Looking For A Pen That Works

(not really) 200 motels: Horsley Park

2012-01-08T11:32:00.004-05:00

Over the holidays, De Vere Venues had an incredibly cheap room rate. At £19 ($29) a night, it was difficult to resist a few days away in an empty conference center. So just before Christmas we went to Horsley Park.

Like most of De Vere's properties, Horsley Towers was once a private home. It's now in use as a conference and event space. Isn't it beautiful?

There are bedrooms in the main house, but they weren't part of the discounted holiday rate. We stayed in the much newer hotel and conference center built next door on the property.

The conference center and hotel where we stayed was far more modern and businesslike. It was impersonal and strange in its quietness. As odd as it was, I still liked it. I took pleasure in how surreal it seemed at times.

There was tunnel connecting a couple of buildings that could have been in an 1970s episode of Doctor Who.

And the garden smoking area was damned impressive. This photo was taken from one of the covered benches.

I later learned that British American Tobacco has a stake in Horsley Center, which explains the smoking area. You can read more about the smoking areas at BAT smoking areas.

We didn't eat at the hotel restaurant as it looked a bit dull. Happily, there was a great local curry house right around the corner. We ate at Pink Garlic three nights in a row. The food was excellent and the atmosphere was welcoming. There was some fun quirkiness to the place. For instance, we were given handfuls of chocolates each night and on the evening of our last meal there, one song was on permanent loop. :)

(not really) 200 motels: The Angel Hotel

2012-01-08T10:19:00.004-05:00

The first two nights I was in England, we stayed at the Angel Hotel. It's a beautiful little place in the heart of Guildford's shopping district.

Upon walking in, it feels cozy and comfortable. I'm a sucker for flocked walkpapers and beautiful wood paneling. Our room wasn't ready because we had arrived very early, so I sat by the fire in the lobby and had a complimentary pot of tea. I'm afraid I may have nodded off a little while I waited.

Finding the room was funny. It was on the second floor, around a corner and through a little fire door. I should have taken photos. I was so exhausted that I stumbled into bed shortly after checking in. I'm not kidding about stumbling. The floor was so uneven (it is a 500 year-old building after all), that I felt like I was falling downhill toward the bed after entering the room. It was fantastic!

It was a lovely room. The bed was deliciously comfortable, the pair of stuffed chairs were also very comfortable, and the bathroom had a deep tub and bathrobes. I was especially in love with the bathrobes. I think cozy comfort is what I crave most after traveling for a day.

Check out the leaded glass window and a snippet of the alley view.

The creepy painting was an added bonus to our room. Graham and I were making up stories about the children. We think the girl is creating a sun while the boy is being terrorized by a spirit.

The chef there works with game meats incredibly well. On our first night I had a roast duck with cabbage that was amazing. The duck was so good, Graham ordered it the second night.

This photo was taken from the dining room, looking into the lounge and the stair that goes to the first floor.

Staying here was definitely a splurge. We were able to get our room at a discount, which is why we were there at all. Even so, it was an expensive stay. However, after a day spent in airports and in-flight, two mildly extravagant nights were a blessing.

holiday dreams

2012-01-07T08:08:00.001-05:00

My best dreams tend to be dark and strange. They're created from worries in my mind and the things I watch and read. Last night is a great example.

Just before bed, I watched a documentary on medieval children. Of course there was talk about the black plague and how half the population of England had died as a result. I also have been worrying a little about my future, moving to a new country where I know only a very few people. These add up to a dream of a coming apocalypse, how more than half the population leaves and I'm among the few who stay behind. It actually was an upbeat dream, with all things considered. We were building strong lives in a new world.

I've written up the dream, but I'm not certain whether or not to share the document on a blog. I may hold on to it, and use the ideas for other things.

monday morning

2012-01-02T07:12:00.000-05:00

My laptop is living on East Coast time. It's nearly noon here in the UK but I look at the screen and see that it's not even 7am at home. That's why Twitter is so quiet, my friends at home are still waking up.

I'm in Graham's kitchen, facing the windows overlooking the yard. It's beautifully sunny. I may need to take a walk later. It's chilly but not freezing and I'm wearing one slipper sock. I knit it yesterday evening. I've cast on for the second, it's on the table in front of me. My hands are quite cold after washing mushrooms.

We haven't eaten yet. I'm running on two cups of coffee and an imaginary clementine. (The fruit bowl was empty when I went to get one.) I'm feeling a little hungry and am tempted to have shortbread and chocolate, both of which are in abundance. But I'd like to eat a little healthier today. Graham will be cooking a full English breakfast for us once he's progressed a little further on his paper. A full English breakfast isn't the most healthy thing, but I think it will be better than shortbread and chocolate.

Today I'd like to knit the second slipper and draft something for the magazine project. I've been thinking about the writing since last night, percolating away. I wish I had that copy of Twilight I tried reading. I think a lot of my comments there are similar to my feelings about a certain fashion magazine.

goings on

2011-12-31T07:09:00.003-05:00

I'm re-envisioning this blog again, or rather, I'm accepting it as what it has been all along. It's always been a mishmash of things, personal life, writing, knitting and gaming. That's cool, I like having a place to babble. But I've always wanted it to be focused on writing goals. So instead of making some statement about how this blog will be refocused on writing, I went and made new blog. I've linked it on the side as Joanna's Writing Goals. (How original!)

On the 29th I had a list of four writing goals. By the 30th I had five. A brainstorm I had in the shower yesterday has taken off in a way that makes me incredibly happy. The other four goals are still in play but this new one-off magazine project has shot to the top of the list.

I'm still visiting my fiance's home and be here for another couple of weeks. Tonight we'll be spending New Year's Eve with some of his friends. Later next week, we'll be away in a eerily empty conference center in the middle of nowhere. The week after that, we'll be spending a few days in a city filled with awesome architecture. I'll likely be posting some photos along the way.

Happy New Year!

Christmas Excitement

2011-12-29T16:00:00.001-05:00

Surprise! I got engaged on Christmas morning. Hopefully this time next year I'll be getting married. I'd love a winter wedding.

one man's decoration is another man's ingredient

2011-11-20T22:20:00.000-05:00

I am not a fan of ornamental cabbage or kale. It's not that it isn't pretty. On the contrary, the colors are lovely and the feathery leaves of the plants are great.

While they are attractive plants, they are also, very distinctly, vegetables. Every time I see one of these ornamentals in a garden, I want to reach out and pick them for dinner. And guess what? They're perfectly edible.

Maybe that's part of my issue with seeing these plants in a garden such as this. In a few weeks, when the plants wilt or overgrow and look ragged, a landscaping firm is going to pull them all up and mulch them. That's a lot of soup getting thrown out.

walks in the woods

2011-11-14T11:46:00.000-05:00

This past October I took two trips. Both trips included stays near beautiful woods where I was able to take long walks.

The first was a weekend stay in Tivoli, New York. The Sunday of our stay some friends and I went for a long walk on the property of the house we had rented. While tramping around in the woods we came upon a road of a sort. It seemed to have been made by locals driving ATVs. I decided to walk along it, as tracks like that usually meet up with roads and driveways. When I came to a fork in the rough road I saw a funny thing in the overgrown brush, a rusted out lawnmower. When I called my friends over I thought it was very funny saying, "Walk down the track, and turn right at the lawnmower." (Yes, I'm easily amused.)

The second trip I made was to England. My first couple days there were spent in Guildford at a hotel conference center called Barnett Hill. The hotel had many acres of lovely manicured gardens and beautiful walking and biking trails through the surrounding woods. While I was walking in the forest there, I saw, off the trail a bit, an old cart wheel leaning up against a tree.

I love the careful placement and tidiness of the cart wheel in contrast to the random and crumbling appearance of the lawnmower. I knew I wanted to post the two photographs together.

What's a good name for a giraffe?

2011-11-10T13:14:00.000-05:00

Dear Jasmine,

I found a giraffe today. It's not a common thing, finding a giraffe beside the sidewalk. But there he was, cold, muddy, and lying on the grass near the train station.

He looked so lonely, I had to pick him up. I could see in his eyes and manner that this was a giraffe who had seen some things and done some things. He probably spent a lot of time with a little girl or boy in the neighborhood, playing hard and keeping them company. But I think he wanted to see and do new and different things. He is a giraffe who craves adventure and who better to have adventures with than me?

He fit perfectly in a pocket of my new tote bag. I think he's already looking forward to making it his permanent home. (Because every bag should have a permanent soft toy resident don't you think?)

He and I had a chat over coffee. I introduced him to Snail, the little guy living in the red handbag, and to Bitty Chickie, who travels all the time from bag to bag. They seemed to get along well. Snail's English accent was new to giraffe. He hadn't met anyone from England before. As usual, Bitty did most of the talking. She has a way of taking over a conversation.

The giraffe is with me in the library today, helping me write this letter. The new tote bag has been great for carrying my little laptop so it is becoming my regular writing bag. If the giraffe moves in there, he will, by default, become my regular writing companion. I think he's getting comfortable with the idea. He's certainly enjoying the library today.

I think he'd be happier with a name other than giraffe. Once he is cleaned up and mended (which I will help him with this weekend) he will be a dapper little fellow. Do you have any suggestions as to what he should choose as a name? He'd love suggestions.

With all my love. Your aunt,
Joanna

life is stranger than fiction

2011-07-26T15:23:00.000-05:00

I started a story yesterday, but threw it away. The girl was too stoically sad and the situation too ridiculously dumb. It was an embarrassment of adolescent angst.

In the real world, the girl is angrily crying in her room. She’s cursing her step-father in pencil scrawls so hard the words become unreadable and the page of her diary tears. If the weather was nicer she’d be in the woods, hidden behind the low hanging bows of a stand of old pines. The ground there is covered in a thick layer of needles. It muffles the sounds of the world and the rage in her heart. She would sleep there if she wasn’t afraid of consequences at home.

Things with the step-father aren’t always so bad. That one winter when he hooked the hot water heater to the toilet? That was a bit of off center genius. Exiting a bedroom so cold you could see your breath in the half-light, to enter steamy warmth in the mostly unfinished bathroom? It made late night bathroom visits a mid-winter treat. It was a very weird but funny winter and definitely something the kids at school would never understand.

