False start

Day 8 Assignment...sort of.


I'm sorry, but I really did not like Joe at first. I thought he was an incredibly boring mouse of a man and I did not want to write about him. Of course, most of that is my own fault. I read the assignment, and the first thing I saw was boredom. I mean, come on Joe! 46?!?! You've been wasting your life for how long just because you're afraid to fly?!? Ugh. I can see you, in your tie, disgusted by the germ-laden world of flight...and I'm bored.

But, what if Joe couldn't fly. What if he had a difficult life, riddled with poverty and defeat? What if through hard work and perseverance...or a shady twist of fate, Joe was finally able to take some time off and fly first class? Not exactly thrilling, but a little better.

Now, what if it was a medical problem? What if Joe had lived his whole life with serious problems with his inner ears? What if he had battled with the pain and blinding dizziness of his particular condition, the endless surgeries and recoveries and disappointment until he just didn't care anymore.

Also not fantastic, but a little more interesting than a phobia. I just can't find my starting point. I can see Joe, sitting in his seat and fiddling with his tie, where it's become creased from the seat belt. I can see him rubbing the sides of his fingers nervously and holding his breath during takeoff. I can see him, I just don't know why he's there at all.

Movies have soundtracks, life is on shuffle

Day 7 Assignment

I am terrible at creating play lists. My iPod is almost always on shuffle, bringing me random surprises throughout the day. I think a soundtrack for my life would be the same way. I mean, I have some idea of what would play, but just like life it would shift and change without notice.

There would be a lot of Iron and Wine, but only from The Creek Drank the Cradle, Our Endless Numbered Days and Around the Well. Those songs are all warm evenings outdoors, summer days swimming and joy. I've been told this music is sad...but I don't understand that. It's calm and blissful for me.

There would also be a lot of Max Richter, for quiet time alone, mild sadness and for the person I wish I was. Someone who leaves things unsaid.

The Presets' I Go Hard, I Go Home would be there for mania and dancing...sometimes at the same time, sometimes not. Leslie Hall's Gem Sweater and Zombie Killer would be there for personal embarrassing ridiculousness. Calla's It Dawned On Me would be there just because it's my fight song.

Add to that a smattering of 80's pop for friends and fun and silliness, and I think that about covers it. Except of course that songs I never dreamed would be there will pop up from time to time, changing the rules and my expectations.

Don't Tell

Day 6 Assignment

I write disaster plans in my head. My worst is with Jessie, the disabled girl I care for nights and weekends. My worst case scenario is that Patty(mom) has left us alone and I have Jessie, whom I am paid to care for, and both her tween sisters. Worst case, I know something is wrong. The door to their home is never locked, but I have tried to get these girls to keep it from opening to strangers. In the best/worst case I have a moment to tell Libby that she is in charge. That her and Mary are going to run, backways to get to Mike's. Libby will know by the tone of my voice because she is already that child.

She will notice but not speak about the pen knife in my hand. Libby I trust because she will notice this. Libby can't handle confrontation. I will tell her to run and her and Mary will run. The pen knife is for whomever is new.

Libby will do what I say even if it's too late. Even if I have to scream it, she will do it. My worst case is me and Jessie. I don't care what any attacker might want. They never get to touch Jessie.

I go to the dark places at this point. I have walked into the kitchen and then have been greatful that Patty's son didn't see the knife in my palm. I will fight for them until death.

I just hope they never have to know.

Smoke break

Day 5 but not the assignment


I'm standing on stump out back again. It's where I hide for a few minutes here and there each day. It's a good spot. At about three feet in diameter, two feet high and almost perfectly level, it's everything I could ask for in a seat or soapbox. The underbrush crawls out in front, almost hiding me from the road but still providing a view of our so-called lawn. It's both overgrown and sparse, like a balding field.

Three pecan trees stand almost in line to my right, shading the few patches of grass you could still call "green." To my left, on the other side of the rambling undergrowth, is a thick wall of bamboo twenty feet high and swaying in the breeze as if to laugh at the shorter grass below. The taller trees crowd behind the bamboo, as if the tall thin shoots have bullied them back. Behind me is barbed wire and disaster response vehicles.

