Okay, so if you want to have one of those surreal-like trips down memory lane:
1) Go to your Google task bar
2) Hit the search dropdown
3) Click on the little black arrow pointing down
4) Watch in scroll-tastic fashion every question and query you've ever searched for
Serioulsly, entire chapters could be written about my life based on some of those topics that came scrolling by. And my first query? Snapdragons.
I so do not remember that.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
To Memories
I just got off the phone with my Nana....
I'm saying this now, because I feel so desperately morbid and serene at the same time: I think my grandmother might die tomorrow.
She's only having surgery on her knee, just a pin. ("only". "just". These are words I use to trick the commonplace-ness of "surgery" into the forefront of my mind, where it's fat ass will sit on "death" and "death" will squnch down in between the couch cushions and be utterly silenced.) She fell getting out of bed last week, her whittled 87-year old bones performing a graceful fracture around her kneecap.
We spoke tonight because my mother called. I muted the tv because I wanted to feign sleep when I answered because I was not in the mood to speak with her. My mother's voice was tight and fluttery, apologetic and jumpy in the way she gets when she hears in my voice that I'm not in the mood to talk. I'm bitchy with my mother and I love her all the more for taking it. My mother, however - before I'm nailed to the wall for mother-hating - is the absolute first to admit that she can be overbearing. This is a woman that wants to talk everyday. Sometimes multiple times a day. We're talking sometimes 3 or more days a week with the multiples lately. And it's fine, and some days I don't pick up the phone at all and she knows why and is okay with that because lack of love is not the issue; she raised an independent woman, what the hell is she supposed to say?
She told me that I might try to call Nana tonight because it was getting late and she'd be leaving for surgery at 7 tomorrow morning. And I might want to call, "just in case. You know, just in case she dies."
Just sayin'.
And I thank her for calling, but don't acknowledge the death comment because really, an unspecified portion of my life is spent not encouraging her morbid nature. A flappable mother has to have an unblinking daughter. I have beat myself into this stone version of me. It's okay.
So I call Nana and she feigns sleepiness, but being the beautifully gracious social baronness that she is, I got her on the subjects of the poker games she's been playing, the Spanish she's been learning from her nurses and attendants, and the Spanish song accompanied by languid hand movements, "almost like an Hawaiian hula dance, the way the hips and hands go. You put your hands out in front of you, palms down, sway them back and forth and then bring them up behind your head, one at a time. So pretty." No, Nana, you are so pretty, your lovely words and prose peppered in among the daily recounts of life. Your love of journalism permeates everything you talk about, from the quail that runs through the aisles of the Wal-Mart in town that you think should be in the newspaper, to the way you ask questions of everyone you meet and talk to, no matter if it's the first or 30th time you've been with them.
You told me tonight that seven years ago it was I who called you the morning of September 11, 2001, asked you if you had seen the news, to turn on your tv now then, look, Nana, look. That's your Pentagon, that's your New York City, that's your country that you've fought for, worked for, loved for, slaved for. And you love it. The Air Force runs in your blood, you run hot with it even now. And I feel so oddly blessed to have been able to give you the news that morning. It's not often I can connect on a patriotic level with a woman that has seen so much, been so much, been alive and working in the bowels of the Pentagon, pictures and newspaper stories humming between her fingers. The unbelievable energy....
I think it was the fear in her voice that got me a little worried. We didn't want to get off the phone; we tried to three or four times and we just couldn't do it. That unknown of "will I ever hear your voice again?" hung so unspoken, yet so heartfelt between us. We promised that I would call her tomorrow after I got out of class, because she should be in her room and resting post-op by then. And it felt good to know that we each knew the other was being strong for the other, and it was good to share the company of such a strong female. Very proud moment for us both, I like to think.
And as I told her I should let her go so she could get some rest, she interrupted with, "Devon, I just want you to know how proud of you I am." Tears sprang to my eyes and I managed to choke out how much that meant to me. She choked up, too, and mumbled something about how she was happy to hear that, and then we both said a quick love you and goodbye and hung up.
