Sunday, May 31, 2009

sunday scribblings~covert

hide in plain sight

dating is a covert operation, i’ve found. it’s not about putting yourself forward--it’s about putting up a facade, and only letting the best part of you show, holding that screen to shield the actual depths of you, so you can be presentable to the dating pool. you never admit you fall asleep to the sound of body screaming that your eggs are going to waste. you don’t mention whats-their-name, the sibling you dislike intensely, who is a psychological mess. you wonder what on which date you should disclose the fact you need to touch your doorknob five times before you leave the house. and, when, i mean, really, when do you tell the other person you like toys in bed, it adds to the thrill for you--and by toys you mean your stuffed animal collection that you keep in a box in your closet? these realities are carefully put away, tucked behind the silk skirt and the heels and the huge smile you wear as you move into the restaurant on that first date, saying in a thrilled voice you are surprised is your own, “you really chose a great place!”. with that first statement, there you are, disguising your hatred for the cuisine, the decor and the location, effectively starting on the path of semi-truths you’ll tell during the night... with luck, you’ll find a partner who will move into the full truths of your life, and accept you as you are, as you need to accept them.

i take that deep breath, adjust my skirt, touch my hair and walk in with him saying, “wow! this place is so unique!”, holding tight to my mask and hoping it doesn’t slip too soon.

one word~one minute


i always wanted to be a poet, to be able to rhyme words or set them in a pace that made them flow off the tongue when read. sentences and phrases people would quote to loved ones or to make a solid point. instead, i ramble on in my blog, posting blatherings and the occasional piece of prose. one day, i tell myself.. one day.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

one word~one minute


everyone wants their life to be some sort of a novel; romantic, noble, an epic battle. his life was a booklet, short, sweet and to the point. no photos, no captions, no chapters... just the basic facts, condensed and not much fun to read.

Friday, May 29, 2009

one word~one minute

two days worth of one word~one minute prompts.


she wanted to be wanted, desired, beloved. she also wanted to control everything around her, so, she became a mother. that way, she had the best of both worlds; people who looked up to her and to her for everything, and her own small kingdom of serfs.


my first reflex is to surge forward, to grab the man after he fell into the pit he was leaning over.. then, self protection kicked in, and, like everyone else, i took films of him to post on youtube as he was consumed by the crocs at the zoo.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

review~reasons to be pretty

reasons to be pretty

During a phone call with the man I was dating not so long ago, I mentioned every woman wonders what she looks like to others. He responded, “Well, you’re not unattractive.”

Gee, thanks. The blow to my (fragile) ego was immense. Call me ugly... ugly has great beauty in it’s depth. Call me handsome... some women are, with strength showing in their faces. But, “....not unattractive”?? Just a roundabout way of saying ‘regular’, which was harsh to hear.

This is exactly the basis for the screaming fight we come into as the lights go up in ‘reasons to be pretty’, the 2009 Tony nominated play (Best Play, Best Actor, Best Actress) by Neil LaBute, currently at the Lyceum Theater in New York.

Greg (Thomas Sadoski), the man dancing around to avoid the words and insults thrown by his girlfriend of four years, Steph (Marin Ireland), was inept enough to apply the adjective ‘regular’ when discussing Steph with his friend, Kent (Steven Pasquale); a conversation overheard by Kent’s wife, Carly (Piper Perabo) who promptly called Steph, and repeated the manly conversation word for word. Word. For. Word.

The following scenes in this two act play show us how the four move through the minefield we call ‘relationships’, stepping on mines the entire time.

I saw this work first when it was produced at the Lucille Lortel Theater on Christopher by the MCC group. At that point, it had words I didn’t hear this time, and words that exist now, that didn’t before. I missed a few of the phrases, the bits that created the characters... and, I welcomed new additions that added to the texture of the play.

I did notice the usual mention of a Buick by LaBute in his work was now missing, but, that’s not important.

What is important is the sense you have when you first start viewing the production... a sense of superiority, of listening to language screamed and barely suppressed violence, and the understanding this happened many times before with these two combatants. It is a, “That’s certainly not how I behave. Hrumph, obviously not as good as I am.” As we move along, that feeling falls away, leaving you at the end with the understanding you may not be as honest or as strong as some of the characters. It is not a pleasant feeling.

Of all of LaBute’s works, and, I’ve read or seen all of them-- this was his most balanced. There is redemption of one character after the initial tinge of dislike, and, he creates his first (male) character to knowingly self-sacrifice. Add to it that usual LaBute way of holding us accountable for ourselves by saying, “Look. This could be you.”, toss in the depth of language, the rapid slap shots of the arguments, the wit so dry you feel moisture leaving the air, the understanding of how we function, of what hurts the most, the raw emotion, a ending of hope--all of this gives the production lagniappe... a little something more than you usually find on Broadway.

Terry Kinney has done a wonderful job with his direction and in guiding each of the actors (Ireland and Pasquale are new to the cast, Perabo and Sadoski have reprised their off-Broadway roles) to work well within the frames of their characters. I still love the beauty of the simple set, the music is perfect (make sure you pay attention to the Muzak during the Mall scene), excellent light design, and there is a hell of a stage manager.

Oh, yes, the cast....they are tightly meshed together, working as this effective unit to bring you into their world, allowing you to believe in them completely. Although each is superb, Sadoski wears the skin of Greg so perfectly, you weep/cringe/hope with him, for him.

I’ve always said Neil LaBute writes everything with a bedrock of love, showing how messed up we make it, what we’ll do for it, how we destroy others in it’s name. Love stories always end with someone hurting, so, let’s be honest... he is the master of the love story. I used to say I wish he’d write a romance, all happy endings and joy.. now? I’m not so sure I want him to change. If it ain’t broke....

reasons to be pretty’, by Neil LaBute. Lyceum Theater, 149 45th. Running two hours and 15 minutes with an intermission (that I feel isn’t needed). Now through 6 September 2009. PS Check out the teeshirt--it rocks.

six sentences~innocent statements

Sixteen hours of labor and the baby is in fetal distress. Running doctors push my hospital bed into the white, white room; the baby is dying. Needles in my back, my arm, and the drugs flow while I float as they cut my body to pull out my beautiful, pure child. "A blonde haired boy!" the doctor says. "Blonde hair?" I joke in the haze of exhaustion and drugs. Everyone laughs but his dark-haired dad, who stops smiling and instead stares at me with the dead eyes of a shark.

