Monday, August 10, 2009
National Day of Writing, October 20, 2009
Good news! In the previous post in a poem. A sestina to be exact. And...I've recieved an invitation from the National Council of Teachers of English (The NCTE, you'd think they'd have a name that rolls off the tongue a little easier...) to have my poem part of their virtual gallery in honor of the National Day of Writing. Let's keep our fingers crossed it all works out. It also makes me think I should do more writing...
Monday, July 27, 2009
Beach Day for the Writing Project, A Sestina
The girl asked her professor to explain in more detail
the class trip to the beach. “Our intention is to write,
meet for coffee and be home before dark.
Bring sunscreen, umbrellas; bring pens, paper and water.”
Face heatstroke, strangers, flabby tourists, death at sea?
For odes and prose? Seemed like quite a risk.
The girl went to the beach anyway, forgetting the risk
of poor grammar, of writer’s block, of conflicting character detail.
All the students headed to the shore, hoping to see
Venus shoved from foamy waves, on her right
Calliope, on her left, Eros, all thrashing in the water,
bringing the lifeguards, who’d drag the muses to the dark
shade of the first-aide tower. The gods, unused to the dark,
looked to each other, an inquiring glare, what kind of risk
had they taken, coming to these writers, afraid of the water.
The class pressed them, “Just give us more detail!
Please! You don’t know what it’s like to have to write!”
But the muses moved past them, head back to the sea.
Staring at the celestial backs, aghast by what they see,
“Now what?” the students thrash about like new mermaids, dark
waves drag their musings down, their ideas struggle to right
themselves on jumbled, green rocks. Untried words willing to risk
their prefixes, cutting themselves into roots, just a detail
gone ignored, a suffix dropped off, to avoid drowning in the water
of rough drafts. The girl trashes her first copy, drinks her water.
Is it already time for lunch? Most of the class, she can see,
is already heading for a café, one where each detail
of the menu is neatly written in neon chalk in a dark
corner, the blackboard hangs ominously above waitresses who risk
it all, balancing iced tea and salads to write
the menu items while standing on stools, not caring if the spelling is right
or worrying that a muse has slipped back into the water
or turning grey at the thought of the taking a plot risk.
Their sails have no holes; their boats not lost at sea.
They don't wonder if their peers pass judgment, critical and dark,
"She's no artist! Her abysmal word choice! The lack of detail!”
Finally, the girl steeled herself, took a risk that day to write
about every detail – the gods, the waitress, the water.
And though she can’t see the way, words float in from the dark.
The girl asked her professor to explain in more detail
the class trip to the beach. “Our intention is to write,
meet for coffee and be home before dark.
Bring sunscreen, umbrellas; bring pens, paper and water.”
Face heatstroke, strangers, flabby tourists, death at sea?
For odes and prose? Seemed like quite a risk.
The girl went to the beach anyway, forgetting the risk
of poor grammar, of writer’s block, of conflicting character detail.
All the students headed to the shore, hoping to see
Venus shoved from foamy waves, on her right
Calliope, on her left, Eros, all thrashing in the water,
bringing the lifeguards, who’d drag the muses to the dark
shade of the first-aide tower. The gods, unused to the dark,
looked to each other, an inquiring glare, what kind of risk
had they taken, coming to these writers, afraid of the water.
The class pressed them, “Just give us more detail!
Please! You don’t know what it’s like to have to write!”
But the muses moved past them, head back to the sea.
Staring at the celestial backs, aghast by what they see,
“Now what?” the students thrash about like new mermaids, dark
waves drag their musings down, their ideas struggle to right
themselves on jumbled, green rocks. Untried words willing to risk
their prefixes, cutting themselves into roots, just a detail
gone ignored, a suffix dropped off, to avoid drowning in the water
of rough drafts. The girl trashes her first copy, drinks her water.
Is it already time for lunch? Most of the class, she can see,
is already heading for a café, one where each detail
of the menu is neatly written in neon chalk in a dark
corner, the blackboard hangs ominously above waitresses who risk
it all, balancing iced tea and salads to write
the menu items while standing on stools, not caring if the spelling is right
or worrying that a muse has slipped back into the water
or turning grey at the thought of the taking a plot risk.
Their sails have no holes; their boats not lost at sea.
They don't wonder if their peers pass judgment, critical and dark,
"She's no artist! Her abysmal word choice! The lack of detail!”
Finally, the girl steeled herself, took a risk that day to write
about every detail – the gods, the waitress, the water.
And though she can’t see the way, words float in from the dark.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
11 Ways of Looking at Zucchini
I.
Zucchini strips green and greener
Fuzzy prickly starchy seeds
II.
Bees in yellow blossoms
Big as my hand
in July turn into zucchini
III.
