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Lessons I Learned in 5410
Have a great summer!
Final Assignment
15 years ago
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Belated Post for 4-27
Continuation of Kill the Dog
Two weeks later
Carlinda marked in her notebook as she saw the man leave from her kitchen window. As the day before, and the ones before that, the man left about 3 pm for a beer run. How he had money for that, she had no idea, since he didn’t seem to work. She closed her notebook and went down to switch loads in her laundry. She knew she had at least 23 minutes until he returned carrying a case of Icehouse beer.
7:30 pm
Jessup let his beast out for the evening. Carlinda had looked up his name on the property tax web site. It fit, she thought. She twitched aside the curtain just enough to see the white menace of a dog bounding up and down his tiny strip of a yard. She took her pencil and marked in her notebook the time. She shook her head in a moment of humor: This guy was so punctual he was wasting his talents being a neighborhood nuisance. He ought to consider the career of courier instead. She closed the notebook and started to pull off her clothes to go to bed. Since she wasn’t getting quality sleep she had started focusing on quantity. She methodically pulled on her pajamas, twisted her earplugs into tiny tubes and slid them into her ears, pulled the shades, turned on her box fan and hunkered down for the night ahead. She relaxed slightly at the silence, then a little more. She began to drift peacefully into sleep, smiling softly at the dreams that teased into her still awake mind. Hoooooowwwwwwlllllllll. Carlinda leapt under her covers, then began to weep at the misery of it all. “One more night …. One more night … One more night,” she chanted again and again, her fingers jammed into her ears. One more night.
***
The next day, Carlinda dressed with a lightness she had not felt in a month. She chose her silly striped socks and her favorite pink fuzzy sweater. She looked at the clock on her phone; it was 11:20 am. She had three hours to kill before her plan commenced. She grinned to herself and thought, “Ha. Kill. Hilarious.”
As 3 pm approached, Carlinda began preparing Lucky’s treat. She wished that she could just rent a gun and blow his brains out (“Can you do that?” she wondered. “Rent a gun?”), but the NAME required more finesse. She had to make it clear that Lucky’s death had nothing to do with her, or she feared his rage and violence. She smiled as she pressed the small bits of ketamine into the rich, marbled red meat. Her finger pushed in. Then again. “Not enough to knock out the dog,” she said aloud. “Just enough to make him loopy.”
Jessup left for his beer run and Carlinda wasted no time in letting herself out the side door, walking through the back gate and through the alley to his yard. Lucky set off with a riot of barks, and Carlinda hurried before the neighbors on the other side were alerted by his barking. She reached the fence, and Lucky leapt and spun on the other side, growling, barking and (Carlinda imagined) foaming at the mouth. She wasted no time in casting the juicy beef over the fence, then turning and running as fast as she could. Just 30 minutes and the first part of her plan would be underway.
Carlinda burst through her door and fell back against it hyperventilating. She had a moment of terror wondering if anyone had seen her. After a minute of shallow breathing she calmed herself down and grabbed hold of her fear. “I will not,” she said, “I will not let my fear control me. It is time to prepare for phase two.”
At about 7 pm, Carlinda dressed in a lovely pink linen dress and white open-toed heels, combed her hair into a sleek bob with a headband and added pearls to her ear. She looked like what she thought a 1950s housewife should look like. She gathered up her courage and a special blueberry pie she had baked the night before and walked out of her house. She walked out of her front door, pasted a smile on her face, and chanted “June Cleaver” in her mind. She walked right up to Jessup’s house, rang the doorbell and waited. After a few moments and an eerie lack of barks, the door thrust open.
“Whaddaya want?” Jessup slurred. The Icehouse was already taking effect and he looked even sloppier and nastier than usual.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Jessup. We seem to have gotten off on a really bad note. I care about my community and my neighbors and it is important to me that we get along. To let you know how bad I feel about our last encounter, I baked a blueberry pie. I hope you will accept it with my deepest apologies,” Carlinda finished smoothly. Jessup stared, finally at a loss for words.
“You brought me a pie, sweetheart?” he asked. His lip curled in a sneer. She couldn’t even tell if he was mocking her or if his stupid face was just stuck that way. He looked her straight in the eye as he reached down and scooped two fingers in through the top of the pie, bringing a dripping piece of crust up to his chapped, puffy lips. Carlinda had to hold herself steady so that she didn’t recoil at the sight.
“That’s pretty tasty. So you wanna be friends, huh?” he asked, taking another large scoop.
“I want to have a positive relationship as neighbors,” she replied, stilling herself inside lest she let him see her quivering in anticipation with each bite he took.
“Good. Cause when you ain’t being a cunt, I like the way you loo…..” His words trailed off as he slid down into a boneless puddle in the middle of his doorway. The saccharine smile left her face as she dropped the housewife pretense and became Carline, woman in charge. She stepped over the blueberry mess and his sloppy body. She dragged his prone form into the house and shut the door. She heaved him over to the couch, and unable to lift him, she left him propped up against it. Then pulled over a kitchen chair and straddled it. Almost an afterthought, she reached down to grab the .38 she had strapped to her inner thigh. She settled in, waiting for him to wake up.
As she sat still, she finally noticed the white dog in the corner of the room. Lucky looked a little out of it. Lying prone on his pillow, he lifted his head to show her a slightly snarling lip. She wasn’t fazed. If he hadn’t eaten her already, she figured she was safe. She had about 45 minutes before either threat woke up fully. She had a moment to let her muscles relax before Phase III.
To be continued....
Two weeks later
Carlinda marked in her notebook as she saw the man leave from her kitchen window. As the day before, and the ones before that, the man left about 3 pm for a beer run. How he had money for that, she had no idea, since he didn’t seem to work. She closed her notebook and went down to switch loads in her laundry. She knew she had at least 23 minutes until he returned carrying a case of Icehouse beer.
7:30 pm
Jessup let his beast out for the evening. Carlinda had looked up his name on the property tax web site. It fit, she thought. She twitched aside the curtain just enough to see the white menace of a dog bounding up and down his tiny strip of a yard. She took her pencil and marked in her notebook the time. She shook her head in a moment of humor: This guy was so punctual he was wasting his talents being a neighborhood nuisance. He ought to consider the career of courier instead. She closed the notebook and started to pull off her clothes to go to bed. Since she wasn’t getting quality sleep she had started focusing on quantity. She methodically pulled on her pajamas, twisted her earplugs into tiny tubes and slid them into her ears, pulled the shades, turned on her box fan and hunkered down for the night ahead. She relaxed slightly at the silence, then a little more. She began to drift peacefully into sleep, smiling softly at the dreams that teased into her still awake mind. Hoooooowwwwwwlllllllll. Carlinda leapt under her covers, then began to weep at the misery of it all. “One more night …. One more night … One more night,” she chanted again and again, her fingers jammed into her ears. One more night.
The next day, Carlinda dressed with a lightness she had not felt in a month. She chose her silly striped socks and her favorite pink fuzzy sweater. She looked at the clock on her phone; it was 11:20 am. She had three hours to kill before her plan commenced. She grinned to herself and thought, “Ha. Kill. Hilarious.”
As 3 pm approached, Carlinda began preparing Lucky’s treat. She wished that she could just rent a gun and blow his brains out (“Can you do that?” she wondered. “Rent a gun?”), but the NAME required more finesse. She had to make it clear that Lucky’s death had nothing to do with her, or she feared his rage and violence. She smiled as she pressed the small bits of ketamine into the rich, marbled red meat. Her finger pushed in. Then again. “Not enough to knock out the dog,” she said aloud. “Just enough to make him loopy.”
Jessup left for his beer run and Carlinda wasted no time in letting herself out the side door, walking through the back gate and through the alley to his yard. Lucky set off with a riot of barks, and Carlinda hurried before the neighbors on the other side were alerted by his barking. She reached the fence, and Lucky leapt and spun on the other side, growling, barking and (Carlinda imagined) foaming at the mouth. She wasted no time in casting the juicy beef over the fence, then turning and running as fast as she could. Just 30 minutes and the first part of her plan would be underway.
Carlinda burst through her door and fell back against it hyperventilating. She had a moment of terror wondering if anyone had seen her. After a minute of shallow breathing she calmed herself down and grabbed hold of her fear. “I will not,” she said, “I will not let my fear control me. It is time to prepare for phase two.”
At about 7 pm, Carlinda dressed in a lovely pink linen dress and white open-toed heels, combed her hair into a sleek bob with a headband and added pearls to her ear. She looked like what she thought a 1950s housewife should look like. She gathered up her courage and a special blueberry pie she had baked the night before and walked out of her house. She walked out of her front door, pasted a smile on her face, and chanted “June Cleaver” in her mind. She walked right up to Jessup’s house, rang the doorbell and waited. After a few moments and an eerie lack of barks, the door thrust open.
“Whaddaya want?” Jessup slurred. The Icehouse was already taking effect and he looked even sloppier and nastier than usual.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Jessup. We seem to have gotten off on a really bad note. I care about my community and my neighbors and it is important to me that we get along. To let you know how bad I feel about our last encounter, I baked a blueberry pie. I hope you will accept it with my deepest apologies,” Carlinda finished smoothly. Jessup stared, finally at a loss for words.
“You brought me a pie, sweetheart?” he asked. His lip curled in a sneer. She couldn’t even tell if he was mocking her or if his stupid face was just stuck that way. He looked her straight in the eye as he reached down and scooped two fingers in through the top of the pie, bringing a dripping piece of crust up to his chapped, puffy lips. Carlinda had to hold herself steady so that she didn’t recoil at the sight.
“That’s pretty tasty. So you wanna be friends, huh?” he asked, taking another large scoop.
“I want to have a positive relationship as neighbors,” she replied, stilling herself inside lest she let him see her quivering in anticipation with each bite he took.
“Good. Cause when you ain’t being a cunt, I like the way you loo…..” His words trailed off as he slid down into a boneless puddle in the middle of his doorway. The saccharine smile left her face as she dropped the housewife pretense and became Carline, woman in charge. She stepped over the blueberry mess and his sloppy body. She dragged his prone form into the house and shut the door. She heaved him over to the couch, and unable to lift him, she left him propped up against it. Then pulled over a kitchen chair and straddled it. Almost an afterthought, she reached down to grab the .38 she had strapped to her inner thigh. She settled in, waiting for him to wake up.
As she sat still, she finally noticed the white dog in the corner of the room. Lucky looked a little out of it. Lying prone on his pillow, he lifted his head to show her a slightly snarling lip. She wasn’t fazed. If he hadn’t eaten her already, she figured she was safe. She had about 45 minutes before either threat woke up fully. She had a moment to let her muscles relax before Phase III.
To be continued....
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Exercises for 4.20.10
Exercise 55: Bringing Abstract Ideas to Life
Racism: Locking your doors as black men walk by the car.
Injustice: Collecting the insurance money from a dead spouse … whom you killed.
Ambition: Stomping down a high heel and sneakily throwing an elbow to make sure that bouquet (and its promise of imminent marriage) is yours.
Growing old: Searching through the obituaries each morning for friends.
Salvation:
Poverty: Sewing the holes in cheap socks.
Growing up: Packing away 10 years worth of Santa Bears.
Sexual deceit: resisting his attempts to spread your legs, while bashfully lying that you have only been with two other men.
Wealth: Buying a new expensive outfit each morning instead of doing laundry.
Evil: Cleaning the toilet with a hated roommate’s toothbrush.