six sentences~the question

"What did you think when you first saw me?" he asked, his voice moving over a thousand miles of time and space. "Your coat, I wanted to pour lighter fluid over it and set it on fire, it was that ugly," I replied lightly, desperate to not disclose how my soul had flown to his. Bold and brave in my first try out in this world after so long blocked by betrayal and fear, I sped though my question to him, "What did you think, when you saw me?" He paused, causing me to feel as if that one sentence had completely emotionally eviscerated me, wanting to pull back the words, sick to my stomach, trying to find a way to make it a joke, while over the pulse of the phone line, I could hear the whisper of his breathing, the intake before he spoke, and my heart waited to break. "I stared, thinking if I look at her long enough, will she know how much I need her?" We were both silent, overcome by the knowledge we'd found home.

six sentences~love letters

When she made the decision to stop using electronic means to keep in touch, she went to a proper stationary store, and purchased rich, cotton paper that felt comfortable in her hands and retrieved her solid Waterman fountain pen from her desk, refilling the barrel from a bottle of black ink. It became an intense form of communication for her words, it was there she found her emotions, her tone sinking into the heavy paper with the ink, her very being absorbed as the pen moved while she wrote to her lover, her friends, and finally to her mother, the handwriting showing when her mind moved faster than she could write, tears staining the paper at times, bits of herself going into these missives of affection. Folded, sealed, addressed and stamped, she placed them into the mail to be sent off to those she cared for, knowing not all would write back, feeling better for having revived this all but lost art. They were received with appreciation for time spent; read, folded, some tied them up with a ribbon and put away, re-read later to hear her words sing from the paper. The mother took her letter from the postman's hand, weighing it in her own, knowing the distinct Catholic trained handwriting there on the square ivory envelope, a single piece of paper that held forgiveness and asked the same in return. Passing her precisely placed trashbasket, she crumpled it, tossing it in, muttering "two points" and it was lying there that the quality and breeding of the paper showed itself, slowly unfurling, releasing its creases so it was no longer as crushed as the receiver's soul.

six sentences~tshirt

He gave me the t-shirt, still damp from his body, wearing his scent, it was to tide me over until we saw each other again, he said. Letters filled with promises of phone calls that never materialized and the phrase "no time just now" answered my notes that fluctuated between chatty gossip and words of longing, and finally an admission of love, an admission met with a brief response, "you've put a burden on my shoulders." The t-shirt was washed, and became wrapped in my scent, covering the gaping hole in my being, an enormous wound that caused me to stop in the middle of the street, struggling to catch my breath, my bearing. Small steps taken, and a new lover, one I didn't think would be more than a breathing version of the shirt, one taken to ease the pain, rose from my bed and casually pulled it on, having left his fingerprints on my skin, proudly wearing mine on his own. Although physically it dwarfed him, I realized it was far too small for him after he turned to me, kissed me and asked what did I need, what did I want, and I knew his scent was the one that should be the one in the air around me. The man and his t-shirt are both in closets now of different kinds; both of them are dusty, sad, locked away, and longing for the sound of my laughter, the feel of my skin, the security of my love.

six sentences~blind date

They kill the sweet baby cows before their eyes turn brown, you know. Pale fleshed, silly creatures, blindly trusting, going into the dark place with the filtered light, the muffled voices, growing complacent, coaxed by soft hands that touch with gentle movements, moving forward from one place to the other, no stress, content with the attention received. Little innocents, who walk into a room to see what is there, sensing no danger, held down, forced into an uncomfortable and scary position, and then it's over. She was aware of all these facts before, but it never affected her ability to enjoy veal. Now, she hates the taste of veal. It was on his breath that night, when he raped her after dinner.

six sentences~lawrence olivier

We are lovers. Sliding from one phase of knowing each other to the other with a ease that caught us both by surprise; going from discussing something now forgotten to leaning into each other - tasting, discovering, putting my mouth on his neck, his hand there, right... there. I had been on a hiatus of sorts, a decision abandoned with his wicked, bad smile and my answering kiss. Moving together, giving over my trust, both fumbling to fit into this new place in our world, I was wrapped in glorious sheets, lost in remembered rhythms, his hands on my hips, his body beneath me. Stopped short by an orgasm that surpassed every cliché ever written in a bad bodice ripper novel, I splayed my hands on his chest, gasping for air and laughing as I said, "That was magnificent!" "I know," he replied wearily, "but, I don't know how I did it."

six sentences~horizontal vortex

I am awake, heart pounding, lost as to where I am, what the object is I am on, my mind frantic in its search among the flotsam and jetsam of letters and images and words contained there that mean... nothing. The sensation doubly frightening; not only do I flounder while I seek the word for this... this thing, this surge of blood and endorphins that brings me to full, shaking awareness, it's that I am cognizant enough to realize I would not understand the meaning of the word should I find it there among the others. It happens more and more these days; scattered words on my dresser... on the floor... in a box of photos of people whose faces that are as lost to me as the name of the thing that they are. In the middle of a conversation, I am struck dumb seeking... something that has letters and a meaning, and I can't remember it and I'm like this human... eight ball that if I wait long enough, it will pop to the top of my head and suddenly... suddenly... I shout it, relieved and exhausted from the search. Creating my own spoonerism language, laughing at myself as this becomes that, words switch places, sentences flip flop... self-deprecation a weapon in the battle I fight in the hope no one will notice my longer and longer pauses... that their words won't start to whisper around me, slipping and settling in my ears, adding to my own thoughts of fear. I wonder, while I look out the window at things that do not fit a category in my memory, feeling the letters touch the edges of my mind... seeing them with peripheral thought, I wonder... will the words remember me?

six sentences~maelstrom

I will never be kissed again. Lips may touch my neck, my breasts, my back... that sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, the crook of my elbow, the inside of my wrist. The soft and delicate tissue just inside your lip will only touch me on my sweat slicked skin as our breathing stills, in joy, in release, in... that moment when we bond. Deep kisses give the promise of emotions surrendered, of soft sun filled places to which I will never go again as I choose now to only swim in the dark, deep maelstrom of physical twists and touches. Do not look for more, this is all I am able to give and this, this is better than nothing. Isn't it