How do you explain to your peers about living in a crumbling shell of a house like that? Tales go untold out of shame. Remember that time birthday baking was ruined by mouse droppings in the oven’s insulation catching fire? That’s a story that stays among family. Who else would laugh about the droppings smoldering like miniature charcoal briquettes? And how would your friends ever understand fetching water every day? They stand in their kitchen and turn on the tap. You stand in the kitchen and look at a tap with no hook-up. Instead you’re outside every afternoon after school, filling a dozen empty gallon jugs from the spring up on the side of the hill. Then carrying them back to the house, two at a time; back and forth you go until you are done. It’s like a strange amalgam of 1783 and 1983.

I miss the chickens.

Gril likes Spirit

2011-06-23T23:12:00.001-05:00

funny to me

2011-06-14T10:18:00.001-05:00

I went to Netflix to add the “Who Took the Bomp? Le Tigre on Tour” DVD to my queue. The search results crack me up.

1. Who Took the Bomp? Le Tigre on Tour
Of course Netflix doesn’t have it yet, but I can save it for the future.

2. The Tourist
Because if I’m looking up Le Tigre’s final tour documentary I definitely want to see a Johnny Depp/Angelina Jolie thriller.

3. The God Who Wasn’t There
Naturally, if I’m interested in feminist bands I will want to disprove the existence of Jesus on the same night.

4. Step Up 3
Well, that goes without saying.

gray sky at morning

2011-04-10T09:45:00.003-05:00

Crying is too easy to do when alone and lost in thought. I'd prefer laughter, but that is so much nicer when shared with others.

the murky darkness of my dreams

2011-04-04T08:54:00.000-05:00

I’ve had some vivid dreams the past couple days. The stories have been long and muddled, and sadly many specifics faded upon waking. However, a few key scenes have clung to me. Here are three of them.

***

The stairway was narrow and made of glass. It was translucent and seemed to glow with inner light, but that was just a trick of the light from the massive chandelier above. Spiraling downward, the light grew dimmer as the glass stair ended at a murky pond. There was a delicate mist snaking across the pond’s surface. Intricately carved stepping-stones dotted the surface of the water. I knew the only safe way to cross was to use the stones.

***

I was running a little late, as was my friend. When he arrived, I asked if he’d help me choose a perfume. He was agitated that I wasn’t ready, but he took a moment to sniff at the two bottles I had given him. He chose a scent but instead of handing the bottle back to me, he poured a stream of scented oil over my neck and arm. I could see in his eyes that his action was a punishment. I tried wiping off what oil I could but I was stuck reeking of perfume.

***

I couldn’t get the memory of her eyes out of my head. They were staring, frightened and bright. They were pleading eyes, begging for rescue. But I was helpless. She was stuck somehow; trapped with her back against the soil and stone wall of the well where we were hiding. She didn’t struggle as her body folded unnaturally and she was pulled into the earth. She disappeared from me, her hands and feet the last things I saw.

waiting room tunes

2011-03-28T09:12:00.000-05:00

My friend Andrea has a little podcast that she’s not advertising. It’s called Five Songs and you can find a link to it over there on my blog list. Last night on Twitter, she hinted that a new episode will be posted soon. Yay!

So, while waiting for her five, I’m posting a random five. My iPod is on shuffle and here we go:

1. “Let it Out”, Girl Talk
2. “Tell Her Tonight”, Franz Ferdinand
3. “Strugglin’”, Tricky
4. “Bringing Home the Rain”, The Builders and the Butchers
5. “Pearls”, Dutch

Two of these bands I discovered by seeing them perform live. The Builders and the Butchers opened for Murder By Death a couple years ago. Wow. Just, wow. I loved them, bought a CD at the show and listened the hell out of the disk for months afterward. I saw Dutch recently. I was in the mood for seeing live music and had a free night. Looking over a local music calendar the write up made Dutch sound interesting. I came out of the show a fan.

playing with new toys

2011-03-26T09:29:00.001-05:00

I'm still on an Instagram kick. Can't help but love the new hotness.

Last night I was at The Caravan Festival, DeVotchKa's current tour. So. Much. Fun.

Not not many pictures were taken. I was just too distracted by the show and people watching, was too far away to get decent photos, and most of the time it was fairly dark. However, I couldn't at least try.

There were moments where there were performers in the audience. One was a girl with a light-up hula hoop.

Mariachi el Bronx are one of my new favorite things. Wish they left LA more often, I'd love to see them again.

Ah, DeVotchKa. I can't help but love a band with a beautiful, angel voiced lead singer, Nick Urata.

Also with a lovely lady on sousaphone and upright bass, Jeanie Schroder.

And featuring aerialists on stage.

I was too far away from the violinist, Tom Hagerman, and the drummer, Shawn King, to get photos. I was also sad that my picture of Nick playing the theremin (yes, a theremin) is too blurry.

tea time at the cube farm

2011-03-24T14:22:00.001-05:00

I have a lot to do at the office, but there was a moment today when I just couldn't face the mildly monotonous job I had going. iPhone to the rescue.

This woman needs tea. I can see the need in her eyes. Definitely tea.

Pointedly not watching the cup in the microwave. If we watched, it would never boil.

Steeping. Steeping is so very close to sleeping. Sleeping would be nice too. But not while steeping. Steeping + sleeping = weeping over very bitter tea.

iPhone colored lenses

2011-03-21T08:03:00.001-05:00

There are a couple of iPhone apps that filter photos to make them look vintage or that they've been taken with particular cameras and lenses. The app I’ve been playing with is Instagram.

I took a few photos while in FDR Park yesterday and last night I ran some of them through the app. I think they’re fun and wanted to share.

American Swedish Historical Museum

Modern Day Pyramid
I love how the gazebo looks against, what I think is, the Wells Fargo Center in the distance.

No One Picnics Anymore

Miniature Garden

a personal interlude: where the hell is the fiction?

2011-03-09T12:27:00.000-05:00

My past several posts have been of the autobiographical sort. This doesn’t bother me as much as my lack of fiction creation. It’s as though my fiction writing brain is stalled in the middle of a highway. Ideas and desires zipping around and the machine for writing them all down isn’t running.

What I have been writing are guest posts on other blogs and posts on blogs I share with other people:

I regularly talk about vegetarian food and recipes on my friend Carolyn’s blog, The Long Road, http://carolyn-thelongroad.blogspot.com/.

I’ve started to occasionally write for is the Jennisodes blog, http://jennisodes.com. My first post went up this morning.

And this week, I’ve started to actively post on a blog I’m sharing with my friend Andrea. We’ll be live-blogging a road trip we’re taking in April at Two Girls, One Car, http://2girls1car.wordpress.com/.

All of this internet chatter has been very satisfying. I enjoy talking about the things I love, but it isn’t what I set out to do, which is write fiction. I sometimes wonder if I’m using all my creative energy in knitting and leaving nothing behind for other creative projects.

There is something I don’t do; I don’t’ write at home. I don’t have a comfortable writing space there. I have a desk that’s covered in things, mostly books and yarn. I have a laptop that’s packed away in a laptop bag. What I should do, is clean off my desk, unpack my laptop and create a writing space. It will be the first step of many in getting back on track. The second step will be to schedule time to write but let’s work on step 1 first. :)

a personal interlude: change can be sad

2011-03-08T12:22:00.000-05:00

I pay a lot of attention to my dreams. Frankly, they are usually so very vivid that they’re hard to ignore. Last night's was short but still a bit of a doozy.

This dream was of the personal sort. My subconscious was sorting out feelings about a situation with a person I care for very much. She’s making some choices in her life that I perceive as troublesome, the result of which will very likely have us going in separate directions. I’m very unhappy about the feeling of loss this has triggered within me. But it’s her life. I can only remain as close a friend I can within the parameters of our lives.

Talk about a jumble of half spoken personal details. LOL

The interesting thing I find about dreams is how my mind defines and interprets real world situations. In this case, the friend was the only recognizable person from my life. All other the other characters were random dream people. Well, up to the end, but I’ll get to that later.

I was visiting from out of town and getting ready to leave in a few hours. We only had a little time to spend with one another before I went home. There were other friends around, people with whom she was sharing a house. But since they weren’t close friends of mine, and they didn’t know the history she and I shared, I didn’t feel free to say what I wanted to say to my friend. It was an uncomfortable and slightly heartbreaking thing to want to say good bye in a significant way, but be reduced to just giving looks across a room.

The ‘choices in her life that I perceive as troublesome’ part was turned into something a little over the top. My friend was a gay porn star. I even got to see clips from a movie she was in the middle of making.

At some point the other people moved into a different room on another floor. Once we were alone, my friend and I fell into a very intimate scene. My subconscious definition of “one last kiss” I guess. It was a little sad, the poignancy of a last time together, but felt natural and right to do.

That’s when John Travolta showed up. He walked into the room, peeked under the blanket at the two of us, laughed and told us to hurry up. My reaction in the dream was to laugh too and keep going while John was standing at a bar pouring himself a drink. He and my friend started talking about something – business related I think.

Shortly thereafter I woke. I was laughing at how weird things went (gay porn and John Travolta?) but I felt comfortable in how my subconscious was saying good bye to my friend.

a personal interlude: ablution

2011-03-04T15:07:00.001-05:00

The house where I live doesn’t have a great tub nor does the plug work very well. The best I can do is a hot shower. I often close my eyes and stand head tiled up; the water beating down over me as steam rises and fills the shower space. It’s a moment of peace that I relish every day.

But what I long for is a bath. I dream of a long soak in hot, gently scented, water that comes up to my neck. I want to lean my head back against a tightly rolled towel as water and steam leach all the pain and hurt from my pores.

I’m filled with ache that is foolish and naïve, aged and grumpy. I want water to wash it all away, even if only for an hour.

a personal interlude: facebook

2011-02-14T14:43:00.001-05:00

I’ve decided to take a bit of a break from Facebook. I don’t have any clear timeframe for this, but “two weeks” is what flits across my mind most.

I don’t hate the website. On the contrary, I think it can be quite useful and good. I have a great time posting photos of cats and food. I get to hear about my cousins’ children. It’s an easy way to send and track invitations. The good is pretty damn good.

However, I’m growing more and more frustrated in the negativity it seems to encourage. I’ve done this several times; posted a vague negative comment, usually whining about a little thing that’s bothering me in my life. I then sit back and wait for reactions. This isn’t communication and I’m ashamed of myself when it happens.

Another shameful practice I’ve seen in myself is counting likes and comments on my posts. It’s as though I’m participating in a popularity contest all my own & I’m criticizing myself if I don’t get immediate feedback. For instance, I posted an “I’m taking a break from Facebook” status about an hour ago. I’m itching to see if people have clicked ‘like’ and I’ve checked my email several times to see if I have responses.

