A majority of my entries, it seems, have been nonfiction about myself and my opinions. This afternoon, I'd like to take a moment and do a brief sketch...as requested from my writing exercise book-Something titled "The Closet."
THE CLOSET
Cindy loved the apartment just as much as she loved her boyfriend. It fit their personalities perfectly. The ceilings were exceptionally high, resulting in doorways that he did not have to bob his head through and had the wonderful added treat of small windows at the top that were opened copper stilts on the doorframes.
It was the stuff that writers dreamed of. From the modern computer, they could look down the hallway, across the red floorboards and see the original stained glass from 1881.
She could not just walk away from the place. She could not just walk away from him.
But he insisted.
She appreciated, what she could, of his candor. He had everything neatly packaged up as soon as he spoke of the break up. It was as if he did it prior, and, now that she pondered it, he probably did. James had always planned ahead.
Which only exasperated her shock and made it so hard to move back to the suburbs. Normally he would have telegraphed his impending exit with snippets here and there. Like when he planned her surprise party. She saw him working on it for weeks beforehand. It took her all of her strength to act like she had no idea.
She couldn't remember if she turned the engine off as she leaned against the hood of the car. There was no hum, but she was never that machincal.
She looked to the intersection. He could not even see his brakelights anymore either.
The key copy was the neighbor's. They had known about the breakup-proof positive that he was planning ahead. She was also surprised at their willingness to hand over the keys to her when she explained that it was hers and not his. They were not watching now, at least, not through any windows she could see.
He had cleaned out everything. Even the corkboard over the kitchen's phone has small gaps where he had pulled out pictures she had found interesting. She was too upset to remember if they were in the boxes he had handed over to her. She didn't care.
With a scream, she yanked the wooden frame. Small wisps of dust exited where the nails that held the piece up were dislodged.
She did not realized she was sneering at the hard floor where the board had collapsed.
She sighed and went upstairs. She had not found the answer yet. She entered the bedroom and stared.
The fourposters looked at her as if she was a stranger. She realized that her memory of the room was so different--a place of vibrant energy where they connected on occasion was now cold. She felt like she was looking at the original owners furniture set-a museum piece.
The stillness vibrated her to movement. She reached for the top drawer and laced her fingers into the handle and began to slowly pull.
The sneer returned.
She stopped when a sound joined the silence. A car door. A man's voice.
James had returned. She knew the routine sounds from living here once. She looked around knowing that his might happen.
The closet door was closed-James had a thing for keeping doors closed--so she grabbed the bold brass handle and opened it out only as much as was needed to enter. She knew she'd have to pull it closed behind her, but the older frame would give her enough opening to see and hear when the coast was clear.
She looked around. Exactly half of the closet was empty from his cleaning.
She tried to discern the voices as best as she could. She could only hear one man's voice.
Only it wasn't James.
And they were coming up the stairs. The pattern of the walk, however, was hurried, troubled. Quick and then slow, the mens' voices started and stopped with urgency.
Cindy's heart filled in the gaps that were missing from her sight. The men were being intimate.
On the stairs!
HER STAIRS.
She loooked around the closet in part for distraction, in part of something to fill her palms. Her heart lept again.
They had entered the bedroom. The casual conversation had morphed into a frantic grunting and huffing, James creating one-half of the cacophony.
The sneer did not escape.
The noise had a flavor to it that she did not appreciate. She could sense their smiles and giggles.
The men did not waste much time as the bed coils protested the sudden weight. There was no questioning, no pardons and no hesitancy. These men knew each other for some time. Cindy angled her head so that both of her eyes were in vertical line along the doorframe and the light of the far window could illuminate the space of the room
Two pairs of feet, three socks and one shoe, all intertwined before the baseboard. Clothes were still on. The panting and kissing continued.
Get on with it, she hissed in her brain, have sex! Let me see the reason I am failure!
She continued to watch, her own pattern of breathing increasing.
Both men stopped. The male on top must have rolled over. He touched a toe to the heel of a shoe and flicked it with enough force to send it over the footboard and onto the floor.
"Is that my phone?" James voice asked the nameless partner.
"No, doesn't sound like one of your rings."
"Is it your phone?"
There was some rustling and the other man spoke, "didn't bring it in."
Cindy stood upright and hit her hip.
Her phone was in the kitchen.
And was still ringing.
Sorry, 500 word limit here, folks, so I have to stop!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Welcome back
I've always been angry when I hear comments like, "everyone's more rude today," or "today's worse then it was!"
Um, it's like DUH, people. Nothing is like it used to be. It can't be. When standards are changing and trends are moving in different directions, so point out that things of any manner are different then they used to be is like someone taking a survey on if everyone points up for "up."
The fact of the matter also is that there will always be the basics in life. For as much good we are capable of, there can be (but not 'must be) an equal piece of evil. For every thrill we experience, there must be a payback.
As I look upon today's topic, I cannot think of a single THING I'd remove. I love technology--after all, I'm on a blog as it is. But to 'uninvent' would be to step backwards in time, to seek something that we've obviously needed. And, yes, guns are needed, I'm sad to say. I believe they have unnecessary power that they shouldn't and I choose to never pick one up. But, at the same times, they'd be invented as a natural progression of weaponary, frankly. To remove them would me something else would rise up like a phoenix...and the consequences would most likely be the same.
No. For me, the one thing I'd uninvent would be something not as tangible or visible. But, also, like the gun--it would show up nonetheless.
Hate. I'd like to uninvent it.
I know, I know. This contradicts my previous statements, that being that hate is as necessary and love. But I cannot help thinking of a time, long ago, when cave-dude alpha stood up with this cave-dudette prime and they looked out on the world. There were no killings and every single tribe loved each. They didn't hate the sabertooth who bit them, they could not hate the disease that took their children. The imprint would have been burned into their collective DNA and then, as the centuries past, every human on the planet would try to strive to that point...a point where they could not hate any more.
Nowadays, that doesn't happen. Everyone claims to want peace, but they do little to fix it. I think of it when I hear of people complaining of education...that it's out of whack. So they'll vote to cut budgets and not become teachers themselves. Or they'll yell about global warming, but still chain smoke in their Hummers.
I don't hate them, mind you, but I am aware of them.
So, for a brief moment, I wish we could remove that disgusting place...hate. A smile again at each other.
If you could "uninvent" one thing in the world so it would not exist, what would you choose?
Um, it's like DUH, people. Nothing is like it used to be. It can't be. When standards are changing and trends are moving in different directions, so point out that things of any manner are different then they used to be is like someone taking a survey on if everyone points up for "up."
The fact of the matter also is that there will always be the basics in life. For as much good we are capable of, there can be (but not 'must be) an equal piece of evil. For every thrill we experience, there must be a payback.
As I look upon today's topic, I cannot think of a single THING I'd remove. I love technology--after all, I'm on a blog as it is. But to 'uninvent' would be to step backwards in time, to seek something that we've obviously needed. And, yes, guns are needed, I'm sad to say. I believe they have unnecessary power that they shouldn't and I choose to never pick one up. But, at the same times, they'd be invented as a natural progression of weaponary, frankly. To remove them would me something else would rise up like a phoenix...and the consequences would most likely be the same.
No. For me, the one thing I'd uninvent would be something not as tangible or visible. But, also, like the gun--it would show up nonetheless.
Hate. I'd like to uninvent it.
I know, I know. This contradicts my previous statements, that being that hate is as necessary and love. But I cannot help thinking of a time, long ago, when cave-dude alpha stood up with this cave-dudette prime and they looked out on the world. There were no killings and every single tribe loved each. They didn't hate the sabertooth who bit them, they could not hate the disease that took their children. The imprint would have been burned into their collective DNA and then, as the centuries past, every human on the planet would try to strive to that point...a point where they could not hate any more.
Nowadays, that doesn't happen. Everyone claims to want peace, but they do little to fix it. I think of it when I hear of people complaining of education...that it's out of whack. So they'll vote to cut budgets and not become teachers themselves. Or they'll yell about global warming, but still chain smoke in their Hummers.
I don't hate them, mind you, but I am aware of them.
So, for a brief moment, I wish we could remove that disgusting place...hate. A smile again at each other.
If you could "uninvent" one thing in the world so it would not exist, what would you choose?
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Today's Journal entries
1. If you could teach your pet one trick to do, what would you like her to do?
I have a trained cat and dog, I am very proud of this fact. Like raising children, when you have expectations that are high-they will rise to meet it. The cat, in absence of the canine, BECOME the dog for many, many moons. She wants to be held, she actually speaks on command. Then the dog? She is so smart, she learned, 'can you move out of the way, please?'
She'll follow up by moving SIDEWAYS out of your path.
She even knows 'inside voice.'
So to train either one? There's really no point. However, Penelope, the corgi has terrific potential and I think I might be missing the opportunity here to have a show dog. She still jumps uncontrollably if someone doesn't pay attention to her; she can be very rough on those she bumps into and doesn't know.
For me, I'd love for her to learn to be one of those pets that helps childen in the hospital. If only she would be willing to just lie there with some kind who only has cold stuff animals on their hospital bed; I'd love to see her sitting at attention to an elderly person who can't move.
To me, those would be the kinds of tricks I'd love to see her have.
2. If you could have a servant come over to your house once a day for an hour, what kind of servant would you have?
My relationship with the cleanilness has been in a state of flux lately. I know full well that my husband stop by this website as much as I wished he would. So I guess my candor can be more open here. But I used to be a neat-freak.
But living with my husband's tendencies, I've realized I can be just as satifisied with much, much less. He only picks up when someone is en route. Even then, he won't self start until I start waxing down the bathroom.
Don't think I didn't realzie this going into the marriage. He rarely cleaned up his hold home either. So, with him not going to the gym any more, but still picking things up a bit less then ever before? I can live with further disorganization.
That doesn't mean I enjoy it. It means I'm too tired these days to do more.
So if a servant was to come to the house? You got it, a decent cleaning lady.
I have a trained cat and dog, I am very proud of this fact. Like raising children, when you have expectations that are high-they will rise to meet it. The cat, in absence of the canine, BECOME the dog for many, many moons. She wants to be held, she actually speaks on command. Then the dog? She is so smart, she learned, 'can you move out of the way, please?'
She'll follow up by moving SIDEWAYS out of your path.
She even knows 'inside voice.'
So to train either one? There's really no point. However, Penelope, the corgi has terrific potential and I think I might be missing the opportunity here to have a show dog. She still jumps uncontrollably if someone doesn't pay attention to her; she can be very rough on those she bumps into and doesn't know.
For me, I'd love for her to learn to be one of those pets that helps childen in the hospital. If only she would be willing to just lie there with some kind who only has cold stuff animals on their hospital bed; I'd love to see her sitting at attention to an elderly person who can't move.
To me, those would be the kinds of tricks I'd love to see her have.
2. If you could have a servant come over to your house once a day for an hour, what kind of servant would you have?
My relationship with the cleanilness has been in a state of flux lately. I know full well that my husband stop by this website as much as I wished he would. So I guess my candor can be more open here. But I used to be a neat-freak.
But living with my husband's tendencies, I've realized I can be just as satifisied with much, much less. He only picks up when someone is en route. Even then, he won't self start until I start waxing down the bathroom.
Don't think I didn't realzie this going into the marriage. He rarely cleaned up his hold home either. So, with him not going to the gym any more, but still picking things up a bit less then ever before? I can live with further disorganization.
That doesn't mean I enjoy it. It means I'm too tired these days to do more.
So if a servant was to come to the house? You got it, a decent cleaning lady.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
I guess you could call it a confession, but for those who know me, this tale is as old and predictable as the church's stance equality and polictians non-evidence of honesty. But I never wanted to own a home. As much as I love my husband and all he has to offer him; as much as I wanted a dog to call my own-I could not, for the life of me, own a home. There was too much money involved. Too much work. I mean you're looking at someone who burst into tears when his toilet overflowed and who thought his partner had begun speaking Hungarian when he suggested we...WE... are the ones who pain the house.
I grew up in a condo. Attached to seven other homes. I never knew of a world that had a lawn or needed paint. There was always a clubhouse with a hot tub. Was it ritzy? Nah. But my energies were redirected. I was not held to the listings of chores most kids had. Most kids had to mow that lawn. Some kids had shovel that snow.
I didn't.
So to arrive at this question for a journal topic is something of a joke. Me? Own? I don't want to own anything. For ownership requires a specific dedication to responsibilty that I was never, ever trained to accept.
But this is the case for blue-sky thinging. A building I could own? Who the hell cares?
I'll have to reach on this one. I will say, as part of living and growing up in a condo, I am, truly, a city mouse. I'll venture the dream that I'll need a two level penthouse. With servants. I can still have my dog--but someone can take her out or wait for me to come home from a book talk.
But I'm not thinking architecuraly here and I probably should. So, outside of the sheer fantasy-joy of owning something fun like Disney's Haunted Mansion (think of the Halloween parties!), I'll be serious for this one auspicious moment-I'd go with Rockfalls Manor.
It's a Frank Lloyd Wright building in PA, I believe, that is housed over a waterfall. The design work is truly art-deco. And the formation of the rooms and details are undenable city, even if they are in the country.
Here I could be writing with the cosmopolitain comfort I deserve-with the added joy of knowing that every angle of my home is art=extreme.
So, there you have it!
If you could own any building, what would it be?
I grew up in a condo. Attached to seven other homes. I never knew of a world that had a lawn or needed paint. There was always a clubhouse with a hot tub. Was it ritzy? Nah. But my energies were redirected. I was not held to the listings of chores most kids had. Most kids had to mow that lawn. Some kids had shovel that snow.
I didn't.
So to arrive at this question for a journal topic is something of a joke. Me? Own? I don't want to own anything. For ownership requires a specific dedication to responsibilty that I was never, ever trained to accept.
But this is the case for blue-sky thinging. A building I could own? Who the hell cares?
I'll have to reach on this one. I will say, as part of living and growing up in a condo, I am, truly, a city mouse. I'll venture the dream that I'll need a two level penthouse. With servants. I can still have my dog--but someone can take her out or wait for me to come home from a book talk.
But I'm not thinking architecuraly here and I probably should. So, outside of the sheer fantasy-joy of owning something fun like Disney's Haunted Mansion (think of the Halloween parties!), I'll be serious for this one auspicious moment-I'd go with Rockfalls Manor.
It's a Frank Lloyd Wright building in PA, I believe, that is housed over a waterfall. The design work is truly art-deco. And the formation of the rooms and details are undenable city, even if they are in the country.
Here I could be writing with the cosmopolitain comfort I deserve-with the added joy of knowing that every angle of my home is art=extreme.
So, there you have it!
If you could own any building, what would it be?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
I really hate politics, on so many levels. At least a salesman has a product in his favor. Something tangible, something real. A politician works on belief. But his/her beliefs are less then that of religion. Religion may fail in the concrete evidence department, but still has a structure and system to follow. But politics? Squat, generally.
And the polls and pollsters make it worse, much, much worse. Four years ago, Bush rallied on the fact that Kerry had flipflopped on several issues. But the fact is, all politicos flipflop, merely due to polls. So not only are their beliefs fluid--they ability to even stay on topic for too long is at risk.
I mention this, because I follow gay issues so closely. Yeah, an oxymoronic statement. I hate politics; I follow gay issues on politics. But then again, I hate some kinds of food--so I do watch for them on my plate. Lately, the winds of change have swept gay issues up to the forefront. Now, again, we are a topic for warm debate amoung the hets...for some reason, they love to pretend they are God and vote on stuff for us.
I never had to vote on their marriage, but they'll gleefully vote against mine.
Digression, sorry. But the fact is, both candidates have been quite candid on this topic of gay marriage. Of course they will be. They have to be. They don't want any sail to catch the winds of their opinions. And by staying as neutral, they appear to not support gay marriage and equality for myself and my family.
But, wouldn't it be nice if that wasn't true. What if, in all honesty, their young nephew, who looks fantastic in a dress, has long been a good friend and, even tho they play ignorant, they are, through a series of false fronts and business dealings, have been helping gay marriage all along?
