Ditalini Press

Brewed by the Sun

2011-07-31T14:56:00.000-07:00

Early morning, sun rising
Summer breeze in the air
The day before you
Clouds passing
Time is of no care

Leap the sprinklers
Ride and skate
Intemperate summer fun
Mason jar, tea bags steep
Brewed by the sun

Simply sweet, crisp and mellow
Savor the time and care
Back porch glider
Sunset horizon
Serenity everywhere

Illumination - Occasion 1

2011-07-25T18:14:00.000-07:00

In keeping with the "illumination" theme, I wanted to share a photograph I took around eight years ago. This was taken before the digital revolution when the anticipation of waiting for developed film made the day you finally were able to view the results a very special one. I have titled it "Occasion 1". I chose that title because to me windows and/or doors or any opening from the inside to the out can be symbolic of an opportunity. The contrast is pronounced between the light and the dark and although most of the frame is black, the light still wins.

Illumination Round-Robin - Sunspots on Wildcat Creek

2011-07-17T10:07:00.000-07:00

The final lines of the "Illumination" poem by J Power:

"
Seeing the water
I sat down and said to myself,
'We can be as beautiful as we want to be.'
"

inspired me to select this photo for the Illumination Round-Robin. Taken from the south bank of the Wildcat Creek, just a few yards downstream from the Adams Mill covered bridge, the uneven surface of the water produces not a single reflection of the afternoon sun, but rather turns the sun into hundreds of sunspots. This is fitting, since the image was captured shortly after leaving a reunion picnic of employees of the Sunspot Natural Market, owned by my sister, Joan. The Sunspot Natural Market has two locations, one in Kokomo, Indiana and the other in West Lafayette, Indiana, and is in its 34th year of operation. The event was held on the grounds of Adams Mill, which was constructed on the Wildcat Creek in 1845.

This photograph was taken on July 4, 2011.

Illumination Round-Robin - Adams Mill covered bridge

2011-07-17T09:19:00.000-07:00

The Adams Mill covered bridge, located near Cutler, Indiana about halfway between Kokomo and Lafayette, was constructed in 1872 to allow single-lane passage over the Wildcat Creek. The bridge was completely reconstructed in 1999, and features a central open window on each side of the span, which illuminates the interior with natural light. The window openings also afford a view of the creek in each direction. The accompanying "illumination" photograph is a contribution to the Illumination Round-Robin, and was taken on July 4, 2011. Here is a view of the structure before reconstruction, and here are some architectural drawings of the original bridge, drawn in the 1970s by students from Ball State University College of Architecture and Planning under the supervision of the United States Department of the Interior. The Ball Stgate University study shows that the bridge is constructed using Howe trusses with added arches.

Illumination Round-Robin & Wishing You a Happy Birthday, Ditalini Press!

2011-07-14T19:37:00.000-07:00

The latest post by J Power, Illumination, gives me the idea to start a round-robin. I'm continuing his theme with this balloon flower photo - see the star "illumination" center? Want to keep it going? Jump in! Post your photo, poem, tale - true or tall, or do like J Power and link to your YouTube video!

Happy birthday, Ditalini Press! You are all stars!

Illumination

2011-07-13T16:41:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone. I have not posted here in awhile and so I thought I would offer a poem I composed in February concerning my belief that a sustainable existence with the natural environment and personal growth can both be achieved without one dominating the other. I developed a film around the poem as well which I invite you all to experience. It can be seen at my Youtube channel address which is www.youtube.com/user/joshuacallentown

I hope you all are well.

Illumination

I stood on a rock
in a field of grass and apple trees.
I was called to this spot,
called to stand there
and watch the clouds move
and the limbs
and to sense the earth turning.

I came here for direction,
that I might receive it
and that I might offer it.
What fire will I gift to the world?
What seed for the growing infertile?

I stepped down from the rock
and I was freezing.
I will walk to the creek,
I thought.

I imagined a human being
careful and deliberate
walking through these woods.
Fulfilled without imbalance.
Existence without harm.
With knowledge of the natural world,
its healing powers and abundance.
Communicating with all things.
Genius, green and growing.
Strong, enraptured and naked.
The care and the caretaker.
Concentrating the will toward illumination
and progress alone.

Seeing the water
I sat down and said to myself,
"We can be as beautiful as we want to be."

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

2011-04-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson begins by introducing us to Mikael Blomkvist a financial investigative journalist. He has been sentenced to serve 3 months jail time and a monetary fine for libel against a crooked billionaire, Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. Before he begins his jail sentence he is approached by a Henrik Vanger to research the death of his niece who has been missing for 40 years. Vanger offers Blomkvist a large sum of money and tells him he has a year to figure out the mystery of what happened to his niece, Harriet Vanger. After the year Vanger says he will provide Blomkvist with the necessary information to take down Hans-Erik Wennerstrom.

The novel also follows the life of Lisbeth Salander, a tattooed and pierced young women whom he tracks down after discovering she had hacked into his computer. Lisbeth is tough as nails and takes no crap form anyone, despite appearing mentally handicapped. If you wrong her you better watch out, she will get revenge. With Lisbeth's help he begins to uncover more that just the mystery of one young girls disappearance.

After reading this book I saw that the original title was Men Who Hate Women, which I think would have been much more appropriate. Throughout the book there is violence, often sexual, against women, which turns out to be a recurring theme in the book. The book also gives statistic's on violent acts commited against women in Sweden. It made me very glad I don't live in Sweden.

The beginning of the book gets off to a slow start, but after getting through all the initial background on Blomkvist and Lisbeth the story really gets interesting. At times it is difficult to keep track of all the members of the Vanger family. I think a family tree outline would have been helpful, but overall it was a very good read and I am planning on reading the next two books in the series.

Limerick Laughs Submission

2011-03-31T14:21:00.000-07:00

My submission for the Saturday Evening Post limerick contest Aunt Sue told us about. Click here for contest details.

Caught off guard as the pins crack and tumble.

In those stockings she surely would fumble.

She kept me unaware,

I thought maybe a spare.

Smile, nod, and try not to grumble.

Writer-Bite: Limerick Contest!

2011-03-18T18:54:00.001-07:00

The Saturday Evening Post is sponsoring a limerick contest, awarding $100 for the limerick judged to be the best fit for this bowling image. Your entry must be postmarked by April 4th!

Thanks for The Memory !

2011-03-11T10:28:00.000-08:00

The Academy Award for Best Original Song of 1938 went to Thanks for the Memory, which was adapted many times over as it evolved as Bob Hope's personal theme song. Here's an adaptation I was inspired to write after spending a magical evening in Chicago. If you were there and want to add a stanza, feel free! If not, write your own adaptation as a March mini-challenge! For inspiration, see this video clip from The Big Broadcast of 1938 on YouTube here.

Thanks for The Oscars Dinner Party Memory

Thanks for The Oscars memory
Street-wise Daniel parked Mom’s car, Ball canning jar décor
Ikea world-wide wall map, gleaming oaken hardwood floors
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of Michelle taking fashion notes, of category votes
PG had the early lead, as we all harbored secret hopes!
How lovely it was!

Many’s the time we were laughing
And many’s the time we were grinners
(Or groaners!) As we tried guessing the winners
Oh, to experience such ambiance!

And thanks for the memory
Of Paul’s java brewed just right, pick-a-cup delight
Fresh pasta Mia’s way set the stage for a perfect night!
So, thank you so much!

Thanks for the memory
Talk of romance books and, of red carpet looks
TC was Country Strong, but Randy won it with his hook
How lovely it was!

Thanks for the memory
Of Uncle Lee on eBay, (vintage postcards on the way . . .)
Thanks for treating us like treasure is what we want to say!
How lovely it was!

Where else would Division unite us
And where else would we raise a nice toast
To Chicago’s most award-winning hosts
We did have fun! The King’s Speech won!

So, thanks for the memory
Of Best Actress Natalie, of choppin’ broccoli
This 83^rd Annual Academy Awards party is now part of history!
And thank you so much!

An Object of Beauty: Chapter 53, I Wink to Thee!

2011-03-09T18:46:00.000-08:00

For me, the masterpiece of An Object of Beauty is comprised of all the words contained in Chapter 53! Reminding me of a memorable holiday dinner get-together or a stimulating version of Table Talk, this restaurant-gathering depiction ranks in my top three of Best Book Chapters Ever. Before I got a copy of this book, I listened to an audio version, and Campbell Scott’s voice told this tale well. In fact, it was only in Chapter 53 that I thought that I specifically ‘heard’ author Steve Martin’s voice come through with distinct enunciation when the name of Hollywood actor ‘Stirling Quince’ was announced. I can imagine that Steve might have even winked upon saying those two words, which his main character of Lacey Yeager would have frowned upon.

Can you imagine what would have happened if, when flutterby posted the Ditalini Press 'Just Dialog' Challenge, she stipulated that we include fifteen character voices? This is why Chapter 53 is suitable for framing: it debates, from so many personal-perspectives, the merits of art, with Lacey’s journalist friend Daniel inserting just the right questions to keep the conversation lively. I am reminded of the great Michael Zinman who challenges us to collect – pick something, anything and just collect! (If you don’t like to collect ‘stuff’, try collecting memory images and hang them on a clothesline display in front of your Third Eye!) This group happens to collect art! As one might surmise, Mr. Martin is also quite the art collector, and in 2001 wrote a book about his collection, Kindly Lent Their Owner: the Private Collection of Steve Martin, which is listed on his website, www.stevemartin.com. A new copy can be had for a mere $400.00 through Amazon, a used copy from $95.00.

But I digress!

Lacey’s voice is surprisingly silent in Chapter 53. This particular art crowd at this particular time must not have suited her purposes or, rather, been able to further her purposes. Instead, at the end of the chapter Daniel spots her keeping cozy with a Russian playboy art collector, at a table for two. Described as ‘reckless’ in the book, I would add ‘ruthless’ to the description of Lacey and her most unscrupulous act is the one on which this book hinges. For as Lacey navigates the ins and outs and around and abouts of the art world, objects of beauty soon take on value-added dimensions, allowing her to deliberately up-style her life, but will she be truly liberated?

At first glance, what attracted me to this book were the art reproductions. Once reading, I loved the dappled light that played with similes throughout, and the rays that occasionally glinted off of rare golden chiasmus nuggets. When that happened, I might have even winked - in defiance of Lacey and in deference to the enlightened, word-smart geniusness of Stephen Glenn Martin!

Curiously, it is in Chapter 53, so full of art appreciation dialog, that we are let in on the secret of engaging in dialog with Art itself. So the next time an object of beauty gets your attention, whispering soft promises or all but shouting: Stop. Linger. Listen.

You better run, squirrel!

2011-02-28T12:59:00.000-08:00

I'm not really a fan of New Year's resolutions, but I have to admit, they do motivate me. Last year, I participated in the Haynes Apperson Festival four-mile run in July. I would like to say I ran it, but I did quite a bit more walking than running. My resolution for this year is to participate in the Haynes Apperson and run the whole four miles. I guess it may be more of a goal than a resolution.

Running has always intimidated me, and I think my struggles with it were more mental than physical. I have to admit that I am growing to enjoy it; especially running outside as opposed to on the treadmill. I still have a long way to go before I can run a solid four mile stretch, but no one said New Year's resolutions are supposed to be easy!

So What'd You Think of An object of Beauty....?

2011-02-27T23:18:00.000-08:00

I’ve been twice to the International Basel Art Show which takes place every June in Switzerland and have witnessed dapper gentleman in houndstooth buying paintings by Hans Arp for $20,000 and overheard many an avant-guard nabob negotiate superior sums on their cell phones. I’d wondered who these people were, what kinds of lives they lived. In Steve Martin’s latest novel, An Object of Beauty I was given some insight into this world of art that fascinates.

The book’s main character is Lacey as described by a nerdy and likable narrator, a writer for ARTnews. She is an enviable femme fatale type: attractive, witty, appreciator of and surrounded by the finest of worldly things, driven by intense amition to succeed, ensnaring millionaire art dealers in her charms, moving free of self-doubt or timidity. I think Lacey’s complexities reveal Martin’s understanding of women in general.

When Lacey sells her Grandmother’s Maxfield Parrish painting in a dubious way in order to stay in New York and pursue her dream, readers see just how unscrupulous, almost immoral she is. Especially when said Parrish painting depicts her own grandmother as an enchanting youth, a dear testament to an ongoing familial link to art, artists, and to beauty. This ambitious move renders her shallow, vacuous, as the New York art scene seems after the terrorist attacts of September 11.

I found the book to be a fun and rollicking read while maintaining an intelligent tone. I think it would adapt well to film. It is also, most importantly, powerful in conveying art’s inherent value to humanity. This was aided by the twenty-two reproductions of various artworks found throughout and especially felt from one effectual scene in which Lacey hangs a painting by Milton Avery on her apartment wall. Readers witness the Avery catalyzing an almost spiritual transformation of her apartment, turning it from a student-like, juevenile space to a harmonious, exquisite, mature abode. She has a revelation at this moment, understanding why people collect art, value it, invest in it.

It would be hard not to come away unaffected by An Object of Beauty. It seems likely that readers of every kind will have a new or refreshed understanding of art, even be stirred to collect or investigate it further.

It’s impassioned author said shortly after buying a painting by William Michael Harnett, a 19th century still-life painting (from New York Times article November, 2010): “It’s absolutely great to live with. It’s better than television. There’s not a day I don’t look at or spend some amount of time with an artwork.”

My Thoughts on An Object of Beauty

2011-02-27T10:55:00.000-08:00

I am not at all familiar with the world of art that extends beyond my children's drawings that hang on my refrigerator, so reading An Object of Beauty was a learning experience for me. Because I know very little about art and the culture surrounding it, at times I found myself wanting to skim through the descriptions of the works of art that are throughout the book, but I persevered and learned that while I may not understand what makes a person want to spend thousands of dollars on a piece of art I can respect that they do.

The main character's personality and story are what really kept me interested in this book. To me it seems the main character, Lacey Yeager, uses any means necessary to work her way up in the art world from a clerk in the basement of Sotheby's to eventually owning her own gallery. Her relationship's with people more often than not revolved around what a person can do for her and her career than her actually being a friend. I found the stories of her escapades much more interesting than the descriptions of the various work of art she comes across. I often found myself wanting to like her, but never really being able to.

I enjoyed reading An Object of Beauty because it made me look at another slice of the world. Although I will probably always be someone who takes a quick look at a painting and then moves on to the next, I will remember that while I take it for what it is, there is always a different way to see it. I learned that while it may just look like a painting of a field there is always more than what meets the eye. All you have to do is look.

Childhood Home for Sale

2011-02-18T01:09:00.000-08:00

After dancing around it like a maypole, you and I sat in its shadows, laughing, squishing the translucent, gooey grapes into our mouths, throwing the dark paper skins into the summer sky, spitting the seeds. It was just a season or two after dad trimmed it too much and we thought it would certainnly die that we ate its grapes with our eyes on mom and dad, hoping they both tasted sweetness at the same time.

We picked colanders full of the concord grapes and brought them inside, some cracked with juices attracting fruit flies.

In late August, brown with sun, hair stiff from pool water, we’d slip around back to see if the grapes were ripe. We’d part the branches, crawl under the weighted arbor, where bunches hung free among spiders. Handfuls of gummy sweetness into our mouthes, we strewed seeds around us, giggling, chewing gemmy morsels.

This Victorian grapevine that someone planted long ago, that survived the tornado of ’69, gave us so many seasons of fruit. Even when the Japanese beetles seemed to stir its every leaf, even when the neighborhood kids picked and threw so many grapes at each other rather than eat them, there was always enough.

One year mom made a circular garden and dad planted an apple tree beside that grapevine. The apple tree matured and gave bitter, hideous, bulbous fruit. The ciruclar garden was overgrown with weeds, torn up, and hissing, mutilated, inbred cats crept in.

The vine was just out of view from our childhood bedroom window. We grew up, it grew dense, neglected, like a forgotten elder. The fertile field behind our house became pre-fabricated, chem-lawned home plots. A floodlit parking lot replaced the restful darkness of night.

dp Speed Round: New Years Resolution

2011-01-30T09:40:00.000-08:00

I'd thought of posting the same kind of challenge but got lazy and let the time slip by. So I'm glad you put the New Years Resolution out there for us Sue.

Because of my visits with Steve who is serving the 27th year of a 30 year jail sentence, I have become very aware of just how much we all take for granted out here in this great big world. I told myself that this year I was going to stop doing that. I'm not talking about just our freedoms, but our relationships and the sights, sounds and smells around us. Prison can either break you, harden you, or make you very very wise. Thank you Steve for your wisdom.

