combination of the two. Not the image, but the act.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Storytelling
A story written to make a friend smile a couple of years ago.
When the sun sets and all the family gathers round the fire, I tell the story of a man long gone. A man who still inspires me to this day.
A man....who ran the street sweeper.
"Listen here, my children." I say, gathering young Susie and little Peter onto my lap. "Listen and I'll share with you a bit of our history. I'll tell you the tale of..."
"Street Sweeper Joe!" Susie yells and claps her hands in glee.
"Seet sep 'oe!" Peter echoes drunkenly. His mother insists that he speaks that way because he's two, but I swear that I can smell the telltale whiff of whiskey when he comes near. Poor little fellow.
"Peter, you need to lay off the sauce." I admonish halfheartedly before continuing. "The story of Street Sweeper Joe is a good story, an old story, a story that must be passed on. Now let me think of how to start it."
"Many, many years ago...
The Earth had advanced to a point when little needed to be done to sustain everyday life. The necessities were taken care of and the populace went about carefree and happy.
The people rejoiced. The leaders played a lot of golf. The small woodland animals danced.
Eventually a life of leisure for everyone led to some problems. Mainly with upkeep. Everyone had forgotten how to take care of things and soon they had a problem. There was a scourge upon the land and the name of that scourge was trash. It was piled up on street corners, it was overflowing out of garbage cans, it was fluttering about in the afternoon breeze like a very poetic thing.
But it was not poetic. It was stinky. It was dirty. It was probably very unhygienic.
The people complained. The leaders fretted. The small woodland animals headed upwind.
It got so bad that one day the very last piece of grass was taken over by trash. As far as the eye could see there were piles and mounds of garbage. Everyone walked around with their noses plugged and their eyes watering and their shoes getting soggy with things they would rather not think about."
"Ewwww!" Giggled Susie.
"Mrpp" Peter drunkenly mumbled.
"Really, your mother should take away your whiskey. It's unseemly for a boy your age. Now, where was I?"
"It had gotten bad enough that the population of Earth decided to start picking up their trash. They went out in groups and gathered and shoveled and pushed and poked. But no matter how much effort they put into it, they didn't accomplish anything. They had no trash-picking skills, nowhere to put the trash and they kept getting distracted by having to swoon dramatically over the smell. Honestly, so much dramatic swooning was going on day and night that there was barely time to notice that they weren't accomplishing anything with the trash problem.
The people swooned. The leaders drank. The small woodland animals laughed at the swooning and the drinking and the drunken swooning.
Then one morning, a rumbling sound could be heard across the land. The people stopped their swooning and climbed up out of the trash. Reveled in the rays of the rising sun there stood...."
"Street Sweeper Joe!" Susie and Peter yelled. Or rather Susie yelled and Peter waved his hands wildly and burped.
"Yes, my darlings. It was Street Sweeper Joe, riding into town on his street sweeper of salvation. As he rumbled up and down the streets and highways, the trash was slowly removed. Once again the sidewalks, the pavements, even the grass was exposed to the sun again. The people came out and danced on the now-clean earth. They sang out a song extolling Street Sweeper Joe's virtues. They threw flowers, only to have Joe sweep them up quickly.
The people rejoiced. The leaders gave thanks. The small woodland animals hid from the big rumbling machine.
Finally the job was done, the trash was gone and Street Sweeper Joe pulled up in front of the capital and looked down at all the people. The leader walked up and said to Joe, 'You have saved us, you street sweeper hero! What can we do to repay you?' But Joe was a humble sort and he spoke, his voice as rumbly as the street sweeper he drove...
'Joe is name
Street sweeping is my game
I want nothing more
Than to do my little chore
No gold, rubies or cash
Just let me sweep up your trash
And I'll be happy, I say
Thank you and good day.'
The townspeople were impressed by his sentiment, even though his rhyme scheme was a little off and they gratefully agreed to let him pick up trash. Street Sweeper Joe taught the people how to keep things clean and to this day we honor when the anniversary of the day he came to town."
" 'oe still here?" Peter asked with a slur.
"No, my sweet inebriated child. One day Street Sweeper Joe started talking about recycling and compost heaps and it was decided that he was getting to be too uppity so the leaders decided to kick him out of town. But to this day, if you listen very closely in the dead of night, you might here the rumbling sound of Street Sweeper Joe."
The light fades as the fire dies down and I send the family off to bed, shaking my head at Peter's wobbling attempts to walk in a straight line. One day I'm going to figure out where that kid gets his whiskey. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow we have to go out and swoon dramatically as we try to pick up the trash that has taken over our world.
When the sun sets and all the family gathers round the fire, I tell the story of a man long gone. A man who still inspires me to this day.
A man....who ran the street sweeper.
