Here's a prompt that didn't work for me. When they don't, those fifteen minutes can seem like an eternity.
June 12, 2010
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Wow, it's been a long time since I've been here, my brain is sluggish, not ready. So many blanks, so little time.
What blank haven't I blanked?
One night stand. Check.
LSD. Check.
Oh wait, cocaine is a blank I didn't.
So f***ing boring.
My mind is on other things. I'm hot, sweaty, haven't seen Mom in two weeks, guilty, not guilty, my neck hurts, wish I'd gotten more coffee, sweat is running down my back and that is gross. Gack.
Fawn comes next week for eight days. I hope we don't hate each other by the time it's over. I'm already worried about that.
F***ing neck.
Stream of consciousness is not working for me today.
Some people have already turned over a page - how do they do that?! I have a small cramp just from this much. I wish I hadn't gotten the omelet at Foster's, eggs were overcooked. God, I am such a complainer, really a worry wart.
God I hate being sweaty. Great, more complaining. STFU. Seriously. Freakin' Debbie Downer. Am I avoiding? More lazy. I am lazy. This is becoming more clear to me the older I get. I am one lazy ass MFer.
Someone is wearing a sweater! Makes me hot just to think about it.
Blah blah blah. Shit. Still have to go see Mom. Again more lazy. Mental lazy, emotional lazy.
The lazy I didn't lazy. OMG. This takes awhile to get into the swing of things. Some good writers in here today, Joelle, Virginia - they've already written a ready to publish article I'm sure.
[and mercifully, the timer goes off]
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
11/21/10
Who's Sorry Now?
I would B.E.G. my mother to play the Connie Francis record(s). Her and Mr. Clean were favorites of my three year old self. But this isn't about Connie. Or Mr. Clean and my weird attraction to bald cartoon men. That is another post entirely. Or mostly.
This is yet another prompt. God gave us free will, you're not required to stick around and read this dreck if you don't want to.
The prompt was: Someone you'd rather be with than your family OR a family meal. Dated 3/22/08.
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Thanksgiving 1975
My friend S. was visiting from Alaska. I'd known her since seventh grade, but we weren't really friends until tenth grade. S. was pretty and smart. In spite of me being taller and much less pretty, people thought we were related. We were called liars on at least one occasion when we said we weren't. Oddly, several times even our parents mistook us for one another.
This particular Thanksgiving I also invited my current boyfriend to dinner.
Big Mistake.
He had recently gone AWOL. In the eyes of my military career father this was akin to being the Anti-Christ.
He had shaved his head (see above) which also pissed my father off for some reason.
The third strike: he was late.
When R. came in the door, my father, gracious Southern gentleman that he was, developed a severe "headache", went upstairs and was not seen again for the duration.
To say that things were uncomfortable is a gross understatement.
My mother was in a tizzy, trying to pretend that my father having what basically amounted to a case of the vapors was a common occurrence and he'd be right back to carve the turkey.
She went to get him to come down, but my father was part Georgia mule with a theme song of "We Shall Not Be Moved" and Jesus' second coming wasn't going to get him downstairs.
Not as long as that bald Commie bastard was in his dining room.
Good times.
Several years later, S. came to visit again. The night before she arrived, my darling husband - the bald Commie (did you expect someone different?), told me that she was the one he had really wanted to ask out, but she was going back to Alaska.
The nice thing about my dad, who did not attend my wedding to R. because he had a headache (I'm not kidding), is that he didn't say "I told you so", when R. left me several years later.
And he totally could have.
This is yet another prompt. God gave us free will, you're not required to stick around and read this dreck if you don't want to.
The prompt was: Someone you'd rather be with than your family OR a family meal. Dated 3/22/08.
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Thanksgiving 1975
My friend S. was visiting from Alaska. I'd known her since seventh grade, but we weren't really friends until tenth grade. S. was pretty and smart. In spite of me being taller and much less pretty, people thought we were related. We were called liars on at least one occasion when we said we weren't. Oddly, several times even our parents mistook us for one another.
This particular Thanksgiving I also invited my current boyfriend to dinner.
Big Mistake.
He had recently gone AWOL. In the eyes of my military career father this was akin to being the Anti-Christ.
He had shaved his head (see above) which also pissed my father off for some reason.