Exercise 57: Naming the Diner, Naming the Diet, Naming the Dog
Desert town: Ghubar, Dam Lake
Race horse: Her Majesty’s Hope, Don’t Mention Hamlet
Literary magazine: Penultimate; Drafts
New disease: Hammerstein Syndrome, Texitis
Rock band: Curious Whores, Reaganomics
Summer cottage: Tradesmore Run, Badger Cove
Triplets: Easton, Weston, Nord; Elizabeth, Susan, Jane (all suffragists)
Liqueur: McGrand’s; Licka Lemon
Beauty Salon: Do It Hair; Chavonne’s Beauty Palace
New diet: The Raw Cleanse; The Muffin Top Buster Muffin Diet
Soap opera: Directions; As the Chest Heaves
Football Team: Conquistadors; Sparrows
Diner: The Lonely Stool; The Hairy Nipple
New religion: Secular Logism; Palinism
New planet: Alora; Unattainable
Polluted river: The Anishinabe; Three(headed) Fish River
Poetry collection: Voices from Within; The Worthless Whinings of a Wanted Woman
Chihuahua: Beano, Sir Henry Nippington
Burglar: Ian MacArthur; Sergei Kozlov; Brett Harrington
Bar: Dick’s Bar; Prancer’s
Lipstick color: Southern Rose; Baboon in Heat
Yacht: Needful Thing; The C Word (stolen from Arrested Development, but must be mentioned)
Exercise 71: Kill the Dog
Carlinda awoke with a jolt. Heart racing, head pounding she looked around in wide-eyed panic, trying to figure out why she was awake. Her brain was taking too long to catch up to reality, and she felt confused. Suddenly from her barely open window she heard it: OOOOWWWWWWWOOOOOO.
Goddamnit. Lucky again. That’s it, she thought. That dog’s gotta go.
Three weeks earlier
She walked up the concrete steps with slightly shaking hands and a knot in her stomach. The day was utterly gorgeous. Off in the distance a lawn mower hummed and the smell of fresh grass reached Carlinda’s nose as the breeze touched her face. The top of her head was warm from the sunlight, and if it weren’t for what awaited her in this inconspicuous brown house, she would not be able to resist smiling. As it was, her mouth turned down with resolute grimness. She raised her hand and knocked on the door. A long pause later, it swung open.
“Um, Hi. Excuse me. I live two doors down … Actually, I just moved here last month. It’s a very nice place. Um, I just wanted to tell you. Uh wait, Uh, no. I just wanted to ask you…” She trailed off and her cheeks blushed as she stared at the man in the doorway. He was unshaven, bald and dirty. His giant gut hung over his slouching pants, barely contained by a stained white undershirt. He squinted at her, this stammering stranger who had invaded his life, and belched.
“What the fuck do you want?” Carlinda mustered her courage and started again.
“Actually it’s your dog,” she blurted out, steadying herself and her nerves on the wrought iron railing beside the door.
“Oh yeah, Lucky,” he grinned. He was missing more than a few teeth. “He’s pretty great, yeah?”
“Oh yes, of course,” she agreed automatically. Then steeling herself, she amended, “Actually, no. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. Lucky’s barking is keeping me up at night. I work very early in the morning.” Hearing his name, the giant white menace came ripping around the corner and started barreling toward her. She jumped back in fright, but he stopped right at his owner, who immediately dropped to his knees and started vigorously rubbing the dog and chattering to him in baby talk.
“Oh, who’s my good boy? Oh yes, you are my good boy. Yeah, you like to bark, don’t you. You are big strong boy who likes to bark, aren’t you. Yeah. This stupid bitch thinks you bark too much. No, not my Lucky. Maybe this dumb cunt should buy herself some earplugs. Or maybe she should go fuck herself, huh? Maybe, if the bitch thinks about it, she’ll realize that she should keep her fucking mouth shut or we’ll shut it for her. Yes, that’s my little guy. Who loves you? Daddy loves you.”
Carlinda began to back slowly away in horror at the grotesque man’s passive aggressive attack on her. He kept his focus on the dog for one beat more, then turned his head deliberately to look at her and an evil gleam shown in his eye. “We all done here, sweetheart?” he asked. Eyes wide, Carlinda managed a nod before turning and fleeing back to her front door, trying not to give the appearance of running and failing.
Present day
After weeks of being awoken nightly by Lucky, the hell hound, Carlinda was losing it. She was nervous, shaky, exhausted. Worse, she was terrified to do anything about it. A call to the city would obviously be attributed to her. She feared the filthy man. She had no idea what he might do, but his venom scared her anyway. Night after night she had lain awake, Lucky’s unwelcome serenade ringing in her mind. With earplugs and a fan she wasn’t even sure if he was actually barking anymore, or if his howls had moved inside her head.
It didn’t matter. Tonight she was sure she heard him. Tonight she began to plot.
***
Carlinda marked in her notebook as she saw the man leave from her kitchen window. As the day before, and the 12 before that, the man left about 3 pm for a beer run. How he had money for that, she had no idea, since he didn’t seem to work.
Racism: Locking your doors as black men walk by the car.
Injustice: Collecting the insurance money from a dead spouse … whom you killed.
Ambition: Stomping down a high heel and sneakily throwing an elbow to make sure that bouquet (and its promise of imminent marriage) is yours.
Growing old: Searching through the obituaries each morning for friends.
Salvation:
Poverty: Sewing the holes in cheap socks.
Growing up: Packing away 10 years worth of Santa Bears.
Sexual deceit: resisting his attempts to spread your legs, while bashfully lying that you have only been with two other men.
Wealth: Buying a new expensive outfit each morning instead of doing laundry.
Evil: Cleaning the toilet with a hated roommate’s toothbrush.
Exercise 57: Naming the Diner, Naming the Diet, Naming the Dog
Desert town: Ghubar, Dam Lake
Race horse: Her Majesty’s Hope, Don’t Mention Hamlet
Literary magazine: Penultimate; Drafts
New disease: Hammerstein Syndrome, Texitis
Rock band: Curious Whores, Reaganomics
Summer cottage: Tradesmore Run, Badger Cove
Triplets: Easton, Weston, Nord; Elizabeth, Susan, Jane (all suffragists)
Liqueur: McGrand’s; Licka Lemon
Beauty Salon: Do It Hair; Chavonne’s Beauty Palace
New diet: The Raw Cleanse; The Muffin Top Buster Muffin Diet
Soap opera: Directions; As the Chest Heaves
Football Team: Conquistadors; Sparrows
Diner: The Lonely Stool; The Hairy Nipple
New religion: Secular Logism; Palinism
New planet: Alora; Unattainable
Polluted river: The Anishinabe; Three(headed) Fish River
Poetry collection: Voices from Within; The Worthless Whinings of a Wanted Woman
Chihuahua: Beano, Sir Henry Nippington
Burglar: Ian MacArthur; Sergei Kozlov; Brett Harrington
Bar: Dick’s Bar; Prancer’s
Lipstick color: Southern Rose; Baboon in Heat
Yacht: Needful Thing; The C Word (stolen from Arrested Development, but must be mentioned)
Exercise 71: Kill the Dog
Carlinda awoke with a jolt. Heart racing, head pounding she looked around in wide-eyed panic, trying to figure out why she was awake. Her brain was taking too long to catch up to reality, and she felt confused. Suddenly from her barely open window she heard it: OOOOWWWWWWWOOOOOO.
Goddamnit. Lucky again. That’s it, she thought. That dog’s gotta go.
Three weeks earlier
She walked up the concrete steps with slightly shaking hands and a knot in her stomach. The day was utterly gorgeous. Off in the distance a lawn mower hummed and the smell of fresh grass reached Carlinda’s nose as the breeze touched her face. The top of her head was warm from the sunlight, and if it weren’t for what awaited her in this inconspicuous brown house, she would not be able to resist smiling. As it was, her mouth turned down with resolute grimness. She raised her hand and knocked on the door. A long pause later, it swung open.
“Um, Hi. Excuse me. I live two doors down … Actually, I just moved here last month. It’s a very nice place. Um, I just wanted to tell you. Uh wait, Uh, no. I just wanted to ask you…” She trailed off and her cheeks blushed as she stared at the man in the doorway. He was unshaven, bald and dirty. His giant gut hung over his slouching pants, barely contained by a stained white undershirt. He squinted at her, this stammering stranger who had invaded his life, and belched.
“What the fuck do you want?” Carlinda mustered her courage and started again.
“Actually it’s your dog,” she blurted out, steadying herself and her nerves on the wrought iron railing beside the door.
“Oh yeah, Lucky,” he grinned. He was missing more than a few teeth. “He’s pretty great, yeah?”
“Oh yes, of course,” she agreed automatically. Then steeling herself, she amended, “Actually, no. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. Lucky’s barking is keeping me up at night. I work very early in the morning.” Hearing his name, the giant white menace came ripping around the corner and started barreling toward her. She jumped back in fright, but he stopped right at his owner, who immediately dropped to his knees and started vigorously rubbing the dog and chattering to him in baby talk.
“Oh, who’s my good boy? Oh yes, you are my good boy. Yeah, you like to bark, don’t you. You are big strong boy who likes to bark, aren’t you. Yeah. This stupid bitch thinks you bark too much. No, not my Lucky. Maybe this dumb cunt should buy herself some earplugs. Or maybe she should go fuck herself, huh? Maybe, if the bitch thinks about it, she’ll realize that she should keep her fucking mouth shut or we’ll shut it for her. Yes, that’s my little guy. Who loves you? Daddy loves you.”
Carlinda began to back slowly away in horror at the grotesque man’s passive aggressive attack on her. He kept his focus on the dog for one beat more, then turned his head deliberately to look at her and an evil gleam shown in his eye. “We all done here, sweetheart?” he asked. Eyes wide, Carlinda managed a nod before turning and fleeing back to her front door, trying not to give the appearance of running and failing.
Present day
After weeks of being awoken nightly by Lucky, the hell hound, Carlinda was losing it. She was nervous, shaky, exhausted. Worse, she was terrified to do anything about it. A call to the city would obviously be attributed to her. She feared the filthy man. She had no idea what he might do, but his venom scared her anyway. Night after night she had lain awake, Lucky’s unwelcome serenade ringing in her mind. With earplugs and a fan she wasn’t even sure if he was actually barking anymore, or if his howls had moved inside her head.
It didn’t matter. Tonight she was sure she heard him. Tonight she began to plot.
Carlinda marked in her notebook as she saw the man leave from her kitchen window. As the day before, and the 12 before that, the man left about 3 pm for a beer run. How he had money for that, she had no idea, since he didn’t seem to work.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Exercises for 4.13.10 Part Two
Exercise 52: Practice Writing Good, Clean Prose
Ann did not know how she got this job. It is not that it was a dream come true, it was that it met a need she had—one she did not know she had.
Ann had to get out. This job let her do that. Each day, she left the house, her hair clean, her face done. Those days out of her house saved her. She could leave Tom and his crap there. At work, she was at peace. Sure, there were some times when she got yelled at, but it was not as bad as how Tom spoke to her. “You are dumb. You are fat. You are a dog.” Word cut her. At work, the worse she head was “This is late.”
That day, she left for work. She wore a thin, beige skirt, crisp white blouse and mules. As she crossed the street, a blue coupe made a stop in front of her. The door swung out, a man leaned out and said, “Get in if you want a new life.”
She did not even think. The car sped up, and her life changed.
Exercise 39: The Skeleton
“If I don’t get the money, I am screwed,” Vlad thought. He quickened his steps, looking nervously from left to right. The street was dark, and no one seemed to be around, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in danger. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand: 225 North 2nd Ave. He looked up and saw 221. The address should be just up ahead. Two more doors, now he was practically running. He saw the door and burst through it, hoping his journey was at an end.
He walked into a room bathed in yellow light. Brown vinyl chairs, their seats split open like a ripe peach, lined the walls. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper and several mysterious splotches hovered at head level. Two chairs were occupied by other men, one looking as nervous as Vlad felt, and the other nearly asleep and drooling. There was no receptionist and without any direction on what to do next, Vlad sat gingerly on the edge of a filthy chair.