A lot of this same negative behavior can be seen in some of my friends. I don’t like it. It cannot be healthy.

All this said, I’m not deleting my account. I still want to be able to see photos of my family and friends, receive invitations to things, and share fun little tidbits of my life. I’m just stepping back a bit, posting less & reading less. I no longer have a Facebook application on my phone, and while I can access the internet on my phone, I’m going to try *not* surfing to the website as often.

And you know what? I think later tonight, once I’m relaxing at home, I’ll trim back my Facebook friends list to the people I want to know about. I can live with a little less advertising and random information about people with whom I only have a very slight connection.

The Robber's Tale: an update

2011-01-11T16:41:00.000-05:00

Sadly, I'm too disorganized to meet the competition deadline tonight. However, I'm happy with my scribbles and notes so far. So, yes, I'm going to keep poking at this.

The Robber's Tale

2011-01-01T08:44:00.000-05:00

Game designer, Emily Care Boss, is presenting a rpg design challenge: write a role-playing game that can be played alone.

http://rpgsolitairechallenge.blogspot.com/2010/12/rpg-solitaire-challenge.html

I had a couple little ideas flitting around my head before the formal event was posted.

The first was a character creation game where using items around you as story elements or influences, create a character's life story.

Another idea cropped up in conversation with The Wednesday Night Crew. I was always entertained by fitting items in a character's bag in online and computer RPGs. It was a solitaire style game I could play while waiting around in WoW: reorganizing my junk in all my bags.

Anyway, the detailed challenges in Emily's competition have been posted. My two ideas have instantly merged.

Using the 'Stuff in Your Domicile' & 'Pencil & Paper' challenges

The Robber's Tale

Core idea: I took a journey and picked up loot on the way.

Game requirements: Two pieces of equally sized paper and a pencil. One sheet is the empty pack, the other sheet will be the story.

The loot I'm collecting is fantasy/sci-fi versions of the stuff in my house (office, room).

As I fit the stuff in my bag I draw it on one sheet of paper. Then I write a sentence or two on the other sheet, telling the tale of each item and how it was collected.

**********

First game, no real rules other than what's above. I'm using a small note pad and pencil. I'm sitting in a living room after a New Year's Eve party. Two of my friends are sleeping in here, one on the sofa another on a deflating air mattress. There's casual party wreckage around the room.

I decided on two introductory sentences, followed by 2 sentences per item.

I'm at a point where the story text meets the drawn images. This feels like a good trigger for the "getaway".

vampire fiction - snippet

2010-09-13T14:41:00.000-05:00

Last November, for National Novel Writing Month, I started writing a vampire story set in Mexico. I had a lot of ideas, many of which made it to paper, but I burnt out rather quickly. I still have my notes and now and again I'll add a little more.

Today I asked for a writing prompt from a friend, a random word or phrase for me to play with. He gave me the word "squamous." Scale-like led me to demons, which led me to thoughts of Isabel, my ancient Mexican vampire.

Here are some notes added today:

***

(Isabel is attacked in the city. It is a demon, clawed and hissing. It reeks of the ash and herb scent she picked up while visiting the shrine of the Virgin a few days earlier. They fight in the alleyways of Oaxaca City. It initially has the upper hand but she is victorious [at what price though?])

The creature’s skin, leathery and squamous, was covered in tribal images. Some were tattooed, others branded deep; images over images. On his arm a winged snake morphed into a cat breathing fire, while across his chest were angular trees with fish-like roots. All the figures strange and not quite earthly. What was this thing and why had it come to her valley?

She couldn’t leave it here in the alley. For all she knew it wasn’t truly dead. She had to move the body and burn it under the eyes of the Virgin. The strength of the magic surrounding the demon frightened her, so much so that she knew only the Basilica de la Soledad would do for destroying such a thing. With the little strength that remained to her, Isabel hoisted the corpse over her narrow shoulders. Shuffling through shadows she made her way to the church.

***

I'm now looking up images and descriptions of the Basilica de la Soledad. Fun, fun!

ex lovers

2010-09-09T14:42:00.001-05:00

Yesterday night I was having trouble sleeping; that static thing from the other day you see. So, to keep my mind a little occupied I started composing haiku about ex lovers.

I can't claim the idea as my own. Several years ago, a group of people I'm acquainted with did the same on LiveJournal. I wasn't a participant then, but I always thought it would be a fun thing to try.

I posted a few of these on Facebook last night, and a few more this afternoon. Others will be new.

Heart of song and love
I wish you'd see what I see
You left me wishing

Late night Manayunk
The things you got me to do
Shame it was just sex

A strong hand taken
An unattached dalliance
Ravaged; I miss it

Young man with sad eyes
We had a fun filled summer
There *are* homeless here

Before the cocaine
Before I hated our lives
There was tenderness

Spoiled little boy
Following your parents' lead
God, I miss their house

I fell hard too soon
I cannot help but wonder
Were they all just lies

Too much on your plate
Boy with the dimpled smile.
There's no room for me.

Ghost hunting, really?
Sometimes I wanted to laugh
At very wrong times.

Accepting the Static

2010-09-06T09:16:00.000-05:00

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for at least half an hour. Nothing is stirring up interest.

I looked at some of my incomplete fiction and toyed with the idea of editing or adding. But at the moment, I’m not really feeling the love for Mexican vampires and mystical tattoos. Nor am I interested in returning to a traveling carnival in a post-apocalyptic world. They will both have to wait for another day.

I looked up some writing prompts but they also failed to inspire. I’m feeling a little too drained for quirky and funny, or deeply dramatic. Where’s the middle ground? Where’s the writing prompt for the woman lounging in a hotel room bed, thinking about having to pack up her things and her return to the ‘real world’ after a mini-vacation?

Maybe I’m too distracted by the little troubles of life. There are bills to pay, work to crack down on, serious discussions to be had that I keep avoiding, things that I want but cannot or should not have, steps that need to be taken but fear makes me stall, worry about the person that I am becoming: all of these things bubble in my head. I am bursting at the seams with words and fear and confusion. It makes sitting down to write, facing that blank page, a little difficult.

I wish I had a switch that could turn off all the static.

Knitting is simpler. I can create something beautiful, functional or fun, yet the process is repetitive and slow. One stitch at a time, with just needles and yarn, something is formed from my fingers. I can pick it up and put it down at my leisure.

Come to think of it, writing is really the same way isn’t it? My fingers typing on my laptop. Words forming on the screen. One word at a time, I’m creating something. I can take as long as I need. It doesn’t have to be born fully formed and readable. I can make mistakes, make corrections, start new or pick up something old.

I’ve promised myself to post something on this blog every Monday. And here it is, my post for today: I’m scattered and a little frustrated. It’s nothing new, but rather something I need to learn to work with, for life will never be simple. There will always be static of some sort buzzing in the background.

Windswept

2010-09-05T11:19:00.000-05:00

I dreamt of you last night, something I haven't done in a dozen years, maybe longer. Yes, thoughts of you have occasionally passed my mind but never in a dream so vivid.

The warm breeze off the ocean caressed my skin like feathery light kisses. Then I felt it, your hand on my hip, your breath on my neck. My heart quickened. I felt as though the lacing of my corset would burst, my heart was beating so fiercely. In the distance I saw ships, great sailed beasts outlined against blue sky and grey seas. They were traveling across the ocean to a world far away; a world I would never see. Then suddenly you were gone from me. Away upon one of those ships you stood on a wind and water swept deck. You were looking toward your destination, east, and your future.

The salty sea spray from my dream was that of quiet tears upon waking. Do you ever think of me? Do you ever remember that last summer beside the ocean?

It has been many years since I’ve stood upon the shore. I miss the sound. Like gentle thunder, I miss the rolling sound as it breaks upon the shore. I have a shell that reminds me when I put it to my ear but it's not the same. Summer here is filled with the sound of locusts. They sound like windup tin toys; dozens of them, hundreds of them, lined up on a shelf in a toy shop. Our fields and woods are filled with the metallic buzz for weeks on end.

I look at my hands. They were once delicate; the hands of a beloved daughter with few worries beyond her embroidery or piano. Today they are dry and cracked; the hands of a washer woman, farmer, wife and mother. They haven't made music in many years.

That summer you were a rapt listener as I played for guests in my grandmother’s salon. Was it truly the music that caught your attention or my young and pretty face? That face is worn now from age and work. Would you even notice me in a crowd?

I don't want to sound ungrateful or maudlin. I have a good life here. My husband works hard for me and the children. Our children are bright and beautiful. I love to see them smile. Our farm is prosperous enough to keep us fed, warm and comfortable. Our neighbors are friendly and helpful. I have little to complain about.

But sometimes when I'm alone I can't help but wonder, "What if things had been different?"

I have an empty bottle of blue glass. I keep it in a window to catch the morning light, or hold a small spray of wild flowers. Today it will become a ship. It will sail forth from my village's small river. From there it will gently pass through the countryside and eventually to the sea. Will my ship of blue glass ever deliver this message to you? Perhaps only in my dreams.

Prelude

2010-08-31T09:09:00.000-05:00

The town was once a bustling vacation place. Kara could remember visiting when she was small. She and her little brother Lewis would laugh and play in the soft white sand. Lewis loved the birds. He would toddle across the beach into flocks of milling gulls. She'd skip with him and as the birds took flight around them, they'd raise their arms and laugh. Lewis' baby giggles sparkled like sunlight on the water. As the sun went down she’d hold her father's hand as they walked along the boardwalk eating ice-cream cones. At night in their room, her mom would sing her and Lewis to sleep, the sound of the ocean keeping time with her mother's melody. Kara’s summer memories of long ago smelled like sea spray and spun sugar.

Sometimes she wondered if the world was truly darker or if her memories were unrealistically bright.

The night the sky shattered was one the living wouldn’t soon forget nor was it a thing survivors talked about. Not many people shared their secret thoughts with one another, bitter memories kept people’s mouths shut. Speaking the words aloud only brought sadness. Life was already difficult, why trouble themselves over things they could not change? 15 years later and The Incident was all it was called.

Around the world the darkened sky made farming difficult; even the texture of the water had changed. Years of riots and confusion left humanity broken and bleeding. Like other places the world over, the vacation town was no longer one of relaxation and fun; instead the people had to work hard to live.

The ocean had receded since the incident and to reach fish-able waters a long stretch of marshy ground had to be crossed. The walk to the water was slow and arduous. Mud clung fast and with a slucking sound, pulled away as the fisher folk lifted their feet. Once at the water's edge, the blackness of the ocean was all they could see for miles.

