No Clever Title

creative thing - "Just Fix It"

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 18:58:54 GMT

"What the hell--?"
"Stop."
"But I mean-- what on earth--?"
"I said just stop. IT never happened. Turn around. Go about your business. And goddammit Jake -- don't snort at me!"
"I wasn't snorting."
"Yes, you were."
"It was a good natured chuckle."
"Which came through your nose?"
"Maybean, what on earth is going on here?"
And then he stood and looked and there I was still on my knees with the dustpan, refusing to blush even though there was plenty to blush about, covered as I was with gallons of unbleached white flour, ten gallons to be exact, which I new because it had been a new ten gallon tub when I'd started. And there I was, so covered with flour it took Jake plenty of time to figure out that I was naked under all that, stark naked except for my Wednesday panties, which I wear every Sunday. It's kind of my little joke with God.

TI saw the very moment that realization hit him. I tell you his eyes got round and I stuck out my chin and said the first thing I could think of: "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies."
He kind of half laughed then.
"Maybean, I'll tell you what --" he snorted again. "This takes the cakes."
I glared at him but he showed no signs of turning around like any good next door neighbor would. No, he just leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms and, damn his stupid blue blow tie, looked amused.
WEll fine. Two could play that game. I set down the dust pan and sat right down in the flour and crossed my arms against my chest.
"A god-fearin' Christian man would get off his ass and go find a vacuum cleaner," I suggested. I knew very well he had an almost brand new vacuum cleaner from Walmart cuase I'd seen him cleaning out his car with it for the last two weekends.
"A god-fearin' Christian woman wouldn't be having some kind of kinky baking supplies party on a Sunday morning," he suggested right back, not moving. "She'd be dressed and ready to go to church by now."
"It's fall back you idiot," I said through gritted teeth. "We don't leave for another two hours." Jake hasn't ever got that right in all the time I've known him. Of course, it might have been all those years he was falling forward all the time--up stairs, over sidewalk cracks, across other kids' desks. But even after he grew into his ears, he still wasn't the brightest of pennies. Oh, he was penty samrt, I'll give yout hat. Taught physics at the big school in Monroe and had a lab in his basement. But common sense? Please. The man couldn't rub two cats together and get a yowl from them.
"Oh right," he said. "But seriously--whatcha been doing here?"
"Praying for manna from Heaven," I said. "But all He given me was flour."

He laughed.
"I could get the vac I guess," he said. "But that flou'rs gonna' clog it."
"Which is why I was sweeping."
He got a thoughtful look.
"You know, you'd look pretty good down there wearin' some golden handcuffs," he said. Somethng about my glare must have gotten through to him about then though, because he stopped joking and said he'd go get the vacuum cleaner which gave mea chance to put my housecoat back on, which I'd taken off whent he flour had spilled, which any moron could have told was what happened if they'd just stopped and thought about it.
I like peopel ok. I don't know why everyone thinks I don't. Listen tot he town gossip for very long and you'd think I was Queen of the Bitch League on 9-foot stilts. But I'm really just find with people most of the time. I just don't suffer fools gladly. And since I always seem awash in a seam of them it makes me cranky. I used to pray for patience every night until God saw fit to send me Jimmy Fixit and I just narrowly escaped becoming his fourth wife. Think he's on his seventh now and God bless her cause she's been with him almost two years now, which in my book makes her either braindead or a saint, and she don't seem braindead.
Anyway, my relationship such as it was with Jimmy and the incident with the handcuffs Jake had referred to (although they weren't golden, they were just plain brass) taught me a lot. Not patience of course, but certainly to stop praying for it. I figure God sending me Jimmy was His way of saying--"look. You're alright the way you are." Because if I'd hooked up permanent with Jimmy Fixit, it could have been a lot worse.
I had most of the flour sept up by the time Jake got back with his vacuum cleaner. I suspect he'd kind of planned that--like I said, he isn't really stupid and he knows when I'm mad enough to spit and he said he'd vacuum the lfoor while I got cleaned up & that he'd buy me breakfast at Kozy's if we had enough time.
Jake may be annoying, but he's really decent that way, even if he does hold an embarrassing situation over my head a little to long. It's only because he knows he's one of the two people I won't murder for it. Plus, he's good in a pinch. Don't know what I would have done in that handcuff situation if Jake didn't know how to pick a lock. So there's that. Also, he knows when he's gone too far and is usually gracious about it.
I got dressed for church lickity split and we made our way down to Kozy's & had buscuits & gravy & missed the opening prayer and sat in the back with teenagers and a had a pretty good time at church all in all. Jake, bless his decent soul, didn't say a word about the flour & we'd picked up a few donuts for social hour afterward so no one even missed my double butter raisin scones that I was planning on making. And then Jake gave me a ride back, which would have been a lovely cap on a morning that had turned out pretty ok if he hand't gotten a flat and we hadn't found that body in the trunk of his car.
That'll put a sudden end to real good day fast, finding a body where you're not excpecting one like that.
"Holy Hell," I said when Jake called me back to see it.