Luscious, dark, intense
Chocolate cake,
Infused with 2 cups of
jade zucchini
Served to vegetable avoiding
step-mother
as dessert
IV.
Kitchens, hot as rusty August cars,
On the counters
Zucchini, tomatoes, basil, garlic
In the garden
Pumpkins wait for grey October
Mornings
V.
Cafés in Paris serve
Smoky ham and white cheese
On baguettes
or
Zucchini omelets
Sautéed with earthy mushrooms
And wine in brown clay pots
VI.
Two orange cats
Toy with the small mouse
Found in the dirt behind
The zucchini patch
VII.
You have thrown away
My brilliant love
The way a toddler
tosses
Zucchini
To the cold, linoleum floor
VIII.
She looked great,
Amazing, in fact
10 pounds lighter, easily.
“Zucchini” she replied
when asked,
what was her secret
IX. Men must feel weak
Near an unpicked
Zucchini
X.
Lock the doors,
roll up the car windows,
cross the street
Here comes the neighbor
With more bags of zucchini
XI.
The young people held hands
Milling through gardens
Of lavender, rosemary,
Stopping abruptly
At golden
Zucchini blossoms
Which he picked for her
took a petal and placed it
on her tongue
Zucchini strips green and greener
Fuzzy prickly starchy seeds
II.
Bees in yellow blossoms
Big as my hand
in July turn into zucchini
III.
Luscious, dark, intense
Chocolate cake,
Infused with 2 cups of
jade zucchini
Served to vegetable avoiding
step-mother
as dessert
IV.
Kitchens, hot as rusty August cars,
On the counters
Zucchini, tomatoes, basil, garlic
In the garden
Pumpkins wait for grey October
Mornings
V.
Cafés in Paris serve
Smoky ham and white cheese
On baguettes
or
Zucchini omelets
Sautéed with earthy mushrooms
And wine in brown clay pots
VI.
Two orange cats
Toy with the small mouse
Found in the dirt behind
The zucchini patch
VII.
You have thrown away
My brilliant love
The way a toddler
tosses
Zucchini
To the cold, linoleum floor
VIII.
She looked great,
Amazing, in fact
10 pounds lighter, easily.
“Zucchini” she replied
when asked,
what was her secret
IX. Men must feel weak
Near an unpicked
Zucchini
X.
Lock the doors,
roll up the car windows,
cross the street
Here comes the neighbor
With more bags of zucchini
XI.
The young people held hands
Milling through gardens
Of lavender, rosemary,
Stopping abruptly
At golden
Zucchini blossoms
Which he picked for her
took a petal and placed it
on her tongue
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Train Song, a photo poem
Train Song
Nothing ever happens on the southbound train
In a way, it is the people's stomping feet
That signals any motion.
Nothing every happens on the train
except a man in dark glasses
not noticing the way a Carlsbad gull
dives into the lagoon, rising in the surface of a wave
looking across the ocean, nothing is happening
the Pacific is still salty and blue
On the train, nothing is happening
As the announcer declares, through crusty static,
The stops for Encinitas, for Solana Beach, for Old Town
Where you can take a bus, a trolley, or a cab to somewhere else
Where, likely, nothing happens
Nothing is happening
So the poet in yellow is distressed, she clutches her neon pink
Composition book
And watches the new arrivals clomp to their seats
The train climbs passed Torrey pines, then eucalyptus
Parallel to Highway 101,
See The Bar Leucadian, the Just Peachy Fresh Fruit stand,
Then a bump, the lost rhythm of train tracks at Lou’s Records 
There is nothing to see on the southbound train
Girls in blue dresses, their boyfriends in baseball caps
Tourists pull a sandwich from their packs, then a sweater
To ward against the impossible cool of the indoor air
Just another day, without anything to see
A man in the corner lays his head down on the small center table
Sleeps
The middle-aged couple, in matching khaki shorts 
Move toward a seat across from the poet,
A smile offered as a way to simply ask
That her feet be removed from the seat the woman wants 
All the people on the train
Look out the window, toward the fairground
Something is probably happening there
Ferris rides, deep fried turkey legs
But the train rushes by too fast to know for sure
The passengers with window seats move their
Eyes
Above them a fighter jet wings towards Miramar
Then, nature gets 
the last say
a hawk echoes the flight of the jet
Inside the train, its clear little happens
Four people are chewing gum
One a texter
One talking on a cell phone
The man who has awakened from his nap
And the poet
Who, though she is almost 35 years old,
feels young again.
She resolves to enjoy the nothingness on the train
The lack of drama and
Puts away her notebook.
Nothing needs to happen on the southbound train.
San Diego's Sante Fe Station
Monday, July 13, 2009
What it feels like to...
...Get a Beauty School Haircut..jpg)
The Paul Mitchell School in downtown San Diego is located on 4th and A. Located in an imposing white building, a former bank, it is easily accessed from the Sante Fe train station, past the courthouse, cafes, and the civic center.