"Listen here, my children." I say, gathering young Susie and little Peter onto my lap. "Listen and I'll share with you a bit of our history. I'll tell you the tale of..."
"Street Sweeper Joe!" Susie yells and claps her hands in glee.
"Seet sep 'oe!" Peter echoes drunkenly. His mother insists that he speaks that way because he's two, but I swear that I can smell the telltale whiff of whiskey when he comes near. Poor little fellow.
"Peter, you need to lay off the sauce." I admonish halfheartedly before continuing. "The story of Street Sweeper Joe is a good story, an old story, a story that must be passed on. Now let me think of how to start it."
"Many, many years ago...
The Earth had advanced to a point when little needed to be done to sustain everyday life. The necessities were taken care of and the populace went about carefree and happy.
The people rejoiced. The leaders played a lot of golf. The small woodland animals danced.
Eventually a life of leisure for everyone led to some problems. Mainly with upkeep. Everyone had forgotten how to take care of things and soon they had a problem. There was a scourge upon the land and the name of that scourge was trash. It was piled up on street corners, it was overflowing out of garbage cans, it was fluttering about in the afternoon breeze like a very poetic thing.
But it was not poetic. It was stinky. It was dirty. It was probably very unhygienic.
The people complained. The leaders fretted. The small woodland animals headed upwind.
It got so bad that one day the very last piece of grass was taken over by trash. As far as the eye could see there were piles and mounds of garbage. Everyone walked around with their noses plugged and their eyes watering and their shoes getting soggy with things they would rather not think about."
"Ewwww!" Giggled Susie.
"Mrpp" Peter drunkenly mumbled.
"Really, your mother should take away your whiskey. It's unseemly for a boy your age. Now, where was I?"
"It had gotten bad enough that the population of Earth decided to start picking up their trash. They went out in groups and gathered and shoveled and pushed and poked. But no matter how much effort they put into it, they didn't accomplish anything. They had no trash-picking skills, nowhere to put the trash and they kept getting distracted by having to swoon dramatically over the smell. Honestly, so much dramatic swooning was going on day and night that there was barely time to notice that they weren't accomplishing anything with the trash problem.
The people swooned. The leaders drank. The small woodland animals laughed at the swooning and the drinking and the drunken swooning.
Then one morning, a rumbling sound could be heard across the land. The people stopped their swooning and climbed up out of the trash. Reveled in the rays of the rising sun there stood...."
"Street Sweeper Joe!" Susie and Peter yelled. Or rather Susie yelled and Peter waved his hands wildly and burped.
"Yes, my darlings. It was Street Sweeper Joe, riding into town on his street sweeper of salvation. As he rumbled up and down the streets and highways, the trash was slowly removed. Once again the sidewalks, the pavements, even the grass was exposed to the sun again. The people came out and danced on the now-clean earth. They sang out a song extolling Street Sweeper Joe's virtues. They threw flowers, only to have Joe sweep them up quickly.
The people rejoiced. The leaders gave thanks. The small woodland animals hid from the big rumbling machine.
Finally the job was done, the trash was gone and Street Sweeper Joe pulled up in front of the capital and looked down at all the people. The leader walked up and said to Joe, 'You have saved us, you street sweeper hero! What can we do to repay you?' But Joe was a humble sort and he spoke, his voice as rumbly as the street sweeper he drove...
'Joe is name
Street sweeping is my game
I want nothing more
Than to do my little chore
No gold, rubies or cash
Just let me sweep up your trash
And I'll be happy, I say
Thank you and good day.'
The townspeople were impressed by his sentiment, even though his rhyme scheme was a little off and they gratefully agreed to let him pick up trash. Street Sweeper Joe taught the people how to keep things clean and to this day we honor when the anniversary of the day he came to town."
" 'oe still here?" Peter asked with a slur.
"No, my sweet inebriated child. One day Street Sweeper Joe started talking about recycling and compost heaps and it was decided that he was getting to be too uppity so the leaders decided to kick him out of town. But to this day, if you listen very closely in the dead of night, you might here the rumbling sound of Street Sweeper Joe."
The light fades as the fire dies down and I send the family off to bed, shaking my head at Peter's wobbling attempts to walk in a straight line. One day I'm going to figure out where that kid gets his whiskey. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow we have to go out and swoon dramatically as we try to pick up the trash that has taken over our world.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Wee Notebooks
I have an obsession with tiny notebooks. I love the wee ones that you can stuff into a pocket or slip into your purse or jam down the front of your camera case. Maybe it's because of my old desire to be a reporter, or my imagined views of famous writers bent over moleskin notebooks penning out the novels that cemented their fame.
Whatever the motivation is, I have several of these wee notebooks. I keep coming across them in old purses and backpacks, stuffed behind books on the bookshelf, hiding under a bunch of socks. They just keep popping up and enticing me with their tiny cuteness. The best thing about finding these notebooks is that I've used them for such random things.