Writer's Block: Famous last words

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:39:10 GMT

If you were close to death, what would you choose for your last words? To whom would you want to say them?

Submitted By whoismarion

View 1475 Answers

Because it was Monday morning, Joseph knew he was close to death. He lay on his futon, aching everywhere, doomed by the HIV / brain tumor / H1N1 / plague that he'd contracted overnight. From where he lay, about 8 feet from the kitchenette, he could see fruit flies hovering around the half apple he'd left out of his pink refrigerator the night before. He'd swear he could hear them buzz, but "I heard a fly buzz when I died" had already been taken. He'd have to think of something else, and quickly, before Melissa woke up. There was no point in having chosen your last words if there was nobody there to hear them. He just hoped he'd last that long.

It was a drag crashing at his older sister's place, Joseph thought, and wondered if there might be some possibility there in that verb. "Like a computer loaded with Window's '95, I crash," he croaked dramatically. Didn't quite cut it. He rolled over, feeling the spears of hostile aliens probing his brain. His feet poked out of the not-quite-long-enough comforter, and he noted that his toe nails needed painting. Black this time, he thought. It would suit his mood. Not that he was Goth or anything. He didn't have to be. There *was* nothing more gothic than getting through a Seattle November, even if he never left this futon again, which at this point seemed highly likely.

The loud and obnoxious sound of the Bangles emanated from his sister's room. Melissa had different alarm tones for every day of the week. Monday's lyric "If I had an airplane, I still wouldn't make it on time..." blared out and he groaned. Maybe "I'm catching the early train" would be good last words to whisper in his final moments. Particularly if he died this morning, at the tragically young age of 19.

"Rise and shine!" Melissa bounced out of her room, perky as ever. She worked as a receptionist downtown, and "perk" was more than just her 9-5 persona. Joseph couldn't imagine how they'd come from the same parents. Maybe they hadn't. Maybe (he thought, for the millionth time), he'd been given away by his real parents, genius scientists who were kidnapped by a hostile foreign government. He groaned.

"Headache?" Melissa asked with a smile. She bustled to the kitchen and got a plastic bag, tossing it to him as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows. "Make sure those get into the glass bin -- the pick up is tomorrow." Perfect. She'd been harping on to him about his bottle collection for weeks and she'd chosen now, the hour if not the moment of his death, to insist that he get rid of it. Something about glass maybe? He remembered something about being immortal until the second glass of wine...but maybe that was "mortal". He couldn't remember.

He listened to Melissa getting ready for work, and sat up when she brought him coffee.

"Thanks, " he said. He took a sip. He couldn't think of any good dying words this morning. Probably best to go on living until he was more inspired.

Mad Science Comes Out of the Closet

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 19:59:07 GMT

This is one of the most brilliant and enjoyable stories I've read in a long time, written by my very good special friend Allen.

Go. Read. Enjoy!

http://doctorturvy.livejournal.com/6711.html

Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous

Deep Sea Diver

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 15:42:11 GMT

Assignment: A deep-sea diver brings his work home with him. Done in the style of Agatha Christie.

It was 7:00 in the evening, a time that the inhabitants of Louisiana call "moss time". Long strands of green reached through the dusk to whisper across Maybelann's cheek as she tottered her way across the back yard to the porch. Crickets had given way to the deeper buzzing sounds of oncoming night.

The thump of her cane sounded loudly across the raised porch. Maybelann used the sound to warn away snakes as she cast an interested eye over the curtains framing her back door. Something dripped from the corner of the yellow gingham; something green and ominous. She did not grimace. There was no disgust in Maybelann, she simply did not like dripping green things. She opened the door to the kitchen and screwed up her rheumy eyes to look about her.

The warped cabinet door on the eastern wall hung open, revealing a missing Kerr's jar. The kitchen sink was empty and dry. Water and mud streaked the white and yellow linoleum of the floor she'd scrubbed that morning. Maybelann cautiously maneuvered the slippery spaces as she made her way to the living room. She would prefer to use lady-like tones and avoid foul language, but she had learned long ago that in this native, wild land, only savage talk could be heard.

"God-dang it Horace!" She yelled. "I done told you and told you to clean up after yourself!"