Minutes passed like hours and just when Vlad thought he might scream in impatience and fear, the door on the far side of the room opened and a small woman with teeth like a ferret and a towering mass of grey hair gestured him in silently.
The room on the other side of the door was much like the waiting room, if a little bit cleaner. The ferret faced woman took a seat behind a large wooden desk, and the inappropriately light thought passed through Vlad’s mind that the was an odd substitute for the Godfather.
“What do you need?” the woman asked. Swallowing his discomfort, Vlad tried to answer just as directly.
“I need $12,000 dollars. I need it by 5 pm tomorrow.”
“What for do you need it?”
“I … I can’t say.”
“Then I will not make this easy. You know of me from a friend or from a rumor. You know that I do not lend money for free. Not even for simple interest.”
“Yes,” Vlad nodded. “I know there will be a price.”
“Not a price, so much as a favor,” she said, her voice dropping. “If I tell you what it is, you have already agreed to do it.” Vlad shifted in his seat and looked around at the dingy walls for an answer that wasn’t there. He felt a tremor pass through him.
“I accept. I need to see the money first,” he said, mustering up his courage.
Ferret-face smiled at his courage and he wondered how old she really was. He thought somewhere between 40 and ... death. She pulled a small stack of bills out of the desk drawer and placed it in fron of him. “Then it is settled. You will deliver a message for me this night.”
“That’s all?” He twitched with impatience to leave.
“Yes. That is all. The instructions are included. There is only one thing. Do not read the message.” She stood, and indicated the door. “You may leave.”
Ann did not know how she got this job. It is not that it was a dream come true, it was that it met a need she had—one she did not know she had.
Ann had to get out. This job let her do that. Each day, she left the house, her hair clean, her face done. Those days out of her house saved her. She could leave Tom and his crap there. At work, she was at peace. Sure, there were some times when she got yelled at, but it was not as bad as how Tom spoke to her. “You are dumb. You are fat. You are a dog.” Word cut her. At work, the worse she head was “This is late.”
That day, she left for work. She wore a thin, beige skirt, crisp white blouse and mules. As she crossed the street, a blue coupe made a stop in front of her. The door swung out, a man leaned out and said, “Get in if you want a new life.”
She did not even think. The car sped up, and her life changed.
Exercise 39: The Skeleton
“If I don’t get the money, I am screwed,” Vlad thought. He quickened his steps, looking nervously from left to right. The street was dark, and no one seemed to be around, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was in danger. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand: 225 North 2nd Ave. He looked up and saw 221. The address should be just up ahead. Two more doors, now he was practically running. He saw the door and burst through it, hoping his journey was at an end.
He walked into a room bathed in yellow light. Brown vinyl chairs, their seats split open like a ripe peach, lined the walls. The walls were covered in peeling wallpaper and several mysterious splotches hovered at head level. Two chairs were occupied by other men, one looking as nervous as Vlad felt, and the other nearly asleep and drooling. There was no receptionist and without any direction on what to do next, Vlad sat gingerly on the edge of a filthy chair.
Minutes passed like hours and just when Vlad thought he might scream in impatience and fear, the door on the far side of the room opened and a small woman with teeth like a ferret and a towering mass of grey hair gestured him in silently.
The room on the other side of the door was much like the waiting room, if a little bit cleaner. The ferret faced woman took a seat behind a large wooden desk, and the inappropriately light thought passed through Vlad’s mind that the was an odd substitute for the Godfather.
“What do you need?” the woman asked. Swallowing his discomfort, Vlad tried to answer just as directly.
“I need $12,000 dollars. I need it by 5 pm tomorrow.”
“What for do you need it?”
“I … I can’t say.”
“Then I will not make this easy. You know of me from a friend or from a rumor. You know that I do not lend money for free. Not even for simple interest.”
“Yes,” Vlad nodded. “I know there will be a price.”
“Not a price, so much as a favor,” she said, her voice dropping. “If I tell you what it is, you have already agreed to do it.” Vlad shifted in his seat and looked around at the dingy walls for an answer that wasn’t there. He felt a tremor pass through him.
“I accept. I need to see the money first,” he said, mustering up his courage.
Ferret-face smiled at his courage and he wondered how old she really was. He thought somewhere between 40 and ... death. She pulled a small stack of bills out of the desk drawer and placed it in fron of him. “Then it is settled. You will deliver a message for me this night.”
“That’s all?” He twitched with impatience to leave.
“Yes. That is all. The instructions are included. There is only one thing. Do not read the message.” She stood, and indicated the door. “You may leave.”
Exercises for 4.13.10 Part One
Exercise 40: From Situation to Plot
Policeman with 10 cats
What does my character want? Although he has reached the rank of detective, his greatest desire is to retire from the force and spend all his time entering his cats into show cat competitions. He is trying to make it to his 35 years of service so he can get his full pension, but he finds himself distracted by fluffy daydreams of grooming cats and winning ribbons.
What would my character do? John has always wanted to be a cat owner/shower. When his dad found him playing with his sister’s My Little Kitty dolls, however, he beat him harshly. John learned never to share this desire with anyone, and followed his father’s footsteps into the force. He wishes he had the courage to come out, to tell everyone how he feels about cats, but whenever he comes close, he freezes, remembering the beating his pop gave him. He lives in terror of someone on the force finding out he has so many cats. He never invites anyone over and rarely dates.
How will he act or react? He acts very secretive, leading a young recruit assigned to him to become suspicious, thinking John is on the take. In fact, it is another officer who is pocketing drug money, but as young Kevin begins to investigate John, he finds out about all the cats. He learns this one night when he is peeking in John’s window. However he might not wish to be one anymore, John still has cop instincts, and he sneaks out and behind Kevin and confronts him. Kevin stammers for a bit, then succumbs and admits to John why he is there. John sighs in relief, thinking Kevin didn’t notice the cats. As he is about to leave, Kevin asks why he has so many cats. John reacts in fear (internally) wondering if Kevin is going to blow his cover. He has to decide quickly if he should play it off like it is no big deal and he is cat sitting, if he should take Kevin into his confidence, or if he should tell him to mind his own business. He realizes the third option will just raise his curiosity, the second will earn his ridicule, and the first—while most likely to make him think it is not a big deal—does not guarantee that he won’t spread the word. He chooses option 1.
How do these actions propel the story forward? John exists on tenterhooks for the next week, but when Kevin doesn’t say anything to anyone after a couple of weeks, he starts to relax. In fact, by the time of the annual Christmas buffet at O’Dwyer’s Pub, he has all but forgotten the incident. Until one of the guys starts to tell a story of this house they raided last week that was crawling with cats, and Kevin pipes up, saying, “Oh yeah, kinda like your house, John.” The room falls silent, everyone turns to John in shock, then the room dissolves into laughter and finger pointing, finally devolving into ridicule and name calling, like “Pussy Lover” “Kitty Dick” “Meow Mix” “Pussy Boots” “Felix” “Whiskers” and “Fluffer”.
John just stands there, face growing redder by the second, and it is unclear whether he is dying of embarrassment, about to erupt into a volcano of rage, or having a heart attack.
Exercise 46: Plot Potential
Scenario: Three men standing around a scrawny tree in downtown Minneapolis.
1. The one in black leaned back against the tree that didn’t look as if it could support his weight. Under his breath he said sharply, “We are not doing this again. This is bullshit!” The man in brown turned slightly to look at him, then remembering himself he quickly reversed himself, looking straight ahead, and taking a deep breath while his hands worried the paper in his hands.
“But To— I mean, sorry, never mind, I forgot. You told us to contact you the next time we saw them change the code,” he said, his voice nearing a whine. The third man, the one in the white shirt spoke softly and calmly to reassure the other two men.
“We are going to follow the plan, and this will go better for all of us if we breathe through these negative emotions and calmly begin to plan exactly how we are going to steal 2.4 million dollars worth of diamonds from Goodhue Jewelry tomorrow. Now walk two blocks east of here, one block south, and stop at the brown door in the middle of the street. Enter quietly, and go to the third floor, room 309. I have arranged a place for us to plan this. Go in peace.”
2. The man in tight black pants, a shabby checkered jacket and white socks with shiny black dress shoes took one last drag on his cigarette and flung it out into the street. He ran his hand forcefully through his spikey, frazzled hair, which was already standing on end and shook his whole body like a dog. He looked at his watch, looked at the sky, then finally shot a small glance at the man standing near him. The recipient of the glance tightened his mouth in annoyance. His similarly-styled hair blew into his eyes and he shoved it out of his eyes, using the wind as an excuse to turn away. He tightened the ragged scarf he wore around his throat, and pushed at the sleeves of his secondhand velvet jacket. His pants had blown out knees and were tightly rolled to show off his own pair of white socks and black dress shoes. The third man of the group wore the same socks and shoes as if it was the rock-and-roll uniform they all had donned to play at the legendary First Avenue nightclub. This last man finally broke the silence, saying what they all were thinking.
“Where the fuck is Dunlap? How long are we going to wait for that asshole? We're on in 5!”
3. Alan, Jamal and Hank had not set out to make this night memorable. Actually, one was there because he was lonely, one was there because he was bored, and the third member of their little group was hoping to use tonight as a way to forget his recently ex-girlfriend, Veronica. The night auspiciously began at Old Chicago where drinks were cheap and all three men were not bored, lonely, or mired in troublesome memories. It was Jamal’s idea to go to Drink. Perhaps if they hadn’t gone there, or if they hadn’t started dancing right in front of those huge glass windows, Veronica’s ex/current boyfriend would not have seen them. Then they would not have waited outside for them to exit. And of course, then Alan, Jamal and Hank would not be standing here, moments away from kicking ass or getting their ass kicked by the four guys in front of them. Hank looked over at his opponents, gauging two to be skinner than him, one to be shorter, and one who could probably pound him to the ground with his pinkie. As he thought that, the large one moved toward him and Hank thought to himself, “Well, I hope my last time with Ronnie was worth this. I am about to get my ass handed to me.”
4. Monica slowed her car to a crawl as she approached the intersection. Up ahead, the street was peppered with women and a few men. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and her ankle twitched on the accelerator, jumping her car forward. She kept rolling forward until she saw what she was looking for.
The three men stood a couple of feet from each other. They were wearing nearly identical outfits consisting of tight little pants, shirts opened lower than was decent, and flat shoes. One of the men had his black hair slicked back and glitter adorned his high, feminine cheeks. The second one wore his hair in a shaggy style like something off the pages of a 1976 gossip magazine. The third one, who was most interesting to Monica, had piercing blue eyes with enviable eyelashes. His thick brown hair swept off his forehead in an old-time pompadour. At first, you didn’t notice the eyeliner and light color on his full lips. Monica took a deep breath as she realized her car was already stopped and he was walking over to her. She opened the passenger side window and looked at the man. He stared back and they were both silent for a moment. Then, at the same time, they began to speak.
“Are you work…?”
“Want some comp…?”
Monica blushed furiously and finally said, “Look, are you a cop?”
5. On a downtown street where passersby were frequent and police officers were not, three African men rolled out their rugs and began to hawk their products to the employed elite of Minneapolis. A woman in high heels and a sleek beige business suit paused on her way, uncharacteristically drawn by the sparkle of a Rollex. “Most likely a fake,” she thought, but found herself unable to look away from the shiny gold and diamond studded black face of the timepiece. The man, who she had barely noticed before, leaned toward her with a soft smile and asked her if she wanted to try it on. Her attention shifted for only a moment, but it was long enough to shock her to the tips of her toes. With an uncanny feeling that she had known him forever, she spoke in awe, “Hello. It’s you.”
His soft smile appeared again and he agreed, “Yes it is me. I am called Daniel.” He paused for a moment, unsure if he should say what he was about to say next. “I have been waiting for you, Jane.”