Now, that's simple enough, but here's my twist...they BOTH were supporting it? Now Palin, she's something of a ignorant schmuck, so even if she wanted to be my maid of honor, I'd piss on her shoes. But for the other three? Wouldn't that be most awesome?
IF you found out that something you've believed true was actually false, what would you hope it would be?
And the polls and pollsters make it worse, much, much worse. Four years ago, Bush rallied on the fact that Kerry had flipflopped on several issues. But the fact is, all politicos flipflop, merely due to polls. So not only are their beliefs fluid--they ability to even stay on topic for too long is at risk.
I mention this, because I follow gay issues so closely. Yeah, an oxymoronic statement. I hate politics; I follow gay issues on politics. But then again, I hate some kinds of food--so I do watch for them on my plate. Lately, the winds of change have swept gay issues up to the forefront. Now, again, we are a topic for warm debate amoung the hets...for some reason, they love to pretend they are God and vote on stuff for us.
I never had to vote on their marriage, but they'll gleefully vote against mine.
Digression, sorry. But the fact is, both candidates have been quite candid on this topic of gay marriage. Of course they will be. They have to be. They don't want any sail to catch the winds of their opinions. And by staying as neutral, they appear to not support gay marriage and equality for myself and my family.
But, wouldn't it be nice if that wasn't true. What if, in all honesty, their young nephew, who looks fantastic in a dress, has long been a good friend and, even tho they play ignorant, they are, through a series of false fronts and business dealings, have been helping gay marriage all along?
Now, that's simple enough, but here's my twist...they BOTH were supporting it? Now Palin, she's something of a ignorant schmuck, so even if she wanted to be my maid of honor, I'd piss on her shoes. But for the other three? Wouldn't that be most awesome?
IF you found out that something you've believed true was actually false, what would you hope it would be?
Sunday, October 19, 2008
IF:
Okay, I admit it, I'd love to give the snarky answer here. I was so tempted to just put "no" and leave, like the entire page blank, ya know? How pedantic would that be?
But the fact of the matter, I've been railed again from some of my friends from all over the block for my constant critism of classics. I thought, for example, that Gone With the Wind and Dances with Wolves were voluminous hack-jobs that made, by far better movies. Anything made my John Grisham was convoluted and should also be punished--yep--by being made into sub-par films for 4 star actors to finish up their studio contracts...
I also felt that many classic books SHOULD be held to the light, repeatedly, to help persuade us and remind us why, in the first place, did we see them as "classics." I look to specific fame there. I mean, The Adventures of Huck Finn? Every time I've looked between the covers on that one, I'm always impressed...the book does stand tall and resistant to critics. The Catcher in the Rye is another one. If I were to set my sights closer? Harry Potter's format and fame AS A BOOK are, by far, better then the editing and chop jobs Hollywood gives.
So, what is left for me to piss all over as if I'm better then the author? To do that, I have to find some redeeming book and, because the majority is so good, only the ending should change. I got one that pops up.
I am one of the few who really, really liked the prose of Moby Dick. It was the beginning of the adventure tale. And frankly, having Ahab go down with the beast is a damn good ending to two terrifically fully drawn characters. And Ahab would not have lived a sequel. But what if the book WAS the sequel?
Follow my drift here. What if we were led, as an audience, through this tale, believing this vile man died within the sea he so proportedly loved. Then have him rise and limp away from the table nearby as this story is regaled by the survivors of the epic battle? I get goosebumps. And people would question...is it a ghost of the man? Did he survive?
I also loved LOVED Treasure Island. But the ending is so anticlimatic. An adventure tale where the adventure was removed. I really liked the way they ended in the Disney Treasure Planet. There, with the excitement of the plunder being destroyed and the entire planet combusting, we have to race out and Jim FINALLY gets to be the hero he harbored so long. There, you have the rewrite done for me!
Lastly, The Haunting of Hill House. Good old Shirley Jackson. She kept me glued to those pages with mere creaks, hisses and heavy breathing. I was riveted at the rival of old fashioned ghosty-goodness. I wanted a climax to match; and she wound up that screw so tight, she painted herself into a corner by....merely having the protagonist go insane. It was like, like she, herself couldn't paint herself out of that corner and, instead, misdirected us. I was like, wha?
I was expecting spirits galore, a la, Raiders of the Lost Ark's final moments and the entire group running out and stuff. But no. She just went insane.
Boring.
So those are the three that come to mind. Now it's your turn. Go read and develop.
Peace.
If you could change the ending of any book, what would you change and why?
But the fact of the matter, I've been railed again from some of my friends from all over the block for my constant critism of classics. I thought, for example, that Gone With the Wind and Dances with Wolves were voluminous hack-jobs that made, by far better movies. Anything made my John Grisham was convoluted and should also be punished--yep--by being made into sub-par films for 4 star actors to finish up their studio contracts...
I also felt that many classic books SHOULD be held to the light, repeatedly, to help persuade us and remind us why, in the first place, did we see them as "classics." I look to specific fame there. I mean, The Adventures of Huck Finn? Every time I've looked between the covers on that one, I'm always impressed...the book does stand tall and resistant to critics. The Catcher in the Rye is another one. If I were to set my sights closer? Harry Potter's format and fame AS A BOOK are, by far, better then the editing and chop jobs Hollywood gives.
So, what is left for me to piss all over as if I'm better then the author? To do that, I have to find some redeeming book and, because the majority is so good, only the ending should change. I got one that pops up.
I am one of the few who really, really liked the prose of Moby Dick. It was the beginning of the adventure tale. And frankly, having Ahab go down with the beast is a damn good ending to two terrifically fully drawn characters. And Ahab would not have lived a sequel. But what if the book WAS the sequel?
Follow my drift here. What if we were led, as an audience, through this tale, believing this vile man died within the sea he so proportedly loved. Then have him rise and limp away from the table nearby as this story is regaled by the survivors of the epic battle? I get goosebumps. And people would question...is it a ghost of the man? Did he survive?
I also loved LOVED Treasure Island. But the ending is so anticlimatic. An adventure tale where the adventure was removed. I really liked the way they ended in the Disney Treasure Planet. There, with the excitement of the plunder being destroyed and the entire planet combusting, we have to race out and Jim FINALLY gets to be the hero he harbored so long. There, you have the rewrite done for me!
Lastly, The Haunting of Hill House. Good old Shirley Jackson. She kept me glued to those pages with mere creaks, hisses and heavy breathing. I was riveted at the rival of old fashioned ghosty-goodness. I wanted a climax to match; and she wound up that screw so tight, she painted herself into a corner by....merely having the protagonist go insane. It was like, like she, herself couldn't paint herself out of that corner and, instead, misdirected us. I was like, wha?
I was expecting spirits galore, a la, Raiders of the Lost Ark's final moments and the entire group running out and stuff. But no. She just went insane.
Boring.
So those are the three that come to mind. Now it's your turn. Go read and develop.
Peace.
If you could change the ending of any book, what would you change and why?
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Returning to penmanship
Dear Reader,
I'm really, really trying to get back into writing, at least once a week. Here's his week's topic:
If you had to name the single most regrettable thing about your country's history, what would it be?
I'm reminded of a scene in the sci-fi movie Alien Nation. In it, a slave ship from another planet crashes near Los Angeles and the creatures aboard find themselves as a new minority in the City of Angels. As usual, it is not easy going, as many people suddenly say, "they are infrindging on my rights! They are reducing my freedoms." The aliens cannot assimalate smoothly besides their abilty to learn at an advanced rate and helping the economy.
In this particular scene, both a human (James Caan) and an alien (Mandy Patankin) are getting drunk and letting the sparks fly. The alien realizes something the human never could. See, the human had all the rights and freedoms of his country for so long, he never realized that they might not be excluding anyone. The alien speaks up, stating, "This country has given itself laws and ideals to which no one ever believed--and a group of people so ignorant of it they might as well get rid of them."
The truth of the scene, played in microcosm is that people don't realize what they have. And when someone who has been marginalized in any way asks for the same, the "haves" feel their ownership is diminished. That the value of the thing they have been privledged to has somehow been taken down a notch.
Let's move the scope back.
America was built on freedom. Yet, it was built with slaves. It took a good one hundred years of wrangling before this blight was removed and the word "freedom" could even remotely be defined as such. It took a hundred years more before those who were 'freed' could even have laws to protect them.
The darkest time our nation is experiencing is ongoing. We use the word freedom liberally, but have yet to understand its meaning at all. We say everyone deserves equality, but will do our best to make sure only some can sing it's praises.
Case in point, if someone says, "I'm sorry, but that makes me not take part equally, do you mind if can," there is always someone, SOMEONE who says, "no, sorry, you can't." They can usually find a decent reason to remove a fellow human from the rat race. They can quote scripture, human nature, past history or ignorance in their defence.
And freedom remains stagnant.
Freedom, like flowers, should grow and change to it's environment.
But so many hope it does not.
Why is that?
This time is regrettable. Regrettable that, after all these ages, it has not ended. I see little people, gays and lesbians, handicapped and Arabs wanting an equal part of the pie. Yet there are several who do not wish it, simply because they don't understand the feelings of oppression. Sure, you can look at me, and state, "it's because you think you are oppressed, Roo, that you can sign such."
But that is not true. I had a Jewish father, unrelated to me. I heard things my 'friends' said and began ot realize---they don't understand this religion, this group at all...and they were here BEFORE CHRIST.
Jews are still marginalized as well.
And now we are faced with the high possibilty of an African American president. And I sitll hear people yelling, "I won't vote for him...he's black."
And freedom's worth shrinks a bit more.
This is the blight and tragedy that needs to be stopped.4
I'm really, really trying to get back into writing, at least once a week. Here's his week's topic:
If you had to name the single most regrettable thing about your country's history, what would it be?
I'm reminded of a scene in the sci-fi movie Alien Nation. In it, a slave ship from another planet crashes near Los Angeles and the creatures aboard find themselves as a new minority in the City of Angels. As usual, it is not easy going, as many people suddenly say, "they are infrindging on my rights! They are reducing my freedoms." The aliens cannot assimalate smoothly besides their abilty to learn at an advanced rate and helping the economy.
In this particular scene, both a human (James Caan) and an alien (Mandy Patankin) are getting drunk and letting the sparks fly. The alien realizes something the human never could. See, the human had all the rights and freedoms of his country for so long, he never realized that they might not be excluding anyone. The alien speaks up, stating, "This country has given itself laws and ideals to which no one ever believed--and a group of people so ignorant of it they might as well get rid of them."
The truth of the scene, played in microcosm is that people don't realize what they have. And when someone who has been marginalized in any way asks for the same, the "haves" feel their ownership is diminished. That the value of the thing they have been privledged to has somehow been taken down a notch.
Let's move the scope back.
America was built on freedom. Yet, it was built with slaves. It took a good one hundred years of wrangling before this blight was removed and the word "freedom" could even remotely be defined as such. It took a hundred years more before those who were 'freed' could even have laws to protect them.
The darkest time our nation is experiencing is ongoing. We use the word freedom liberally, but have yet to understand its meaning at all. We say everyone deserves equality, but will do our best to make sure only some can sing it's praises.
Case in point, if someone says, "I'm sorry, but that makes me not take part equally, do you mind if can," there is always someone, SOMEONE who says, "no, sorry, you can't." They can usually find a decent reason to remove a fellow human from the rat race. They can quote scripture, human nature, past history or ignorance in their defence.
And freedom remains stagnant.
Freedom, like flowers, should grow and change to it's environment.
But so many hope it does not.
Why is that?
This time is regrettable. Regrettable that, after all these ages, it has not ended. I see little people, gays and lesbians, handicapped and Arabs wanting an equal part of the pie. Yet there are several who do not wish it, simply because they don't understand the feelings of oppression. Sure, you can look at me, and state, "it's because you think you are oppressed, Roo, that you can sign such."
But that is not true. I had a Jewish father, unrelated to me. I heard things my 'friends' said and began ot realize---they don't understand this religion, this group at all...and they were here BEFORE CHRIST.
Jews are still marginalized as well.
And now we are faced with the high possibilty of an African American president. And I sitll hear people yelling, "I won't vote for him...he's black."
And freedom's worth shrinks a bit more.
This is the blight and tragedy that needs to be stopped.4
Monday, September 01, 2008
A micro review for a fictional movie
I know that I have committed several sins for seeing this arthouse indie-the tabloids have run all over I'm Watching and its filmmaker. If film is a reflection of the creator's soul, then this movie provides a certain importance. The family of his victims must have thought so. They have completely opened up to the showing of the film, producing some of its distribution.
I think they know that this tragedy will never disappear and that by limiting some of the movies distribution, they've kept a certain seriousness to the film.
You have two levels to this movie. One, a man who was of the utmost evil, commiting crime and, instead of keeping mementos to his crimes, he kept videos. However, he did not film the horrific murders or their aftermath.
He filmed his victims as he stalked them. He used various cameras and angles to get an understand of the individuals, sometimes returning to their favorite haunts and filmming books they read or places they sat and ate.
But a narrative, intentional or not, began to develop as the auteur lended his own voice to the motion. He made comments with the eye of a crime-scene investigator.
It is this voice that makes this better then any horror movie. It has nothing to do with the violence or the consequence. The horror comes from within.
For he sounds so normal.
Today's journal is a tiny review of a movie that never existed.
I think they know that this tragedy will never disappear and that by limiting some of the movies distribution, they've kept a certain seriousness to the film.
You have two levels to this movie. One, a man who was of the utmost evil, commiting crime and, instead of keeping mementos to his crimes, he kept videos. However, he did not film the horrific murders or their aftermath.
He filmed his victims as he stalked them. He used various cameras and angles to get an understand of the individuals, sometimes returning to their favorite haunts and filmming books they read or places they sat and ate.
But a narrative, intentional or not, began to develop as the auteur lended his own voice to the motion. He made comments with the eye of a crime-scene investigator.
It is this voice that makes this better then any horror movie. It has nothing to do with the violence or the consequence. The horror comes from within.
For he sounds so normal.
Today's journal is a tiny review of a movie that never existed.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
"Honey, I want to lock the shed, I'll be right back after..."
"After..." his wife called from the basement rooms, somewhere behind several walls. "After, what?
"After, I, well, after I find my keys..."
Shelia smiled. This was nothing new. The house was new, however. Well, wait, it was new to her and her husband. It was made in the fifties if the handprints on the front sidewalk were to be believed. They were child's hands and they had 'September 52' written beside them.
So it must be the fifties.
But the house held no smell at all. It was not a clean aroma; it was not a clouded aroma of reconstituted rooms.
It was the lifeless smell of empty rooms.
Rooms that now were filled with boxes. The new employment meant that they did not have to beg, borrow or steal items any more--she noticed and regretted that the cardboard around her were a litany of words from local groceries and food suppliers. Black marker covered what it could--but it still gave off the feeling that she was living in a burrowed boxes.
She wondered when she would grow up and move on.
"Honey? Have you seen my..."
She had already looked around twice.
"No, no keys down here."
He didn't yell the last sentence. He had entered the room, but he looked at every available edge.
"They aren't on the keyhook either. That was the first thing I hung up. I knew this would happen."
"It's okayh, we'll find it, here, use, oh wait," she looked down at her own key ring. "I don't have the keys to the shed. Guess Fate doesn't want you out there."
"Maybe it's time for a break?"
"Sounds like a plan. I think I know where the coffeemaker is."
"Let's head up."
The low warble greeted them.
"And I guess you probably forgot where they were whilst you were watching Oprah, eh?"
Her new husband looked confused.
"I was not watching television. Why would I wathc television now?"
They entered the room that would eventually become the media center. The wires were still housed in plastic container, untouched. The television had to be placed-it was too heavy to have to lift and move frequently. It's home on the stand in the corner was now bathed in a low blue light.
"Cable guy comes next week, right?"
"I thought so."
Oprah was watching.
"Curiousier and curiousier," Shelia noticed as she moved closer. The television was plugged in, but that was more out of instinct then wanting to watch.
The screen went blank.
"Keys?"
"Keys. And coffee. I think we're losing it."
Write an interior scene where the television is a part of the scene.
"After..." his wife called from the basement rooms, somewhere behind several walls. "After, what?