Chiasmus Corner: Adelle Davis

2011-01-30T07:07:00.000-08:00

On last week's Iron Chef America: Gruyere Battle, Alton Brown signed off with this quote from Adelle Davis, author of the famous "Let's . . . " series of nutrition books:

“We are indeed much more than what we eat, but what we eat can nevertheless help us to be much more than what we are.”
Adelle Davis (1904 - 1974)

dP Speed Round: New Year's Resolution

2011-01-29T15:18:00.001-08:00

Having just written a very short post on the topic of New Year's Resolutions, who wants to join in? How do you feel about resolutions to start the new year? Did you make one or more resolution? If so, are you - and how are you - following through? This could be the start of a new dP process, just like at the end of some of the old game shows, which featured 'speed rounds' or 'lightening rounds'. This is an end-of-the-month 'dp Speed Round'. Make it short and snappy, if you please?!

Color Resolution !

2011-01-29T11:36:00.001-08:00

Having set my New Year's Resolution to be more aware of color - a 'Color Resolution', you might say, I offer this Color IQ Test from x-ritephoto. From the site: "Take this fun and simple on-line color IQ test and learn how you see color. You’ll get more accurate results if you have a calibrated and profiled monitor. Share the color IQ test with your friends and colleagues!"

I took the test 3 times, scoring 77, 92, then 55. (Maybe I need a calibrated and profiled monitor!) What's your score?

P.S. Sorry about that bright green sweater I've been wearing - I forced myself to buy it, for the very fact that it is way, way out of my color-comfort zone!!

For No Sake of Posterity.

2011-01-29T07:54:00.000-08:00

For No Sake of Posterity

plunged into sights unseen
a foggy day sets in LA town
sub-conscious, conscious visions
fleeting, wafting into black
desperation. suffocation. congestion. self-annihilation?
fuck patience. fuck virtues.
i pity me.
“go away, bad dream!”
i need to put the bubble in the
jar – for no sake of posterity

Without beating this story like a dead horse, I blew out the retina in my only good eye January 11th while in Los Angeles shooting the short film, PASSER LE SEL S’IL VOUS PLAÎT, adapted from my short play, “Pass the Salt, Please.”. I had the smarts to walk into the Jules Stein Eye Institute at UCLA on the 12th and say, "I believe something's wrong", and was rushed into surgery - which, according to Doc McCannell and Doc Hu – went superbly. However, I’ve been grounded in Cali until the gas bubble in my eye dissipates. (I've been cleared to go home - I'll leave this Monday or Tuesday...by train. For the hell of it.)

Thus began my convalescence following post-retina re-attachment surgery – first at the home of my director-friend, Tatjana, near Beverly Hills, and then (where I’m currently at), at the foothills of the Angeles Forest in Tujunga at the home of my goddaughter (Donovan & Maria’s).

During those first recuperative days, I'd often go sit on Tat’s porch. Since I needed to keep my head positioned down 50 minutes out of every hour (and sleep on my stomach) for the first three days (this was reduced to 30 minutes for the next five days), I had to switch things up any way I could think of. Tat was snapping pictures of her son one day and I called her over and asked her to take some pics of me – one or two days post-surgery – with the intention of preserving some record of the state of my present physical and mental well being. These photos are testament to the living hell I endured, as is the above poem.

dP does Oprah....?

2011-01-17T00:33:00.000-08:00

Introducing a new Ditalini Press spin-off concept: the dP Book Club.
The next best thing to letting a group of people file into your living room and perch on your comfy couches to discuss a book, is to do so on the dP. Here, we can talk about a book of the month, dipping our virtual crumpets into our virtual teacups together.
Simply participate by reading the book of the month (displayed in the side bar), and writing a post relating to the tome. Posts may be reactions to content or style, or of a more personal nature. Heated debates can be conveyed in caps lock in the comments section, boldness unrestrained, everyone insulated by the www from a face slap.
The role of book chooser will rotate from month to month, unless a system of open discussion/brainstorming/voting could be devised. No restrictions for the moment on genres.
The book for February will be: 'An Object of Beauty' by Steve Martin.
Read it, feel it, post about it, discuss it! Spread the word, tell family and friends!
Foremost, the dP is still a creative writing blog. Please note that every month is now 'Writer's Choice.' Mini-topics are still welcome.
Special thanks to Katie for creating crazy good seasonal dP banners!

Ordinary Lives . . .

2011-01-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

Struggling to hold the hand mirror, I cut my own hair, short all over. But now my large brown eyes and long, dark, curved lashes look more feminine than ever! I’m desperate to go to America and trying to achieve a boyish look is the only way my young mind can figure out how to get there. My older sister, who has long since taken her vows, is going there to further the established Southwest mission. When I show up dressed in makeshift coveralls, just as she’s boarding ship, she admonishes me severely, even while her heart melts at the sight of me. Thinking quickly, she sends word to our family, and inquires of the ship’s registrar that my name must be on the passenger list? He takes my predicament for high hilarity, and waves us aboard while pretending to look the other way. Once on ship, my sister does her best to even my patchy hair. The journey brings out in me a fear of the dark, of the enclosed space deep in the ship, a blackness I’ve never known. Candlelight would comfort me, but the risk of fire is too great. Once in America, I take delight in reading our shared Bible to the Native little ones, it is what I was born to do. I come to know these Americans, at first through their dance, shocking, then mesmerizing, purposefully rhythmic. They teach me their ways of food preparation and their all-ways connection to the Great Artist. After several years, it is time for us to return home, but I long to stay. My sister leaves me the Bible, and also her extra pair of shoes, for she knows I will need them. They are just slightly too big and I at once realize the symbolism. I die, still young, leaving no written record of my life . . .

I cut my own hair, short all around my face. I trust my sisters - sisters-in-bondage - to cut the back for me, evenly. We have no mirrors. I was taken from my native land, even as I created cloth, lengths and lengths of colorful cloth. I was an honored daughter there, as all women were honored. Here, I have not learned to read or write, only to speak this English tongue through the singing of spiritual hymns. A dear sister, assigned to work in the big house, has been risking her life by taking books, one at a time. Small black books, edged in gold, I sew one each into the lining of my children's coats; my children will learn to read. Now that they are nearing an age for selling, I must attempt escape before we are separated. In secret preparation for the journey, we make extra candles, but there occurs an accident, and my arms are scalded by hot wax. The shack itself and the surrounding structures catch fire, flames dancing in the night sky, and in the resulting commotion, we make our escape earlier than planned, away from the light into the darkness. Surprisingly, we receive hurried aid from the plantation mistress. One look into her eyes, and I at once know that she has knowledge of my secret shame, for two of my children are fair. We make it across the River of Freedom, but I can go no further. At risk of capture by poachers, I stay in seclusion with a healer who will attend to my burns. What would I do without my now-free sisters, who promise to lead my children farther North? The books will illuminate their lives, and we will meet again. There is no written record of my life, save a name listed on a Bill of Sale for a Negro Slave . . .

I study the reflection of myself in the gilt-framed mirror, pleased with my short, light hair and plain, neat uniform. I believe in the doctrine I have been taught, in principle, zealously. And up until now, the villagers and I have maintained an easy trust. I have been part of their lives, keeping a steady peace, have been included in a celebratory dance or two, but a gap is widening. My superiors order a house-to-house book-hunt; an entire heritage up in flames. As the fires still smolder, I am informed of my satisfactory performance, but the destruction is to escalate. Realizing my role in this imminent desecration of life, sickness overwhelms me. I can at best give a few residents a head start while I look the other way. Oh, to obliterate all written record of my name, but my life has been well-documented since birth, in every detail. I would erase even my face, as the mirror is smashed in anguish. I grasp a sharp silvery sliver, but in the moment my courage dissolves. My lackluster leadership soon becomes obvious, and no longer having value, I am ‘lucky’ to be demoted, sent to the fighting front. An enemy soldier, a marksman, has me in his sights. In another time, another place, we might have been true brothers, but as it is we are brothers-in-bondage-of-war. He doesn’t miss and I at once bless and forgive this man as my soul is released, my near-to-starving body falling in the deep snow. Yet I still have a vow of restitution to fulfill - I must make restitution! My heavy military-issued coat is searched, shards of broken mirror wrapped in a child’s tallit in one pocket, a slim volume of Jewish prayers in the other . . .

Rip, Sizzle, Pop!

2010-12-31T05:41:00.000-08:00

Do you hear that??? That's the sound of me ripping the pages from this years miserable calendar, setting it on fire with a lovely fragrant candle, and popping the top on a champaign bottle to celebrate the endless possibilities that 2011 offers me. Join me in toasting the New Year. May it bring love, peace, and happiness to us all.

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM FLUTTERBY!

Anagram Fun: Paul C. Green

2010-12-27T10:37:00.001-08:00

PAUL C. GREEN = PURE GLANCE

From my home to yours...Merry Christmas, Ditalini Press.

2010-12-26T14:23:00.000-08:00

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one;
stronger than a magician ever spoke,
or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”

- Charles Dickens

Valerian Train Part I

2010-12-08T08:20:00.000-08:00

The feverish tones of the root of Valerian traveled via ancient channels through my body before bed. The tea was hot, and the scent of sour Earth encased me. I fell suddenly and deeply to sleep where I awoke in a future world where humans were prevalent but humanity was hard to find. I was on a train, headed en route to nowhere, circling and circling again, the remnants of a shameless city. I asked for the conductor, and no one knew his name.
I asked for a list of destinations, and no one could tell me of any. I began to assume no one cared, and they were pleased with their pointless and endless trip within the filthy train cars. I suddenly felt empowered by their lack of will to ask such obvious questions about their existence. I told everyone that I was getting off soon, at the next stop. The reaction was that I would be on my own, and that I'd have to risk getting off at my own peril, as the train never stops. I walked to the nearest doors, and pondered my lunge out into the real world. I sensed the Valerian in my blood, and asked for guidance. She reminded me of the powers of the mind, and how I could create my own world. I pushed open the train doors that led outside, and watched as the blurred city rang past me. The sight was dizzying and I began losing my balance, when I suddenly saw a platform, moving at the same pace as the train, but slightly slower. I dove onto it and rejoiced at having escaped the train. I looked back and saw tiny black heads of the people within, barely bobbing. They were lost. I felt strength in having the freedom they never even long for.
Another platform approached me to the left, and I jumped toward it and landed safely, still moving quite fast, I wondered how many platforms I'd have to jump to ever reach stand-still. Another one approached, and another, and another until they all lined up for me. I decided to lie down and roll across them all, to the final hard and still sidewalk. After what seemed like hours of spinning blindly, I was still. I could hear my breathing, and I could hear the birds. The sky was filled with them and as they swept the air with their wings, my dizzy head became calm. After their chirping ceased I eyed the horizon, seeking out some signs of activity in this dying city. I noticed a faint sound coming from far away and I decided to walk toward the tallest building I could find. I noticed from afar, a few lights flickering within, and figured it would take me at least thirty minutes to get there. Then, at that moment, a shadow greeted me. It was a large vehicle with a short and small driver. I knew that I was to take over and replace him. He got out of the car and left the door open for me. He started off toward the train depot, where I noticed a crowd gathering.
The car was well built, the ride was smooth, and the streets were empty and wide. I could drive at any speed and there were no police on duty in sight. I finally grew keen to the all powerful tires and took jumps off of hills and ramps, all while steadily gaining speed. I wasted a few hours around the city like this, embracing the adrenaline like an new best friend. I looked out of the rear view mirror and saw the tall building. I had passed it miles ago. I turned around in the middle of the street, riding onto the curb and closely skimming the concrete wall in front of me. I was headed toward life, all of it that was left in this broken down city. I would meet the individuals that were left behind here, or those that chose to stay. Only I wouldn't realize just yet, how they all prayed they could be on that endless, circling train. The one that I so longed to get off of.

To be continued...

December Topic: WILD CARD

2010-12-06T06:53:00.000-08:00

December is writer's choice!

Bordering Paranoia

2010-11-30T12:01:00.000-08:00

Have you actually read your passport? I know, I hadn't either.
Here's what it states:
'The Secretary of State of the United States of America hereby requests all whom it may concern to permit the citizen/national of the United States named herein to pass without delay or hindrance and in case of need to give all lawful aid and protection.'
Without delay or hindrance, huh. Well, here's what one has to deal with when entering back into the the U.S. these days.
My personal experience:
Arrive from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Detroit, November 22, 2010. I was in a long long line with fellow American travelers snaking around belted partitions as a squat black woman barked orders at us like a military officer. There were four customs officers perched in bullet proof glass cages processing everyone. I was at the line of discretion, uneasy, and met the testosterone filled eyes of a bulky, shaved-head customs guard. I didn't say hi and get all deferential like I normally do. This time I wanted to feel like he was serving me, not the other way around.
He asked me if I was traveling alone, what I was doing abroad, what I was doing home, where I was living, who I would be staying with in the United States. My answers were satisfactory and he gave my passport a stamp and I was on to pick up my baggage.
Everyone must pick up their baggage and re-check it now, even if one has a connecting flight. So, I got my suitcase and got in line at yet another custom officer's checkpoint station. As we all waited patiently in line, a woman holding a nervous German shepherd on a leash looped her way around, urging the dog to sniff us, our possessions, bags and suitcases. The dog lingered, snuffling on a woman's rolling suitcase and the woman officer screamed, 'Are you carrying any food items with you today, Ma'am?' The woman said no. The dog continued. My stomach turned to liquid with fear. I was smuggling in stinky, runny, raw milk French cheese and a bag of butter cookies. Thankfully the dog didn't catch on. Then, it was finally my turn to stand before the second customs officer who looked just like the first. He asked me again if I was traveling alone, what I was doing in France. As I answered, he half listened, looking at my passport photo, then me, my photo, then me again, then said, 'you look familiar, that's why I keep staring at you.' Then he asked if my husband was planning on coming to the United States at a future date. Then he asked me if I was bringing any food items into the U.S.
He wrote something on my customs card and kept it and let me go. There was another barricade of officers who were choosing people at random to enter into a small room called, 'Baggage Search' where our bags would be gone through extensively by a man wearing rubber gloves. I was glad to go by unpicked. I rechecked my baggage and had to go through another security checkpoint even though we had all just come from Paris where we had all passed through the x-rays and scans and into this secure customs area and we had to go through it all......again...?
A fellow American behind me was disgruntled, 'Why do we have to do this all again? This is just ridiculous, do we really have to take our shoes off again?'
The security guard sang out, 'yes, take off your shoes, take off your belts, put your keys, coats, bags, electronic devises in the trays.'
So, we walked one by one over the filthy, cold floors in stocking feet through the scanner to get yet another dose of radiation. Some of my traveling companions were chosen at random to enter the glass alien pod puffer machine, others got a pat down, others a purse pillage. Finally, I was able to enter the Detroit airport proper.
I passed, but with hindrance and delay. Don't get me wrong, I think some security is necessary, but I feel the 'terrorists' have won if the nation is terrorizing it's own citizens. Does grandma really need a pat down or a full body x-ray? Come on!

Cream and Crimson

2010-11-30T05:19:00.000-08:00

I am a diehard Indiana University basketball fan. The past few years, heck, the past decade has been difficult, to say the least. Indiana has five national basketball championships, the last one coming in 1987 which occurred just before I turned seven years old. I vaguely remember watching that game. I remember sitting on my dad's lap and an enormous uproar when Keith Smart hit "The Shot". I couldn't really appreciate what was happening, but it was fun. For my birthday, I got an Indiana National Champions shirt, and I cherished it.

I was even more emotionally invested in 1992 when Indiana lost in the Final Four to Duke. I was crushed when the Hoosiers lost that game. What I couldn't have known is that would be the last time they would make it to the Final Four until 2002. Even more painful is that string of first or second NCAA tournament exits during that ten-year span. Indiana fired Bob Knight in 2000 and that 2001-2002 team was a lot of fun to watch, a team that produced my fondest memory of watching Indiana basketball.

Indiana had made it to the Sweet Sixteen as a number five seed, which usually means you are going to play a number one seed, and in this case the number one seed was Duke. Even being a huge IU fan I saw no way the Hoosiers could win that game. We were at my dad's house for the weekend and had the game on. As the game went on, it was clear the Hoosiers had a chance. As the final seconds ticked away, it felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. When the final buzzer sounded, Indiana had won the game 74-73, and my dad and me went nuts, running around and hugging everyone in the house. I'm sure it was a sight, and Michael still talks about it to this day. Indiana went to the national championship game that year, losing to Maryland, 52-64.