Hand knotted nets with weighted edges were cast onto the water. Each heavy web hit the water with a subdued splash and slowly sank below the inky surface, vanishing from sight. The first cast was always the quietest. The gentle lapping of the opaque water and the breath of salty breeze was the early morning song of sunrise. The fisher folk spread out along the black shore line. Each one far enough apart so that their nets would not overlap yet close enough so that someone was always within reach if there was trouble.

After a few minutes, each fisher would haul on their net. Ropes attached to the edges pulling together, gathering fish into the mesh. Anything caught was then dropped into buckets to be carried back to the village. Blind whiskered catfish and eels were the most plentiful, filling the worn plastic buckets with their undulating gray bodies.

It was hard work, but satisfying. Each fisher knew they were feeding the entire village with what they caught.

Everyone kept a wary eye to the water. With very little warning the waves could quickly rise and sweep across the mud plain to the village edge. That was when the water was most dangerous; its quiet strength deceptive.

Some thought there was a rhythm to the waves. That there was a subtle but dangerous tide that naturally formed after the crack in the sky. Others thought the waves rolled in the wake of giant creatures that swam the deep. Kara believed the ocean to be a vast living thing and like all living things it had to feed. When they stood upon the mud plain fishing the black water, her ankles and feet were caressed by the beast. It was just waiting and teasing before sweeping in like a tongue to lick the fishers into the sea's mouth.

***

Several years earlier, she had helped a girl escape the waves. Kara and Jeanette had been out along the boardwalk, exploring among the marsh reeds. In the springtime there were little blue frogs in the shallows, and the old man on Derry Road would pay for them. They girls were beyond the village, under the boardwalk among the reeds. They were laughing while with slippery fingers they tried to catch the quick blue creatures. If there were shouts from the village they didn't hear them, they were too caught up in their hunt.

By the time the waves reached the boardwalk, the water wasn’t riding very high. That was part of the tricky nature of the sea; while the waves were low, the strength they wielded was astounding. Kara and Jeanette were knocked flat by the water, like someone had taken a cane to the backs of their knees.

Pulling away from the shore, the water dragged Kara along the ground. The air left her lungs and she thrashed about searching blindly for something to grasp. Somehow her arm found a post of the boardwalk as her other was suddenly grasped by a desperate touch. Jeanette’s hand had found her own.

The water tried to tear them away into the depths, but they fought hard. With their muddy fingers tightly entwined, Kara and Jeanette clung to one another’s life.

Together the two of them clawed their way out of the shallows and climbed the wooden posts to the safety of the boardwalk. Black with mud from head to toe and skin scratched from the reeds, they lay on the weather worn boards. Below them the water shook the pilings and whispered their names.

A year later, Jeanette's parents sold her to a man in Rathethorn. Before she could be sent away to him, Jeanette threw herself into the sea’s depths. She had chosen the sea’s mouth over slavery to a stranger. Kara's tears fell upon the water that took her friend.

After Jeanette’s suicide, Kara was haunted by nightmares. She’d wake in the night from dark watery dreams convinced she could hear Jeanette singing to her from under the waves.

The sea waited quietly, patient as stone. It waited until people forgot.

***

That morning among the fisher folk Kara was laughing; laughing with joy in the warmth of a late summer day, in the afterglow of a new lover's touch. She smiled and sang her mother's song as she worked the nets.

Across the mud plain Carl stole glances of Kara as he worked; her smile was as bright as it had been in the starlight of the evening before. Kara caught him looking and blushed happily in the red sun.

In that moment of joy, the sea acted.

It reached up and took her. The water swept in around her calves and in an instant her smile was gone, her eyes wide, her voice silenced by shock.

The sea took her in the span of a heartbeat.

reminiscence

2010-08-18T09:38:00.001-05:00

Memories are funny. What determines what stays and what goes? Similar memories blur into one another making the truth hard to remember.

The patio of my great-grandmother’s house was on a terrace, looking out over a long expanse of empty green lawn. The patio was a shady place, with a cherry tree growing beside it. Every spring that tree would bloom, turning the house and garden into a pink fairyland. There are many photos to remind us.

There were small sculptures and tiles tucked around the base of the trees in the shrubs and plants surrounding the patio. I think most were hand crafted by my great-grandmother. These also added to the fairyland feel of the place.

The patio in the back yard of my grandparents’ house was a similar place. There was a huge apple tree, with hand laid stones forming the patio around its base. Among the primarily slate stones were ones of broken marble. They were carved deeply with letters too broken to form complete words, but as a child I’d make up stories of collapsed civilizations and lost lands under that tree.

In my mind’s eye, I look at the ground and see the moss and small plants growing between the stones. I’d pick the wood sorrel and chew the sour leaves. Ant hills grew between the paving stones throughout the summer months. I’d watch the ants' busy work as I sat lazy on the ground or on a bench beside them.

Summers at my great-grandmother’s featured endless games of Scrabble on her terrace patio. My grandparents, or my mom and aunt would play with her, at a table under the cherry tree. I was too young to play.

When I was older, I’d spend hours playing 500 Rummy with my grandfather under the apple tree at his house. In the morning, I’d bring out his coffee, black with NutraSweet, and we start.

I don't remember who won those games between my grandfather and me. Instead it's the sound of the stream running beside the patio, the feel of the cards in my hand, the sound of my grandfather's voice. Do my mom and aunt have similar memories of my great-grandmother? Probably.

I wonder if my niece will play Scrabble or endless games of Rummy with me under a tree someday. I hope so.

if you leave it, they will eat

2010-02-25T05:19:00.001-05:00

My department has a small kitchette as a break area. Sometimes people will bring leftover party foods into the office. If the items are larger, they'll be left on the round table in the kitchenette. Often it's dessert.

So, when I went to make a cup of tea the other morning, I wasn't too surprised to see most of a large, highly decorated cake on the table. I hadn't seen an announcement regarding the cake (email is usually sent to the department) but there were three of my coworkers standing around it with cake on their plates. I figured one of them must have brought it in.

As I made my tea, I listened in to their cake critique. Apparently, it wasn't a traditional cake at all. Rather, it was layers of crisp chocolate meringue with chocolate cream filling. The shape of the cake was also odd; a rectangle with a log across the top. The whole thing was covered in a hard chocolate ganache.

At a lull in their chat I asked, "Who brought it in?"

"We don't know" they chorused.

All I could do was laugh. "You're eating a strange cake and have no idea where it came from? I think I'll pass and maybe see how you all feel an hour from now."

No one ever admitted to bringing the thing in. As the day progressed, the cake became more and more mangled as people tried pieces of it. I never bothered. It seemed too sweet, and the crunchy meringue didn't appeal to me.

I still think it was funny; the clutch of coworkers surrounding a lunch table, eating and critiquing crumbling pieces of overly sweet cake, with no idea from where it came.

Weather Report

2010-02-05T18:39:00.000-05:00

Just a quick piece of fiction written around a friend's topic suggestion: 'weather report'.

-----

Jennie tugged her glove off with her teeth. Activating the touch screen on her phone, she scrolled to the weather application. There at the top appeared an icon of a waning moon with wispy clouds passing by. 61 and partly cloudy.

But Barcelona was a dream away.

Jennie felt the icy burn of snow melting on her neck. Readjusting her scarf and cursing her now frozen bare fingers, she quickly shoved both hands deep into her coat pockets. The snow was going to get deep. It was already over her ankles and continued to fall fast in big puffy clumps. Fortunately, she didn't have far to go to get to her apartment.

The first extra city she had added to the weather application had been for a vacation. It was handy knowing the weather she was traveling to. Later she added the homes of friends and relations living far away. She felt a little more connected to people she missed when she knew their weather.

In the past month, as she became more and more tired of the winter gray of home, Jennie had added places she fantasized about visiting. Barcelona, Venice and Cairo were made available to her at all times, virtually through her phone.

She shook off a layer of snow when she entered her apartment. Jennie stumbled around at the door as as she stripped off her wintry gear. Solomon, who normally met with a leg rub and purr, kept his distance from the shower of damp and growing puddles on the floor. Smart cat.

Half an hour later, she was dry and warm. A hot cup of tea was in her hand. Dinner was warming in the oven. Solomon rubbed himself against her leg as she looked out the livingroom window. It was dark out, but in the light of the street lamps she saw the falling flakes and blanketed white streets.

Picking up her phone and glancing down she started scrolling through her cities. It was 58 and partly cloudy in Barcelona. Venice was cooler at 44 with rain. Cairo also had partly cloudy skies and 55 degree weather. Atlantis had sun and lightning.

Jennie stared at the screen and read it again. Atlantia, 95 degrees. And there at the top, an unfamiliar icon: three yellow suns with red lightning bolts raining down. The rest of the week showed more lightning and sun.

Outside the snow kept falling.

Look, a monkey!

2010-01-04T12:26:00.001-05:00

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m easily distracted. Is it product of watching too much afternoon TV as a kid? Maybe.

I’m in the middle of reading The Corpse Walker: Real-Life Stories, China From The Bottom Up. It’s a series of 27 oral histories of people from the lowest rungs of Chinese society, mostly relating to their lives during and after the cultural revolution. The stories they tell are gruesome, cruel, hopeful and completely mesmerizing.

Since each chapter is a single interview, the book is perfectly designed for my short attention span. However, my interest is now piqued. I want to find out more about the Chinese Communist Revolution, the Great Leap Forward, and Great Chinese Famine.

How is this supposed to help me research the Zapotec civilization and modern-day Oaxaca?

I miss the tinsel*

2009-12-27T20:19:00.000-05:00

The past two Christmases have been a little difficult. For a decade, the rhythm of my holidays was set: Thanksgiving with mom, Christmas Eve into Christmas morning with in-laws, New Year's Eve with friends, and finally Ukrainian Orthodox Christmas with dad. But my separation from my husband has changed things. Now there's a hole in the middle; right at Christmas Eve.

Last year and this past week I spent Christmas Eve at my dad's house. Since the Orthodox calendar has Christmas coming in January, December 24th is a quiet night. It was just the four of us, my dad, step-mom, brother and me. My dad hung the lights on the tree, my brother and I hung the ornaments, there was Christmas music playing, we drank a little, and laughed a lot.

It was my second year returning to this tradition, and I felt a little less like an intruder this time around. Isn't that crazy, to feel like an intruder on your own family? New traditions are hard to forge. I feel clumsy and out of place. But the change is good. I'm among my family and moving on.