"After, I, well, after I find my keys..."
Shelia smiled. This was nothing new. The house was new, however. Well, wait, it was new to her and her husband. It was made in the fifties if the handprints on the front sidewalk were to be believed. They were child's hands and they had 'September 52' written beside them.
So it must be the fifties.
But the house held no smell at all. It was not a clean aroma; it was not a clouded aroma of reconstituted rooms.
It was the lifeless smell of empty rooms.
Rooms that now were filled with boxes. The new employment meant that they did not have to beg, borrow or steal items any more--she noticed and regretted that the cardboard around her were a litany of words from local groceries and food suppliers. Black marker covered what it could--but it still gave off the feeling that she was living in a burrowed boxes.
She wondered when she would grow up and move on.
"Honey? Have you seen my..."
She had already looked around twice.
"No, no keys down here."
He didn't yell the last sentence. He had entered the room, but he looked at every available edge.
"They aren't on the keyhook either. That was the first thing I hung up. I knew this would happen."
"It's okayh, we'll find it, here, use, oh wait," she looked down at her own key ring. "I don't have the keys to the shed. Guess Fate doesn't want you out there."
"Maybe it's time for a break?"
"Sounds like a plan. I think I know where the coffeemaker is."
"Let's head up."
The low warble greeted them.
"And I guess you probably forgot where they were whilst you were watching Oprah, eh?"
Her new husband looked confused.
"I was not watching television. Why would I wathc television now?"
They entered the room that would eventually become the media center. The wires were still housed in plastic container, untouched. The television had to be placed-it was too heavy to have to lift and move frequently. It's home on the stand in the corner was now bathed in a low blue light.
"Cable guy comes next week, right?"
"I thought so."
Oprah was watching.
"Curiousier and curiousier," Shelia noticed as she moved closer. The television was plugged in, but that was more out of instinct then wanting to watch.
The screen went blank.
"Keys?"
"Keys. And coffee. I think we're losing it."
Write an interior scene where the television is a part of the scene.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Continuation of a murder, planned.
Roland hugged his wife a bit longer then he realized he ever had.
"Heh then Mr. BigBear!" she said, unreturning the hug in the kitchen. She had on her kitchen mits from checking the meatloaf and did not feel that it was appropriate. So instead, she smiled at the attention her husband showed and responded, "must have been a rough Bible study."
"Huh? No, no, no, it was fine, the usual Thursday night fights. But I luckily had someone to come home to. The biddies are probably still there plotting something involving a verse or two."
"Did you let them know we can't do the bake sale this weekend?"
"No, sweetie, totally spaced it, totally. I can call Marcie right now," he started to pick the phone on his hip. In one swoop, Alanna had rotated and used the motion to toss her oven mitt in the direction of the sink. She approached the sliding back door and hollerated through a opening of no less then 5 inches.
"DINNER! BRY! DECLAN! NOW!" Only her emphasis made it sound more like 'knee-ow.' It was her personal trademark with the boys.
Roland did not have enough time to put his finger into his ear so elected to call Marcie's house after dinner.
"You."
"Wha?" Roland knew what she was going to say, and started to the sink. It was the game that all couples play--giving one the sensation that they were still in control of something in their lives.
"Wash up and get to the table."
He wanted not to, just to see if she could handle it without yelling.
But tonight was not the night.
The boys circled the table twice before sitting down, touching each rung of the high backed dining room chairs. Roland was surprised that they had any such civil disobidence when they ate in this room. He had an immaculate way of following up this bad behavior.
"BOYS." He stated it and then just imagined the rest of the command. He did not make eye contact.
They sat in their required seats.
"Are you going to say grace, honey?"
Both boys looked to their shoes as the light steam of the fresh meatloaf and green beans floated between them and their parents in a wall of white.
"Thank You, Lord for blessing us with this food. We thank You for always providing for our needs. Thank you for mom who prepared this meal for us. We ask that You would bless this food to our bodies. Thank You, Father, for each person who shares this meal with us today. We ask in Jesus’ name, amen, " he paused and looked through his eyebrows.
"Amen" the boys stated without making eye contact.
The meal was like every other. Talk circled around the usual safe topics. Work was heck, Alanna continued from the previous dinner, and no one respected to her. She supposed it was that they were all Jewish and just did not under her. The boys followed up with the usual admission that there was no homework and school was fine. Further prodding eluded little else.
"What were you guys doing outside just now?"
Both boys looked at each other.
"Playing with Nicholas over at the street corner. Water's backed up."
"Probably shouldn't do that, it could be dirty," Roland was proud he had a moment to do the 'dad-thing' every once and awhile.
"And Nicholas," Declan looked right at hsi father. "He said that guy up the street was a faggot. A total faggot, Dad. And isn't that a bad word?"
"We will NOT have that word spoken at the table, young man!" Alanna did not look at her son. The words came out as if rehearsed. It was as if she was supposed to say that-but did not totally understand why.
"I agree with your mother. Faggot is not acceptable. Which man?" Roland knew.
to be continued (my hand kinda hurts...)
"Heh then Mr. BigBear!" she said, unreturning the hug in the kitchen. She had on her kitchen mits from checking the meatloaf and did not feel that it was appropriate. So instead, she smiled at the attention her husband showed and responded, "must have been a rough Bible study."
"Huh? No, no, no, it was fine, the usual Thursday night fights. But I luckily had someone to come home to. The biddies are probably still there plotting something involving a verse or two."
"Did you let them know we can't do the bake sale this weekend?"
"No, sweetie, totally spaced it, totally. I can call Marcie right now," he started to pick the phone on his hip. In one swoop, Alanna had rotated and used the motion to toss her oven mitt in the direction of the sink. She approached the sliding back door and hollerated through a opening of no less then 5 inches.
"DINNER! BRY! DECLAN! NOW!" Only her emphasis made it sound more like 'knee-ow.' It was her personal trademark with the boys.
Roland did not have enough time to put his finger into his ear so elected to call Marcie's house after dinner.
"You."
"Wha?" Roland knew what she was going to say, and started to the sink. It was the game that all couples play--giving one the sensation that they were still in control of something in their lives.
"Wash up and get to the table."
He wanted not to, just to see if she could handle it without yelling.
But tonight was not the night.
The boys circled the table twice before sitting down, touching each rung of the high backed dining room chairs. Roland was surprised that they had any such civil disobidence when they ate in this room. He had an immaculate way of following up this bad behavior.
"BOYS." He stated it and then just imagined the rest of the command. He did not make eye contact.
They sat in their required seats.
"Are you going to say grace, honey?"
Both boys looked to their shoes as the light steam of the fresh meatloaf and green beans floated between them and their parents in a wall of white.
"Thank You, Lord for blessing us with this food. We thank You for always providing for our needs. Thank you for mom who prepared this meal for us. We ask that You would bless this food to our bodies. Thank You, Father, for each person who shares this meal with us today. We ask in Jesus’ name, amen, " he paused and looked through his eyebrows.
"Amen" the boys stated without making eye contact.
The meal was like every other. Talk circled around the usual safe topics. Work was heck, Alanna continued from the previous dinner, and no one respected to her. She supposed it was that they were all Jewish and just did not under her. The boys followed up with the usual admission that there was no homework and school was fine. Further prodding eluded little else.
"What were you guys doing outside just now?"
Both boys looked at each other.
"Playing with Nicholas over at the street corner. Water's backed up."
"Probably shouldn't do that, it could be dirty," Roland was proud he had a moment to do the 'dad-thing' every once and awhile.
"And Nicholas," Declan looked right at hsi father. "He said that guy up the street was a faggot. A total faggot, Dad. And isn't that a bad word?"
"We will NOT have that word spoken at the table, young man!" Alanna did not look at her son. The words came out as if rehearsed. It was as if she was supposed to say that-but did not totally understand why.
"I agree with your mother. Faggot is not acceptable. Which man?" Roland knew.
to be continued (my hand kinda hurts...)
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Just a quick update
It says here that the last time I posted was back in April, and that sounds about right. I have to admit, I didn't like the journal entries that were recommended to me for today; I'm just not feeling the motivation for fiction right now. But, at the same time, I needed to update everyone on who I'm doing.
I had surgery. And it looks like the winner of the whole event is, well, pain.
I had pain going in. And with all the ranting and raving of my family and friends, apparently, the pain is supposed to stop after the surgery. I neglected to ask WHEN that would be. So here I am, unable to really twist my wrist at all--and buttering myself with Aleve and Tylenol.
I hate it.
But I am glad I went through with all this. I'd ever experienced, really "surgery" before. Some observations:
1. Nurses are better then doctors. I've never seen so many people who knew what was going on with me better then I did and were able to respond in kind. After not eating for 24 hours (and being a larger man at 260 pounds, this is like trying to kill myself), my first request out of coming out was food. Then it was pain meds. Then it was get my a bucket, I'm going to vomit because of the food and pain meds. They were on it. Humorously, they could not hold back their fear if I ended up puking. Again, they were not as big as I am. They admitted freely that if I were going to wretch, they might have to dart me in the ass to calm me down.
2. Homophobia still exists. I was just reading a book about how everyone percieves that homosexuality is on the rise and it shows the decline of western civilization. Then the professor goes on to show how the same statement, usually used by church officials, has been used since the 1700s. I bring this up because my apparently (I didn't realize this) homophobic doctor ignored my husband the entire time. Hmmm. There's an irony too. The lady who did the intake for me had a few hundred Bible verses splayed before her on her desk and was reading a Bible on her breaks. She had three crosses around her neck. And she knew that Big D and I were partnered. Not only did she speak to us as equals without a put down, she included him and speak directly to him about his role in the entire process.
3. I am truly a writer. I looked down on the table and noticed that it looked EXACTLY like the table used in Texas lethal injection gurneys. And my hand was strapped in as such.
4. I've been light headed ever since and it's becoming MORE of a bother, not less.
5. The pain at first, was a constant. All of my energy went to pain management. However, as the week moved on, it fluxed up and down. Still doing it.
6. My immune system has been compramised and now my meds are hiding the fact I have a cold or a flu of some sort. Interesting.
7. I've had a hankering to go to church. Badly. Being able to be medically manipulated like that--hmmm. That scared teh bejabbers out of me. And feeling so helpless, well, enough is enough. I think it might be time to get a bit of prayer back in my life.
8. I need to go to Disney park, period. I need to escape this reality for a short period, if not a long one. I think I might set those things in motion.
Okay, so I've written. Now to move to something more creative, and I hope to post.
I had surgery. And it looks like the winner of the whole event is, well, pain.
I had pain going in. And with all the ranting and raving of my family and friends, apparently, the pain is supposed to stop after the surgery. I neglected to ask WHEN that would be. So here I am, unable to really twist my wrist at all--and buttering myself with Aleve and Tylenol.
I hate it.
But I am glad I went through with all this. I'd ever experienced, really "surgery" before. Some observations:
1. Nurses are better then doctors. I've never seen so many people who knew what was going on with me better then I did and were able to respond in kind. After not eating for 24 hours (and being a larger man at 260 pounds, this is like trying to kill myself), my first request out of coming out was food. Then it was pain meds. Then it was get my a bucket, I'm going to vomit because of the food and pain meds. They were on it. Humorously, they could not hold back their fear if I ended up puking. Again, they were not as big as I am. They admitted freely that if I were going to wretch, they might have to dart me in the ass to calm me down.
2. Homophobia still exists. I was just reading a book about how everyone percieves that homosexuality is on the rise and it shows the decline of western civilization. Then the professor goes on to show how the same statement, usually used by church officials, has been used since the 1700s. I bring this up because my apparently (I didn't realize this) homophobic doctor ignored my husband the entire time. Hmmm. There's an irony too. The lady who did the intake for me had a few hundred Bible verses splayed before her on her desk and was reading a Bible on her breaks. She had three crosses around her neck. And she knew that Big D and I were partnered. Not only did she speak to us as equals without a put down, she included him and speak directly to him about his role in the entire process.
3. I am truly a writer. I looked down on the table and noticed that it looked EXACTLY like the table used in Texas lethal injection gurneys. And my hand was strapped in as such.
4. I've been light headed ever since and it's becoming MORE of a bother, not less.
5. The pain at first, was a constant. All of my energy went to pain management. However, as the week moved on, it fluxed up and down. Still doing it.
6. My immune system has been compramised and now my meds are hiding the fact I have a cold or a flu of some sort. Interesting.
7. I've had a hankering to go to church. Badly. Being able to be medically manipulated like that--hmmm. That scared teh bejabbers out of me. And feeling so helpless, well, enough is enough. I think it might be time to get a bit of prayer back in my life.
8. I need to go to Disney park, period. I need to escape this reality for a short period, if not a long one. I think I might set those things in motion.
Okay, so I've written. Now to move to something more creative, and I hope to post.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The 3 A.M. Epiphany, exercise 12
Roland kept noticing he had to go the bathroom. The feeling kept returning, even after relieving himself and coming to Marcie's house. He checked his shirt, he checked his fingernails. He ran his fingers through his hair again.
It may have been Marcie's house, but in her own way, she was late. She had stayed in the kitchen after all the coffee and water was served. Still, she insisted, the food needed to be reheated.
Mollie kneeled on the couch to Roland's right and stared out the window, through the lace curtains.
"I can still see the flag. That stupid bright flag. How he dares! I can see it through the blue, blue," she paused, "Marcie, this curtains are very, very clean. Did you do this yourself?"
"No, husband treated me to that drapery cleaning business, you know, from television?" she yelled over no noise.
Sharon did not look up from her Bible. She had crossed her legs and pulled her dress over the knee. It tick-tocked with a large wall clock from the dining room. The rhythm was so precise, she looked at the clock through the doorway and nodded. She flipped a good chunk of pages and stopped again.
"So, are we going to do this?" Roland asked, tired of thinking of putting up conversations that related to very little.
"Yes, the bastard is going to die," said Mollie identified.
"I'd say, within the week," Sharon stated without looking up.
Marcie entered, her food ready, as well as her point of view. "I just need, we, we just need to plan."
"Faggots infesting everything," Mollie mentioned. "But at least we have the big boys here, right?" She edged her chin towards Roland.
"Me? You give me too much credit," Roland understated.
"Look, you can do it, you can. We have everything planned out, all you gotta do is the heavy lifting," she continued without noticing his comment. She removed a folder from the table--it had been present the entire time but due to their own foci, they had not acknowledged. Inside, on crisp printed paper, sat a database. Roland could make out the timetable.
Sharon placed a yarn bookmark into her text and reached into her omnipresent handbag. She pulled out a similar observation table. Marcie had made copies for everyone and handed them out in unison, looking for some kind of specific notes--names, most likely--at the top of each one. Sharon began to compare her notes with Marcie's.
"Yep, the schedule is the same from two week's ago. He's got a schedule he must not like to deviate from. That could make this easy or hard."
Roland responded without pondering first, "hard, I mean, I mean, you don't know where he's going. You didn't tag him as he exited his house. This is all pure schedule out his front door. You don't know--he could be meeting with friends. Work's going to miss him some."
All three women looked at him as if he had swore.
"You have a better idea?"
"No. But I do know that leaving a papertrail is not exactly clear thinking either," he said without smiling.
Marcie looked at the paper like she would an unwanted insect.
Sharon shrugged and kept to her business. "I'd go with poisoning. I found these books at the bookstore about hwo to write about drugs and drugs usage. He's a homosexual. They all use drugs, that helps. No one is going to question an overdose of another creature like that. It'll be ruled a suicide and we can back to Thursday night Bible-study without rainbows without rain."
Mollie sat back down and sighed heavily as she looked at the schedule. "Did you find the justification in there?" She asked Sharon.
"Well, it's simple. It says We Shall Not Kill," the room raised eyebrows collectively.
"And yet they killed their own Savior. We'll need to pick and choose as they did, if we are to save the souls of this community," Sharon was not looking whilst she said this. She had already rehearsed it.
"What if he doesn't die?" Roland questioned.
"That's why we have the brawn," she poked Roland's bicep and smiled.
Roland sipped his tea.
"And what if I don't want to kill him?"
