i know an english gentleman. he lives near darlington, a place i do not know well, but am fond of nonetheless. i met him nearly two years ago, at the train station. it was merely a brief visit snatched on the journey from london to edinburgh. my aunt and cousins and i hopped off the train and had tea with him and his wife.
when he was a boy, he would watch the planes that flew overhead during world war ii. he knew them all by heart. except one. the plane that flew only at night. many years later, he made use of the internet and found it. the p61 black widow.
he posted his puzzlement on a forum, my great uncle, who had been on the crew for one of the planes, responded, and a correspondence was established. thanks to this seemingly coincidental connection, we had a new friend to make.
a tall, slender man with close-cropped silver hair and yellowed glasses. a navy blue "woolly pully" sweater, dark trouseers, an army green coat. a jaunty black cap, brimmed, trimmed with black braid. his shoulder bag is also army green, with a spitfire printed on the flap. twinkling eyes and a sweet smile. he has seen much, done much, and seems good-natured about it all.
his wife is quieter, but just as sweet in her red wool coat with gold and enamel pins on the lapels. her glasses are round, her curly brown hair is short and greying.
12.29.2011
11.22.2011
Q&A: Strategic Windows
Q
Allie on Masterpieces: I am a bit confused though... yes, it is good to have a window strategy when writing a short story, or no, it is not and we have to give a tour of the whole house?
A
Yes! The lovely thing about short stories is their versatility - you can do just about anything with them. You don't have to follow the window strategy, but it's something I noticed many authors use (whether they mean to or not). Full tours can be nice, but there's something intriguing about just taking a glance. It leaves more to the imagination and therefore engages the reader to a greater extent, leaves them wondering about the possibilities. I see it as walking past someone's house and seeing the family at dinner and making up stories about everyone.
-
I kind of like the idea of doing a series of Q&A posts. If you guys have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. :)
Allie on Masterpieces: I am a bit confused though... yes, it is good to have a window strategy when writing a short story, or no, it is not and we have to give a tour of the whole house?
A
Yes! The lovely thing about short stories is their versatility - you can do just about anything with them. You don't have to follow the window strategy, but it's something I noticed many authors use (whether they mean to or not). Full tours can be nice, but there's something intriguing about just taking a glance. It leaves more to the imagination and therefore engages the reader to a greater extent, leaves them wondering about the possibilities. I see it as walking past someone's house and seeing the family at dinner and making up stories about everyone.
-
I kind of like the idea of doing a series of Q&A posts. If you guys have any questions, don't hesitate to ask. :)
11.18.2011
Collect and Compress
Short stories. I've seen the various reactions they inspire - love 'em, hate 'em, scared to death of 'em. People generally think of short stories as miniature novels, with a complete outline of introduction, conflict, crisis, resolution, conclusion, etc. And I must admit I have also taught them as such. But the more I read and observe, the more I come to believe this pattern can be discarded. Many of the stories featured in the book I blogged about awhile ago simply dropped the reader smack into the middle of the goings on and took off. No background, no long-winded explanations, merely a blunt "this is a person, go have adventures with them" meeting.
I like short stories because they can communicate as much as a novel, but in a smaller package. They lend themselves well to concise language and crisp storytelling. A swift set of details, carefully collected and compressed, presenting a glance at someone's life.
I like short stories because they can communicate as much as a novel, but in a smaller package. They lend themselves well to concise language and crisp storytelling. A swift set of details, carefully collected and compressed, presenting a glance at someone's life.
“Authors never included the whole story, they just got to the point.”
- John Green, An Abundance of Katherines
11.17.2011
Roots, part ii
She had been rooted here for a long time. She had grown tall with the trees, stretching her arms to the sky, her feet sinking into the earth. She was happy. At least, she hadn’t noticed she was sad. Much time had passed. The neighbor had gone and taken his stereo with him, the stucco walls crumbled, the hills burned.
The burning was a painful thing for her to watch. The short scrub bushes died in a flash and a blaze as the fire tore its way over the hills, trampling the faded brown and the muted green and transforming them into ashy grey earth and broken tangles of charred black wood. Her beloved hills were ravaged and there was nothing she could do. So she stood and watched and wept leafy tears.
Only the palm trees remained. They still surrounded her yard, swaying over the ruins of the walls. She had loved the palm trees, their quiet chatter among themselves and with the wind. They had grown tall and slender, their hair cascading over their shoulders. They danced with the wind and would not speak to her. Everyone had gone or grown or crumbled. She was alone in the land she loved so well.
11.10.2011
Roots
She lay on the bed, slowly willing herself awake. The air was still and dry. Getting up, she rubbed her eyes, touched her hair. She walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. She sat on the counter and drank it, staring out the open window at the faded brown hills. Someone next door was playing the stereo. Blurred music, indistinct sound waves, a song she knew but couldn't recognize.
She slid off the counter, the tile floor cool under her feet as she walked to the sliding glass door. It opened with a rattle and she passed through. Outside, she sat cross-legged on the dry grass, pressing her palms against the ground. Palm fronds rustled quietly against each other at the edge of the yard. She closed her eyes. She imagined roots growing from her hands, stretching and spreading into the ground, connecting her to the land she loved so well. She pictured them expanding, drinking, growing. Skimming close to the surface to be near the sun, diving deep for the cool water underground. The roots would spread all the way to the hills and she would stay here, cemented, and never have to leave. Always in the sunshine with the blue skies above and the quiet winds and the palm trees and the neighbor's stereo. There would be stucco walls and dry ground and it would be enough. She would be content.
She slid off the counter, the tile floor cool under her feet as she walked to the sliding glass door. It opened with a rattle and she passed through. Outside, she sat cross-legged on the dry grass, pressing her palms against the ground. Palm fronds rustled quietly against each other at the edge of the yard. She closed her eyes. She imagined roots growing from her hands, stretching and spreading into the ground, connecting her to the land she loved so well. She pictured them expanding, drinking, growing. Skimming close to the surface to be near the sun, diving deep for the cool water underground. The roots would spread all the way to the hills and she would stay here, cemented, and never have to leave. Always in the sunshine with the blue skies above and the quiet winds and the palm trees and the neighbor's stereo. There would be stucco walls and dry ground and it would be enough. She would be content.
9.23.2011
the smell of a story
the shower has moved on, carrying its fat droplets with it and leaving a moisture thick enough to see. a smell of wet asphalt and a hint of cigarette smoke linger in the air, teasing my nostrils. they hint at a story that is not my own, a story i can never read.
9.13.2011
the out-of-context hipster
i sneak my hand around the table and snitch one of nathan's fries. he doesn't notice, he's too busy wolfing his animal style burger. i grin to myself, wondering what he would have done if he had caught me. probably just glared in his 11 year old way.
i happen to glance up and i see a young man. i study him for the few seconds it takes him to reach his seat at the table next to ours. something about his face is intriguing. sandy, tousled hair rests above lean, elegant bone structure. his blue button-up shirt (chambray?) and the neckcloth lend him an air of "i'm not from around here."
he doesn't look the type, but hey - everybody loves in-n-out.
i happen to glance up and i see a young man. i study him for the few seconds it takes him to reach his seat at the table next to ours. something about his face is intriguing. sandy, tousled hair rests above lean, elegant bone structure. his blue button-up shirt (chambray?) and the neckcloth lend him an air of "i'm not from around here."
he doesn't look the type, but hey - everybody loves in-n-out.
9.03.2011
Mixed Gourmet Fruit
Ignoring the plate nearby, she stabs the fork into the plastic bowl of fruit. She eats the cantaloupe first because there is too much of it. Then the honeydew; she likes honeydew. The blueberry is tasteless and the strawberry is sour. She sits and stares idly out the window, twirling the fork in her hand. Vague thoughts about sentences and American lit wander through her mind. She glances down and finds a piece of mango. This is something worth savoring. She digs around for another piece, but there is only one more, so she eats it slowly and thinks about orange fruit and how nice it all is. Cantaloupe, mangoes, clementines, oranges. Oranges are redundant. She tries the pineapple and it is sweet. Several pieces later, she is snapping the lid back onto the container and reading the label. "Pineapple (Costa Rica)." She has a friend from Costa Rica. There is a punctuation error, it should be "its," not "it's." People are always putting apostrophes where they don't belong.
8.30.2011
"Masterpieces"
I've been reading short stories. One night last month, I babysat for my brother and sister-in-law while they went out for their anniversary. They came home at midnight and he handed me a paperback chunk of a book. "To say thank you." American Short Story Masterpieces.
That's one of the things I've always loved about my brother. He could just as easily have handed me money or a trinket or nothing at all. But he brought me a book. Specifically, a book he had read and enjoyed and appreciated. So they went to Powell's and he found the same book and he bought it for me because he knows I appreciate books and I trust his taste in them.
I've been reading my way through it ever since then. In airplanes, on porch swings, at kitchen tables. Some stories I like better than others, but there are none I truly dislike. Even if I don't care for the story itself, I can still appreciate the crafting of it.
As I've been reading, I've been noticing. Most of them center around some sad theme, whether it is a death, a broken marriage, or some other hard occurrence. In a writing class, we called them universal truths - a grand, sweeping name for a gritty reality. The majority of these stories contain little hope. Characters wrestle with their troubles all alone, the end of the tale coming before a solid resolution is found.
I suppose this is one of the characteristics of a short story. It is, after all, only a quick glance through a window into someone's life. We never see the whole interior, just one room. Perhaps our fictional friends and acquaintances and enemies go on to discover better things. But from what we do see, there is no evidence of true joy. And it makes me wonder if the authors were also lacking the hope they never gave to their characters.
Read the book: American Short Story Masterpieces, Edited by Raymond Carver and Tom Jenks
That's one of the things I've always loved about my brother. He could just as easily have handed me money or a trinket or nothing at all. But he brought me a book. Specifically, a book he had read and enjoyed and appreciated. So they went to Powell's and he found the same book and he bought it for me because he knows I appreciate books and I trust his taste in them.
I've been reading my way through it ever since then. In airplanes, on porch swings, at kitchen tables. Some stories I like better than others, but there are none I truly dislike. Even if I don't care for the story itself, I can still appreciate the crafting of it.
As I've been reading, I've been noticing. Most of them center around some sad theme, whether it is a death, a broken marriage, or some other hard occurrence. In a writing class, we called them universal truths - a grand, sweeping name for a gritty reality. The majority of these stories contain little hope. Characters wrestle with their troubles all alone, the end of the tale coming before a solid resolution is found.
I suppose this is one of the characteristics of a short story. It is, after all, only a quick glance through a window into someone's life. We never see the whole interior, just one room. Perhaps our fictional friends and acquaintances and enemies go on to discover better things. But from what we do see, there is no evidence of true joy. And it makes me wonder if the authors were also lacking the hope they never gave to their characters.