I arrive about 20 minutes early, check in with the twenty-something at the front desk. He reminds me a punk rock front man, spiky black hair -longer on one side than the other-, black lipstick, an eyebrow ring, and an indecipherable tattoo, curling half letters growing out from the white collared button down shirt he is sporting along with a black vest, black jeans, black jack boots. Black and tattoo is obviously the school uniform. Everyone from the supervisors to the students wears black and white, tattoos of all sort are permitted: angel wings, neck scrolls, sunbursts rotating around bleeding red hearts.
I am directed to wait along with about nine others in their lounge area, which consists of three white ottomans, piles of fashion magazines, six plasma screens all showing a cirque d'soliel-type hair and fashion parade. The smell of the 80's rush over me while I wait: perming solution, aerosol sprays, Obsession. I get a different type of whiff every few minutes as the lounge is located between the work floor and the student time clocks and classrooms. Students rush passed the ten of us in a dismissive fashion, no eye contact allowed and I get the feeling that they are too cool for clients. School, however, they obvious think is "rad" because they are up in everyone’s business, checking each other’s dye jobs, watching like a pride of lions as a fellow classmate slashes into this hour’s prey.
.jpg)
Soon, Casey, my stylist, approaches and leads me to a chair in the corner. She is still fresh faced, her brunette color looks natural, her black a bit more subtle than the others stylists near us. She takes a moment to assess my hair. Her eyes grow wide as she handles the split ends in the back. "How long has it been since..."
I am unable to answer honestly, because I have forgotten. I explain that I had been trying to grow it out, what I'm going for now, and she brings her instructor over, they confer for a moment, then the instructor, a very white-blonde Annie Lennox look alike, writes some cryptic symbols on the mirror in front of me. Next, Casey leads me over to the wash room.
The washroom is behind the check-in counter, in the old bank vault. We wait our turn outside and Casey and I make small talk.
"Yes I have the day off, I teach 8th grade, No, no, I like 8th graders. What about you?"
Casey is moving to Napa in a month, she likes doing facials and up-dos, her boyfriend is a night club promoter, so she's not into happy hour, more like blood marys and hair of the dog.
Finally, our turn in the washroom has come and I follow Casey into the red-lit, concrete vault and take my seat. "Would you like a sugar scrub?" Casey is running warm water through my hair. "Uh, probably" I answer not knowing or caring really what it entailed, I needed some serious hair and scalp work, and because I knew I would pay less here than at a salon I went for it. Blissful, is the best word to describe the next ten minutes. Warm water, a grainy sugar scrub massage into my hair, rinsed, conditioner massaged into my hair, a hot towel wrapped around my head, then my temples, neck, forehead, sinuses, all massaged slowly. After the final rinse, Casey tells me to open my hand. She popped a Hershey's kiss into it. This unexpected token, signaled that bliss time was up, time for serious business.
The haircut took about 45 minutes. As a rule, students take longer to finish the job than professionals and I felt Casey's intense thoroughness and determination. As she finished, she began to dry and style my hair. Our small talk ceased at this point, I thought about the next item on my to do list for the day, her instructor signed her off. My hair was cute enough, all the dryness gone, a weight lifted and she handed me a mirror and twirled me around to get a better look at the back. It all looked fine, she didn't transform me into a Heidi Klum or make me look too much like my mother, so I was happy.
As she walked me to the register, I pay the $17, hand her a tip and finally notice her tattoo. On the inside of her wrist, the single word LOVE scrolls. Adorable.
.jpg)
.jpg)
The Paul Mitchell School in downtown San Diego is located on 4th and A. Located in an imposing white building, a former bank, it is easily accessed from the Sante Fe train station, past the courthouse, cafes, and the civic center.
I arrive about 20 minutes early, check in with the twenty-something at the front desk. He reminds me a punk rock front man, spiky black hair -longer on one side than the other-, black lipstick, an eyebrow ring, and an indecipherable tattoo, curling half letters growing out from the white collared button down shirt he is sporting along with a black vest, black jeans, black jack boots. Black and tattoo is obviously the school uniform. Everyone from the supervisors to the students wears black and white, tattoos of all sort are permitted: angel wings, neck scrolls, sunbursts rotating around bleeding red hearts.
I am directed to wait along with about nine others in their lounge area, which consists of three white ottomans, piles of fashion magazines, six plasma screens all showing a cirque d'soliel-type hair and fashion parade. The smell of the 80's rush over me while I wait: perming solution, aerosol sprays, Obsession. I get a different type of whiff every few minutes as the lounge is located between the work floor and the student time clocks and classrooms. Students rush passed the ten of us in a dismissive fashion, no eye contact allowed and I get the feeling that they are too cool for clients. School, however, they obvious think is "rad" because they are up in everyone’s business, checking each other’s dye jobs, watching like a pride of lions as a fellow classmate slashes into this hour’s prey.