Marcie stepped back to the kitchen and he heard a drawer close.
"We can discuss that too."
Today's exercise is merely to discuss a meeting of four people who have decided to execute someone.
It may have been Marcie's house, but in her own way, she was late. She had stayed in the kitchen after all the coffee and water was served. Still, she insisted, the food needed to be reheated.
Mollie kneeled on the couch to Roland's right and stared out the window, through the lace curtains.
"I can still see the flag. That stupid bright flag. How he dares! I can see it through the blue, blue," she paused, "Marcie, this curtains are very, very clean. Did you do this yourself?"
"No, husband treated me to that drapery cleaning business, you know, from television?" she yelled over no noise.
Sharon did not look up from her Bible. She had crossed her legs and pulled her dress over the knee. It tick-tocked with a large wall clock from the dining room. The rhythm was so precise, she looked at the clock through the doorway and nodded. She flipped a good chunk of pages and stopped again.
"So, are we going to do this?" Roland asked, tired of thinking of putting up conversations that related to very little.
"Yes, the bastard is going to die," said Mollie identified.
"I'd say, within the week," Sharon stated without looking up.
Marcie entered, her food ready, as well as her point of view. "I just need, we, we just need to plan."
"Faggots infesting everything," Mollie mentioned. "But at least we have the big boys here, right?" She edged her chin towards Roland.
"Me? You give me too much credit," Roland understated.
"Look, you can do it, you can. We have everything planned out, all you gotta do is the heavy lifting," she continued without noticing his comment. She removed a folder from the table--it had been present the entire time but due to their own foci, they had not acknowledged. Inside, on crisp printed paper, sat a database. Roland could make out the timetable.
Sharon placed a yarn bookmark into her text and reached into her omnipresent handbag. She pulled out a similar observation table. Marcie had made copies for everyone and handed them out in unison, looking for some kind of specific notes--names, most likely--at the top of each one. Sharon began to compare her notes with Marcie's.
"Yep, the schedule is the same from two week's ago. He's got a schedule he must not like to deviate from. That could make this easy or hard."
Roland responded without pondering first, "hard, I mean, I mean, you don't know where he's going. You didn't tag him as he exited his house. This is all pure schedule out his front door. You don't know--he could be meeting with friends. Work's going to miss him some."
All three women looked at him as if he had swore.
"You have a better idea?"
"No. But I do know that leaving a papertrail is not exactly clear thinking either," he said without smiling.
Marcie looked at the paper like she would an unwanted insect.
Sharon shrugged and kept to her business. "I'd go with poisoning. I found these books at the bookstore about hwo to write about drugs and drugs usage. He's a homosexual. They all use drugs, that helps. No one is going to question an overdose of another creature like that. It'll be ruled a suicide and we can back to Thursday night Bible-study without rainbows without rain."
Mollie sat back down and sighed heavily as she looked at the schedule. "Did you find the justification in there?" She asked Sharon.
"Well, it's simple. It says We Shall Not Kill," the room raised eyebrows collectively.
"And yet they killed their own Savior. We'll need to pick and choose as they did, if we are to save the souls of this community," Sharon was not looking whilst she said this. She had already rehearsed it.
"What if he doesn't die?" Roland questioned.
"That's why we have the brawn," she poked Roland's bicep and smiled.
Roland sipped his tea.
"And what if I don't want to kill him?"
Marcie stepped back to the kitchen and he heard a drawer close.
"We can discuss that too."
Today's exercise is merely to discuss a meeting of four people who have decided to execute someone.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Another writing with a friend
Well, I'll go ahead and be redundant. We're doing another one of those IF writing activities. In this one, I have to cancel one aspect of my job, what would it be? Considering my woes as of late at my place of employ, my first instinct would be to yell SHOWING UP.
But, to be serious, I'd say that we've lost sight of working with children. I spend most of my day planning and working when I'm supposed to be interacting with kids and making the smarter. Politcians whine and the world watches how we handle education giving it importance. They make unilateral decisions, regardless of who or how it effects the kids....and then everyone complains about how education is a mess.
Yet, for all those whining, no one seems to want to go back in, get their hands dirty and see what is happening on the front lines. It reminds me of a President who decides to invade a soverign nation without thinking. He send in the troops, children of his people, without remorse. He then claims no victory and fights about the whole issue.
Same for education. In my home on my Disney boards, the same is true. The conservatives rally to their party's defense. But all they do is say, "it's a mess," but offer little true resolve or resolution.
Now arrive at my job. I have to give out these exams to my students as required by the state. The exams are written by experts in their fields. Makes sense when you think about it. However, when a 8 year old is expected to know a four syllable word whilst taking a science exam shows that the test was not written with an eight year old in mind. However, since this order was given down on high, you have to give the test. And watch the child fail and your money taken away. Then you have to ponder how, as a teacher, you can go on.
Take away these tests and see what happens. Take away these IEPs. Go back to doing what we did and was successful. Teaching. Reading, writing and arithematic. These were happening before. They had to modified because those ON THE OUTSIDE deemed it important. My time now with students has been completely dictacted to students. I teach to please exams and parents, not to benefit of students. And if I do what I think is correct, I'm pulled aside and requested to get back on task.
It's sad.
So what would I take away? Maybe I should the sad intervention of bearacusy on education. And replace it with honor and trust.
But, to be serious, I'd say that we've lost sight of working with children. I spend most of my day planning and working when I'm supposed to be interacting with kids and making the smarter. Politcians whine and the world watches how we handle education giving it importance. They make unilateral decisions, regardless of who or how it effects the kids....and then everyone complains about how education is a mess.
Yet, for all those whining, no one seems to want to go back in, get their hands dirty and see what is happening on the front lines. It reminds me of a President who decides to invade a soverign nation without thinking. He send in the troops, children of his people, without remorse. He then claims no victory and fights about the whole issue.
Same for education. In my home on my Disney boards, the same is true. The conservatives rally to their party's defense. But all they do is say, "it's a mess," but offer little true resolve or resolution.
Now arrive at my job. I have to give out these exams to my students as required by the state. The exams are written by experts in their fields. Makes sense when you think about it. However, when a 8 year old is expected to know a four syllable word whilst taking a science exam shows that the test was not written with an eight year old in mind. However, since this order was given down on high, you have to give the test. And watch the child fail and your money taken away. Then you have to ponder how, as a teacher, you can go on.
Take away these tests and see what happens. Take away these IEPs. Go back to doing what we did and was successful. Teaching. Reading, writing and arithematic. These were happening before. They had to modified because those ON THE OUTSIDE deemed it important. My time now with students has been completely dictacted to students. I teach to please exams and parents, not to benefit of students. And if I do what I think is correct, I'm pulled aside and requested to get back on task.
It's sad.
So what would I take away? Maybe I should the sad intervention of bearacusy on education. And replace it with honor and trust.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Writing activity with a friend
Okay, okay, okay, at the coffeehouse again. And to encourage my friend to write, we're going to address the book "If" with our next available journaling. He never really writes for any reason for his own (I probably should follow his example!) and I'm just curious as to what he pens. This is our way of writing for another person. He's picked a topic which I'll list next and we'll both write responses. He, in his journal; myself, right here.
"If you could have survived any historic disaster, which would it be?"
Let's be realistic here. Not a whole lot phases me when it comes to fear. I mean, I've been reading Mr. King since sixth grade, I saw Halloween in elementary school. Yeah, sure, maybe it's helped me develop into psychopath into training, with tales of bloodletting I sometimes write, but it also has helped me develop a fairly tough skin when it comes to the scary stuff.
I love watching my students talk about some horror movie like "Saw" and think they are so brave for living through the experience. I see myself making those statements all those years ago. Time passes and what was once scary comes to light in time and the fears reformat themselves. Such is the case with disasters and me.
When I left Fuckface all those moons ago, I had a miniscule apartment. I ran away with my tail between my legs, only grabbing my television and clothing. I had little else. I used to see reports of fires and apartment floods on the news and look around my meager ownings. The stuff could be destroyed and I'd only be upset about the fact that I didn't have any clean underwears.
Then I got a computer. Then I got a husband. Then I got a house. Then I got a dog and a cat. Suddenly, my life bloomed and boomed. I had things that I had to take care of and watch over. And when I saw about people's houses being burned down in a freak brush fire or sudden flood, my heart stopped. Now I looked around the room and my heart sank.
I worry about my husband, my dog and my cat. And yes, my computer. I've written much, especially lately, that my heart is truly stored on a hard drive.
And the concept of fear now has new face....disasters. I am truly fearful of disasters.
And I think that the worse disaster is the one that is man-made. A flood or a fire carries no weight. There is no one to blame but fate. To lose a loved one is to know that the hand of God swept forth and deemed this moment a person's time.
But what about the Holocaust? There was a disaster that had humanity's flaws completely on display. I am already a sympathic man to the world about me, in my opinion. But to live through that disaster would have a changed me on such a level. To lose my husband due to sheer fear, that would change me forever. I do not know if I would become sympathetic. I do know that the experience to have survived would truly show me that I needed to live and let the world know of the hate we can create when we do not pay attention.
That would be the disaster I would have to survive.
And know the horror forever and forever.
"If you could have survived any historic disaster, which would it be?"
Let's be realistic here. Not a whole lot phases me when it comes to fear. I mean, I've been reading Mr. King since sixth grade, I saw Halloween in elementary school. Yeah, sure, maybe it's helped me develop into psychopath into training, with tales of bloodletting I sometimes write, but it also has helped me develop a fairly tough skin when it comes to the scary stuff.
I love watching my students talk about some horror movie like "Saw" and think they are so brave for living through the experience. I see myself making those statements all those years ago. Time passes and what was once scary comes to light in time and the fears reformat themselves. Such is the case with disasters and me.
When I left Fuckface all those moons ago, I had a miniscule apartment. I ran away with my tail between my legs, only grabbing my television and clothing. I had little else. I used to see reports of fires and apartment floods on the news and look around my meager ownings. The stuff could be destroyed and I'd only be upset about the fact that I didn't have any clean underwears.
Then I got a computer. Then I got a husband. Then I got a house. Then I got a dog and a cat. Suddenly, my life bloomed and boomed. I had things that I had to take care of and watch over. And when I saw about people's houses being burned down in a freak brush fire or sudden flood, my heart stopped. Now I looked around the room and my heart sank.
I worry about my husband, my dog and my cat. And yes, my computer. I've written much, especially lately, that my heart is truly stored on a hard drive.
And the concept of fear now has new face....disasters. I am truly fearful of disasters.
And I think that the worse disaster is the one that is man-made. A flood or a fire carries no weight. There is no one to blame but fate. To lose a loved one is to know that the hand of God swept forth and deemed this moment a person's time.
But what about the Holocaust? There was a disaster that had humanity's flaws completely on display. I am already a sympathic man to the world about me, in my opinion. But to live through that disaster would have a changed me on such a level. To lose my husband due to sheer fear, that would change me forever. I do not know if I would become sympathetic. I do know that the experience to have survived would truly show me that I needed to live and let the world know of the hate we can create when we do not pay attention.
That would be the disaster I would have to survive.
And know the horror forever and forever.
Friday, April 18, 2008
The 3 am Epiphany, exercise 11
The first time I ever saw a real life corpse, I found the whole experience not-very-earth-shattering. I mean it was almost a bit anticlimactic. He just lay there. Sure, there was a small hiss coming from his chest and lips, but nothing beyond that. If I hadn't been told he was dead by the paramedics that arrived later, I probably would have written the whole experience off as a man in a very drunken stupor.
But that wasn't the case.
I had known the man, don't get me wrong and he was the kind of son of a bitch you get a vibe from when you first meet him. He's cute, sure, with short blonde hair and lanky, fit frame. The words roll off his lips like he practiced saying crap from the day he could utter the word "Ma, get me a beer." Our meetings were always impersonal. I just kept away from the dude.
The first time I bumped into him, I, quite literally, bumped into him. I had balanced most of my things from the dorm on top a tray I had found in a garage sale over on Minneasota Avenue. The tray was so strudy, it felt like you could rebound bullets off the fucker. Not that tired. On some nights, when Libby and I were so drunk, we thought about buying a gun and finding out, but we gave up around the time we passed out.
So there I was, climbing the stairs and wasn't watching where I was going. Couldn't. The unironed shirts piled themselves to my chin and I had to raise my head to hold them in place. So I had a great view of the ceiling of the apartment building I was escaping to. I didn't see Jerry.
He didn't swear, he didn't even waste a stink eye on me. He mumbled a clear, "move," and then pushed me into the stairwell's flakey wall.
I had met Jerry. I didn't think anything of it until about two days later.
Libby was working late at the campus cinema and I had begun to indulge in cheap beer a few hours before she was due. I heard the screaming, looked at my beer and then the television.
The screaming was coming from neither of those things.
It was coming from the wall beyond my living room.
I stood, got a dirty glass from the sink and decided to test the theory that you can hear better through a wall with it raised to your ear. By the way, you can.
I met Jerry and Tina that night. They were dancing the night away next door. The screaming? It was Tina REALLY enjoying the night.
Libby joined me in giggling the next night when it all started up again.
I found Jerry in hallway several times. His clothes were clean, his soul? Not-so-much. I just couldn't help thinking this guy was not all he seemed.
I was right a few weeks later.
The love-screaming subsided for many weeks. I was content with my beer and didn't notice until the sounds became something more ominous. I opened to the door to might the neighbor right across the hall this time. Mrs. Pruitt, who exchanges the cross on her door as frequently as I change my underpants, met me face to face. Her eyebrows were not raised as high as mine.
"Jerry and Tina, must be the third time," she shook her head as if to say, 'tutt-tutt-tutt.' "Son, you should have looked elsewhere."
My eyebrows raised even higher.
She called the police while I heard a scream from Tina. This one did not end with sighs or laughter. It did not end, as a matter fact, it just changed pitches.
Mrs. Pruitt's phone call gave me a week of sleepless nights. I think Tina left or Jerry, for I saw neither. But when I bumped into Jerry again a week and half later, it took only a few hours before the screaming began again. Mrs. Pruitt was gone for the reason, so I had to make the call.
You'd think that I'd sleep better. I didn't I was too afraid that Jerry would figure me out and I'd start screaming as he began to beat me.
I met Tina in the laundry room and decided that enough was enough. I didn't want to confront her, but I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. Sure, oh sure, she nodded a lot in that conversation--but she never did say anything worthwhile.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Now, you gotta understand, I'm a chemistry major. Not because I wanted to be one. It's just that I had that down. I flunked everything in high school. Yep, even physical education. Couldn't do anything but type, surf the 'net and remake copper from aluminum with 5% loss of composite decay. My paper is due next month. But most of it is written, so I'm not that concerned.
So I left a peace offering one night for Jerry and Tina. The beer was the kind I always drank. The cheap crap you snag from over at Econofoods for less then a buck a can. Sure enough, the next morning, the box and cans were gone. A few days later, they made an appearance in the rubblish bin. No questions were ever asked.
So I left another two weeks later. Now understand, I didn't get to see Tina at all during this time. I didn't want to alienate her at all. Not at all. But I'm sure she ran. Ran as far away as she could from the bastard. I don't blame her. I hope I was the one who encouraged her. But without a target, my fears grew of the schmuck who lived next door to me. I was afraid that Jerry would figure that one out--that Mrs. Pruitt and I were the co-conspirators and the lifeline to the police.
Those cans were snatched up. Not a single fucking thank you.
Not that it mattered. Free beer tends to make men forget to check things.
I had laced each can with my own concoction. The recipe is complicated, a mix of alloys in minute amounts. The substance is a bit waxy, but if applied by a Q-tip, you don't notice it--especially if you are in a hurry...for free beer.
I didn't call the police this time. I just waited to Mrs. Pruitt couldn't stand the smell any more.
And when they wheeled that body out in front of me, that was the first time I saw a corpse.
But like I said, the whole event was pretty uneventful.
Today's entry is about a tale written in first person by someone who was a meddler.
But that wasn't the case.