Read the book: American Short Story Masterpieces, Edited by Raymond Carver and Tom Jenks
7.30.2011
seeing in black and white
curled up on the swing, swaying aimlessly in the breeze. unfinished thoughts wander through her mind. thoughts of american prose and black and white photos, thoughts of similar times gone by, thoughts of everything changing and nothing changing. time telescopes and in the grand scheme of things, it all looks the same. a smell hovers in the air, a smell of grass and sunshine and 20-year-old paperbacks.
6.15.2011
clean windows
those who are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head
i move silently, putting my room back together. silk flowers and old books, a glass lamp and a battered desk. the door is open and the sky is grey and i shiver. i go about opening windows and soon the whirr of a lawn mower and echoes of classical music are competing in my ears. chilled, i lift my head and for a moment i smell the sea.
i move silently, putting my room back together. silk flowers and old books, a glass lamp and a battered desk. the door is open and the sky is grey and i shiver. i go about opening windows and soon the whirr of a lawn mower and echoes of classical music are competing in my ears. chilled, i lift my head and for a moment i smell the sea.
6.03.2011
It's Such a Perfect Day
Lovers, keep on the road you're on. Runners, until the race is run. Soldiers, you've got to soldier on. Sometimes even right is wrong.
Step step step. I come around the circle and decide not to go the long way; there are sketchy looking Mexicans loitering by the picnic tables. I pass a group of four young kids hanging out in the shadow of the power line pole. I wonder briefly why I never did anything like that when I was their age and then I remember it was because I only had one friend in the neighborhood and she moved away.
When it started, we had high hopes. Now my back's on the line, my back's on the ropes. When it started, we were all right, but night makes a fool of us in daylight.
The sun beats on my shoulders as the music beats in my head. I cross the parking lot, hearing a flicker of sound from the lone blue car. My feet grate against the gravel and then up the dirt slope. As long as the music plays, I can't stop. It pushes me, drives me forward. I always walk longer, farther than I intended. It dictates. I vary my pace as Coldplay varies the beat.
If you'd only, if you'd only say yes. Whether you will 's anybody's guess.
I pass the discarded slice of pizza for the third time. A push to crest the hill, then a descent into the desert of the sunburned field. I pause to wrestle a foxtail out of my sock and my foot quivers at the inactivity. I move forward as soon as possible.
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word. Now in the mornin' I sleep alone, sweep the streets I used to own.
Suddenly I'm grinning as I remember a hurried walk through a back hallway and the sound of a dozen homeschool boys on the stage singing their lungs out while one dominated the piano. Long live life. The steepness of the hill in front of me brings me back to reality, but I'm still wondering if Roman cavalries actually had choirs.
That was when I ruled the world.
I cut across the figure eight and notice a bit of pvc sticking out of the ground. A sharp turn to the left and my feet hit the sidewalk. I run, the smoothness of the pavement demanding it. Past the daycare, dodge the fire hydrant. Even pace, breathe, breathe, breathe. Past the bus stop, slowing to a walk around the turn. The shade of the ficus tree is a cold relief. Sunshine again and my stride is relaxing as I near home. It feels like every inch of me is wet and the cord of my iPod is itchy against my back. But I am happy.
If you love me, won't you let me know?
Step step step. I come around the circle and decide not to go the long way; there are sketchy looking Mexicans loitering by the picnic tables. I pass a group of four young kids hanging out in the shadow of the power line pole. I wonder briefly why I never did anything like that when I was their age and then I remember it was because I only had one friend in the neighborhood and she moved away.
When it started, we had high hopes. Now my back's on the line, my back's on the ropes. When it started, we were all right, but night makes a fool of us in daylight.
The sun beats on my shoulders as the music beats in my head. I cross the parking lot, hearing a flicker of sound from the lone blue car. My feet grate against the gravel and then up the dirt slope. As long as the music plays, I can't stop. It pushes me, drives me forward. I always walk longer, farther than I intended. It dictates. I vary my pace as Coldplay varies the beat.
If you'd only, if you'd only say yes. Whether you will 's anybody's guess.
I pass the discarded slice of pizza for the third time. A push to crest the hill, then a descent into the desert of the sunburned field. I pause to wrestle a foxtail out of my sock and my foot quivers at the inactivity. I move forward as soon as possible.
I used to rule the world, seas would rise when I gave the word. Now in the mornin' I sleep alone, sweep the streets I used to own.
Suddenly I'm grinning as I remember a hurried walk through a back hallway and the sound of a dozen homeschool boys on the stage singing their lungs out while one dominated the piano. Long live life. The steepness of the hill in front of me brings me back to reality, but I'm still wondering if Roman cavalries actually had choirs.
That was when I ruled the world.
I cut across the figure eight and notice a bit of pvc sticking out of the ground. A sharp turn to the left and my feet hit the sidewalk. I run, the smoothness of the pavement demanding it. Past the daycare, dodge the fire hydrant. Even pace, breathe, breathe, breathe. Past the bus stop, slowing to a walk around the turn. The shade of the ficus tree is a cold relief. Sunshine again and my stride is relaxing as I near home. It feels like every inch of me is wet and the cord of my iPod is itchy against my back. But I am happy.
If you love me, won't you let me know?
4.29.2011
Dear Reader
Dear Reader,
I miss you. I miss writing for you.
I'm not sure what happened recently, but I haven't had any words. I've been living in a sort of limbo and I'm not sure how to get out.
I know I need to do something, I just don't know what.
Part of it may be laziness, I grant you. But I know that isn't all of it. So I'm lurking about until I find something.
Don't worry, though. You haven't seen the last of me.
Love,
-j
I miss you. I miss writing for you.
I'm not sure what happened recently, but I haven't had any words. I've been living in a sort of limbo and I'm not sure how to get out.
I know I need to do something, I just don't know what.
Part of it may be laziness, I grant you. But I know that isn't all of it. So I'm lurking about until I find something.
Don't worry, though. You haven't seen the last of me.
Love,
-j
Sharp, Blunt, Solid
Real, solid writing leaves me hanging and wanting to do something.
Anything.
Writing without fear, without fuss or frills.
Blunt.
Sharp.
I found real writing today. "Real" in the fullest, strongest, sharpest sense of the word.
It's stunning.
Ask me for the link, I want to give it to you personally.
Anything.
Writing without fear, without fuss or frills.
Blunt.
Sharp.
I found real writing today. "Real" in the fullest, strongest, sharpest sense of the word.
It's stunning.
Ask me for the link, I want to give it to you personally.
4.24.2011
Detached and Disarranged
I'm tired.
I'm detached and disarranged.
I want a roast beef sandwich.
What is writing?
It is impossible to write without putting yourself into it.
No matter what it is, there must be some element of truth in it, because you put yourself into it.
But you are not truth.
I dursn't start philosophizing, it won't end well.
I'm detached and disarranged.
I'm tired.
Don't listen to me.
Just bring me a sub sandwich with everything except tomatoes.
I need salt.
I'm tired.
I'm detached and disarranged.
I'm detached and disarranged.
I want a roast beef sandwich.
What is writing?
It is impossible to write without putting yourself into it.
No matter what it is, there must be some element of truth in it, because you put yourself into it.
But you are not truth.
I dursn't start philosophizing, it won't end well.
I'm detached and disarranged.
I'm tired.
Don't listen to me.
Just bring me a sub sandwich with everything except tomatoes.
I need salt.
I'm tired.
I'm detached and disarranged.
4.16.2011
Four Years Ago
I lay on my bed, staring at nothing. This didn't happen. How could it? It just...it just...couldn't. Friends. Friends don't...die. Not the friends who took riding lessons with you. Not the friends who laughed at your Gollum impressions. Not the friends with the explosively curly hair. They can't. They don't. They shouldn't.
But sometimes they do.
*
3/20
I called Aj yesterday. No answer. There was a different message on the machine. An automated thing. I haven't talked to her in a long time. No church, no horse, no phone, no email. I hope she hasn't fallen off the face of the earth or anything!
3/26
Aj was in the hospital. Viral meningitis. Last Thursday we went to visit her. She would laugh and joke with me, but she had a sort of glazed over look. And when she tried to walk (I was behind her, so I couldn't really see), Mom said she was crossing her feet something fierce. Her dad was in front of her and the nurse was beside her helping her to walk. And everybody kept saying she was a lot better.
She came home on Friday and Mom is gonna call her to see if she feels good enough to come and watch at horse today. I'm gonna call Ami and see if she can ride Fini today.
I remember that day. I had been to StateLine Tack earlier, so I took my new gloves and riding crop in to show her. She admired them and we talked. She said she got to watch a lot of movies. Eragon was one of them. I hadn't seen it yet, so I asked her how she liked it and I don't remember what she said.
Life went on as usual for awhile. I exercised the horses while our trainer was out of town, riding Pronator and turning Fini out since Aj couldn't come to ride her. I didn't write in my journal for awhile because I was down with chicken pox. (For the second time. Go figure.)
4/12
Aj has cancer. The docs say it'll be a miracle if she pulls through. So that's what I'm praying for. A miracle. God's done it before, He can do it again. Yesterday I wrote emails to Hannah V., Karen, AG and Amy H., asking them to pray for her. [...] If I had been Cordel last night, my eyes would have been green as the hills of Ireland. It was the first time I'd cried throughout the whole thing. I hope the next time I cry will be tears of joy that she's been healed. [Mention of a story I was working on.] I hope Aj will get to read the whole story when it's finished. Lord ha' mercy, I don't want to lose her! Please heal her, Lord, please! Sandi left a message that she wanted to give us an update from Hector's visit. I called Mom on her cell and she said she'd call Sandi. The folks dropped off the big truck at the dealership the other day to have it serviced. They went to pick it up today and Mom said she's going out to the hospital afterwards.
4/26
[...] We have news that some of the cancer is "melting away." 3 cheers for Aj!!! Mom said we might go to see her today before horse. [...]
4/28
[...] The main prayer requests for Aj are for strength and for her vision to return to normal. Apparently all she can see is silhouettes.
5/4
Quatro de Mayo. :) We leave tomorrow. Wednesday we went to Children's, saw the fam. Before we left, Emma (Aj's grandma) went in and told Aj we were there (she had been asleep when we arrived) and Emma said Aj said "Oh! Tell Jennette I'll call her soon as I can." :) Goofy girl o' mine. So she must have been feeling better. :) Mom told 'em her cell phone number and said no matter when she feels like it, Aj can call. 'at's my girl. After Wednesday's radiation treatment, they were going to move her to Kaiser - that's where their insurance is.
She never improved enough to call. I've searched my journal, but can find no reference to what happened afterwards. Some things can't be put into words.
*
I rubbed my eyes. They were red and aching from all the tears washing over them. It was so hard to believe. Just a short time ago, she had been riding with me in the arena, sweating in the sun and the dust. And now she was gone. Poof. No more.
Dust.
I didn't go to the memorial service. I could've, but I didn't. I don't remember why. I still haven't seen Eragon.
But sometimes they do.
*
3/20
I called Aj yesterday. No answer. There was a different message on the machine. An automated thing. I haven't talked to her in a long time. No church, no horse, no phone, no email. I hope she hasn't fallen off the face of the earth or anything!