Policeman with 10 cats
What does my character want? Although he has reached the rank of detective, his greatest desire is to retire from the force and spend all his time entering his cats into show cat competitions. He is trying to make it to his 35 years of service so he can get his full pension, but he finds himself distracted by fluffy daydreams of grooming cats and winning ribbons.
What would my character do? John has always wanted to be a cat owner/shower. When his dad found him playing with his sister’s My Little Kitty dolls, however, he beat him harshly. John learned never to share this desire with anyone, and followed his father’s footsteps into the force. He wishes he had the courage to come out, to tell everyone how he feels about cats, but whenever he comes close, he freezes, remembering the beating his pop gave him. He lives in terror of someone on the force finding out he has so many cats. He never invites anyone over and rarely dates.
How will he act or react? He acts very secretive, leading a young recruit assigned to him to become suspicious, thinking John is on the take. In fact, it is another officer who is pocketing drug money, but as young Kevin begins to investigate John, he finds out about all the cats. He learns this one night when he is peeking in John’s window. However he might not wish to be one anymore, John still has cop instincts, and he sneaks out and behind Kevin and confronts him. Kevin stammers for a bit, then succumbs and admits to John why he is there. John sighs in relief, thinking Kevin didn’t notice the cats. As he is about to leave, Kevin asks why he has so many cats. John reacts in fear (internally) wondering if Kevin is going to blow his cover. He has to decide quickly if he should play it off like it is no big deal and he is cat sitting, if he should take Kevin into his confidence, or if he should tell him to mind his own business. He realizes the third option will just raise his curiosity, the second will earn his ridicule, and the first—while most likely to make him think it is not a big deal—does not guarantee that he won’t spread the word. He chooses option 1.
How do these actions propel the story forward? John exists on tenterhooks for the next week, but when Kevin doesn’t say anything to anyone after a couple of weeks, he starts to relax. In fact, by the time of the annual Christmas buffet at O’Dwyer’s Pub, he has all but forgotten the incident. Until one of the guys starts to tell a story of this house they raided last week that was crawling with cats, and Kevin pipes up, saying, “Oh yeah, kinda like your house, John.” The room falls silent, everyone turns to John in shock, then the room dissolves into laughter and finger pointing, finally devolving into ridicule and name calling, like “Pussy Lover” “Kitty Dick” “Meow Mix” “Pussy Boots” “Felix” “Whiskers” and “Fluffer”.
John just stands there, face growing redder by the second, and it is unclear whether he is dying of embarrassment, about to erupt into a volcano of rage, or having a heart attack.
Exercise 46: Plot Potential
Scenario: Three men standing around a scrawny tree in downtown Minneapolis.
1. The one in black leaned back against the tree that didn’t look as if it could support his weight. Under his breath he said sharply, “We are not doing this again. This is bullshit!” The man in brown turned slightly to look at him, then remembering himself he quickly reversed himself, looking straight ahead, and taking a deep breath while his hands worried the paper in his hands.
“But To— I mean, sorry, never mind, I forgot. You told us to contact you the next time we saw them change the code,” he said, his voice nearing a whine. The third man, the one in the white shirt spoke softly and calmly to reassure the other two men.
“We are going to follow the plan, and this will go better for all of us if we breathe through these negative emotions and calmly begin to plan exactly how we are going to steal 2.4 million dollars worth of diamonds from Goodhue Jewelry tomorrow. Now walk two blocks east of here, one block south, and stop at the brown door in the middle of the street. Enter quietly, and go to the third floor, room 309. I have arranged a place for us to plan this. Go in peace.”
2. The man in tight black pants, a shabby checkered jacket and white socks with shiny black dress shoes took one last drag on his cigarette and flung it out into the street. He ran his hand forcefully through his spikey, frazzled hair, which was already standing on end and shook his whole body like a dog. He looked at his watch, looked at the sky, then finally shot a small glance at the man standing near him. The recipient of the glance tightened his mouth in annoyance. His similarly-styled hair blew into his eyes and he shoved it out of his eyes, using the wind as an excuse to turn away. He tightened the ragged scarf he wore around his throat, and pushed at the sleeves of his secondhand velvet jacket. His pants had blown out knees and were tightly rolled to show off his own pair of white socks and black dress shoes. The third man of the group wore the same socks and shoes as if it was the rock-and-roll uniform they all had donned to play at the legendary First Avenue nightclub. This last man finally broke the silence, saying what they all were thinking.
“Where the fuck is Dunlap? How long are we going to wait for that asshole? We're on in 5!”
3. Alan, Jamal and Hank had not set out to make this night memorable. Actually, one was there because he was lonely, one was there because he was bored, and the third member of their little group was hoping to use tonight as a way to forget his recently ex-girlfriend, Veronica. The night auspiciously began at Old Chicago where drinks were cheap and all three men were not bored, lonely, or mired in troublesome memories. It was Jamal’s idea to go to Drink. Perhaps if they hadn’t gone there, or if they hadn’t started dancing right in front of those huge glass windows, Veronica’s ex/current boyfriend would not have seen them. Then they would not have waited outside for them to exit. And of course, then Alan, Jamal and Hank would not be standing here, moments away from kicking ass or getting their ass kicked by the four guys in front of them. Hank looked over at his opponents, gauging two to be skinner than him, one to be shorter, and one who could probably pound him to the ground with his pinkie. As he thought that, the large one moved toward him and Hank thought to himself, “Well, I hope my last time with Ronnie was worth this. I am about to get my ass handed to me.”
4. Monica slowed her car to a crawl as she approached the intersection. Up ahead, the street was peppered with women and a few men. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel and her ankle twitched on the accelerator, jumping her car forward. She kept rolling forward until she saw what she was looking for.
The three men stood a couple of feet from each other. They were wearing nearly identical outfits consisting of tight little pants, shirts opened lower than was decent, and flat shoes. One of the men had his black hair slicked back and glitter adorned his high, feminine cheeks. The second one wore his hair in a shaggy style like something off the pages of a 1976 gossip magazine. The third one, who was most interesting to Monica, had piercing blue eyes with enviable eyelashes. His thick brown hair swept off his forehead in an old-time pompadour. At first, you didn’t notice the eyeliner and light color on his full lips. Monica took a deep breath as she realized her car was already stopped and he was walking over to her. She opened the passenger side window and looked at the man. He stared back and they were both silent for a moment. Then, at the same time, they began to speak.
“Are you work…?”
“Want some comp…?”
Monica blushed furiously and finally said, “Look, are you a cop?”
5. On a downtown street where passersby were frequent and police officers were not, three African men rolled out their rugs and began to hawk their products to the employed elite of Minneapolis. A woman in high heels and a sleek beige business suit paused on her way, uncharacteristically drawn by the sparkle of a Rollex. “Most likely a fake,” she thought, but found herself unable to look away from the shiny gold and diamond studded black face of the timepiece. The man, who she had barely noticed before, leaned toward her with a soft smile and asked her if she wanted to try it on. Her attention shifted for only a moment, but it was long enough to shock her to the tips of her toes. With an uncanny feeling that she had known him forever, she spoke in awe, “Hello. It’s you.”
His soft smile appeared again and he agreed, “Yes it is me. I am called Daniel.” He paused for a moment, unsure if he should say what he was about to say next. “I have been waiting for you, Jane.”
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Exercises for 4.6.10
Exercise 30: A Verbal Dance, Not Quite a Fight
“I didn’t sleep barely at all last night. Woke up with the biggest headache.”
She doesn’t want to ask, but she does anyway. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“This thing with Mom. I just can’t believe she would do that,” he said. She grimaces on the other end of the line, knowing he is on the verge of complaining ad nauseum.
“Nobody ever listens to me. I can’t even get a thought out before someone is talking over me. And everyone spends so much time baiting me! I can only keep quiet so long before I have to speak my truth,” he begins. She rolls her eyes, the familiar argument washing over her ears like a lot of blah blah blah.
“If it causing you physical pain, Michael, perhaps it is time to make the peace. Be the change you want to see in the family. You feel like no one listens, listen to them. You feel like no one respects you, make a point of respecting them. Make a change. Call her and make the peace,” she said. Her advice fell on deaf ears as Michael continued on.
“The way she spoke to me … she called me cowardly, manipulative, weak. I would never—NEVER—speak like that to my daughter. NEVER,” he continued.
“But Mike, you can’t compare that. Shannon is four. You are forty. You have no idea how you would speak to her then. It’s a little more complicated when you are grown up and—” she said.
“I am livid. I am furious. I am just so mad! She will never do that to me again,” he said. She rolled her eyes again, thankful that he could not see her
“Just call her,” she said. “Make the peace.”
“I can’t. If I call her now, I will say horrible things I regret,” he replied.
“Or, you could … not do that,” she said, unable to hide her sarcasm completely. He grew silent on the other end of the wire. She felt her breath hitch for a moment, wondering if she had gone too far and if she was the next target of his tiresome rage.
“Whatever. She’s in Chicago anyway, so I can’t talk to her now. Thanks for the advice.” She let the tension drop out of her shoulders, thankful for having averted an attack.
“Yeah. Later, then.”
“Later.”
Exercise 26: Speech Flavor
1. “It is more better if you go now. I would not wish for us to learn more about the other only to end up very disappointed again,” said Olga.
2. “Why you ain’t looking at her?” she said. “She the one you need to axe about where she was last night and who she be seeing.”
3. “It rarely appears to be as simple as one expects,” he said, looking down at Cleo. “It is most effective to wait until the story itself has unfolded, then begin
making assertions.”
4. “Listen, fuckwad, I have met a thousand of you assholes before, only the rest of them were better looking and didn’t wear such cheap shoes. Now, you can either move your ass to the back of the line, or you can piss off and get your goddamn latte elsewhere. What’s it gonna be?”
5. “I spect we are gonna go see Junie tomorrow,” she said, moving toward the carport with slow, shuffling steps. “It’s been a long damn time since that girl’s been home here where she belongs.”
Exercise 35: The Need to Know
Kyle slowed the car in front of Annie’s where he got his coffee every morning. His mind was mercifully blank, teased only by a hint of coffee-smell. His hand drifted the barest amount to his left, his wheel scraped the curb and the resulting crunch set off the explosion of memories and assumptions he tried so desperately to never let in.
The car shadowed her for a mile or two before pulling up right behind her. The driver must have gotten her attention. Was he asking for directions? Claiming a lost dog? Telling her she looked good, baby? Or did he stop the car and approach her on foot, silently? She felt a prickling on her neck moments before, hinting at the significance of that moment, even if she did not understand it right then. He grabbed her somehow then. The bruises on her arms signified that he wasn’t gentle, and she didn’t come easy. Her nails were full of skin because my baby was a fighter. Didn’t matter, though, because from there he took her away from herself and everyone else. From me. I never knew how deeply I felt for Penelope until I saw her broken and bruised body, her torn flesh, the bruises that screamed brutality. Her face was swollen and broken. I liked to think that he did that to her because she called him a coward, a real tough-guy for beating up on women, not because she was cringing in fear and he did it anyway. Though the images of Penny’s body, naked and violated, lying half off the bike path in the black-eyed Susans torture me daily, it comforts me greatly to imagine she laughed at him, berated him, mocked him and taunted him as he was hurting her. I like to think of Penny as a victim of her mouth, not as simply a victim of circumstance or random evil.
Exercise 37: Five Years From Now …
Beginning: Five years from now, I will be out of the school room and taking the ton by storm. I will have all the most fashionable gowns; combs for my hair; jewels made from jewels, not from paste; many suitors; and of course, Edward on my arm, dancing attendance on my every word. I will dance every waltz with a man of my choice who is not ancient (under the age of five-and-twenty). Life will be a dream.