I had known the man, don't get me wrong and he was the kind of son of a bitch you get a vibe from when you first meet him. He's cute, sure, with short blonde hair and lanky, fit frame. The words roll off his lips like he practiced saying crap from the day he could utter the word "Ma, get me a beer." Our meetings were always impersonal. I just kept away from the dude.
The first time I bumped into him, I, quite literally, bumped into him. I had balanced most of my things from the dorm on top a tray I had found in a garage sale over on Minneasota Avenue. The tray was so strudy, it felt like you could rebound bullets off the fucker. Not that tired. On some nights, when Libby and I were so drunk, we thought about buying a gun and finding out, but we gave up around the time we passed out.
So there I was, climbing the stairs and wasn't watching where I was going. Couldn't. The unironed shirts piled themselves to my chin and I had to raise my head to hold them in place. So I had a great view of the ceiling of the apartment building I was escaping to. I didn't see Jerry.
He didn't swear, he didn't even waste a stink eye on me. He mumbled a clear, "move," and then pushed me into the stairwell's flakey wall.
I had met Jerry. I didn't think anything of it until about two days later.
Libby was working late at the campus cinema and I had begun to indulge in cheap beer a few hours before she was due. I heard the screaming, looked at my beer and then the television.
The screaming was coming from neither of those things.
It was coming from the wall beyond my living room.
I stood, got a dirty glass from the sink and decided to test the theory that you can hear better through a wall with it raised to your ear. By the way, you can.
I met Jerry and Tina that night. They were dancing the night away next door. The screaming? It was Tina REALLY enjoying the night.
Libby joined me in giggling the next night when it all started up again.
I found Jerry in hallway several times. His clothes were clean, his soul? Not-so-much. I just couldn't help thinking this guy was not all he seemed.
I was right a few weeks later.
The love-screaming subsided for many weeks. I was content with my beer and didn't notice until the sounds became something more ominous. I opened to the door to might the neighbor right across the hall this time. Mrs. Pruitt, who exchanges the cross on her door as frequently as I change my underpants, met me face to face. Her eyebrows were not raised as high as mine.
"Jerry and Tina, must be the third time," she shook her head as if to say, 'tutt-tutt-tutt.' "Son, you should have looked elsewhere."
My eyebrows raised even higher.
She called the police while I heard a scream from Tina. This one did not end with sighs or laughter. It did not end, as a matter fact, it just changed pitches.
Mrs. Pruitt's phone call gave me a week of sleepless nights. I think Tina left or Jerry, for I saw neither. But when I bumped into Jerry again a week and half later, it took only a few hours before the screaming began again. Mrs. Pruitt was gone for the reason, so I had to make the call.
You'd think that I'd sleep better. I didn't I was too afraid that Jerry would figure me out and I'd start screaming as he began to beat me.
I met Tina in the laundry room and decided that enough was enough. I didn't want to confront her, but I wanted her to know she wasn't alone. Sure, oh sure, she nodded a lot in that conversation--but she never did say anything worthwhile.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap. Now, you gotta understand, I'm a chemistry major. Not because I wanted to be one. It's just that I had that down. I flunked everything in high school. Yep, even physical education. Couldn't do anything but type, surf the 'net and remake copper from aluminum with 5% loss of composite decay. My paper is due next month. But most of it is written, so I'm not that concerned.
So I left a peace offering one night for Jerry and Tina. The beer was the kind I always drank. The cheap crap you snag from over at Econofoods for less then a buck a can. Sure enough, the next morning, the box and cans were gone. A few days later, they made an appearance in the rubblish bin. No questions were ever asked.
So I left another two weeks later. Now understand, I didn't get to see Tina at all during this time. I didn't want to alienate her at all. Not at all. But I'm sure she ran. Ran as far away as she could from the bastard. I don't blame her. I hope I was the one who encouraged her. But without a target, my fears grew of the schmuck who lived next door to me. I was afraid that Jerry would figure that one out--that Mrs. Pruitt and I were the co-conspirators and the lifeline to the police.
Those cans were snatched up. Not a single fucking thank you.
Not that it mattered. Free beer tends to make men forget to check things.
I had laced each can with my own concoction. The recipe is complicated, a mix of alloys in minute amounts. The substance is a bit waxy, but if applied by a Q-tip, you don't notice it--especially if you are in a hurry...for free beer.
I didn't call the police this time. I just waited to Mrs. Pruitt couldn't stand the smell any more.
And when they wheeled that body out in front of me, that was the first time I saw a corpse.
But like I said, the whole event was pretty uneventful.
Today's entry is about a tale written in first person by someone who was a meddler.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
The 3 A.M. Epiphany, Exercise Nine
It is here, Brother Montrose realized, having been absorbed by his thrice reading of the Timothy gospel. He had picked up the book and decided these passages would calm him the most while the ship pulled up to the dock. He looked to the men on the ship and turned to the fortress' portal.
The portcullis had been brought from Macao and was not original. If had be built for this particular environment, it would not have stuck out at the lip of the brick and tile building. The arch doubled up near the trellis, giving the illusion of a maw readying a decent bite of food.
The gangplank of the small boat was no more inviting.
On the upper potion, waiting for him, were two samurai in full regalia. Father Hernandez had warned him that the men would be dressed to such an extent, but the Father's words did no justice to the showmanship. The reds and yellows of the Shogun's house and colors draped the ship and these two men sent to great him. Brother Montrose requested to greet the boat solo, telling the other servants and men to stand back-wishing to appear every bit the servant to the Lord and make a nonthreatening presence to the people of Nagaski.
A small interpreter stepped out behind the samurai on the left, as if memorizing the floorboards. His eyes were up, Montrose noticed, but he dare not look at the intimidating presences that flanked him. Brother Montrose found his connection and looked at the handsome youth.
Montrose noticed the other sailors, dressed in nothing but brown rags that clashed with the angry red that circled the ship. Servants. These were the people who should minster too, these are the ones who needed the Lord's prayers for hope.
One of the sailors treated himself a glance at the young friar. The navy man sneered and covered his face.
The Portuegues man sniffed himself. He had tried to adapt to the locals cuisine, something he had learned about working with the converts of the Middle East. Smells are strong; so he stopped eating meat a week and a half ago.
The sailor's expression showed that his body's aroma had not left. He sighed and readied his overnight pack, making sure his Bible found itself on top. He waited for his invite, standing as tall as possible.
The two samurai were expressionless behind their gentaos. The fangs were meant to intimidate, but Montrose realized they were just posturing. It was mean to impress.
And Montrose was impressed. The arms of the men were bold, built and pressing against their armor. Their swords were at the ready, but unwarranted. They both took deep breaths, fighting to keep balance against the rising tide on the fortress' docks.
Montrose realized that the two knights knew not what to do. Years of protocol had not spelled out the exact etiquette for meeting the emissary and diplomat of the Vatican's Pope.
Both masks turned to their beautiful interpreter.
And they screamed.
Montrose lost face, but he had not known yet. He dropped his bag and it landed firmly on his right sandaled foot. He struggled to pick it up.
They continued to bark orders, the same words in differing cadences, at the underling. The laison bowed to the floor and Montrose's face broke a slight smile at the awkwardness of it all.
The samurai noticed and stopped talking at the top of the gangplank and their eyes narrowed to slits in their eye holes of their masks.
Montrose swallowed hard.
Both men reached for their swords and started down the bridge to the dock. Brother Montrose did not move, he was not sure if escape was possible.
The small interpreter was between the advancing samurai and himself and was chattering about something, quickly to the men. They stopped a fourth of the way down.
The young man bowed deeply and turned to Brother Montrose.
He bowed again and Montrose was impressed at the young man even moreso up close. His clothes were tailored, unlike the others on the small boat, and he had his hair clicked back with oils. He was a servant of some power, probably because he spoke Portuguese.
"Brother Montrose. Welcome to Nagasaki, summer palace of the Shogun. We are honored by presence as a representative of the Christian Pope. The Shogun has full colors to escort you to the palace."
"Thank you!" He stepped onto the plank, his legs already water-wary from weeks upon the sea, and approached the interpreter. "I look forward to the meeting! It's Catholic, by the way, the Mother Church, my young man, Catholic."
THe intperper kept his head down but his head lifted as his eyes went wild.
The two samurai, again, imagining a slight, clicked their weapons slightly forward.
The interpret spoke with his eyes.
"But, your Portugese is flawless, I cannot thank you enough to have such a worthy interpreter," the young man bowed deeper at the complement.
The men returned their swords. But they did not relax. They turned in military precision and headed back onto the swaying bardge.
When Montrose finally got on the boat, he heard a whisper from the interpreter.
"Bow"
He did.
The two samurai looked at each other and returned the gesture.
"Lower, for your sake." The whisper continued.
He did.
The samurai looked at each other again and shouted something much calmer to the interpreter.
He looked relieved.
Brother Montrose was too.
Write historical fiction...without doing research.
The portcullis had been brought from Macao and was not original. If had be built for this particular environment, it would not have stuck out at the lip of the brick and tile building. The arch doubled up near the trellis, giving the illusion of a maw readying a decent bite of food.
The gangplank of the small boat was no more inviting.
On the upper potion, waiting for him, were two samurai in full regalia. Father Hernandez had warned him that the men would be dressed to such an extent, but the Father's words did no justice to the showmanship. The reds and yellows of the Shogun's house and colors draped the ship and these two men sent to great him. Brother Montrose requested to greet the boat solo, telling the other servants and men to stand back-wishing to appear every bit the servant to the Lord and make a nonthreatening presence to the people of Nagaski.
A small interpreter stepped out behind the samurai on the left, as if memorizing the floorboards. His eyes were up, Montrose noticed, but he dare not look at the intimidating presences that flanked him. Brother Montrose found his connection and looked at the handsome youth.
Montrose noticed the other sailors, dressed in nothing but brown rags that clashed with the angry red that circled the ship. Servants. These were the people who should minster too, these are the ones who needed the Lord's prayers for hope.
One of the sailors treated himself a glance at the young friar. The navy man sneered and covered his face.
The Portuegues man sniffed himself. He had tried to adapt to the locals cuisine, something he had learned about working with the converts of the Middle East. Smells are strong; so he stopped eating meat a week and a half ago.
The sailor's expression showed that his body's aroma had not left. He sighed and readied his overnight pack, making sure his Bible found itself on top. He waited for his invite, standing as tall as possible.
The two samurai were expressionless behind their gentaos. The fangs were meant to intimidate, but Montrose realized they were just posturing. It was mean to impress.
And Montrose was impressed. The arms of the men were bold, built and pressing against their armor. Their swords were at the ready, but unwarranted. They both took deep breaths, fighting to keep balance against the rising tide on the fortress' docks.
Montrose realized that the two knights knew not what to do. Years of protocol had not spelled out the exact etiquette for meeting the emissary and diplomat of the Vatican's Pope.
Both masks turned to their beautiful interpreter.
And they screamed.
Montrose lost face, but he had not known yet. He dropped his bag and it landed firmly on his right sandaled foot. He struggled to pick it up.
They continued to bark orders, the same words in differing cadences, at the underling. The laison bowed to the floor and Montrose's face broke a slight smile at the awkwardness of it all.
The samurai noticed and stopped talking at the top of the gangplank and their eyes narrowed to slits in their eye holes of their masks.
Montrose swallowed hard.
Both men reached for their swords and started down the bridge to the dock. Brother Montrose did not move, he was not sure if escape was possible.
The small interpreter was between the advancing samurai and himself and was chattering about something, quickly to the men. They stopped a fourth of the way down.
The young man bowed deeply and turned to Brother Montrose.
He bowed again and Montrose was impressed at the young man even moreso up close. His clothes were tailored, unlike the others on the small boat, and he had his hair clicked back with oils. He was a servant of some power, probably because he spoke Portuguese.
"Brother Montrose. Welcome to Nagasaki, summer palace of the Shogun. We are honored by presence as a representative of the Christian Pope. The Shogun has full colors to escort you to the palace."
"Thank you!" He stepped onto the plank, his legs already water-wary from weeks upon the sea, and approached the interpreter. "I look forward to the meeting! It's Catholic, by the way, the Mother Church, my young man, Catholic."
THe intperper kept his head down but his head lifted as his eyes went wild.
The two samurai, again, imagining a slight, clicked their weapons slightly forward.
The interpret spoke with his eyes.
"But, your Portugese is flawless, I cannot thank you enough to have such a worthy interpreter," the young man bowed deeper at the complement.
The men returned their swords. But they did not relax. They turned in military precision and headed back onto the swaying bardge.
When Montrose finally got on the boat, he heard a whisper from the interpreter.
"Bow"
He did.
The two samurai looked at each other and returned the gesture.
"Lower, for your sake." The whisper continued.
He did.
The samurai looked at each other again and shouted something much calmer to the interpreter.
He looked relieved.
Brother Montrose was too.
Write historical fiction...without doing research.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Television List
Okay, okay, remember when I used to this with my best friend and his blog? It must be a few years ago--when I first started publishing online back in 2004. Well, we used our own personal 'top tens' for books and movies. Television was never tackled.
There's a reason for that.
I hate television.
And, for some reason, I love writing about things I hate, right?
Not always. I didn't think that addressing my 'favorite' television shows would make sense. But my best friend persisted and I relented. So, yeah, I hate television. I see no possible reason to sit, passively infront of a box. Really. I'm terrible at relaxing, if you've not ever figured that one out. For me, if I'm going to sit down and do nothing, well, I better just go to sleep. Look at my vacations. I never go to Hawaii or Mexico, where the choices are limited to the beach and the beach---and nothing there by tanning. I go to the Disney parks, chock full of activity after activity.
I like to think that it was borne of my first marriage. Whenever I would collapse on the couch after a rough day of teaching, I was greeted with "you're a lazy shit...I'm surprised you're not fatter!" I would look around as if I were dreaming and then run to the gym. Or the laundry. Or the dishes. Even today, supposedly the day of rest, I've graded several gazillion papers, typed 12 pages of lesson plans, got my hair cut, cleaned the kitchen, made lunches for the week, edited one of my stories, journaled...and...and...and..
See? Television interrupts that. What's worse? Commercials. I love the 'last' button on my remote. I switch back and forth during commercials watching two program simultaneously. Drives my Beloved nutso. Poor guy.
I kinda see it like sitting infront of a slot machine. You put money in and pull a lever. Then nothing happens.
So, yeah, I hate gambling too.
But, as we know, the world is not absolute as we like to think. I DO, on occasion, watch television. Heck, there's one here in my little writing office that I occasionally indulge in when I'm writing my letters and cards to family and friends. But, exactly, really draws me in to watching?
I have to be honest, only one show do I actually watch religiously in some form or another. A majority of the time, I merely surf and find whatever movie I can. Most likely a movie that I've seen before and already own a DVD of.
One thing that does need to be mentioned is that there is a channel that I do tend to float towards. LOGO has greatly changed my viewing habits in astonishing ways. For the first time ever, I watch commericals on that channel. I mean, gay and lesbian programming? WOW. Who sponsors that!
Okay on with the actual countdown. Unlike my best friend, I'm not going to merely list titles. I'll try to add stuff whenever possible.
5. NEWS...this is the only show I watch religiously, as mentioned. I'm addicted to news. My addiction started in college, when CNN changed the world by fully broadcasting the nation at war. For me, I was hooked--I was taking a broadcasting class at the time and was the acting anchor for the KVUU show on campus. I wasn't a reporter, per se, but did have to review news items and I really got into it. I watch any news over fiction--20/20 if it's interesting; CBS news on LOGO if it's a new episode. I'm usually up at the crack of bleedin' dawn and find the morning news on ABC. Heck, it's a Disney affiliate and the graphics are good. And then I'll slide over to CNN for Robin during the commercials or sports (tho her sports reporter, Rafer and weatherman Van Dillen are pinups in their own rights!). So news is going to be on this list. What is interesting, however, is that I'm also highly critical of the news--if I see a report on the nightly news of Paris or Britney, I know it's a slow news day and get mad...leave that to Entertainment Tonight, folks. And, btw, I'd watch more Entertainment Tonight if they didnt' spend 50% of their show broadcasting "coming up next" or "tomorrow on ET..." Um stick to the news folks.