six sentences~bronx cheer

Walking down the street, moving her feet to the beat of the music blaring from cars being washed in the illegally opened fire hydrants, she sees herself as some cultural pioneer in her little Sublet in the Projects. Carrying local market bags, nictitating membrane in place, she nods and smiles to the women sitting outside in order to escape the wall of heat she knows awaits her under the flat tar roof five floors up when she walks past the girls who cast an eye her way, giving measure for measure, moving their attention from her to the text messages on their phones to the toddlers they have given birth to, these children bearing children. They return to their gossip, rubbing newly swollen bellies while they discuss the fathers of these children to be, using the race to describe those boys; one chattering that the newborn will be pale and pretty 'cause "her daddy is white." Unconsciously, her mouth becomes a moue of distaste - a sudden petty thought of does she even know his name? when it strikes her no matter how evolved she thinks she is socially, no matter how much she wants to be able to say "I can do this, I can live in this place so far away from all that I am, all that I know" - she carries her label of middle class whiteness the same way the clothing on Fordham carries the labels of Sean John or Baby Phat. Tucking her head down with the acceptance of what she is unable to be causes her to quicken her feet in counterpoint to the buoyant music, to the laughter of the children playing in those illegally opened fire hydrants that secretly annoy her, to the calls of Mamii! that drift in the evening air. She finds herself dashing up those five flights of stairs to call the landlord, to break the lease on the little Sublet in the Projects - she wants to go home

six sentences~oasis

It is a ritual - her pliant body's white skin eager to absorb the red pain from his hand. He had thought it a game, not noticing when it slid into something more, something different, something she needed. Absorbed by the intensity of her reactions, he willingly went into that place, feeling his arm vibrate as his hand met her flesh, her moans falling around them. Afterwards, she lies with her head on his stomach, while their breathing slows, her tears dry. Now is when they talk and laugh, when they revert to that which is seen as "normal," what is acceptable to others. Later, she will yank on her jeans, sucking in her breath as they press against the reminder of when, for a short time, she is free of the meltdown of emotions that constitute her internal world... and she gives thanks he is clueless to her duplicity.

six sentences~athens, ga

Athens, Georgia

So entwined they resembled some mutant crab, two young men scuttle across the mat, each contributing to the illusion of wrestling. Their object was to not allow anyone to grasp the slight physical nuances that made it the lover's tryst it had become for them. Smokescreen in place, they were school rivals who took turns winning, no one the wiser. Touching, grunting, hands sliding over each other in sweeping caresses, bodies pressed together... the sport allowed them the freedom of movement over each other they sought. Locked in a hold, face to face, lips near ears, heavy exhalations of breath bracketed sighed love words. Cheers and smack talk are later exchanged from the windows of filled cars as they conga line from the parking lot, the combatants surrounded by supporters while they, themselves, sit in a quiet bubble; their silence put down to loss or exhaustion - never to a rending heart who has left its beloved behind.

six sentences~megabytes

Life in cyberspace, there are things you'll deny. Create an ID. Tell some lies. Find a new "love." Have sex if you please. In MegaByte size.

six sentences~lullabye

It is in those hours before early morning, before light starts, when the room is still dark. I am never sure which of us awakens first, of whose body is aware... if it is you or me that changes from the soft movements of sleep to the focused movements that occur when you are conscious of that person next to you. The sweep of a hand down a stomach, the arch of a back allowing a slumberous murmur to become a welcoming moan. Adjusting to each other with still stretching limb, bodies warm, damp, sliding one into the other; a gasp. Touching your body to map you in my mind, my hands become my eyes... there are deep rumbles of laughter in your chest, my face in your neck, those final sounds you make causing me to close my eyes in deep release. Finally, I struggle to stay in that semi somnolent state... these dreams are far preferable to the naked truth of my solitary existence.

three word wednesday~ache, suffer, difference


It makes no difference what arrangements were made, how you viewed us compared to how I viewed us... I do not suffer any less for that. Two beings came into each others lives and settled there, seeking warmth, comfort...seeking the belonging all humans desire. I offered all that I was, opened handed, fearful, brave in the attempt. In the dark, sex-scented night, I told my secrets and cherished yours. You took, grew strong in the safety of my love, finding your feet, your confidence once more. Abruptly, there is another, whose presence opens my eyes, letting me discover you are so selfish, so absorbed in your needs and wants... I find I never had a name or a niche in your life.

I. Did not. Exist.

Knowledge that left me stunned, puzzled, struggling with my new label of 'non-entity'. I ache at night... body, mind, heart, soul...annihilated by the question no one ever answers satisfactorily in any situation:


three word wednesday~persistent, callous,interfere


It was nothing more than a need for her to interfere with my life that kept her persistent in staying involved in my doings, leaving spam, making rude comments on my postings and sending me batshit crazy letters. She had a callous disregard for the understanding I was not interested in what was on with them; I had moved on happily. Her obsession with me was complete, surpassing any relationship she had in her life.

Eventually, I installed a code that redirected her to a porn web site every time she came to my blog, a move that both delighted both of us--me by it’s in your face comment and in the end, her innate desire to have more than one partner. Who knew stories about group sex would be right up her alley.

Last I heard, they were both living in a polyamory relationship on Staten Island with a lesbian from Toledo--and I’m bored with the lack of excitement dealing with her gave my life.

sunday scribblings~invitation

Miss Manners

Manners and no money will garner you more respect than money and no manners, Gloria was always told, and she kept this maxim into her adulthood. Thank you notes, "Please", never raising her voice in public.. all of these things served her well, allowing her to live in a world more and more chaotic without ever becoming a part of the chaos. She was almost alone in this behaviour, still, she clung to it, wearing the proper clothes and saying the proper words at work and in her social life. When she fell in love, she issued an invitation to the man of her dreams to come and be with her, telling him of her devotion and desire. On the day, she sat in her living room, perfectly turned out, back not touching the chair, a lovely tea awaiting his appearance. It was only after hours had gone by, the tea bitter and cold, the pastries looking soggy, that she thought perhaps putting an RSVP on a love letter wasn't such a good idea after all.

six sentences

Internal Combustion

by Thom Gabrukiewicz and Quin Browne

I do not sleep; there is no shut-eye, no tuck-you-in, sweet dreams, don't let the bedbugs bite – because this is the brand of insomnia that can't be touched with valerian root, melatonin, Lunesta, Xanax, Vicodin, Valium (I know, since I've tried every alternative, in every combination). Nighttime is killing me, so, I counterattack by killing time — driving endlessly with no radio, only the noise of the wind slipping through the cracked window, the hiss of the tires on the macadam road's frosting of rain and oil and my suddenly hypersensitive hearing that is causing the sound of my heart and the blinking of my grit-filled eyelids to join the Chevy's orchestra in a perfect rhythmic counter-point in my head. It's this hippy-hop thump-thump, blink-blink that catches in my throat, catches up; the tears start as wells in my eyes and turn into a cascading fury that makes oncoming headlights stretch light like florescent taffy. There should be a space, a place... a time for all of this to have rhyme and reason in my world, yet, that space, that place, that... time, are as lost to me as my sense of reality is right now. The two-lane blacktop is dark and desolate; I flick the lights off and join the darkness – and with seething, teeth-clenched rage, stand on the brake pedal with both feet and squeal to a lurching stop. I imagined it was just like this for Paul, that night, the decision to drive for miles, speed increasing, turning the lights off as he hit the curve - and putting my head on the steering wheel, I finally gave myself over to the rage of my grief.

sunday scribblings

If Only Everything Was As Reliable As A Volkswagen

There was never any doubt.