Birds cry all around. Chirps, squawks and piercing calls. Some of the birds are curious and will perch close by to cock their eyes at me. The ridiculous green parrots never come close, preferring the height of the radio tower or light posts. Today a hawk glides above, tilting and circling so I can see how the ends of his wings turn up.

When I'm done, I hop down and pat the stump as if it cares, then walk under the pecans back to the ashtray. I startle the lizards who live under the sidewalk as I head back inside. In a few hours I will escape again to the most obvious place they never find me.

Half a blog

Next time, She was going to blast all six of Jan's arms off. It wasn't that Vega had felt bad about the first two, but he wasn't a total jackass...most of the time. Now, at the edge of the galaxy she was reconsidering her mercy.

Vega had travelled half the galaxy to get to this shithole...and she wasn't exactly sure why. She felt antsy, but her neuro-meters were all level. No warnings, no alarms. Neither her op nor aud receptors were sensing any danger. It was just a shithole bar at a sleazy hotel at the edge of the universe.

Damn it. Sorry Kids, but I am exhausted. I can't think of where this is going. I'm going to bed.

It's never really over

Day 3 assignment:

I'm always falling out the door now. As if I can close it so fast no evil will get by me. Heat rages against my skin every time. A flustered and idiotic fool. I feel useless as I stand still and lock the deadbolt.

Sometimes, I get it. I can never run away.

I'm already a coward. I left them all. I know that I saved them, that I made a light at the end of a caved-in tunnel...but. But I'm not there now. I can't hold their hands as they walk into the light. I'm gone, and waiting for the vengeance I know will find me like the rain.

And just like that, the water falls from the sky. Maybe it's a sign. I have to pay for setting them free.

This time, I can turn from the door. I'm not scared. I know they're out there. I always knew they would find me. I take each step down slowly. They can wait at the bottom, I'm in no hurry.

As I turn to the landing I can see them. Fools. Amateurs. I gave up everything to save the ones I left behind. Never send an amateur to do a professional's work. I let the smile creep up the side of my face as I lift the knife from the holster at my hip.

Not today.

After this

Day 2 Assignment:

Sam never rushes the first day. The recruits are still terrified and lost from exposure to our little piece of civilization.

"It'll take practice, but you can do this," she affirms to the shaking twig of girl before her; trembling, spattered with blood and greased in filth. Her breath racks her body, and her knuckles have turned white where she grips the axe.

"Just once more," Sam coaxes. "If you can do this, you can survive." The two women lock eyes, and the frail girl heaves the axe. She does not cry out when she swings. Instead she almost moans, a sound that draws the attention of the walker pinned at her feet. It looks at her with dead eyes even after the sickening impact of the axe. The expression never changes as the head rolls towards Sam's feet. It was already dead.

The girl exhales slowly and Sam smiles at her. "Okay," the girl wheezes, "what comes after this?"

Sam's smile slips. Everyone still remembers what it was like Before.

"This is it. We are what comes After."

June first...almost

June first was a writing failure, but I will not let that set the tone for the rest of the month. Let's get this ball rolling.

My intentions for June are not particularly creative, but therein lies the possibility. This month my goals are consistency, growth and adventure. Consistency is first. I want to write consistently. It's kind of the basis for this project, no surprises there. I want to write a quality submission every day. Simple.

Growth is just as obvious. I want to grow as a writer and a person. What other purpose is there to life?

I want this project to be an adventure. An opportunity to try new things, discover new styles and voices, to play with possibility.

These are my goals, and without any segue let's move on to the second part of this assignment. I'm no more a writer than any other person. I have a degree in literature with a minor in creative writing. I write driveling nonsense to myself in journals, and I once was a teenage girl (I've written poetry). I love young adult literature, comic books and sci fi and fantasty. I have no ambitions to publish.

I'm sorry I'm off to a poor start, but at least it leaves plenty of room for improvement.

The monster under my bed is a little girl

If you know me, you know I won't bat an eyelash telling you there are people I hate so much my chest could collapse under the weight, but nothing there is the material of monsters. Perhaps it isn't even the people I hate, really. It's the regularity of human failure and the frailty of justice. It's the experiences that end our childhoods, the first moment when life really isn't fair and the feeling tightening our chests overwhelms previous so-called hatreds with a pure and still darkness.