.jpg)
Soon, Casey, my stylist, approaches and leads me to a chair in the corner. She is still fresh faced, her brunette color looks natural, her black a bit more subtle than the others stylists near us. She takes a moment to assess my hair. Her eyes grow wide as she handles the split ends in the back. "How long has it been since..."
I am unable to answer honestly, because I have forgotten. I explain that I had been trying to grow it out, what I'm going for now, and she brings her instructor over, they confer for a moment, then the instructor, a very white-blonde Annie Lennox look alike, writes some cryptic symbols on the mirror in front of me. Next, Casey leads me over to the wash room.
The washroom is behind the check-in counter, in the old bank vault. We wait our turn outside and Casey and I make small talk.
"Yes I have the day off, I teach 8th grade, No, no, I like 8th graders. What about you?"
Casey is moving to Napa in a month, she likes doing facials and up-dos, her boyfriend is a night club promoter, so she's not into happy hour, more like blood marys and hair of the dog.
Finally, our turn in the washroom has come and I follow Casey into the red-lit, concrete vault and take my seat. "Would you like a sugar scrub?" Casey is running warm water through my hair. "Uh, probably" I answer not knowing or caring really what it entailed, I needed some serious hair and scalp work, and because I knew I would pay less here than at a salon I went for it. Blissful, is the best word to describe the next ten minutes. Warm water, a grainy sugar scrub massage into my hair, rinsed, conditioner massaged into my hair, a hot towel wrapped around my head, then my temples, neck, forehead, sinuses, all massaged slowly. After the final rinse, Casey tells me to open my hand. She popped a Hershey's kiss into it. This unexpected token, signaled that bliss time was up, time for serious business.
The haircut took about 45 minutes. As a rule, students take longer to finish the job than professionals and I felt Casey's intense thoroughness and determination. As she finished, she began to dry and style my hair. Our small talk ceased at this point, I thought about the next item on my to do list for the day, her instructor signed her off. My hair was cute enough, all the dryness gone, a weight lifted and she handed me a mirror and twirled me around to get a better look at the back. It all looked fine, she didn't transform me into a Heidi Klum or make me look too much like my mother, so I was happy.
As she walked me to the register, I pay the $17, hand her a tip and finally notice her tattoo. On the inside of her wrist, the single word LOVE scrolls. Adorable.
.jpg)
Friday, July 10, 2009
Garden Fun
The Whole Garden
My Favorite - An egglant called Japonese Millionaire
Gorgeous! The Eggplant plant
Squash Blossom
My Favorite - An egglant called Japonese Millionaire
Gorgeous! The Eggplant plant
Squash Blossom
More Garden Fun
Hummingbird and Butterfly flower garden 
Sunflower Power
Pumpkin Pie!
There are called Red Runner Beans - They are huge!
Sunflower Power
Pumpkin Pie!
There are called Red Runner Beans - They are huge!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Pirate Business Letters
D.P.S. Brandy Bloodletting
Somewhere in the Caribbean
July 9, 2009
Juice Corporation
156 Broadstreet
London, England
Ahoy, ye Scallywags of Juice Production:
This be Captain Blue Hair of the Dread Pirate Ship Brandy Bloodletting. I be writin' to ye landlubbers to let ye know that a black spot be put upon yer juice makin' company because o'yer product Arrrr-ange Juice. Avast, it contains no real juice and no rum! Even the worst of our hearty-laddies can tell yer grog be nothin' put chemically processed sugar water. Arrrr! Me laddies all be scurvy knaves from a hearty lack of vit'min C. Perchance, ye can explain to me Maties how they be strong enough to attack them corporate dog-ships without a proper and nutritious mornin' repast.
Ye hoardings need to change yer ways as First Mate Decayin' Drake has been mutterin' somethin' about havin' ye Landlubbers walk the plank! Arrr!
Lily-livered though ye be, please respond by post,
Capt. Blue Hair
D.P.S. Brandy Bloodletting
P.S. First Mate Drake requests to know what type o'peg leg ye require after yer plank walkin' and adds a hearty "Arrrrr!"
Monday, July 6, 2009
All Ground Up
Hi! I'm Amy's garden. Amy is a little obsessed with me, and yes, in a creepy way. Shes stalks my stalks, touching the tomatoes in the most inappropriate way, peering under their leaves, wondering "Are they ripe, reading for the taking?"
She conducts daily inspections of every plant, leaf, and flower, every fennel frond, every watermelon tendril, every sunflower seed. She's looking for progress, for food. I wonder if she stalks her 8th grade students the same way, watch out kids!