Not a minute. Not a second. Not even one of those nano-seconds they talk about in science fiction movies and such. No, there was never any doubt in my mind as to what we'd have for dinner that day as my Great Aunt Idell walked the house, brow furrowed, fat folds almost covering her eyes behind the black framed glasses that caught the light from outside on this beautiful Sunday afternoon in Mississippi. It was spring, the crepe myrtle was advancing on the house with the same sense of taking it over as Grant showed when he marched through Richmond 100 years before and the air smelled of newly turned earth, honeysuckle and freshly baked blackberry cobbler.

My grandmother, tiny, thin, her lips seldom in a smile, followed Idell, muttering to herself they should never have let Uncle Burt borrow the Volkswagen . He never put the keys back in the right place, and now that they were needed by these two...well, they weren't nowhere at all.

"Found 'em!" shouted Idell, her stockinged thighs rubbing together announcing her arrival before you actually saw her entering a room. "Bonnie? I found 'em! Let's get going on this!"

Being a part time City child, I found most of the chores around this farm.ish kind of a place dull, and almost serf like in responsibility. Who on earth wanted to gather eggs or shovel manure or even, for heavens sake, pick vegetables? I didn't want to know where my food came from, I only wanted it cooked and served in the cool of the evening, after I'd read up in a tree, avoiding as much manual labour as I possibly could.

There was, however, one task I loved to watch. Call me sick, call me twisted, but, make sure you called my 6 year old self when this would happen. It would start with that walk though the house, the search for the 1958 Bug keys by those two women. Once found, Idell would take her bulk out to the shed where her beloved car sat. It was eight years old and had 6000 miles on it, all of them either driving back and forth to the Baptist church on Sundays and Wednesdays.... and a few when the car was used as a weapon of destruction.

Neither woman could actually kill a chicken, you see. One was too small to do damage, one too soft hearted. But, in order to have fried chicken for Sunday Dinner, you had to, well, kill one. They finally figured out a plan, one that saved them from using an ax or wringing necks; one they felt was humane. My grandmother would kneel down on her apron, holding the chicken still with it's head on a large flat rock, and Idell would back her car slowly over the chicken's head, effectively killing the chicken and stopping that running around the yard a beheaded chicken tends to do. I'm not sure why they never had my father chop the head off, or why Great Aunt Idell never drove forward to kill the chicken... it was always the call of "Where are the car keys??" and the subsequent ritual of chicken down, car backed out, chicken dead.

So, there was never any doubt what was for dinner and I knew instantly when I heard that phrase, when I saw my Grandmother head for the coop.... fried chicken for dinner with all the Southern fixin's plus the added bonus of what passed for afternoon entertainment on the farmette was in store.

These days, it's far easier to fix chicken, I get in my VW and drive to buy prepackaged, dead, plucked, ready to cook chicken. It's far easier....

.....but, not nearly as much fun.

sunday scribblings~regret

It's Time

She stood in front of the door, the words to "My Way" running through her head.

It was time, she knew that. She'd held on to the dream, the hope, for far too long now. It was time to admit it would never happen, that her life would never have room for it again... time to accept it was a mistake to have held on this long. Time for regret.

Leaning her head against the door frame, she gave a small sigh of memory. Of good times had, words whispered to another leaning towards each other in a dimly lit room, of the way she felt, the confidence that radiated from her.... this is why she was so reluctant to relinquish it all. To admit it was over and done and would never be part of her being again.

It was time. To stand tall once again, to reach out, to touch the dream... and put it in the pile of clothes to be donated. It was time to accept shoulder pads would never come into fashion again, especially not under that particular shade of blue, and to be honest, no one but Alexis Carrington and Joan Crawford ever wore them with style and grace.

Regrets, she'd had a few.... but, never as many as keeping that dress in her closet for so long a time, waiting for the fashion world to give back the uber power suit to women. Two toned jacket with a peplum, big buttons, tight skirt, bold colours, and those shoulder pads that proved women could hold their own in the Boardrooms of Major Corporations. No, there was no past fashion she regretted keeping as much...unless you counted the leg warmers still tucked away in the back of her sock drawer.

After all, you never know, do you?

review~hunger (film)

The Turner Prize has never really rocked my boat.

Perhaps it’s too many installations that make me go, “WTF?” when I see them, wondering how on earth a huge monetary prize is awarded to that particular artist. Steve McQueen is one of those Turner Prize winners, and, he’s moved his focus to film; a decision for which I am thankful.

McQueen has made his first film, one that is riveting in both its subject matter and in the filming process itself. ‘Hunger’ covers the last months of IRA activist, Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender). Sands was part of a group of prisoners in 1981 at the (in)famous Maze Prison in Northern Ireland, during the hight of ‘The Troubles’. They had lost their political prisoner status, and were now simply terrorists held by their ‘enemy’--the British Crown. Protests were staged in the prison on a regular basis, with the men refusing to shower or bathe or wear clothing. They chose to make their cells places of horror, including piles of uneaten food, and excrement smeared walls. Both sides hated each other with cell deep hate, choosing to strike whenever possible.

I remember my Gran speaking with crackling hate in her voice of the English and how they treated the Irish. She’d tell me of how they had driven her grandparents out of Ireland during the Great Famine, how they starved and suffered in the ships bringing them to America. She absolutely hated the English (even as she taught me the proper English way to have tea) and had no logical reason why. I met a Northern Irish waitress last summer, who told me of how she was a new immigrant (read hoped not to be found after her visa ran out) and her life in Belfast. “On Sunday, we’d lob rocks at the Proddie kids.” she said. When I questioned her as to why, she said, “I’ve no idea. It’s something you did.”

Is the hatred DNA locked? Is it generational, with the original flash points long ago, and far away? So long ago, no one knows why they still fight, it’s only something you do.

The film does not vilianise nor make heroes of either side, it only points out the events of the H Block hunger strike. Both sides were reduced to a life within the walls, and it shows how hate and anger can erode a soul. McQueen never makes this a martyrdom for the strikers, nor a statement of justification for the prison guards and warden.