3/26
Aj was in the hospital. Viral meningitis. Last Thursday we went to visit her. She would laugh and joke with me, but she had a sort of glazed over look. And when she tried to walk (I was behind her, so I couldn't really see), Mom said she was crossing her feet something fierce. Her dad was in front of her and the nurse was beside her helping her to walk. And everybody kept saying she was a lot better.
She came home on Friday and Mom is gonna call her to see if she feels good enough to come and watch at horse today. I'm gonna call Ami and see if she can ride Fini today.
I remember that day. I had been to StateLine Tack earlier, so I took my new gloves and riding crop in to show her. She admired them and we talked. She said she got to watch a lot of movies. Eragon was one of them. I hadn't seen it yet, so I asked her how she liked it and I don't remember what she said.
Life went on as usual for awhile. I exercised the horses while our trainer was out of town, riding Pronator and turning Fini out since Aj couldn't come to ride her. I didn't write in my journal for awhile because I was down with chicken pox. (For the second time. Go figure.)
4/12
Aj has cancer. The docs say it'll be a miracle if she pulls through. So that's what I'm praying for. A miracle. God's done it before, He can do it again. Yesterday I wrote emails to Hannah V., Karen, AG and Amy H., asking them to pray for her. [...] If I had been Cordel last night, my eyes would have been green as the hills of Ireland. It was the first time I'd cried throughout the whole thing. I hope the next time I cry will be tears of joy that she's been healed. [Mention of a story I was working on.] I hope Aj will get to read the whole story when it's finished. Lord ha' mercy, I don't want to lose her! Please heal her, Lord, please! Sandi left a message that she wanted to give us an update from Hector's visit. I called Mom on her cell and she said she'd call Sandi. The folks dropped off the big truck at the dealership the other day to have it serviced. They went to pick it up today and Mom said she's going out to the hospital afterwards.
4/26
[...] We have news that some of the cancer is "melting away." 3 cheers for Aj!!! Mom said we might go to see her today before horse. [...]
4/28
[...] The main prayer requests for Aj are for strength and for her vision to return to normal. Apparently all she can see is silhouettes.
5/4
Quatro de Mayo. :) We leave tomorrow. Wednesday we went to Children's, saw the fam. Before we left, Emma (Aj's grandma) went in and told Aj we were there (she had been asleep when we arrived) and Emma said Aj said "Oh! Tell Jennette I'll call her soon as I can." :) Goofy girl o' mine. So she must have been feeling better. :) Mom told 'em her cell phone number and said no matter when she feels like it, Aj can call. 'at's my girl. After Wednesday's radiation treatment, they were going to move her to Kaiser - that's where their insurance is.
She never improved enough to call. I've searched my journal, but can find no reference to what happened afterwards. Some things can't be put into words.
*
I rubbed my eyes. They were red and aching from all the tears washing over them. It was so hard to believe. Just a short time ago, she had been riding with me in the arena, sweating in the sun and the dust. And now she was gone. Poof. No more.
Dust.
I didn't go to the memorial service. I could've, but I didn't. I don't remember why. I still haven't seen Eragon.
4.13.2011
Fire Days
I caught a whiff of smoke the other day. Not unusual, since we heat our house with a wood stove. But this whiff was different. Just the right sort of wood was burning, just the right amount of smoke assailed my nostrils. It drifted in through the skylight as I was washing my hands and suddenly I was frozen. I knew that smell. It was the smell of a hundred burning hills. It was the smell of destruction, of crackling pines, of ash-filled air. It was the smell of a burning state.
When people think of Southern California, they usually equate it with movie stars, palm trees, and glamor. Maybe even the Beach Boys. Sure, we've got that stuff. But that's not all, brother. There are palm trees on the coast, but drive an hour east and you're in the desert. Not high or flat desert, you have to go further for those. This is different. This an arid land of tall hills covered with boulders and short, scrubby bushes. Shaggy oaks and tumbleweeds. In the rainy season, it's gorgeous. The hills are frosted with grass and the wildflowers bloom. New growth shows up everywhere. It lasts for a month or two. Then the rain stops, the wind blows, and the sun beats down. Soon the hills are brown, dry, barren. The perfect tinderbox. Every few years, some drunken fool messes around in the middle of nowhere and starts a spark. This spark leads to a flame, the flame leads to a fire, and before you know it, half the county is ablaze.
The trees were blackened, the grass disappeared, smoke filled the air for miles. Hundreds of houses were reduced to rubble as the fire scorched across the hills and forayed into the outlying towns. Trapped in the house for days on end, I paced from room to room staring through the windows. The sky was not blue. That friendly expanse was replaced with a stranger; a nasty gray overcast tinged with sickly yellow, hovering close over the rooftops. Breathing was difficult in those days. The only options were stuffy, recycled air inside, or thick, choking air outside. The smell of smoke was everywhere and ash covered everything. We kept one eye on the news, one eye on the weather. We prayed for rain.
When people think of Southern California, they usually equate it with movie stars, palm trees, and glamor. Maybe even the Beach Boys. Sure, we've got that stuff. But that's not all, brother. There are palm trees on the coast, but drive an hour east and you're in the desert. Not high or flat desert, you have to go further for those. This is different. This an arid land of tall hills covered with boulders and short, scrubby bushes. Shaggy oaks and tumbleweeds. In the rainy season, it's gorgeous. The hills are frosted with grass and the wildflowers bloom. New growth shows up everywhere. It lasts for a month or two. Then the rain stops, the wind blows, and the sun beats down. Soon the hills are brown, dry, barren. The perfect tinderbox. Every few years, some drunken fool messes around in the middle of nowhere and starts a spark. This spark leads to a flame, the flame leads to a fire, and before you know it, half the county is ablaze.
The trees were blackened, the grass disappeared, smoke filled the air for miles. Hundreds of houses were reduced to rubble as the fire scorched across the hills and forayed into the outlying towns. Trapped in the house for days on end, I paced from room to room staring through the windows. The sky was not blue. That friendly expanse was replaced with a stranger; a nasty gray overcast tinged with sickly yellow, hovering close over the rooftops. Breathing was difficult in those days. The only options were stuffy, recycled air inside, or thick, choking air outside. The smell of smoke was everywhere and ash covered everything. We kept one eye on the news, one eye on the weather. We prayed for rain.
3.31.2011
Three Years Ago
The Cryptozoologist
I open the door gingerly, magazine tucked under my arm. This building is new to me, I'm not entirely sure where I am. Ah, the common room. This is what I was looking for. But there's already someone here, one of the residents. She glances up as I slide into the dark room. I claim a chair near the door and sit in silence, watching the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe with this college girl I've never met.
Joel had wanted a chance to talk to Swaagh, so he asked me if I minded adjourning for a bit. I didn't. He said there was a short story I should read, so he gave it to me, along with directions to the common room. I'm always happy to read, so I came willingly.
Soon, the credits roll and she sits up to switch on the lamp. She collects her dvd and smiles at me as she leaves. I get up and take the vacated place on the couch. It's wonderfully squishy. Holding The New Yorker under the light, I find my place and settle in to read The Cryptozoologist for the first time.
I open the door gingerly, magazine tucked under my arm. This building is new to me, I'm not entirely sure where I am. Ah, the common room. This is what I was looking for. But there's already someone here, one of the residents. She glances up as I slide into the dark room. I claim a chair near the door and sit in silence, watching the end of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe with this college girl I've never met.
Joel had wanted a chance to talk to Swaagh, so he asked me if I minded adjourning for a bit. I didn't. He said there was a short story I should read, so he gave it to me, along with directions to the common room. I'm always happy to read, so I came willingly.
Soon, the credits roll and she sits up to switch on the lamp. She collects her dvd and smiles at me as she leaves. I get up and take the vacated place on the couch. It's wonderfully squishy. Holding The New Yorker under the light, I find my place and settle in to read The Cryptozoologist for the first time.
3.30.2011
Conspiratorially
The bear sat at his usual table in the back. Perhaps you may be thinking "Bears don't sit at tables," but I tell you, my obstinate young reader, this one did. He was just finishing his platter of fish and chips, busily wiping the oil off his paws. A young fox came up to clear away the dishes.
"Evenin', sir. Anythin' else I can get for you?"
The bear looked up at her. "Yeh're new here, aren't yeh?"
"Yes, sir," she smiled, balancing her tray of dishes.
"Hm," grunted the bear. "Nothin' else for now."
"Right, then. Give a shout if you need anythin'."
As she walked away, the bear pulled a pipe from the pocket of his trousers and began the ritual of filling it.
"Ken, yeh old skipper!"
The bear looked up again as his name was called from the front room. "Hullo, Ted."
"Thought I might find you here," the red fox dropped his derby hat on the table and pulled up a chair. "I've got a proposition for yeh, mate."
Ken struck a match and held it to his pipe. "And what might that be?"
"A pint over 'ere, lassie!" The fox leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Conspiracy, man."
"Conspiracy."
"That's right. Yeh know yeh want to go back to sea."
"What the devil are yeh talkin' about?"
"The Conspiracy. Callahan's old ship. She's just up for sale now. I'm thinkin' yerself, me, a good crew an' all the sunlit seas yeh can imagine. The world's at our doorstep, mate."
The bear leaned back, eyes on his friend's sharp, eager face. "Yeh're mad, Ted, yeh know that."
Ted grinned. "Mebbe I am. But think about it. D'yeh really want to spend the rest o' yer life rottin' away here on land, lettin' moss grow on yer back? What happened to yer sense of adventure?"
There was a long moment of silence while Ken took a draw at his pipe and Ted fiddled with his hat, waiting. Finally, he took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it absently against the table.
"How much does she cost?"
"Evenin', sir. Anythin' else I can get for you?"
The bear looked up at her. "Yeh're new here, aren't yeh?"
"Yes, sir," she smiled, balancing her tray of dishes.
"Hm," grunted the bear. "Nothin' else for now."
"Right, then. Give a shout if you need anythin'."
As she walked away, the bear pulled a pipe from the pocket of his trousers and began the ritual of filling it.
"Ken, yeh old skipper!"
The bear looked up again as his name was called from the front room. "Hullo, Ted."
"Thought I might find you here," the red fox dropped his derby hat on the table and pulled up a chair. "I've got a proposition for yeh, mate."
Ken struck a match and held it to his pipe. "And what might that be?"
"A pint over 'ere, lassie!" The fox leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Conspiracy, man."
"Conspiracy."
"That's right. Yeh know yeh want to go back to sea."
"What the devil are yeh talkin' about?"
"The Conspiracy. Callahan's old ship. She's just up for sale now. I'm thinkin' yerself, me, a good crew an' all the sunlit seas yeh can imagine. The world's at our doorstep, mate."
The bear leaned back, eyes on his friend's sharp, eager face. "Yeh're mad, Ted, yeh know that."
Ted grinned. "Mebbe I am. But think about it. D'yeh really want to spend the rest o' yer life rottin' away here on land, lettin' moss grow on yer back? What happened to yer sense of adventure?"