I spilled the beans on my dad's Christmas gift. After three glasses of wine, this drunk can't keep secrets. I got a hug and a kiss on the head. He's thrilled with his upcoming gift.

"Now someone has to get me the hat to go with it" he said to my step-mom.

I think it's pretty awesome my dad wants to dress like Tom Baker's Dr. Who.

Later in the evening my brother and I discussed an olive green plastic brick with an ornament hook through its corner. We found the thing at the very bottom of the ornament box. Upon reflection, we figured it once was covered in wrapping paper and ribbon, and was meant to be an ornament shaped like a Christmas gift.

"Now it's a bar of soap" I said.

"I like soap" said my brother, as he hung it on the tree.

This week I think I'll make a Christmas ornament for my parents. Then maybe next year, as I decorate the tree with my brother, I can hang it among the growing collection of memories and soap.

* The tinsel is a reference to the Christmas trees at my grandmother's and great-grandmother's houses. They were always dripping with tinsel; the individual strand type, not the garland type. Somehow the cats' bellies survived their annual nibbling of tinsel threads, and we'd be sweeping the glittering strands from dusty corners, months after the trees came down. It's a little sad to see the tree at my dad's house go tinsel-free.

shiver

2009-12-07T07:57:00.000-05:00

train is running late
coffee cup finger warmer
monday in winter

just an idea

2009-12-04T08:59:00.000-05:00

"This one stole from you. He would like to apologize."

The girl was slight, almost delicate. Under the moonlight her face seemed nearly luminous. Her hair hung in a long braid down her back. The braid pulled so tight and smooth it only added to the doll-like appearance of painted on hair and features. But no doll maker would paint a face like that. From eye to lip across a porcelain cheek a deep scar marred a square jaw. The corner of her mouth was twisted back and down because of the scar, forming a permanent sneer on one side.

It was this girl and another that had quietly stepped out of a dark alley.

A tickle of fear crossed Dean's mind. It was late and the street empty. He was foolish to walk alone at this time of night. He could barely remember where he was coming from. Some bar not far from the street market he thought. How many drinks had he had? How long had he been pining over something pointless? This girl and her partner had startled him from his brooding thoughts as he was walking home.

Dean's muddled silence seemed to annoy the girl. Her brow furrowed slightly and her eyes seemed to darken. She said again, "This one stole from you. He would like to apologize."

Dean’s drunken tunnel vision focused on her cruel mouth. Her teeth were too small, her lips too thin. Tearing his eyes away from the girl’s face he saw her right hand gripping the arm of young man not much more than a boy. He had the ragged look of the local poor. The city crawled with street toughs like this, boys and girls alike. They all had a hard demeanor and even harder eyes.

This boy was at this moment, far from tough. He stood with eyes filled with fear. He was hardly the street thug his dress made him out to be. His eyes were wide with what could only be terror. It was a warm night, but not overly so. Still the boy dripped with sweat. It beaded on his forehead and rolled down his face. Mixing with the film of dust from the street, his face was streaked. And where those tears filling his eyes? The boy's mouth was open as if to speak or maybe scream. But no sound came. He was petrified as though he had seen the end of all things.

The stony faced girl spoke again. "This is yours, Dean Saint Thomas." She reached out, a leather billfold in her hand.

It was his. Under the girl's thumb he could see the branded image of a flower. Daisy had always liked to give gifts with flowers on them. "So you always remember who gave them to you", Daisy had said.

Dean slowly took the offered billfold. There was an unreality to the moment beyond that of too much drink. He felt like he was standing in a dream with this pale girl. "Thank you." He paused as she started leading the quaking boy into the shadows. "How can I repay you?" he asked before he lost sight of her in the shadowy darkness of the alley.

"Pray for this one, that his sins may be forgiven."

Dean's walk long home was uneventful. The dry warm air of late October caressed his skin. The street of the slum remarkably quiet. The bars were the rowdiest but they seemed hushed and subdued. As he passed he'd hear the voices inside but not the boisterousness he was used to hearing. Even the prostitutes were oddly rare. When he spotted some they were traveling in small packs.

Fumbling a little with the lock to the back door, he entered the kitchen as quietly as possible. As he shut the door behind him, the room suddenly flooded with light.

"Where have you been all night? I thought you may be dead. And just , with all your rattling about outside the door, I thought that
your killer had come back here to kill me and steal all your things." As she gave him hell, the old woman gestured with the cast iron pan
and kitchen knife in her hands. "You know it isn't safe at night. What with the killer and all."

Right, the killer. That's why the streets of Oaxaca City were so quiet. Three murders in as many weeks was uneventful by Mexican standards. But these particular murders were far more gristly than a typical street brawl or tourist mugging gone horribly bad. The papers described limbs being removed and internal organs being exposed. In a city steeped in gods and spirits, the unspoken ritualism frightened people.

Seeing Dean drunk but safe at home, Adonica eventually cooled down. She returned her weapons to their places and proceeded to mix up some chocolate. "It will take away the effect of you drinking, and you will sleep easier."

Hot chocolate was Adonica's cure for all ills. Have a headache? She'd make hot chocolate. Have a stuffy nose? Have some hot chocolate. Stumble home slightly drunk and mildly shaken up from a strange encounter in an alley? Here's a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Dean didn't argue, there was no point. If he turned her down, she'd just make a bigger mug of the stuff and thrust it in his hands. Sometimes he worried she'd pour it down his throat.

Adonica's chocolate was amazing. It was thick to almost a pudding consistency. It was perfectly smooth and sweetened with honey and a little sugar cane, with just a touch of the sweet spice of cinnamon and the heat of red pepper. And somehow, it always seemed to work. A steaming mug of Adonica's chocolate did seem to cure most ills.

As she mixed the ingredients over the flame of the stove top, Dean told her of his stop at the Noche bar off the market square. The told her how he had lingered too long over drinks and talk with tourists, which later turned into lingering over drinks and talk with locals unwinding after a long shop day. He didn't tell her of his quiet brooding over Daisy which came later in his stay at the bar. Adonica would just get agitated with him. Nor did he tell her about the encounter with the girl and the thief later in the street.

In the comforting light of the kitchen with Adonica bustling about like a mother hen, it came to him that he recognized the frightened boy. He had been in the bar, drinking with some rough friends at a table to the side. The barman had been a little worried they would start trouble. He and the boy had bumped into one another when Dean had gone to the bathroom. Dean felt like a fool for missing such a clumsy pickpocket move.

Slowly sipping his drink, Dean took the cup with him to bed. As he walked up the three flights of stairs to the floor he kept for himself, he hoped their few guests hadn't overheard Adonica's ire in the kitchen earlier. The House of Flowers Bed and Breakfast had four rooms for rent. This week two were occupied, both on the second floor of the building. Mr and Mrs Hardy's room was the closest to the kitchen. If anyone would have been disturbed, it would be them. Dean decided he would apologize to the guests over breakfast in the morning. Might as well head off any possible complaints by being proactive.

Dean's private apartment at the top of the house was fairly bright in the light of the moon. His cat, Zod, greeted him briefly but
affectionately before going back to sleeping in his favorite chair. Dean stood by the window facing the direction of the market square, not really thinking of anything as he finished his cooling hot chocolate and listened to his cat purring from across the room.

In the days following the incident in the dark by the alley, new details would come to Dean's mind. Dean was positive the girl had worn gloves. They were supple leather, worn with age. She must have come across them among a family's things or perhaps they were a find at a
used clothing stall. They had the look of high quality but very old. He thought there may have been embroidery at the cuffs but it had been too dark and too small a detail for him to remember.

Beyond the gloves, the girl's clothing was unlike what he was used to seeing in the street, especially on a warm night. Dressed in a turtleneck, split skirt, and boots, she could have been a young woman about to go horseback riding. Her only accessory was a rosary hooked over her belt at her hip.

The memory of the rosary seemed to grow stronger as the days passed. He could picture the blond wooden beads connected with silver, the tiny yet intricate image of Christ on the wooden cross hanging over the slim hip of the girl.

Yrggp Szikyurp Afreer

2009-12-03T16:55:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, my mom had a subscription to Games Magazine. Every month when a new issue arrived (because back then it was a monthly thing and not the bimonthly publication it is now) I would first look for a fake ad. After that I'd work on solving the cryptograms.

I loved cryptograms so much, one birthday my mom used those colorful hard sugar decorative letters and put a cryptogram on my birthday cake. The puzzle was a simple one really. Once solved it would say “Happy Birthday Joanna” or something like that. But at the time, my over emotional childish ways caused me to panic while trying to solve the puzzle in public. I was convinced I couldn’t do it and cried from embarrassment and failure.

Um, okay. Maybe that's not the happiest birthday memory, but looking back I laugh. And I like to believe I've gotten far better at struggling with something in public than when I was an 11-year-old.

My love of cryptograms went hand in hand with a love of coded messages. I remember writing notes on paper in lemon juice, leaving messages on steamy windows, reading about hobo codes and Navajo code talkers. Can you imagine my delight when I found a stash of Braille books in my great-grandmother's house? It's a wonder I didn't teach myself Morse code and flag semaphore. I know I thought about both.

I hadn't solved cryptograms in a while. These days my puzzle solving time is spent on colorful and animated iPhone apps. But when a friend suggested he run a short email role-playing game featuring word puzzles, I figured I'd enjoy it.

Oh my God, I loved it.

All told, there were three different word puzzles, each one progressively harder to solve. The first puzzle went pretty quickly, it was a nice warm up. The other two were far more fiddly.

For the past two weeks, I've been spending a little time here and there puzzling things out. I've written out the alphabet multiple times, playing with letter patterns, and rereading clues. Now and again, I'd email my progress to The Chief, who'd in turn reply with additional clues and suggestions. It's been great fun during my train commute in the morning and afternoon. Additionally, the friend sending the puzzles my way was fantastic with providing positive feedback throughout the process. His asides pointing out particularly clever steps of logic were great for my puzzle solving ego.

This afternoon the final puzzle was completed and the city of Baltimore saved. Immediately, I was sad the game was over. What would I do on my commute home?

But my entertainment wasn't the only goal of the game. My friend is looking for ways to incorporate word puzzles into face-to-face role-playing games. Our playing the email version was a play test of a sort.