I felt compelled to write this this evening. Maybe just to get it out of me that my Nana means everything to me. I feel so much like her at times...I am blessed beyond belief to share a gene pool with this woman.
So here's to a safe knee surgery, Nana. You're going to be awesome no matter what, 'cause that's just the way it is with you. (and thank God for that)
I love you. Talk to you soon. ~ Dev
I'm saying this now, because I feel so desperately morbid and serene at the same time: I think my grandmother might die tomorrow.
She's only having surgery on her knee, just a pin. ("only". "just". These are words I use to trick the commonplace-ness of "surgery" into the forefront of my mind, where it's fat ass will sit on "death" and "death" will squnch down in between the couch cushions and be utterly silenced.) She fell getting out of bed last week, her whittled 87-year old bones performing a graceful fracture around her kneecap.
We spoke tonight because my mother called. I muted the tv because I wanted to feign sleep when I answered because I was not in the mood to speak with her. My mother's voice was tight and fluttery, apologetic and jumpy in the way she gets when she hears in my voice that I'm not in the mood to talk. I'm bitchy with my mother and I love her all the more for taking it. My mother, however - before I'm nailed to the wall for mother-hating - is the absolute first to admit that she can be overbearing. This is a woman that wants to talk everyday. Sometimes multiple times a day. We're talking sometimes 3 or more days a week with the multiples lately. And it's fine, and some days I don't pick up the phone at all and she knows why and is okay with that because lack of love is not the issue; she raised an independent woman, what the hell is she supposed to say?
She told me that I might try to call Nana tonight because it was getting late and she'd be leaving for surgery at 7 tomorrow morning. And I might want to call, "just in case. You know, just in case she dies."
Just sayin'.
And I thank her for calling, but don't acknowledge the death comment because really, an unspecified portion of my life is spent not encouraging her morbid nature. A flappable mother has to have an unblinking daughter. I have beat myself into this stone version of me. It's okay.
So I call Nana and she feigns sleepiness, but being the beautifully gracious social baronness that she is, I got her on the subjects of the poker games she's been playing, the Spanish she's been learning from her nurses and attendants, and the Spanish song accompanied by languid hand movements, "almost like an Hawaiian hula dance, the way the hips and hands go. You put your hands out in front of you, palms down, sway them back and forth and then bring them up behind your head, one at a time. So pretty." No, Nana, you are so pretty, your lovely words and prose peppered in among the daily recounts of life. Your love of journalism permeates everything you talk about, from the quail that runs through the aisles of the Wal-Mart in town that you think should be in the newspaper, to the way you ask questions of everyone you meet and talk to, no matter if it's the first or 30th time you've been with them.
You told me tonight that seven years ago it was I who called you the morning of September 11, 2001, asked you if you had seen the news, to turn on your tv now then, look, Nana, look. That's your Pentagon, that's your New York City, that's your country that you've fought for, worked for, loved for, slaved for. And you love it. The Air Force runs in your blood, you run hot with it even now. And I feel so oddly blessed to have been able to give you the news that morning. It's not often I can connect on a patriotic level with a woman that has seen so much, been so much, been alive and working in the bowels of the Pentagon, pictures and newspaper stories humming between her fingers. The unbelievable energy....
I think it was the fear in her voice that got me a little worried. We didn't want to get off the phone; we tried to three or four times and we just couldn't do it. That unknown of "will I ever hear your voice again?" hung so unspoken, yet so heartfelt between us. We promised that I would call her tomorrow after I got out of class, because she should be in her room and resting post-op by then. And it felt good to know that we each knew the other was being strong for the other, and it was good to share the company of such a strong female. Very proud moment for us both, I like to think.