It was all downhill from there. Two years later, the Hoosiers had a losing record and did not play in the NCAA tournament or NIT. In 2006, Indiana hired Kelvin Sampson who basically ran the program into the ground and ruined Indiana basketball as we know it; all in a span of two years. I won't get into the specifics, but by the time he was fired and Tom Crean took over, Indiana had only one scholarship player return the next year; a player who averaged 1.3 points per game. It would be an understatement to say the program was in shambles.

In the first two years with Tom Crean as the head coach, Indiana won 16 games and lost 46. This was to be expected, but still a tough pill to swallow. Indiana is making strides, though. They are off to a 6-0 start this year, and they have many top recruits who have already committed to play at Indiana; the biggest name of the bunch being Cody Zeller.

The recruitment of Cody Zeller had the Indiana community buzzing. It was more symbolic than anything else. If he chose to play at Indiana, it would mean Indiana is once again a force to be reckoned with. Plus, since Cody Zeller is from Indiana, it was thought that more Indiana kids would soon follow him to play at Indiana (which has already happened). Once Cody Zeller signed his letter of intent, a press conference was set up for Tom Crean. There was a podium set up at the practice facility and Tom Crean entered the room and was followed by his current team who stood behind him. He then addressed the media:

(transcribed from the Hoosiers Insider blog on indystar.com)

“When these players came, especially a couple of years ago, they didn’t have anybody to look up to. They didn’t have anybody in here to teach them the way. They literally, when you look at Verdell, and you look at Tommy and you look at Matt, they didn’t have anybody to even recruit them. They were recruited by driving around in a golf cart or going to a spring football practice, or something like that. And along the way these players have become the face of the program. That’s why it is so important to me and to all of us here, that they are successful. What they mean to the present day Indiana family and what they mean to the future family is really, really important. These guys have done a phenomenal job of building this program. They recruited some of the ones you see back there like Victor and Will, but most importantly what they just did in this recruiting class. Without a doubt, one of the greatest selling points that we have at Indiana University is our players. And these guys have (inaudible). And that’s why I want to see them be successful here and for so many years down the road because it’s so different for them. They’re the ones that are bridging the gap here and we just need to make sure that we keep working toward the fact that they leave a legacy here on the court as well as what they’re doing to make this program better. We would not be recruiting to the level that we are right now without our players. And I can’t make that any more definitive than that. Players can spearhead part of this, and certainly through prior relationships that can be very helpful, but it’s the way the team has come together. There’s a lot of different ways to form leadership but this group is forming leadership. You may not get to see a lot of Kori Barnett on the court but there’s not a much more valuable guy to this program in the sense of bonding his teammates and making them better. And I single him out because he does not get singled out on the court just yet. But that’s the kind of stuff that makes this program what it is. I’m proud of it and I hope you find places in your videos and I hope you find places in your stories to make sure that the headline reads “We would not be doing this without them, without these current players.” They did not have anybody in here to teach them the ropes. And we wouldn’t have wanted anyone (from before) to teach them the ropes. You know that and I know that that. I’ve said this privately before but now I want to say it publicly to the players. Thank you for what you do and let’s keep it rolling.”

I am looking forward to the future of Indiana Basketball!

sanguinity. (or "death's approaching")

2010-11-23T19:52:00.001-08:00

hanging on.
that glimmer of hope.
optimism.
we are leaves.
this is what we looked like
three fortnights ago.
now we are dead.
private ceremony.
send flowers. ;)

Brilliant Narcissism

2010-11-22T00:04:00.000-08:00

Sarah and I went to see the movie Social Network a few weeks ago. It's about the college kid that created the multi billion dollar Facebook site. Great movie. Great acting. It was disturbing however, to see the portrayal of the young genius who was behind the actual hands on creation of the web pages. He was not simply a nerd, but a truly obnoxious, egotistical ass. Unable to make friends, he poured his life into the cold hard plastic of computers. In a dialog with a girl who tried to see beyond his freakish personality, it was painful to watch him slice and dice her verbally with little or no thought to his cruel words. She finally said she didn't want to be his friend anymore because having a relationship with him was like having a relationship with a StairMaster. It was apparent to everyone that his brilliance caused him to view the rest of us as less than human, substandard beings not worthy of his time or attention. He's the youngest billionaire on the planet and he's an absolute jerk.

As I think about this young mans life and career I can't help but parallel it with the gifted basketball player Labron James. A similar genius, gifted in a different genre but equally unable to blend his special abilities with a normal personality. He carries his title of King James around looking down on the rest of the world as if we were all less than equals. And now that he's acted like an ass and turned his back on his friends and supporters from his home town who helped him become who he is, he pulls the race card. Instead of admitting he's been an arrogant jerk, he claims people don't like what he's done because he's black.

Both of these young men turned their backs on the only real friends they had in search of power, fame and money. Neither takes responsibility for the terrible shortcoming of their own personalities. Their mean spirited, back stabbing, ruthless drive to win overshadows any personal commitments they might have. While I can appreciate true genius, I cannot tolerate narcissism or cruelty. Whether you are Mensa material or simple minded, physically gifted or handicapped, black or white, an asshole is still an asshole in my book.

Editorial Page

2010-10-31T16:25:00.000-07:00

November's topic:

The DP would like to present an editorial page this month. So choose a topic, current events, politics (groan), sports, entertainment etc. and give us your honest opinion on it. Here's your chance to rant or rave! Remember, "No rules, just write!"

Sub-topic: Don't want to share your opinions? Then how about writing an obituary? Yours, mine, a famous person (present day or historical). Writers choice!

Pink Carnation

2010-10-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

It was a crisp, cool mid-October night; the signs of summer slowly giving way to fall. The moon shined bright on Chesterton High School where the gym was full of students celebrating the big homecoming victory. Sarah had introduced Mike to her group of friends and they were all hitting it off. Mike had met Sarah that night at the homecoming game. He was finally coming out of his shell. Mike's freshman year was awkward at best, and he did not make as many friends as his parents told him he would. He never could find his niche.

He went into his sophomore year with a newfound determination to enjoy school, but it had been no different from last. Until that night. Maybe it was meeting Sarah, maybe it was the new car he finally saved up enough to buy, or maybe it was because he was wearing his favorite argyle sweater. Whatever it was, Mike was finally enjoying the company of his classmates. There was a freeness, a sense of confidence that Mike had never felt before. All he wanted was to fit in, and it seemed as if this was the night he had been waiting for.

The first slow song of the night came over the speakers and Mike tried to get enough nerve to ask Sarah to dance. She looked at him, he looked at her, but neither said a thing. She was so beautiful with her curly brown hair and her yellow dress. What if she said no? The song came and went without Mike asking. He told himself he would ask her to dance to the next slow song. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Mike went to get Sarah some punch. As he was filling her cup, another slow song started playing. Mike was ready to ask Sarah to dance, and he grabbed a pink carnation from the centerpiece on the table to give to her.

As he was heading back, a student busted through the double doors in the gym and shouted, "Hey guys! There's a bunch of cops and an ambulance out here! I think there's been some sort of an accident!"

Everyone ran out to see what was going on except Mike. He sat the punch down and stood there holding the pink carnation waiting for Sarah to return. But, she did not return.

Mike decided to go see what was going on. As he left the empty gymnasium, he saw a bunch of students mulling around the parking lot. About a half block down the road, he saw the lights of the emergency vehicles and approached the scene. As he got closer, he saw the back of Sarah's yellow dress and she was facing the wreckage. He tapped her on the shoulder; when she saw him, she screamed and ran. Mike then saw what she was looking at; his new car smashed into an old oak tree. He looked over at the ambulance and saw a gurney being loaded into the back. A jolt knocked an arm of the body down, and as it swung, Mike saw the sleeve of his argyle sweater.

Without a word or expression, Mike walked back to the now dark gymnasium, delicately picked up the pink carnation, and patiently waited for Sarah to return; where he continues to wait to this day. Every year during the homecoming dance at Chesterton High School, strange sightings occur. From ghostly visions in the gymnasium, to pink carnations appearing out of thin air, Mike is there waiting for Sarah to return; holding a pink carnation, ready to ask her to dance.

After School Job

2010-10-29T00:31:00.000-07:00

I used to mow lawns: ours, and Chester's rental place.
I was pushing the mower over some spindly albino grass clumps between our side yard pines when Chester scared me by tapped me on the shoulder. I had in earplugs.
He was a white-haired man, wearing an eggplant-colored button down shirt and a turquoise bolo. I could see his 4 X 4 idling in the street over his shoulder.
He explained that he needed someone to tend the yard of a property he'd just bought in the neighborhood, on Tingly Street.
'Twenty dollars an hour,' he said, as he handed me his business card. My dad at the time was giving me fifteen.
My parents were happy that I was happy to take on this after school job. I was saving every cent I earned for a video camera.
I knew exactly where Chester's property was, passing it every morning and every afternoon on the school bus. Its windows were boarded, except for two small square attic ones. Victorian in aspect, its white paint was flaking away from the wooden siding and it had a wide wrap-around porch. In the small yard was a garage collapsed to the right and a couple of old deciduous trees. In the wild lawn grew amaranth and milkweed.

The first day I mowed there, it was right after school. The house looked as soulless and vacant as ever it had. It was a gray day and I felt ill-at-ease on the property with my senses muffled by the sound of the mower. My eyes drifted up to the attic windows from time to time to observe what looked like a wispy woman's shadow swaying back and forth, back and forth.
I told myself it was just the reflection of the oscillating tree branches.
It looked as if it might begin to rain and I had a shuddering sensation that I was being watched. I pushed and pulled the mower over the long grass and weeds in nervous haste.
Removing some branches from my path, I started to toss them next to the dilapidated garage when I was surprised to find a small old woman sitting there instead, hands around her knees, calmly watching me. She motioned with her finger for me to come closer to her. I cut the motor, relieved that the source of my uneasiness was only this humble staring crone. She asked me if I was ready as she stood up, revealing a voice rich in kindness.
'Ready for what?' I asked.
'Ready for your Tollhouse cookies,' she said, 'come along inside.'
I followed her white chignon and long, black, victorian skirt hanging from her thin body toward the house.
Stepping over a door lying on the porch, she told me to watch my step, the place was quite a hovel.
I could barely see a thing. Once my eyes adjusted somewhat, I understood that she'd lit some candles in the kitchen and we were following their glow. I nearly fell on dusty boards and papers, rotting throw rugs, rusted metal tools, and what looked like canine jaw bones. My lungs suffered with each stale breathe I took in and finally sat down at an old kitchen table.
Pulling my t-shirt away from my mouth and nose, I asked her if she was sure she was supposed to be moved in yet.
'You know, it's funny,' she said while she scurried around the kitchen,'there's no electricity here, and you wanna know what else? I found a dead cat behind the stairs.'
She presented me with a plate of cookies.
Thankfully, I heard the hush of rain starting to fall and a distant rumble of thunder.
I excused myself, bounded out of the maze of debris and ran home pushing the mower in front of me.

Chester called the following week. He wanted to know why I had left his lawn half-mowed.
'You gotta finish it soon,' he insisted, 'There's a family movin' in next week.'
'You mean an old woman who's moving in?' I asked.
'No, it's a family.'
'Well, Chester, there's an old lady living in there now!'
'Impossible.'
'I'm telling you! She made me Tollhouse cookies!'
He was confused. I was too. I finally had to admit to myself that I had interacted with an apparition, it being the only explanation.

I watched the new family move in. There was a fat mom and dad, a neglected mutt tied to a tree, a daughter with a mass of tangled black hair, and a Kool-aid stained son.
I asked them if they'd seen a hag around, described her, but they didn't know what I was talking about.

Of course, I stopped mowing there. Even the idea that while I mowed, the new girl would be braiding her Barbie's hair on the porch steps, her idiot brother spinning in the yard didn't console me.

It was two years later that I was at the state fair with my boyfriend. It was a warm night and the floodlights gave the vulgar crowd a haloed outline. We were shooting hoops to win a ridiculously creepy synthetic plush toy when I noticed under a tent across the dusty alley, the face of that old woman. I shot the basketball askew and walked over to the individuals obscured under the tent shadows. It was indeed the old woman whom I had met before. It was evident that she was with a group of lunatics on their annual outing to the state fair.

Monsters

2010-10-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

There is something terribly wrong. I awaken from a bad dream, but am still in that place where reality and nightmare haven't quite separated, and can't find my way through the haze. I listen for the sounds of an intruder, any sign of real danger, and I hear nothing. Yet I know its there. I can feel it all around me. Fully awake now, I search for the source of my fear and determine it's coming from the bedroom down the hall. My daughters room! She is sleeping soundly, but I sense she's in danger and needs my protection. There's an aura of evil emanating from her room.

I can't move; can't go to her. I am a mother so trapped in fear that I am paralyzed and unable to protect my own child. My husband sleeps beside me. He is the head of our family, the strength of our tiny world. I worship that strength. Trust that protection. I reach for him in the dark and with a trembling hand, touch his back softly. Just the feel of him brings me comfort and a sense of security and well being. Nothing can be wrong if he is here beside me. He would never let anything or anyone harm us. The monsters are only in my head. I drift back to sleep.

One year later, I awaken alone in my bed to the screams of a terrified child trapped in yet another one of her nightmares. I run to her now without hesitation. I am no longer afraid of the evil that lives in the darkness of our home. For I have discovered that reality is much scarier than nightmare. The truth is, children can't always be kept safe. People aren't always who they seem to be, and the monsters aren't always in your head or under the bed. Sometimes they are lying right beside you.

October topic: Scary Stories to Tell in The Dark

2010-10-02T13:30:00.000-07:00

Imagine sitting around a campfire at night listening to scary stories being told by your friends. Now it's your turn. What scary story will you tell? I suggest we write a scary story that we would tell in the dark.

My inspiration for this topic came from the book series Scary Stores to Tel in The Dark written by Alvin Schwartz and illustrated by Stephen Gammell. The scary stories of the books are actually derived urban legends and folklore from different regions of the United States.

For your scary story, feel free to adapt an urban legend for folk tale, or come up with one of your own.

It Didn't Seem That He Had Anyone

2010-09-29T23:21:00.000-07:00

So, now what? The man freshly retired from his 30 years as a factory inspector asked his mewing cat. He had the whole day ahead of him. He looked to noon as the day's pivot point. What should he do with himself in these morning hours? He watched his cat arch around his legs, its hair becoming tousled from his corduroy trousers. He turned off the kitchen light, the sun now streamed into the kitchen, hit the rainbow maker he just put up with string and he watched colors on his terra cotta floor. Maybe he should call Graham. No, it was too early. He saw the stray cats on his back porch hissing at each other and he thought he might like another cup of tea. The sound of water coming to a boil was comforting. He turned on the radio and listened to his favorite public radio classical music station, sat down and put his elbows on the table, chin in his hands, and felt the muscles of his back slump. The clock chimed half past eight. He thought maybe he'd call his daughters, or maybe his brother. He wanted to thank him again for helping him out after his second story had caught fire the previous winter. He didn't know his sister-in-law would be so accommodating. He slept in that small pink room where a framed prayer of Saint Francis hung by the light switch. Funny how one phrase still stuck in his head: '...grant that I may not so much seek to be understood as to understand...' He felt so dusty and pathetic that first night eating dinner with them, a blond child at each end of the table, staring at him, whose names he didn't remember. Then the kids went to bed and so did he, a pathetic adult-child. He hated being there.
But, he thought with a chuckle, that fire was actually an answer to a prayer. For he no longer collapsed in his bathroom, holding onto the metal towel rack, face contorting, eyes lifted upwards through tears, pleading: 'why?...why..? Please help me...' Nor did he whisper those incantations anymore to the full moon when she icily spot-lit his cheek as he lie in bed. Yes, he was feeling less lonely now. The kettle began to whistle.

Nonna's Kitchen and Beyond

2010-09-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

Ever laugh yourself silly with your sisters over the making of instant microwavable blanc mange? Ever see your mom cry with tears of laughter as she stood helplessly at the kitchen sink while the large cherry flavor jell-o heart slid down the drain, the unmolding process gone awry? Ever troll country roads as a family in search of elderberry bushes – blossoms for pancakes and berries for wine? Ever have an after-swimming farmstand-fresh simple summer meal consisting of tomato sandwiches, corn-on-the-cob and Osterized chocolate milkshakes? Ever mail shoe boxes, full of homemade cookies, to your brother in college? Ever wake up on a Saturday morning to find your dad making silver dollar griddlecakes for the family? All of this and so, so much more happened in the heart of my childhood home - Nonna’s kitchen.

Ever wait anxiously for the marbled squares to come out of the oven, the tantalizing sweet smell letting you know they were nearly done? If so, or especially if not, turn to the Marbled Squares recipe on page 57 and mix up a batch of your own right now. While they bake, make yourself comfortable and browse the rest of this family cookbook, Nonna’s Kitchen and Beyond. With family-tested, family-favorite recipes and photos aplenty, you’ll taste the love on every page.