End: Five years from now, I will be married to Edward, Viscount Lake. Though there was a time when I had buried my love for him so deep and twisted it into an unrecognizable shape, that love has prevailed nonetheless. I awake each morning in his arms, well loved and well rested. I believe I may be carrying his babe, but it is too soon to know. Edward and I will be blissfully happy with as many children as God blessed upon us. I will live in joy, knowing that I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
Exercise 38: The Power of “Seemed” and “Probably”
“So, are you going to eat that,” I asked, eyeing the last slice of pepperoni pizza cooling on the edge of the box.
“No,” she replied. “Enjoy it yourself.” Her eyes lingered on his as she spoke and beyond. They narrowed slightly when he reached out and took the slice without even pausing.
She’s probably thinking I ought to have been the bigger gentleman and given her the last slice. Ha! For the first time in my life I am not a small guy, I am a strong one. I don’t want people to see me this way. If I need to hog a little food to get respect, so be it. I don’t care if she is hiding it well, but I can feel her contempt burning into my back. No matter. She will probably get over it.
“I didn’t sleep barely at all last night. Woke up with the biggest headache.”
She doesn’t want to ask, but she does anyway. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“This thing with Mom. I just can’t believe she would do that,” he said. She grimaces on the other end of the line, knowing he is on the verge of complaining ad nauseum.
“Nobody ever listens to me. I can’t even get a thought out before someone is talking over me. And everyone spends so much time baiting me! I can only keep quiet so long before I have to speak my truth,” he begins. She rolls her eyes, the familiar argument washing over her ears like a lot of blah blah blah.
“If it causing you physical pain, Michael, perhaps it is time to make the peace. Be the change you want to see in the family. You feel like no one listens, listen to them. You feel like no one respects you, make a point of respecting them. Make a change. Call her and make the peace,” she said. Her advice fell on deaf ears as Michael continued on.
“The way she spoke to me … she called me cowardly, manipulative, weak. I would never—NEVER—speak like that to my daughter. NEVER,” he continued.
“But Mike, you can’t compare that. Shannon is four. You are forty. You have no idea how you would speak to her then. It’s a little more complicated when you are grown up and—” she said.
“I am livid. I am furious. I am just so mad! She will never do that to me again,” he said. She rolled her eyes again, thankful that he could not see her
“Just call her,” she said. “Make the peace.”
“I can’t. If I call her now, I will say horrible things I regret,” he replied.
“Or, you could … not do that,” she said, unable to hide her sarcasm completely. He grew silent on the other end of the wire. She felt her breath hitch for a moment, wondering if she had gone too far and if she was the next target of his tiresome rage.
“Whatever. She’s in Chicago anyway, so I can’t talk to her now. Thanks for the advice.” She let the tension drop out of her shoulders, thankful for having averted an attack.
“Yeah. Later, then.”
“Later.”
Exercise 26: Speech Flavor
1. “It is more better if you go now. I would not wish for us to learn more about the other only to end up very disappointed again,” said Olga.
2. “Why you ain’t looking at her?” she said. “She the one you need to axe about where she was last night and who she be seeing.”
3. “It rarely appears to be as simple as one expects,” he said, looking down at Cleo. “It is most effective to wait until the story itself has unfolded, then begin
making assertions.”
4. “Listen, fuckwad, I have met a thousand of you assholes before, only the rest of them were better looking and didn’t wear such cheap shoes. Now, you can either move your ass to the back of the line, or you can piss off and get your goddamn latte elsewhere. What’s it gonna be?”
5. “I spect we are gonna go see Junie tomorrow,” she said, moving toward the carport with slow, shuffling steps. “It’s been a long damn time since that girl’s been home here where she belongs.”
Exercise 35: The Need to Know
Kyle slowed the car in front of Annie’s where he got his coffee every morning. His mind was mercifully blank, teased only by a hint of coffee-smell. His hand drifted the barest amount to his left, his wheel scraped the curb and the resulting crunch set off the explosion of memories and assumptions he tried so desperately to never let in.
The car shadowed her for a mile or two before pulling up right behind her. The driver must have gotten her attention. Was he asking for directions? Claiming a lost dog? Telling her she looked good, baby? Or did he stop the car and approach her on foot, silently? She felt a prickling on her neck moments before, hinting at the significance of that moment, even if she did not understand it right then. He grabbed her somehow then. The bruises on her arms signified that he wasn’t gentle, and she didn’t come easy. Her nails were full of skin because my baby was a fighter. Didn’t matter, though, because from there he took her away from herself and everyone else. From me. I never knew how deeply I felt for Penelope until I saw her broken and bruised body, her torn flesh, the bruises that screamed brutality. Her face was swollen and broken. I liked to think that he did that to her because she called him a coward, a real tough-guy for beating up on women, not because she was cringing in fear and he did it anyway. Though the images of Penny’s body, naked and violated, lying half off the bike path in the black-eyed Susans torture me daily, it comforts me greatly to imagine she laughed at him, berated him, mocked him and taunted him as he was hurting her. I like to think of Penny as a victim of her mouth, not as simply a victim of circumstance or random evil.
Exercise 37: Five Years From Now …
Beginning: Five years from now, I will be out of the school room and taking the ton by storm. I will have all the most fashionable gowns; combs for my hair; jewels made from jewels, not from paste; many suitors; and of course, Edward on my arm, dancing attendance on my every word. I will dance every waltz with a man of my choice who is not ancient (under the age of five-and-twenty). Life will be a dream.
End: Five years from now, I will be married to Edward, Viscount Lake. Though there was a time when I had buried my love for him so deep and twisted it into an unrecognizable shape, that love has prevailed nonetheless. I awake each morning in his arms, well loved and well rested. I believe I may be carrying his babe, but it is too soon to know. Edward and I will be blissfully happy with as many children as God blessed upon us. I will live in joy, knowing that I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
Exercise 38: The Power of “Seemed” and “Probably”
“So, are you going to eat that,” I asked, eyeing the last slice of pepperoni pizza cooling on the edge of the box.
“No,” she replied. “Enjoy it yourself.” Her eyes lingered on his as she spoke and beyond. They narrowed slightly when he reached out and took the slice without even pausing.
She’s probably thinking I ought to have been the bigger gentleman and given her the last slice. Ha! For the first time in my life I am not a small guy, I am a strong one. I don’t want people to see me this way. If I need to hog a little food to get respect, so be it. I don’t care if she is hiding it well, but I can feel her contempt burning into my back. No matter. She will probably get over it.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Exercises for 3.30.10: Part Two
Exercise 20: Psychic Distance
When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody. - 5
After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life. 3
While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet. - 3
The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning. 5
Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unswervingly into disaster. 5
The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria. 3
“Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile. 4
It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms. 5
Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.
Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable. 5
Five times:
At a McDonalds just off the freeway, the little blonde boy hovered at the edge of the slide.
Joey Anwar stood poised at the edge of the playland slide, ready to leap forward in a fit of courage.
Joey felt excitement and fear warring inside his chest as he wobbled on the edge of the slide, the playland around him echoing with the screams of children.
He didn’t know if he was going to jump off or slide to the bottom as he stood there at the top of the slide.
Slides make me want to do crazy things like leap off and fly.
New story:
Mrs. Arlington quietly entered the room, and slipped off her dark glasses. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light she saw a tall, stooped man standing in the corner. His loose, wrinkled skin hung down on his face slightly, like a wax figure just beginning to melt. Their gazes met and she was jolted with a strange feeling that her head had turned and her eyes hadn’t yet caught up. In his ancient, bony form, the eyes shone forth with youthful playfulness. “No,” she thought to herself wonderingly. “They don’t look merely young to me; they are young eyes.” The man raised his brow inquiringly and gestured Mary over. She walked forward, feeling excited for the first time in days. She had been overwhelmed with a feeling of nothingness, a sense that her potential had dwindled to nothing and she was sick of it. She tripped forward with a lightness in her feel and a smile on her lips. She thought happily to herself that this time everything was finally going to change.
Exercise 22: An Early Memory, Part One: The Child as Narrator
When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody. - 5
After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life. 3
While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet. - 3
The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning. 5
Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unswervingly into disaster. 5
The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria. 3
“Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile. 4
It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms. 5
Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.
Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable. 5
Five times:
At a McDonalds just off the freeway, the little blonde boy hovered at the edge of the slide.
Joey Anwar stood poised at the edge of the playland slide, ready to leap forward in a fit of courage.
Joey felt excitement and fear warring inside his chest as he wobbled on the edge of the slide, the playland around him echoing with the screams of children.
He didn’t know if he was going to jump off or slide to the bottom as he stood there at the top of the slide.
Slides make me want to do crazy things like leap off and fly.
New story:
Mrs. Arlington quietly entered the room, and slipped off her dark glasses. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light she saw a tall, stooped man standing in the corner. His loose, wrinkled skin hung down on his face slightly, like a wax figure just beginning to melt. Their gazes met and she was jolted with a strange feeling that her head had turned and her eyes hadn’t yet caught up. In his ancient, bony form, the eyes shone forth with youthful playfulness. “No,” she thought to herself wonderingly. “They don’t look merely young to me; they are young eyes.” The man raised his brow inquiringly and gestured Mary over. She walked forward, feeling excited for the first time in days. She had been overwhelmed with a feeling of nothingness, a sense that her potential had dwindled to nothing and she was sick of it. She tripped forward with a lightness in her feel and a smile on her lips. She thought happily to herself that this time everything was finally going to change.
Exercise 22: An Early Memory, Part One: The Child as Narrator
Exercises for 3.30.10
Exercise 4: Where were you last night?
“Where were you last night?” is a question I never wanted to ask myself again. When I awoke on the floor of a dim, subterranean studio apartment, a thick arm thrown across my stomach, contact-less, panty-less and confused, I swore I wouldn’t do this again.
Crouched in the backseat of some ugly 70s sedan, parked in an alley I don’t recognize, wearing a red leather mini and white lacy top that I am certain I never would have purchased, my ankles sore from being bent below me for who knows how long, I have to do it. Where was I last night? I have no clear answer, and shame burns in the back of my throat. I feel guilty already, though I’m not even sure what for. I make my usual vow: “Never again.” It rings empty.
The car door wrenches open with a shriek and I stumble out of the alley to the street where dawn and the halogen street lamps are vying to light the sidewalks. It’s too early for most commuters, though I can’t remember if it is a weekday or not. I squint at the buildings and realize I am downtown—the Warehouse District. I walk further down the street to look at the signpost, and my red-stiletto clad foot slips, throwing me forward. I catch myself on the wall of the building before my knee hits ground and the spray of vomit that caused me to slip. Feeling my own stomach heave at the sight, I hurry on. The hammering in my skull and the taste of whiskey repeating in my esophagus tells me that this time it was booze. Surprising, really. I don’t usually lose a whole night from just liquor. I reach the corner, look up and head right, down Second Ave. There are always cabs down by light rail, day or night.
Safe in a cab, I give the driver an address near my house. As I bend down to remove the not-my-shoes, a telling ache between my legs tells me that I broke another promise to myself last night. I ask the driver what day it is, and he responds shortly, “Wednesday.” I sigh with relief that I have not lost a whole day, and prepare myself for an unwelcome run. As the cabbie stops just blocks away from the address I gave him, I throw open the door and run down the street and between two houses. I can hear the cabbie screaming at me in something that sounds like grunting. I feel bad, but I don’t have any money to pay him. I add it to my list: Things To Feel Crappy About On A Wednesday.
Gasping for breath, my left foot bleeding from a tiny cut, I limp my way back to my house. I walk in the back door (I always keep it unlocked). The clock tells me I have two hours to make it to work. I climb the stairs, wishing I was dead, and crawl into the shower. I sit with my arms wrapped around my bent knees, let scalding water pour over my neck and sob quietly into my elbow.