Doomed to Fail Assignment: write about a doomed love between a humidifier and a dehumidifier

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 17:10:47 GMT

D. noticed her on a Wednesday. He knew specifically that it was Wednesday, because Wednesday was the day that Josh, his metrosexual roommate, reserved for manicures and nose hair trimming. She came in the door with Josh, and at first she'd seemed like nothing special. Another tool in a corporate box, that's what he'd thought initially. When she'd been in the same room, he'd been unable to think of anything to say. He was known for his dry sense of humor, but had been unable to suck up to her. That was before he'd seen her plugged in of course, without all the protective packaging . It was then he'd fallen in love with her.

She was the kind of appliance his manufacturer had written warnings about. Oh, he'd known other humidifiers before, the cheap, forced air types that expelled noisy bubbling steam all night and used all the energy in the house. But she was different. The cool fog around her seemed to come from nowhere but the quiet space within her. If he watched her long enough he could almost imagine that she vibrated at another frequency, some ultrasonic level that no one else could hear.

But from the beginning, he'd known it was doomed to fail. They never seemed to be plugged in at the same time. She was nice enough, but Josh always ran the show and he seemed to want more from her than D. could ever hope to get. The roommate relationship suffered. Josh had no time for D. anymore, they never just hung out in the living room and watched football and sucked down pints together. Now, when football was on, D. felt shoved into a corner and ignored. Of course, if he'd never met the Airhead, it might have worked out eventually (he sometimes thought, in his more morose moods).

Truth be told, the Airhead had a lot more in common with D. They had a lot of similar interests, cleaning up the environment, for example, and fighting mold. Where the humidifier had subtlety, the Airhead had, well, noise, but she was very friendly and always up for whatever he was up for. And if their relationship was occasionally competitive, if she was totally predictable and nothing special, well, at least she was there, he told himself. At least he wasn't lonely.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Writer's Block: So funny I forgot to laugh

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 15:09:55 GMT

If a friend cracks a corny joke, do you force yourself to laugh politely? What about if it's your boss or teacher? Do you get annoyed if someone else pretends to be amused?

Submitted By maxwearsboots

View 811 Answers

God no, I don't force myself to laugh politely. I LOVE corny jokes--the cornier, the better!

Did you hear the one about the jump rope? Skip it.

What I don't have the patience for is those jokes that are constructed like stories, and you have to pay attention through a long set up to get to the punch line. Even if they're good and the story is interesting, somewhere in the second minute of this long, winding set up I start getting bored and tuning out. And sometimes I resent having my time wasted with a story that doesn't matter to the person telling it, that isn't about them or how they live their lives or see the world. Oddly, I don't mind having my time wasted by sit-coms. But the patter on sitcoms is faster moving and there is usually a pay-off every...what?...30 seconds or so. I don't know why I should resent jokes so much. I guess it's because I know I can turn off the tv at any time, but once a joke has started I feel trapped until the punch line comes. Usually then I laugh out of sheer relief.

Also? I hate getting jokes by email.

But I love puns.

Assignment: a parent teacher conference done in the style of a 1930's serial adventure

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 23:30:09 GMT

Announcer: Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Johnson's Wax Radio Theater as we present The Beasleys!

<applause>

Announcer: Tonight: Horace and Madge Beasley have a meeting with Billy Boy's teacher, Mrs. Crabtree.

Audience: Ooooooo.

SFX: footsteps across a wooden floor, followed by rustling of papers

Mrs. Crabtree: Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Beasley, please come in and have a seat.
Horace: I have a seat right here.

Madge: <tittering> Oh Horace, you're awful.

SFX: rustling and scraping of chair against floor

Mrs. Crabtree: I hope you don't mind. I've called you here to talk about Billy Boy--

Horace: That's my boy!

Mrs: Crabtree: Yes. And he seems to have uh, a problem--

Madge: He's always been terribly shy--

Horace: Right. <snorts>. If S is for Sporting, H is for Handsome and Y is for Youthfully Bright, that's our Billy Boy!
<audience laughter>

Mrs. Crabtree: Yes, well, shyness isn't exactly the trouble. I'm not quite sure how to put this--

Horace: Straight up with a side of whiskey's always nice.
<audience laughter>

Madge: <tittering> Oh Horace, you're awful!

Mrs. Crabtree: It's that he's--

Madge: He's always been a little afraid of girls. And he gets tongue-tied and stutters. I don't think he's ever--

Horace: Now, Madge. Anyone would have been afraid of that tomboy Janie Nolan. Especially after she landed that punch on Billy Boy's shoulder.

Madge: He was sore for a week.

Horace: But I don't think he's that afraid of girls. After all, he's my boy!

Madge: <titters>
<audience laughter>

Mrs. Crabtree: Well, no. See, girls aren't the problem. The problem is that he's taken to--

Horace: Practical jokes, I'll bet. Why, when I was his age there was no end to the pranks I'd come up with. Remember Madge? When Lester Snorton and I found that slingshot--

Madge: Don't remind me.