Having players solve puzzles in face-to-face games is tricky. I was once in a game where the players had to solve one of those sliding picture puzzles in a game. It was a lock of some sort, when solved a door would open and the player characters would stop drowning. There was a lot of player agitation at the game table at the time and when we failed to solve the puzzle there was more grouchiness. No character drowned, but the party was separated and characters were hurt. A couple players were a little put off by the experience but we continued the game and had a good time. Come to think of it, that whole scenario was filled with puzzle solving and remains one of my favorites.

If I were integrating word puzzles into a face-to-face game I’d probably only do so in a multi-session game with players with whom I’m familiar. As a player, I'd want to feel comfortable enough with the gm and other players to be able to say when I'm stuck. I think I’d be more likely to have frustration among strangers. I'd hate to have a replay of my 11th birthday. :)

As for multi-session, tension of having a time limit is awesome, for example: "Baltimore is going to blow up on Friday if we don't figure out the contents of this coded message." Having time to work up to Friday is necessary. I think that’s where that puzzle dungeon fell a little flat. The puzzles were great, but there was a lot of “solve this right now or you can’t go any further.” It was super stressful and frustrating at times. Being able to step away from the puzzle to role-play other scenes, or to wait until the next session, makes for a great mental break.

I'm a fan of fiddly bits at the game table. I love maps, handouts and note taking. I've played a lot of games while lounging around in comfy chairs in a living room, but I prefer having space to scribble. For the email game, I ended up making myself a sheet of 5x5 grids for code key testing. (Go ahead and say it, because I do all the time. I am such a dork. LOL) Of course, I'd like to see that sort of thing available in a puzzle-centric game.

Of course, with this all fresh in my head, I'm tempted to put puzzles in games. Or maybe I'll just wait for another round of coded email.

creepy and oddly inspirational

2009-12-02T19:32:00.000-05:00

I received a text message from an old friend yesterday.

If a big guy grabs you and tosses you in a bag don't worry I asked Santa for you for Christmas

I'm not going to go into all of what's wrong with this text message. Let's just say I found it creepy and weird.

And I very much want to write a fictional story around it. After all, 'tis the season to write strange Santa stories.

something autumnal for kim

2009-10-01T10:33:00.000-05:00

“The best leaves are always at the top of the tree. Everyone knows that.”

Paul and the others laughed as they walked away. Lee could feel the tears welling as he crumpled the bright yellow leaf in his hand. Why did Paul always make the things he liked seem little and ugly? He’d show Paul and the other kids. He’d get a perfect leaf from the top branches of the tree.

Lee slowly made his way up the tree, grasping and pulling himself up, branch by branch. Staying close to the trunk the climb was still scary but beautiful. The bark against his fingers was rough and made his skin raw. The leaves around him were the color of fire, orange red yellow, moving in the afternoon breeze.

He couldn’t make out the words the wind whispered, but Lee knew that something so great must have something to say. One day he’d learn all the languages to all the great things like the wind and the oceans. The tree too must have a language. Maybe it was the way the branches and leaves moved, or even the colors they changed. Lee would learn that too.

The branches were getting thinner the further he went up the trunk. Lee was afraid if he went much further up the branches would bend and break. Looking down he didn’t see the ground anymore. The crowd of branches and leaves blocked the view. He felt like he was high above the earth in a windowless room. All he could see was the color of autumn.

Maybe he *was* autumn. Climbing deep into the branches and leaves he had become one with the season. Lee took a deep breath of the spicy fall air and held it for as long as he could. The sound of his heartbeat pounded under his skin and the breath of the wind and the shuddering leaves got louder around him.

Lee let go of his breath as slowly as he could, but still his all too human gasp broke his autumn spell. He was not autumn, he was just Lee. The leaves here at the top were beautiful, but just as beautiful as the ones closer to the bottom branches.

He had found a place though, a place of quiet and sound, of color and ease. This was a place he’d remember and return to within his memories. This was perfection.

adventures in online dating

2009-02-04T20:55:00.000-05:00

Yes, I'm listed on a free singles website. Don't laugh at me, because I've seen some of you there too!

Today I received a message entitled "your cool." It contained a sentence or two that just amounted to someone telling me I'm cool but without telling me why I'm cool. Um, yeah... whatever man.

For some reason I decided to look at the author's profile. Looking back, I think it was the touch of the divine leading me onward.

Likes -- movies with a worm blanket

I've been giggling about this all night. Seriously, the image of a worm blanket is now burned into my mind's eye and it makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.

I'm certain it's just a silly typo. My spelling is far from stellar, so I'm certainly not holding it against him. But I can't help but feel a teeny bit guilty about laughing at his mistake.

But then that squirmy worm blanket image pops back into my head and I laugh again. It's nice to laugh. :)

black water edits

2009-01-05T19:39:00.000-05:00

The once little piece is getting longer. I added a bit after recieving opinion 1. Opinion 2 came in my email this evening. Looks like more detail is going to be added.

Since I've been picturing the piece as a introduction to the world, I've been holding some story details close to the chest. The idea was to reveal some things later in the other tales. However, the piece, which I'll call Black Water from here on out, needs some of those extra details. I can always build upon those details in the following stories and add new ones to the world.

journal entry

2008-12-31T13:16:00.000-05:00

December 31, 2008

My feet are cold. It's an easily remedied problem; I just need to get off my butt, got to my bedroom and get a pair of socks. But no, I'm camped out on the sofa with my chilly feet propped up on the cushions with a laptop keeping my thighs warm.

I'm a lethargic slug. No wonder I weigh as much as I do.

Not only are my feet cold, but they're ugly. I can see my toes peeking above the laptop monitor. I seriously need to soak and buff my feet. Dry and ugly they are. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow after walking around downtown in the afternoon. I'm due for a long relaxing soak in the tub.

I had the dream again last night.

The long hallway lined with portraits, the wall fixtures with their flickering flames of gas with little light being cast. I carry a candelabra and walk slowly. The weight of my skirts feels unnatural. I have to lift the front a little to make moving easier.

I pause at each door along the hall and try the handle. As I find each door locked my anxiety is heightened. Glancing over my shoulder I know I'm being followed, but I can't see very far down the hall.

Sometimes I think I see movement in the portraits. Out of the corner of my eye I'll catch a shift of something. I'm tempted to look, but too afraid to stop and look at a painting closely. What if the movement is true?

Nor is there much time. I'm certain whatever is following me is getting closer.

As my anxiety grows, I move faster down the hall. I stop checking doors and focus on running away. I drop the candelabra, hoist up my skirts and flee. I flee from a faceless horror.

As usual, I wake when in the dream I stumble. Last night my dream-self caught a foot on a carpet and fell face down in the hall. I lay there panicking, convinced my pursuer was hovering over my prone form. I woke in a cold sweat, splayed in in my bed in the same position as I was in the dream.

I'm sure my dream is filled with symbols of my personal fears. Blah, blah, blah... I just wish it didn't wake me up every other night.

Here we are on the eve of a new year. At my therapist's prodding I started this journal. Have I seen any improvement in my insomnia? Not really. Have I been able to open up to strangers better? Not really. Have I started any sort of weight loss plan? No. So what the hell do I get out of this? I had hoped that by now there would be change for the better, that I could usher in a new year with a new lease on life.

Maybe there is change. I'm certainly more comfortable sharing my inner demons with Dr. Sheridan. He's kindly and gentle, with a voice of reason I admire. I cry less and consider more. Sure, I'm still an anti-social lethargic slug, but at least I'm reading and learning more than I had. I'm not just sitting and doing nothing; I'm using my mind.

Tonight I visit with Leslie and Mark. We'll ring in a quiet new year in their cluttered apartment, toasting the ball drop with champagne and cigarettes. No, maybe smoking is not the best thing for someone with mild asthma. But it's the New Year! I think it will be okay for me to light one up just for tonight.

I'm sacking out on their sofa, and in the morning we're heading into the city for the parade. I need to remember to wear my comfortable shoes. It's certain to be a madhouse downtown, I'm beginning to get a little worried about the crowds. It will be good for me. I repeat, it will be good for me.

(See that up there? That is an attempt at positive thought. Dr. Sheridan would be proud.)

I haven't seen Leslie and Mark since the funeral. God, that was in May. Seven months have passed in the blink of an eye but at the same time it feels like forever. We're certain to spend some time reminiscing about the old days. I need to try not to drink too much. I don't want to fall into a spiral of tears. A new year should be met with a smile.

I miss you Natalia, we all do.

first impressions

2008-11-07T10:06:00.001-05:00

You probably don't remember the first time we met.

It was about 15 years ago in Minsk. An ice-storm had indefinitely grounded all flights, and all area hotels were filled to capacity. You have to remember the crowded air terminals; people sleeping on floors and curled up uncomfortably in molded plastic seats.

I was on a local shuttle flight from Russia to the Ukraine. Getting grounded halfway was a frustration. I was so close to my final destination. I wanted to crawl into my own bed for a change but instead found myself in a cold waiting area littered with other stranded transients.

Sleeping in the terminal was impossible. There was a little boy crying a few seats away from me, and an old woman whose snore sounded like a whinny. I figured it best to be social and removed myself to the bar.

You must remember the bar at least.

I was surprised at the number of Americans. As he passed me whatever that beer was that was left on tap, the bartender said that they were all a part of a film crew. Apparently some sort of movie had been shot in the countryside outside of the city.

I maneuvered myself away from the bar, allowing another patron to take my spot and place an order. The crowd pressed as I forged a path to a small side table where I recognized a stewardess from my grounded flight.

As I made my way, balancing my very full glass, I smiled at the familiar buzz of my home language. Passing close to tables filled with celebrating men and women I heard snippets of shop talk and gossip from the film crew. It was both a thrill and a comfort to recognize varied American accents talking in person, and not from a static filled radio in my apartment.

A hand on my thigh was a bit of a shock, and to see your sly smile brought a brief rush of excitement, but that was sadly crushed by the leering and mutilated Russian pickup line that followed. All could have been well, if my retreat had been taken in stride. It was the face of annoyed injury that followed that burns still. Again a tangle of mutilated Russian, only then meant to insult and save face in front of drunks.

It was the first time I saw American arrogance as an outsider.

Perhaps it's silly of me to label it American arrogance. It's a situation that happens every night in every bar in every country in the world. But at that moment of pining for home, I was stung by the cruelty of what I had left behind.

Threadbare, part 2

2008-10-15T12:24:00.001-05:00

A small bronze bear cub stood within the curve of a low wall. Shining bits of ice and snow capped its back and head. He looked poised to run playfully away in the snow; tossing his head as he went. It was a statue Chuck had seen many times before but tonight the small bear looked a little different. Tonight, he was dressed for the weather.