And as I told her I should let her go so she could get some rest, she interrupted with, "Devon, I just want you to know how proud of you I am." Tears sprang to my eyes and I managed to choke out how much that meant to me. She choked up, too, and mumbled something about how she was happy to hear that, and then we both said a quick love you and goodbye and hung up.
I felt compelled to write this this evening. Maybe just to get it out of me that my Nana means everything to me. I feel so much like her at times...I am blessed beyond belief to share a gene pool with this woman.
So here's to a safe knee surgery, Nana. You're going to be awesome no matter what, 'cause that's just the way it is with you. (and thank God for that)
I love you. Talk to you soon. ~ Dev
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Morning
Today I am simply content to be alive. I woke up at 5:30, went to the store at 6, and was at work by 7:05. Not bad. As I unloaded my groceries in the parking lot, this fabulous cooling breeze came up and blew through my cotton tee and I had the moment I look forward to everytime this year:
Fall is a-comin'.
Yessir, ladies and gents, Fall is on her way, and I am STOKED!!! Of course I'm fully aware that it's supposed to be 85 today, tomorrow, and Labor Day, but hey - I can't help knowing what I know. They've started planting the fall foilage that spruce up the company fronts: tall wheat with greeny-gold stalks and their little toe-heads, low shrubs, and a few hardy pansies in deep violet and maroon. The rabbits aren't babies anymore, but they still love to host mock-fights on the soft grass under the pines, then sleepily curl up and nibble grass while dozing off in the sun. Too. Freakin. Cute.
Colorado is gorgeous right now. Fall especially loves this state, and my arms are open and waiting.
Come on, Fall. You're my LADY!!!
Fall is a-comin'.
Yessir, ladies and gents, Fall is on her way, and I am STOKED!!! Of course I'm fully aware that it's supposed to be 85 today, tomorrow, and Labor Day, but hey - I can't help knowing what I know. They've started planting the fall foilage that spruce up the company fronts: tall wheat with greeny-gold stalks and their little toe-heads, low shrubs, and a few hardy pansies in deep violet and maroon. The rabbits aren't babies anymore, but they still love to host mock-fights on the soft grass under the pines, then sleepily curl up and nibble grass while dozing off in the sun. Too. Freakin. Cute.
Colorado is gorgeous right now. Fall especially loves this state, and my arms are open and waiting.
Come on, Fall. You're my LADY!!!
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Purple Ping Pong Balls
“So, can I tell you a story?”
My friend Mary blinks at me, her brisket burger paused in mid-flight. The breeze blows in the front door of the bbq pit as if on cue, causing the décor of hung license plates to dance and ding metallically against the walls. An eerie silence falls over the restaurant and I surreptitiously check for lone tumbleweed. Even though there are only a few other patrons present, I look around to see if maybe someone else has heard my question and has fallen silent, hoping to hear the story. Nope.
“Um, sure,” Mary replies. Then she smiles. I am not in the habit of asking to tell stories. Write stories, absolutely. Tell them, not so much (I’m very cautious in the way I tell stories; my mother and grandmother are infamous for taking 20 minutes to tell a 5 minute interlude. I have great genetic fears of taking on this trait as I age.).
“Okay, well, this story is about purple ping pong balls. Once upon a time - ” Mary’s snort cuts me off mid-sentence and I see her shoulders start to shake a little with laughter. She’s laughing around a mouthful of brisket but motions with her right hand for me to continue. While I hope she doesn’t choke, I really want to take this moment to advise her to get her laughs in now. I swallow the urge. “Right, there’s this little boy and it’s Christmastime, and his parents are trying to come up with ideas on what to get him. And all he says he wants is a purple ping-pong ball. OH! and he’s two, two-and-a-half, don’t know if I mentioned that before…”
I’m on an unsteady roll, so I hastily clamber over the boy’s 6th birthday, Christmas, and thirteenth birthday before I remember that I forgot to throw in the therapy session.