Mrs. Crabtree: Well, no, it isn't practical jokes. It's that, when I'm trying to teach something, he--

Horace: I'll bet you're a heckuva teacher, Mrs. Crabtree.

Madge: I'm sure Mrs. Crabtree doesn't want to know--

Horace: I mean, I bet you get a lot of apples, heh heh.

Madge: Horace.

Horace: What with them apples…
<audience laughter>

Madge: Oh, you're just awful.

Mrs. Crabtree: Mr. and Mrs. Beasley, please. Billy Boy isn't pulling practical jokes, he doesn't have a problem talking to girls, and he isn't particularly shy -- I just wanted to tell you--

Horace: Then why are we here?

Mrs. Crabtree: You're here because --

Madge: He's really such a good boy, our Billy Boy. I don't know why you would have a problem with him.

Mrs. Crabtree: Because--

Horace: It isn't like he's backwards or anything?

Mrs. Crabtree: No!
Horace: So what's the problem?

Mrs. Crabtree: Because I can't get a word in edgewise!

Madge: <gasps>

Mrs. Crabtree: Every time I'm up at the board and trying to talk to the class, Billy Boy--

Horace: --interrupts? Heh heh.

Madge: <tittering> Oh Horace, you're awful.
<audience laughter>

<music>

Announcer: Join us next week on Johnson's Wax Radio Theater with the Beasleys, when we find out what Billy Boy's actually been doing with that troublemaker Timmy behind the old clubhouse.

<applause>

various and sundry

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 19:57:34 GMT

I have a performance review this afternoon. I'm a little nervous.
I'm going to take the writing suggestions from the Juggler's Challenge post in order, one every day or so, until I run out. Feel free to add additional challenges as they come to you.
I'm wearing black clothes that are way too big for me today. And black shoes. And white socks. Yes, I look like a noob. Or a person in search of a pirate costume who has no boots and no good accessories.
I got a walk in at lunch. So chances are I'll be less depressed this afternoon than this morning.
Or maybe not.
I feel bleh.
I'm going to watch Season 1, eps 5-6 of True Blood tonight. Can't wait.
I want to call in sick tomorrow, but probably won't.

V.

Assignment: a paragraph about a ballet dancer doing her grocery shopping

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 06:27:03 GMT

The lemon cucumbers looked especially good today. She reached a gnarled hand slowly toward the display and cradled one round, spiny vegetable in her palm, drawing it into her cart. It had been a long time since she'd had a cucumber sandwich, and longer still since she'd had one with a touch of the spicy cranberry jelly that he'd introduced to her. Holding on to the handle of the cart, she moved slowly up toward the end of the produce aisle. Her feet, as always, ached and she had to move slowly, stretching now and then in a futile attempt to ameliorate the pain shooting from her hip to her knee. She liked to imagine that she still had some grace. Everything is a dance, she remembered him saying back in the days before Martha Graham was a household name, before the Alexander Technique became just another module in a student's schedule. Everything is a dance. And even now, decades later, she was mindful, knew where her feet was and could feel the floor through them, knew the hum of theater in the people around her. She no longer leaped across half a stage from one partner to another, but she danced with every iota of her being, with her fingers, now feathering across the fennel, with her cart as she moved to let a younger woman pass.

Posted via email from mysticsavage's posterous

creative thing for the day -- juggler's challenge

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 03:15:57 GMT

When I was in college I became a fan. A huge FAN. A scary, stalkery, hanging-out-at-the-band's house stoned kind of fan of a band called Heend. Fortunately, the band was this group of three guys who were all a little, I don't know, better than other people. The kind of people I hang with regularly now, for example. These guys, particularly Adrian and Andrew, were maybe the first people I'd met who were actually more creative than I was...more off-the-wall in their thinking, for sure, and putting the work out there in a risky way. Heend would do these shows called "Juggler's Challenge" shows, when they would play any instrument in any key or time or riff on anything that the audience could suggest. One night, for example, someone challenged them to jam in 13/7 time. And they pulled it off. I don't remember them pulling it off particularly well that night, but that challenge became a song they called "Prime". People would shout out key changes, themes, ask for specific kinds of songs, and the band was so tight they could do it. Mostly pretty damn well.