There was a long moment of silence while Ken took a draw at his pipe and Ted fiddled with his hat, waiting. Finally, he took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it absently against the table.
"How much does she cost?"
3.29.2011
On Top, On Edge
Have you ever watched a house being built from the ground up? I have. It's remarkable. I was there when my dad built my aunt's house, start to finish. I think I was about ten years old at the time, so I don't remember everything. But I know I was all over that place.
Running through the trenches before the foundation was poured.
Scootering over the slab, dodging bits of rebar.
Watching the walls go up. It was like seeing someone's skeleton being put together.
Writing my name on every bit of framing within my reach.
Perching at the top of the stairs before the second story was in, looking out over the lagoon.
Snickering at the dead seal washed up on the shore below a high-class housing development.
Looking on as my brother perfected the art of getting a running start on the second floor to launch a rock all the way down to the water.
Sitting cross-legged on a stack of plywood in the master bedroom, eating a sub sandwich.
But the best part? The best part was running the scaffolding. It was simple. A wiggle out of a window, a jaunt across the garage roof, a hop onto the boards and I was off. The guardrails were tall; I was never afraid. I liked being up on top of things. It was a curious feeling of being on an edge, yet feeling perfectly safe. Adults were generally astounded at...well, I'm not sure what. It might have been my fondness for it, or my daring. They might have just been shocked my parents would allow such things. Whatever it was, it surprised them. But Dad just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Every one of us kids has grown up on the jobsite and we haven't lost one yet.
Running through the trenches before the foundation was poured.
Scootering over the slab, dodging bits of rebar.
Watching the walls go up. It was like seeing someone's skeleton being put together.
Writing my name on every bit of framing within my reach.
Perching at the top of the stairs before the second story was in, looking out over the lagoon.
Snickering at the dead seal washed up on the shore below a high-class housing development.
Looking on as my brother perfected the art of getting a running start on the second floor to launch a rock all the way down to the water.
Sitting cross-legged on a stack of plywood in the master bedroom, eating a sub sandwich.
But the best part? The best part was running the scaffolding. It was simple. A wiggle out of a window, a jaunt across the garage roof, a hop onto the boards and I was off. The guardrails were tall; I was never afraid. I liked being up on top of things. It was a curious feeling of being on an edge, yet feeling perfectly safe. Adults were generally astounded at...well, I'm not sure what. It might have been my fondness for it, or my daring. They might have just been shocked my parents would allow such things. Whatever it was, it surprised them. But Dad just smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Every one of us kids has grown up on the jobsite and we haven't lost one yet.
Taco Bell Should Not Exist
"Beef taco, bean and cheese burrito. Extra hot sauce, please."
I have a great affinity for burritos. If I had to choose one food to eat for the rest of my life, it would probably be a burrito. The sheer variety of delectable options is reason enough - a good carne asada can knock your socks off and a machaca is one of the best breakfasts out there.
However, my personal favorite is the bean and cheese. Some people may order a straight bean burrito, but in my opinion, this is not the way to go. A bean burrito without cheese is like a writer without a pen. It just doesn't make sense. It is monotonous, regardless of how tasty the beans are. The cheese is necessary to add another texture, to introduce a new layer of flavor, to bring balance to the Force. A bean and cheese is true deliciousness in its simplest form. Because of this simplicity, the quality of the main ingredient must be outstanding. Good beans can often be hard to find.
There is a shack a few blocks from my house. It is shabby and painted orange and yellow in the garish Tijuana style; the menu board has been corrected with permanent marker and the taped-on intercom primarily conveys static. Out of this place comes the best beans I have ever tasted. I have no clear idea how the cooks make them, I assume they use delightful ingredients such as magic, lard, and salt. In general, they produce consistently fabulous Mexican food - did I mention the beef tacos? holy cow - and I have tried quite a bit of it. But no matter what I order and eat, I am never so contented afterwards as when I finish a bean and cheese burrito.
I have a great affinity for burritos. If I had to choose one food to eat for the rest of my life, it would probably be a burrito. The sheer variety of delectable options is reason enough - a good carne asada can knock your socks off and a machaca is one of the best breakfasts out there.
However, my personal favorite is the bean and cheese. Some people may order a straight bean burrito, but in my opinion, this is not the way to go. A bean burrito without cheese is like a writer without a pen. It just doesn't make sense. It is monotonous, regardless of how tasty the beans are. The cheese is necessary to add another texture, to introduce a new layer of flavor, to bring balance to the Force. A bean and cheese is true deliciousness in its simplest form. Because of this simplicity, the quality of the main ingredient must be outstanding. Good beans can often be hard to find.
There is a shack a few blocks from my house. It is shabby and painted orange and yellow in the garish Tijuana style; the menu board has been corrected with permanent marker and the taped-on intercom primarily conveys static. Out of this place comes the best beans I have ever tasted. I have no clear idea how the cooks make them, I assume they use delightful ingredients such as magic, lard, and salt. In general, they produce consistently fabulous Mexican food - did I mention the beef tacos? holy cow - and I have tried quite a bit of it. But no matter what I order and eat, I am never so contented afterwards as when I finish a bean and cheese burrito.
3.25.2011
a corkless jug of ink
the author s desk
i discovered archy and mehitabel in my lit book one day.
there was a poem and a brief bio of the author.
a cockroach and a cat and no punctuation?
i was intrigued, so i did some digging and stumbled on the don marquis website.
and then i was hooked.
i chose "the author s desk" because i thought it would be something we, as writers, could relate to.
because who doesn't have a jumble of odd things lying about?
whether it be on a desk or in a drawer on shelves in a closet (happy thought, indeed), the pile is there.
stray snacks, lost laundry, unfinished papers, forgotten photographs.
socks and songs and salad.
half-read books, ancient receipts, broken pens.
i like the image it presents
the picture is clear
the rhythm is easy to ken
it pleases the ear
the style is different
but the reason makes sense
archy certainly has made his defense
ahem.
for the record?
one should really not attempt writing rhymes at 11.30 at night.
it's not quite sane.
i discovered archy and mehitabel in my lit book one day.
there was a poem and a brief bio of the author.
a cockroach and a cat and no punctuation?
i was intrigued, so i did some digging and stumbled on the don marquis website.
and then i was hooked.
i chose "the author s desk" because i thought it would be something we, as writers, could relate to.
because who doesn't have a jumble of odd things lying about?
whether it be on a desk or in a drawer on shelves in a closet (happy thought, indeed), the pile is there.
stray snacks, lost laundry, unfinished papers, forgotten photographs.
socks and songs and salad.
half-read books, ancient receipts, broken pens.
i like the image it presents
the picture is clear
the rhythm is easy to ken
it pleases the ear
the style is different
but the reason makes sense
archy certainly has made his defense
ahem.
for the record?
one should really not attempt writing rhymes at 11.30 at night.
it's not quite sane.
3.23.2011
grass-stains and citrus
the orange is smooth and fits in my hand. i sit on my heels, balancing on the narrow strip of concrete surrounding what used to be the garden. it is currently a mound of grass clippings, ashes from the fireplace, and rotting oranges. i have been pulling weeds for the past hour. i don't know why. i didn't have to. i wanted to. i finished my work and was sitting in the grass and started absentmindedly tugging up the lanky stems of crabgrass. i had a pile before i even noticed. it rained the other day and the ground is still soft. now my hands are grubby and grass-stained.
the sun is warm on my back while a breeze plays with my already messy hair. it's peaceful out here. quiet. i dig my thumb into the top of the orange, slicing through and ripping off a chunk of the peel. juice drips over my fingers and it stings my skin. it's as if my hands are working automatically. thumb sneaks under the peel, grips it against the side of my index finger, pulls until it tears away from the rest of the rind. all in one memorized motion. the accompanying sound strikes my ears and it's all too familiar. part rip, part hiss. a sharp, fleshy sound.
soon the ground is littered with chunks of peel, their white insides bright in the sunlight. more juice is finding its way out, so i lift the orange to my lips and suck the fresh sweetness off the top. i think the sun would taste like citrus. i break the fruit in half and tear off a segment with my teeth. it's sweet. not the sweetest, these oranges are better for juicing, but it's fresh. i continue tearing and eating. the liquid is finding its way across my knuckles, trekking to my wrists. i finish the last segment and look down at my hands. grass-stained palms, juice dripping from my fingertips. i smile, gloating a little to myself. i live here.
the sun is warm on my back while a breeze plays with my already messy hair. it's peaceful out here. quiet. i dig my thumb into the top of the orange, slicing through and ripping off a chunk of the peel. juice drips over my fingers and it stings my skin. it's as if my hands are working automatically. thumb sneaks under the peel, grips it against the side of my index finger, pulls until it tears away from the rest of the rind. all in one memorized motion. the accompanying sound strikes my ears and it's all too familiar. part rip, part hiss. a sharp, fleshy sound.
soon the ground is littered with chunks of peel, their white insides bright in the sunlight. more juice is finding its way out, so i lift the orange to my lips and suck the fresh sweetness off the top. i think the sun would taste like citrus. i break the fruit in half and tear off a segment with my teeth. it's sweet. not the sweetest, these oranges are better for juicing, but it's fresh. i continue tearing and eating. the liquid is finding its way across my knuckles, trekking to my wrists. i finish the last segment and look down at my hands. grass-stained palms, juice dripping from my fingertips. i smile, gloating a little to myself. i live here.
3.22.2011
arbitrary punctuation
birthday balloon hangs
from the top bunk, drifting,
deflated mylar.
a growling engine.
we drive to the desert with
my feet on the dash.
ancient bindings and
worn pages tell their stories.
do not forget them.
you paint a picture
you're capturing an image
all in written words
choc'late mint wrappers
must always be refolded.
brothers teach me tricks.
from the top bunk, drifting,
deflated mylar.
a growling engine.
we drive to the desert with
my feet on the dash.
ancient bindings and
worn pages tell their stories.
do not forget them.
you paint a picture
you're capturing an image
all in written words
choc'late mint wrappers
must always be refolded.
brothers teach me tricks.
3.19.2011
Green and Yellow
Not entirely sportsy, I suppose. But when I think sports, I think football, and when I thought football, this game was at the top of my mind. Unfortunately, I don't remember any of the details of the actual game. I remember the people I watched it with, though, so that's what you get. :)
The room is dark, lit only by the projector. I sit with my feet on the table, a Henry Weinhard in my hand. Holding the bottle by the neck always makes me feel like I know what I'm doing. It's a silly thing, really. Something my brother taught me...probably when I was about ten years old. "You hold the bottle around the neck, that way your hand doesn't warm up the beer."
Yeah. Good to know.
We're here to watch the Auburn/Oregon BCS Championship game. Surrounded by Duck fans, I have just enough contrariness in me to consider playing devil's advocate. Unfinished comments about their logo being a big, fat O, or the relative toughness of a duck run through my head. But I don't say anything - partly because I do like the Ducks and mostly because I like my friends and I want to keep them. And my health. Also, I have to bear in mind that if I invited my mates over for a game and one of them started insulting my team, the same person would be out on the street in a heartbeat. We're talking football etiquette, here. Thou shalt not bash thy host's team. If you do, you won't get any snacks. And who wants that?