“Now, as little Johnny’s thirteenth birthday approaches – wait, I guess it already passed, nevermind – but remember? Remember how he expressed his desire for yet more purple ping-pong balls? Well, that was when his parents decided that they’d been worried long enough and decided to send him to therapy…”
“Hold up: the boy is thirteen and the parents are just now sending their kid to the shrink?” Mary’s laughter is loud and (sadly) merited, but inside I’m beating myself over the head. Details, woman! See the importance of chronology??? Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. “Oh wait,” she says breathlessly, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “This is a joke, right?”
In my mind my eyes roll backward with enough force to knock me over, but in reality I smile tightly and will myself to continue. “Johnny goes to the therapist, sits down, and looks him in the eye. Does he know why his parents sent him here?…,” blah blah blah, five minutes later swing around to this, “… and before he knows it, his graduation rolls around. What do you suppose he wants?”
“Purple ping-pong balls.” Mary’s monotone response is muffled by the sound of the trash she’s collecting in the middle of her tray.
“Exactly! But his parents get him a car!” Hopeful pause. “Filled to the brim with purple ping-pong balls!”
This time it’s Mary’s smile that’s a little tight. Hurry up, that smile says. It takes everything I have not to apologize right here and now for this tired story, but instead I speed up, leaning in towards her, letting my hands describe the fateful drive to the restaurant, the crash, the ping-pong balls exploding in an arc across the freeway, the way the father trips on them as he runs across the road to his son. Now Mary is dipping in towards me, silently sipping her drink through her straw, eyes wide with wonder if not a little fear.
“The father kneels beside his son and sees that Johnny isn’t doing well. In fact, it’s Johnny’s last moments on earth and they both know it. He takes his son’s hand in his own and feels the tears well up in his eyes. ‘I love you, Johnny. You’ve been the best son your mother and I could ever hope for.’ Johnny’s eyes fill up, too, before letting his head fall to the side. ‘Johnny!’ his father cries, scooping him up against his chest. ‘Don’t leave! At least, don’t leave before answering me this!’ Leaning in, the father whispers in his son’s ear, ‘Why…purple…ping-pong…balls?’ Johnny smiles faintly, then succumbs to death.” I sit back with great finality and a there-you-have-it gesture.
Mary is silent as she studies the last bite of her sandwich then pops it in her mouth. I wait. Nada. “Dude, that’s it.” More silence. “I wish there was a better punchline,” I add lamely.
Mary raises her eyebrows and looks at me. I shrug. The story hangs blankly in the air between us. Suddenly she explodes into laughter and says, between gasps, “I thought this was a joke your Dad told you!”
And at this point I have to laugh with her, because, really, when it comes to Norwegian humor, you either have to hail from North Dakota or have a translator handy. Bless her heart for bravely sticking out a potential joke from the Old Country. Thank god for good friends – and good listeners.
* * * * * * *
If there is anything I’ve learned from sharing this particular story, it is this: MAKE YOUR ENDING MEANINGFUL. I found that when I went to share this piece, I freaked myself out a little bit because there was no solid ending. No explanation. That drives me crazy! And to transfer that feeling of craziness on to a listener, a close friend?! Made me sweat a bit, I’ll admit it. Perhaps this exercise made it clear to me that as a writer, I need to make sure my endings are tied up. Make sure my story has some pomp and support from start to finish. I can be a lot prouder of reading a story that I feel 100% confident about in regards to the intent and conclusion of the piece.
My friend Mary blinks at me, her brisket burger paused in mid-flight. The breeze blows in the front door of the bbq pit as if on cue, causing the décor of hung license plates to dance and ding metallically against the walls. An eerie silence falls over the restaurant and I surreptitiously check for lone tumbleweed. Even though there are only a few other patrons present, I look around to see if maybe someone else has heard my question and has fallen silent, hoping to hear the story. Nope.
“Um, sure,” Mary replies. Then she smiles. I am not in the habit of asking to tell stories. Write stories, absolutely. Tell them, not so much (I’m very cautious in the way I tell stories; my mother and grandmother are infamous for taking 20 minutes to tell a 5 minute interlude. I have great genetic fears of taking on this trait as I age.).