One of the guys in the band--Andrew--still plays in various musical ensembles, and from time to time they do Juggler's Challenge revival shows at Mr. Spot's chai house in Ballard. More about those here. So: time went on. We left college. Terry left the band to do his own thing up in northland; Adrian moved to Portland, and Andrew and Tina became a couple of my closest post-college friends for that first decade out of school. They now live in West Seattle about a mile from me, and once in awhile if I see Andrew downtown at a bus stop, I can get on his bus and ride out to his house and visit their wonderful tiny baby daughter and eat sandwiches with them at the Husky deli and then they'll drive me home. Well, ok, I did that once this year. The point being that I'm not a huge scary stalkery hanging-out-at-the-band's house stoned kind of fan anymore. But I still love the idea of juggler's challenge shows, which is why I'm issuing a similar challenge here:

throw me some balls to juggle in my writing. or drawing. (one caveat: that it be something I can do in 20-30 minutes).

give me a theme. or three words or phrases that you think will trip me up. tell me you want me to write a haiku about your special fandom, or a country song in which Spike proclaims his love to Harry Potter. Ask me for a paragraph about a 65 year old diabetic cop in Phoenix or a pencil drawing of my childhood home, or a story about one of my latest sexcapades done in 1950's bodice ripping romance writer language. I'm curious and eager to meet these challenges....so bring it on, babies. Let's go!

Echo

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 10:51:21 GMT

Narcissus met Echo during Ultimate Frisbee tryouts the first week of 8th grade. It wasn't her glittery purple sneakers that caught his attention at first, it was her chest, which he dodged to avoid as she crashed into him with a triumphant yell, snatching the frisbee from the sky. While Narcissus was trying to keep a low profile this time around, Echo, obviously, had made her own different choices. She grinned at him briefly and flicked the frisbee away, bounding after it, leaving him lying stunned in the grass.

Should vs. Wanna

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 23:06:46 GMT

What I should do is exercise, educate and exfoliate
eliminate what looks like hate
embrace my fate
and epilate.
What I wanna do is to mellow down
kinda mess around
with the easy sound
want drug my head
spend some time in bed
wake up two days later
in an elevator
going up and up
never stoppin' -hunh--
takin off for heaven
where there's a 7-11
and I buy a slurpee
and piece of beef jerky
and I fall in love
with a 3-piece dove:
one piece is man
and one piece is demon
the last piece takes
me where I'm flyin'
but for now I'm jakin
stop this fakin
get my sh** together
for all kinds of weather
got to do the laundry,
the dishes, the floor
and that's all I'm writing --
there ain't no more.

10 minutes flow writing about superstition

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 00:43:22 GMT

Melody is superstitious -- she's always admitted it. Whenever she hears a snatch of music on the street she knows it is going to be a good day. She has decided that all omens are good. When she sees a penny, she might pick it up or not, having changed the last few lines of the old verse to "see a penny, let it lay, you'll have good luck anyway." Also good luck for her: sitting in an odd-numbered row from the front at a movie theater, having a leaf fall on her head, a pigeon cross her path, or a panhandler ask her for money. She often says no, but she always sees the request as a blessing. She doesn't go out of her way to walk under ladders, but she doesn't avoid them either. She knows that they could be bad luck, but if you hold your breath while you're under a ladder and make a religious sign or symbol with your hands you turn the luck to good. She has lots of religious symbols. She crosses her fingers behind her back or makes a cross over her chest, or taps her third eye three times with her ring finger.

She's not odd. Well, not visibly odd. She looks like everybody else, has an office job, two children. Her thighs are fat. She's often in a hurry, carrying her purse and her lunch in a plastic Target bag because she keeps forgetting to buy cloth. She's not a hippie. She's not a pagan. She doesn't dance naked under a full moon (although the thought makes her grin). She likes football, and notices that the Seahawks win whenever she goes to a game. She doesn't go to many games, but never feels like she jinxes it by being there. If anything, she can almost make a touchdown happen if she drinks half a beer and leaves the other half under her seat.

Lots of her superstitions involve leaving things: she leaves a dollar in the violin case of the guy who plays outside of Pacific Place. She leaves sticky notes all over her desk at work: on the arms of her chair, on the monitor frame, on the telephone. And she's never had problem leaving people. In fact, she's good at it. She used to be able to end a relationship within half an hour of deciding it was over. There. All of her belongings would fit in two milk crates and a suitcase, and she'd be back at her Aunt Bethie's house, in the room she stayed in when she was between things. Having children changed that, though, and she finds herself now, surprised, having lived in the same neighborhood with the same man for the last six years.

Just as she's thinking this, she feels the sticky tack of gum under her shoe. She grimaces as her foot comes up from the sidewalk. Maybe it's time to leave something else, she decides, and before she has time to second guess herself, she's slipped off both shoes and is walking in her socks down the sidewalk toward her bus stop. The pavement is cold and rough under her feet, and she thinks maybe that is a good omen too. It's important to stay in touch with the rough edges.

Note to Self:

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 09:46:11 GMT

Do NOT take Penny and Sar to see FAME.

(Thanks for the heads up from Elizabeth Donald.)