It's the regular crimes we all commit. Everyone is capable of anything. Perhaps sometimes I even hate the comfort of assuming others will not do us harm. People hurt each other every day. We hurt our families, lovers, best friends and strangers alike. Unfortunately, this is the tricky part. The vast scale of tiny miseries committed against each other absolves neither the crimes we commit unto others nor the crimes against us. The lord's prayer is a lie.

So...what can we do? No one is perfect, so we are all bound to fail. There will never be an end to small sufferings, but maybe we can reduce them. Awareness, responsibility, compassion and humility would probably be the recipe, but even one of those traits seems like a lot to ask of anyone, including myself. I don't foresee a day when I'll have nothing to hate, but I like to imagine one when I'll have less to hate. It's less than a one-in-a-million shot by my own cynical calculations, but hey, a girl can always dream...and try.

30 days do what?

I am doing a little celebration dance as I write this. I mean, I'm doing a little celebration dance inside my head. It's a little awkward to dance with the laptop while typing.

In January I only posted twelve times, so it feels like victory to have posted every day this time. It really didn't seem like an obligation at all. It just became routine. Sometimes I was a couple hours late, but only once did I have to double post and backdate.

I definitely did a lot of writing this month, but I didn't manage to find my voice. I feel like my voice changes depending on what I'm writing. I feel like my nonfiction is often self-derogatory, with embarrassing attempts at humor from time to time. I also think that I reached a point with my fiction where I'm willing to try anything. I enjoy the freedom of saying anything, and sometimes it isn't terrible. On the other hand, it's often ridiculous. I try take poetry seriously, and sometimes I feel like I've created something interesting, but then I remember I'm writing poetry and I feel like a pretentious, self-involved loser. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy reading poetry...I just feel like a jerk when I'm writing it.

Well, I don't know if this is it for now, but I really enjoyed reading most of your blogs and I tried to comment as much as possible. I kind of think I might try to just keep writing every day, but if I don't post again in between, I'll see you again in June.

This is how I play

Goddamn it, I love softball.

I absolutely love this ridiculous game. It brings out all the worst qualities I love in myself. I'm very competitive, and I want to fight for every win, but I'm also a beginner player. I play to make the other team think I'm less.

I like to play catcher. I don't have a great arm or a lot of confidence, but I will put myself out there for my team. Catching pop flies is my favorite thing. Well, besides beating the infield. I play like a girl. I play like I'm pretty (which, if you weren't aware, I'm not), until I can run.

I ruined my knees in high school. Lacrosse and seven years of competitive riding did a lot more damage than I would have thought at the time. I can roll both femurs out of my hips at will. I can't run for long distances now, but I can run bases. It's my freedom now. I can barely make contact with the ball, but it's earned me new nicknames; gazelle, crazy legs. If the base coach says I can beat it, I will run like I can. Most of the time, I do.

Tonight I collided with a third baseman, and of course, rolled my leg. Awesome. Still, I saw him guarding the base. He wasn't going to stop me. I was going to fight it out.

I love the thrill. I love the accomplishment every time I feel I've improved. I love the sounds from the crowd every time I beat a play.

You throw, I'll run. Do you want to bet on the play?

You smell like love

T-shirt, jeans, socks...it's all going in the wash. My hair is sweaty, and my sports bra is sopping. Fog is leaning his head into the stall as if he's tickled by the reverse in perspective.

"Go ahead, laugh it up. We're still going out after this," I admonish him, but he knows I'm not serious. Fog's an old man now, and I know his knees don't like jumping anymore. We'll probably only do a few exercises and a light run through the back pastures. He pricked his ears forward when I spoke, waiting for me to do something more interesting than shovel manure. I roll my eyes and get back to work.

Mucking stalls is dirty work, I won't lie, but it's also kind of wonderful. Sunlight and sawdust, nickers and snorts like the music of love around me, and the smell. Maybe it does smell bad...but after enough time, the earthy, warm, rich scent is pure comfort. It's the smell of the earth and horses all at the same time. After enough time, mucking out stalls is more meditation. A calm, quiet work for another living creature.