4. Ghosthunters...my hatred of television is magically doubled when it comes to reality television. When I was in a Seattle hotel back in 2002, I figured I'd order a pizza and do what everyone supposedly does in a hotel room---no, not watch porn, but watch actual television. I'd not turned it on that week I was there for a workshop until Thursday night, choosing to get my news from the radio in my computer. But, sure enough, I watched "Big Brother" and started to wretch and the stupidiy of humanity and that producers felt THESE people were some how worthwhile observing.
Well, they were goodlooking.
So reality television died a little in my book while watching this "Survivor for Dummies" television show...until Ghosthunters. I read about it online (where I tend to be more then the television) and thought, well, I wanna see that. Was the premise? No. Was it the cute stars? No.
It was incentive to write more scary stories. I used their banter, their observations, their drawls in writing the occasional scary story. But as I analyized and analyzed more and more, I found that this show was something more watchable then I thought. And so it ended up as something I do watch.
3. X-Files...This was a show that drew me in. Just like Ghosthunters, it gave me ideas and concepts to filter through my own mediums. But the titles kept me thinking and mulling more then the writing could support. Stuck in the midst of an awful first marriage, this was my solace--he'd go and get drunk at his little buddies' houses and I'd lock myself in with my step-mutt and we'd treat ourselves to a candlelit X-Files episode.
2. Medical shows...Surprisingly, cop shows rarely cut it for me, even tho I usually use police offiiers and procedures in my authorship. But it's medicine shows that bring back positive memories. I remember racing home from my ASL 4 class to catch St. Elsewhere and taking Thursday nights to succumb to ER. I don't watch it any more...I have a family now, but I did catch a viewing this past week as I was making dinner. And I stumbled across the fact that it is still very high tension--what I think draws me in. I occasionally have the television on when I'm cooking dinner and I also kinda watched Gray's Anatomy and felt the same thing. It's tension is taut and the friction is palapble. That draws me in and will keep me there.
1. Sitcoms
There's a reason for that.
I hate television.
And, for some reason, I love writing about things I hate, right?
Not always. I didn't think that addressing my 'favorite' television shows would make sense. But my best friend persisted and I relented. So, yeah, I hate television. I see no possible reason to sit, passively infront of a box. Really. I'm terrible at relaxing, if you've not ever figured that one out. For me, if I'm going to sit down and do nothing, well, I better just go to sleep. Look at my vacations. I never go to Hawaii or Mexico, where the choices are limited to the beach and the beach---and nothing there by tanning. I go to the Disney parks, chock full of activity after activity.
I like to think that it was borne of my first marriage. Whenever I would collapse on the couch after a rough day of teaching, I was greeted with "you're a lazy shit...I'm surprised you're not fatter!" I would look around as if I were dreaming and then run to the gym. Or the laundry. Or the dishes. Even today, supposedly the day of rest, I've graded several gazillion papers, typed 12 pages of lesson plans, got my hair cut, cleaned the kitchen, made lunches for the week, edited one of my stories, journaled...and...and...and..
See? Television interrupts that. What's worse? Commercials. I love the 'last' button on my remote. I switch back and forth during commercials watching two program simultaneously. Drives my Beloved nutso. Poor guy.
I kinda see it like sitting infront of a slot machine. You put money in and pull a lever. Then nothing happens.
So, yeah, I hate gambling too.
But, as we know, the world is not absolute as we like to think. I DO, on occasion, watch television. Heck, there's one here in my little writing office that I occasionally indulge in when I'm writing my letters and cards to family and friends. But, exactly, really draws me in to watching?
I have to be honest, only one show do I actually watch religiously in some form or another. A majority of the time, I merely surf and find whatever movie I can. Most likely a movie that I've seen before and already own a DVD of.
One thing that does need to be mentioned is that there is a channel that I do tend to float towards. LOGO has greatly changed my viewing habits in astonishing ways. For the first time ever, I watch commericals on that channel. I mean, gay and lesbian programming? WOW. Who sponsors that!
Okay on with the actual countdown. Unlike my best friend, I'm not going to merely list titles. I'll try to add stuff whenever possible.
5. NEWS...this is the only show I watch religiously, as mentioned. I'm addicted to news. My addiction started in college, when CNN changed the world by fully broadcasting the nation at war. For me, I was hooked--I was taking a broadcasting class at the time and was the acting anchor for the KVUU show on campus. I wasn't a reporter, per se, but did have to review news items and I really got into it. I watch any news over fiction--20/20 if it's interesting; CBS news on LOGO if it's a new episode. I'm usually up at the crack of bleedin' dawn and find the morning news on ABC. Heck, it's a Disney affiliate and the graphics are good. And then I'll slide over to CNN for Robin during the commercials or sports (tho her sports reporter, Rafer and weatherman Van Dillen are pinups in their own rights!). So news is going to be on this list. What is interesting, however, is that I'm also highly critical of the news--if I see a report on the nightly news of Paris or Britney, I know it's a slow news day and get mad...leave that to Entertainment Tonight, folks. And, btw, I'd watch more Entertainment Tonight if they didnt' spend 50% of their show broadcasting "coming up next" or "tomorrow on ET..." Um stick to the news folks.
4. Ghosthunters...my hatred of television is magically doubled when it comes to reality television. When I was in a Seattle hotel back in 2002, I figured I'd order a pizza and do what everyone supposedly does in a hotel room---no, not watch porn, but watch actual television. I'd not turned it on that week I was there for a workshop until Thursday night, choosing to get my news from the radio in my computer. But, sure enough, I watched "Big Brother" and started to wretch and the stupidiy of humanity and that producers felt THESE people were some how worthwhile observing.
Well, they were goodlooking.
So reality television died a little in my book while watching this "Survivor for Dummies" television show...until Ghosthunters. I read about it online (where I tend to be more then the television) and thought, well, I wanna see that. Was the premise? No. Was it the cute stars? No.
It was incentive to write more scary stories. I used their banter, their observations, their drawls in writing the occasional scary story. But as I analyized and analyzed more and more, I found that this show was something more watchable then I thought. And so it ended up as something I do watch.
3. X-Files...This was a show that drew me in. Just like Ghosthunters, it gave me ideas and concepts to filter through my own mediums. But the titles kept me thinking and mulling more then the writing could support. Stuck in the midst of an awful first marriage, this was my solace--he'd go and get drunk at his little buddies' houses and I'd lock myself in with my step-mutt and we'd treat ourselves to a candlelit X-Files episode.
2. Medical shows...Surprisingly, cop shows rarely cut it for me, even tho I usually use police offiiers and procedures in my authorship. But it's medicine shows that bring back positive memories. I remember racing home from my ASL 4 class to catch St. Elsewhere and taking Thursday nights to succumb to ER. I don't watch it any more...I have a family now, but I did catch a viewing this past week as I was making dinner. And I stumbled across the fact that it is still very high tension--what I think draws me in. I occasionally have the television on when I'm cooking dinner and I also kinda watched Gray's Anatomy and felt the same thing. It's tension is taut and the friction is palapble. That draws me in and will keep me there.
1. Sitcoms
*pause*
Okay, see, my best friend doubles as a dork. He's like, acting all mad that I didn't pick SHOWS as opposed to just listing genres as I've been doing. He, apparently, thinks that there's a difference between news-programs; that, somehow, a sitcom has enough strength that one can pick between them.
Aw poop. I've never seen it that way. Television is a fattening mess, second only to Washington stupidity.
However, he is my friend. And when he says things, they tend to carry more weight. So, with the guilt I feel, I'm going to pull a small list out of my ass. I'll go ahead and number them in order, and see if that gives him the feeling of superiority he's craving by making me stay to task, the poopiestupidearface.
And yeah, he's right, I know it. And he must like television. He'd rather cancel something like exercise then miss some aborant crap liek Amercian Idol.
So, here are my number one sitcoms.
MASH
Taxi
Designing Women
Frazier
Will and Grace
One thing I do notice about this list. All are ensemble pieces. Each show has several players and, with that, mulitple storylines. Each show carries, also, some weight--in that they mention social issues or criticism for the world. I need that and carve it.
I hope that makes sense!
Peace out.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The 3 A.M. Epiphany writing exercise, number 8
I don't know what caused me to wake up this time. The shock I experienced, however, was the fact that sleep had found me and that rest was somewhat worthwhile. Time had not been kind in the sleep department. A rough estimate would be that the last time I enjoyed a night's rest was at least five years ago. Marie would have been in my fiend of vision.
A dog barked across the side alley in some oddball pattern that vaugle sounded like a record skipping.
As my ears focused to the now present waking world, a hard rapping was inviting me to the front door. A low murmur, most likely the culprit of the knocking, silenced the noise of the knocks.
I knew a phone call was next.
In other words, I had to rise. The vanity mirror in the corner caught the hall lamp and did it's best to insult me. I suppose the hair on my face, now truly white, was there yesterday, but since I make it a point to not look at mirrors these days--the question was lost. I used the reflection to hunt for my slippers. The corner where she had left them all those years ago was bare. Barren all this time.
The phone rang. It was supposed to.
"I'm up, I'm up." I hated yelling. I did not have the energy yet to support it anyways.
Last night, I wondered if I'd ever have company again. I didn't think it would be in the middle of the night.
"I'm up, I'm up, up, up, up...."
When a house is empty, the sounds resonate. My slippers, now found and discarded made their own call as we padded to the end of the hall to the front door.
Even the light switch to the front hall decided to make an echo. The clock blurted the honest time...3:12am. The knocking started back up, probably notified by the now present light.
My gut communicated that trouble had come to find me this night and that wishing for company had very little to do with it.
I gave myself the benefit of the peephole.
It was a beat cop. My job as county coroner never ended.
Rewrite part of an old story you have worked on from third person to first person. When you are reworking, count the number of 'he's or she's and then reduce that number by half in the newest creation. Then, let that sit for a while and see if it helps the piece or not.
A dog barked across the side alley in some oddball pattern that vaugle sounded like a record skipping.
As my ears focused to the now present waking world, a hard rapping was inviting me to the front door. A low murmur, most likely the culprit of the knocking, silenced the noise of the knocks.
I knew a phone call was next.
In other words, I had to rise. The vanity mirror in the corner caught the hall lamp and did it's best to insult me. I suppose the hair on my face, now truly white, was there yesterday, but since I make it a point to not look at mirrors these days--the question was lost. I used the reflection to hunt for my slippers. The corner where she had left them all those years ago was bare. Barren all this time.
The phone rang. It was supposed to.
"I'm up, I'm up." I hated yelling. I did not have the energy yet to support it anyways.
Last night, I wondered if I'd ever have company again. I didn't think it would be in the middle of the night.
"I'm up, I'm up, up, up, up...."
When a house is empty, the sounds resonate. My slippers, now found and discarded made their own call as we padded to the end of the hall to the front door.
Even the light switch to the front hall decided to make an echo. The clock blurted the honest time...3:12am. The knocking started back up, probably notified by the now present light.
My gut communicated that trouble had come to find me this night and that wishing for company had very little to do with it.
I gave myself the benefit of the peephole.
It was a beat cop. My job as county coroner never ended.
Rewrite part of an old story you have worked on from third person to first person. When you are reworking, count the number of 'he's or she's and then reduce that number by half in the newest creation. Then, let that sit for a while and see if it helps the piece or not.
IF
If you could confess to any crime, what would you confess to and why? That's an easy one. Or I'm thinking it's easy. I cannot, for the life of me, think of a single crime. I've never knowingly stolen anything outright. Sure, I might avhe taken a few hearts or the occasional cookie or two. But all I can think of is lying as a child. Being a theatre kid borne and bred, my tendency to embellish has outlived it's usefulness. I quit lying many moons ago, to the point that I've gone the other direction. I tend to be blunt and profane due to it. I also, upon my marriage, swore to be honest at every turn. I made a promise in a House of God. I shall not turn against that like so many other of God's followers.
If you could work for one person for the rest of your life, who would it be? Okay, okay, okay, I'm going to cheat here. I want to merely answer "myself" as an author. But that's not to be. So may I use an 'audience?' I'm really thinking of this from the prospect of a full-fledged author. Someone who writes to clear their minds, to bare their souls and to express creativity. I suppose that isn't truly being my own boss. I'd be at the whims of my publishers and editors, but I cannot help thinking how I'd love to sit at my desk the whole day and just create, create and create. Then I'd walk the dog. Then I'd vacuum and set up the slow-cooker. Then I'd get back to writing and editing. What would motivate that? If I publish successfully. Then, as the book moves forward, I'd have that cash to kill other meadering concerns.
IF...Today's first challenge is write something to PRESENT to today's coffeehouse. My best friend is here and, since he NEVER writes...the idea is that we'll both write about an 'IF" statement and the present to the group. Since I have my laptop on the ready, I'll go ahead and do mine directly to my blog. Remember, this is unedited and written as a train of thought.
If you could work for one person for the rest of your life, who would it be? Okay, okay, okay, I'm going to cheat here. I want to merely answer "myself" as an author. But that's not to be. So may I use an 'audience?' I'm really thinking of this from the prospect of a full-fledged author. Someone who writes to clear their minds, to bare their souls and to express creativity. I suppose that isn't truly being my own boss. I'd be at the whims of my publishers and editors, but I cannot help thinking how I'd love to sit at my desk the whole day and just create, create and create. Then I'd walk the dog. Then I'd vacuum and set up the slow-cooker. Then I'd get back to writing and editing. What would motivate that? If I publish successfully. Then, as the book moves forward, I'd have that cash to kill other meadering concerns.
IF...Today's first challenge is write something to PRESENT to today's coffeehouse. My best friend is here and, since he NEVER writes...the idea is that we'll both write about an 'IF" statement and the present to the group. Since I have my laptop on the ready, I'll go ahead and do mine directly to my blog. Remember, this is unedited and written as a train of thought.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
3 AM Epiphany, Exercise 7
Harold could not understand how people could eat like his family did. In his few years, he just sat back and watched in amazement how they could pack it all away. Appetizers were the biggest anomaly of all. Everyone indulged in the huge bowls of dips knowing full-well that a lasgana the size of a football field was in the oven--having been placed there by his type-A aunt long before they left to the wake.
The only difference, he noticed was the expressions on everyone's faces. Instead of raising their wine glasses high and repeating phrases like, "to die for" over and over again, they drank somber coffee and kept thinking before taking another cracker of food. It made the room dour like he never could remember.
Uncle Teddy had always been rail-thin. The family looked upon him, jokinly, as if he were the child of an errant mailman. They smirked as he tried to put down food like the rest of them, but as the family got older and rounder, he maintained the waistline of his teenage years, even though he professed a love for the family's pastas and breads. Today, he seemed to lean a bit closer to the dip then ever before. Perhaps, with his father's passing, God had granted him permission to gain weight as well as a smidgen of happiness.
The silence drove Harold bonkers and he paced before the windows of his Aunt's home. He could not understand the noises he grew up with had finally been silence. There was always a child crying some where in his Aunt's house; someone was talking about something, or yelling more like it, over the radio--which blared classical tunes. The phone would ring constantly with this person or that, wishing happy-this-holiday-or-that.
Today, the house reveresed direction. Harold felt it. He had always hate the concept of his heart being pained. It was his mind, his rational being insisted. Your heart never really hurt, per se, he pleaded.
Until today. The ache became too much. He decided to make a noise for himself. He could not have staged it better. A pile of toys, long abandoned by the now-adult children of the family, lay in a pile in a box. Another round of cleaning out Grandpa's home coming to a close. He looked at the box and pulled out a cylinder.
"You remember this?"
The sudden sound caused everyone's head to rise and look at him by the fireplace. His smirk molded to a full smile.
"Tinkertoys," Harold reminded the room, "tinkertoys! I mean, when was the last time these were made? I used to play with them all the time! Windmills, cars. We used to hang tracks over them and use them as bridges for the Matchbox cars." He began to dig further into the box to see if the cars had been retrived.
He kept his smile.
"The cardboard is finally rotting," Uncle Teddy identified.
"Huh?" Harold stopped his search and tried to find the meaning of the sentence. He looked to the bottom of the box to see if the statement was true.