Today's happy afternoon

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 03:39:45 GMT

I left the house today at 2:00 and took the bus to Traveler's. I was to meet Chuck at 4:30 at the convention center, and wanted to groove around downtown for a bit before I went. So: I wore my lucky vest, and went to Traveler's (which is always lucky) and drank a cup of their chai (which is beyond luck -- it's actually magic, that chai). I sat there and soaked up the atmosphere for awhile and went into the shop part of the store and looked around, not needing to buy anything but just happy to be there. Exchanged a few words with Liam, the proprietor, who recognized me although he doesn't really know my name. But we have a distantly pleasant relationship and I like him a lot. Left Traveler's and went around the block to Babes in Toyland and then to Edge of the Circle. Again, no need to buy anything. In fact, in Edge of the Circle I looked at all the magic books and all the spirituality books and just had this moment of recognition that after thirty years of reading about all that stuff, I'm really tired of reading about it. So I left and continued down the hill. Stopped in at a furniture store that I'd never been in and had no intention of staying in, but was there for quite awhile because they didn't have just furniture, but also really cool candles and fans and desktop fru-frus and cool greeting cards. It was a good place to explore. Stopped in at a coffee shop, Uncle Elizabeth's, which I pass on the bus every morning and have always been curious about. It's one of those places that's cooler on the outside than the inside, and I won't need to go back again, but it was a good place to spend ten minutes and the espresso, while nothing to write home about, wasn't too bad. Continued down the hill.

Got to the convention center about an hour early, so headed up to the lobby on the second floor and hung out and read. The security guard passed me once but decided I was well dressed enough he wouldn't hassle me (although I didn't have a convention badge). I'm reading "Digging to America" by Anne Tyler and it's really good. Went down to the meeting place with about ten minutes to spare and didn't have to wait too long for Chuck. And had a very, very happy time catching up with him.

We sat and talked for a minute or two and then walked toward Wild Ginger, where we were seated at Table 9, which, as it turns out, is the same table I've been seated at the last two times I've been there. Wild Ginger isn't a small place -- it has easily -- what? 40? 50? tables...more? So it's quite a coincidence to be at this wonderful booth where I have good memories. Chuck and I had a good meal -- a tuna thing and a chicken thing and a wonderful bok choi thing, and I had a mango daquiri and a vicodin and the conversation was mellow and loving and interesting and as always when I'm with Chuck I fell in love with him. It's impossible not to. I defy anybody to spend an hour or two with Chuck and not fall in love with him. I don't think it's possible. It's not that he's terribly suave--in fact, he's not. He's sincere and has integrity and he's thoughtful and there's just something undeniably super wonderful about him. After dinner, we walked to Bartell's where he picked up some headache medicine and I shopped for makeup and chatted with the clerk about skin care products. Her secret is to mix baby oil with grains of sugar. Mine is oatmeal. Her name was Amy. We had a great conversation, enhanced no doubt by my general feeling of well-being from being with Chuck and feeling like we're in a good place with each other.

So...we walked toward my bus stop and kissed a little bit while waiting for the bus, and I gave money to a guy whose sign said he just wanted money for pot, and money to my favorite busker (a drummer who is often outside of Nordstrom's at rush hour--the blond guy with the beard who plays a variety of drums and rhythms from different parts of the world and is pretty damn good. Also, he looks like Jesus. The blond Jesus.) And after another fifteen minutes, my bus came and I kissed Chuck good bye. It was the perfect Saturday afternoon/early evening date.

I ran into Frances and Anna on the bus and we talked about writing and work parties and cohousing until we got to Duwamish. Disembarked and walked with them through the community, and found myself at Kevin's house with Kevin and the kids, sharing the lovely biscotti Chuck had brought me with them, and talking about family stuff with Penny and Sar. Kevin and I are on the same page with parenting more and more these days. It helps, I think, that the kids always make it pretty evident to us when things aren't good for them (eg, too much tv). Anyway, made a plan for hanging out with them tomorrow and that was a wonderful cap to the evening. Got back home around 8 pm, and am now updating this before I do my creative writing for the night.

Love to all !

V.

The creative something for today

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 03:41:22 GMT

I am a blind hamster on a creaky wheel.
I am the weight at the bottom of a sack of drowning kittens.
I am your overdue taxes with thirteen attachments and nine different forms.

My life is mud.
It is a paradise for sickly toads and preying swampthings.
I slog through it like, I dunno, like a nine hundred pound woman climbing a flight of stairs.

What do I want?

Everything.

Ocean sounds echoing off the walls of my sanctuary.
Soft cushions topping heaps of treasure.
Hot tea in a rainstorm.
Lovers from here to Mazatlan.
Seven angelic children singing like bells at Christmas.

I want to stay young.
I want to be young, younger than I've ever been --

I want straight shoulders
and hairless skin
and white teeth
and perfect eyesight.