An Unorthodox Burial

2010-09-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

My wife and I are painstakingly preparing their house for a third open house. My wife dusts the picture frames that line the mantle, while I mow the lawn. The house is impeccably spotless and everything is in order, just as it had been for the previous three. Our realtor arrives, gives us a kindhearted smile, and sprays the kitchen with the smell of fresh baked cookies. My wife and I leave the house and eagerly anticipate the results of the open house, hoping someone would fall in love with their home just as we had.

Our house has been on the market for over a year, and showings have been few and far between. The previous open houses yielded a paltry two visitors, but we try to remain positive. We really are in no rush to move, just seeking a larger home for our growing family. However, we are growing impatient with the lack of interest in our house, and cannot afford to drop the asking price any lower. We purchased this house within a week of it going on the market, and we really didn’t foresee any difficulty reselling it when we were ready to move again.

Upon returning to our house after the open house ended, our realtor tells us that only one person came to see the house; an elderly fellow. She mentioned that he was quite frail and he really enjoyed the family pictures that were on display throughout the house. The realtor did not anticipate him to make an offer because he said the stairs would be an issue. In fact, he didn’t even go upstairs and she wondered why he came in the first place because it was clear to see that it was a two-story house. The realtor also noticed that after he left the home, he spent a lot of time in the front yard looking at house. She thought, perhaps, this was the house he grew up in, and he just wanted to return to see how it looked so many years later.

Distraught, we seriously consider taking our house off the market. We could stay in the house for a few more years before we really outgrow it; the housing market will surely rebound by then. We schedule an appointment with our realtor to discuss our options. As soon as my wife gets off the phone with the realtor, the phone rings. It is the realtor calling back asking us if she can show our house tonight.

Excited, but trying not to get our hopes up, we decide to go out to dinner during the showing. As we finish our meal, my wife’s phone rings and it is our realtor with news that someone has put an offer on the house. Dumbfounded, we meet with our realtor to discuss the offer. The offer was for the list price of the home, so we joyously accept the offer. As it turns out, a young couple was moving to the area due to a work transfer and our home is exactly what they are looking for.

The sale of the home goes off without a hitch. With the sale finalized, the realtor gives me the “SOLD” sticker to place on the for sale sign in front of their home. As I approach the sign, I notice a small area on the lawn that looks as if someone has been digging a small hole. As a man who pays meticulous attention to his lawn, I kneel beside the area to investigate. Indeed, the area is a whole that was subsequently filled. My curiosity peaked, I move away some of the dirt with my hands and find a small statue of Saint Joseph buried in the ground.

I stand in the lawn holding the statue of Saint Joseph, wondering how it came to be buried in my front lawn. As I stand there, I feel a presence behind me. I turn around and see an old man standing on the sidewalk.

“Nice statue you got there,” the old man says to me.
“Uh, thanks. I just found it buried in my front yard,” I reply.
“I know. I put it there,” replies the old man.
I look at the old man as if he was crazy and simply ask, "Why?"

The old man rests his arms on the fence post and explains, "As I'm sure you are aware, Saint Joseph was the earthly father of Jesus of Nazareth. Besides being a good father, he was also a skilled craftsman. He taught Jesus the craftsman’s trade and always made sure Jesus had a roof over his head. This is the reason why he helps people locate the house they are looking for, which in turn helps the people who need to sell their homes. I buried the statue in your yard so that Saint Joseph would direct a new family to this house, just as he directed you when you found it."

"You mean there was a statue buried in the yard when we bought this house?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Let’s just say this old house means a lot to me, and I believe Saint Joseph will only bring loving families to such a wonderful home," replies the old man.
I plead to him, "Please tell me, I really want to know!"
With tears swelling, the old man looks away and says, "Maybe some other time."

With that, the old man takes hold of his cane and walks away. Still grasping the statue of Saint Joseph I call out to the old man, "Thank you!" The old man does not turn around, just holds up his hand and gives a friendly wave.

September Topic: Saintly Curiosity

2010-08-31T23:37:00.000-07:00

Whenever someone lost something at Nonna's, she approached the situation with a kind suggestion: 'Say a prayer to Saint Anthony.' And this plea always worked. I also heard stories growing up of Saint Martin de Porres who could teleport, and of humble St. Francis' infinite kindness. To my infantile mind, this all seemed so natural, but as I grew, I began to wonder, who are these Saints? Who is this helpful being, Saint Anthony, who helped my Aunt find her keys? What are they? My mother-in-law, as I write, is getting herself ready to go on a pilgrimage to a neighboring village to celebrate the life of Saint Giles, where his relic, exuding healing energy, is on display. So, I suggest we write about an experience we've had, real or imagined, with a Saint or Saintly being (bodhisattva, angel, master, etc.) Or, if you'd prefer, write the life story of an imagined Saint.

Subtopic: Write the intro to a cookbook of favorite familial recipes.

Man of the House

2010-08-26T12:14:00.000-07:00

(Wednesday night. Spotlight opens on LUKE who is sitting in his recliner in the living room watching TV. The television program is paused as he waits for his wife VALERIE to finish a telephone conversation. An image of the actor making an unpleasant face is frozen on the TV and LUKE cannot decide whether to stare at it or look away.

After staying idle for too long, the TV goes into power save mode and now just shows a blank screen. VALERIE, still talking on the phone, ignores a bell ringing in the kitchen. WALTER, a spry looking beagle, patiently waits by the back door to be let outside after ringing his bell. LUKE looks at VALERIE motioning for her to let the dog out. VALERIE ignores LUKE. Exasperated, LUKE gets up to let WALTER out. As LUKE is getting out of the recliner, he hears a loud popping sound coming from the bottom of the chair. LUKE gets on the floor in order to look for an obstruction beneath the chair. Meanwhile, the bell rings again and WALTER lets out a pitiful moan.

LUKE lets WALTER out and retrieves a flashlight to further investigate the recliner. He immediately hears WALTER barking at what he can only assume is a neighborhood cat and shakes his head in disgust. Back in the living room, LUKE directs VALERIE, still on the phone, into the chair so he can check for the popping source with someone in it. VALERIE rocks back and forth while LUKE presses his head against the carpet shining the flashlight underneath the recliner.

LUKE notices a spring rubbing against the wood in the inner workings of the recliner. LUKE flips the chair over on order to see if the problem can be easily remedied. LUKE sweeps away the collection of dust and pet hair with his hands only to find that the metal bracket holding the spring to the chair has broken. He points at his discovery in order to show VALERIE, still on the phone, who gives him an "I told you so" look for letting the kids play on the chair.

Defeated, LUKE flips the chair upright and goes to let the barking WALTER back into the house. WALTER darts ahead of him as LUKE walks back to the living room. Entering the room, LUKE sees that WALTER is now in his recliner and VALERIE, off the phone, has the remote and is now watching one of those pregnancy shows on Discovery Health. LUKE goes to bed.)

Cletus & Marta

2010-08-25T01:21:00.000-07:00

A large sonic boom is heard, shakes the dining room where Cletus and Marta, Appalachian peasants, are eating boiled peanuts and potatoes by candle light.
Cletus looks at Marta with big eyes and Marta shrugs as if to say she doesn't know what that boom could have been. Cletus takes his rifle and axe off the mantlepiece, face shadowed and flickering in the candlelight, and opens the front door and exits.
Marta swallows hard and puts down her spork. She yells for Cletus. A gunshot is heard and Marta throws her plate at the door, suggesting that she doesn't like Cletus being an axe and gun owner.
Cletus opens the door and steps in, breathing hard, letting the axe and rifle fall to the floor, and proudly holds out the small head of a pygmy tribesman for Marta to see.
Marta looks at it with a disgusted frown.
A thunderstorm starts outside.
Cletus hurls the head onto the wooden table with the satisfied look of someone who killed an evil gnome alien creeping around the forest.
Marta's arms fly up in disbelief and goes stage right and tears a flyer from the cork board and throws it at him.
Cletus looks at the flyer. He can't read, but his eyes devour pictures of a circus tent, an elephant vs. mouse show, a man-voiced woman operetta, a crab-filled wheel barrow race and .... pygmy tribesmen baring all!
Cletus looks at the head on the table and then at Marta. Marta explains with her eyes that the circus managers would notice the missing pygmy and consequently investigate, and did he know how much it cost to transport a pygmy to Appalachia?
Cletus closes his eyes, wondering why people just didn't stay where they were born.
Grumbling, he goes back outside in the rain to retrieve the small body and throws it to his goat while Marta pokes the pygmy head with Cletus's spork.
Marta's eyes lock onto the window opposite her. She thinks she sees something. The pine trees are moving in the rain and wind. Then she jumps up, hand to heart, for she sees a spritely pygmy dart past. She screams for Cletus. She runs like an ape to the door and bolts it.
Cletus bangs on the door, crying.
Marta opens it quickly and he enters, an arrow piercing his heart. Cletus falls on the floor with a heaping thud. Marta pulls out the arrow as Cletus mumbles something about being such a rotten husband all those years and he begged her for forgiveness as he becomes motionless after a whole body twitch.
Marta closes his eyes with a solemn hand, then swings open the door and calls out joyously 'TIM KTAK!'
A pygmy enters, eyes darting around for danger, and she picks him up, draping him over her shoulder like a bride. Marta exits, the pygmy's face beaming and giggly the final and parting visual.
It is implied that they live happily ever after with the traveling circus.

"Bored" Games

2010-08-16T15:43:00.000-07:00

Saturday evening. Spotlight opens on a small wooden kitchen table with a scrabble board set up for two players. Spotlight widens slowly to include two kitchen chairs occupied by an older woman, Sandy, and her daughter, Sarah. They sit quietly studying the game board and the tiles in front of them from opposite sides of the table.

After a few minutes of silence, Sarah begins to drum her fingers impatiently, as her mother touches one tile, then another. At last, Sandy carefully chooses a tile and begins to place it on the board. She hesitates, then slowly withdraws the tile, placing it carefully back on her rack. Sarah sighs loudly and pushes away from the table, scraping her chair noisily against the tile floor. Her mother looks up, distracted momentarily, then returns to the game.

Sarah walks over to a small kitchen cart. Spotlight widens to follow her movements. She removes a bottle of wine from an ice bucket placed on top of the cart, and begins to open the bottle with a clumsy cork screw. The cork squeaks as it loosens and pops from the bottle. Again her mother is distracted, but simply smiles, shakes her head, and returns to the game. Sarah pours a small amount of the golden liquid into a wine glass, looks over at her mother, rolls her eyes dramatically, and fills the glass to the brim. She returns to the table, sipping noisily, and slumps into the chair across from her mother.

Sandy touches another tile and Sarah leans forward in anticipation, but again her mother withdraws her hand and places it under her chin, looking up and smiling across the table innocently. Sarah looks pointedly at her watch. Her mother simply shrugs. A full minute of silence passes between them. Again Sarah pushes back her chair and begins to wander about the immediate stage as if appreciating the kitchen decor. She ambles slowly over to the area directly behind her mother. Sandy bends protectively over her tile rack shielding the letters from her daughters view.

Insulted by the implication that she had been trying to cheat, Sarah stomps back to her side of the table, grabs the bag of unused tiles and shakes them vigorously in front of her mothers face. Startled, her mother jumps up overturning the table and spilling the game board and the tiles onto the floor.

The two women stand face to face glaring at each other until both suddenly break into uncontrollable laughter. Sandy goes to the kitchen cart, removes the wine bottle from the ice bucket, clinks it against her daughters half empty glass, and begins to drink straight from the bottle. With a wicked gleam in her eye she raises the bottle in a mocking salute and states triumphantly. "I win."

My appologies to Jeff for breaking the no dialog rule.

August topic: My life as a stage direction.

2010-08-01T19:22:00.000-07:00

Take any aspect of your life - your daily schedule, a hobby, a recent telephone conversation, an incident that happened to you the other day - and describe it as a stage direction in a play. No dialogue.

Here's an example:

(Sunday evening. SPOTLIGHT POPS on JEFF, who is sitting in a recliner in his bedroom typing on his computer. He's having difficulty concentrating. He's on a writing deadline, yet his attention is diverted toward a show on the TV - a series set in New York City in the early 1960's advertising world. His arm is still sore from spraining it on Friday and he can't seem to zero in on the best way to simulate a rainstorm for his play reading in the fall. He hears his brother's dogs barking. Someone must be at the door. The knocking continues and no one answers the door. JEFF gets up and runs downstairs and finds the house empty - mother, father and brother - gone. He goes out onto the porch and finds his parents and brother milling around, pointing to the street. A car ran off the street and hit a light pole. That's why the dogs were barking. JEFF goes back into the house. He still has that writing deadline to finish. And the TV show. And that arm still aches...)

Sort of like that. But more exciting. Make sure you italicize your stage directions.

Prison Walls by Kippy 'Troubles' Treble

2010-07-31T02:30:00.000-07:00

Remember all them silver rings?

And all them perdy, flashy thangs?

And all them strings of telephone rings?

And endless nights with him and them?

Was cursin' loud such a sin?

And losin' my temper in a drunken night din?

Ugly prison walls

Barren prison tall

Ain't nothin' like havin' no one at all....

To see all the laughter comin' to an end

Not even a dog to call friend

Tell me honey baby, is it ever gonna end?

Now I see myself so bright

It's only me, myself and I

Searchin' for distraction from my cotton-pickin' plight

Ugly prison walls

Barren prison tall

Ain't nothin' like havin' no one at all....

Years in prison life I wonder:

How'd I go so far asunder?

All that junk I pillaged and plundered!

All my sass is done and gone

But, Lord! Now something's come!

I know myself now, honky tonk honey bun.

Nature Speaks

2010-07-30T21:08:00.000-07:00

I was called into existence by a dancer’s dream. Do you not run to the window during every windstorm and watch my movements? Yes, I am the one you watch. I provide safe haven for Nature’s creatures at such times, as expected. But I also provide a stable base for you during the inevitable life-storms that blow. At those times, drawing upon my essence of stability, you are helped to express this sometimes misunderstood quality. Do not make the mistake of confusing the weakness of stubbornness with the strength of stability. For you may never be so wrong as when you are so sure you are right.

When a book crossed your desk this month, revealing my name after these long years, that was my doing, my gift to you. Names seem to be important to you, but do you love me more or less now that you know my name, Norway Spruce? My name is ‘your world’ info to be used as a ‘your world’ reference point. At the core of ‘our’ being, yours and mine, we are no names.

And so you sit and look up to me with renewed stirrings of understanding and wonder. I reveal my branches as angel wings - uplifted, feathery - as an expression of gratitude to you for acting as recording messenger. Although my surface message is one of stability, try as one might, none stays in one place ever-long. My core message is simply this: home is of the heart.

I was the first on this property, I will be last.

Nature loves limericks with lessons

2010-07-30T06:04:00.000-07:00

Nature’s hardly rude brash or garish.
In fact, she is what we should cherish.
Regard the lush land.
Keep gentle your hand.
Or else we may untimely perish.
.

Jessie Velvet Byrd

2010-07-29T14:37:00.000-07:00

Grandma, tell me something 'bout grandpa.

The man who's blood brings color to my skin.

She said child don't you ever tire?

I'll tell you the story just once again.

They called him Jessie

Jessie for the outlaw

Velvet for his southern drawl

And Byrd for the way he flew away.

He left his people on the reservation

To pick cotton in the hot Arkansas sun.

I was just a silly southern farmgirl

Thinking maybe, Jessie was the one.

We lay beneath the stars that summer season

Lost in a sweet lovers fantasy

I gave everything a girl could give him

And he gave something special to me.

They called him Jessie

Jessie for the outlaw

Velvet for his southern drawl

And Byrd for the way he flew away.

They came for him one night with shotguns loaded.

A bastard child he was forced to claim.

He left me with my heart and pride both broken

I knew my son would never have his name

They called him Jessie

Jessie for the outlaw

Velvet for his sourthern drawl

And Byrd for the way he flew away.

The Story behind the song

My grandfather was Jessie Velvet Byrd. We know very little about his heritage other than he was of Native American descent. Nothing romantic: we suspect he was Creole. When Jessie was in his fifties he got drunk one night with a couple of his buddies and ended up on a rail road track. A freight train plowed into his car killing his friends on impact and leaving him with traumatic brain injuries. One of his many offspring (he had been married four times) came to my Grandmas farm in Arkansas to see if my dad would possibly help in caring for their father. Dad wasn't home so when the young man approached grandma she pulled a gun and ordered him off the property. She never mentioned the incident to my dad. Jessie survived the injuries dieing at last at the age of seventy four, in a mental institution.