The third strike: he was late.
When R. came in the door, my father, gracious Southern gentleman that he was, developed a severe "headache", went upstairs and was not seen again for the duration.
To say that things were uncomfortable is a gross understatement.
My mother was in a tizzy, trying to pretend that my father having what basically amounted to a case of the vapors was a common occurrence and he'd be right back to carve the turkey.
She went to get him to come down, but my father was part Georgia mule with a theme song of "We Shall Not Be Moved" and Jesus' second coming wasn't going to get him downstairs.
Not as long as that bald Commie bastard was in his dining room.
Good times.
Several years later, S. came to visit again. The night before she arrived, my darling husband - the bald Commie (did you expect someone different?), told me that she was the one he had really wanted to ask out, but she was going back to Alaska.
The nice thing about my dad, who did not attend my wedding to R. because he had a headache (I'm not kidding), is that he didn't say "I told you so", when R. left me several years later.
And he totally could have.
A Separation
This prompt was dated July 11, 2009.
***************************************************************
Dementia is a wedge between us. She no longer remembers names of grandchildren or friends without prompts.
"The one with Lupus," she says when talking about her youngest grandchild. Sometimes I'm "this one" and my sister is "that one".
I suppose it is a separation between herself as well. A disconnect between her now and her then. A constant game of charades or twenty questions.
But she still covers well most of the time. While watching slides of her past life, she'd say "You know who that is don't you?"
I'd say, "Yes, it's so and so."
"That's right."
But somehow we both doubt she knows that's right.
She is separate from her past and her future. Dazed and confused in her tiny one-roomed present, grounded only by an eleven year old mostly blind dog.
I don't really know her anymore, this woman who holds snakes where once she was terrified. Who tries new foods when "I don't like it" was her mantra.
She is five or seven or ten and a bit naughty.
She will slight you for the smallest offense, usually involving the dog. Then the Irish DNA kicks in and she does not forget.
She is separate too from her filters - the ones that warn about saying something hurtful or unkind. My sister ["that one"] becomes "the pretty one" and I get asked if I'd like to look at pictures of myself before I started eating so much.
***************************************************************
Dementia is a wedge between us. She no longer remembers names of grandchildren or friends without prompts.
"The one with Lupus," she says when talking about her youngest grandchild. Sometimes I'm "this one" and my sister is "that one".
I suppose it is a separation between herself as well. A disconnect between her now and her then. A constant game of charades or twenty questions.
But she still covers well most of the time. While watching slides of her past life, she'd say "You know who that is don't you?"
I'd say, "Yes, it's so and so."
"That's right."
But somehow we both doubt she knows that's right.
She is separate from her past and her future. Dazed and confused in her tiny one-roomed present, grounded only by an eleven year old mostly blind dog.
I don't really know her anymore, this woman who holds snakes where once she was terrified. Who tries new foods when "I don't like it" was her mantra.
She is five or seven or ten and a bit naughty.
She will slight you for the smallest offense, usually involving the dog. Then the Irish DNA kicks in and she does not forget.
She is separate too from her filters - the ones that warn about saying something hurtful or unkind. My sister ["that one"] becomes "the pretty one" and I get asked if I'd like to look at pictures of myself before I started eating so much.
Hallway or Room of Choice
Prompt from January 24, 2009. Back to Grandmother's house we go.
**************************************************************************
My grandmother's kitchen was small. There was a large table in the middle of the room, with eight to ten chairs around it. The table was sandwiched between two sideboards, I don't recall any cabinets. A huge wood burning cast iron stove anchored the room.
There was a pantry with a window off to the side, open to the kitchen. We took baths in the pantry in a galvanized tub, using water heated on the stove. Back then, this seemed novel and fun. Looking back I'm struck by how much work it was to do anything, even taking a bath.
On the other side of the kitchen was the room I slept in, a small living room of sorts. Her foot pedal operated sewing machine was in there, a small black and white TV set, where I remember watching Mighty Mouse.
There were piles of Field and Stream magazine which put the fear of rabid animals deep into my psyche.
That side of the house was low and the resident hound dog, Brownie, whose world was complete when we were there, could walk right up to the window and look in. He would bare his teeth in a doggie grin and wag his entire body starting with his tail and working forward. Waiting for me to get up so we could run through the woods together (and he would protect me from rabid foxes and skunks!).