I think she is also obsessed with food and eating. I can see her from here, my lowly plot near the earth, just south of the house deck, where she and her husband grill and eat the zucchini. They sit under the rectangle, orange umbrella, sniffing, tasting, talking and frankly, it's a little disconcerting, the jade green zucchini speared to her fork, her eyes wandering toward the pumpkin patch, visually measuring the size of her jack-o-lanterens growing on the second my five tiers.
So, clearly, we have a strange relationship with each other. She, the daily visitor, the planter, the tender, the creator, eater, the ripper. I am waiting to see what she does with me at the end of the summer. Am I only holding on to be devoured, leaf by leaf?
Week Two at The National Writing Project
You'd think I'd have time to compose blog and that writing would just flow, me being a part of the National Writing Project and all. But let me tell you the first week was hard...on my butt! I'm not used to sitting for almost 8 hours a day and after day two my tail hurt. Now I bet you're wondering how that relates to my inability to write plethorically (I just made that word up, does it work, I'll take a simple 'yea' or 'nay').
Also, little brother #3, Scott (probably the only person who reads this blog) says I need more pictures. I'm finding this part very difficult. The first part of this difficulty is taking pictures of people. Can I put up their picture without their knowledge/permission?
For example, the other day I was taking the train home and noticed a very cute Asian tourist asking the person sitting next to me to take her and her companion's picture. That may not seem like such a big deal, but the girl with her was obviously some kind of guide and the man she asked to take her picture was some kind of, hmmm, how to put this...gangster? Wife beater, prison khakis, tattoos. I don't mean it in a judgemental way, he was certainly as sweet as can be. Took her picture, took another when she asked because she didn't like how the first one came out. So I took a picture of all three of them ('cause my little brother said I should post pictures!) after he had returned to his seat. I wanted to put their picture up because I was so struck by how strangers interact, how when we travel we take risks we wouldn't take at home. What if I just walked around asking people to take my picture, just for some random social experiment. See? I even need a reason to do this, why can't I just do it without having to explain it?
Anyway, while sitting on the train, contemplating the role of strangers in our lives I looked out the window and saw one of 8th grade students, who, as of September, will be a high-schooler. He was getting off the train with his little sister, he told me a few months again she was in 5th grade. This high school student - the coolest kid on campus last year, everyone loved him - had is arm around his little sister, then held her hand as they walked off the train platform. We don't have to learn things just from strangers, sometimes the people we know influence us, they don't even know they did. So...Brandon? You are an inspirational kid. Thanks for being my teacher too.
Also, little brother #3, Scott (probably the only person who reads this blog) says I need more pictures. I'm finding this part very difficult. The first part of this difficulty is taking pictures of people. Can I put up their picture without their knowledge/permission?
For example, the other day I was taking the train home and noticed a very cute Asian tourist asking the person sitting next to me to take her and her companion's picture. That may not seem like such a big deal, but the girl with her was obviously some kind of guide and the man she asked to take her picture was some kind of, hmmm, how to put this...gangster? Wife beater, prison khakis, tattoos. I don't mean it in a judgemental way, he was certainly as sweet as can be. Took her picture, took another when she asked because she didn't like how the first one came out. So I took a picture of all three of them ('cause my little brother said I should post pictures!) after he had returned to his seat. I wanted to put their picture up because I was so struck by how strangers interact, how when we travel we take risks we wouldn't take at home. What if I just walked around asking people to take my picture, just for some random social experiment. See? I even need a reason to do this, why can't I just do it without having to explain it?
Anyway, while sitting on the train, contemplating the role of strangers in our lives I looked out the window and saw one of 8th grade students, who, as of September, will be a high-schooler. He was getting off the train with his little sister, he told me a few months again she was in 5th grade. This high school student - the coolest kid on campus last year, everyone loved him - had is arm around his little sister, then held her hand as they walked off the train platform. We don't have to learn things just from strangers, sometimes the people we know influence us, they don't even know they did. So...Brandon? You are an inspirational kid. Thanks for being my teacher too.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
National Writing Project
Lifeboat to Lifecraft Workshop
Are you a teacher drowning is a sea of pedagogy? Are the standards and writing programs adopted by your state and school district crashing around your small one-man sailing vessel? Are you bailing on your students, clinging to formulaic writing programs to save your sanity? If you answered yes to any of these questions then this program is for you!
Who: K-12 teachers, especially those who teach writing
When: Monday - Thursday, 8:30 - 4:00, June 29 - July 29, 2009
What: California Writing Project
Why: To throw you and your students a life preserver
Monday, June 29, 2009
Waking Up is Hard to Do
This is it. The first day of the summer's National Writing Project. I'm here now, it's 8:36 a.m. and getting out of bed after a week off, after a long school year, after committing to join the writing project...waking up this morningnwas painful! It's been way too easy for me to slip into my night owl status.