Exercise 1: Beginning in the Middle
1. The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria.
2. When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody.
3. After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life.
4. While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet.
5. The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning.
6. Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unfailingly into disaster.
7. “Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile.
8. It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms.
9. Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.
10. Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable.
Exercise 10: Oh! … That Sort of Person
Lily
She was the kind of girl who fell in love in a moment, and spent a life time justifying it.
She was the kind of girl who wore the perfect dress, with boy’s underwear on below.
She was the kind of girl who could pummel you in fury, then hug you five minutes later and forget it ever happened.
She was the sort of person whose stubbornness would lead her to cut off her hair on a dare, just to prove she wasn’t vain, then spend a day alone crying over it.
She was the sort of sister who would fight constantly with her brother, but knock anyone down who dared to insult him.
Emily
Emily was the kind of person who bought everything brand name, just to make you forget she grew up in a trailer park.
She was the sort of woman who could walk into a coffee shop where she knew no one, and walk out with three lifelong friends
She was the sort of person who deliberately started smoking American Spirits as an adult, simply to feel more comfortable at the coffee shop.
She was the sort of woman who married a silent man, so she would be able to monopolize every conversation.
She was the kind of person who felt threatened when people near her argued.
Exercise 12: Props
Character: Where were you last night girl
Refrigerator: Premium Beer, mustard, moldy cheese, plain wheat bread, olives, leftover pizza from davannis, two Slim-Fast shakes, Brita water pitcher with no filter, half-eaten take-out salad.
Medicine cabinet: birth control pills, super minty toothpaste, few loose q-tips, empty vicodin pill bottle with someone else’s name on it, a tampon, silver watch, a toothbrush that isn’t hers, expensive face cream, calamine lotion.
Clothes closet: A contradiction of well-pressed, hung suits and silk blouses, and trashier hood rat clothes, some hung hastily on hangers, others crumpled on the floor. There is very little lounging clothes. No workout clothes. No practical shoes, but lots of them. A strangely conservative black dress that doesn’t fit into the work clothes or the trashy clothes. A box of letters. A shoe box that contains random receipts. A large picture, framed, turned around and facing the wall.
“Where were you last night?” is a question I never wanted to ask myself again. When I awoke on the floor of a dim, subterranean studio apartment, a thick arm thrown across my stomach, contact-less, panty-less and confused, I swore I wouldn’t do this again.
Crouched in the backseat of some ugly 70s sedan, parked in an alley I don’t recognize, wearing a red leather mini and white lacy top that I am certain I never would have purchased, my ankles sore from being bent below me for who knows how long, I have to do it. Where was I last night? I have no clear answer, and shame burns in the back of my throat. I feel guilty already, though I’m not even sure what for. I make my usual vow: “Never again.” It rings empty.
The car door wrenches open with a shriek and I stumble out of the alley to the street where dawn and the halogen street lamps are vying to light the sidewalks. It’s too early for most commuters, though I can’t remember if it is a weekday or not. I squint at the buildings and realize I am downtown—the Warehouse District. I walk further down the street to look at the signpost, and my red-stiletto clad foot slips, throwing me forward. I catch myself on the wall of the building before my knee hits ground and the spray of vomit that caused me to slip. Feeling my own stomach heave at the sight, I hurry on. The hammering in my skull and the taste of whiskey repeating in my esophagus tells me that this time it was booze. Surprising, really. I don’t usually lose a whole night from just liquor. I reach the corner, look up and head right, down Second Ave. There are always cabs down by light rail, day or night.
Safe in a cab, I give the driver an address near my house. As I bend down to remove the not-my-shoes, a telling ache between my legs tells me that I broke another promise to myself last night. I ask the driver what day it is, and he responds shortly, “Wednesday.” I sigh with relief that I have not lost a whole day, and prepare myself for an unwelcome run. As the cabbie stops just blocks away from the address I gave him, I throw open the door and run down the street and between two houses. I can hear the cabbie screaming at me in something that sounds like grunting. I feel bad, but I don’t have any money to pay him. I add it to my list: Things To Feel Crappy About On A Wednesday.
Gasping for breath, my left foot bleeding from a tiny cut, I limp my way back to my house. I walk in the back door (I always keep it unlocked). The clock tells me I have two hours to make it to work. I climb the stairs, wishing I was dead, and crawl into the shower. I sit with my arms wrapped around my bent knees, let scalding water pour over my neck and sob quietly into my elbow.
Exercise 1: Beginning in the Middle
1. The first night Anna spent fucking Tom was significant for her in that it fulfilled adolescent fantasies and significant for him in that is was supposed to be the night he married Victoria.
2. When I fantasized about killing Mr. Achter, I never imagined it would be this bloody.
3. After Bella’s fourth suicide attempt, Christine vowed that she would not spend another dollar saving that damn dog’s life.
4. While some might have considered the Duomo the highlight of her Italian holiday, Star was more moved by the gypsy beggars who had descended on her in the Metro, thrusting a baby into her arms and stealing her wallet.
5. The horrors of spoiled campers, arrogant parents, cliquey counselors and forced cheerfulness receded each morning as I sat on the edge of the lake, watched the sun rise, and listened to the loons hail the morning.
6. Well into the fifth year of my obsession with Clark, I made a decision that would guide the next five years unfailingly into disaster.
7. “Why did I ever think I could run a marathon?” she moaned as she tripped into her 15th mile.
8. It was so unlikely, an illicit affair between the devout Catholic woman and the unwashed IT manager, that I didn’t believe the gossip until I caught a glimpse of them in the stairwell, locked in each other’s arms.
9. Laura knew she was supposed to feel blessed by the twin girls that erupted forth from her body like a zit popping, but as the voracious creatures latched on to her breasts, she was overwhelmed by a wave of distaste, followed by guilt for already being a terrible mother.
10. Since Hilton Head isn’t much of an island unless you golf or fish—neither of which I do—I resolved to pray for a hurricane to make my time there with my husband bearable.
Exercise 10: Oh! … That Sort of Person
Lily
She was the kind of girl who fell in love in a moment, and spent a life time justifying it.
She was the kind of girl who wore the perfect dress, with boy’s underwear on below.
She was the kind of girl who could pummel you in fury, then hug you five minutes later and forget it ever happened.
She was the sort of person whose stubbornness would lead her to cut off her hair on a dare, just to prove she wasn’t vain, then spend a day alone crying over it.
She was the sort of sister who would fight constantly with her brother, but knock anyone down who dared to insult him.
Emily
Emily was the kind of person who bought everything brand name, just to make you forget she grew up in a trailer park.
She was the sort of woman who could walk into a coffee shop where she knew no one, and walk out with three lifelong friends
She was the sort of person who deliberately started smoking American Spirits as an adult, simply to feel more comfortable at the coffee shop.
She was the sort of woman who married a silent man, so she would be able to monopolize every conversation.
She was the kind of person who felt threatened when people near her argued.
Exercise 12: Props
Character: Where were you last night girl
Refrigerator: Premium Beer, mustard, moldy cheese, plain wheat bread, olives, leftover pizza from davannis, two Slim-Fast shakes, Brita water pitcher with no filter, half-eaten take-out salad.
Medicine cabinet: birth control pills, super minty toothpaste, few loose q-tips, empty vicodin pill bottle with someone else’s name on it, a tampon, silver watch, a toothbrush that isn’t hers, expensive face cream, calamine lotion.
Clothes closet: A contradiction of well-pressed, hung suits and silk blouses, and trashier hood rat clothes, some hung hastily on hangers, others crumpled on the floor. There is very little lounging clothes. No workout clothes. No practical shoes, but lots of them. A strangely conservative black dress that doesn’t fit into the work clothes or the trashy clothes. A box of letters. A shoe box that contains random receipts. A large picture, framed, turned around and facing the wall.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Reflections of the 3 Poems Assignment
The three poems for this latest assignment were all generated by ideas from In the Palm of Your Hand. First, the August 5, 1977 poem: It is a (partially) found poem, all pulling phrases or words from the Oxford Dictionary I have at home, based on the numbers of my birthdate. I didn’t have a feeling for the poem in mind when I started it; I just wanted to see where it went. A lot of my poems, lately, have seemed to be going to a really dark place full of self-loathing. I am not sure that is really where I exist, I only know that I spend a lot of time not wanting to trouble anyone with my stupid concerns or bore them with the same old complaints. I try to make myself small, because … well, I am not totally sure why. Because I got tired of being on the radar and because some things happened that really made me doubt myself and hurt me deeply and while I think I am mostly over them, they changed who I was fundamentally.
The second poem is about the engagement photo of my mother that I have hanging in my hallway. I have always loved this photo, thought she was so beautiful. I have a really hard time reconciling this lovely young woman with the terrible marriage that was to follow. I feel sad when I think of the disappointments she was going to face. Anyway, I used as my writing prompt the exercise that asks you to take a family photo and use some photo-sounding words to create a poem. I went with the prose format because I have never tried it.
Finally, my last poem was a political rant I was inspired to write after seeing another gay-hating politician admit that he is gay. I feel strongly about gay rights (a.k.a. human rights), and as you can see it is important in my life. I keep my head down and try to ignore politics because they make me so mad. But for this poem, I allowed myself a crabby moment to tell people what I really think. I feel more comfortable doing this because my blog is anonymous, to a point. I wanted to convey in tone my derision, frustration, mockery and anger about this (FREQUENTLY REOCCURRING) situation.
The second poem is about the engagement photo of my mother that I have hanging in my hallway. I have always loved this photo, thought she was so beautiful. I have a really hard time reconciling this lovely young woman with the terrible marriage that was to follow. I feel sad when I think of the disappointments she was going to face. Anyway, I used as my writing prompt the exercise that asks you to take a family photo and use some photo-sounding words to create a poem. I went with the prose format because I have never tried it.
Finally, my last poem was a political rant I was inspired to write after seeing another gay-hating politician admit that he is gay. I feel strongly about gay rights (a.k.a. human rights), and as you can see it is important in my life. I keep my head down and try to ignore politics because they make me so mad. But for this poem, I allowed myself a crabby moment to tell people what I really think. I feel more comfortable doing this because my blog is anonymous, to a point. I wanted to convey in tone my derision, frustration, mockery and anger about this (FREQUENTLY REOCCURRING) situation.
Poem and a Rant
California State Sen. Roy Ashburn, you are just another son of a bitch hypocrite
in a long line of son of a bitch hypocrites.
You say being gay is wrong.
That marriage is for a man and a woman.
(Did you forget the P.S.? P.S. I reserve the right to include my gay fuck buddy, too.)
You use your political power
your self-righteous indignation
your surety
to convince the folks listening to your crap
that my family doesn’t deserve to be a family.
You don’t hate gay people.
Nah.
And Hitler didn’t hate Jews.
And they didn’t kill Matthew Shepard because he was gay.
Nope.
You love the sinner, hate the sin.
(BOY, do you LOVE the sinner. Twice on a Saturday night, huh?)
All I know is my mom, and my other mom
They don’t go out cruising at a bar of any persuasion on a Tuesday night.
Or even on a Saturday.
They stay home, raise their kids, tend their gardens.
They create love in the circle of their arms.
They fashion a happy family.
They demonstrate commitment, joy and fortitude as partners.
They be married, without even the papers to prove it.
Oh yeah … You know what else they do?
THEY VOTE.
in a long line of son of a bitch hypocrites.
You say being gay is wrong.
That marriage is for a man and a woman.
(Did you forget the P.S.? P.S. I reserve the right to include my gay fuck buddy, too.)
You use your political power
your self-righteous indignation
your surety
to convince the folks listening to your crap
that my family doesn’t deserve to be a family.
You don’t hate gay people.
Nah.