I'm not saying it's my favorite. It's nothing like the joy of grooming, when we're both tired and finally unwinding after a testing practice. Head tossing and tail swishing express contentment for both of us. The joy of rubbing him down with my own tired arms, the physical connection of love. Mucking out is different. It's the time I work for him, the physical space of love.

the glass is half empty

Not that I want to be totally negative, but today did seem to mark the start to a very rough week. I'm hoping that it's all downhill from here, but I will just have to wait and see.

First, I missed a call from my mom yesterday while we were out on the boat having a great time. While I was out on the boat having a great time and forgetting all about my parents' wedding anniversary. Who feels like a jerk? Me. It's especially bad because I've always been so good at remembering it, giving them gifts for their 25th and 30th anniversaries without any hints or reminders. My mom thought that she must have missed my call, because of course I wouldn't forget.

Also, my mom went into great detail about her options for surgery this summer. While they're taking out her appendix, should they remove half or all of her GODDAMN COLON? I'm obviously totally okay with this development. What's even better is that her doctor's going on vacation for a few months, so she can't have the surgery until July anyway. Just fantastic. My mom's health is pretty fragile, so the fear now is that there's no such thing as minor surgery for her. I'm scared she won't survive, so I'm trying not to think about it.

Next on the list, Edmund's mom will no longer be able to babysit Edward while we're in Portland. We're out a great dane-sitter, which aren't all that easy to find. Now I'm in the opposite position I was in a couple of weeks ago. I'm pretty sure I have the cats covered, but I need someone to take my big baby into their home.

And work. One of my co-workers lives in Cibolo, so I'm a little concerned that she will come back to work once her town is off swine-flu quarantine...and get us all sick. So yeah, woo hoo Monday!

Dirty Thirty

I would love to actually do today's assignment, but I'm not going to. Edmund and I spent today on a boat for Corinne's Dirty Thirty, and it was wonderful. The only downside was that it wasn't on the ocean. It was beautiful, fun and exhausting. Hopefully I'll do better with the blog tomorrow.

Another long day

Vega examined her amalgamized nails in the half-light of Jan's office. "I already told you why I'm here. I'm here to get paid."

"For krill?" Jan almost shouted across his desk.

After a moment of eye-rolling and flicking her lilac locks over her shoulder, Vega leveled her best stare at Jan, "For your goddamn Hitler, Jan. Pay up." Jan shook his head, "no way, V. This can't be right."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get krill to speak German, Jan?" Vega re-focused her optical sensors and made her eyes appear large and innocent. "It's impossible. Krill only speak Krill, so when krill start speaking twentieth century German, I would say it's time to start paying attention." Vega tried to smile sweetly, but Jan looked up at her as if she was about to eat him.

"It's not that V. I don't know if Hitler is in the krill, but I don't care. The job was for some wacko who thought he was Hitler. This guy...I don't remember what his name was, he oozed propaganda. Something about his consciousness connects with people, gets them to believe him." Jan rubbed the stress points on the sides of his nose, "anyway, the Phylaons have this other consciousness and they're trying to use him in their civil war. I gave you the job because you used to date one of them, right? Def, wasn't it? I thought you'd have the easiest time getting to them."

Vega's sensory motors told her Jan was sweating, hard. Good. "Jan, how long does it take you to regrow those arms of yours?" Jan stuttered as Vega unclipped her blaster. She couldn't suppress her smile as the krill shrieked "Swim away!"

Haiku for fun

Smog sirens and city streets
Malicious bickering sounds
Blue glass sky above


Bright blinking neon
screaming green and pink and blue
while grass grows unseen


Unattended weeds
attempt conformity but
fail miserably


Inhale and exhale
Inhale and exhale and in
hale and exhale and


Cat’s eyes half open meet
mine from atop the bookshelf
and carefully close


Frozen air bites deep
Heat beneath the blankets
I burrow deeper


mosquitoes buzz close
breathing the fragrant air of
whispering cedars

Just another six-fingered man

You know who we are even if you don't want to acknowledge us. We call ourselves Polys, short for Polydactyls. It's us that make you second guess if the guy you're staring at actually has extra fingers...or if he's just another "pretender," as you call us.