Now there's a question on the board, a warm up question. Hello, flipside! Usually I'm the one posting the warm up question, while students file in, while I sip caffine and they sit in the seats and struggle for brain cells to collide in a meaninful way (or do they just try to look busy to avoid the Hrin Hassle?)
The question, fair reader? What do you hope to "accomplish" at the Summer Institute?
Does getting out of bed, on time every day count? I say yes.
Does losing a pound a week, by escaping the chocolate zucchini cake in the 'fridge, count? I say yes again.
But seriously, selfishly, I just want to write for myself, to think about writing and then actually write, then edit, then rewrite and to crave writing and have the ideas churning all day, all night, seeming out my pores, sneaking through the tears in my awareness and into my dreams.
Any other questions?
Now there's a question on the board, a warm up question. Hello, flipside! Usually I'm the one posting the warm up question, while students file in, while I sip caffine and they sit in the seats and struggle for brain cells to collide in a meaninful way (or do they just try to look busy to avoid the Hrin Hassle?)
The question, fair reader? What do you hope to "accomplish" at the Summer Institute?
Does getting out of bed, on time every day count? I say yes.
Does losing a pound a week, by escaping the chocolate zucchini cake in the 'fridge, count? I say yes again.
But seriously, selfishly, I just want to write for myself, to think about writing and then actually write, then edit, then rewrite and to crave writing and have the ideas churning all day, all night, seeming out my pores, sneaking through the tears in my awareness and into my dreams.
Any other questions?
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tear Up This Message
The email from nycmidnight.com arrived shortly after 4P.M. I had to write three more Tweet Stories using the word tear.
The coolest thing about this word is that it has two main meanings: 1. the salty stuff that comes out of your eyeballs when you are crying and 2. a rip or to rip something.
The contest gave me five hours to submit - but as any busy woman knows, it's got to happen faster than that. I planned to run on the treadmill, shower at the gym (John shut the main valve of our water main off last night due to a huge sprinkler leak/crack we discovered last night just before going to bed - FUN!), write the stories, eat dinner and meet Jill at the movies to see Star Trek - all in less than three hours. I was a bit rushed but here's what I came up with:
1. Jon: Here’s your eggplant! Tear right in! I gotta run back to the grill for my juicy, medium-rare sirloin! Me: Rethinking this vegan thing.
2. small dark tear in her pale wedding dress/not an omen for success/a million private tears, already cried/no one should be a mail-order bride
3. tiny flies float/over fruit in a bowl/the sun edges/through a tear in the dirty screen/and the flies are the thoughts/of the three wilted pears
Again, remember, the stories must use the word exactly and must be less than 140 characters including spaces. So, whats the word? I will keep ya'all posted! Oh, and by the way, the Star Trek movie rocked. Go see it.
The coolest thing about this word is that it has two main meanings: 1. the salty stuff that comes out of your eyeballs when you are crying and 2. a rip or to rip something.
The contest gave me five hours to submit - but as any busy woman knows, it's got to happen faster than that. I planned to run on the treadmill, shower at the gym (John shut the main valve of our water main off last night due to a huge sprinkler leak/crack we discovered last night just before going to bed - FUN!), write the stories, eat dinner and meet Jill at the movies to see Star Trek - all in less than three hours. I was a bit rushed but here's what I came up with:
1. Jon: Here’s your eggplant! Tear right in! I gotta run back to the grill for my juicy, medium-rare sirloin! Me: Rethinking this vegan thing.
2. small dark tear in her pale wedding dress/not an omen for success/a million private tears, already cried/no one should be a mail-order bride
3. tiny flies float/over fruit in a bowl/the sun edges/through a tear in the dirty screen/and the flies are the thoughts/of the three wilted pears
Again, remember, the stories must use the word exactly and must be less than 140 characters including spaces. So, whats the word? I will keep ya'all posted! Oh, and by the way, the Star Trek movie rocked. Go see it.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
How to Write Like You Mean It
I'm suppossed to write a poem now. That's my self-assigned assignment. This poem is to help me prep for the next round of the "Tweet Me a Story" competition on NYCmidnight.com (a great site for creative people wanting to write competitively.) I've made it through three rounds, now I'm a finalist. Yippy!
Before I write my poem, here is the story that made it to the final round. (The story had to be less than 140 characters including spaces and punctuation and contestants were placed into groups and each one given a word that must be used. I had to use the word flavor.)
Shawna drives me home from the beach. We are blonde with sun and coated in a fine, white powder. I lick my arm tasting the salty flavor.
So, that's it.
I was allowed to submit up to three stories. Here are the other two:
1. Two black figures on the road. One a cat, the other a crow. Crow jerks; a broken wing. Cat grins; envisioning the flavor of blackbird pie.