Queen of Everything Country

2010-07-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

No gimmicks
No limits
Her heart’s in it
Committed
To Everything Country
She’s the Queen of Everything Country
She’s the Queen of all she sees
All she sees is her Everything Country
Country, try country

No gimmicks
No limits
Heart wound 'round her man
Good thing he’s her King
And good thing she’s his Queen
And good thing they agree
On Everything Country

Sunday backyard chillin’
Beer can grillin’
Pool-side sippin’
Time to slip in
Immersed in
Everything Country

Cares float away
As the music plays
Right what’s wrong
With the right country song
Keep strong with the lifelong
Queen of Everything Country
She’s the Queen of all she sees
All she sees is her Everything Country
Country, try country

Kids all raised
Country craze
Carried on by little grandbabes
Little cowboy boots
Little cowboy hats
A little country fun
At the old barn dance
Form a line
Now dance! Now freeze!
Y'all* lookout for these
Next little Kings and Queens
Of Everything Country

No gimmicks
Sky’s the limit
Her heart’s in it
Committed
To Everything Country
She’s the Queen of Everything Country
She’s the Queen of all she sees
All she sees is her Everything Country
Country, so try country

*All love and thanks to Daniel E for this suggestion!

Country Lyrics

2010-07-15T08:13:00.000-07:00

I have written out the lyrics to two country songs I wrote a little while ago. The first song has a pretty unconventional structure as far as "country" music is concerned. It doesn't have a chorus. The second song is written in the style of late 50s, "to the point" honky tonk music. One of my personal favorites. Be advised that this song was written with my tongue firmly in my cheek. With that said, I can't help but agree with the point of view of the character in the song. Be proud of where you come from. Being from "somewhere" is one of the only certainties in life. If you would like...and for full effect, you can listen to these songs while following along with the lyrics. All you have to do is go to myspace.com/horsecapture and find the song titles in the music player. Hope ya'll enjoy!

"If You Show Up Late"

My stomach is in knots.
I see the men and their cots
Lining the church house floor.

If you’re late for the sermon they won’t even open the door.

As if things couldn’t be
Any harder for me,
I found out at the gate…

Even Jesus Christ turns you away if you show up late.

You can see it in their face.
To wind up in this place,
Just ain’t the life these men chose.

If they had for a fact, they would’ve packed warmer clothes.

These ain’t the steam-pot days.
Throw out all your rules and ways.
There ain’t one ounce of brotherhood left.

You get stabbed in the back for half of a cigarette.

I grappled the rails and
Andy came from jail.
We tread down ol’ Tulare street.

When I missed the line he saved me some bread and meat.

I had it in my mind to come back home.
But things hardly ever turn out the way you plan.
Those stones killed my feet every they touched down.
The softer the spirit, the harder the ground.
I wonder if they even notice that I’m not around.

Five o’clock comes too soon
When you’re waking up under the moon.
Sierra winds always blow the cold around.

You can choose the germs at the mission or the dirty ground.

The bottom, it’s easy to see
Is a hell of a place to be.
When you’re shit out of luck and have nothing left to sell.

Just a hope and a prayer you can hitch a ride out of hell.

"Southern Blood"

Ever since my maw gave birth to me
My life’s been getting shorter.
I grew up in a town so god-damn small
Every house is on the border.

My daddy looked me in the eye
And said, “You’re my second son”.
“But if you treat me with respect I’ll treat you like you’re my only one”.

It’ll take a thunderstorm across this land,
To move me from the place I take my stand.
It’ll take a hurricane or a flood, oh my lord
To wash away the southern in my blood.

My grandpa showed me how to find
Every back road on the map.
When a woman walks in to a room I’m in
I stand up and tip my cap.

The kids at school made fun of the way I talk
And my kind of clothes.
But if you make fun of my family, I’m gonna punch you in the nose.

Repeat chorus 3x

The Winds' Secret

2010-07-12T05:16:00.000-07:00

The wind whispers, "I know a secret", and the supple branches of the trees bend to hear. The leaves quivering in anticipation. Even the robin stretches from her nest hoping to catch the words of the wind.

The daisy tosses her lovely head impatiently, "Tell us the news. Oh please tell us! Are there lovers coming to pluck me so that I may answer their foolish questions? She loves me.

She loves me not. I would gladly give myself for love."

The thistle bristles and sends it's seeds soaring on the breeze, straining to hear. "Will my seeds find root in the soil and become purple with splendor like myself? That's no secret, for I am strong and sure in my survival."

The creek bubbles with excitement. It has always loved secrets and the joy that comes from babbling them as it winds through the wooded community. "Tell me wind and I will spread the news."

The wind breathes gently and shares its secret. "Someone comes today to our woods. A person seeking peace and comfort and perhaps answers to problems they cannot solve out there in their concrete prisons. Tell all to prepare the way for them. Show them your beauty, give them the escape that only we can provide. Cushion their steps, quench their thirst, dazzle their eyes with heavenly visions. Send them on their way with renewed hope. "

Entering the woods, my soul rejoices.

July Sub-Topic: Country Lyrics

2010-07-02T08:42:00.000-07:00

July Sub-Topic:
Write lyrics to a country song.

July Topic: Of Nature

2010-07-02T08:39:00.000-07:00

July Topic:
Let Nature tell the story. You're just the messenger . . .

Did I Ever Tell Ya the Story . . .

2010-07-02T07:56:00.000-07:00

“So, jest how long is this Appalacian Trail, anyhow? I’m gettin’ hungry.”

"Hungry already! We only been hikin’ fer an hour!”

“Whatcha got in that knapsack a’ yours?”

“Got some Tarnation breakfast bars.”

“Did I ever tell ya the story of how, years ago, I aimed to improve on those Tarnation bars by inventin’ the first granola bars? I shur loved the convenience a’ breakfast bars, but needed some dang variety! So when I seen me an ad for a recipe contest, I doctored up Ma’s oatmeal raisin cookie recipe into bars, adding a drop of Vermont maple syrup for authentic breakfast-y flavor, a’ course.”

“So, you won yourself the recipe contest, did ya?”

“Nope! And what’s worse, come to find out, I ding-danged signed away the rights to my recipe by entering the contest in the first place! Never saw a nickel fer my efforts.”

“Nowadays there’s aisles ‘n’ aisles of granola bars in every grocery store in America."

“Yeah, well, don’t I know it. So, jest keep your stinkin' Tarnation bars. Somehow, I’m not so hungry all of a sudden. Got anything to drink in that there knapsack?”

“Just some bottles of Slake water.”

“Did I ever tell ya the story of how Pa invented bottled water, but done got cheated out of making his fortune? For years and years, he was the one to go way out to the flowing well to fill pint dairy bottles on those hot Fourth of July celebration days. Then he’d come back inta town and ever'body’d gather ‘round and he’d hand out them bottles t' anyone cravin’ a sweet sip of cool spring water.”

“So, jest how’d he miss out on his fortune?”

“Seems one summer Pa was feelin’ poorly. Jest the chance sneaky Ol’ Jake Slake was awaitin’ for! Jake hightailed it out to the flowing well alright, but he did not pass out the water for free to the thirsty townsfolk, no siree! He charged two cents per - three cents if’n’ his ol’ lady added a drop of flavoring to it! The kids’d go crazy for it!”

“Sounds like Ol’ Jake had the market cornered!”

“From that summer on, he shur ‘nuf did!”

“Whatever happened to Ol’ Jake?”

“The Mega-Giant-Ultra Foods Corporation eventually came ‘round, sniffin’. Jake sold ‘em the Slake brand for a nice tidy sum. Then he up and died of a heart attack, but don’t you jest know how it goes sometimes. His wife and his lazy-bones kids inherited ever'thing and are probly sittin’ purty right now on their own tropical island, or some such place! Somehow this Slake water don’t taste so good right now . . . “

“Yeah, I know watcha mean . . . So, I suppose now yer goin’ to tell me how yer Ma invented somethin’?”

“Yup, let me tell ya the story. Along with Granny’s help, they was the first t' ever splash clever sayings right across the front of a T-shirt - they both always was good with words. But ya see, the idear took off so fast - ever'body started doin' it - they never had a real chance a' cashin' in. Nowadays, it's a standard way a' gettin' a message across. But if Ma ‘n’ Granny coulda peeked into the future 'n' seen that somebody woulda ever made a T-shirt proclaimin’ Jesus Loves the Hell Outta Me, they might never a' got started in the first place.”

“What about yer Grandpap? Invent anythin' earth-shatterin’?”

“Nope, Grandpap never did go in for innovation. Fact is, rumor has it, he was the very last man 'round these parts ever t' wear knee britches.”

Warrior Daughter

2010-07-02T07:29:00.000-07:00

My dad wanted me to be a warrior. I wanted to see his smile after a footrace more than any ribbon or trophy. When it was cold, or a Saturday, when my body was in recuperation mode, my finish line frown always matched his own. For training, he would lift me up to the pull-up bar in our garage. I remember seeing the bald gym teacher's eyes light up when I pulled my shaking chin over the bar for the ninth time, sure my face was red for all my classmates to see sitting Indian style on the lacquered gym floor below. He would pat me on the back for beating all the boys and tell us all to run laps and I pretended to be as out of breathe as the other girls so they wouldn't hate me so much. My dad also taught me how to lift weights in our concrete basement. We ran a half marathon once with one day of training and I wore my toe bruises as victorious warrior paint. Sometimes we'd ride bikes together and I'd cry on the homestretch when the wind was a bear and there were hills and my water bottle was empty. After those day-long rides, we felt like we'd earned the right to make popcorn and watch an old Hollywood classic in an exhausted stupor.
One summer day, my dad and I participated in one of the Breakaway Bike Club's long distant rides. We were trailing a little behind the other fifteen or so spandexed bodies and somehow we took a wrong turn and got lost. We arrived at the parking lot finishing much later, the gang all stood around, squirting Cytomax into their sweaty mouths, clicking around in their florescent clip shoes. My dad then said something I didn't comprehend: that we'd fallen behind so bad on account of me being slow; a girl. It was then and there that I learned to lie.
I started getting lazy and didn't care if my dad smiled or frowned anymore. So when he asked me why I didn't push myself in a 5K, I told him being mediocre felt good. When he asked me why I was gaining weight, I told him I wanted to try new foods and needed to stretch out my stomach. My Spartan, on-the-ready body took the brunt of my flabby adolescent rebellion.
As for our athletic relationship all these years later, let's just say that all that energy is still spinning somewhere in the ethers. We don't live in the same town anymore, but sometimes when I call him up, he tells me he had a dream we were doing yoga together. And I always think of him when I go for a soft and long bike ride alone.

A Sincere Apology

2010-07-01T04:14:00.000-07:00

I just want to apologize for not writing anything for the June topic. The month kind of got away from me and before I knew it, July was here and I hadn't written a thing. Please understand that I didn't completely forget about Ditalini Press during the month of June. I thought about sitting down and writing a fib few times throughout the month, but every time I did, something prevented me from following through.

I actually had something written fairly early in the month, which is rare for me. I’m not too proud to say it was a masterpiece, some of my finest work. I was in the living room making the final edits to my epic tale when my laptop crashed. It completely froze, and I had to take out the battery just to get it to shut down. When I turned the laptop back on, my operating system wouldn't even load. The laptop was dead and my whole story was gone; I was too devastated to start writing again. So, I abandoned that idea and waited for inspiration to strike again.

It was about two weeks later when I finally had another idea for a story. My laptop was still inoperable, so I had to type it on my desktop computer. When I got to the computer, the keyboard was gone! I looked outside and saw the kids swinging by the cord over their heads as if to use it as some sort of makeshift weapon. I ran outside to stop them and was struck in the head. When I regained consciousness, I was no longer in the mood to write, so I put it off for another few days. The kids said the whole ordeal was an accident, but the 'destroy dad' carvings on the keyboard hinted otherwise. I guess I spend too much time on the computer.

With the end of the month looming, I decided just to type my story at work. Not the most inspirational of places, but at least I'd get something done. I logged on, got situated, and then, out of nowhere, the bio hazard alarm sounded. I spent the rest of the day crammed in a tiny room with all my co-workers until we were told the alarm must have just malfunctioned. Hooray. On the bright side, I at least got to help tape the doors to prevent any airborne pathogens from getting in; and was able to see my family again, too. Needless to say, I didn't get my story written that day either.

So, here we are, July first, and I still am without a story. It's not like I didn't try though; a few extenuating circumstances just got in my way. I hope you understand.

"The Voice of Rain" by Walt Whitman

2010-06-11T13:12:00.000-07:00

Lasting all of 15 minutes, a rainburst blew through my hometown. The sun has resumed peaking through the clouds...and now I have to write about it.

My father and I were sitting on the porch - we love rain. We heard a yelp from the garage and here this little toad fell out of a bowl my mother had picked up (it wasn't a "yelp" really - my mom's a farm girl...nothing frightens her). With a bit of assistance, we helped Mr. Toad on his merry way into the flower garden. Not sure if the rain brought the toad out the other way around.

The Voice of the Rain

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land
and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd,
altogether changed, and yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies,
dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only,
latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night, I give back life
to my own origin,
and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place,
after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1891-1892

To The Ditalini Press Family

2010-06-08T16:12:00.000-07:00

I just want to express my sincerest sympathies for the loss of your Mother/Grandmother. I know that her passing touches nearly everyone who participates in this blog. May you all share some wonderful memories as you get together this week to celebrate her life experiences. Susan, my good karma muse and Eva my French ami, know that I am with you in spirit.

In love

Flutterby

summer (it's coming).

2010-06-02T12:47:00.001-07:00

A glimpse of the garden at Galena's Steamboat House.

"Give me the odorous at sunrise
a garden of beautiful flowers
where I can walk undisturbed."

- Walt Whitman

X hates “reality television”.

2010-06-01T17:44:00.000-07:00

There is no such thing as "reality television" - which boggles X's mind that he can hate a few choice words or phrase that theoretically don't exist. As soon as the dumb asses who choose to air their private lives for the world to see know there's a lens focused on them AND as long as there are producers, writers and directors who are manipulating the dumb asses' "reality", it's no longer "real".

In X's world, this list is no longer. And, according to X, the world grows smarter.

Secrets of X

2010-05-31T20:29:00.000-07:00

X is an employee manual for a corporation based in Atlanta, Georgia. X has done away with the usage of words that tend to induce a sense of hope for its factory based employees. Incentive, benefits, appreciation, increase, integrity, acknowledgment, recognition: all of these words X has made sure to omit. Also any words that might lead one to think that the corporation keeps emissions down and helps protect the environment, are deleted immediately. Sustainable, green, clean, quality, protect, environment: you will find none of these words.

June Topic - "Boy That's A Lie!"

2010-05-31T19:18:00.000-07:00

In the original spirit of Mark Twain's beloved characters Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, write a lie. A fib, a stretch of the truth. A tall tale, an innocent enough invention of story standing in for the real thing...for what harm could a little self-serving anecdote do? Write the lie in a first person narrative like Huck did in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The character is your entire creation, same with the scenario in which the character finds him/herself needing to fib.

*Just so everyone understands, you don't have to write in the style of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, or use that time period...etc. I was just inspired by that book to have a topic featuring a lie.

About X

2010-05-25T11:35:00.000-07:00

X would be happy to never hear the word IRREGARDLESS again. X prefers to just use REGARDLESS. X is even more distraught by the fact the word originated in western Indiana.

X would also like to eliminate the word AT, though only when used to end a sentence. X also proposes the use of an 'AT Jar' where the guilty party would deposit one quarter every time he or she ended a sentence with AT.

X longs for the elimination of the letter S, though only when added at the end of a store name where it is not already present.

X is leaning toward the removal of the word WHY, but only after the seventh time hearing it in less than a minute.

X would be pleased to never see the phrase NEW IMPROVED FLAVOR on products he plans to purchase, because it almost always eludes to the addition of MSG.

X is in favor of the elimination of the word IDIOT. For reasons unknown, the word resonates poorly with X, cringing every time he hears it.