"No, of the cylinder. The cylinder's bottom is rotted. Look," Teddy pointed to Harold's prop. Harold was clutching it to his chest. He removed it and looked down. Sure enough, the items that brought such happiness had left white and tan flakes on his tie and shirt. He brushed them away.
"Not totally. Besides, these must be worth something on ebay, ya know? Look at this," he looked down the cylinder and smiled broader, forgetting their purpose for the gathering and enjoying the memories the toy brought forth.
"No, no, it's rotted and no good. It's probably going to pop," Uncle Teddy rose and put down his napkin from the snacks. He removed it from Harold's grasp and put it back in the box. "No Harold, look at this stuff. No need for it now. You're grown. Your cousins are grown. Best to just get rid of this stuff. Your grandfather didn't want it."
"Then why'd he keep it for so long? There were no kids to entertain," Harold identified. He watched Uncle Teddy put the toy back into the main box. He elected not to bother his Uncle. Such a useless argument just showed how well he was not handling his own father's death. "I'll take it home. It's no big deal. You don't have to worry about it."
"I'm not worried, but you could be infected. These things are probably crawling with disease. Rot from being hoarded for so long. Dad never threw away anything, not a thing. Just his family. I mean, why would he keep this crap? In case YOU had kids? Great-Grandkids? Doubtful."
"Oh, okay, um, okay," Harold's smile gave away his inner thoughts. The expression on his face turned to a furrow.
Uncle Teddy shook his head. "Sorry, your grandfather left a lot more baggage then this, taht's for sure."
"Apparently."
Uncle Teddy leaned over and pet Harold's scalp, moving the small amount gray hairs forward for an instant.
Harold sneered.
"I just figured," Uncle Teddy identified, "I just figured he'd have cleaned up a bit more before his passing."
"I think, in a way, we all thought he might."
This is, for the first time in these writings, one that hits close to my heart and I utilized real life experience to create. Again, this is writing about a fictional family where the POV keeps shifting between different people looking at the same event. I've been rereading some of these posts as of late, folks, and I do apologize for the poor English grammar. You were warned these were unedited!
The only difference, he noticed was the expressions on everyone's faces. Instead of raising their wine glasses high and repeating phrases like, "to die for" over and over again, they drank somber coffee and kept thinking before taking another cracker of food. It made the room dour like he never could remember.
Uncle Teddy had always been rail-thin. The family looked upon him, jokinly, as if he were the child of an errant mailman. They smirked as he tried to put down food like the rest of them, but as the family got older and rounder, he maintained the waistline of his teenage years, even though he professed a love for the family's pastas and breads. Today, he seemed to lean a bit closer to the dip then ever before. Perhaps, with his father's passing, God had granted him permission to gain weight as well as a smidgen of happiness.
The silence drove Harold bonkers and he paced before the windows of his Aunt's home. He could not understand the noises he grew up with had finally been silence. There was always a child crying some where in his Aunt's house; someone was talking about something, or yelling more like it, over the radio--which blared classical tunes. The phone would ring constantly with this person or that, wishing happy-this-holiday-or-that.
Today, the house reveresed direction. Harold felt it. He had always hate the concept of his heart being pained. It was his mind, his rational being insisted. Your heart never really hurt, per se, he pleaded.
Until today. The ache became too much. He decided to make a noise for himself. He could not have staged it better. A pile of toys, long abandoned by the now-adult children of the family, lay in a pile in a box. Another round of cleaning out Grandpa's home coming to a close. He looked at the box and pulled out a cylinder.
"You remember this?"
The sudden sound caused everyone's head to rise and look at him by the fireplace. His smirk molded to a full smile.
"Tinkertoys," Harold reminded the room, "tinkertoys! I mean, when was the last time these were made? I used to play with them all the time! Windmills, cars. We used to hang tracks over them and use them as bridges for the Matchbox cars." He began to dig further into the box to see if the cars had been retrived.
He kept his smile.
"The cardboard is finally rotting," Uncle Teddy identified.
"Huh?" Harold stopped his search and tried to find the meaning of the sentence. He looked to the bottom of the box to see if the statement was true.
"No, of the cylinder. The cylinder's bottom is rotted. Look," Teddy pointed to Harold's prop. Harold was clutching it to his chest. He removed it and looked down. Sure enough, the items that brought such happiness had left white and tan flakes on his tie and shirt. He brushed them away.
"Not totally. Besides, these must be worth something on ebay, ya know? Look at this," he looked down the cylinder and smiled broader, forgetting their purpose for the gathering and enjoying the memories the toy brought forth.
"No, no, it's rotted and no good. It's probably going to pop," Uncle Teddy rose and put down his napkin from the snacks. He removed it from Harold's grasp and put it back in the box. "No Harold, look at this stuff. No need for it now. You're grown. Your cousins are grown. Best to just get rid of this stuff. Your grandfather didn't want it."
"Then why'd he keep it for so long? There were no kids to entertain," Harold identified. He watched Uncle Teddy put the toy back into the main box. He elected not to bother his Uncle. Such a useless argument just showed how well he was not handling his own father's death. "I'll take it home. It's no big deal. You don't have to worry about it."
"I'm not worried, but you could be infected. These things are probably crawling with disease. Rot from being hoarded for so long. Dad never threw away anything, not a thing. Just his family. I mean, why would he keep this crap? In case YOU had kids? Great-Grandkids? Doubtful."
"Oh, okay, um, okay," Harold's smile gave away his inner thoughts. The expression on his face turned to a furrow.
Uncle Teddy shook his head. "Sorry, your grandfather left a lot more baggage then this, taht's for sure."
"Apparently."
Uncle Teddy leaned over and pet Harold's scalp, moving the small amount gray hairs forward for an instant.
Harold sneered.
"I just figured," Uncle Teddy identified, "I just figured he'd have cleaned up a bit more before his passing."
"I think, in a way, we all thought he might."
This is, for the first time in these writings, one that hits close to my heart and I utilized real life experience to create. Again, this is writing about a fictional family where the POV keeps shifting between different people looking at the same event. I've been rereading some of these posts as of late, folks, and I do apologize for the poor English grammar. You were warned these were unedited!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
3 AM Epiphany, Exercise SIx, I believe
We entered the room with our collective breath held shut. We knew that violence had wrecked the place, but we did not expect that to still hold or be visible. Still, one hopes there's a smidgen of creepiness floating about the room. Some errand blood stain that escaped the clutches of the police investigators; some lock of hair, scraped onto a single nail on the far wall, that still held.
There was nothing. That did not mean we were disappointed. Anna entered and moved to the right, watching for image to form in her head. She remembered the details from the articles and books, we reviewed them together before heading to this haunted location.
We wanted so desparately that ghosts still existed in these walls. Of course, there was nothing we could do to bring them about; nothing to encourage them to make the walls bleed in cinematic fury. We would have to supplant the history of the house with our own imagination. And as we all know, imagination can be far worse then reality.
We creaked the floor with every step, even when having to walk on the throw rug. The room itself was something out of picture book--every bit of furtiture was in the same postion as the books mentioned. Nothing had been touched. Dust was removed. The hooks of French curls held up every arm on the couch and chairs, clawed feet supported the coffee table. Dark brown held the light lower then it should have been. The only thing missing were the shadows of twilight. And considering it was merely post-lunch, they wouldn't be coming soon.
We both circled to the bay window behind the high backed couch. There, the rug halted, the back of the divan creating a small wall. The street was empty, surprising for this rush hour. The floo's bare wood lay before us.
This was weird the corpse had lay.
"This is so cool," Anna smirked.
"Agreed. All we need is it to be Halloween and we'd be good to go for a few scary stories!"
The clock on the mantle chimed and we both jumped. Haunted houses were great fun. Even with doing nothing, we had packed a few minutes with terrific energy. We didn't want to move.
Anna's stomach growled.
"Don't you ever get enough food?"
"Nope. Should we take pictures now or after raiding the fridge?"
"We'll never think clearly if we keep going back to your stomach. Let's eat something first."
"We can only hope the kitchen looks this, ah, authentic!"
She was right.
In this exercise, apparently part of a series related to pronouns and syntax-subjects; I had to use the plural "WE." I was not to use "I" at any point.
There was nothing. That did not mean we were disappointed. Anna entered and moved to the right, watching for image to form in her head. She remembered the details from the articles and books, we reviewed them together before heading to this haunted location.
We wanted so desparately that ghosts still existed in these walls. Of course, there was nothing we could do to bring them about; nothing to encourage them to make the walls bleed in cinematic fury. We would have to supplant the history of the house with our own imagination. And as we all know, imagination can be far worse then reality.
We creaked the floor with every step, even when having to walk on the throw rug. The room itself was something out of picture book--every bit of furtiture was in the same postion as the books mentioned. Nothing had been touched. Dust was removed. The hooks of French curls held up every arm on the couch and chairs, clawed feet supported the coffee table. Dark brown held the light lower then it should have been. The only thing missing were the shadows of twilight. And considering it was merely post-lunch, they wouldn't be coming soon.
We both circled to the bay window behind the high backed couch. There, the rug halted, the back of the divan creating a small wall. The street was empty, surprising for this rush hour. The floo's bare wood lay before us.
This was weird the corpse had lay.
"This is so cool," Anna smirked.
"Agreed. All we need is it to be Halloween and we'd be good to go for a few scary stories!"
The clock on the mantle chimed and we both jumped. Haunted houses were great fun. Even with doing nothing, we had packed a few minutes with terrific energy. We didn't want to move.
Anna's stomach growled.
"Don't you ever get enough food?"
"Nope. Should we take pictures now or after raiding the fridge?"
"We'll never think clearly if we keep going back to your stomach. Let's eat something first."
"We can only hope the kitchen looks this, ah, authentic!"
She was right.
In this exercise, apparently part of a series related to pronouns and syntax-subjects; I had to use the plural "WE." I was not to use "I" at any point.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
3AM Epiphany, Exercise Five
December something or other, 2007
It's been warm this winter and I know this because not because of the weather, but because the throngs of people are still standing outside of my window. I'm writing this as a group of four are out there now. Two adults, two kids. You should see them. There they are, the dad making up some gory tale for the kids to remember the moment they stood outside the Star home.
Great way to raise your kids, bucko.
Soon he'll begin pointing to the upstairs window, the one you can see the clearest from the street below...yep, there he goes.
Proves a point. He knows nothing.
The last murder happened in the back parlour, bucko.
Now he's circling his pointed finger. Not sure what that means. Probably something about blood splatter. Thinks he's a fucking CSI member.
Decemeber, the next day.
Sorry about the swearing. I had a bad day at the call center. I started working there because the hours were so reasonable. But it seems I'm working there more then working on my novel. I guess I was further angered by that fact that I cannot enjoy my view of the Star home. I moved her SPECIFICALLY because this apartment was open and directly across from that great place. Frankly, I'd move in there if cash and fate would allow me. Not so much now. The family there is completely unaware, I can tell. They rarely have visitors. They hung a freegin macmame plant older with a dead plant off the wraparound porch. Must be from someone's Aunt Nancy.
Such disrespect to their historic home just makes a day of overtime all the more bitter. You'd think I'd be all themore happy with more cash available. No such thing.
Yeah, the boyfriend cancelled again too last night.
No, I'm not going to elaborate until I think about it some.
Journal entry several days later:
Yeah, well, fuck you too. Got into a screaming argument with the boyfriend. Yep. Me. Quiet little me. He who lets customers poop, verbally, all over me at work--because I need money--screamed back at the idiot. He called, finally, after two days of messages. FROM DeeJay's club too! He said he was waiting for the bathroom and that it was Cowboy Chris' birthday. At least the exe is getting attention I deserved.
yes, I see it. Why wasn't I invited?
Not sure. He says he tried to get hold of me. No emails in the box. No voicemails.
The bastard.
No gawkers. God must be sparing them my wrath!
I think I'll go to the corner liquour store and buy beer.
This writing exercise was a work of fiction from the perspective of a journal. The idea is that a journal has a limited reporting value that fiction, as a whole, does not. We cannot see the boyfriend's reasoning. We cannot fathom what is bothering this young man so much that it is out of proportion with what he is writing about. I am aware it is a character from another story, for those of you still reading from previously.
It's been warm this winter and I know this because not because of the weather, but because the throngs of people are still standing outside of my window. I'm writing this as a group of four are out there now. Two adults, two kids. You should see them. There they are, the dad making up some gory tale for the kids to remember the moment they stood outside the Star home.
Great way to raise your kids, bucko.
Soon he'll begin pointing to the upstairs window, the one you can see the clearest from the street below...yep, there he goes.
Proves a point. He knows nothing.
The last murder happened in the back parlour, bucko.
Now he's circling his pointed finger. Not sure what that means. Probably something about blood splatter. Thinks he's a fucking CSI member.
Decemeber, the next day.
Sorry about the swearing. I had a bad day at the call center. I started working there because the hours were so reasonable. But it seems I'm working there more then working on my novel. I guess I was further angered by that fact that I cannot enjoy my view of the Star home. I moved her SPECIFICALLY because this apartment was open and directly across from that great place. Frankly, I'd move in there if cash and fate would allow me. Not so much now. The family there is completely unaware, I can tell. They rarely have visitors. They hung a freegin macmame plant older with a dead plant off the wraparound porch. Must be from someone's Aunt Nancy.
Such disrespect to their historic home just makes a day of overtime all the more bitter. You'd think I'd be all themore happy with more cash available. No such thing.
Yeah, the boyfriend cancelled again too last night.
No, I'm not going to elaborate until I think about it some.
Journal entry several days later:
Yeah, well, fuck you too. Got into a screaming argument with the boyfriend. Yep. Me. Quiet little me. He who lets customers poop, verbally, all over me at work--because I need money--screamed back at the idiot. He called, finally, after two days of messages. FROM DeeJay's club too! He said he was waiting for the bathroom and that it was Cowboy Chris' birthday. At least the exe is getting attention I deserved.
yes, I see it. Why wasn't I invited?
Not sure. He says he tried to get hold of me. No emails in the box. No voicemails.
The bastard.
No gawkers. God must be sparing them my wrath!
I think I'll go to the corner liquour store and buy beer.
This writing exercise was a work of fiction from the perspective of a journal. The idea is that a journal has a limited reporting value that fiction, as a whole, does not. We cannot see the boyfriend's reasoning. We cannot fathom what is bothering this young man so much that it is out of proportion with what he is writing about. I am aware it is a character from another story, for those of you still reading from previously.
QUICK NOTE
There has been a comment made about why I'm posting an explanation AFTER the writing exercise. I did this for the benefit of the reader--if you come to the piece cold, your opinions will be about the writing itself and not about the specifics of the journal entry. So, I'll include the information at the END of the entry.
Enjoy and peace!
Enjoy and peace!
Sunday, March 02, 2008
3 AM Epiphany, Exercise 4
I alway give myself time to imagine I'm famous. I watch Britney self destruct and think, 'that poor girl...fame has not done her well.' But then I think to myself, 'she just wasn't ready.'
I'm ready.
I think I can do it. I can go to the spa and handle when someone says, "he's put on weight. He's put on A LOT of weight."
I know my family trained me for my ongoing sucess. They are mean and loud and know everything about me and still love me. Imagine the world at large doing the same. I mean they seem to like me-or at least put up the facade strong enough.
I like to pretend, in my head, that I'm reading the article about myself. "Smith seemed to be prepped for fame. His mother, the very definition of a stage-mom. Only she had one difference, she wanted her kids to have a certain understanding of the world.
"John Smith was no difference. He illustrated a profound ability on the boards, being pushed onto them at the tender age of 4. He kept performing. And even in his off hours, he discussed audiences with his family so he could improve his own writing. He reported the dread of seeing an empty page and how angry he would get when he had a crisp one and the teacher would not fill it with information. So he would just jot away whatever horror or joy he felt he could cover in the five minutes of boredom the teacher handed him.
"Mr. Smith would return to the stage again and again, using huge and changing venues. He'd sometimes sing old Gaelic tunes for the local pub; he'd work out difficult Shakespeare texts with the college courses he'd suppliment his income with; he'd hold court playing a four line walk-on in whatever blockbuster was filiming in nearby downtown.