We aren't pretending. We are a segment of society who feel that we a missing an extra digit. Some of us wear gloves and some of us wear more life-like prostetics. Sure, there are those that attribute sexual pleasure with polydactylism, but most of us are just augmenting our bodies so that they look the way we feel they should. We aren't so different from those of you with tattoos.

There is no music or pop-culture reference that holds us together. Without the gloves and prostetics you probably wouldn't be able to see what we have in common, but we always know each other. There are only so many places to buy six-fingered gloves, though probably more than you might think.

mysteries and mud

"Come on, Jenny!" cried Trish from the water. Jenny toed the grassy bank and looked out to Trish, who splashed in the brown water.

The flooding was worse this year than the previous several years together. Four more towns had disappeared into the murk. Who knew what kind of junk lay at the bottom of this so-called "river." If she squinted, Jenny liked to pretend she could see the opposite bank, but she knew it was too far away to see if you had to take the ferry just to cross the water.

Hell, the state the river had shared it's name with was gone now, completely swallowed by the water.

As she watched her toes in the water, Jenny noticed something glinting in the muddy water. She reached down and fished a dirty locket and chain from the mud and leaves at the edge of the river. It was hard to tell how old it was under all the dirt, but Jenny was able to pry it open after a few minutes. Trish was making impatient noises from the water.

"Hold on!" Jenny called. She wiped the silt from the water damaged photos in the locket. A man and a woman smiled out at her. Jenny sighed and closed her fist around the locket. Another trinket from lives lost to the water. Jenny glanced back out to Trish. It was weird to swim above the wrecked remains of people's lives. She didn't really get how Trish enjoyed it so much.

Jenny turned and walked back to her towel in the grass. Maybe tomorrow she would get in, but not today.

Red Plastic Carnations, Flowers for Forgetting

(an old poem instead of breakdancing...sorry, I gotta go see My Bloody Valentine now)


From the street
this artificial paradise looks like plastic
serene green lawns
perfectly pruned trees
brass vases holding flowers
like flags for the dead

Driving in
the lawn is less perfect
less plastic
the paint is chipped and peeling on the brick gate
and the iron fence is rusted
dead brown leaves
nestle in the grass
and crown the narrow road
white plastic poster board signs
pronounce in carnation red
Cement Trucks This Way

I have come to visit
someone I have never met
in this place where he has never been
but cannot ever leave

His memorial is under an Oak tree
crowded so close to other brass markers
that all of their bodies can’t possibly be there
but I can’t imagine where else they could be

There is an awning out to the right
with a big plastic wreath
empty
for a service that has ended
and people who have left
to come back and remember later

To the left is a dirty white minivan
and a man by a grave site
putting red carnations in the vase
tying a pink heart-shaped balloon to the stem
and cleaning the grave
removing leaves from the grass
polishing the plaque

He has been there for a while
and he is still there
while I walk through the graves
thinking about the ones who have flowers
and the ones who do not
all these people
remembered in this place
that says nothing

about who they were

I wonder if the man by the grave site
will have finished his task
when he leaves
or if he will remember
as he drives home
gets lunch
washes his car or mows the lawn
if he will remember in the places
that say something
about who that person was
and in the places that say something
about who that person made him.

sitting in the grass with my legs in the sun

The presentation is rarely fantastic. A small waxy cup filled with what looks like particularly soft shaved ice and a florescent plastic spoon. The smell from this unassuming little package is eye-opening, fresh, sweet, crisp and not mouthwatering...no, more like drool-inducing.

It only takes one taste to realize this is no shaved ice. No ice could coat the tongue in brushed silk while titillating taste buds with its delicious flavor, neither too sweet nor sour, just perfect refreshment. No, this flavor is not some charlatan aping lemon. This is an artist creating a landscape of joy on your palate. It has just the right amount of bite, tight on the sides of the tongue, without ruining the flavor through excess.

On a sunny summer afternoon, when the air is sweet and trees still provide a bright and virid canopy, there is no greater joy than a lemon gelato.