This is a list of words X would like to see eliminated, though, it could also be viewed as a list of X's pet peeves. Go figure.

eXplained

2010-05-21T09:35:00.000-07:00

This X is so tempted to hate the words DISCOURAGE, HOPELESS, and DISCORD, but knows better, for without them, their opposites couldn't exist.
She thinks she can do better than I'LL TRY so has omitted it.
She's nixed IT/HE/SHE MADE ME FEEL, taking full responsibility for feeling good all the time.
The word GOSSIP makes her shaky and she'll never utter BUSYWORK because she thinks it's a crime.
Because her Grandmother didn't approve, she doesn't say BELLY when referring to the abdominal area.
The most distasteful words she can think of are DIVORCE and ACNE because they destruct, disorder, and scar.
X doesn't really care what you're AGAINST, but is curious to know what you're for.

x marks the spot

2010-05-18T18:39:00.000-07:00

x is as at home hovering above the environs of the outer planets as manifesting as treasure, Earth-deep, and might be found anywhere, at any spot in-between. x took a tumble one day and was given a hand up by +. Tumbling together ever since, x and + happily shine the combined light of their eight-point star, splitting up to do stints in complex mathematical equations only when absolutely necessary.

x and + have discovered that making or even hearing the statements 'I'm so tired.' and 'I'm worn out.' serve only to reinforce exhaustion. They prefer the classic A.B.L.E. line 'I just don't know anymore.' which they find endlessly amusing, therefore energy-boosting.

x would ban forever any interview question that begins with 'What was going through your mind when . . . ? ' and + would ban the phrases 'at the end of the day' and 'that being said' . In somewhat of a paradox, x and + abhor diversify, yet adore diversity.

Free

2010-05-11T02:05:00.000-07:00

In this case, X is a man!

X was never for want. His parents always had enough money to offer X whatever he wanted. Evidently X had no time to spend in a mall even if it was easy to lighten his wallet that could be too heavy. X prefers walking in trash dumps, watching insects, smelling conifers, or sucking on licorice sticks. He is known in his community but he has not a lot to share with them. He's probably an in-the-moment anti-conformist even if it's not clever to be exposed as someone different.
X doesn't understand why he has to put on dark jeans when stonewashed jeans are more wearable and why he has to go to the barber to give himself and the barber a hard time with cutting his hair perfectly, always resulting in a fake gelled mess.
X thinks that some old people are not really wiser than teenagers and that stupidity is not a question of age but a question of conditioning.
That's the system for X! He thinks that everything can only be SYSTEMIC even if he doesn't understand this word and knows that if a dung beetle changes it's habitat, it's to find the same shit in another place.
X is in the system or out, he doesn't care.
Nights, X likes acting crazy during punk rock shows in the most dirty dives of the city to forget reality for a while, too much conventional! To drink a lot of beer and vomit on the wall to add more color to the gray walls around him looking like a kaleidoscope, X likes. He knows that carrots and egg salad add more contrast, beer helps it to stay on the wall for several weeks.
Sometimes X has to drink more beer than usual to totally disconnect from the crowd composed of some junkies with plastic cups in their hands and expensive skate shoes on their washed feet, showing off with the worst band making a ritual against society. X knows junkies who define themselves as REBELS because they refuse to wash their dad's truck when it needs to be shinier to make the neighbor jealous. He doesn't like watching the news. He prefers to ignore what could plunge him into a depressive state. He knows only that there are some great persons who nobody talks about who save lives, make proud, make clever, give pleasure, in accordance with their thoughts, even if they risk being out of INTEGRATION into the global way of life. X doesn't understand people who spend their youth burning their last neurons studying a profession that they will not like. X is looking for a job that nobody wants. He has a CURRICULUM VITAE or 'Path of Life.' For him, 'Path of Lies' is more appropriate. He learned early to lie at school. It was fun for awhile but now he's sick of that.
One time, after a job interview, he peed in a plant pot, not by contestation but because he didn't find the toilettes. And yet, he asked the cleaner in the corridor who didn't answer after washing. He asked another employee in a hurry, hidden behind a pile of documents without an answer at all.
Sometimes he thinks that it could be easier to live away from the city, next to it, in the woods. The last time X was there, he saw a corpse of a hobo in a cabin that probably laid there for a long time. To see death was a shock for him, giving him feelings of impotence and resignation.
X decided to leave. He doesn't need money, he doesn't need a car, he only needs his mind. Now, he will occult all that he doesn't like and follow his inspiration, to be proud, to be useful, to be happy.

Chiasmus Corner: Between the Folds

2010-05-09T20:45:00.000-07:00

Just watched the DVD Between the Folds The Science of Art. The Art of Science. Highly recommended!

Here's the official website: Green Fuse Films

X-Traordinary's Words

2010-05-04T14:23:00.000-07:00

X knows that his job is, and always will be, to join together with friends to form words; creating the perfect language for mankind. Sometimes it frustrates him to hear this language misused. He hates the word SHAME when it is hissed from someones lips. The SSSHHH suggesting that one is such an embarrassment that they should be neither seen nor heard. The word CONDESCEND bothers him too. It seems to infer that one is conniving to descend into the deceit that others are beneath them. He grieves over the beautiful word PAGAN which was created to represent the simple agricultural people who worked the fields with their hands, supporting themselves with their crops. Now demonized to mean one who is a non believer. Sometimes X dislikes a word for no reason at all. PRAGMATIC has always stuck in his throat. He doesn't know what it means nor does he care. He simply hates the feel and taste of it on his tongue.

May Topic

2010-05-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

X is a man. But it doesn't matter, he could be a woman....

Words for X aren't just products of a mechanical reflex, they have a significance.

X no longer pronounces certain words because they are too common or because they evoke sentiments far too painful, some of which are: tendencies, systemic, rebel, integration, Curriculum Vitae.

What other words could X eliminate and why?

The Key

2010-04-23T05:32:00.000-07:00

I'm cold in winter,
I'm heavy in your pocket,
my ancestors were skeletons.

I'm handy for scratching the paint of your enemy's car in one long line.
Although I prefer deadweight swinging from a ring.

I open, deadbolt, wind, liberate, imprison, secure, restrict and free.

Like a lover, you'll attend to my whereabouts more with the thought of losing me.

I'm almost a genetic extension of a family: unique to each home, and unique to each member,
as they link me with doo-dads with flair and rabbit's feet.

I'm a key.

Fools Gold

2010-04-17T05:21:00.001-07:00

Like the craftsman gilds the edges of a fine frame, I too can guilt the edges of your world. In doing so, I cover the original portrait of your life with fools gold. Turning pleasure to pain, freedom to imprisonment, and life's ambitions to drudgery, by simply whispering the words "should have, could have" into your ear. My whispers drowning out the beating of your heart which carries the rhythm of the songs you want to sing. There is no end to what I can do.

I can make you give up your life's ambitions by looking through the eyes of your child, stretching out my arms to you, and saying, "Please don't go."

I can drive you breathlessly, recklessly across an entire continent to weep at the grave of a parent who never really loved you.

I can hobble you in the middle of the dance by pointing out that your best friend is a wallflower.

When you soar, I can ensnare you in my web of lies, and bring you back down to earth to be fitted with guilted iron boots.

And when laughter escapes your lips, I can shame you with the knowledge that those around you are grieving.

Yes. I can do all these things, but only you can give me this power by choosing the fools gold I offer you. I am guilt. Pass me by in your seach for life's treasures.

Honeydew

2010-04-16T07:41:00.000-07:00

"It's dark, can anyone hear me?"
She called as she opened her eyes.
She turned, looked up, got a better view.
"Aha! I see sunny skies."

"The warmth of the sun would feel so good
If only I could find a way out."
She pushed and nudged and shoved
And out popped a little green sprout.

"Oh, so much better, now where is that sun?"
She asked as she viewed her world new.
She looked all around, fixated her gaze
This new life this new honeydew.

April Topic-Personification

2010-04-01T05:59:00.000-07:00

Take an object, place, or emotion and give it human characteristics. Does envy really wear green? Do willows really weep? Be creative and imagine if your subject could talk, walk, wear clothes, have families, aspirations and other human qualities--where would it go? what would it say? what would its personality be?

Your description can be in the form of a poem, a character sketch, an interview, or anything you find appropriate!

"Something Unknown . . . "

2010-03-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

Even while her award-winning documentary Something Unknown is Doing We Don't Know What is premiering in her native Holland today, director Renee Scheltema took time to respond to my request for the following email interview. I found Renee's movie through the Rhine Research Center's blogsite just this morning!

Something Unknown features Prof. Charles Tart, Dr. Dean Radin, Prof. Gary Schwartz, Dr. Roger Nelson, Dr. Rupert Sheldrake, Dr. Hall Puthoff, Dr. Larry Dossey, Dr. Edgar Mitchell, Dr. Jack Houck, and Dr. David Dosa. Also, Dr. Eric Pearl, author Arielle Ford, Therapeutic Touch healer Rebecca Good, psychic detective Nancy Meyer and intuitive Catherine Yunt.

The official website for Something Unknown is www.somethingunknown.com.

The interview:

Renee, what inspired you to make your documentary "Something Unknown is Doing We Don't Know What"? Did the inspiration come on suddenly or has this been a film that you have wanted to create for a long time?

I wanted to make a "spiritual" journey for a while, but when I spoke to Professor Tart who told me that there is scientific evidence for "the Big Five", I realized that this could be the backbone of my film.

The inspiration did not come suddenly. The first psychic experience I had was with my father, while I was studying. I guess in scientific terms you could call it "crisis telepathy." It happened during the day, while I was studying at the University of California, Berkeley. I would call my parents every three months. I had just phoned my parents a few days before. While I was with my nose in the books, there was this strong force that told me that I had to get up and phone them again. I remember walking down the street thinking: 'This is weird. Why am I walking to the phone booth? There's no reason for this. It's the wrong time of the day.'

Then when I phoned, my brother picked up the phone, which is very unusual because he had left home and would never even pick up the phone. Then he told me my father had had a stroke and was fighting for his life at the intensive care. So that seared into my mind because I just picked up something there that was real. Maybe these psychic experiences are part of our survival instinct . . .

How did you research and choose the people to be included in your film? Was anyone that you wanted to feature unavailable to participate?

I researched like everyone does. Reading, talking, googling on the internet, etc. It was really not easy to get access to these top-scientists. They are very busy, and need to protect themselves. It took me a long time to be able to interview them.

Did you have any preconceived notions about the psychic world that were confirmed or quashed as you delved ever-deeper into the subject?

No not really. Since I had a few psychic experiences myself, I was open to see what kind of evidence scientists had found during the past decades.

Have you created a personal set of guidelines that you adhere to when creating a film?

Yes, but that's too difficult to write about. But if you refer to the fact that I did not interview skeptics, then my answer can be simple: I did speak to a few, but decided not to include them as they all just refuse to have an in-depth look at the evidence for one emotional reason or the other.

The technology of film-making is ever-evolving, do you have any technological tips and techniques to share?

Not really. Just keeping informed of developments.

Essential can't-live-without equipment?

No.

How did the process of creating "Something Unknown is Doing We Don't Know What" compare to creating your previous films?

I used to make films with a crew as a Director - sometimes producer as well. But sometimes I have filmed controversial subjects, and could not get a producer on board, and so decided to do everything myself: production, sound, camera, line-producing, interview, editing for a year and a half. It's a crazy one woman's journey, and not easy to do. Still busy recuperating, and hoping to get my investments back.

What is your most recent 'Miracle Zone' experience, profound or subtle?

I have regular telepathic experiences with my kids.

What books are on your 'psychic' bookshelf for recommended reading?

I shot 100 hours. Spent a year editing this down to 6 hours, with more scientists, and other psychics as well. Then hired a good editor to help me get it down to 2 hours, ran out of money, and spent another 3 months editing the film as it is. I am seriously considering making the 6 hour version and other anecdotes into a book. Called: Something Unknown:)

An anagram of your name reveals your perfect passion for creating documentaries RENEE SCHELTEMA = REAL THEME SCENE. Have you chosen the subject of your next documentary or have you already begun production?

I did not know that the distribution side of things would be so complicated and time consuming. The film is having its theatrical premiere today in my birth country, Holland. And I won that award last year April. So you can see that it takes a while before people discover the film.

Renee, what words of wisdom can you share to encourage current and aspiring film-makers?

You need a loooong breath in order to make Something interesting:)

A Bewildering Encounter

2010-03-23T15:31:00.000-07:00

"Mr. Leger! Mr. Leger! Could I trouble you for a few minutes of your time?"
"Not now, I'm already running late. Sorry."
"Please, sir. I'm with MPF Quarterly and I just have a few questions."
"I've never even heard of MPF Quarterly. Now if you don't mind, I've really got to get going."
"I'd like to talk to you about Treasure Chest."
"What did you say?"
"Treasure Chest."
"How do you know about Treasure Chest?"
"I'm not at liberty to reveal my sources, sir."
"Alright then, I suppose I can answer a few questions."

That's how their conversation started. The young man escorted Mr. Leger to a picnic table in the park and began conducting his interview.

MPF: What was it that started your love of film making?
Mr.L: I wouldn't necessarily call it a love of film making; it's more of a simple pleasure. I guess it all started when my cousins and I did a short film for our club A.B.L.E. using an old camcorder. It turned out remarkably well, and we had so much fun that we wanted to continue making more films. So, my cousins Eva and Katie along with my sister and I started saving all our money in order to buy our own camcorder. Then, Eva and Katie received a camcorder for Christmas one year, and their parents let us use it as much as we wanted. We ended up using the money we saved to buy most of the materials for a clubhouse my Uncle Marc built for us.

MPF: What kind of films did you start out making?
Mr.L: Well, we mainly did satires of commercials we saw on television. We also would do 'QVC' segments or just film ourselves hanging out or playing. We would also do the evening news, human interest stories, and another A.B.L.E. video. We really made all kinds of videos.

MPF: What led you to do lengthier projects such as Treasure Chest?
Mr.L: Eva and I used to talk on the phone all the time and we would write scripts to these movies. I don't remember exactly how Treasure Chest was conceptualized, but I do remember countless nights talking to Eva on the phone working on the script. We would each type the script as we came up with the lines, so we really had two versions once we were done, they were almost exactly the same, though. Mine always had more spelling errors.

MPF: What was it like filming Treasure Chest?
Mr.L: One word really sums it up: "Fun". I remember after finishing the script we planned a day to get together at Eva and Katie's house to film it. My parents had an old jewelry box that looked like a treasure chest and we filled with a bunch of silver and gold items. It was so much fun, and we had never worked on a project so big before. We used make-up, lots of different wardrobes, music, and some of us even played multiple characters. We did our best to follow the script and it turned out really well. I remember such a feeling of accomplishment and pride when we showed it to our family. The four of us worked so hard on it, it was so rewarding to see it come to fruition.

MPF: So it only took one day?
Mr.L: I think we actually filmed it over a two day period, but I'm not sure.

MPF: Any plans for a sequel?
Mr.L: Funny you should ask. Eva and I started working on a sequel years ago, but the script was never completed. We pretty much wrapped everything up in the original; we didn't leave much room for anything else to develop. Because if that, I think we just couldn't find a clear direction for the plot, and it just went to the wayside. I think I still have the partial script at home, though, so anything is possible.

MPF: You all had such great chemistry on the screen. Any chance of getting back together for any new film projects?
Mr.L: I've thought about that, but it's just a matter of getting everyone together at the right time. It's not as easy as it used to be. In fact, I was just talking to Eva a few months ago about making some new films. She liked the idea and seemed pretty excited, so something may be coming down the pike.

MPF: I can't wait to see what happens! Well, I won't take up any more of time. Thanks for the interview, Mr. Leger.

Mr.L: It was my pleasure, really. Your questions brought back a lot of fond memories, so I should be thanking you. Those were some of the best times of my life.

With that, the two men got up from the picnic table. As Mr. Leger was putting on his bike helmet, he looked at the young man and said, "Sorry I was so rude to you at first. I thought I may have taken your claim and you had some questions about it or something." The young man simply replied, "No hard feelings Mr. Leger. Thanks again for your time. I'm glad I was able to help you."

With that, Mr. Leger got on his bike and rode back to work; bewildered by a lunch encounter he won't soon forget.

Fantastigraphical!

2010-03-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

Fabulous? For sure! Awesome? Always! Incredible? Indeed! We've all used these adjectives time and time again because they are superb! But recently, I was mulling over the perplexity of running short on positive adjectives, especially when leaving comments. I'm thinking, "I need more adjectives!" Then a Miracle Zone moment occurred when I caught a segment of American Idol in which Ellen DeGeneres declared "I need more adjectives!" as she judged an "absolutely amazing" American Idol contestant's performance. Then serendipitously, Leo of Postcardiness alerted me by quick email of a 1914 book by Gelett Burgess titled Burgess Unabridged: A New Dictionary of Words You Have Always Needed.

03/18/2010
Dear Susan,
Here is the link to Burgess Unabridged by Gelett Burgess:
http://www.archive.org/stream/burgeesunabridg00burgrich/burgeesunabridg00burgrich_djvu.txt
What you will see is the text view, which is hard to read, but quite useful for doing a Find (Ctrl-F) for a word or phrase.
Once you are at the text view, click the "See other formats" button on the left side. I usually select the first option "Read Online".
I noticed one word that has gained some traction with roughly the same meaning as Mr. Burgess assigned to it, "blurb".
Love,
-- Lee

So, how about an ongoing challenge to create adjectives with positive vibes? Mash a couple or more currently-in-use adjectives, or create completely new ones. Just tag 'em Fantastigraphical!