So I keep my snark to myself. I suck the foam off of my excessively enthusiastic root beer and try to help Amber understand how football works. Things are pretty relaxed, the noise of the crowd roaring and the players crashing into each other hovers just under the occasional outcry from Lucas or Ted. A call comes from the kitchen, "Pizza's ready." We each make our sporadic dashes to the table and conversation drops off until the next pizza comes out of the oven.
"What? There's a cowboy? Man, I totally wouldn't have had two slices of the other."
Amber grins up at me. "You should text Eric and tell him you have a cowboy."
"Haha! That wouldn't be confusing at all," I laugh as I return to my seat with my slice of Papa Murphy's cowboy pizza.
I randomly text the boys sitting on the next couch over and get excited game commentary in response. My aunt sends me a message saying something about the Cam Newton controversy. Things settle back to their previous state. There's a knock at the door and Enthusiasm walks in wearing a green sweatshirt and a yellow hat. Wait, is that...? Yup. It's a duck bill. The guys get up to greet him and Lucas laughs his approval.
"Yeah, I was on my way out the door and my mom handed it to me and I was like yes!"
I grin. He would. Jordan is nothing if not die-hard. There are frequent outbursts from the other couch now. It's always far more entertaining to watch a game with an excited fan.
Pretty soon, there's another knock and Sarah is sitting down at my left. Now I know Sarah is definitely outgoing, but I'm not sure how much of a Ducks fan she is. Either way, Oregon is her state, so I figure this should be good. I settle in and expect to enjoy myself, maybe do some shouting of my own.
"What? No!"
"YES!"
"Go go go go!"
"Aaaugh, run, you idiot."
"Oh, bad call."
"Wow. What's with all the Cam Newton commercials?"
"Oh, that's awkward."
"What the heck. That was a paint commercial?"
"Did not see that coming."
"Run, run, yes!"
"Aaaahhhthatwasbeautiful!"
The clock is ticking down and it's halftime sooner than I expect. Someone flips the lights on and the sound off and I get up to stretch. Lucas turns on some music and quite suddenly Ted is dancing to Maroon 5. Jordan is ditching us to go to another party for the second half, but as he walks out he leaves his goodbye ringing in the air.
"GO DUCKS!"
The room is dark, lit only by the projector. I sit with my feet on the table, a Henry Weinhard in my hand. Holding the bottle by the neck always makes me feel like I know what I'm doing. It's a silly thing, really. Something my brother taught me...probably when I was about ten years old. "You hold the bottle around the neck, that way your hand doesn't warm up the beer."
Yeah. Good to know.
We're here to watch the Auburn/Oregon BCS Championship game. Surrounded by Duck fans, I have just enough contrariness in me to consider playing devil's advocate. Unfinished comments about their logo being a big, fat O, or the relative toughness of a duck run through my head. But I don't say anything - partly because I do like the Ducks and mostly because I like my friends and I want to keep them. And my health. Also, I have to bear in mind that if I invited my mates over for a game and one of them started insulting my team, the same person would be out on the street in a heartbeat. We're talking football etiquette, here. Thou shalt not bash thy host's team. If you do, you won't get any snacks. And who wants that?
So I keep my snark to myself. I suck the foam off of my excessively enthusiastic root beer and try to help Amber understand how football works. Things are pretty relaxed, the noise of the crowd roaring and the players crashing into each other hovers just under the occasional outcry from Lucas or Ted. A call comes from the kitchen, "Pizza's ready." We each make our sporadic dashes to the table and conversation drops off until the next pizza comes out of the oven.
"What? There's a cowboy? Man, I totally wouldn't have had two slices of the other."
Amber grins up at me. "You should text Eric and tell him you have a cowboy."
"Haha! That wouldn't be confusing at all," I laugh as I return to my seat with my slice of Papa Murphy's cowboy pizza.
I randomly text the boys sitting on the next couch over and get excited game commentary in response. My aunt sends me a message saying something about the Cam Newton controversy. Things settle back to their previous state. There's a knock at the door and Enthusiasm walks in wearing a green sweatshirt and a yellow hat. Wait, is that...? Yup. It's a duck bill. The guys get up to greet him and Lucas laughs his approval.
"Yeah, I was on my way out the door and my mom handed it to me and I was like yes!"
I grin. He would. Jordan is nothing if not die-hard. There are frequent outbursts from the other couch now. It's always far more entertaining to watch a game with an excited fan.
Pretty soon, there's another knock and Sarah is sitting down at my left. Now I know Sarah is definitely outgoing, but I'm not sure how much of a Ducks fan she is. Either way, Oregon is her state, so I figure this should be good. I settle in and expect to enjoy myself, maybe do some shouting of my own.
"What? No!"
"YES!"
"Go go go go!"
"Aaaugh, run, you idiot."
"Oh, bad call."
"Wow. What's with all the Cam Newton commercials?"
"Oh, that's awkward."
"What the heck. That was a paint commercial?"
"Did not see that coming."
"Run, run, yes!"
"Aaaahhhthatwasbeautiful!"
The clock is ticking down and it's halftime sooner than I expect. Someone flips the lights on and the sound off and I get up to stretch. Lucas turns on some music and quite suddenly Ted is dancing to Maroon 5. Jordan is ditching us to go to another party for the second half, but as he walks out he leaves his goodbye ringing in the air.
"GO DUCKS!"
3.17.2011
Corned Beef
"Hey."
She looked up and her eyes widened slightly. Play it cool, she thought. "Oh, hello."
"What are you working on?" He sat down next to her, looking over her shoulder.
"It's..." she looked down at the paper. "I'm not sure. A shamrock? I guess I was just doodling."
"Well, it's certainly the day for it." He smiled. Her pen clattered to the floor and she rummaged hastily under the table, hiding her blushing face. When she emerged, they sat in silence for a moment.
"Would -"
"D'you - "
She laughed. "Sorry, go ahead."
"Do you like corned beef?"
"Oh yeah. It's odd, I usually crave salt the way most people crave sugar."
"I know a place with good beef and good bread. Would you like to go for a sandwich or something later on?"
She bit the inside of her lip briefly to prevent herself grinning like an idiot. "Well, I'm a fan of good beef. Sure. I'd love to."
He smiled and she nearly dropped her pen again. "I'll pick you up."
She looked up and her eyes widened slightly. Play it cool, she thought. "Oh, hello."
"What are you working on?" He sat down next to her, looking over her shoulder.
"It's..." she looked down at the paper. "I'm not sure. A shamrock? I guess I was just doodling."
"Well, it's certainly the day for it." He smiled. Her pen clattered to the floor and she rummaged hastily under the table, hiding her blushing face. When she emerged, they sat in silence for a moment.
"Would -"
"D'you - "
She laughed. "Sorry, go ahead."
"Do you like corned beef?"
"Oh yeah. It's odd, I usually crave salt the way most people crave sugar."
"I know a place with good beef and good bread. Would you like to go for a sandwich or something later on?"
She bit the inside of her lip briefly to prevent herself grinning like an idiot. "Well, I'm a fan of good beef. Sure. I'd love to."
He smiled and she nearly dropped her pen again. "I'll pick you up."
3.16.2011
The Armoury
I pushed open the door and stepped inside. A chill breeze blew in as the door swung shut behind me. A slim amount of light slid through the few windows, glinting on metal. I stared around, wide-eyed, trying to hide the grin spreading all over my face. Blades covered every possible space. Claymores hung nobly on the walls, cutlasses shouldered one another aside in barrels, broadswords silently demanded respect. Knives, daggers, and sgian dubhs jockeyed for position on every shelf. The low ceiling and the vast amount of sharp objects made the room seem smaller than it was. I kept my hands tight in my pockets and felt as if I should duck. Tartans and furs hung here and there, seemingly the only source of warmth in this cave of weaponry. I walked slowly to absorb everything. There was a dark man in one corner, polishing a rapier. He was dressed all in black, from his shirt with gathered sleeves to his trousers and knee-high boots. I knew he was watching me. I stopped to look at a sgian dubh, still keeping an eye on the man. He turned to place the rapier in a stand and I noticed his ponytail. Studying the knife - short blade, handle crafted from a deer's antler - I smiled to myself and knew I would have a story to tell.
3.13.2011
Coffee for Hannah
Hannah just shouted at me to write her something. So because she's my cousin and I love her...
*
I really have no idea how this happened.
Because I don't drink coffee.
I have had it, yes, when I'm with friends and we're at a coffee shop. But I don't make a point of drinking it.
--
The first time I ever purposefully ordered coffee was in Edinburgh. Betsy and Hannah and Auntie M and I had just finished the tramp down from the castle and were cold and hungry, so we ducked into a pub and sat down. We requested sticky toffee pudding (because if you go to Scotland and don't try sticky toffee pudding, you are an unintelligent being, probably more ape than human) and because I was in a new country and feeling moderately brave, I ordered a mocha. It was delivered in a tall (blue?) mug, with a saucer catching the ambitious drops that wanted to be drips. We ate the (phenomenal) sticky toffee pudding and I drank about half of the mocha. All I seem to remember about it was the chocolate being extremely rich. And it was from a pub in Scotland.
The second coffee based drink I ordered probably doesn't even count. We were in the van on the way back from the shoot at Powell's when Rowan decided to take us to Bipartisan. So to Bipartisan we went. Considering our group consisted of over a dozen photographers, there was a bit of difficulty just getting through the door. But we crowded in and the air was cool and the wood floor was rough. Being a newcomer in the land of coffee, I asked Justin what was good and he ordered us each a mocha milkshake. It was sweet and intense and bitter all at once.
The third coffee was from Fourbucks (a word which here means Starbucks). I discovered Clari was studying at the one approximately 15 minutes away from where I was staying. Since it was January and the last time I saw her was in July, I found it absolutely necessary to crash her study party. We sat and chatted until Rachel arrived and said something along the lines of "What are you doing here?!" At which point, I gave her a big hug and the three of us hung out and caught up. After an hour or so, we figured we should probably actually buy something so we wouldn't get kicked out. Clari texted me from ten feet away while Rachel and I stood in line and I paid for a caramel macchiato.
The fourth coffee I bought was at Mission ConneXion. (The X makes it more cool and famous.) That event deserves an entire post to itself, but the relevant part is when Amber and I were getting hungry and didn't have any food with us. We wandered aimlessly for awhile and then discovered we were near the coffee cart.
The fifth cup of coffee was a Kicker. Lauren and Amber and I were spending the day together, going to the bank, looking at the saddles at Coastal, eating sandwiches, and generally having randomly awesome adventures. We dropped off the cookies, and after we went to the library, it was decided that I needed to experience Dutch Bros. The only hard part was finding our way to the right one. We did get there, though. Once again, I relied on guidance of others to choose my beverage. Once again, I had good advice. I think I like Irish cream (flavored syrup).
