Rip, Sizzle, Pop!

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

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM FLUTTERBY!

Anagram Fun: Paul C. Green

PAUL C. GREEN = PURE GLANCE

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

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

- Charles Dickens

Valerian Train Part I

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

To be continued...

December Topic: WILD CARD

December is writer's choice!

Bordering Paranoia

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

Cream and Crimson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am looking forward to the future of Indiana Basketball!

sanguinity. (or "death's approaching")

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

Brilliant Narcissism

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

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

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

Editorial Page

November's topic:

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

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

Pink Carnation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After School Job

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monsters

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

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

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

October topic: Scary Stories to Tell in The Dark

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

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

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

It Didn't Seem That He Had Anyone

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

Nonna's Kitchen and Beyond

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

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

An Unorthodox Burial

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

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

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

Needless to say, we were a little discouraged and we seriously considered taking our house off the market. We could stay in the house for a few more years before we really outgrow it; the housing market would surely be different by then. We schedule an appointment with our realtor to discuss our options. As soon as my wife gets off the phone with the realtor, the phone rings. It is the realtor calling back asking us if she can show our house tonight.

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

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

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

“Nice statue you got there,” the old man says to me.

“Uh, thanks. I just found it buried in my front yard,” I reply.

“I know. I put it there,” replies the old man.

I look at the old man as if he was crazy and simply ask, "Why?"

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

"You mean there was a statue buried in the yard when we bought this house?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Let’s just say this old house means a lot to me, and I believe Saint Joseph will only bring loving families to such a wonderful home," replies the old man.

I plead to him, "Please tell me, I really want to know!"

With tears swelling, the old man looks away and says, "Maybe some other time."

With that, the old man takes hold of his cane and walks away. Still grasping the statue of Saint Joseph I call out to the old man, "Thank you!"

The old man does not turn around, just holds up his hand and gives a friendly wave.

September Topic: Saintly Curiosity

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

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

Man of the House

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

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

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

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

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

Cletus & Marta

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

"Bored" Games

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

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

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

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

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

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

My appologies to Jeff for breaking the no dialog rule.

August topic: My life as a stage direction.

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

Here's an example:

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

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

Prison Walls by Kippy 'Troubles' Treble

Remember all them silver rings?

And all them perdy, flashy thangs?

And all them strings of telephone rings?

And endless nights with him and them?

Was cursin' loud such a sin?

And losin' my temper in a drunken night din?

Ugly prison walls

Barren prison tall

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

To see all the laughter comin' to an end

Not even a dog to call friend

Tell me honey baby, is it ever gonna end?

Now I see myself so bright

It's only me, myself and I

Searchin' for distraction from my cotton-pickin' plight

Ugly prison walls 

Barren prison tall

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

Years in prison life I wonder:

How'd I go so far asunder?

All that junk I pillaged and plundered!

All my sass is done and gone

But, Lord!  Now something's come!

I know myself now, honky tonk honey bun.

Nature Speaks

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

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

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

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

Nature loves limericks with lessons

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

Jessie Velvet Byrd

Grandma, tell me something 'bout grandpa.

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

She said child don't you ever tire?

I'll tell you the story just once again.

They called him Jessie

Jessie for the outlaw

Velvet for his southern drawl

And Byrd for the way he flew away.

He left his people on the reservation

To pick cotton in the hot Arkansas sun.

I was just a silly southern farmgirl

Thinking maybe, Jessie was the one.

We lay beneath the stars that summer season

Lost in a sweet lovers fantasy

I gave everything a girl could give him

And he gave something special to me.

They called him Jessie

Jessie for the outlaw

Velvet for his southern drawl

And Byrd for the way he flew away.

They came for him one night with shotguns loaded.

A bastard child he was forced to claim.

He left me with my heart and pride both broken

I knew my son would never have his name

They called him Jessie

Jessie for the outlaw

Velvet for his sourthern drawl

And Byrd for the way he flew away.

The Story behind the song

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

Queen of Everything Country

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Country Lyrics

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


"If You Show Up Late"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


"Southern Blood"

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

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

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

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

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

Repeat chorus 3x

The Winds' Secret

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

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

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

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

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

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

Entering the woods, my soul rejoices.

July Sub-Topic: Country Lyrics

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

July Topic: Of Nature

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

Did I Ever Tell Ya the Story . . .

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

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

“Whatcha got in that knapsack a’ yours?”

“Got some Tarnation breakfast bars.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Just some bottles of Slake water.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever happened to Ol’ Jake?”

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

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

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

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

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

Warrior Daughter

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

A Sincere Apology

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

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

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

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

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

"The Voice of Rain" by Walt Whitman

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

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

The Voice of the Rain

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

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1891-1892

To The Ditalini Press Family

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

In love

Flutterby

summer (it's coming).

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

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

- Walt Whitman

X hates “reality television”.

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

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

Secrets of X

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

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

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

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

About X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

eXplained

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

x marks the spot

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

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

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

Free

In this case, X is a man!

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

Chiasmus Corner: Between the Folds

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

Here's the official website: Green Fuse Films

X-Traordinary's Words

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

May Topic

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

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

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

What other words could X eliminate and why?

The Key

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a key.

Fools Gold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honeydew

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

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

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

April Topic-Personification

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

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

"Something Unknown . . . "

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

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

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

The interview:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not really. Just keeping informed of developments.

Essential can't-live-without equipment?

No.

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

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

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

I have regular telepathic experiences with my kids.

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

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

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

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

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

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