NEWS!!!

2010-03-21T12:10:00.000-07:00

"Shine the Belly-O!" is in the final stages. The recording process was a breeze. I wish I'd had a little more time to explore sounds and what not, but I'm very pleased with what came out. I tracked all four songs in eight hours due largely to the professionalism of engineer Mike Bridavsky (Push/Pull-Holiday Band-Russian Recording owner), Pete Schreiner (Magnolia Electric Co.-Thousand Arrows-The Coke Dares) & Mike Dixon (Holiday Band). The songs were mixed the following day.
I have just submitted the album to iTunes, Amazonmp3, Pandora and the like and it will be available for download on May 4. By then I should have a physical product that I will sell through reverbnation.com/#/snakehorn.

Exaggerate! call for written works to Old Forge...

2010-03-09T23:47:00.000-08:00

'Humongous' ribbons and monetary prizes to be won at this year's Adirondack Theme Exhibition 2010: “Exaggerate!” Because we've already had 'Tall Tales' as a dP topic, why not consider submitting?
Written submissions should not exceed 1000 words.
Tall tale and poetry submissions will be integrated into the exhibition in a visual manner as well as displayed in readers copy books within the Arts Center. $30.00 entry fee. Deadline: April 26, 2010.
Read more and print out entry form here.
Exhibition held in Old Forge, NY, starting May 9.

CINEMA TODAY interviews Lazare Leersørn

2010-03-07T09:44:00.001-08:00

I sit uneasily in a shabby bistro across from former lead singer of the Finnish new wave band 'The Coppertubs' and producer of the British television series, 'Wee Lil' Fontelroy,' Lazare Leersørn.
I pretend it's Spring allergies and not his cigarette smoke that's bothering my eyes. I'm curious to know what attracted him to experimental filmmaking and how he felt having become the visionary pacesetter, avant-garde golden boy director of the cultish underground film world.
CT: Why experimental films?
LL: Why not? (laughs) No, split the word experimental up, experi-mental, and you've got your answer.
CT: Your first film "Papa Caught a Cottontail" breaks one of those old rules of filmmaking: 'don't work with animals.' Did you find this to be true?
LL: Well, yeah, I mean, I'm not going to tell you it was easy working with over 200 female cottontail rabbits besides Papa, the shaved male, running this way and that. And if you've seen it, you know its over two hours of Papa trying to catch cottontails in a fenced-in meadow, much more difficult than it seemed on paper. But in the end it was all well worth it, especially with lapin à la moutarde à la cocotte every night of the week! (smacks his lips) Did you see it?
CT: Yes, I did, but not the whole thing (laughs). It was your next film that really brought you international attention. Could you tell us about it?
LL: (clears throat) Yeah, it's "Hedgetrimmer's Daughter." It's the tale of a piano tuner who watches his work dwindle away to nothing and so turns to trimming hedges for more income. And he thinks, if someone's going to hire me to trim their hedges, my own had better look damn good, so it becomes an obsession for him, really. It's three hours of him trimming his hedges through the four seasons as seen by his daughter through her bedroom window. Funny how people tell me that they saw images in the hedges that I'd thrown in digitally or whatever, but, they don't know that in fact, it was their own minds trying to keep them entertained during the more tedious trimming scenes.
CT: Like what kinds of things have people 'seen?'
LL: Well, I've had gaggles of art school girls send me existentialist texts with highlighted Sartre quotes, I've gotten e-mails from potheads who've seen Marley in the hedge shadows, other hippies have seen nature spirits, I've received hedge inspired paintings and poetry. Oh, and some politicians have seen it as a commentary on the bad economy, and God, maybe all these elements are in there, but I didn't do it consciously . But that was kind of my point, you know, that's why I made this film.
CT: And the sound track?
LL: Well, yeah, an untuned piano played by a marvelous elephant in India named Nero. (laughs) Which, by the way, is not available on iTunes.
CT: And what are you working on now?
LL: I'm working on a documentary based on the cookbook I've just published called, "Pressure Cooker." It's about experimental cooking with pressure cookers under pressure. The idea was sparked when I invited a whole gang of friends over one Saturday night and found I'd totally forgotten about it. So I was sweating bullets, with nothing but a few odd left overs, near expired kitchen staples, and a brand new pressure cooker still in the box that I was planning on regifting. But it turned out to be a brilliant meal. So I tried to make all the recipes in the book include back of the pantry type of ingredients. And I give clues as how to simulate that sense-heightening pressure-terror I find necessary to throw together an unforgettable meal for a hungry crowd. I really can't say enough good about my book because there are vintage photos of pressure cookers, the history of this appliance that I've just really discovered, and also interviews with people around the globe who love and use them. Look out also for our PG-13 issue of "Pressure Cooker" that will be released in conjunction with the film.
CT: PG-13 issue?
LL: Yeah, doing all this research on pressure cookers, I found loads of deaths and accidents due to them exploding. As well as loads of weak-hearted chefs who died when the pressure got too great in the kitchen. The documentary is less about recipes and more about the stories, the people. I'm also working with an Italian manufacturer to eventually develop my own line of designer pressure cookers in really bold colors. The Leersørn.
CT: To the many people who think that this sort of experimental filmmaking approach died with Andy Warhol's 'The 24 Hour Movie,' for example, what do you say?
LL: Get a life! (laughs) No, really, I know experimental films aren't everyone's cup of tea. The public wants diversions, you get home from work, turn on the t.v., watch a Hollywood exploder, get lost in a romance, you know, do what you can to wind down and forget about the humdrum doldrums or tensions of the day. Anyone can tell you that, there'll always be a market for it. There's an audience out there, though, that is young, or young at heart, that doesn't have anything to escape from, they don't have to cope with a hard reality, they want to learn more about it, to connect with something sacred within it and I like to think I can provide them with a viewing option B. Or C, rather. Maybe they'll feel something new if I prod them visually into a state of confusion, or extreme boredom that turns into hilarity, a searching for meaning that turns into revelation or discomfort I'm not sure...

He got a dreamy look in his eye as he press-twisted his cigarette butt into the ashtray and after ordering a coffee for us both, told me about a dream he'd had, but it was so long and detailed that I found my mind falling to other things....

March Topic!

2010-03-04T11:57:00.000-08:00

On behalf of Luke Murphy:
Your assignment is to interview a movie director (real or imagined) for a cinematic magazine.

Chiasmus Corner: Gospel Gems

2010-03-02T19:36:00.000-08:00

Gospel Gems:
"Does your faith move mountains, or do mountains move your faith?"

Marchin' On...

2010-03-01T13:06:00.000-08:00

Its time to step it up, dP with a new blogger background and banner for spring! What do you think of this new background? Lets talk about it! If you love it, let's keep it for a while. Doesn't do a thing for you? Let the suggestions fly! Post a background or banner suggestion/image/link and we can vote on it. Just for the heads up on the March topic: Luke Murphy has been contacted and will be posting the topic before the fifth. Looking forward to it!

Pythagoras Memory Exercise

2010-02-25T11:45:00.000-08:00

I had read about this a few years ago.
Pythagoras did claim to remember some of his past lives.
He suggested before retiring at night to retrace and replay the days activities
in the mental view screen. Do this as vividly as possible until you end up
at the point of rising from bed. Go further and recall the dreams you may have had
before waking. Do this every evening. The reflex developed will allow the practicitioner
to begin reaching back into the bank of stored memories before this present life.

..also the verses of this boisterous WW2 General
seem to put him out of step with 20th century thinking.
This is only about half of the poem.

THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY
by Gen. George S. Patton, Jr.

Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.

In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.

I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.

I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.

I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.

So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.

And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.

So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.

The Field

2010-02-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

The wind swirls the grass
Floral essence fills the air
I know you, I've seen you before
As we walk through the field

I stand here in disbelief
These feelings so foreign
These feelings so familiar
As we stand in this field

Do I know you from somewhere?
Your face unfamiliar
Your presence so calming
As we talk in this field

What brought us to this place?
Two strangers beforehand
Two strangers reunited
As we discover this field

Do I reach for embrace?
Should I speak of these feelings?
What is coming over me?
As we pause in this field

The picture becomes clearer
Though I can not explain
I have been here before
I have been in this field

As if hypnotized I remember you
I remember this place
But I don't think you know
As we stray from this field

As I watch you walk away
I want to tell you my story
But I stay here unsettled
As I lay in this field

I hope we will meet again
Our paths have crossed before
Though, will it ever be the same
As when you cried in this field?

You were meant to be near me
You will always be part of me
Your image etched in my mind
In the field where I died

Limbs full of sparklers.

2010-02-16T00:10:00.000-08:00

Before I was born- Was I the vaporized residue of another's dream? An echo of a desire never acted upon but thought so strongly it became real somewhere else? I am how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop- the World may never know.

So I turn. not to dreams. not to memories.
So I turn. into something.

A stale captain swooning in faint
over the orchid down haze of an air to his cheek
that of fine salt, fine water, and finer breeze.
"You saltine!"~{stillness}

......

(a reply~)!!! (((oh,why,oh,me,oh- I .)))

"You... cusp!", from the teeter totter potter with rose hands to his hips toting grips.
and he continued...
{to make room in life by removing one's life}
"I've got all six and I'll sit you done with just one. The other five are for fun, spite, because, why not, and no good reason."
-Commences the laughter of a gun. {the six chamber reservoir of run-on sentences with sharp punctuation}

The grizzly arching brow of the captain peaked and his feet called to port a well fed retreat.
But.
His salt and meat gave in to lead and heat and his little unbeknown leaf made like the season fall and fell six feet slowly.
~
And begin the residues and echos*

This is how I was made. A life collapsing in on itself, coming apart by particles, and coming back together in a brand new way.
A stranger meeting a stranger over and over again.
An echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo echo.....

THE SIZES OF PAST LIVES' INSIDES....

2010-02-12T11:15:00.000-08:00

What's death like? I image it being a lot like when I wasn't born yet. I don't remember it. But I'm here. Hey, maybe I'll take another form after this body expires. And maybe I took a different form prior to this one. Can dreams give me glimpses of my past forms? I have no idea. But I have had two dreams where I was in another body different from the one I'm in right now (and this one keeps changing, too!) Here, I'll tell you briefly about them.
I had this dream when I was a teen vacationing with my family in Bathe, England: I'm a buff Roman soldier with crested headgear and all the regalia. I'm with my dad who is also a soldier. He looks pretty similar to how he looks today and we're best friends. We're super tan. I woke up and said, 'Hey dad, I had a dream that we were both Roman soldiers.' He said we probably really were. When all my girlfriends were pretty much into drooling over Donnie from The New Kids on the Block, I was into sketching Ancient Roman ruins.
I had the second dream also when I was a teenager. I am seated before a gilded mirror, staring at myself. And yikes, I'm a really, really old French woman. I am so old that I look faded, like I have white powder all over me. The worst part is that I'm super stale with boredom and so lonely that I'm ready to die. My apartment is small, dusty, with tall windows, and the little dog on my lap doesn't even give me relief from the minutes ticking away with numbing slowness. I think I have dementia.
Was I a really a Roman soldier or a senile senior? I don't know.
In fact, I don't know if conjuring up these possible past life dreams is of any value to someone living a rich and full life. Ready to drop the past and be bold in the now with me?

I have always been here

2010-02-11T14:28:00.000-08:00

In the immense heat of stars
I was formed long ago.

I was carried in the womb of evolution
of the earth
and of the great family of life here.

A billion voices
sang for billions of years
and I was harmonized.

I am a human being.
I am the eyes of the universe opened.
I am the universe conscious of itself.

We have looked deep into the heavens,
deep into our past.
And deep into ourselves
to where resides the most fundamental.

There is a story told there -

You are nothing, if not everything.
And you have always been here.

General Daniel Morgan

2010-02-07T11:38:00.000-08:00

The old memories hang like dusty fixtures in an attic.
Stored and forgotten under macabre lids and heaped linen.

I cannot presume to know who, or what I have done in the past.
I think, from my experience, there occurs a certain aridity of the spirit.
A disenchantment with the current boundaries one finds oneself in.
I have found myself at several crossroads facing a profound sense of loss.
This emotion does not correlate to a visible or tangible problem before me,
it is elusive, and an interior issue on the unconscious side.
It leaves me with a desire to seek closure.
But, then the mood passes and I settle back into like as usual.

Visions have come in dreams to me at various times.
They are not often. I compare them across my current situation,
and attitudes I habituate. Some things I have seen are difficult to associate with,
but can be saturated with a hold-over emotion that is heavily charged and
is not easily dismissed. Rage and contempt survive the threshold of physical death.
A career in eternity does not hold significant historical analogy.
It is therefore heavily discounted as of recent centuries.

General Morgan led some battles in the Revolutionary War.
He had success with directing sharp shooters in insurgency operations.
Emphasizing the skirmish line and individual marksmanship.
His efforts in leading the 11th Virginia Regiment were well coordinated and gave decisive
outcome in enemy engagments. I carry a vague and nagging impression of being a part of
this regiment. Sharpshooters carried actual rifles as opposed to muskets.
To harass and hound the enemy formations through skilled flanking or pursuits of confusion
served this light infantry who were designed to travel quickly, attack, and weigh immediate
outcome for possible further ingress.

I directly resonate with the sharp instincts involved in this type of warfare.
It is still a part of me, and holds some value when faced with danger.
I also remember a vivid scene of an ambush. As I lay in wait prone in the brush with rifle
aimed. The order was given. I shot. I saw a man fall. He was at one moment serene and
peaceful on his march. I destroyed his peace, his dreams, his life in an instant.
It all occurred with such inner disgust and regret because it was as if I had killed myself.
I wanted to help this soul and reach out my hand to him and convey the sorrow and remorse
for my act. But, I could not break rank. I was forced to witness the passing of a man in the
prime of life, not yet prepared for such a fate. I could read the disbelief in his face as he lay
dying. It was so hard and so sad. I never forgave myself.

Copping A Plea

2010-02-06T05:23:00.000-08:00

I must say that when this months topic was posted, I shuddered at the very thought of writing about a subject which totally confuses me. I had intended to simply blow it off, after all, February is a short month and one could easily miss the posting deadline. Then out of no where my special muse (yes, you, Susan) inspired me to take on the project with my usual cynical, sarcastic, irreverence rather than puzzle over it's seriousness.

Ah.....the thought of having lived one or more past lives truly terrifies me. After all, I have barely stumbled my way through this life making one wrong choice after another. Doesn't seem like I've learned much from all that experience. If in fact I have gone around this block before, than surely I am an old soul and this is my last run at it all. I'm simply too tired to do this again. Just between you and me, I get the feeling that no matter how many times I do this, I am never going to get it right!

On the other hand there is another theory out there drifting along the edges of quantum physics, and it intrigues me. What if instead of past lives, we were actually living several life experiences, at the same time only in different dimensions. Each life experience based on the choices we make within that dimension. Like those juvenile novels which give the reader the opportunity to change the story by answering a simple question at the end of each chapter. "If you think Jane would steal the locket, turn to page 33 and continue. If you think Jane puts the locket back, turn to page 29."

What a grand idea! Somewhere out there I'm living a truly blessed life because I've made all the right choices. Somewhere I got it all right! Now I don't have to feel quite so bad about the dumb mistakes I make here. One thing is certain. If I get to choose, I'm going to plea bargain for plan "B, (alternate dimensions) instead of plan "A" (past lives.) Why? Because plan "B" offers me a life sentence served concurrently! Now that's a deal in any courtroom.

Untitled WIP

2010-02-02T10:42:00.000-08:00

Here's something I wrote a couple weeks ago, and shelved in lieu of other projects/homework. Maybe I'll post more in a few weeks when I finish, maybe not. I would love to hear your thoughts on the beginnings of it, though. Cheers.

This is Nick.

He is single, 53-years-old, and he lives in the newest prefab home in Riverton. It's seven blocks south of Maple Street, which is two blocks west of downtown, but it is a better street because it's where all the bars are. All of them is only a phrase used to make Riverton sound bigger than it actually is because there are only two bars in Riverton. Nick's home cost $40,000. It's 927 square feet and has a detached carport. Nick doesn't use the carport; his truck is too big.

His neighbors are probably jealous. They don't talk to him, and Nick assumes it's because they're jealous.

Nick doesn't know what happens when you assume. But that doesn't really matter because Nick doesn't like any of his neighbors -- or he wouldn't if he talked to them. If Nick talked to his neighbors he would know that the family next door had three children, but the baby died last december from SIDS and the middle child became the youngest child -- a familial role that she is still trying to grasp. Today is her birthday and Dad took the family to Chilis. They would have described their evening as bourgeois if they knew what the word meant.