And Hitler didn’t hate Jews.
And they didn’t kill Matthew Shepard because he was gay.
Nope.
You love the sinner, hate the sin.
(BOY, do you LOVE the sinner. Twice on a Saturday night, huh?)
All I know is my mom, and my other mom
They don’t go out cruising at a bar of any persuasion on a Tuesday night.
Or even on a Saturday.
They stay home, raise their kids, tend their gardens.
They create love in the circle of their arms.
They fashion a happy family.
They demonstrate commitment, joy and fortitude as partners.
They be married, without even the papers to prove it.
Oh yeah … You know what else they do?
THEY VOTE.
Prose poem ... A Family Snapshot
My mother’s soft smile captivates me every day when I descend my stairs. The focus is crisp, but the clarity of the grays and whites has worn with the years. She is younger than me now, when the lens of that photographer captured her image, her engagement photo, her last moments of possibility. Is there a hint of walk-the-plank dread in the slight shifting of her eyes? Is her tightly wound hair disguising the compulsion to run that was thwarted by a failed drivers examination? Is that a light crinkle of worry across her forehead, the precursor of a deep crack that will develop, printing years of worry and sadness and disappointment right on her face? But that will be another image, not this one. In this one, her skin is flawless, smooth. Her mouth turns up sweetly, helpless to not against the tide of hope I believe I see in her eyes. In this photo, she tilts her head with all the beauty of youth and the promise of love.
August 5, 1977
The following pages illustrate and explain all the features and conventions of me.
My Grammar & Style took root early, with a chirpy “hi” at a mere 4 months.
The selection of images has been governed by their usefulness, and
I wish to present a more sharply refined picture of the language of today.
I have been blind to how I have hurt people
Bear baiting them to get a reaction, or generate some heat.
I know not why I never engaged in a beau gest or other act of kindness.
My wit like shards of terra cotta raining down from above.
Terror-stricken people running from me
Their looks of horror tessellated across my vision.
I have come to be the ostracized.
The outcast.
The other.
The Oxford Dictionary in a room full of Websters.
My Grammar & Style took root early, with a chirpy “hi” at a mere 4 months.
The selection of images has been governed by their usefulness, and
I wish to present a more sharply refined picture of the language of today.
I have been blind to how I have hurt people
Bear baiting them to get a reaction, or generate some heat.
I know not why I never engaged in a beau gest or other act of kindness.
My wit like shards of terra cotta raining down from above.
Terror-stricken people running from me
Their looks of horror tessellated across my vision.
I have come to be the ostracized.
The outcast.
The other.
The Oxford Dictionary in a room full of Websters.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Lucille Clifton
Lucille Clifton reading Homage to my Hips
http://www.loc.gov/today/cyberlc/feature_wdesc.php?rec=3656
http://www.loc.gov/today/cyberlc/feature_wdesc.php?rec=3656
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Poem # 2 for 2-16
(attempt at performance poem, which morphed into something else)
Stand up
I have an urge to feel what it is like on stage,
watching the faces below contort in laughter
wondering if that guy’s face looks just like this during sex
or if that woman knows she has lipstick smeared all over her teeth.
I want to be adored, told what a funny bitch I am.
Not crude and bizarre like Sarah Silverman waxing on about her grandmother’s vagina
Or goofy and endearing like Ellen dancing onstage.
Or cynical, like Roseanne grabbing her crotch and spitting at the end of the anthem.
I don’t wanna hear, “Oh, she’s funny. For a girl.”
I want people bent over, gasping, laughing so loud I can’t even go on.
Hoping my show will last for hours.
Texting their friends during my bit, “omg … shes so funny!!”
I want my family to admit I am hilarious, not caustic.
And to make that horrible Vatican-I-Catholic-Priss at my work to laugh
in spite of the stick in her ass.
So when I find the courage, I will stand up there.
Promise me you’ll be there? And that you'll be laughing.
Stand up
I have an urge to feel what it is like on stage,
watching the faces below contort in laughter
wondering if that guy’s face looks just like this during sex
or if that woman knows she has lipstick smeared all over her teeth.
I want to be adored, told what a funny bitch I am.
Not crude and bizarre like Sarah Silverman waxing on about her grandmother’s vagina
Or goofy and endearing like Ellen dancing onstage.
Or cynical, like Roseanne grabbing her crotch and spitting at the end of the anthem.
I don’t wanna hear, “Oh, she’s funny. For a girl.”
I want people bent over, gasping, laughing so loud I can’t even go on.
Hoping my show will last for hours.
Texting their friends during my bit, “omg … shes so funny!!”
I want my family to admit I am hilarious, not caustic.
And to make that horrible Vatican-I-Catholic-Priss at my work to laugh
in spite of the stick in her ass.
So when I find the courage, I will stand up there.
Promise me you’ll be there? And that you'll be laughing.
Performance poem 1: 2-16
So I made not a very good recording, but it is late, and I couldn't figure out how to host it online in an easy way because my brain is fried. It you are DYING to hear it, e-mail me. :P
Here is the text of the poem:
Misery. Man, she’s become like a bad friend to me
Insidiously fighting any moment of hope stealing my free-
wheeling, eye-flashing, happier self, or even killing
me, inside to the out, smiling as she lied about having my best interests, willing
to “help” me, each assist a razor-sharp nick.
Classic frenemies. It’s sick
how I hate her but I still let her stick
her talons into my gut, seating them deep within.
She’s an itching, pinching undergarment of doubt
still that I fear to appear without.
Her biting remarks and undermining ways
are a yardstick to cling to, besides they don’t faze
me.
Better to have someone to give measure to the now and here
even if she brings super-sized pain and discontent and fear.
Better to take her crap, really.
It is the one thing I have that is offered freely.
Because Misery and I? We need each other.
With me to hold down and her to cling to
My life morphs from nothing to something to get through.
Here is the text of the poem:
Misery. Man, she’s become like a bad friend to me
Insidiously fighting any moment of hope stealing my free-
wheeling, eye-flashing, happier self, or even killing
me, inside to the out, smiling as she lied about having my best interests, willing
to “help” me, each assist a razor-sharp nick.
Classic frenemies. It’s sick
how I hate her but I still let her stick
her talons into my gut, seating them deep within.
She’s an itching, pinching undergarment of doubt
still that I fear to appear without.
Her biting remarks and undermining ways
are a yardstick to cling to, besides they don’t faze
me.
Better to have someone to give measure to the now and here
even if she brings super-sized pain and discontent and fear.
Better to take her crap, really.
It is the one thing I have that is offered freely.
Because Misery and I? We need each other.
With me to hold down and her to cling to
My life morphs from nothing to something to get through.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Performance Poetry Review: wallybsomebody
This is a video of Wally B Somebody performing at the Southern Fried Poetry Slam. There are a lot of reasons that this piece works very well as a piece of performance poetry. Truly, I am not sure it would work as written poetry even half as well. First, there is the booming emotion with which Wally shares his piece. You can feel the anger and disillusionment in his words, but also in his tone, his gestures, the way he paces. It makes the emotion larger than life, and it leaves no questions about how the author feels or his intent.
Next, I think this pieces works because Wally is a performer. He uses pauses, inflection, drawn out words and humor to his advantage. He draws his audience in and helps them feel his words, making them laugh, gasp and groan on cue. I also think his choice of subject, poetry slams, is relevant to his audience. This makes it easier to generate the reactions he wants.
I admire how Wally seems to know himself so well, and be willing to talk about how he feels he has failed himself. I like how he talks about the process of writing, memorizing, etc., and you can hear the self-deprecation radiating from him onstage.
What doesn’t work in this poem, for me, is that while Wally is impressive with his energetic, tongue-twisting flow, it sometimes overwhelms me and makes me lose his point. Also, while I admire the energy and passion he displays, the performance is, at times, bombastic. Oh, poor you that you are so successful at performing poetry. Boo hoo!
As I mentioned previously, I do think that this works more as a written performance, rather than a poem, but it does have poetic elements. There is a definitely rhythm/rhyme to the poem, and it takes more poetic approaches to thoughts (short, staccato thoughts, not like prose). I like some of his vocabulary, and find it poetic, such as calling himself an alchemist. And the way the poem takes such raw emotions and tries to give them context to me, is an important aspect of poetry (versus ranting or diary keeping).
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
My Whole
When I am dead, my dearest
Please speak the truth of me.
Do not say I was an angel, hauntingly lovely and as pure
As our child’s half-open mouth as he sleeps.
Instead, shout loudly of my hammering anger,
My scalpel-fine meanness
My earth-flattening depression
The loneliness I carried in my mouth.
I no longer care to hide.
Then, spare a moment for the rest:
My room-illuminating smile
My irresistible humor
The heart-hurting compassion I kept mostly hidden.
In death, let me be more real and complete than in life.
Please speak the truth of me.
Do not say I was an angel, hauntingly lovely and as pure
As our child’s half-open mouth as he sleeps.
Instead, shout loudly of my hammering anger,
My scalpel-fine meanness
My earth-flattening depression
The loneliness I carried in my mouth.
I no longer care to hide.
Then, spare a moment for the rest:
My room-illuminating smile
My irresistible humor
The heart-hurting compassion I kept mostly hidden.
In death, let me be more real and complete than in life.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Two Assignments for HS Writers - For class 2-9-10
Writing your life: A lesson in autobiography
This is a good activity with which to begin the school year, both because students get to write on something about which they are experts (themselves), and because it helps them to get to know other students.
UNIT OBJECTIVES
Lesson 1: Prewriting
Students will create a visual representation of key aspects of their lives. Using the questions below, they will draw a life map or create one on the computer.
Step 1: Tell the students that they will be writing an autobiography later in class. Build on prior knowledge and ask if any of them have written an autobiography before and have them share their experience. Remind them that an autobiography contains information about one's own life written by that one person. Briefly introduce some autobiography titles, and encourage students to read one of their choice during their independent reading time. Tell the students that they will first pre-write that autobiography by creating a life map.
Step 2: Hand out your life map questions to the students. Remind them that they do not have to write anything on their Life Map and that their entire life story (past, present, and future) will be told in pictures. Have the students clear everything from their desks. Give the students their blank sheets of paper and colored pencils. Let them begin.
Step 3: After completing the visual life map, students will share with the class or a small group.
Lesson 2: Writing your Autobiography
Warm up: Reviewing the concept taught the previous day, ask students to respond to this journal prompt with one single drawing.
Prompt: Project yourself twenty years into the future. What are you doing?
Then, have them respond to that same prompt using a few sentences.
Students Will:
Step 1: Remind students that an autobiography contains information about one's own life written by that one person. Remind students of the various autobiography titles you have been reading throughout this unit and discuss how each author told their own story. Share with the students that they will begin their autobiography drafts today, that they are just collecting all their thoughts, and need not worry about doing everything correctly.
Step 2: Remind the students that each picture they drew represents a paragraph in their autobiography. Brainstorm a variety of strong introductory sentences with the students.
Step 3: Have the students work on their autobiography drafts, to just write their ideas on paper. Upon completion, instruct students to do a "re-read" of their draft and make any initial changes before the peer editing process.
Step 4: Have each choose a partner for the next steps of the writing process - revising and editing. Distribute a peer editing checklist to each student to use as a guide while they read each other's draft and make suggestions for revisions.
Step 5: Finally, have each student do a read-through of his or her own and identify some ways to make the draft strong. Then, take those ideas and incorporate revisions from the other student to create a final draft.
Developed from: “Writing an autobiography” by Elizabeth Ramos: http://www2.scholastic.com/browse/lessonplan.jsp?id=24
This is a good activity with which to begin the school year, both because students get to write on something about which they are experts (themselves), and because it helps them to get to know other students.
UNIT OBJECTIVES
- Students will grow better at the writing/edit process.
