dP Speed Round: New Year's Resolution

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

Color Resolution !

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

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

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

For No Sake of Posterity.

For No Sake of Posterity

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

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

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

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

dP does Oprah....?

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

Ordinary Lives . . .

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

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

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

Rip, Sizzle, Pop!

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!