It is harsh, brutal at times, almost unbearable to watch. McQueen makes great use of long static shots (the conversation between Sands and a priest is 21 minutes long, and filmed in an uninterrupted take) and shows us, with the dearth of dialogue, how sound can be used as a weapon. It’s very effective as a filming tool.

There are crafted juxtapositions through out, from the sight of a British policeman quietly sobbing as prisoners run a gauntlet while being beaten, to the cruel reality of Sands’ existence and the almost reverence in the kind way he was treated by the same guards as he lay dying.

Gandhi used starvation as a tool to passively resist, relying, I believe, on the world eye to cause things to change, to prevent him from dying. Bobby Sands did not have that same stay of death. Fassbender’s image at the end is turn your head away painful. This film is an uncompromising view of what humans are capable of; in violence, in decency, in using their own lives as a means of protest.

I watched and wondered--have we changed at all?

Hunger, directed by Steve McQueen, written by Steve McQueen and Edna Walsh. In limited release in the US on March 20, 2009. Rated ‘R’ for nudity and violence.

three word wednesday~flirt, ploy,stunning

Knowing What You Want

Miranda's world consisted of her sofa, the fridge and her little laptop, and in a stunning revelation, she discovered that she preferred the films of TCM far more than those shown on AMC. She ignored the marketing ploys that touted the American Movie Channel as the next best thing to film lover's heaven, as she found their commercials took away from her movie watching pleasure. Sure, she'd taken time to flirt with HBO and Showtime, but, her heart always brought her back to Ted Turner's little format of classic film perfection. Between the offerings and Robert Osborne, she could find no reason to change...not her closed existence, her beige emotions nor the programming that was the closest thing to a lover she'd ever known.

sunday scribblings~worry

what, me worry?

who doesn’t worry, is my question. i mean, who doesn’t wake up with something, someone on their mind, eating up brain waves and emotional space with worry? if you don’t worry, well, i’m sorry... there is something really pretty fucked up with you, at least in my opinion. is my opinion worth something to you? dunno, but, it’s nothing i’m going to worry about... i’ve got things like grasshoppers showing up and my heart breaking and a sense i’ll wake up one day, and know that no one is the slightest bit interested in me... maybe because i worry too much.

i’m just saying, well, if you pretend all is swell, and you don’t worry about being liked, or loved, or someone hitting on you or how your day is going to go or...well, lots of are dead.

or, a liar.

six sentences


He lay still, keeping his breathing even, listening to his parents on the other side of the bed curtain. The train moved south, carrying his family home; his parents, himself ill from scarlet fever and his older brother, who lay not in the lower bunk as usual, but, in a casket in the freight car. He heard them as they mourned, asking each other why God had not listened to their prayers …choosing instead to grant the miracle of recovery to the wrong boy. He lay still, keeping his breathing even, understanding what his life was now; he was six years old, an only child, and he would never feel their love again.

sunday scribblings~wedding

The Day of Days

They stood in front of Rev. Dalripple, friends and family in the pews behind them, flowers lined the altar, and the last notes of the organ settled into the end of the day's light as it came though the windows above them all.

Neville had watched his Margaret (oh! How he loved saying 'his' Margaret!) as she walked up the aisle towards him, her right hand resting in the crook of her father's arm, her left holding the bouquet of the lilies she chose to carry. Their colour was a shade off from her wedding dress from Cassini. It's silk folds whispered 'Paris Couture' with ever step she took, skimming her body then going into a train from the full skirt.

She smiled in that Margaret fashion, looking towards him steadily through the veil over her face. He shook slightly, still awed he was to be part of her world, that their lives would be intertwined throughout all the things that occur in a marriage...that eventually, they would have children he would love partly because they were half Margaret.

Facing each other, veil back over her head, the ring firmly in place on her finger...the last of the Reverends words had been spoken, waiting for them to follow his directions. "You may kiss your bride!", he'd announced quite loudly, and all of them waited. Margaret looked up into Neville's eyes, her smile not quite reaching her own. He knew then why she'd been so silent in the last weeks, why she avoided the last part of her time in Paris in her conversations. He knew, and it made no difference to him.

"It's fine, my dear. All is well.", he whispered as he leaned forward to kiss her.

With that, Margaret discovered you can fall in love more than once in your life, that the one will never wipe out the other. She smiled into Neville's kiss, leaning into it fully, her hands on his broad shoulders; shoulders she knew would hold more than his share of trouble in their world.

Turning to the full church, they paused for a moment--two people who knew they were meant for each other, willing to accept the good and forgive the bad... two people who would go through their lives together, knowing at the end of it all, they could close their eyes that last time, content in the belief they had been beloved by the other.

Stepping down from the altar, they walked into that future with matched steps

three word wednesday~night, delicate, jaded


She walked the patio, slowly advancing towards the feast displayed on delicate china. Her eyes flicked over the carefully placed setting, taking in the perfectly broiled chicken, cooked to perfection and covered with a sauce that was created just for this recipe. I stood to the side, anxious over the presentation, confident she’d find this meal, God willing, to her satisfaction. She stretched, examining her nails, finally settling in front of the plate with her preferred night meal drink of water to one side. Leaning forward, her nostrils flared as she sniffed, then took her first bite. She stood abruptly, closing her green eyes, obvious in her body language the dish offended her. Her head turned towards me, disdain in every line. I sighed, picked up the offending dish, scraping the food into the trash. Damn her and her jaded palate! Reaching for the tin of chopped kidneys in gravy, made by her favourite brand, I again questioned my decision to ever let a cat own me.

three word wednesday~nuance, hope, gravity

Read the Small Print

She sat, huddled and trembling on the exam table, paper gown grasped in her right hand... the left one absently rubbing a piece of hair in front of her ear.

So wrapped in thought, she startled when Dr. Silvers walked back in, reading her chart, professionally tanned face setting off his blue white teeth, his lab coat the exact same shade of Arctic ice. She'd liked him from the start, his office out in the 'burbs were in shades of warm peach, his staff that didn't look like the usual plastic surgery staffs, all pictureperfect, but, normal woman who made you feel it was okay to look the way you did, and okay to want to change...he believed in hiring his family as staff, and, he did his operations in his little suite of rooms in the back. All of those little things helped keep his prices affordable, he told her.

"Lila, if you'll just stand, I can show you what is going to happen today." he said, holding out his rather freakishly soft hand to her nail bitten one.