What brought the laughter were the spats. Each bronze paw had a small, carefully laced, knit cuff at the ankle. But there was more to the picture. On its head was tied a hat; red, orange and yellow stripes, earflaps and a pompom all topping the little bear’s head. And finally, the bright red that had caught Chuck’s eye was a scarf. It was long enough that it had been wrapped around the neck and body of the bear, leaving plenty to hang to the ground. The color was rich like fresh red roses, the texture bulky and soft.

“I think I need this more than you my friend.”

Chuck bent down close to the playful cub and carefully unwound the scarf. It was longer than he expected, close to 10 feet he estimated. He shook off what snow clung to it and wrapped it around his own head and neck. The remaining ends hung long down his chest. Instantly, he felt much warmer.

He patted the hat-topped head of the bear cub and continued on his way through the nighttime quiet.

At the far edge of the park he looked across the street. The deep entryway to the small branch of the library looked protected enough from the wind. It was a city government building, and a library at that, cameras and security were bound to be very slim. And there, just a few steps down the sidewalk, was an empty discarded milk crate.

Long ago, Chuck had learned from another homeless man that sitting on the icy ground was too cold. If you did you were bound to get sick. Even worse was sleeping over a steam grate. Of course the warmth of the hot steam was comfortable, but that was only at first. The steam would leave you wet and being wet in the deep winter was even more dangerous than sleeping on cold ground. It was better to sit on a crate, or a bench; off the ground and away from the damp.

The timing of finding the doorway was perfect; Chuck was beginning to feel very weary. He settled on the crate, with his back within the sheltered inside corner of the entryway. His legs were propped up on his backpack and once again the thin blanket wrapped around them. Smiling behind the soft and thick scarf, his breath became relaxed, deep and even. His chest seemed clearer than earlier. Perhaps he had shaken some phlegm loose in his chest from the laughter. In his sleepy comfort he breathed in, imagining the smell of fresh summer roses the color of his scarf.

Things were looking up.

Threadbare, part 1

2008-10-15T09:12:00.001-05:00

[I had told my friend I'd write a 500 word essay. I got though 540 words and Chuck is only just getting to the scarf. Looks like I have a second part to write. LOL]

"Hey you there. Move along."

The man's voice sounded muffled and distant, but the thumping, not so much. The cracking sound of wood on wood reverberated through Chuck's head as he rolled toward the voice. The heavy set security guard in his overstuffed dark blue parka was rhythmically rapping his night stick against the icy bench. He looked down on the still sleepy eyed Chuck.

"You can't sleep here fella. You have to find another place to go."

Only icy blue eyes and the bridge of a nose could be seen beneath the parka hood and ski mask. Chuck didn't think this was a guy who ever skied.

With a grunt and an ache, Chuck slowly pulled himself up. There was no need to hurry. The park bench creaked as he moved and the security guard continued his impatient tapping of his night stick. In the quiet of the night the noise was jarring. With cramped fingers, Chuck unwound the thin grey blanket he had wrapped around his legs and pulled the cloth around his shoulders. Even with the extra layer, the cold wind still worked its way under his worn clothes to his skin.

Easing himself to his feet, Chuck tugged his backpack out from under the bench, shouldered it and started off. He wasn't surprised at being roused from his sleep. The bench he had chosen was in the shadow of an ornate and modern office building. These places always had cameras. Even in the dead of a winter's night, people watched.

In Memory of Deirdre Dupre, Esq. was engraved in a plaque on the back of the bench. Chuck had thought the name was too pretty for a lawyer, it was better suited to a southern belle with a sweet sad smile. As he had drifted to sleep on the bench, he imagined his head in the lap of a beautiful Deirdre Dupre, Esq. She stroked his hair in the summer sun as she hummed a gentle tune.

He had picked that particular bench because it had been guarded from the wind. It was also off the main street in a small alcove that probably had plants in the summer months. He had hoped to stay private. But, of course there was security. There was always security, especially when there were lawyers around. It was just Chuck's luck there would be a security guard on duty that actually did his job on a freezing cold night such as this.

Perhaps he'd have better luck in the park a few blocks down.

At night, everything the park was in shades of black and white and all the figures looked angular. It was like walking though an old comic strip. A laugh turned to a violent cough as he imagined Dick Tracy appearing out of nowhere chasing down Flattop Jones.

He was careful walking the paths as a thin layer of ice had formed. The sound of his slow crunching walk was muffled by the snowy piles beside the paths. With a “whoosh”, a brisk breeze shook the surrounding trees, loosening snow and ice from their branches. It showered to the ground sparkling prettily in the streetlight; white snow against black trees in silver light.

The shock of red was easy to see among the trees. It was a bleeding gash against a silvery gray shadow. As he walked closer, the surrealistic nature of the scene caused another round of violent coughing laughter.

my one obsessed fan

2008-10-14T13:56:00.001-05:00

In the effort to get myself writing, I realize I need some accountability. So I've turned to a friend who also has things she wants to accomplish and offered her a trade.

Tonight I have a job for you: put a new package together for your adopted soldier. Even if it's just a letter and a couple of magazines, put it together, take a picture and mail it off. Of the things that have been sliding, it's the one that impacts another person. Email me the picture tomorrow morning.

Tonight I have a job for me: I'm going to write a 500 word essay. You need to give me a topic. :) I'll send you the essay tomorrow morning.

She just sent me the best response:

Ok, I'll get a package together for [the soldier] tonight and take a pic of it. As for a subject for a short story, I'll give you three. You pick:

3. A homeless man in the city finds a scarf on a statue and it changes his luck for good.

Ok, so I was gonna give you three, but I like that one so much, I want to hear about it.

Why do I suddenly feel a little like Kathy Bates? Next, I'll be breaking your ankles.

2008-10-14T11:13:00.000-05:00

I had a great dream last night. The unfolding had its moments of discomfort and pain, but the end was joyous.

I was living in a huge mansion owned by a very wealthy family who were related to me. The family bond was tenuous, as I was barely considered a cousin. They were just putting up with me being there. As time wore on, I was bumped from room to room and they gave less and less help in the way of clothing or food. Yet still they would smile and say how much they loved me. I was never totally ignored, but it was evident that I was an intruder on their lives.

I continued constantly to prove myself to them. I desperately wanted to be a part of their world and have them approve of me and take me in as one their own - their equal. I was met with failure after failure.

At the very end I was standing at the edge of the house, my clothing was ripped and filthy. I was hiding behind a large tree, looking over a swimming pool in which the family allowed the “help” and the needy to swim in the summer heat. The people there were swimming in a beautiful place but they were still unhappy. I looked down on my tattered clothing and saw myself among the people in the pool. In that moment I realized my relying on others to give me things to make me happy was ridiculous.

I stepped away from the pool, from the mansion, and alone began to tell stories from my heart. I told them just because I wanted to; I told them because in the telling I made myself happy. I wasn’t alone for long. People passing heard me speaking and some stayed to listen. It didn't take long for me to be surrounded by love and joy.

You hear all the time to 'make your own happiness'. I believe it but have a difficult time putting it into practice. Maybe it's because I forget the feeling of joy that comes from that creation and settle into the comfort of just drifting and fitting myself in with the people around me. My dream was so rich and vivid, the feeling of true happiness at the end was so real, that today I feel encouraged to step outside my comfort zone and do something new and just a little scary.

more dream farming

2007-07-11T13:40:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wonder if I should be concerned about the things I dream about. Take last night for instance. Although I don't remember the whole dream, three parts are still pretty vivid.

The first was watching television with my sister and friends. Every program on every channel eventually became pornographic. This wasn't something out of the ordinary and everyone watching was perfectly comfortable with the programming. However I was a bit uncomfortable only because my sister was masturbating while sitting in the recliner next to me. I started channel surfing, only lingering on a program until the porn started.

Later in the dream I was running across a field with my friends the dogs. People were following, beating us from the forest. Another dog came running up but as he was from a different tribe he instinctively wanted to attack the dogs that were with me. He and I talked (for all the dogs were sentient) and he said that the beaters behind us were purposely driving us toward him and his people. He warned us that we had to figure out a way to stop moving forward or a huge battle between our peoples would ensue. While he was speaking I could tell he was holding back the desire to attack.

My friends had the idea to bury ourselves under mud and leaves. If we could hide ourselves in the field the beaters would pass over us. I struggled to cover my friends and myself.

Somehow we escaped the beaters.

Later as I was eating dinner I picked up a tempura crab with my chopsticks. As I bit into it the body cracked open revealing baby spiders. I was only very slightly surprised that I was eating a spider and not a crab, after all sometimes the tempura batter masks the look of the food.

Holding the spider before me I could see that some of the baby spiders were still alive. Their legs were moving, waving in the air. I had to eat the spider quickly so the few living ones wouldn't get away. They were too tasty to let go.

apocalyptic dreams, take x+2

2007-06-28T08:45:00.000-05:00

June 18, 2007
I'm living in a post apocalyptic coastal town. Power is out except for a string of street lamps along the boardwalk. No one can explain why those particular lamps are lit as they are not connected to any generators. The survivors try not to think too much about them. At night they cast an eerie glow over the boardwalk and the marshy edge of the ocean.

Some places in the world are still broadcasting radio and TV signals, but the trick is to be able to pick them up. There is a TV cafe in the town: small black and white televisions with round screens are set into tables along a wall. You sit at a table, drop some coins in a slot next to the screen, put on the big headphones and look down at the angled table top to watch the screen. The sets are powered by some sort of generator in the basement of the building.

The cafe had been boarded up until the incident that changed everything. Since it's reopening the sets have been running as well as can be considered without anyone who really understands the old technology. The place is dusty and filled with debris. Some of the units don't work.

When trying to get one of the units to take coins, I jimmy one open. I can see a variety of items people have tried to use to get the machines to work (old coins from a variety of countries, flat buttons, bits of metal, etc.). I clean out the jammed coin slot and with some fiddling I am able to get the unit operating. A grainy picture of a dark haired man flickers on the round screen. The old woman I was helping smiles at me toothlessly as she puts on the headphones. She turns away and looks blankly down at the screen.

I'm not interested in news from the outside world.

Before the incident my family had been wealthy local lords. Since the incident I felt it best that none of the survivors know of my previous status. Our estate was in the country a few miles inland from the town in which I now lived. I spent a day going back to the house to collect a handful of personal items I had left behind - trinkets that reminded me of my mother who was now lost.