2. I kneel into the Mediterranean, watching as ships fall into Africa. Now the flavor of red cumin pervades and prayers sink into a grey sea.
I'm not sure why they picked the "Shawna" story over the others, but would be interested to know your thoughts, dear reader.
Now what I really want you to know is that each story is based on something that really happened. I did see a black cat and crow in the road coming home from the gym and the crow really did have this broken wing and the cat was skinny, it followed the crow into the middle of the road.
The one about ships and Africa is based on a poem I wrote when I was in Spain. Poetry is very easy to write in Spain. Or Italy. Or on airplanes. It's not so as easy to write at home, I don't know why.
The Shawna story is just what happened. We went to the beach, she was driving, I noticed I was covered in salt; took a taste. Then, of course I was so tickled that I tasted like the ocean I kept doing it. The real part of the story is that Shawna made me go into the ocean for the first time in, like, 15 years. We were out there wading around and she just keeps swimming out father and farther and I didn't want to follow her and she was confused until finally I told her. This is all very strange becuase we live in San Diego. What normal woman in her 30's who has always lived near the beach doesn't go in?
That's a story for another post. It's time for the poem...here goes...
Before I write my poem, here is the story that made it to the final round. (The story had to be less than 140 characters including spaces and punctuation and contestants were placed into groups and each one given a word that must be used. I had to use the word flavor.)
Shawna drives me home from the beach. We are blonde with sun and coated in a fine, white powder. I lick my arm tasting the salty flavor.
So, that's it.
I was allowed to submit up to three stories. Here are the other two:
1. Two black figures on the road. One a cat, the other a crow. Crow jerks; a broken wing. Cat grins; envisioning the flavor of blackbird pie.
2. I kneel into the Mediterranean, watching as ships fall into Africa. Now the flavor of red cumin pervades and prayers sink into a grey sea.
I'm not sure why they picked the "Shawna" story over the others, but would be interested to know your thoughts, dear reader.
Now what I really want you to know is that each story is based on something that really happened. I did see a black cat and crow in the road coming home from the gym and the crow really did have this broken wing and the cat was skinny, it followed the crow into the middle of the road.
The one about ships and Africa is based on a poem I wrote when I was in Spain. Poetry is very easy to write in Spain. Or Italy. Or on airplanes. It's not so as easy to write at home, I don't know why.
The Shawna story is just what happened. We went to the beach, she was driving, I noticed I was covered in salt; took a taste. Then, of course I was so tickled that I tasted like the ocean I kept doing it. The real part of the story is that Shawna made me go into the ocean for the first time in, like, 15 years. We were out there wading around and she just keeps swimming out father and farther and I didn't want to follow her and she was confused until finally I told her. This is all very strange becuase we live in San Diego. What normal woman in her 30's who has always lived near the beach doesn't go in?
That's a story for another post. It's time for the poem...here goes...
tiny flies float
over fruit in a bowl
the sun creeping
through the dirty window screen
flies are the thoughts
of week-old pears
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Fakes on a Train
The easiest way to explain this is just to say that by the time the second Valium kicked in the train was well its way to its second stop.
Now, this is not a blog about a junkie. But, that being said, when I do get the chance to legally get buzzed on a train, who am I to question the Universe?
The boring part of the story is that I needed dental work. Gum work. Serious gum work that involved needles and pain and...most of you have stopped reading here. No one will read about dental work. No one even wants dental work. Including me, hence the Valium. It's the only way to get me in the dentist chair.
Now, the Valium is meant to be taken the night before the procedure and then again one hour before. The caveat? - I am not allowed to drive under the influence and no one could take me. But, lucky me, I live about two miles from a train station and my dentist's office is about two blocks from one of the stops along the route. Trust me, as a semi-rural, suburb, So. Cal. resident, this is lucky.
I walk to the station around 8:20, arrive by 8:50, buy my ticket and, as my appointment is at 9:40, I take my pill. All is fine. In fact, all is Groooovy. My train arrives on time, there are plenty of seats. I take one in an empty row that's slightly elevated above the others, providing me with a clear view of many of the other passengers in front and behind me. And I feel fine. "Life is fine. Fine as wine. Life is fine." (You get bonus points if you can name that poet.)
I like this spot because I'm a people watcher. The middle-aged Asian woman sitting across from me never opened her eyes. She wore pristine black tennis shoes, matching socks, and clutched a box of Kleenex in one hand and a single tissue in the other. She dabbed her nose as rhythmically as a metronome and I am still hard pressed to tell you whether she was ill or inconsolable. And as the drugs in my system began to present their affects, I had the urge to inquire about her dilemma. In my mind's eye I pictured the scene..."'Scuse me, ma'am. You ahwright?" Her dark eyes would blaze open and in Korean whisper-spell her ailment. And me, well, I'm not that good of a speller in English let alone...