“Okay, well, this story is about purple ping pong balls. Once upon a time - ” Mary’s snort cuts me off mid-sentence and I see her shoulders start to shake a little with laughter. She’s laughing around a mouthful of brisket but motions with her right hand for me to continue. While I hope she doesn’t choke, I really want to take this moment to advise her to get her laughs in now. I swallow the urge. “Right, there’s this little boy and it’s Christmastime, and his parents are trying to come up with ideas on what to get him. And all he says he wants is a purple ping-pong ball. OH! and he’s two, two-and-a-half, don’t know if I mentioned that before…”
I’m on an unsteady roll, so I hastily clamber over the boy’s 6th birthday, Christmas, and thirteenth birthday before I remember that I forgot to throw in the therapy session.
“Now, as little Johnny’s thirteenth birthday approaches – wait, I guess it already passed, nevermind – but remember? Remember how he expressed his desire for yet more purple ping-pong balls? Well, that was when his parents decided that they’d been worried long enough and decided to send him to therapy…”
“Hold up: the boy is thirteen and the parents are just now sending their kid to the shrink?” Mary’s laughter is loud and (sadly) merited, but inside I’m beating myself over the head. Details, woman! See the importance of chronology??? Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. “Oh wait,” she says breathlessly, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “This is a joke, right?”
In my mind my eyes roll backward with enough force to knock me over, but in reality I smile tightly and will myself to continue. “Johnny goes to the therapist, sits down, and looks him in the eye. Does he know why his parents sent him here?…,” blah blah blah, five minutes later swing around to this, “… and before he knows it, his graduation rolls around. What do you suppose he wants?”
“Purple ping-pong balls.” Mary’s monotone response is muffled by the sound of the trash she’s collecting in the middle of her tray.
“Exactly! But his parents get him a car!” Hopeful pause. “Filled to the brim with purple ping-pong balls!”
This time it’s Mary’s smile that’s a little tight. Hurry up, that smile says. It takes everything I have not to apologize right here and now for this tired story, but instead I speed up, leaning in towards her, letting my hands describe the fateful drive to the restaurant, the crash, the ping-pong balls exploding in an arc across the freeway, the way the father trips on them as he runs across the road to his son. Now Mary is dipping in towards me, silently sipping her drink through her straw, eyes wide with wonder if not a little fear.
“The father kneels beside his son and sees that Johnny isn’t doing well. In fact, it’s Johnny’s last moments on earth and they both know it. He takes his son’s hand in his own and feels the tears well up in his eyes. ‘I love you, Johnny. You’ve been the best son your mother and I could ever hope for.’ Johnny’s eyes fill up, too, before letting his head fall to the side. ‘Johnny!’ his father cries, scooping him up against his chest. ‘Don’t leave! At least, don’t leave before answering me this!’ Leaning in, the father whispers in his son’s ear, ‘Why…purple…ping-pong…balls?’ Johnny smiles faintly, then succumbs to death.” I sit back with great finality and a there-you-have-it gesture.
Mary is silent as she studies the last bite of her sandwich then pops it in her mouth. I wait. Nada. “Dude, that’s it.” More silence. “I wish there was a better punchline,” I add lamely.
Mary raises her eyebrows and looks at me. I shrug. The story hangs blankly in the air between us. Suddenly she explodes into laughter and says, between gasps, “I thought this was a joke your Dad told you!”
And at this point I have to laugh with her, because, really, when it comes to Norwegian humor, you either have to hail from North Dakota or have a translator handy. Bless her heart for bravely sticking out a potential joke from the Old Country. Thank god for good friends – and good listeners.