"And his writing was always ongoing," I'd say to myself, especially more and more as it came to an end, "and when his first book became a bestseller, that was his draw.
"He knew he didn't want Hollywood to maul it; he did not want to whine to the press that he once worked with about Hollywood was going to kill his characters. That was when he went into screenwriting for his own short stories."
Of course, none of it was true at all. I'd make the whole thing up. I'm an actor, but I'm a much better writer. There was no reason. But I like to think the only truth in the story is that I could handle fame better then most. I still, after all these years, feel ignored. I like to think that's why I became a teacher. It's seven scheduled performances A DAY. I gotta love that!
But I also love the fiction. So doing my own story as a writer--wow, just wow. I can only hope that is how they see me. The fact is, it's going to be more like "he's a fake with nothing to offer. A fat man who is desparate for attention of any sort."
So I gotta make sure I'm friendly with the press as soon as possible, ya know?
Here's one where I am to slip between first person and third person--this one, I believe, worked a bit better.
I'm ready.
I think I can do it. I can go to the spa and handle when someone says, "he's put on weight. He's put on A LOT of weight."
I know my family trained me for my ongoing sucess. They are mean and loud and know everything about me and still love me. Imagine the world at large doing the same. I mean they seem to like me-or at least put up the facade strong enough.
I like to pretend, in my head, that I'm reading the article about myself. "Smith seemed to be prepped for fame. His mother, the very definition of a stage-mom. Only she had one difference, she wanted her kids to have a certain understanding of the world.
"John Smith was no difference. He illustrated a profound ability on the boards, being pushed onto them at the tender age of 4. He kept performing. And even in his off hours, he discussed audiences with his family so he could improve his own writing. He reported the dread of seeing an empty page and how angry he would get when he had a crisp one and the teacher would not fill it with information. So he would just jot away whatever horror or joy he felt he could cover in the five minutes of boredom the teacher handed him.
"Mr. Smith would return to the stage again and again, using huge and changing venues. He'd sometimes sing old Gaelic tunes for the local pub; he'd work out difficult Shakespeare texts with the college courses he'd suppliment his income with; he'd hold court playing a four line walk-on in whatever blockbuster was filiming in nearby downtown.
"And his writing was always ongoing," I'd say to myself, especially more and more as it came to an end, "and when his first book became a bestseller, that was his draw.
"He knew he didn't want Hollywood to maul it; he did not want to whine to the press that he once worked with about Hollywood was going to kill his characters. That was when he went into screenwriting for his own short stories."
Of course, none of it was true at all. I'd make the whole thing up. I'm an actor, but I'm a much better writer. There was no reason. But I like to think the only truth in the story is that I could handle fame better then most. I still, after all these years, feel ignored. I like to think that's why I became a teacher. It's seven scheduled performances A DAY. I gotta love that!
But I also love the fiction. So doing my own story as a writer--wow, just wow. I can only hope that is how they see me. The fact is, it's going to be more like "he's a fake with nothing to offer. A fat man who is desparate for attention of any sort."
So I gotta make sure I'm friendly with the press as soon as possible, ya know?
Here's one where I am to slip between first person and third person--this one, I believe, worked a bit better.
3 AM Epiphany, Writing exercise 3
The knocking on the cabin's door was slightly muffled by the strong wind running beside it. Mrs. Bledsoe had an incident when she was a child that resulted in her always sleeping practically fully clothed. She remembered the story briefly as she rose, paused and waited for the pounding to begin again.
She hated referring to the portal as the 'front door.' Sure, it faced where she put her car, but it was a sliding glass that resembled the back door of her house in Colordo Springs. But here, it was the main entrance. With the curtain drawn, she could11 only see the outline of a man rapping away.
Without a chain on the door, all she could do was pull back the curtain some and hope he was not strong.
He was not. He was bleeding.
"Get in here! Oh my goodness!"
The young man held his side as if a violent apendisitis had taken away his lower right half. She signaled to him to her chair and pushed her laptop and several binders to floor. Lowering them softly to the pages that had been discarded there prior she realized she was not helping the poor youth.
She had him bandaged better then she remembered.
There was a pause where it appeared both caught their breath.
"Phone?"
"Oh no, there is none, I'm sorry. See, I come up here to get away for a bit, but, well, I have a car--let's get you down to Estes. THey have an emergency room."
"No, just hold on."
"You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really. But, I don't, I'm afraid I might forget," the wound was superficial, a scratch. He was panting some upon entry, but he gained control quickly, respectfully. But his skin was still flushed. He still looked to the windows more than at her.
"I was with, I was with this girl. And she wanted to drive up here, you know, see the mountains. And, crap, seriously, you are not going to buy this at all, but, like she made," he smiled at something beyond her," a freegin picnic. A picnic! Sandwiches and everything! And, fuck, I started eating, we watched some deer go by and," he stopped and looked out the window.
"Look, we need to get you do a hospital, make sure you're okay."
"Fuck, no, we can't, it might be too late."
"Too late?"
"She poisoned me! I burped, see, burped of all things! Over a freegin' bolongna sandwich. And when my chest, I don't know, sizzled, I knew something wasn't, I guess, right. I thought it was heartburn, but no, no, NO," he began to tear up. Beneath his red hue, the face was paled.
"What happened to you?"
"I puked! And it was all blood and pink stuff!" She stepped back and he moved his leg to the side, revealing a wet portion of his jeans that revealed technically nothing. Other then something wet happened there.
"I ran, I just ran and started chasing me, and, like, the poison was still part way in. I ran and she jumped on my back. I fell and there was a fight and..."he looked again to the outdoors.
"What, oh dear God, what?"
"and, um, are you alone?"
This one did not have the intent I was supposed to have used....that I had an unreliable narrator and I was to have him do most of the talking. But I noticed my setup took longer then the actually presentation. ARGH.
She hated referring to the portal as the 'front door.' Sure, it faced where she put her car, but it was a sliding glass that resembled the back door of her house in Colordo Springs. But here, it was the main entrance. With the curtain drawn, she could11 only see the outline of a man rapping away.
Without a chain on the door, all she could do was pull back the curtain some and hope he was not strong.
He was not. He was bleeding.
"Get in here! Oh my goodness!"
The young man held his side as if a violent apendisitis had taken away his lower right half. She signaled to him to her chair and pushed her laptop and several binders to floor. Lowering them softly to the pages that had been discarded there prior she realized she was not helping the poor youth.
She had him bandaged better then she remembered.
There was a pause where it appeared both caught their breath.
"Phone?"
"Oh no, there is none, I'm sorry. See, I come up here to get away for a bit, but, well, I have a car--let's get you down to Estes. THey have an emergency room."
"No, just hold on."
"You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really. But, I don't, I'm afraid I might forget," the wound was superficial, a scratch. He was panting some upon entry, but he gained control quickly, respectfully. But his skin was still flushed. He still looked to the windows more than at her.
"I was with, I was with this girl. And she wanted to drive up here, you know, see the mountains. And, crap, seriously, you are not going to buy this at all, but, like she made," he smiled at something beyond her," a freegin picnic. A picnic! Sandwiches and everything! And, fuck, I started eating, we watched some deer go by and," he stopped and looked out the window.
"Look, we need to get you do a hospital, make sure you're okay."
"Fuck, no, we can't, it might be too late."
"Too late?"
"She poisoned me! I burped, see, burped of all things! Over a freegin' bolongna sandwich. And when my chest, I don't know, sizzled, I knew something wasn't, I guess, right. I thought it was heartburn, but no, no, NO," he began to tear up. Beneath his red hue, the face was paled.
"What happened to you?"
"I puked! And it was all blood and pink stuff!" She stepped back and he moved his leg to the side, revealing a wet portion of his jeans that revealed technically nothing. Other then something wet happened there.
"I ran, I just ran and started chasing me, and, like, the poison was still part way in. I ran and she jumped on my back. I fell and there was a fight and..."he looked again to the outdoors.
"What, oh dear God, what?"
"and, um, are you alone?"
This one did not have the intent I was supposed to have used....that I had an unreliable narrator and I was to have him do most of the talking. But I noticed my setup took longer then the actually presentation. ARGH.
3 AM Epiphany Writing Exercise 2
Calm yourself. Remember the rules. No, you can't hit them--that's illegal, tho their own parents do it repeatedly. No it doesn't matter that he chucked his pencil at your head. All for merely pointing out that he hadn't turned in his homework again. No, you were not going to give him an A. Earn a grade you want in this classroom.
Calm yourself when call the parents. Tell them the true but use simple, positive vernacular that they have no concept of understanding. Know you are right. Know you can do this quickly if you don't say much. Know that the parents like hearing, "what else can I do for you?"
And know that you are right in heart. Relax! Give yourself a reward when you get home, something like sleep or reading a book. Stop arguing! It somehow gets done. Don't try to make them learn. Just teach what you know and hope on a bigger scale.
Know they won't change, the world, the government and the kids. Know that you can change your attitude about the whole thing.
Laugh.
Do it again and again.
Smile.
And hope.
Dress and don't mumble, but value the potential of the day. Hope again he is not in third period, but know he is afraid you will retialate. So smile big and mention his love for Halo 3, his only supposed friend. Ask lotsa questions, but mostly towards him. Teach verbs. Review nouns. And make many, many notes in your journal about the futility of remember pencils for a writing class and homework as a teaching tool and not busy work requested by parents.
And then mention to yourself that this is the onset of burnout and you really need another job. Then do the vicious cycle, the one where you talk yourself back into teaching. Pondering is permitted--dreams will help you survive just a longer then most.
Wait for the weekend and then smile bigger then you ever could, remembering that there are those who believe that it helps. Agree with them as you realize the aggravations built your house and fed your puppy. And paid for the wedding and helps keep the smile on your husband's face.
Remind yourself of the wonderful good that sits right before you that somehow escapes you in times you need it.
Return to work with this temporary fix and keep your calendar nearby to count towards summer.
Use the summer to your advantage. Get physically fit, eat right and do all the things recommended you do for handling stress. Use the open time to imagine the awards you might recieve but don't deserve and all the applause you once heard in the back of your head.
Remember those Kevins and Erics who did not throw the pencil, but said thank you. Remember the alumnai, now entering their early lives and remembering youu as being part. Try not to cry, but allow it when the time is free.
And then calm yourself again.
In this exercise, I was to create an entire five hundred word piece containing only imperative commands/sentences. Hope it worked.
Calm yourself when call the parents. Tell them the true but use simple, positive vernacular that they have no concept of understanding. Know you are right. Know you can do this quickly if you don't say much. Know that the parents like hearing, "what else can I do for you?"
And know that you are right in heart. Relax! Give yourself a reward when you get home, something like sleep or reading a book. Stop arguing! It somehow gets done. Don't try to make them learn. Just teach what you know and hope on a bigger scale.
Know they won't change, the world, the government and the kids. Know that you can change your attitude about the whole thing.
Laugh.
Do it again and again.
Smile.
And hope.
Dress and don't mumble, but value the potential of the day. Hope again he is not in third period, but know he is afraid you will retialate. So smile big and mention his love for Halo 3, his only supposed friend. Ask lotsa questions, but mostly towards him. Teach verbs. Review nouns. And make many, many notes in your journal about the futility of remember pencils for a writing class and homework as a teaching tool and not busy work requested by parents.
And then mention to yourself that this is the onset of burnout and you really need another job. Then do the vicious cycle, the one where you talk yourself back into teaching. Pondering is permitted--dreams will help you survive just a longer then most.
Wait for the weekend and then smile bigger then you ever could, remembering that there are those who believe that it helps. Agree with them as you realize the aggravations built your house and fed your puppy. And paid for the wedding and helps keep the smile on your husband's face.
Remind yourself of the wonderful good that sits right before you that somehow escapes you in times you need it.
Return to work with this temporary fix and keep your calendar nearby to count towards summer.
Use the summer to your advantage. Get physically fit, eat right and do all the things recommended you do for handling stress. Use the open time to imagine the awards you might recieve but don't deserve and all the applause you once heard in the back of your head.
Remember those Kevins and Erics who did not throw the pencil, but said thank you. Remember the alumnai, now entering their early lives and remembering youu as being part. Try not to cry, but allow it when the time is free.
And then calm yourself again.
In this exercise, I was to create an entire five hundred word piece containing only imperative commands/sentences. Hope it worked.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The 3 AM Epiphany, Exercise One
I'll go into details of the exercise at the end, for my own purposes.
The coffeehouse near our place has everything a writer like myself could ever need to create beyond our own doors. It has coffee, foremost, and, even for it being a chain, it lists a terrific set of flavors and wonders. Aztec Mocha, a wonderul concoction of cinnimon, chili powder and chocolate, takes the bitter hum of java to new, beautiful levels. I treat myself daily here, wondering over sometime after CBS Sunday morning signs off and the responsibilities of the day begins.
Daily lesson plans take priority, so those are brought up long before any creative-ness hits the brain cells. That act itself creates a sense of completeness that makes the creative process have a much sweeter reward--the reward that all the writing I'm doing is not limited by the confines of my own life encroaching. How many authors have stopped what they are penning because they realized the catbox needed emptying, the dishwasher needed to be cleaned out or the stack of papers in the suitcase needed to be graded? That was the creation of my own demise.
The coffeehouse and the ensuing schedule there helping eliminate that, even if briefly so.
So my briefcase filled, the drive is almost instantenous, the coffee arrives in my hand and my paperwork finds a table home, even if only for a few hours in the morning. The schedule rounds itself out with journalling (usually a list of ailments in my life of things that are bothering me, so they, too, don't hold my creativity back) and then the continued contrivance of whatever tales suits my fancy.
My writing has been flurishing lately, and one cannot fathom as to why. The pens has always been in my pockets, the imagination has always been full. But it is now, here before my 38th birthday, that my brain finds it's niche.
Fate? Hope pushes itself to the front of my head on that one.
Okay, so my best friend gave me this terrific book of great writing exercises. I figure it to be a terrific way to keep this blog going. I'll let him know, I'm sure he'll be on my only reader! Still, the exercise was that I had to write in the first person. The catch? I can only use I twice...no more. I needed to create about 600 words, but this blog doesn't offer that as an option. So I'll have to count it at home, when I return from here.
It will remain unedited. I hope you don't mind.
Peace!
The coffeehouse near our place has everything a writer like myself could ever need to create beyond our own doors. It has coffee, foremost, and, even for it being a chain, it lists a terrific set of flavors and wonders. Aztec Mocha, a wonderul concoction of cinnimon, chili powder and chocolate, takes the bitter hum of java to new, beautiful levels. I treat myself daily here, wondering over sometime after CBS Sunday morning signs off and the responsibilities of the day begins.
Daily lesson plans take priority, so those are brought up long before any creative-ness hits the brain cells. That act itself creates a sense of completeness that makes the creative process have a much sweeter reward--the reward that all the writing I'm doing is not limited by the confines of my own life encroaching. How many authors have stopped what they are penning because they realized the catbox needed emptying, the dishwasher needed to be cleaned out or the stack of papers in the suitcase needed to be graded? That was the creation of my own demise.
The coffeehouse and the ensuing schedule there helping eliminate that, even if briefly so.
So my briefcase filled, the drive is almost instantenous, the coffee arrives in my hand and my paperwork finds a table home, even if only for a few hours in the morning. The schedule rounds itself out with journalling (usually a list of ailments in my life of things that are bothering me, so they, too, don't hold my creativity back) and then the continued contrivance of whatever tales suits my fancy.
My writing has been flurishing lately, and one cannot fathom as to why. The pens has always been in my pockets, the imagination has always been full. But it is now, here before my 38th birthday, that my brain finds it's niche.
Fate? Hope pushes itself to the front of my head on that one.
Okay, so my best friend gave me this terrific book of great writing exercises. I figure it to be a terrific way to keep this blog going. I'll let him know, I'm sure he'll be on my only reader! Still, the exercise was that I had to write in the first person. The catch? I can only use I twice...no more. I needed to create about 600 words, but this blog doesn't offer that as an option. So I'll have to count it at home, when I return from here.
It will remain unedited. I hope you don't mind.
Peace!
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