--
And now here I sit, crunching salted almonds, typing away and sipping coffee sweetened with vanilla sugar. No cream, no chocolate, no milk. Granted, the coffee/sugar ratio is probably around 3/1. But I voluntarily poured it for myself. I chose to drink coffee when I had other options. Weird.
*
I really have no idea how this happened.
Because I don't drink coffee.
I have had it, yes, when I'm with friends and we're at a coffee shop. But I don't make a point of drinking it.
--
The first time I ever purposefully ordered coffee was in Edinburgh. Betsy and Hannah and Auntie M and I had just finished the tramp down from the castle and were cold and hungry, so we ducked into a pub and sat down. We requested sticky toffee pudding (because if you go to Scotland and don't try sticky toffee pudding, you are an unintelligent being, probably more ape than human) and because I was in a new country and feeling moderately brave, I ordered a mocha. It was delivered in a tall (blue?) mug, with a saucer catching the ambitious drops that wanted to be drips. We ate the (phenomenal) sticky toffee pudding and I drank about half of the mocha. All I seem to remember about it was the chocolate being extremely rich. And it was from a pub in Scotland.The second coffee based drink I ordered probably doesn't even count. We were in the van on the way back from the shoot at Powell's when Rowan decided to take us to Bipartisan. So to Bipartisan we went. Considering our group consisted of over a dozen photographers, there was a bit of difficulty just getting through the door. But we crowded in and the air was cool and the wood floor was rough. Being a newcomer in the land of coffee, I asked Justin what was good and he ordered us each a mocha milkshake. It was sweet and intense and bitter all at once.
The third coffee was from Fourbucks (a word which here means Starbucks). I discovered Clari was studying at the one approximately 15 minutes away from where I was staying. Since it was January and the last time I saw her was in July, I found it absolutely necessary to crash her study party. We sat and chatted until Rachel arrived and said something along the lines of "What are you doing here?!" At which point, I gave her a big hug and the three of us hung out and caught up. After an hour or so, we figured we should probably actually buy something so we wouldn't get kicked out. Clari texted me from ten feet away while Rachel and I stood in line and I paid for a caramel macchiato.The fourth coffee I bought was at Mission ConneXion. (The X makes it more cool and famous.) That event deserves an entire post to itself, but the relevant part is when Amber and I were getting hungry and didn't have any food with us. We wandered aimlessly for awhile and then discovered we were near the coffee cart.
"I kind of want coffee. And I barely even like coffee. Do you want coffee?"It took us a month or two to decide, but eventually we quit messing around - she had a white chocolate and raspberry mocha and I had an Irish cream (flavored syrup) latte. We discovered an unoccupied cubbyhole between the bookshelves, so we claimed it and read awkward titles of books and laughed and drank our coffee and talked about random things.
"Sure."
--
And now here I sit, crunching salted almonds, typing away and sipping coffee sweetened with vanilla sugar. No cream, no chocolate, no milk. Granted, the coffee/sugar ratio is probably around 3/1. But I voluntarily poured it for myself. I chose to drink coffee when I had other options. Weird.
30 minutes of thought
writing with no clear thought of what.
just wanting to write.
needing to put down words in any shape or form.
it's a good feeling.
wanting to try something new.
typography and pictures and glue.
captions and quotes.
free-form thoughts flowing in short sentences.
a gold-sealed envelope on the desk.
blue and white stripes and the standard elegant oak leaf.
"we're delighted to invite you..."
there is a typo on the inside left page.
"to the 2010-2011 honor society recognition dinner!"
exclamation point.
are they that excited?
there's a typo on the inside right page, too.
it's all quite ironic.
are you going?
"...a chance to get to know each other."
what fun is it if you don't know anyone?
but the restaurant in question has good food.
perhaps it's worth it.
last night's question about the place is still unanswered.
the trick is knowing who to ask.
which is why one texts one's grandmother.
a quick scroll through the contact list.
(why is his email still there?)
a sudden burst of laughter in chat about the black and tan reference.
two minutes later there's an answer in the inbox.
"we did the redo but not the original."
family businesses are such fun.
sunshine calls.
just wanting to write.
needing to put down words in any shape or form.
it's a good feeling.
wanting to try something new.
typography and pictures and glue.
captions and quotes.
free-form thoughts flowing in short sentences.
a gold-sealed envelope on the desk.
blue and white stripes and the standard elegant oak leaf.
"we're delighted to invite you..."
there is a typo on the inside left page.
"to the 2010-2011 honor society recognition dinner!"
exclamation point.
are they that excited?
there's a typo on the inside right page, too.
it's all quite ironic.
are you going?
"...a chance to get to know each other."
what fun is it if you don't know anyone?
but the restaurant in question has good food.
perhaps it's worth it.
last night's question about the place is still unanswered.
the trick is knowing who to ask.
which is why one texts one's grandmother.
a quick scroll through the contact list.
(why is his email still there?)
a sudden burst of laughter in chat about the black and tan reference.
two minutes later there's an answer in the inbox.
"we did the redo but not the original."
family businesses are such fun.
sunshine calls.
Lindisfarne
Nearly every step was a stagger as we fought the wind. It blustered and blew against us; Hannah and I were struggling just to cross the yard. We rounded the corner of the schoolmaster's house and walked a short way until we found the path. Bracing ourselves, we stood for a moment in the sun, sloppy grins appearing on our faces for approximately the millionth time. (Possibly the 40 millionth.) Before us, the tall grasses bent nearly flat and the trees bowed and shook.
We started down the path at a brisk walk, dodging rocks and ruts. Momentum began to build as we went and soon we were sprinting over the dirt, gasping for breath as the wind threatened to snatch it from our throats. The sudden line of hedges forced a halt. We stood and we looked and there was the sea. Sparkling, shining, shimmering in the sun. Over the whitecaps, we could see the mainland spread out, consisting primarily of fields and sheep. Waves crashed conversationally on the shore, chattering on the rocks, and with my hair flying around my face and the smell of salt in the air, it almost felt like home.
We started down the path at a brisk walk, dodging rocks and ruts. Momentum began to build as we went and soon we were sprinting over the dirt, gasping for breath as the wind threatened to snatch it from our throats. The sudden line of hedges forced a halt. We stood and we looked and there was the sea. Sparkling, shining, shimmering in the sun. Over the whitecaps, we could see the mainland spread out, consisting primarily of fields and sheep. Waves crashed conversationally on the shore, chattering on the rocks, and with my hair flying around my face and the smell of salt in the air, it almost felt like home.
3.11.2011
The Process of Dreams
I stood outside the house, my hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, staring at the plain, unassuming sign. This moment. This was what it was all about for me. The chill, damp, English air swirled around me and I tried to burrow deeper into my scarf. Anticipation made my insides spin like a carousel. I had waited years for this, years full of unfinished thoughts and fledgling wishes. For me, England was - and is - the stuff dreams are made of. Rolling green hills, cups of tea, witty authors, impeccable accents, rainy days, and walks in the countryside. I glanced over at Hannah and her grin mirrored the oh-goodness-we're-actually-here-I-can't-believe-it expression I knew was on my own face.
Almost exactly a year earlier, she and I were sitting on the window seat in our aunt's kitchen in Texas. We had been talking about wishes and wants and schools in England and writing novels under trees. Our aunt walked in on the middle of the conversation and wondered what was up, so we filled her in.
"Well, if you go to school in England, we'll come visit you."
Really? Was it that simple? If Hannah goes to college in England, we'll visit her?
"We'll talk to Uncle. I bet we could work it out."
To be honest, I didn't take her words too seriously. One might say my aunt is known for having ideas on a grand scale; yet somehow, they often manage to work out. However, I remained skeptical because this involved another country, painfully long flights, and a whopping amount of money. So I dubbed it a charming possibility and mostly forgot about it. But the next fall, Hannah was, in fact, going to college in England. There was one wish fulfilled. Why not another? So my aunt talked to my uncle and my parents and everyone said yes.
And now here we were, on a cold, wet day in March, standing on the street in front of a modest brick house, just a short jaunt outside of Oxford. The only remotely coherent thoughts in my head consisted of "Oh God, oh God, thank you." I couldn't seem to express myself beyond that. I looked at the sign again. It was still there. The sign itself was nothing fancy, just a handful of carved black letters on a weathered grey board. Eight letters forming two words. Two words to forever spark my imagination.
Almost exactly a year earlier, she and I were sitting on the window seat in our aunt's kitchen in Texas. We had been talking about wishes and wants and schools in England and writing novels under trees. Our aunt walked in on the middle of the conversation and wondered what was up, so we filled her in.
"Well, if you go to school in England, we'll come visit you."
Really? Was it that simple? If Hannah goes to college in England, we'll visit her?
"We'll talk to Uncle. I bet we could work it out."
To be honest, I didn't take her words too seriously. One might say my aunt is known for having ideas on a grand scale; yet somehow, they often manage to work out. However, I remained skeptical because this involved another country, painfully long flights, and a whopping amount of money. So I dubbed it a charming possibility and mostly forgot about it. But the next fall, Hannah was, in fact, going to college in England. There was one wish fulfilled. Why not another? So my aunt talked to my uncle and my parents and everyone said yes.
And now here we were, on a cold, wet day in March, standing on the street in front of a modest brick house, just a short jaunt outside of Oxford. The only remotely coherent thoughts in my head consisted of "Oh God, oh God, thank you." I couldn't seem to express myself beyond that. I looked at the sign again. It was still there. The sign itself was nothing fancy, just a handful of carved black letters on a weathered grey board. Eight letters forming two words. Two words to forever spark my imagination.
Awe-Inspiring Imbecility
Niagara
I think I shall quote and comment.
Suffice it to say I love Mark Twain. He somehow combines wise and witty and sarcastic and arrogant and entertaining and ridiculous. And he does a remarkable job of it.
Now good night, my illustrious guttersnipes. Watch out for Irish Indians.
I think I shall quote and comment.
On the Canada side you drive along the chasm between long ranks of photographers standing guard behind their cameras, ready to make an ostentatious frontispiece of you and your decaying ambulance, and your solemn crate with a hide on it, which you are expected to regard in the light of a horse, and a diminished and unimportant background of sublime Niagara; and a great many people have the incredible effrontery or the native depravity to aid and abet this sort of crime.Photographers: Annoying people and making good on tourist traps since [at least] 1871. (I can say that because I am one.)
Any day, in the hands of these photographers, you may see stately pictures of papa and mamma, Johnny and Bub and Sis, or a couple of country cousins, all smiling vacantly, and all disposed in studied and uncomfortable attitudes in their carriage, and all looming up in their awe-inspiring imbecility before the snubbed and diminished presentment of that majestic presence whose ministering spirits are the rainbows, whose voice is the thunder, whose awful front is veiled in clouds, who was monarch here dead and forgotten ages before this hackful of small reptiles was deemed temporarily necessary to fill a crack in the world's unnoted myriads, and will still be monarch here ages and decades of ages after they shall have gathered themselves to their blood relations, the other worms, and been mingled with the unremembering dust.Did you realize that's one sentence? Good heavens. I think the marvelous thing about Twain is his ability to mock photographic posing, romantic prose, and human beings in general all in the same, paragraph-long sentence. And make it work. Talent, ladies and gentlemen. Talent.