Nick would also know that the young, redneck couple that lived in the double-wide trailer across the street were actually named Dale and Brandine. He would have remarked how he thought those things only happened in the movies. He would also know that Dale was laid off today from his job at the auto-body shop, and he hadn't told Brandine. It was a Friday, so Dale figured he could put off the news all weekend and call in sick on Monday if he didn't find a good time to tell his wife. But Nick doesn't talk to his neighbors, so he doesn't know any of this. Nick only knows about the things he does each day and he knows the things he likes.

He likes: Grocery shopping, the sound car tires make on gravel, and punching men in the face. But only men, and only men that deserve it. And only after three or four shots of whiskey at Dockside Bar which isn't located at the docks -- there are no docks in Riverton. There is, however, a river, but it's Nick River. A man with a wife and six kids.

This story is not about Nick River the man. Nor is it specifically about Riverton, where there are no rivers, but there are Rivers. There is not any water, actually, in Riverton. There are only very large pipes buried underground that pump water into the city for its 87 residents. Rather, it's 86 now. Old George Mantooth died last night. (George liked: Peanut butter M&Ms, pin-up girls, and telling war stories about battles he never fought in.) George Mantooth was Nick's father. He hated Dockside Bar.

Nick was in the parking lot of Dockside Bar, which is precisely where his ass landed after he somersaulted out the door. The bouncer had shoved him in the back because he punched a man in the face. But the man called Nick's sister a soft-bottomed floozie, so even though a sweaty asperity dripped off Nick's forehead, everything was right in the world.

But Nick doesn't think like this. Instead, Nick felt good and buzzed. If he was sitting on a stoop with an old buddy from highschool throwing back Budweisers, Nick would sigh contentedly and say, "Yeah, man." Nick, however, was in the gravel parking lot of a dive bar in a down town. He rubbed a dirty palm on his forehead and looked at it. It was sweaty and speckled with blood. "Whoops. Never did get a hang of that tuckin' and rollin'."

There was no one around to hear Nick talk about his shortcomings.

A pea-grean Buick rolled slowly into the parking lot and stopped next to Nick. It belonged to his sister, Brenda. Nick lifted himself into the passenger's seat. "They don't much like you in there," he said.

Brenda replied, "Did Dad say sumthin' about bein' cremated?" Brenda has never been a good listener.

"Well here I thought he died of a heart attack."

"He did. But what are we doin' with his body?"

"I don't know. We never much talked about those things."

Nick hadn't talked to his dad much at all since 2003. Momma Mantooth died the summer of that year. She hated summer. It was too hot and sticky and Momma didn't like those bugs that you can never see but sound like weed-whackers. What Momma did like was: Lemonade, hot tubs, and gin-and-tonics. All of which are more closely related to summertime than anything else, but Momma only enjoyed these things in the fall and winter. She didn't want to look like she was enjoying herself in June.

Old George Mantooth built Momma's casket in the garage after she died. When he was done he hauled it to the cemetery in his truck with a shovel and a tape measure where he dug Momma's grave himself. She was at the end of a long line of decaying Mantooths. There were three more plots in line with reservations for the living.

No one in the Mantooth family had ever been called intuitive. When Nick asked, "Wouldn't he want to be buried with the rest of the family?" Brenda had to think about it for awhile.

"That'd be an OK spot to put him," she said.

Brenda dropped Nick off at his home and they parted ways without talking about Nick's night at the bar. If they had, Nick would have found out that the man he punched was from the city up north. He also would have found out that the man he should have punched was the bartender who broke up with Brenda after a one night stand last Thursday. He may have even learned that Brenda was only at Dockside to drink and flirt heavily with the men at the bar to make the bartender jealous.

There are many things Nick never learned from the people around him.

Nick's home has a new-car smell, but this shouldn't be unexpected. If anyone ever visited Nick, they would notice the smell right away, even before they noticed that the TV was tuned to static. Nick had only the furniture he needed. The kitchen table was small and only had one chair with it. The living room had an upholstered recliner and a footstool. There was a rolltop desk in the corner that Nick used only once a year on the last weekend in March to do his taxes. Nick's bedroom and bathroom were equally sparse and functional. He had a bed and a closet, no dresser, a toilet, a shower, and no bathtub. There was another bedroom, but it was empty and Nick kept the door closed. The walls of the home were white and the trim was Maple. Nick didn't pay attention to these details and if you asked him what color his house was he would say, "I can't recall."

The Bear

2010-02-01T23:25:00.000-08:00

gradual...uninterrupted by the motion of the leaves lighting the ocean of trees, the bear stood before me and out of me he began the ways of the bear. i swayed open to the trunk of the vastness of bark which engaged my core and allowed my spine to become one with the innermost climbing oak. the bear looked into my eyes. i saw pure spirit of bear which took my mind to a place of rocky precipices and geysers awakened in the earth. he lay beside the small pool soaking in heat and the day itself, his moans were heard by the sparrows and ravens in the woods where i sit against the trees. his heavy paws engaged his senses to his surroundings, a tender giant in the stone planet. swift twitches to the tickling breezes were his overcoat, massive, heavy and not yet quite dry. soon he would be at the base of the mountain, but for now he settles in thought, quietly fortunate for his ability to smell his next action. blooming larkspur licks the air with sacred scent. familiar with the flowers he gazes upon the petals in comfort and eases dangerously close to sleep. he has much to do still this dry day. the moderate clouds dance near peaks of his den and he glances toward the woods, beckoning me to go with him, toward unspoken destinies ...

*Bear painting, "Bear Wisdom", by Linda Israel*

Chiasmus Corner: George Bernard Shaw

2010-01-26T19:46:00.000-08:00

Just found this chiastic quote by George Bernard Shaw (1856 - 1950) on the ecard site quillcards.

"We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing."

February is Coming!

2010-01-25T23:50:00.001-08:00

February is coming and we're going to need a topic. February thoughts:
According to Ovid, Februare is Latin for purification.
The Roman month Februarius is named for the Februa/Februatio purification festival, which occurred on the 15th day of the Roman month.
And what's up with our pronunciation of 'February?'
Anyone have a ready-made topic?

inner strength

2010-01-25T05:39:00.000-08:00

examine within.
challenge demeanor innate.
grasp tight the new dawn.

Enjoy

2010-01-21T12:27:00.000-08:00

To get through self-doubting kinds of struggles, I've found two techniques that help.
I'll tell how I recently put them to use when I took a job teaching English to French professionals. The idea of it scared the crap out of me.
So knowing I'd be the leader of an unknown group, with unknown levels, and unknown goals, I kept myself together using Wayne Dyer's phrase, "I want to feel good." I love this phrase. Anytime I had one tinge of nervous stomach, it was nullified when I said it. And also with meditation. Daily, I softly chant a mantra and visually create a self who gets answers to all of her questions and cares. And the answers come, too. This time in the form of a sunny card from a friend that read, "He gives us richly all things to enjoy. Timothy 6:17." Just when I thought I couldn't muster the strength to tell adults to 'not be late again' and doubting my answers to another grammar question 'but there are exceptions,' I got this note that helped trigger real enjoyment of it all.
Even a colleague, a woman who has taught for over twenty years, asked me how I could possibly remain so calm? I told her it was because I did yoga. It was a half truth. Although I do yoga, I think it was these two techniques that helped the most. All that remained to do really was just show up, and enjoy.

Inner Strength

2010-01-20T17:40:00.000-08:00

O Sensei, Morihei Ueshiba shook buildings with it.
Inner strength is quiet. It is the slight touch of the infinite which
always exposes the finite. It is patience. The patience which has no
fixation within time. Inner strength is the sound current.
It can overcome all adversity. It is not contingent on any conditions,
but requires practice.

"self-portrait".

2010-01-18T13:08:00.000-08:00

i feel the impact of my

eye injury in many ways

sadness, anger, bitterness

my self-confidence is not

what it once was

it's affected my acting

it's affected aspects

of my personal relationships

if i glance at my

favorite portrait of
myself as a child, i think

'where has that little boy
with the beautiful brown

eyes disappeared to?'

i wish he was here but

he's gone forever

i am loved

unconditionally

by many and yet
my injury won't go away

as an actor in an

industry where image

is god i feel i am at a loss
i wonder what strangers think?

'do they think i'm ugly?'

but i'm the same person

inside as i was before
how soon the strangers forget

i am surviving but
i'm forever haunted.

hoarfrost.

2010-01-18T12:59:00.000-08:00

To Sing Again

2010-01-12T19:09:00.000-08:00

The sense of time is not fixed.
I have experienced days of such delight
that I have to suppress a tantrum
when those days are at an end.
I want to shake my fist at the sun, shouting,
"I know what you did.
I know you rushed your setting.
You and the moon both are impatient."
And the moon responds,
"Shut up and go to bed."

And then there is the way time can pass
where the night and its promise of sleep
seems to evade you
where even after a perilous journey to reach the end,
the end seems to go over the curve
and away from you.

Time can crawl
as it came to for a young man, a boy
whose days had once been swift
for they were full of joy,
whose open mind had made him
diverse and beautiful and full of song.
He was a seeker of the profound, of experience.
He even sought it in a fruit he knew to be false,
one that is an ancient poison of this planet,
and one that he sought it in so often
that he came to value nothing else.
So began his pain
and the slowing of the hands.

All his efforts
and all his thoughts
were now focused on survival
of a most insidious kind.
Like so much of the green life
that lifts only for the sun,
he now too served only one master.
And what a monster his master was.

He came to know excruciating eternities
within his days.
He came to feel so old inside.
So old he was nearly convinced
that he must have been there at the beginning
and since witnessed the entire unfolding of things.
And his loneliness was one of ages.

It stripped him of so much.
So much that he had become a stranger
to this world and to himself.
So much that even when he finally decided
that he had been enslaved long enough
and had parted ways with his master,
he still felt so lost.

Even on the road that led away from it,
the road that surely was the right one,
he was still filled with agonizing uncertainty.
Doubt was like an ice
that lived in his stomach
and made its presence known
in his neck
and in his hands and feet.

He was ashamed.
And there formed a great and terrible army
of all his weaknesses
and they marched on his heart.
More were brought into the fold everyday.
None could withstand the intimidating numbers
and the drumming that drowned out
all sense and reason.

When they finally reached the walls
of the last refuge of what once was,
the commander of this rabbling darkness,
a man in which they all coalesced,
a man whose iniquitous tongue
was curled around all their thoughts,
came forth and spat and barked hatred at the door
while the crowd cheered with unspeakable nastiness.
And then he finally broke it down.

There was naught inside
but a small child.
The man knowing no limits to his cruelty
raised his hand to strike
and at that moment the child looked up at him
and began to sing,

"I wish I could be your hero,
save the day,
fight that no tomorrows
will ever harm you."

The man stood there
baffled by such a defense.
But he stood listening.

He recognized the song.
It was one he had sung long ago.
He began to recall a memory
where he was in a flower garden
and he was bending down
to smell the red and yellow tulips
for they were his favorite.
And he was singing.
He loved to sing.
At night he would lie in bed and sing
until he fell asleep.

Now he recognized the child.
The child was that boy smelling the tulips.
The child was himself.

Feelings now welled up inside him,
feelings that he could not suppress,
that he could not control.
And he wept.
He was broken
but in the most beautiful way.

He no longer heard the mob outside.
They were gone.
All the angry voices had left.
And now he too began to sing.

They both sang so loud
so that their song might be heard
by the boy whose heart they stood inside.

And he did hear it.
And it saved him.
For it was the song
that was the deepest
and most sacred thing about him.
It could not be diminished
and it could not be conquered.

He has since entered the world again
and has made connections with people.
He sings for them
and for himself.

Perhaps long ago there was a mind,
a consciousness that stared into the void
and saw and heard a silence there.
And no longer willing to accept such a thing
opened its mouth
and sang the universe into being.

And the song flared forth
creating a rich vastness
where it continues to resonate
at the smallest and largest of levels.
It echoes in beings that sing their own song.
In the birds and in the bullfrog,
in the hyena,
in whale song
and in the wolf.
In the throat singers.
The yodelers.
The ones who hollered in the fields.
And in the boy
who stared into the void himself
and just before the song
would have been hushed forever
began to sing again.

Staying/ A Short Story

2010-01-11T12:50:00.000-08:00

It's midnight and she sits alone in the nursery. The child within her rests high, pressing against her lungs and making breathing difficult. The oak rocker allows her to lean back and expand her lungs more easily. She gazes at the crib and imagines it one month from now filled with precious life. She has spent months sanding the crib and repainting it until it shines like new, perfectly restored with the love she has poured into it. Everything is ready. Everything is perfect, or nearly everything. The fully loaded twelve gauge shotgun lays across her thighs just beneath her swollen stomach. She rocks slowly, cradling the unborn child and the weapon.

He'd missed dinner again and he hadn't called. She'd waited, knowing it was payday and that the chances of his getting home on time were slim. He would cash his check at the bar, lose track of time, and stumble home sometime after dark. But it was midnight and she also knew that he'd left the bar at ten, because she had called. He was with someone again. She could even guess who it was. At the company picnic just the week before, she had seen the glances , heard the whispers, of the people around her. She'd noticed a young red head stealing glances at her husband. She knew, he was with her now. He'd come home smelling of whiskey and perfume.

Not this time, she thinks. Not ever again. She'd kill him first. She rocks slowly and stares at the empty crib and then down at the shotgun. She caresses the cold steel, allowing her anger to build. She will finish this once and for all.

Suddenly her body spasms and her eyes fly open. She has fallen asleep and been jerked awake by that feeling of falling that she experienced more and more frequently as her muscles strained under the added weight of the baby. The clock glows 3:30. He isn't coming home this time. Her body is stiff and aching as she rises from the chair. The fight has been wrung from her. The anger replaced with despair and fatigue.

She unloads the shotgun, and locks it back in the gun case. Standing in the doorway of the nursery, she takes in what once seemed to be a promise of happiness and new life, and allows the tears to fall. She turns then and begins to put a new plan into action. Pulling a suitcase from the closet, she fills it with whatever she needs to begin the journey to a new life for herself and her baby. When she is finished she lays down on the bed, fully clothed, and allows sleep to overtake her once again.

Just before dawn, he slips into bed beside her. The stink of whiskey and sex awakens her. Swallowing the bile that rises in her throat, she waits until his breathing becomes more regular and he falls into a deep drunken slumber. Rising quickly and quietly she, pulls the packed suitcase from its hiding place beneath the bed and heads confidently out the back door to the car, shutting out the pain and disappointment which has been her life with him.

She runs to the car, but before she can open the trunk, she stops and stares in disbelief . The suitcase falls from her hand and she drops to her knees. The car. What has he done to the car? The side is scratched and caved in from the door to the rear bumper. The back tire is flat. He has run it off the side of the road in a drunken stupor and made her escape impossible. No. He could not do this. She would not let him. Not this time.

Running back to the bedroom she begins to shake him awake, screaming hysterically. "Get up! Get up you bastard. You mother fucking bastard! You get up and fix that flat tire. Do it now! Right fucking now!"

Her screams penetrate his drunkenness. He senses the insanity within the words, feels the spit hit his face and manages to sit up in the bed. This time he's gone too far. He's pushed her over an edge he had not known was there. Fending off her frantic blows, he rises slowly from the bed.

"Get your ass out there now" She screams. He struggles to his feet and heads obediently outside to the car while she trails him cursing and screaming. Without a word, he fixes the flat and puts her suitcase in the trunk. He doesn't want to lose her. Doesn't want to lose the baby he's fathered. But he knows nothing he says now can stop her . He watches her climb into the drivers seat and slam the door. As she peels out of the drive in reverse, he simply turns and walks silently back into the house. This cannot be undone.

She is alone now behind the wheel of a car going ....where? Does it matter? So long as it is away from him and the betrayal and cruelty which has been her life until this moment. But where? Her mother would never take her in. How far will a high school education take her and her child? Where will her baby lay its head every night? Certainly not in the crib which she has prepared. Who will care for her child while she works every day? Even though he is cruel and does not come home at night to her, does it matter? She has a child to raise now. Someone to love and nurture. Who can do this better than her, and how can she do it without him?

She slows the car to a stop, taking a tissue from the glove box to wipe her tears. She takes a deep breath, turns the car around, and heads back toward the house. Back to him, to security. How important can love be when one has a baby to care for? She will make this work, somehow.

He hears the car in the drive. Listens for the door and her footsteps in the hall. Through the haze of alcohol, he smiles. She will stay. For now, she will stay.