* * * * * * *
If there is anything I’ve learned from sharing this particular story, it is this: MAKE YOUR ENDING MEANINGFUL. I found that when I went to share this piece, I freaked myself out a little bit because there was no solid ending. No explanation. That drives me crazy! And to transfer that feeling of craziness on to a listener, a close friend?! Made me sweat a bit, I’ll admit it. Perhaps this exercise made it clear to me that as a writer, I need to make sure my endings are tied up. Make sure my story has some pomp and support from start to finish. I can be a lot prouder of reading a story that I feel 100% confident about in regards to the intent and conclusion of the piece.
Friday, May 30, 2008
How are authors "stuck between floors"?
Writing is a lot like being on the floor of a pool and looking up: you can see the real world above, but it’s beautifully distorted. Below the water’s rippled surface life is slow, magnified, willing to allow additional movement to create a complex still-life shot. As author, below the surface you have permission to create your own concept of time, transforming the monotonous to miraculous.
It’s easy for a writer to get stuck between her real life and the lives of those she creates. Because one is an extension of the other, it is impossible not to be touched by an aspect of something, someone you’ve personally created; likewise, your characters have been bestowed with unlimited knowledge of your own life experiences. How many times have you written your neurosis and tics into a character? At a basic level we are parrots, mimicking the environment around us. Because words become engrained in the psyche, I feel it most natural to have literary heroes and villains through which we model certain aspects of ourselves after. From an author’s standpoint, because I so readily and often feed from my character’s truths, I find myself eerily comfortable residing in the “between floors”. However, I think you’ll find that most authors have a perfect chair sitting in that subtle space: it’s well-worn, there’s a warm pipe on the side table, and A Little Night Music blossoms in the jasmine-studded air.
It’s easy for a writer to get stuck between her real life and the lives of those she creates. Because one is an extension of the other, it is impossible not to be touched by an aspect of something, someone you’ve personally created; likewise, your characters have been bestowed with unlimited knowledge of your own life experiences. How many times have you written your neurosis and tics into a character? At a basic level we are parrots, mimicking the environment around us. Because words become engrained in the psyche, I feel it most natural to have literary heroes and villains through which we model certain aspects of ourselves after. From an author’s standpoint, because I so readily and often feed from my character’s truths, I find myself eerily comfortable residing in the “between floors”. However, I think you’ll find that most authors have a perfect chair sitting in that subtle space: it’s well-worn, there’s a warm pipe on the side table, and A Little Night Music blossoms in the jasmine-studded air.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Introduction of Self as a Writer
A few months ago I had the thought, “I can write the next Great American Short Story.” And it felt so natural, like anything I wanted the world would serve up on a palm frond in Tahiti. Pina Coladas. Good Rum. The way life should fall into place…. Paradise. Why not? I work hard for the money, Donna. Do I not believe my human soul is destined to shine bright and loud because I know I see the world differently? I can bring that. I have no doubt that what I see, no one else does. We each have the capacity to capture our own experiences of existence, but…I’m different. You’ve got to believe me – I really am.
I Love Life.
I am achingly in love with every molecule, every whisper, every 4:30 pm Autumn sunset, every conversation with my mother (and conversations with my mother consist of raising the yellow flag 15 minutes in advance to signal my impending exit because that’s just how long it’s going to take her to get off the phone.) I love it all so much that I will most certainly die if I don’t put pen to paper and share these quirky explosions of the ordinary with the rest of the world. My love affair with writing is a lifelong one, and even if no one ever makes a freakin’ peep in regards to what I have to say - Who. Cares?
Well, okay, I do - I’m a writer. I may not be the world’s most audible person, but in my head you cannot shut me up. You cannot put your hand over my pen and tell me no. My mind is a constant flood of observations and single-sentence song lyrics. Plots and theories and adjectives and women. Men. Folded into the mix are lusty sex scenes and an ever-present sound-track (right now? The Indiana Jones theme song. Yes, yes, John Williams, of course, brilliant stuff, but why today? Why??) When I ask myself why I write, I get all giddy in that space that houses my heart and lungs. Bliss to the nth power. What else feels as sexy as a really fine pen dragging deliciously against the faint scratchiness of good paper? The physical act of writing feels so damn good, so damn right. I adore the way my mind enunciates the longer words and phrases, measuring the syllabic weight of each like the most intoxicatingly exquisite mouthful of dark chocolate I’ve ever held fast against my tongue.