We now began to creep along flimsy bridges of a single plank, our persons shielded from destruction by a crazy wooden railing, to which I clung with both hands-- not because I was afraid, but because I wanted to.Oh, really? Hm. Why don't I believe you?
I never was so scared before and survived it.Quite.
"Is the Wawhoo-Wang-Wang of the Whack-a-Whack happy? Does the great Speckled Thunder sigh for the warpath, or is his heart contented with dreaming of the dusky maiden, the Pride of the Forest? Does the mighty Sachem yearn to drink the blood of his enemies, or is he satisfied to make bead reticules for the pappooses of the paleface? Speak, sublime relic of bygone grandeur-- venerable ruin, speak!'Oh help. I can hardly breathe. I love this guy.
I went away from there.I don't blame him. I would do the same.
Poker and seven-up, and a vain modern expense for soap, unknown to your glorious ancestors, have depleted your purses.Honestly now, what can you say?
Remember Uncas!-- and Red Jacket!-- and Hole in the Day!-- and Whoopdedoodledo!Hm, not sure I remember the last chap.
However, thus far he thinks only sixteen of my wounds are fatal.Good news! ...Maybe...not...?
Suffice it to say I love Mark Twain. He somehow combines wise and witty and sarcastic and arrogant and entertaining and ridiculous. And he does a remarkable job of it.
Now good night, my illustrious guttersnipes. Watch out for Irish Indians.
3.10.2011
magic stamps britain
i sit here on my bed, folded into a neat bundle, my chin propped on my knee. it seems all i can do is stare aimlessly at my computer screen and tap my thumbs rhythmically on the space bar. occasionally, i break rhythm long enough to take a sip of my now cold tea or google "magic stamps britain" and read this article.
so much for travel writing.
i waste some more time. rachel pops up in chat and asks me to watch a video she's working on. "i need critical pre-screening audiences. so... if you could....... do you mind watching it? it's still in "rough" form, so what i'm mainly worried about is the story."
i'd be happy to.
so much for travel writing.
i waste some more time. rachel pops up in chat and asks me to watch a video she's working on. "i need critical pre-screening audiences. so... if you could....... do you mind watching it? it's still in "rough" form, so what i'm mainly worried about is the story."
i'd be happy to.
3.09.2011
Stop That
I was about to respond to the questions over yonder via comment, and then I had a feeling it could get lengthy, so I decided to just blog it. :)
If you're too lazy to click, Ruth Ann said:
My answer:
Quite frankly - no. I guess you could, but you don't need to. The main idea behind removing that is to cut unnecessary verbiage.
Contrary to what may be popular opinion, I don't have a personal vendetta against that. It's an innocent word and can be quite effective when used well. My argument is primarily with unnecessary words. Granted, you don't want to slice everything out and end up sounding like a robot; description is an important element of writing, and a few extra words here and there serve to alter the rhythm of a paragraph, which in turn prevents the reader from dying of boredom. But removing filler words and vague words only improve the flow of thought.
And by "vague words," I mean those like so, very, really, little, pretty, etc. They've been overused until they've lost their meaning. We know really big is bigger than normal, but by how much? There's no clear idea presented. It's a similar case with pretty good. I know I personally have used it to mean both less than good and more than good. So how can this ambiguous phrase be helpful?
Consider the following sentence:
Now compare it with this:
So. What you need to do is find the balance. You don't want to sound staccato and lifeless, nor do you want to bog the reader down in a mess of muddy sentences. Just be aware of what you're writing, and if you use a word like that or really, use it purposefully. Know exactly where you're putting it and why and how it's going to sound.
*
::steps off of soapbox:: You may now feel free to wage war in the comments. :)
If you're too lazy to click, Ruth Ann said:
My question is this: do I completely eliminate them and exercise myself to do such or do I change all the "thats" to "the"? - because a lot of times it would work to say 'the' in the place of 'that'.
My answer:
Quite frankly - no. I guess you could, but you don't need to. The main idea behind removing that is to cut unnecessary verbiage.
Contrary to what may be popular opinion, I don't have a personal vendetta against that. It's an innocent word and can be quite effective when used well. My argument is primarily with unnecessary words. Granted, you don't want to slice everything out and end up sounding like a robot; description is an important element of writing, and a few extra words here and there serve to alter the rhythm of a paragraph, which in turn prevents the reader from dying of boredom. But removing filler words and vague words only improve the flow of thought.
And by "vague words," I mean those like so, very, really, little, pretty, etc. They've been overused until they've lost their meaning. We know really big is bigger than normal, but by how much? There's no clear idea presented. It's a similar case with pretty good. I know I personally have used it to mean both less than good and more than good. So how can this ambiguous phrase be helpful?
Consider the following sentence:
She knew that I really wanted to see His Girl Friday.Sounds about average, right? Like something you'd hear in everyday conversation.
Now compare it with this:
She knew I wanted to see His Girl Friday.Same thought. Same meaning. Did we lose anything by removing that and really? Nope. In fact, it's starting to sound more like a purposefully written sentence than a handful of words thrown haphazardly onto a page.
So. What you need to do is find the balance. You don't want to sound staccato and lifeless, nor do you want to bog the reader down in a mess of muddy sentences. Just be aware of what you're writing, and if you use a word like that or really, use it purposefully. Know exactly where you're putting it and why and how it's going to sound.
*
::steps off of soapbox:: You may now feel free to wage war in the comments. :)
3.08.2011
The One in 304
"Oh, so that's what you think?"
"I didn't - "
"Well, you can't treat me like that, see?"
"I'm not - "
"I might not be no high class dame, but I ain't trash from the gutter, neither."
"I didn't say - "
"You can't step on me, see? 'Cause I have rights too, see?"
"Of course you - "
"Don't give me no back-talk!"
"But I'm - "
"Oh, g'wan, get outta here."
"Didn't you - "
"I said get out!"
"Put down that vase!"
"Out!"
*
"First floor, and make it quick."
"Is everything all right, sir?"
"That woman is crazy."
"Which one, sir?"
"The one in 304."
"I see, sir. I should not comment on our lodgers, sir, but may I just say I know to whom you refer."
"I'll bet you do. I'll bet the whole building does."
"It's possible, sir."
"Threw a vase at me. I barely dodged it."
"It seems you have excellent reflexes, sir."
"With her, I have to."
"Indeed. First floor, sir."
"Ah, thank you."
"Have a good evening, sir."
"I didn't - "
"Well, you can't treat me like that, see?"
"I'm not - "
"I might not be no high class dame, but I ain't trash from the gutter, neither."
"I didn't say - "
"You can't step on me, see? 'Cause I have rights too, see?"
"Of course you - "
"Don't give me no back-talk!"
"But I'm - "
"Oh, g'wan, get outta here."
"Didn't you - "
"I said get out!"
"Put down that vase!"
"Out!"
*
"First floor, and make it quick."
"Is everything all right, sir?"
"That woman is crazy."
"Which one, sir?"
"The one in 304."
"I see, sir. I should not comment on our lodgers, sir, but may I just say I know to whom you refer."
"I'll bet you do. I'll bet the whole building does."
"It's possible, sir."
"Threw a vase at me. I barely dodged it."
"It seems you have excellent reflexes, sir."
"With her, I have to."
"Indeed. First floor, sir."
"Ah, thank you."
"Have a good evening, sir."
3.06.2011
Quiet, Please
"I hope you don't mind that I don't really talk."
"Oh no, it's all right."
* * *
Some silences are awkward. Some silences are painful. Some silences ache to be filled.
And then there is the comfortable sort between friends who know each other and feel no need to clutter the air with speech. I recently reread The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (lovely book, by the way) and one of my favorite quotes was something Juliet said in one of her letters:
So. Thought of the evening - I hope the chap for me is fairly skilled at all the witty banter and so forth. But I also hope he can be content to simply be silent. That is comradeship.
"Oh no, it's all right."
* * *
Some silences are awkward. Some silences are painful. Some silences ache to be filled.
And then there is the comfortable sort between friends who know each other and feel no need to clutter the air with speech. I recently reread The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (lovely book, by the way) and one of my favorite quotes was something Juliet said in one of her letters:
I can't think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my life with someone I can't talk to, or worse, someone I can't be silent with.It's definitely something I agree with. Try imagining someone you can't be comfortably quiet with. For the rest of your life. Painful, isn't it?
So. Thought of the evening - I hope the chap for me is fairly skilled at all the witty banter and so forth. But I also hope he can be content to simply be silent. That is comradeship.
3.04.2011
Commas and Fluff
Living Like Weasels
I like this essay.
Like is a weak word.
It should be added to the list of evil words.
Anyway, my point was this is an essay I enjoy and appreciate, so I wanted to write a moderately intelligent and thoughtful response.
But my brain is totally fried.
Fluffed, rather.
My fluffs, who look something like this, are now fighting amongst themselves.
A group of them decided to form a band and began walking back and forth, banging on drums.
(Headache? Uh, yeah.)
Being tired, the others weren't too happy about their comrades' decision, so they started chucking popcorn.
And now they're all running around and whacking each other with pillows.
It's actually kind of entertaining.
Maybe I can get something done while they're distracted.
The thing that strikes me most about this piece is not, as you might expect, the content. What I see is the language. For example, just look at her comma placement.
Hey, see the rhyme I just made?
Totally on purpose.
Not really.
Also, I just misspelled rhyme.
This means I should probably go to bed.
But I'm too lazy.
Getting ready for said location is entirely too much work.
Take note of the third sentence. Twenty minutes from my house, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk. Trim it down to the heart and you have Twenty minutes from my house is Hollins Pond. Throw in a modifier to make it more personal: where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk. It's already sounding more restful, isn't it? Sunset, it's quiet, peaceful... The next addition gives a sense of location, as well as an idea of the juxtaposition of nature and modern civilization: through the woods by the quarry and across the highway. And what, exactly, is there? Simply a remarkable piece of shallowness. It's an unexpected, underrated refuge.
Now I and my fluffs are going to bed because I'm too tired to think any more. So this is an abrupt ending.
p.s. I just found the part where she says ensconced in the lap of lichen and it struck me as absolutely lovely. I appreciate alliteration. Good night.
I like this essay.
Like is a weak word.
It should be added to the list of evil words.
Anyway, my point was this is an essay I enjoy and appreciate, so I wanted to write a moderately intelligent and thoughtful response.
But my brain is totally fried.
Fluffed, rather.
My fluffs, who look something like this, are now fighting amongst themselves.
A group of them decided to form a band and began walking back and forth, banging on drums.
(Headache? Uh, yeah.)
