Journal entry

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!

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?

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 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 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?

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?

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