Case in point: Tiny green notebook, found in the utensil drawer next to the spoons. Floury fingerprints on the cover would lead me to believe I had a recipe written inside, but the only food related item I could find was a messy scrawl on one page proclaiming "DON'T EAT BUTTER!"
The first half of the notebook had been used as a notepad for Balderdash, the game where a word is read aloud and then you have to make up definitions for it. There are page after page of sentences with such things as "the last car in a pileup", "sound of a pregnant hippo exhaling" and "the inability to function when wearing pants". Each page makes me laugh, either at the silliness of the definitions or the remembrance of the games in which they were played.
Doodles line the pages of the center of the notebook, a few palm trees, a hibiscus flower or two. Apparently I was in a tropical mood during the use of this notebook, as leis and dolphins and coconuts seem to take up the majority of my doodles. I can't remember the reason for that phase, although I'm assured it's more like it was easier to draw than I actually expressed a desire to visit. Anything over 80 degrees and I get twitchy.
The last bit of the notebook is my favorite. Besides the dire warning about butter, this is chock full of a story that I was writing at the time. Scribbles in half a dozen different ink and pencil colors tell the story of Will and Amos Mattingerly, a father and son who try to connect with each other as the world changes around them. The words have faded into the paper in places and it's hard to make out just where I was going with the plot, but there are bigger issues that jump out at me. Sadly, they are issues that are fairly common for me in this genre.
Will and Amos are very girly in their speech patterns. I think that I struggled with the format of it being emotional scenes between two men and ended up making them sound overly emotional and flowery. That's usually how to tend to write anyway, but most of the time I can shift that dialouge onto a female character. It makes me want to work harder at my male characters. Also, I think that this piece runs the line of being too science fiction. There's a whole paragraph that describes the 'ralyon' trees outside the house. What moon they come from, the color of their leaves and just what primates eat their fruit.
Apparently my sci fi fics are all about weeping poetic men and primate-laden moon trees. Is it any wonder that I rarely write sci fi?
Whatever the motivation is, I have several of these wee notebooks. I keep coming across them in old purses and backpacks, stuffed behind books on the bookshelf, hiding under a bunch of socks. They just keep popping up and enticing me with their tiny cuteness. The best thing about finding these notebooks is that I've used them for such random things.
Case in point: Tiny green notebook, found in the utensil drawer next to the spoons. Floury fingerprints on the cover would lead me to believe I had a recipe written inside, but the only food related item I could find was a messy scrawl on one page proclaiming "DON'T EAT BUTTER!"
The first half of the notebook had been used as a notepad for Balderdash, the game where a word is read aloud and then you have to make up definitions for it. There are page after page of sentences with such things as "the last car in a pileup", "sound of a pregnant hippo exhaling" and "the inability to function when wearing pants". Each page makes me laugh, either at the silliness of the definitions or the remembrance of the games in which they were played.
Doodles line the pages of the center of the notebook, a few palm trees, a hibiscus flower or two. Apparently I was in a tropical mood during the use of this notebook, as leis and dolphins and coconuts seem to take up the majority of my doodles. I can't remember the reason for that phase, although I'm assured it's more like it was easier to draw than I actually expressed a desire to visit. Anything over 80 degrees and I get twitchy.
The last bit of the notebook is my favorite. Besides the dire warning about butter, this is chock full of a story that I was writing at the time. Scribbles in half a dozen different ink and pencil colors tell the story of Will and Amos Mattingerly, a father and son who try to connect with each other as the world changes around them. The words have faded into the paper in places and it's hard to make out just where I was going with the plot, but there are bigger issues that jump out at me. Sadly, they are issues that are fairly common for me in this genre.
Will and Amos are very girly in their speech patterns. I think that I struggled with the format of it being emotional scenes between two men and ended up making them sound overly emotional and flowery. That's usually how to tend to write anyway, but most of the time I can shift that dialouge onto a female character. It makes me want to work harder at my male characters. Also, I think that this piece runs the line of being too science fiction. There's a whole paragraph that describes the 'ralyon' trees outside the house. What moon they come from, the color of their leaves and just what primates eat their fruit.
Apparently my sci fi fics are all about weeping poetic men and primate-laden moon trees. Is it any wonder that I rarely write sci fi?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Scribble, scribble, scratch
I went through three pencils and two sheets of paper trying to write a poem tonight. I'm the first to say that anyone can write at anytime, you just have to try...but I will concede that there are writing moods.