The grace of a dancer.
The vision of a priest.
The life of someone starting over,
wisdom remembered, energy building,
all in love with skylines and jet trails.

Mostly, I want your eyes
meeting mine
and telling me
I'm not alone in this.

Notice me -- and show me what joy is.

Love me, as much as I love you.

A country song with lots of the F word in it.

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 04:19:16 GMT

I just did my 10 minute creative exercise for the day, which gave me this.

Warning: lots of the f word. Also warning: you can hear the twang.

I know that I ain't special,
we're not lovers meant to be,
I knew the time would come
when you would walk away from me.
You know I know you'll leave me
when you're done with my old truck
I just wish you'd stick around enough
to give me one last f---

Chorus:
One last f--
cuz I got another in me
One last f--
it might be another month
One last f--
if you'd ever really liked me
you'd know to treat me rightly
I need just one more f--.

You came to fix the faucet
and you stayed to fix the sink
You optimized my c-drive
then you asked me for a drink.
I gave you a martini
but you said you wanted beer
then you took me on the kitchen floor
and I just had to cheer.

CHORUS

We'd done the deed
a couple of times
and god I came so hard
when you took the old weed wacker
and you straightened up the yard.
Ain't never had a lover
could do half the things you do.
Guess that's why I'm on my knees
and begging you:

CHORUS.

.

Chain writing.

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 15:14:22 GMT

In yesterday's writing marathon we did a chain writing exercise, wherein the last word of one sentence becomes the first word of the following sentence. I think we did this one for 30 minutes. Here's the result.

Writing is the last word.

Word to your mother. Mother picks up a lighter and fumbles in her purse for a cigarette. Cigarettes aren't good for you, she's said, and on the commercial people sing "we mind very much if you smoke". Smoke curls up from her hand in a lazy ribbon around her face. Face it: you want to smoke too. To try smoking just once.

Once you went behind the haybales behind the archery practice field and thought you might try a cigarette with Shelley Beers. Beer cans littered the area behind the hay bales--someone had been there before you. You waited with a quickening heart, but before she could pass you the cig a hand fell on your shoulder. "Shoulder you the responsibility" you heard in your mind. "Mind your step" said the counselor who caught you and her voice was disappointed. Disappointed was the teme for the day---from your counselor, your parents, evenyour brother.

"Brother, don't smoke that," you hear from a different time in your past. Past that voice is a grey street climbing out of a fog bank. Banking left your memory veers from cigarettest o pot now, a green plant someone has taught you to call "kind". Kind of a joke that, an obvious one. One day you are hacking on rough smoke and the net you find the world far to harsh without it. It becomes how you breathe, how you see, how you touch people, kindly, gently, through a cloud, all rough edges blurred. Blurred, too, are the expectations. Expectations are too sharp, take up too much room here. Here you are soft-voiced, velvet-footed, present -- you are without pain. Panes filter the light into an amber benevolence and sound mutes itself into soft music. Music means so much more than it used to, every word significant. Significant is the fact that you have no one to speak to. Two of your friends have confronted you, come and gone, and you have barely heard them. "Them" is a construct you examine, like "us" -- but as the amber afternoons glide by, more and more join "them" and "us" dwindles to almost nothing. Nothing is worth this, you think and you stop using and try to rejoin the world. World-weary in a day, or if not a day a week, you stumble into whatever is next. Next stop, Wonderland. Wonderland without Alice, or the white rabbit, or the simple escape of saying "you're just a dream". Dream on, little princess, and put your crown aside and tiptoe away. A way to find yourself somewhere else, on a path, with or without other people. People are a mixed bag. Bag those rabbits and toss them into the root celler with all theother rejected throughts. Thoughts cross your brain every now and then, but you're not arrogant enough to call that thinking. Thinking is for other people, like your brother, who is in law school. School is over for you and you still don't know where to be. Be here, whispers something inside of you. You listen. Listen harder. Harder than a baby bid pecking is way through a shell you listen. Listen to the voice that says: be here, be now.

I found 10 minutes

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 04:27:54 GMT

I found ten minutes on the street yesterday--a shiny, bright, new chunk of time just there under the new metal bench a the bus stop at 4th & Pike. I found a brand new ten minutes and I didn't know what to do with it.
It was not enough time to work out--change into yoga pants, get on the treadmill, go, go, go for only what? a minute? and then to have to shower and come back out to rejoin my day. It wasn't enough time to write--barely enough time to frame a couple of paragraphs--at most--about a protagonist and then I would have had to abandon her there at the bus stop. It wasn't enough time to get my nails done, not properly, and they wouldn't have been able to dry. It might have been enough time to meditate, but it was not enough time to decide how to meditate -- transcendental? zen? visualization? visualizing nothing? -- and by this time it had dwindled, and there was not even enough time to go to Starbuck's a block away and get a cup of coffee.
In the end I dropped it and watched it blow away, skittering down the sidewalk in a sudden gust of wind, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. My bus came and I boarded it. Twenty minutes from downtown to work. How would I spend that time?