- Students will create an autobiography product.
- Students and teacher will get to know each other.
Lesson 1: Prewriting
Students will create a visual representation of key aspects of their lives. Using the questions below, they will draw a life map or create one on the computer.
- Technological option: Use Inspiration software to create a mind map, including pictures
- Non-technological option: Use colored pencils and paper to draw images
Step 1: Tell the students that they will be writing an autobiography later in class. Build on prior knowledge and ask if any of them have written an autobiography before and have them share their experience. Remind them that an autobiography contains information about one's own life written by that one person. Briefly introduce some autobiography titles, and encourage students to read one of their choice during their independent reading time. Tell the students that they will first pre-write that autobiography by creating a life map.
Step 2: Hand out your life map questions to the students. Remind them that they do not have to write anything on their Life Map and that their entire life story (past, present, and future) will be told in pictures. Have the students clear everything from their desks. Give the students their blank sheets of paper and colored pencils. Let them begin.
- Where you were born?
- Where was your first house?
- Where did you go to kindergarten?
- Where did you go to middle school?
- Where are you going to high school?
- Who are the members of your family?
- What did you want to be as a grown up when you were little?
- Did you have any special pets?
- What was your favorite toy?
- Who were/are your best friends?
- What was one thing you were afraid of as a kid?
- Name a favorite piece of clothing you once owned.
- What was your favorite book as a child?
- What chore do you dislike the most?
- What is one place you have traveled or want to travel?
Step 3: After completing the visual life map, students will share with the class or a small group.
Lesson 2: Writing your Autobiography
Warm up: Reviewing the concept taught the previous day, ask students to respond to this journal prompt with one single drawing.
Prompt: Project yourself twenty years into the future. What are you doing?
Then, have them respond to that same prompt using a few sentences.
Students Will:
- Write a strong introduction for their autobiography.
- Write an autobiographical draft that accurately reflects their life map.
- Use the peer editing process.
Step 1: Remind students that an autobiography contains information about one's own life written by that one person. Remind students of the various autobiography titles you have been reading throughout this unit and discuss how each author told their own story. Share with the students that they will begin their autobiography drafts today, that they are just collecting all their thoughts, and need not worry about doing everything correctly.
Step 2: Remind the students that each picture they drew represents a paragraph in their autobiography. Brainstorm a variety of strong introductory sentences with the students.
Step 3: Have the students work on their autobiography drafts, to just write their ideas on paper. Upon completion, instruct students to do a "re-read" of their draft and make any initial changes before the peer editing process.
Step 4: Have each choose a partner for the next steps of the writing process - revising and editing. Distribute a peer editing checklist to each student to use as a guide while they read each other's draft and make suggestions for revisions.
Step 5: Finally, have each student do a read-through of his or her own and identify some ways to make the draft strong. Then, take those ideas and incorporate revisions from the other student to create a final draft.
Developed from: “Writing an autobiography” by Elizabeth Ramos: http://www2.scholastic.com/browse/lessonplan.jsp?id=24
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Creative Writing Assignment
Assignment for 2-2-10
Teacher gives out this assignment in pieces. The students don’t get the next piece of the puzzle until they have finished the prior one. This both helps them to be less overwhelmed as well as to keep them from tailoring their writing and choices to fit the final products, thereby making them stretch more.
1. Choose three pictures:
2. Jot down some observations for each item. Start with the aesthetics and what you notice. Then, move on to how they make you feel or personal associations.
3. Next, write a short and dirty sketch of what is going on in each photo, using some of the ideas you prepared above.
4. Finally, starting fresh, see how you can create a narrative that relates these three items in a natural and easy way. You can choose to write it in poem or prose form. Students should focus more on making a natural, easy, creative connection between the items more than worry about the form the narrative takes.
Teacher gives out this assignment in pieces. The students don’t get the next piece of the puzzle until they have finished the prior one. This both helps them to be less overwhelmed as well as to keep them from tailoring their writing and choices to fit the final products, thereby making them stretch more.
1. Choose three pictures:
- Old family photo
- Magazine clipping
- Recent shot
2. Jot down some observations for each item. Start with the aesthetics and what you notice. Then, move on to how they make you feel or personal associations.
3. Next, write a short and dirty sketch of what is going on in each photo, using some of the ideas you prepared above.
4. Finally, starting fresh, see how you can create a narrative that relates these three items in a natural and easy way. You can choose to write it in poem or prose form. Students should focus more on making a natural, easy, creative connection between the items more than worry about the form the narrative takes.
About Emily, who can't even look at me now
- Around 1989 I buy a lime green body suit one-piece cut out that
- showed my whole stomach and which my mom thinks is racy. It disappears halfway through summer. I think she stole it.
- Around 1998 I visit Emily in London. I drink too much cider,
- which no one told me was not like beer. I do regrettable things. I don’t remember what they were.
- Around 2000 I become taken with firefighter Rick Alm in line
- at the grocery store. I find his fire house and drop by with a rose and my phone number. When he actually calls, I am floored and babble incoherently about television for 5 minutes. He never calls back.
- Around 1993 I move to Stillwater and meet Emily. I fall in love
- with her long red hair, her translucent skin and the purple smudges below her eyes.
- Around 1986 Petra Bauer and I rent Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
- for our Friday slumber party. We repeatedly rewind the tape to watch Jeannie kick Mr. Rooney in the face again and again.
- Around 2008 I push my baby girl Moira out into the world.
- I finally feel whole again.
- Around 1991 I get a job at the Renaissance Festival.
- I serve Root Beer to tourists. I discover that when I don’t wear a bra, I get better tips. I stop wearing a bra.
- Around 2003 I realize my dream to become a teacher. It only
- lasts three years.
- Around 2005 I see Emily at a tournament. She still has
- long, long red hair. She won’t even look at me.
- Around 1985 Mom starts working for a law firm downtown.
- She dons power suits and tight high heels, dyes her hair and paints her face. She comes home late some nights, wine on her breath.
- Around 1990 Chad Callendar presses his warm, full lips
- against mine and slides his tongue into my mouth while we wait for the bus after school. It is my first French kiss. It is amazing.
- Around 1996 I take Approaches to Literature from Cecilia
- Konchar Farr. I suddenly see the whole world through a Marxist Feminist lens.
- Around 1988 I toot in my math class. For the next six years,
- every time I see Chad Poppler, he makes farting noises at me.
- Around 2010 I go to the Midtown Market for lunch
- with my family. In the mash of people, I see a flash of long red hair and still think of her.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Letter
Tripping down the subterranean hallway,
Plaid skirt swishing about my knees
I scramble up the steps to the bright kitchen,
Mary Janes sinking into shaggy brown nap.
I should have noticed the missing person-noises, the absence of fresh cigarette smoke.
With a day of stories ready to burst out of my mouth, I skip into the kitchen.
I see nothing but the cream envelope lying on the table.
Without reason to, I already knew.
I wheeze. Small hands shake more than usual
My heartbeat leaves my chest and takes up a tom-tom beat in my ears.
I grasp it, open it.
Beautiful, thick linen paper, cream. Precisely, perfectly looping, slanting lines, black.
“I’m leaving. It’s not you. I love you. I can’t take your sister or brother anymore.”
Three sheets crowded with awful details weigh so much in my hands.
Three sheets.
“It’s not you”
But it could be.
I might fail.
Might be me who breaks a rule
Or your heart.
Next time it might be my difficulties
That drive you to your sister’s house
And start the weeks of aching silence,
Then the awkward visitations,
Meeting for lunch like work friends,
Not like mother and daughter.
I missed you so much.
If it were him, I would understand.
I hate him sometimes, too.
Storming about the house, raging at the world, or us.
Letting his permanently-pregnant gut
Spill over his sagging pants.
I would have understood.
But I will never, ever understand a mother
Leaving her child.
“It’s not you.”
But it could be me.
Next time.
Plaid skirt swishing about my knees
I scramble up the steps to the bright kitchen,
Mary Janes sinking into shaggy brown nap.
I should have noticed the missing person-noises, the absence of fresh cigarette smoke.
With a day of stories ready to burst out of my mouth, I skip into the kitchen.
I see nothing but the cream envelope lying on the table.
Without reason to, I already knew.
I wheeze. Small hands shake more than usual
My heartbeat leaves my chest and takes up a tom-tom beat in my ears.
I grasp it, open it.
Beautiful, thick linen paper, cream. Precisely, perfectly looping, slanting lines, black.
“I’m leaving. It’s not you. I love you. I can’t take your sister or brother anymore.”
Three sheets crowded with awful details weigh so much in my hands.
Three sheets.
“It’s not you”
But it could be.
I might fail.
Might be me who breaks a rule
Or your heart.
Next time it might be my difficulties
That drive you to your sister’s house
And start the weeks of aching silence,
Then the awkward visitations,
Meeting for lunch like work friends,
Not like mother and daughter.
I missed you so much.
If it were him, I would understand.
I hate him sometimes, too.
Storming about the house, raging at the world, or us.
Letting his permanently-pregnant gut
Spill over his sagging pants.
I would have understood.
But I will never, ever understand a mother
Leaving her child.
“It’s not you.”
But it could be me.
Next time.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Mama Bear
Tripping down the subterranean hallway,
Plaid skirt swishing about my knees
I climb the six steps to the kitchen light,
Mary Janes sinking into shaggy brown nap.
I should have noticed the missing person-noises, the absence of fresh cigarette smoke,
But I don’t.
With a day of stories ready to burst out of my mouth, I skip into the kitchen.
I see nothing but the cream envelope lying on the table.
Without reason to, I already know.
I wheeze. Small hands shake more than usual
My heartbeat leaves my chest and takes up a tom-tom beat in my ears.
I grasp it, open it.
Beautiful, thick linen paper, cream. Precisely, perfectly looping, slanting lines, black.
“I’m leaving. It’s not you. I love you. I can’t take your sister or brother anymore.”
Three sheets weigh so much in my hands,
Sharing details that weigh far too much more.
Three sheets.
“It’s not you”
But it could be.
I might fail.
Might be me who breaks a rule
Or your heart.
Next time it might be my difficulties
That drive you to your sister’s house
And start the weeks of aching silence,
Then the awkward visitations,
Meeting for lunch like work friends,
Not like mother and daughter.
If it were him, I would understand.
I hate him sometimes, too.
His rages, his poor speech, his bulging gut.
I would understand.
But I will never, ever understand a mama bear
Leaving her cubs
“It’s not you.”
But it could be me.
Next time.
Plaid skirt swishing about my knees
I climb the six steps to the kitchen light,
Mary Janes sinking into shaggy brown nap.
I should have noticed the missing person-noises, the absence of fresh cigarette smoke,
But I don’t.
With a day of stories ready to burst out of my mouth, I skip into the kitchen.
I see nothing but the cream envelope lying on the table.
Without reason to, I already know.
I wheeze. Small hands shake more than usual
My heartbeat leaves my chest and takes up a tom-tom beat in my ears.
I grasp it, open it.
Beautiful, thick linen paper, cream. Precisely, perfectly looping, slanting lines, black.
“I’m leaving. It’s not you. I love you. I can’t take your sister or brother anymore.”
Three sheets weigh so much in my hands,
Sharing details that weigh far too much more.
Three sheets.
“It’s not you”
But it could be.
I might fail.
Might be me who breaks a rule
Or your heart.
Next time it might be my difficulties
That drive you to your sister’s house
And start the weeks of aching silence,
Then the awkward visitations,
Meeting for lunch like work friends,
Not like mother and daughter.
If it were him, I would understand.
I hate him sometimes, too.
His rages, his poor speech, his bulging gut.
I would understand.
But I will never, ever understand a mama bear
Leaving her cubs
“It’s not you.”
But it could be me.
Next time.
Friday, January 22, 2010
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