Writing is placing the empty Styrofoam cup under the faucet and filling it to the brim with inflections and syntax, the resulting marriage of words and space flipping on its back and transforming into this, this pen-to-paper love affair. Words are liquid gold; they fill my mouth and spill down my chin and try as I might I will never catch everything, but if I’m passionate – and I AM PASSIONATE – I will catch the good stuff. The really good stuff comes later when least expected: the writing equivalent of finding – on the poorest of poor days - $20 bucks in your jacket pocket. It’s that kind of good. The good that feels lucky, gives the hope that maybe, just maybe, hell – YES! the Universe looks out for ME, goddammit! These types of epiphanies usually sustain me for a week or so, then it’s back to movin’ and shakin’ and bringin’ Life’s everything up to the surface to pluck from.
But essentially writing is what it is, and, like writing, the songs, the thoughts – solid gold. *tink tink* Why? I don’t know. I just know.
I Love Life.
I am achingly in love with every molecule, every whisper, every 4:30 pm Autumn sunset, every conversation with my mother (and conversations with my mother consist of raising the yellow flag 15 minutes in advance to signal my impending exit because that’s just how long it’s going to take her to get off the phone.) I love it all so much that I will most certainly die if I don’t put pen to paper and share these quirky explosions of the ordinary with the rest of the world. My love affair with writing is a lifelong one, and even if no one ever makes a freakin’ peep in regards to what I have to say - Who. Cares?
Well, okay, I do - I’m a writer. I may not be the world’s most audible person, but in my head you cannot shut me up. You cannot put your hand over my pen and tell me no. My mind is a constant flood of observations and single-sentence song lyrics. Plots and theories and adjectives and women. Men. Folded into the mix are lusty sex scenes and an ever-present sound-track (right now? The Indiana Jones theme song. Yes, yes, John Williams, of course, brilliant stuff, but why today? Why??) When I ask myself why I write, I get all giddy in that space that houses my heart and lungs. Bliss to the nth power. What else feels as sexy as a really fine pen dragging deliciously against the faint scratchiness of good paper? The physical act of writing feels so damn good, so damn right. I adore the way my mind enunciates the longer words and phrases, measuring the syllabic weight of each like the most intoxicatingly exquisite mouthful of dark chocolate I’ve ever held fast against my tongue.
Writing is placing the empty Styrofoam cup under the faucet and filling it to the brim with inflections and syntax, the resulting marriage of words and space flipping on its back and transforming into this, this pen-to-paper love affair. Words are liquid gold; they fill my mouth and spill down my chin and try as I might I will never catch everything, but if I’m passionate – and I AM PASSIONATE – I will catch the good stuff. The really good stuff comes later when least expected: the writing equivalent of finding – on the poorest of poor days - $20 bucks in your jacket pocket. It’s that kind of good. The good that feels lucky, gives the hope that maybe, just maybe, hell – YES! the Universe looks out for ME, goddammit! These types of epiphanies usually sustain me for a week or so, then it’s back to movin’ and shakin’ and bringin’ Life’s everything up to the surface to pluck from.
But essentially writing is what it is, and, like writing, the songs, the thoughts – solid gold. *tink tink* Why? I don’t know. I just know.
Starting, Part 2
I'm taking a Writing Fiction class this summer so I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to post my projects. =) Just because...I feel like it. lol
But seriously, I think it will be important for me to post my work. Personal validation is a fabulous thing. Thanks for listening!
But seriously, I think it will be important for me to post my work. Personal validation is a fabulous thing. Thanks for listening!