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Autopsy Video

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 18:15:44 GMT

WARNING: icky and gross parts ahead:

Just saw the video of an autopsy that is shown to PATH 521 students prior to their observing an in-person autopsy. Was thinking about seeing a real autopsy, but am now undecided. The video was fine; but it was a lot of information to absorb, and it took only about 40 minutes whereas a real autopsy takes much longer. Parts of it were distinctly icky (as expected) but mostly it was just interesting. The method used was the Wirkow method, where the organs are examined in the body first before removal. I did feel a little sick when they got into the lungs -- the woman had emphysema from being a long time smoker, and she basically drowned in her own mucous. When they expressed that mucous I felt faint and had to look down at my notebook and take a notes for a few minutes before I felt like I could look up again. The body fat was also gross, even though this woman wasn't fat. Thinking about how much fat there is in my own body kind of squicks me out. The brain seemed beautiful when they removed it -- I was unprepared for that.

Feel much more invested in my health now & (typically narcissistic) hope that when I die the inside of my body looks good -- organs in good health, clear arteries, not much fat, etc. Much work ahead. Feel like I should go for a short walk now.

Starting yesterday

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 20:52:29 GMT

or rather, for me, today...we're doing a media black out at home. No computer, tv, iPod or electronic games. I heard the morning went well for the kids without media. Sar made himself toast for breakfast and then made a car track with Sam. Penny hung out in bed and read. There wasn't any of the stuff I was afraid there would be -- you know, like setting stuff on fire. They didn't have a huge fight and wake up Karen at 6:45. It was just calm.

I'm having trouble staying away from my sites. I've put my computer in the closet at home, but have compulsively checked facebook several times this morning and accidentally got sucked into Mafia Wars once. I'll have to be super careful about that.

Don't know if the media black out extends to not updating LJ. I miss writing. Might do some paper journaling for awhile.

The weekend, while I have your attention--I went to PAX (the Penny Arcade Expo) and though I was only there for four hours, I met Jonathan Coulton and Paul of Paul & Storm. I was not impressively intellectual. In fact, I burbled and all but swooned. But it made my weekend...heck, maybe even my year.

Next week I start working ten hour days. This week I'm just trying to get organized and be uber productive.

And now, my lunch hour is over.

Peace.

Friday morning

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:19:09 GMT

Need coffee, so this is going to be short.
Had the meet-and-greet for both kids' grades yesterday at different times. It was exhausting. I like Penny's teacher a lot and have reservations about Sar's (his expectations seem high and although he has 23 years of teaching experience, he's never taught kids this young before). We'll see how it goes.
Today is work; tomorrow is PAX. I'm already getting panicked about going down there and dealing with the crowds. I have a ticket and hope I go, at least for awhile, but the idea of not going is becoming more appealing. We'll see. Helps, actually, that I'm not obligated to meet up with anyone down there. That way I can cruise around and bail when I need to.
Glad the weekend is happening. So, so, so very glad.

Virginia

School!

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 16:21:36 GMT

School starts next week and we met Penny's teacher last night when she did a home visit. I'm so impressed that a public school teacher would actually schedule visits and go meet each member of her class before the first day (or as many as she can). She said it really helps the year go smoothly -- she's already established a relationship with each kid, she's got a context for their stories, and I'd imagine they don't compete as much for her attention in the first weeks as they otherwise might. She's also a delightful person in her own right, so I think I'm going to enjoy volunteering in her classroom very much.

One big relief -- even though Penny & Sar's school will be getting an influx of a hundred new kids from another school, Penny's class is going to have only 22 kids in it. They added 3 classrooms in the 2-3 grade band, so there will be 7 classrooms full of 2nd & 3rd graders, but they've worked to keep the teacher:student ratio low. I'm hugely, hugely relieved, as I'd imagined that her class size would double.

Later today, we'll attend the meet & greet both for Penny's grade band and for Sar's (K-1). I'm excited to meet Sar's teacher as well, and some of the other parents and classmates. I think it's going to be a very good year.

May the Force Be With You

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 17:42:13 GMT

Wow. This sure brings new meaning to the words "May the Force Be With You". (NSFW).

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Too much gaming?

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 17:36:17 GMT

I was riding the bus this morning up Capitol Hill and looked out the window to see a slant of sunshine highlighting a leafy tree against a beautiful old brick building. My first thought was "Wow! The graphics are awesome!" ...That can't be a good sign.

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