Barely touching her gown, he pulled it aside, gazing at what gravity and a 220 lb weight loss had done to her breasts, her stomach, her arms, thighs, bottom. She thought here was a quick intake of breath, a look of, "This is what makes the Baby Jesus cry." ....more a nuance that an actual look. She had to be wrong. The only expressions he'd ever shown before was his usual, well, smile or a furrowing of his brow... at least she thought that's what he was doing, the Botox did remove the actual furrowing capability...the expression he'd worn when she told him of her life as a heavy woman. He had never seen her naked before, said there was no need, simply quoted her a flat fee based on the work he said she'd want done to perfect her body, remove all that was left hanging around (here he gave a kind of a giggle) after the two years of dieting.

He worked quickly, his black pen drawing circles and arrows...sometimes pulling out the drooping flesh to make notes. Scribbling on the chart in code, muttering, taking digital photos and finally announcing, "Okay! When we are done today, you'll have a tummy tuck, lipo on your outer thighs and hips, we'll take excess skin from your upper arms and inner thighs, a 'butt' lift, remove those chins, pull your face up, do an upper and lower eye lift, take some fat from your butt and put it in your lips. I'll make those 44 Longs into nice tight 36D's (again with the giggle), reduce your waist, do a few hair plugs, fix your nose and pin down that one ear. A little Botox here and there, and I'll whiten your teeth for free! Piece O'Cake! Any questions, Miss Turner?"

She whispered no, not wanting the tears to fall, grabbing the gown together again, and thought ahead, to how she'd look, how this would change her life... the sacrifices made, the money saved, the years and years of diets, ridicule, believing one day... one day. Her un-Botox'd face was a smile, at him, at life, a huge smile, full of hope.

In all of her prep work, all of the saving, the double jobs, the reading about the long recovery, the pain... the one thing she didn't do was check state laws, which stated anyone who had an MD could obtain a license for plastic surgery without doing a residency. So it was, the last thoughts she'd have were why the medical diplomas for her doctor, hanging on the walls she was wheeled past on her way to the tiny, cramped back operating room, were for Podiatry.

100 words

Frustrated after reading conflicting opinions, I used bowls of hot and cold water; not like I'd be around to discuss the results. In my mirror, my Doppelgänger; hazel eyes, cropped hair, lips pressed firmly together she stared back. She blinked, not breaking eye contact, accepting her responsibility...this way, God would punish her...not me. Her blade went side, then the other. This is about us...we're weary and the possible pain of others was inconsequential. Amazement flared briefly as we discovered cold water worked as effectively as hot when you're bleeding out...definitely proof Google didn't know everything.

accepted and posted on on 25 october 08.

sunday scribblings~change

What Lies Beneath

I usually pick at the tissue paper with my fingertips, breath held, teeth nibbling my lower lip, my entire body quivers until I see that first glimpse of colour folded against itself. I tend to stay with the same tones--black or blush-- love how the silk, in those hues, looks against the ivory of my skin, which is pale for a brunette.... my veins show through on my neck, my inner arms, my thighs, breasts... the silk accentuates this, making me feel delicate.

I have a ritual, lying the beautiful lingerie on my quilt, walking quietly around the room, admiring it, loving the idea it's already been hand laundered, ready for me to wear. As I pass, I touch where the silk will rest, blush.

Long bath, rose-scented salts, I let my hands glide over my skin once again, dream of his tenderness when he removes the delicate bits of silk in the next room. Where he removes my inhibitions, too - and leaves me open, willing and wanting from him all I need, all I can give.

I dry and in the coolness, goosebumps ripple as I lift the bra and slip it on, hook it, adjusting cups, straps and let fingertips drift over the front, feel the dainty lightness of the material. The tap short knickers follow, and settled on my hips, I feel very 30s, very perfect and inviting - whether he takes them off or not.

I stand - on the verge of going over the edge, flushed- brought here by the perfection of these overpriced bits of silk and hooks I have sent from France. I skimp elsewhere for the simple pleasure to open my drawer, see matched sets, scented by roses from my garden. Worked into complete sensual bliss by grazing my palm over the shirt or sweater I wear, feel the silk pressed against my skin, my hardened nipples. I am as content leaving these bits on, as I am when they are removed - and he knows this. Feeling them against his skin, as it slides against mine, makes me breathless. He knows this, and uses them as foreplay, a prelude to our lovemaking.
Skin warmed, I leave the house, head for Ralph's, simple chores, life - there is a pleasurable swing to my hips... beneath my jeans, my cotton sweater.... the $400 of silk undergarments... and resist temptation, the make the detour, slowly peel off my clothing in his office, a preview of things to come. I resist, maneuver the cart, an aimless smile on my lips.

It really is better to give than receive, right?

three word wednesday~tension, corrupt, intellect

We Shall Overcome

The old Monarchy was so corrupt, so full of tension between those who called themselves the Knights of Purity and the Dames of Intellect, that the fast breeding Fools of Pleasure eventually took the place over.

Three Word Wednesday~thanks, grateful, fury

i did it in one sentence.... here goes!

*deep breath*


"thank you, my love" she'd said, pretending to be grateful while hiding the fury brought on by the comment her young lover made regarding her face-- "you look 44, but, let's be honest, that's still really old for me."

thom's challange~fury,guilt,thankful

i got bitchslapped by Thom, who runs three word wednesday and his own well done writing site, surface tension...

ONE sentence? That's it? I mean, it's a fine sentence, a wonderful one. OK, your punishment? A Fiction in 58 - using fury, guilt and thankful. You may go now.

so, here's my punishment.....

Yo, Get OVER Yourself

Plodding through the snow, he was surprised his fury didn’t melt the icy flakes before they settled around him. She showed no guilt throwing him out the house...why? He was truthful with her saggy old ass-self. She should be grateful he gave her any time at all, thankful for the attention. Yo, 44 is old when you’re 26.

Three Word Wednesday~wonder, balance, dictate


Tonight, I'll balance myself on 3" heels, shortening my usual stride to something more refined, letting the place, the clothes, the event... all of these dictate my behaviour. I'll wear my black and cream silk dress, those heels in a deep shade of mulberry.. I'll have my full make up on, subdued jewelry, nerves held back, smile at the ready for that exact moment I see him, that second our eyes meet again after a year of only brief phone calls and intense emails and I'll wonder if he's wondered...

Three Word Wednesday~enemy, shatter, vague

If At First You Don't Succeed

Every year, I am required to see my doctor, to make sure all is well after that major operation two years ago. Usually, it's a simple check-up... we chat, some blood is drawn; you know, the basic tests that seem vague to the patient, and so very important to the medical team.