I loved sleeping in that room, so close to the warmth and smells of the kitchen, covered in my grandmother's quilts. I used to sleep in the hallway, in the bed under the stairs, until my father told me some story about a snake coming up through a hole in the floorboard under that bed. True or not, it freaked me out and I never slept there again. I think one of my siblings did.
The L-shaped screened porch was where everyone hung out. It was on the shady side of the house and so much cooler. The chest freezer was out there and the top of the freezer was where the cakes lived. I always hoped to see my favorite - coconut. Sometimes there was Japanese Fruitcake (okay, but not my favorite), or caramel cake (also good, but again, not my favorite). Or there would be pie or maybe a fresh peach cobbler (second runner up!). A lot of the kitchen work - shucking corn, shelling peas or pecans, churning butter - was done out here.
Across from the kitchen door, to the right as you stepped onto the porch, was a long shelf that held an white enamel basin. Next to the basin was a wooden bucket with a gourd dipper. That was essentially the bathroom, since there was no running water in the house. It was where you washed your hands and face, brushed your teeth. The water was cold and sweet and delicious.
The dogs used to lay at the bottom of the hill where the water came out from the pipe attached to the basin. The dirt was cooler there. Sometimes when they were sleeping, we'd pour a dipper of water in the basin and watch them startle awake from the surprise bath. Harmless fun on the farm.
My grandmother had a play grocery store that I adored. She kept it in the attic and as soon as it was polite to ask for it, I did. I'd sit in the big formal living room on the braided rug in front of the fireplace and play for hours. There were a couple of carts, a grocer figure and at least one woman (smaller than Barbie), and stands to stack the tiny fruits and vegetables in. I was eleven the last time we were there and I played with that thing.
When I tired of the grocery store, I could sit on the front porch swing for hours by myself . (the budding introvert) Just looking and listening and thinking and noticing.
**************************************************************************
My grandmother's kitchen was small. There was a large table in the middle of the room, with eight to ten chairs around it. The table was sandwiched between two sideboards, I don't recall any cabinets. A huge wood burning cast iron stove anchored the room.
There was a pantry with a window off to the side, open to the kitchen. We took baths in the pantry in a galvanized tub, using water heated on the stove. Back then, this seemed novel and fun. Looking back I'm struck by how much work it was to do anything, even taking a bath.
On the other side of the kitchen was the room I slept in, a small living room of sorts. Her foot pedal operated sewing machine was in there, a small black and white TV set, where I remember watching Mighty Mouse.
There were piles of Field and Stream magazine which put the fear of rabid animals deep into my psyche.
That side of the house was low and the resident hound dog, Brownie, whose world was complete when we were there, could walk right up to the window and look in. He would bare his teeth in a doggie grin and wag his entire body starting with his tail and working forward. Waiting for me to get up so we could run through the woods together (and he would protect me from rabid foxes and skunks!).
I loved sleeping in that room, so close to the warmth and smells of the kitchen, covered in my grandmother's quilts. I used to sleep in the hallway, in the bed under the stairs, until my father told me some story about a snake coming up through a hole in the floorboard under that bed. True or not, it freaked me out and I never slept there again. I think one of my siblings did.
The L-shaped screened porch was where everyone hung out. It was on the shady side of the house and so much cooler. The chest freezer was out there and the top of the freezer was where the cakes lived. I always hoped to see my favorite - coconut. Sometimes there was Japanese Fruitcake (okay, but not my favorite), or caramel cake (also good, but again, not my favorite). Or there would be pie or maybe a fresh peach cobbler (second runner up!). A lot of the kitchen work - shucking corn, shelling peas or pecans, churning butter - was done out here.
Across from the kitchen door, to the right as you stepped onto the porch, was a long shelf that held an white enamel basin. Next to the basin was a wooden bucket with a gourd dipper. That was essentially the bathroom, since there was no running water in the house. It was where you washed your hands and face, brushed your teeth. The water was cold and sweet and delicious.
The dogs used to lay at the bottom of the hill where the water came out from the pipe attached to the basin. The dirt was cooler there. Sometimes when they were sleeping, we'd pour a dipper of water in the basin and watch them startle awake from the surprise bath. Harmless fun on the farm.