Sometimes I will feel this overwhelming desire to write something specific. Tonight it was poetry. I was in my bedroom hanging up my laundry to dry and I just felt like writing a poem. I tried to resist, after all, there was wet laundry in my immediate field of vision. I tried to focus on hangers and hemlines and making sure that nothing was dripping on anything important. Yet my mind refused to cooperate and began to enlist my body into its evil schemes. My arms felt heavier each time I tried to lift a hanger. My body longed to lay across the bed with a notepad. Even my eyes kept diverting from laundry and searching out the stack of pencils on top of a nearby sketchbook. It was like my entire being was calling out to write this poem. Even the first line popped into my brain and out of my mouth. "Such a tiny thing am I."
That was the final nail in my coffin. I shoved the wet clothes into the basket and scrambled for the pencils, flipping to a page in the sketchbook and started writing. But after that first sentence was down...nothing seemed to work. The rest of the poem was missing. Oh, I tried to write it of course. I tried different rhyme schemes, different comparisons; I even tried singing a bit to see if it sounded better as lyrics. I couldn't find anything that worked. So I stepped away, hoping that giving it a bit of a breather would help me find the rest of the words. I still felt that pull, that urge to write and I knew that it wasn't finished yet.
I finished the laundry. I made my bed. I fussed and flitted around my bedroom trying to waste time until inspiration struck. I knew that if I went back to the page now I would just end up scribbling and scratching more broken words and never finish the poem. Finally, I could think of nothing else to do. I grabbed a fresh notebook and leaned against the edge of my bed, copying down that first sentence. "Such a tiny thing am I." As I went to set my pencil down to write something else, I realized something.
It was finished. That was everything I was supposed to write. Just that one sentence. The urge to write had left in a rush and left me looking at these six words. I have to admit, I'm confused. Is just a really short poem? Is it the beginning of something I'm not supposed to finish now? Is it a message from God? Is it just me being nutty?
Such a tiny thing am I. I'm not sure what it means, but it's something to ponder tonight.
Sometimes I will feel this overwhelming desire to write something specific. Tonight it was poetry. I was in my bedroom hanging up my laundry to dry and I just felt like writing a poem. I tried to resist, after all, there was wet laundry in my immediate field of vision. I tried to focus on hangers and hemlines and making sure that nothing was dripping on anything important. Yet my mind refused to cooperate and began to enlist my body into its evil schemes. My arms felt heavier each time I tried to lift a hanger. My body longed to lay across the bed with a notepad. Even my eyes kept diverting from laundry and searching out the stack of pencils on top of a nearby sketchbook. It was like my entire being was calling out to write this poem. Even the first line popped into my brain and out of my mouth. "Such a tiny thing am I."
That was the final nail in my coffin. I shoved the wet clothes into the basket and scrambled for the pencils, flipping to a page in the sketchbook and started writing. But after that first sentence was down...nothing seemed to work. The rest of the poem was missing. Oh, I tried to write it of course. I tried different rhyme schemes, different comparisons; I even tried singing a bit to see if it sounded better as lyrics. I couldn't find anything that worked. So I stepped away, hoping that giving it a bit of a breather would help me find the rest of the words. I still felt that pull, that urge to write and I knew that it wasn't finished yet.
I finished the laundry. I made my bed. I fussed and flitted around my bedroom trying to waste time until inspiration struck. I knew that if I went back to the page now I would just end up scribbling and scratching more broken words and never finish the poem. Finally, I could think of nothing else to do. I grabbed a fresh notebook and leaned against the edge of my bed, copying down that first sentence. "Such a tiny thing am I." As I went to set my pencil down to write something else, I realized something.
It was finished. That was everything I was supposed to write. Just that one sentence. The urge to write had left in a rush and left me looking at these six words. I have to admit, I'm confused. Is just a really short poem? Is it the beginning of something I'm not supposed to finish now? Is it a message from God? Is it just me being nutty?
Such a tiny thing am I. I'm not sure what it means, but it's something to ponder tonight.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
One of my hats
For the past month I've been frustrated with my brother's lawyer. I just haven't felt like he cares about the case and isn't trying very hard. So my brother and I set up a meeting to go in and talk. Or, as my family put it, for 'Jen to set him straight'. :)
Before the meeting, I went through all the court documents and reports with a notebook and highlighter and post-it flags. There's just something I love about marking up a page like that. It's almost as much fun as taking a red pen to a page! After taking all my notes and typing them up into a neat list that I could hand over to the lawyer and refer back to when we were talking. I have no problem with confrontation but sometimes I caught up in the moment and it's nice to have a list to pull me back on track.
So the day of the meeting I was armed with copies of my lists, notebooks and a confident attitude and the meeting went very well. Apparently the lawyer got a lot out of it as well because a week later he sent the prosecuting attorney a letter about the case and the middle part of the letter was word for word taken from the list I had given him!
It's nice to see an immediate real world benefit to my writing. Also it was nice to see my family appreciate my writing...enough to give me my own lawyer crown!
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