This time, his brow furrowed when he looked at my blood work, at the scans, at the long words in the reports that come with my disease, that enemy we'd taken on with radiation and nuclear meds, the treatment that rendered me weak and so very angry at my body that had betrayed me. In the end, after months of treatment, I'd come out on top, though, beating those rogue cells, coming out the winner, wallowing in my good health since.

"It's back." he said. "We are at square one." I sat, listening, my bubble of safety realisation I was again on the path of hospital stays, drips, needles....drove me close to tears, shutting my eyes in order to seek the strength to nod my acceptance of what is, what will be... making myself ready to take this on one more time.

I'm ready to rumble.

sunday scribblings~"i knew instantly"

This week’s phrase was/is “I knew instantly;” a list seemed to be in order:

I knew instantly . . . that the words, my words, would be the escape from the world that I could not comprehend.

I knew instantly . . . that I was far different than the other kids, and I would always stand apart.

I knew instantly . . . that I could withstand more pain, suffering and agony than most girls I knew.

I knew instantly . . . that being in your presence would lift the weight that had been crushing me since birth.

I knew instantly . . . that I was made to nurture.

I knew instantly . . . that you were my universe.

I knew instantly . . . that I was not as good a person as you.

I knew instantly . . . that my grandfather’s death would haunt me into adulthood.

I knew instantly . . . that my laugh was far too loud.

I knew instantly . . . that I would be a good parent.

I knew instantly . . . that you were not the person you presented in public.

I knew instantly . . . the pain inside us both meshed, as did the potential joy.

I knew instantly . . . touching with you would be unlike anything I have ever known.

I knew instantly . . . that you would not be the one that got away, regardless of the cost.

Sunday Scribblings~believe

Word Play

"Believe for once." you said, in hushed tones, your hand in my hair, twisting the curls on your finger. "Believe in us." your mouth moving over mine, soft whispers as your lips slid to my jaw and down my throat. "Please, believe in me, in what I tell you, trust in this future I swear will happen." Murmured phrases, your face between my breasts, our bodies still wrapped around each other, skin touching, as we breathed in counter-point. "Believe when I tell you I cannot imagine life without you, that the last thing I want on this earth is to be held in your arms, to hear your heart beat, to have your scent surround me." "Believe." you asked, and I answered with blind faith until she called to brag of your betrayal, destroying all--giving proof to not trust anyone who uses that particular phrase, that particular word. Haven't you noticed? The truth is in the core of the word... beLIEve.

three word wednesday~faith, miracle, whisper


We go through life, asking for miracles at football games or when we stand at the bedside of a terminally ill loved one or putting forth the desire to not be alone. Our prayers are whispered, rising up on the smoke of candles... carried in the frosty air as the smoke from our breath moves into the world. Sometimes, those prayers move though space and time, and reach the ear of God, who grants the request. Faith is when we continue to believe in those words we sent forth into the hush and in the Master of the Universe, even as the thing we asked for is not granted...still going forward, in full trust that one day... one day... it will happen.

wrmx prompt

Line 1: Your first name.
Line 2: Four descriptive traits.
Line 3: Sibling/Family member of...
Line 4: Lover of... (people/ideas/objects/etc)
Line 5: Who feels...
Line 6: Who needs...
Line 7: Who gives...
Line 8: Who fears...
Line 9: Who would like to see...
Line 10: Resident of... (your town/city/etc)
Line 11: Your last name (or you may choose another name to describe yourself).

I'd love to see other's versions of this, please... Mine is as follows:

quirky, nurturing,creative,droll
mother of many
who finds joy in theater and film
she knows the word love is as scary as the word cancer
yet still seeks that person who is her home
she gives as much as she's capable of
and worries it won't be enough
dreaming of walking the streets of london again
while living in a land of mountains and mormons

three word wednesday~candid, impulse, risk

My Bad

Thom and Molly met via the internet. It was later, meeting in person, they realised they had an attraction, deep and intense. He was shy, burned. She was more experienced, willing to try almost anything, teaching him all sorts of new games. In an attempt to be more open, he took a nude candid shot of himself with his phone, and on impulse he quickly sent it to her number. Too late, he remembered the risk of using his contact list without wearing his glasses.

He was sure his mom would be surprised when she'd seen how he'd grown.

sunday scribblings~this is important


They were the proof she’d survived.

Facing anyone was difficult, facing someone she trusted added to the intensity of the discomfort. How to explain what marked her... from the scar beneath her knee, received when Steven Jones pushed her into the swamp canal, and she caught it on the broken end of a branch, hauling herself out of the goop to the bisecting scar that crossed her from hip to hip, left after an operation that caused her to loose so much blood, she was as white as her sheets.

How to explain the thin stripes on her back and legs where she’d been punished with rulers belts thin willow branches that stung long after the beating ended. There was the had been nearly severed after being caught in a car door, and her parents didn't care to pay emergency room fees, so, they taped it back on, and life went on..and she was left with a fingerprint that didn't match up, a finger that was off kilter.

How to explain what marked her internally, the curses and cruelty and devastation that caused her to cut people out of her life, leaving yet another hole that may not ever fill. Forgiving would cause more pain, so, the hole was left to work itself into another scar.

How to explain to someone who’d never known any of this, who had a life blessed by love and good luck. The one who held her heart. They showed how she survived, not badges of courage, but, reminders of life, personal tree rings.

“Look,” she said. “Look and touch and listen...because these are important.”

sunday scribblings~trust

Trust Funds

“Be mindful of who you trust!”, her Gran always said. “People will take advantage of a good soul like yours.”

She spent her life picking the wrong people; friends, lovers, business associates. She handed over money, possessions, her heart. All of them took what she gave so freely, and when she had no more to give, walked away... leaving her confused on how to work with people, how to know who was good who was bad who was simply around to take until the well was finally dry in every way.

“Be mindful what you trust!” she whispered. Putting the barrel in her mouth, she trusted she’d loaded it properly, and pulled the trigger.

sunday scribblings~aging


Sitting at the desk, Lisa was struck with the realisation she was now more comfortable with a cotton sweater on over her clothes, even with the heater on. She spends time every day searching for her reading glasses, which she can't find without a pair of reading glasses, so, some days she is fucked. She prefer cats these days along with knitting in the evenings as she watches TCM. Words she used to know slip by unnoticed when she is talking or writing or simply thinking about the things in her life. Names become, "Honey" or "Dear"....searching for the real moniker is too difficult in her current state. She is over 45 now, and has become a victim of Halfheimers... not young, and not quite into full Alzheimer's state. Just enough over the border to amuse at times, and leave her shaking with fear of the future at others.

sunday scribblings~what scares you?