My grandmother had a play grocery store that I adored. She kept it in the attic and as soon as it was polite to ask for it, I did. I'd sit in the big formal living room on the braided rug in front of the fireplace and play for hours. There were a couple of carts, a grocer figure and at least one woman (smaller than Barbie), and stands to stack the tiny fruits and vegetables in. I was eleven the last time we were there and I played with that thing.
When I tired of the grocery store, I could sit on the front porch swing for hours by myself . (the budding introvert) Just looking and listening and thinking and noticing.
Write About A Craft
Back by popular demand, more prompt writing (okay, one person asked for more). From October 24, 2008.
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I am distinctly uncrafty. My best laid craft plans usually run amok. I have super-glued countertops, stapled my dining room table, nearly cut my femoral artery with a hacksaw, and all my decoupage projects have at least one cat hair floating prominently in them.
In sewing class I had races down the hallway in the rolling chairs. I traded sleeves for buttonholes and got in trouble (what? they got done, right?) Patterns puzzle me, nail guns out smart me. I am constantly amazed I have all my body parts.
My mother sewed most all my clothes when I was young and as a testament to my future as a craft un-doer, I ripped out hems with the heels of my shoes, tore off bows and sashes, and was generally a mess. My father said if given a crowbar, I could destroy the world.
Not that he had room to talk. If something went wrong with an appliance, my mother would skip telling my father and jump right to calling the appropriate professional. If he tried to fix it, we would need a new appliance, not just a repair.
I can barely put up a mini-blind - easy assembly my eye. Four hours and twelve drilled holes later it might be semi-functional. Just don't pull the cord too hard.
I am a sloppy painter, hate finish work, and am not allowed to have a band saw.
Yet people ask me for decorating advice and say they love how my house feels.
So maybe I have a knack for arranging - if not making - things. Arranging is safer and no one needs stitches.
*******************************************************************************
I am distinctly uncrafty. My best laid craft plans usually run amok. I have super-glued countertops, stapled my dining room table, nearly cut my femoral artery with a hacksaw, and all my decoupage projects have at least one cat hair floating prominently in them.
In sewing class I had races down the hallway in the rolling chairs. I traded sleeves for buttonholes and got in trouble (what? they got done, right?) Patterns puzzle me, nail guns out smart me. I am constantly amazed I have all my body parts.
My mother sewed most all my clothes when I was young and as a testament to my future as a craft un-doer, I ripped out hems with the heels of my shoes, tore off bows and sashes, and was generally a mess. My father said if given a crowbar, I could destroy the world.
Not that he had room to talk. If something went wrong with an appliance, my mother would skip telling my father and jump right to calling the appropriate professional. If he tried to fix it, we would need a new appliance, not just a repair.
I can barely put up a mini-blind - easy assembly my eye. Four hours and twelve drilled holes later it might be semi-functional. Just don't pull the cord too hard.
I am a sloppy painter, hate finish work, and am not allowed to have a band saw.
Yet people ask me for decorating advice and say they love how my house feels.
So maybe I have a knack for arranging - if not making - things. Arranging is safer and no one needs stitches.
11/19/10
Another Prompt
Can you tell I've been cleaning house? This one was dated 9/16/06 and the prompt was "a letter to me from my house". (For some reason, my house has a Jersey accent.)
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Hey, you - the one who doesn't go outside in the summer. My grass looks like crap and the damn squirrels have chewed some of my siding. And the deck! Don't get me started on the deck!
Inside you did good, I feel good inside. It's warm, I like the pictures you hung and the pottery. Like what you dd with the guest bath too, that color - that Mystic Iris - that's real nice.
Hey listen, don't worry about that crack in the foundation, it's cosmetic only - really. You gotta trust me on this. I wouldn't lie to you. I like you, you're a good egg. I can tell.
A new coat of paint would be nice ya know, that yellow you picked last year. I know, I know, you're still paying off the gutters. See, you are a good egg. I really appreciate not being all stuffed up with acorns.
I won't lie to ya, I hear you talking about your house in Florida and how much you loved it. It hurts my feelings sometimes. I get it, first house, like a first love I guess. You're not my first either sister.
But I do like you kid, you're trying. I can be overwhelming sometimes. I'm glad you picked me over that house in Woodcroft or the one in Trinity Park, you know the ones. You made a good choice, you won't be sorry. You'll see, I'll take good care of you.