Passenger two was a very thin Hispanic man in his early 40's. His dress was a throwback from MC Hammer days. Baseball hat on backward, purple parachute pants, tan tank-top, gold chain. He boarded at that second stop, Buena Creek, when the Valium made it seem as if the train were still moving, the world seeming to move in and out, not side to side and not stopping to let this new fixture on. He kept his hands in his pockets the whole time and looked around nervously. When the train cop (marshal? security? rent-a-cop? well?...in my defense, he did have a gun. I know, I stared at it a little too closely, leaned into the aisle as he...) walked passed both of us, MC's eyes followed him to the back of the car. As soon as the cop(?) moved to the other side of the train, MC moved to a seat directly opposite of where he had been sitting, he kept his hands in his pockets this whole time.
Eyes-closed Asian lady and Hands-in-Pocket MC and I all arrived at the next station, Palomar College. I see a stocky man, thirty-something, wearing a hooded navy sweatshirt, walk past the window, to the other side of the platform. He had white ear-buds in and immediately pulled his hood to cover his ears and the back third of his head. Not the whole head, nor the face. At this point, to me the face blurred and I tried to focus on my own ear buds, the pod cast of This American Life detailing the story of a cop who had to arrest a chimpanzee. The hooded man faded into a dream of himself.
And I guess the easiest way to end this is to say that it's lucky the walk from my stop to the dentist's took very little time, even though I shuffled there. Also easiest and kindest not to mention the next two hours, the two hours that the valium was actually intended for.
Now, this is not a blog about a junkie. But, that being said, when I do get the chance to legally get buzzed on a train, who am I to question the Universe?
The boring part of the story is that I needed dental work. Gum work. Serious gum work that involved needles and pain and...most of you have stopped reading here. No one will read about dental work. No one even wants dental work. Including me, hence the Valium. It's the only way to get me in the dentist chair.
Now, the Valium is meant to be taken the night before the procedure and then again one hour before. The caveat? - I am not allowed to drive under the influence and no one could take me. But, lucky me, I live about two miles from a train station and my dentist's office is about two blocks from one of the stops along the route. Trust me, as a semi-rural, suburb, So. Cal. resident, this is lucky.
I walk to the station around 8:20, arrive by 8:50, buy my ticket and, as my appointment is at 9:40, I take my pill. All is fine. In fact, all is Groooovy. My train arrives on time, there are plenty of seats. I take one in an empty row that's slightly elevated above the others, providing me with a clear view of many of the other passengers in front and behind me. And I feel fine. "Life is fine. Fine as wine. Life is fine." (You get bonus points if you can name that poet.)
I like this spot because I'm a people watcher. The middle-aged Asian woman sitting across from me never opened her eyes. She wore pristine black tennis shoes, matching socks, and clutched a box of Kleenex in one hand and a single tissue in the other. She dabbed her nose as rhythmically as a metronome and I am still hard pressed to tell you whether she was ill or inconsolable. And as the drugs in my system began to present their affects, I had the urge to inquire about her dilemma. In my mind's eye I pictured the scene..."'Scuse me, ma'am. You ahwright?" Her dark eyes would blaze open and in Korean whisper-spell her ailment. And me, well, I'm not that good of a speller in English let alone...
Passenger two was a very thin Hispanic man in his early 40's. His dress was a throwback from MC Hammer days. Baseball hat on backward, purple parachute pants, tan tank-top, gold chain. He boarded at that second stop, Buena Creek, when the Valium made it seem as if the train were still moving, the world seeming to move in and out, not side to side and not stopping to let this new fixture on. He kept his hands in his pockets the whole time and looked around nervously. When the train cop (marshal? security? rent-a-cop? well?...in my defense, he did have a gun. I know, I stared at it a little too closely, leaned into the aisle as he...) walked passed both of us, MC's eyes followed him to the back of the car. As soon as the cop(?) moved to the other side of the train, MC moved to a seat directly opposite of where he had been sitting, he kept his hands in his pockets this whole time.
Eyes-closed Asian lady and Hands-in-Pocket MC and I all arrived at the next station, Palomar College. I see a stocky man, thirty-something, wearing a hooded navy sweatshirt, walk past the window, to the other side of the platform. He had white ear-buds in and immediately pulled his hood to cover his ears and the back third of his head. Not the whole head, nor the face. At this point, to me the face blurred and I tried to focus on my own ear buds, the pod cast of This American Life detailing the story of a cop who had to arrest a chimpanzee. The hooded man faded into a dream of himself.
And I guess the easiest way to end this is to say that it's lucky the walk from my stop to the dentist's took very little time, even though I shuffled there. Also easiest and kindest not to mention the next two hours, the two hours that the valium was actually intended for.
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