Being tired, the others weren't too happy about their comrades' decision, so they started chucking popcorn.
And now they're all running around and whacking each other with pillows.
It's actually kind of entertaining.
Maybe I can get something done while they're distracted.
The thing that strikes me most about this piece is not, as you might expect, the content. What I see is the language. For example, just look at her comma placement.
I have been reading about weasels because I saw one last week. I startled a weasel who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance.
Listen to the rhythm, the pattern. One clean, straightforward sentence. I have been reading about weasels because I saw one last week. Factual, isn't it? Straight to the point. Informative. And then she expands on the thought, but she does it with a certain style. I startled a weasel who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance. There's a distinct pause when she adds the extra clause.Twenty minutes from my house, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk.
Hey, see the rhyme I just made?
Totally on purpose.
Not really.
Also, I just misspelled rhyme.
This means I should probably go to bed.
But I'm too lazy.
Getting ready for said location is entirely too much work.
Take note of the third sentence. Twenty minutes from my house, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk. Trim it down to the heart and you have Twenty minutes from my house is Hollins Pond. Throw in a modifier to make it more personal: where I like to go at sunset and sit on a tree trunk. It's already sounding more restful, isn't it? Sunset, it's quiet, peaceful... The next addition gives a sense of location, as well as an idea of the juxtaposition of nature and modern civilization: through the woods by the quarry and across the highway. And what, exactly, is there? Simply a remarkable piece of shallowness. It's an unexpected, underrated refuge.
Now I and my fluffs are going to bed because I'm too tired to think any more. So this is an abrupt ending.
p.s. I just found the part where she says ensconced in the lap of lichen and it struck me as absolutely lovely. I appreciate alliteration. Good night.
3.02.2011
mumford & sons radio
i lie stretched on the floor, my feet resting on the hearth, soaking in the warmth from the fire. a plain white t's song thrums quietly from pandora, blending with the light, flat clatter of laptop keys. it was sunny this morning, but the marine layer has since rolled in. which is why we're holed up in the living room with a fire and tunes and typing. pandora moves on to florence + the machine and my foot automatically picks up the beat.
we're going to the theater tonight, to see steel magnolias. first, though, we shall pick up a couple of burritos for dinner and roam the island in our classy-casual clothes and capture photographs of loveliness.
mumford & sons play and i turn up the volume.
i feel like watching a hitchcock film.
we're going to the theater tonight, to see steel magnolias. first, though, we shall pick up a couple of burritos for dinner and roam the island in our classy-casual clothes and capture photographs of loveliness.
mumford & sons play and i turn up the volume.
i feel like watching a hitchcock film.
3.01.2011
This Is Home
Home.
Mexican food and palm trees and sunshine.
Home.
Vietnamese food and fir trees and rain.
Home.
I live in San Diego. Born here, raised here, lived here my entire life. My roots are deep in this, America's Finest City. I know it. I can tell you where the best pizza joint is, how to get to the closest In-N-Out, where to find the tastiest beans, where to buy fresh tortillas, and the name of the restaurant that has the best green salsa you've ever tasted. I know the legend of Kate Morgan and I know Cabrillo was actually Portuguese, not Spanish. I have grown up with the relaxed, easy-going, mañana attitude that is such a major part of the surfing culture. (Despite never having surfed.) It's my city.
And then there's Portland. Bridgetown. The City of Roses. Starting in 2007, I've spent two or three months of each year, usually over Christmas, in P-Town. Various circumstances have called my family north - a friend's back surgery, buying a house for my brother and then remodeling it, work for my dad, my brother's wedding one year, a nephew and a photography workshop (IPS shout-out!) the next. I grew accustomed to transferring my life and started putting down roots. I consider my brother's church to also be my church. I have learned to like coffee based drinks. Some of my best friends and my favorite family members are in the Northwest. Whenever I'm sick, I want phở instead of chicken soup. Life was changing and I was becoming more and more attached to Portland.
You know those families who seem to know everyone, and who everyone else knows or has heard of? Well, my brother married a girl from that family. I became friends with her brothers and suddenly I knew all the people in the church who were around my age. And everyone else knew me. (I've lost count of the times people came up to me, asking how I was, requesting I tell Oregonian-transplanted-to-California hi from them. I, of course, had no idea who I was even talking to and I was never brave enough to ask.) So I started making friends and I found I could settle easily into the groove made by like-minded people. Homeschooling families, conservative values, a church where I actually learned something. I loved it. I didn't want to come back. It felt like home.
I was at a loss. I suddenly had two lives. On one hand is the place where I've grown up and have a history. On the other hand is the place where I've made new friends and grown closer to God. I honestly didn't know where I belonged.
And then life changed again. Dad was asked to remodel a parsonage into offices, so we made our usual 18 hour drive, stayed over Christmas, and had a grand time. January came around and we were still in town, which made me happy. Until a conversation was had, a relationship was scrambled, and I lost one of my closest friends. There was drama and hurt and it felt like World War III. This friend went to the same church, so there was a weekly reminder of pain. In past times we had always sat together at the shared meal after the service and now we were just barely on speaking terms. I had to shift my habits and adjust friendships and what had been simple was now complicated. I do not like complicated. So when it was time to leave, I was glad to get away. Back to work, back to routine, back to real life. That was definitely a switch. I don't know if I have ever been more grateful for San Diego.
So. Where is home? What is home?
Am I supposed to choose between two places that each hold a half of my heart?
I hope not. Because I can't.
I have no idea where I'll ultimately end up, but for now I shall live in one and visit the other.
Because home is in both cities.
Home is where I laugh until I cry, where I run to clear my head, where I can hug the people I love, where I can work with my hands, where I can make my parents proud, where I remember to be grateful, where I watch the waves crash, where I hear the wind howl in the evergreens, where I'm pushed and challenged and stretched. Home is wherever God puts me. Because He is with me constantly, and when I have Him, I am home.
Mexican food and palm trees and sunshine.
Home.
Vietnamese food and fir trees and rain.
Home.
I live in San Diego. Born here, raised here, lived here my entire life. My roots are deep in this, America's Finest City. I know it. I can tell you where the best pizza joint is, how to get to the closest In-N-Out, where to find the tastiest beans, where to buy fresh tortillas, and the name of the restaurant that has the best green salsa you've ever tasted. I know the legend of Kate Morgan and I know Cabrillo was actually Portuguese, not Spanish. I have grown up with the relaxed, easy-going, mañana attitude that is such a major part of the surfing culture. (Despite never having surfed.) It's my city.
And then there's Portland. Bridgetown. The City of Roses. Starting in 2007, I've spent two or three months of each year, usually over Christmas, in P-Town. Various circumstances have called my family north - a friend's back surgery, buying a house for my brother and then remodeling it, work for my dad, my brother's wedding one year, a nephew and a photography workshop (IPS shout-out!) the next. I grew accustomed to transferring my life and started putting down roots. I consider my brother's church to also be my church. I have learned to like coffee based drinks. Some of my best friends and my favorite family members are in the Northwest. Whenever I'm sick, I want phở instead of chicken soup. Life was changing and I was becoming more and more attached to Portland.
You know those families who seem to know everyone, and who everyone else knows or has heard of? Well, my brother married a girl from that family. I became friends with her brothers and suddenly I knew all the people in the church who were around my age. And everyone else knew me. (I've lost count of the times people came up to me, asking how I was, requesting I tell Oregonian-transplanted-to-California hi from them. I, of course, had no idea who I was even talking to and I was never brave enough to ask.) So I started making friends and I found I could settle easily into the groove made by like-minded people. Homeschooling families, conservative values, a church where I actually learned something. I loved it. I didn't want to come back. It felt like home.
I was at a loss. I suddenly had two lives. On one hand is the place where I've grown up and have a history. On the other hand is the place where I've made new friends and grown closer to God. I honestly didn't know where I belonged.
And then life changed again. Dad was asked to remodel a parsonage into offices, so we made our usual 18 hour drive, stayed over Christmas, and had a grand time. January came around and we were still in town, which made me happy. Until a conversation was had, a relationship was scrambled, and I lost one of my closest friends. There was drama and hurt and it felt like World War III. This friend went to the same church, so there was a weekly reminder of pain. In past times we had always sat together at the shared meal after the service and now we were just barely on speaking terms. I had to shift my habits and adjust friendships and what had been simple was now complicated. I do not like complicated. So when it was time to leave, I was glad to get away. Back to work, back to routine, back to real life. That was definitely a switch. I don't know if I have ever been more grateful for San Diego.
So. Where is home? What is home?
Am I supposed to choose between two places that each hold a half of my heart?
I hope not. Because I can't.
I have no idea where I'll ultimately end up, but for now I shall live in one and visit the other.
Because home is in both cities.
Home is where I laugh until I cry, where I run to clear my head, where I can hug the people I love, where I can work with my hands, where I can make my parents proud, where I remember to be grateful, where I watch the waves crash, where I hear the wind howl in the evergreens, where I'm pushed and challenged and stretched. Home is wherever God puts me. Because He is with me constantly, and when I have Him, I am home.
2.28.2011
Calm Before the Storm
We're down to a matter of hours, now. Regardless, I am not going to start writing at midnight. I am not that excited. But I am looking forward to the first round of assignments, despite being the one who assigned them. Which is good.
I have already noticed a difference in my blogging style. On my personal (if you ask nicely, I might give you the link), I generally roam around and write as I think. Here, I'm actually making an effort to sound intelligent.
Funny how that works. Something to do with fresh starts, perhaps?
Ah, 11:11 - make a wish!
See you on the other side, mates...when the challenge shall begin. Rah!
I have already noticed a difference in my blogging style. On my personal (if you ask nicely, I might give you the link), I generally roam around and write as I think. Here, I'm actually making an effort to sound intelligent.
Funny how that works. Something to do with fresh starts, perhaps?
Ah, 11:11 - make a wish!
See you on the other side, mates...when the challenge shall begin. Rah!
2.26.2011
Salutations
I haven't written in a long time. Oh, sure, I've blogged. But that doesn't count as writing. (Yes, I am perfectly aware of the irony in this situation.) At some recent point in time, I realized I missed it.
I hadn't noticed.
But then I did.
And now I know I do.
I miss taking letters and arranging them into words and forming those words into sentences and slinging around a pile of punctuation marks to communicate a coherent thought. So I'm excited about this challenge, excited to be thinking in terms of language instead of photographs.
My popcorn bowl just announced its emptiness (no, really, I have no idea how it happened), as did my glass of chocolate milk, so that illogically and irrelevantly signals the end of this post.
Toodles!
I hadn't noticed.
But then I did.
And now I know I do.
I miss taking letters and arranging them into words and forming those words into sentences and slinging around a pile of punctuation marks to communicate a coherent thought. So I'm excited about this challenge, excited to be thinking in terms of language instead of photographs.
My popcorn bowl just announced its emptiness (no, really, I have no idea how it happened), as did my glass of chocolate milk, so that illogically and irrelevantly signals the end of this post.
Toodles!
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