P.S. Please paint me soon.
*******************************************************************************
Hey, you - the one who doesn't go outside in the summer. My grass looks like crap and the damn squirrels have chewed some of my siding. And the deck! Don't get me started on the deck!
Inside you did good, I feel good inside. It's warm, I like the pictures you hung and the pottery. Like what you dd with the guest bath too, that color - that Mystic Iris - that's real nice.
Hey listen, don't worry about that crack in the foundation, it's cosmetic only - really. You gotta trust me on this. I wouldn't lie to you. I like you, you're a good egg. I can tell.
A new coat of paint would be nice ya know, that yellow you picked last year. I know, I know, you're still paying off the gutters. See, you are a good egg. I really appreciate not being all stuffed up with acorns.
I won't lie to ya, I hear you talking about your house in Florida and how much you loved it. It hurts my feelings sometimes. I get it, first house, like a first love I guess. You're not my first either sister.
But I do like you kid, you're trying. I can be overwhelming sometimes. I'm glad you picked me over that house in Woodcroft or the one in Trinity Park, you know the ones. You made a good choice, you won't be sorry. You'll see, I'll take good care of you.
P.S. Please paint me soon.
Doorway
Another prompt. Dated 2/21/07
***************************************************************
There are many doorways in the Crane Cottage, an old Italianate mansion on Jekyll Island, Georgia.
The front door is weathered wood with an ornate doorknob and plate. In the back, the courtyard is surrounded by a U-shaped, double barrel vaulted (also called a groin vault, but that doesn't sound very pretty does it?) loggia leading to french doors on each wing.
How I loved this old building. Every time I came there was a new surprise, something I hadn't noticed before: the lion's head gutter spout, wrought iron flower pot holders on the balconies, the shutter tie backs (aka dogs) on the faded peeling blue shutters in the shape of clam shells. Then there were the old peach colored bricks peeking through the broken stucco, chairs in the courtyard with wrought iron leaf backs and bright POW! blue seats. She was unkempt then, but oh so interesting to a photographer; wood, glass, brick - so many textures!
Once, a back gate was open and I snuck inside. There was a beautiful spiral staircase, parquet floor, arches in the hallways all curved angles. When I looked out the front windows, the marsh sparkled and winked at me.
Now she's been gussied up. They tore down the trumpet vine and the cedar tree in the front. All her exposed brick is modestly covered in a new coat of white stucco. You can stay in one of the thirteen bedrooms and eat lunch in the courtyard by the fountain in the chairs with the bright blue seats.
I miss her. She seems sad to me somehow, valiantly trying to be new again. She's too clean, too pretty.
The doorknob's the same, but I don't take her picture anymore.
***************************************************************
There are many doorways in the Crane Cottage, an old Italianate mansion on Jekyll Island, Georgia.
The front door is weathered wood with an ornate doorknob and plate. In the back, the courtyard is surrounded by a U-shaped, double barrel vaulted (also called a groin vault, but that doesn't sound very pretty does it?) loggia leading to french doors on each wing.
Now she's been gussied up. They tore down the trumpet vine and the cedar tree in the front. All her exposed brick is modestly covered in a new coat of white stucco. You can stay in one of the thirteen bedrooms and eat lunch in the courtyard by the fountain in the chairs with the bright blue seats.
I miss her. She seems sad to me somehow, valiantly trying to be new again. She's too clean, too pretty.
The doorknob's the same, but I don't take her picture anymore.
Flowers
This is from a prompt writing class back in 2006 (you're given a "prompt", a sentence, poem, picture, etc. and fifteen minutes to write- no editing). As Nancy says in class - no criticism, you can only say what you like about the piece. After all it's been written in only fifteen minutes.
The prompt was "Giving/Receiving Flowers".
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Who made up the rule to give flowers when someone dies? Is it from the past, when flowers masked the smell of death, of decay? Flowers are happy and bright. They don't go with death, sadness, tears, the unforgivable loss.
I can't remember getting flowers from boyfriends or husbands. I give them to myself, although it seems a frivolous expense for something so short-lived.
Tulips I love the best. They're like two flowers in one - first closed primly in their stark sleekness, then opening to reveal their inner hearts.