"It's not the end of the world that scares me." Kit announced to her therapy group. "I used to worry about that, you know, some cosmic piece of debris hitting the earth and we all blow up."

Mrs. Tuttle attempted to break in, "Well, I've always..."

A withering glance from Kit silenced her and anyone else who thought to express their fears in their little group.

"Then, I moved on to some huge epidemic...what are those called, pandemics or something? I'd be all shriveled up and choking on my own puke. Can you imagine?" Glancing around the faces in the circle around her, she silently dared them to disagree. Not a one picked up the gauntlet.

"Finally, I knew the one thing that scared me the most was to die at home, and have my cats eat my face. Starting with my eyes, because they are still tasty even when your body is ready to explode from gasses. Still soft and yummy. Now, every day, I practice falling forward so they can't reach my face should I die, you know, at home." Looking around again, she sought approval for her ingenious plan to thwart the cats future dining pleasure.

Dr. Mason broke in just then to make the salient points that a)Kit didn't own any cats and that b)she lived in a hospital for the criminally insane because c)she was found next to her husbands body, purring with the remains of his chewed upon eyes in her curled hands.

She got the last word, "See?"... her bit of word play making her laugh to herself as she walked back to her room, to practice her falling once again.

sean's birthday

Stary, Stary Night

It's 2AM...he wakes me, showing me a town covered in a dark as rich as my slumber. How easily we shed being mature mother, 20 year old son—we are children, lying wrapped in down comfort, the gently pitched roof our bed, our high mountain Utah town stretched out in the valley beyond, again enveloped in pioneer pre-Edison night. Orion marches in stately majesty across the crisp skies, with his attending court moving in astral dignity, swirling in colours bold; red, gold, blue, green, white stark against the thick black. My hand rests in his, reversed from what was, this lanky child who is like me, struggling in a world of stimuli when we long for routine and quiet. Our breathing is so soft, the sound blends into the movement of the leaves and the smell of my roses and lavender moves upwards in that cold summer air and I wonder if he's drifted off to sleep when his long arm moves languidly to point out a star in what normally would be a vast dark area, it’s blue white light shimmering there. I can hear his love, so hard for him to voice, wrapping around the words, “I can’t put it in one of those gift bags, but, it’s there, just for you….Happy Birthday, Mom.”

three word wednesday~perch, allure,vivid


For her family, the allure of the open space of water had been the chance to catch sunfish; a pretty fish with a yellow spot near it's tail that made for excellent fish fry. They'd pile into the station wagon, and follow the neighbors to the spit of land that extended into the expanse of run-off from the lake, an area that allowed the fish to settle and grow large. It was there she learned to bait, cast so it dropped without a splash, and give a quick jerk to set the hook before she reeled in her fish. In spite of her present aversion to the Great Outdoors, the memory of these trips held laughter, picnics, and both parents in a genial mood. The heat of the Southern sun, the cool breeze from the lake and the excitement when you caught a large perch stayed vivid in her mind, allowing the dark stretches of her family's usual existence to fade, reminding her hope is always there.

sunday scribblings~language


The house is quiet, no clock ticks, the cat sleeps silently on the back of the sofa she sits on, focused on learning her new hobby. At her feet is a bag of varied colour yarns, with a few sets of different sized knitting needles extending from the middle of the rainbow maze. She glances to her right, to the "Expert" pattern she's creating, moving her lips over phrases that are new to her, the words contained within presenting as gibberish to her brain. This still new process has become the language of her life.

Scarves are created when her mind is occupied with complex ideas, thoughts, emotions.... the easy casting on and following rows of simple stitches, no pattern...the size of the needles and the weight of the yarn determining the beauty of the product. It allows her to have a sense of accomplishment--far more than just sitting would do. She works out the issues found in those ideas, the thoughts and release the emotions, letting her continue her life without being overwhelmed. She gives these to loved ones, smoothing over the finished work, pleased the weave will keep warmth in and let the owner's breath out, doing the job they were meant to do.

It is later, when she moves on to patterns that read like Hebrew, containing stitches with complicated names like Andalusian and Brioche and Lily of the Valley Cable--beneath the name are complex instructions--P2to, SSK, PFB,Mbob, M1p--each abbreviation relates to what seems to be a complex move to be made with two pieces of bamboo...Pearl 2, toggle over? Make a bobble, K1,P1,K1,P1 to create a bobble. Here is where she creates what she calls her knitting wrinkle, between her eyebrows. Concentrating on the instructions, watching for the dreaded Double Point Needle to appear, all of the jumbled phrases slowly working their way into her memory, into her fingers...slowly they make sense. When they do, she moves on to another complex pattern, so that she has to focus entirely on the work.

These are the pieces she makes when she can't bear to think, when life wraps itself around her soul and mind and memory, knitting it's own complex pattern, not allowing warmth to enter nor her breath to be let out... it is then she bends all of herself to the language contained in those patterns, focusing on what is being made, each stitch, no matter now perfect it becomes...reminders of the days she is swallowed up by the main language of her life. These pieces are given away to charities and shelters and to people she doesn't know very well.

In doing so, she gives away those hours of supressed pain and sorrow, allowing her to re-focus, and to open up the bag, take the needles, and again make a simple scarf.

sunday scribblings

word prompt~disconnected


it’s difficult to type right now. the left over butter and melted chocolate from the hot popcorn sprinkled with m&m’s still clings to my fingertips, causing them to slide over the keys. i know, i know; i just had a bucket of heartattack-waiting-to-happen...but, i can’t disconnect myself from the desire to wallow in that bucket. it’s always a struggle to stay slim, acceptable, socially on the physical mark. and now, well, now, i’m willing to surround my bones with what the germans call ‘sad fat’. it’s time to expose the truth.

three word wednesday

word prompts-dreary,embrace, timid


he was a man who found no happiness in sports or dating or in the company of others. people talked too much, asked for too much, exuded too much energy, in his mind. the rest of the world expected him to embrace their way of life, when he felt his own was just fine. he found all of those hustling, bustling bodies dreary in every possible way, causing him to seek comfort in those he did take joy in being around. with them, he could be who he was, not timid nor soft spoken, as perceived outside this place, but, gregarious voiced, with grand gestures and a raucous laugh. granted, they never spoke back, nor laughed, nor responded with a joke of any kind. it didn’t matter to him, nor did it matter other people thought his occupation far more than they could bear--they simply didn’t understand the beauty of working with the dead.