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Turn out the lights, turn up the awareness
On Saturday, March 29, 2008, Earth Hour invites people around the world to turn off their lights for one hour – from 8:00pm to 9:00pm in their local time zone. On this day, cities around the world, including Copenhagen, Chicago, Melbourne, Dubai, and Tel Aviv, will hold events to acknowledge their commitment to energy conservation.
A big thank-you to Google for lowering their lights and raising some awareness. *hug*
A big thank-you to Google for lowering their lights and raising some awareness. *hug*
Friday, March 28, 2008
Sheepish admittance
oh, 
, you are so cruel. . . .
no denver dates for your 2008 summer tour???? COME! ON! you're killing me, smalls.
i swear, if it weren't for your sexy eyebrow-arching skills, i would probably end this ne'er-waning 24-year crush. you are well aware, i'm sure, of my life-long dilligence in honing my listening skills for maximum enjoyment of your music. i was 5 when i first heard "faith"; "faith" is the second song i remember listening to on the radio (the first was phil collins "one more night", the first radio song my dad taught my brother and i three-part harmony on: "please give me one more night, give me one more night, ooo ooo ooooooooo"... yes, yes, we get it, one more night, just one more night, one more - PHIL!) and ohhhhh how "faith" moved my little soul, moved it right up into my right hand which washed the dishes to save the money that bought the cassette that george made. and the rest, peeps, is history.
so wtf, g? denvah-lovin' ain't good enough for your british bum? pffhhh*
*akin to the sound "pshaw" without the -aw, made complete with accompanying wrinkled forehead, slight eye-roll, waist-high talk-to-the-hand gesture, and derisive grunt to finish off the number
, you are so cruel. . . .no denver dates for your 2008 summer tour???? COME! ON! you're killing me, smalls.
i swear, if it weren't for your sexy eyebrow-arching skills, i would probably end this ne'er-waning 24-year crush. you are well aware, i'm sure, of my life-long dilligence in honing my listening skills for maximum enjoyment of your music. i was 5 when i first heard "faith"; "faith" is the second song i remember listening to on the radio (the first was phil collins "one more night", the first radio song my dad taught my brother and i three-part harmony on: "please give me one more night, give me one more night, ooo ooo ooooooooo"... yes, yes, we get it, one more night, just one more night, one more - PHIL!) and ohhhhh how "faith" moved my little soul, moved it right up into my right hand which washed the dishes to save the money that bought the cassette that george made. and the rest, peeps, is history.
so wtf, g? denvah-lovin' ain't good enough for your british bum? pffhhh*
*akin to the sound "pshaw" without the -aw, made complete with accompanying wrinkled forehead, slight eye-roll, waist-high talk-to-the-hand gesture, and derisive grunt to finish off the number
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Seeing Red
If I can just get one more thing off my chest today, it's that I *adore* my allergies. My itchy eyes, my runny nose, my 2-11 sneezes in a row...man, is my heart ever full of gratitude. The best part? My right eye channels a furious red demon the rest of the day. Just the right one. I used to think that my eyeballs were a tight pair, totally there for each other. Not so. Thanks little babes, for making me look so fiiiiine to the general public: "No, ma'am, I do not have pink eye -this guy's just a little fiesty today." Amen.
Runner on first....
Coffee goes fast in this place. I've found that on these especially grayish -brooding early spring days, I have to lace up my racing shoes to score a single cup. But the dude manning the coffee-maker this morning promised a strong batch, so I am REA-DY. Timer is set for 7 minutes, let's go.
(did I say racing shoes? because I really meant racing flip-flops, but I'm a totally fast walker, so no worries, peeps.)
(did I say racing shoes? because I really meant racing flip-flops, but I'm a totally fast walker, so no worries, peeps.)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Standing at the edge...
...looking down, looking out at
the great abyss
throwing a slight silver line
out
over
lightly landing
here. Right on
My heart.
Welcome.
the great abyss
throwing a slight silver line
out
over
lightly landing
here. Right on
My heart.
Welcome.
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