There's something slightly whorish about an open tulip.
Disheveled, one petal almost off - like a slip strap sliding from a shoulder, hair mussed and sleepy eyed. Ready to give themselves for beauty, for love.
The prompt was "Giving/Receiving Flowers".
***********************************************************************
Who made up the rule to give flowers when someone dies? Is it from the past, when flowers masked the smell of death, of decay? Flowers are happy and bright. They don't go with death, sadness, tears, the unforgivable loss.
I can't remember getting flowers from boyfriends or husbands. I give them to myself, although it seems a frivolous expense for something so short-lived.
Tulips I love the best. They're like two flowers in one - first closed primly in their stark sleekness, then opening to reveal their inner hearts.
There's something slightly whorish about an open tulip.
Disheveled, one petal almost off - like a slip strap sliding from a shoulder, hair mussed and sleepy eyed. Ready to give themselves for beauty, for love.
Brand New and Shiny
I wanted a bike.
Nothing fancy, just a quicker way of getting around. Of course all my friends had one, surely that was another reason.
It probably came from Sears, ordered from the catalog store downtown off one of the muddy unpaved streets. I'm being generous calling it a store, it was more like a kiosk; six or seven catalogs lay sprawled open in the tight gloom.
In Kodiak, for those of us who couldn't afford to fly to Anchorage to shop, everything from shoes to jeans to dresses came from the Sears catalog. In the hierarchy of mail order, Montgomery Ward was the bottom, Sears and JC Penney held the middle ground, and Spiegel was the bomb diggity top. First day of school, many of us were wearing the same clothes - plucked from the same catalog.
The bike came in a large carton, unassembled. Hot pink and silver, she was quite the looker.
My father, who was not known for his mechanical abilities spent a few hours assembling the bike. I can't say for sure how long, because antsy with anticipation, I left the house. It can be reasonably assumed it went something like this:
Everything came out of the box. Hopes were high, buoyed by the words "easy assembly".
My mother, always the navigator of difficult journeys, would have read the instructions to my father.
He would have paid no attention.
Eventually, my mother would say "Do it yourself then," and leave.
There would be swearing.
My father would sacrifice a piece of flesh. Or two.
But then, at last - my bike!
Except...
wait...
the front fender was on backwards, long part in the front.
I pointed this out to my dad.
"That's the way it came out of the box." He was not one to admit mistakes.
I thought I could get a neighbor or friend's dad to undo the bolts and I'd flip the fender. But to my dismay, the bolts were on so tight it was like they were welded on.
The fender stayed on backwards.
You could always tell it was me - I was the one with the mud spattered pants.
Nothing fancy, just a quicker way of getting around. Of course all my friends had one, surely that was another reason.
It probably came from Sears, ordered from the catalog store downtown off one of the muddy unpaved streets. I'm being generous calling it a store, it was more like a kiosk; six or seven catalogs lay sprawled open in the tight gloom.
In Kodiak, for those of us who couldn't afford to fly to Anchorage to shop, everything from shoes to jeans to dresses came from the Sears catalog. In the hierarchy of mail order, Montgomery Ward was the bottom, Sears and JC Penney held the middle ground, and Spiegel was the bomb diggity top. First day of school, many of us were wearing the same clothes - plucked from the same catalog.
The bike came in a large carton, unassembled. Hot pink and silver, she was quite the looker.
My father, who was not known for his mechanical abilities spent a few hours assembling the bike. I can't say for sure how long, because antsy with anticipation, I left the house. It can be reasonably assumed it went something like this:
Everything came out of the box. Hopes were high, buoyed by the words "easy assembly".
My mother, always the navigator of difficult journeys, would have read the instructions to my father.
He would have paid no attention.
Eventually, my mother would say "Do it yourself then," and leave.
There would be swearing.
My father would sacrifice a piece of flesh. Or two.
But then, at last - my bike!
Except...
wait...
the front fender was on backwards, long part in the front.
I pointed this out to my dad.
"That's the way it came out of the box." He was not one to admit mistakes.
I thought I could get a neighbor or friend's dad to undo the bolts and I'd flip the fender. But to my dismay, the bolts were on so tight it was like they were welded on.
The fender stayed on backwards.
You could always tell it was me - I was the one with the mud spattered pants.
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