I was in my mother's ruined bedroom picking through jewelry when a rough looking woman entered. She was another survivor picking through houses looking for things to possibly sell for food. She mistook me for a scavenger like herself. I think she would have fought me for the jewelry but she didn't look terribly healthy. I'm certain I would have won a fight if one had occurred. I only wanted a few of the cameos as they meant the most to my mother and didn't think a fight was worth the trouble. I haggled with her long enough to maintain the appearance of a scavenger. Grudgingly she agreed to split the stash of jewelry I had before me.

Back in the coastal town I'm eking out a living with my younger brother. We share a small flat. During the day we join other survivors to go down to the water's edge and use nets to catch fish and crabs. The ocean has receded since the incident and to get to fish-able waters we have to cross a stretch of marshy ground. The walk out to the water is slow and arduous. The mud clings and with a slucking sound pulls away as you lift your feet to walk. Once at the water's edge, the blackness of the ocean frightens us but we need to fish to eat.

At night in the flat I sew and knit clothes and items for other survivors. There aren't many other survivors.

One afternoon we see a bright light cross the sky as if a great star is falling. We're reminded of the incident of a year or so ago. It may be nothing but then it may portend the end of the world. Many people abandon their work for the day to go home to be with their loved ones just in case it is the later.

My brother has a different idea. He runs away into the woods following the path of the falling star. I have to go and find him.

June 27, 2007
The phone rang; it was the police. They wanted me to come to a remote police station to collect the remains of my friend Jackie. I was too upset to ask how she had died but they made it seem as though she had been dead for some time. I made the long and difficult trip to the station where they silently handed me a large sack.

I took her home and struggled to decide where in my house to bury her. I stood crying in my bedroom uncertain as to which side of the room to dig her grave. There were other rooms I would have preferred to bury her, but they didn't have a dirt floor like my bedroom. I considered ripping out the wood floors of the music room.

All the while I was angry with myself for not asking how she had died. The absolute need to know what happened to her began eating away at my heart. I tried calling the police but they wouldn't answer my calls. As the day wore on my frustration grew. I decided I had to return to the police station and see them in person.

As I left the house I passed by the sack. Earlier, I had left it in the middle of the floor while looking for a place to dig. I walked by and the sack fell open. Jackie's head rolled out on to the floor. Her skin had turned a brownish green but her hair was same as when she was living; long and lustrous brown waves. I didn't know if her skin color was because she had been dead a while or had something to do with how she died.

I ran out of the house to find the police who had found her.

Urban Fantasy: Snippet 1

2007-02-03T17:42:00.000-05:00

“If I were to manifest a super power right this second, it would be laser eyes like what’s his name from the X-Men.” Her left hand was cold as she held the cell phone to her ear. She shivered and cursed herself for foretting gloves that morning.

“You mean Scott Summers?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why the change? I thought your super power would be teleportation, especially now that the weather is getting colder.”

“There’s this kid walking ahead of me. He’s bundled up in a big coat and baggy cargo pants and is carrying this big bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. You know, the individually wrapped ones. Well, he’s dropping the wrappers one at a time as he’s eating and walking.”

“Maybe he’s afraid of getting lost in the city so he’s leaving a trail to find his way home.”

“There’s too much wind. Most of the wrappers are being whipped off the sidewalk and over the bridge into the river. I think it’s far more likely he’s just some kid who’s too lazy to shove empty candy wrappers in one of his many big-ass pockets.”

“So you’re saying your laser vision will be a part of the Chloe Mackenzie anti-littering campaign? That’s cool. Will these laserings be random or more formal public executions?”

“I think totally random street executions are the way to go. Don’t you think the prospect of getting lasered into nothingness would be a deterrent?”

“That same idea was a Bloom County comic once. The way I remember it, the man, whatever his name was, is zapped into the future. He’s doing his typical sleazy shtick at a bar where he lights up a cigarette. The anti-smoking police come along and shoot him with laser pistols of some sort. He’s suddenly a pile of dust on the barstool.”

“Berkeley Breathed always was a man of vision. Maybe I can get him to illustrate some anti-littering posters." The woman's eyes narrowed as she stared at the boy walking ahead of her, "Damn it!”

“What is it? Are you okay?” The voice on the phone sounded distant over the wind across the bridge.

“So after leaving a trail of little wrappers, the kid just dropped the empty bag into the street. God, I hate people. Can I move to the country and become a crazy hermit now?” She shifted the phone to her other hand and ear, thrusting her numbed fingers into her coat pocket.

“I thought that was my future.”

“No, that’s your present. By the way, how’s the weather in Azeroth today?”

“Things are little slow this afternoon. I’m waiting for some of my guildies to come on so I can walk them through Uldamann.”

“Ian, do you do any work at all or are you playing World of Warcraft full-time now? Have you become one of those Chinese farmers I’ve heard tell of?”

“You’re just jealous. Admit it; you’d love to play WoW on a regular basis.”

“Stop trying to coax another addiction out of me Ian. I mean it. Speaking of addictions, I’m rapidly approaching the café. I should probably get going.”

“Which café?

“The Walnut Street Bridge Coffee House, I’m going to sit and drink coffee and eat an oh-so-buttery croissant while I watch people exercise across the street the way I know I should be exercising. It’s a new sort of self torture I’ve cooked up.”

“Their name is too long. And it’s a shame they aren’t open very late.

“But dude, what do you care, you never leave the house.”

“Maybe I don’t go out because the Walnut Street Bridge Coffee House isn’t open after 7pm. Anyway, you’re just jealous of my hermit-like lifestyle. Go drink your faux au lait.”

“Later man.”

immigrant grandfathers

2007-01-29T17:23:00.000-05:00

I sometimes laughingly say my dad is practically Irish, with the whiskey drinking and resulting slightly drunken storytelling. The truth is my father's family is Ukrainian, and proud of their heritage. At Christmas time that pride comes out particularly strongly. Again, loosened up over wine and cognac with traditional Ukrainian carols playing in the background stories start to flow.

This year there were tales about the communist regime and how my grandfather, John (or Ivan) came to live in the United States. Stalin was trying to wipe out anything culturally Ukrainian. For instance, the language was banned and musicians who played the Ukrainian national instrument, the bandura, were killed. It naturally was a time when some Ukrainians tried to fight back.

My grandfather and his partners had a well thought out plan. First they would break into important communist controlled buildings: warehouses, offices, whatever, and set up a leak in the roof. Then on a day before a heavy rain was forecast, my grandfather would set up a container of sodium. Now anyone who has taken high school chemistry has probably seen the sodium and water experiment. Well, the rain would fall and leak straight onto the sodium. The building would usually suffer pretty badly. Of course my grand father, who was friends with nearly everyone, would go out drinking with the chief of police that very night. It gave him a nice solid alibi.

But the police weren't stupid; eventually my grand father and his associates were all caught. Lucky for my grandfather he had been born in the United States. He was quickly deported. His associates weren't as lucky. They were killed by the communists.

The story strikes home that there is a fine line between freedom fighter and terrorist. From my seat 70 years later I call it freedom fighter, but then it was my grandfather fighting against a system that was out to destroy our culture. If there were any victims of the explosions, and I was descended from one of them, I'm certain I'd label him a terrorist.

My parents had divorced when I was a toddler and I had no contact with my father's family until after I graduated from high school. Since my grandfather died when I was in my early teens I never got to know him. I wish I could have heard these stories from him.

At this point in my life I love to hear these stories from my family especially from the older generations. Unfortunately, it's also a point when most of my grandparents have been dead for some years.

My mother’s father, Enrique, was born and raised in Colombia. He had joined the navy and met my grandmother in a bar in Philadelphia while they had been in port. They were married two weeks later so that he didn’t have to go back to Colombia and marry the good Catholic girl he was slated to marry. He had plenty of stories about growing up in Colombia, but when he was telling them I was too young to care.

We lived with them until I was nine, and then visited for long periods of time in the summer and over holidays. When I moved back to the city as an adult I spent several years living with him and my grandmother. So I have plenty of strong memories of him.

My mom and her siblings didn't think he was a great father, but he certainly was an amazing grandfather. His bedroom was much closer to mine than my parents' so he could hear me if I ever was in trouble or upset. I remember him taking care of me at night a few times when I was sick.

He gave me my first bicycle; it was sparkly purple with a yellow banana seat. When I nearly killed myself and broke a window, he didn't question the crazy story my girlfriend and I came up with. He just fixed it and moved on.

There were a few Colombia stories he’d tell when I was small, but they were silly and meant to make me laugh. For instance when he’d eyeball my pet guinea pig and tell me how wild guinea pigs would be roasted over a fire in Colombia for dinner.

I miss kissing his rough cheek before going up to bed. I miss making him coffee and playing endless games of 500 Rummy.

He was an ironworker and created beautiful functional things, sure they are heavy as hell, but still beautiful. I have a dining table and chairs that he made. Whenever I touch them I think of him.

He’s been gone almost 10 years now, and the last few he wasn't himself, but I keep him close in my heart. When I have particularly low moments I sometimes bring up the memory of his voice; "Joanna baby" he says and I am comforted.

I never had a good relationship with my mother's second husband. He was my step-father up until my early 30s so for the longest time he was the only father I ever knew. While I didn't get along well with him, I loved his father, Wilfred.

Wilfred was also an immigrant. He had been born in England and moved to Philadelphia when he was a teenager. His accent was less distinct than that of Enrique but you could still tell he was an Englishman.

When we lived in the city, we visited him and his wife every weekend. Every Saturday afternoon around 2 or 3pm he would butter a couple of rolls and we would eat them together with tea. I remember one weekend when they had driven up to visit us after we had moved to the country. It was around 2pm and he was determined to drive around to find a place that would serve us buttered rolls and tea.

He was a quiet, gentle and delicate man who always had classical music playing on the radio. When I was tall enough to play a full sized violin he had purchased one for me from another old man down the street. His favorite piece was The Meditation of Thais by Massenet. I had always meant to learn that piece of music for him, but I never did. I haven't played the violin for 15 years or more, but I still have that instrument he gave me.

At a certain point he stopped cutting and buttering his own rolls. Instead he would take a daily walk to the local deli where he'd have a bagel and a cup of tea. Even the staunchest habit can be changed a little bit. It was there while sitting at the counter that he passed away. I'm glad he died doing something he loved, even if it was something as simple as visiting his local deli for tea.

Why did it take me so long to care about their lives? Why couldn't I have been mature enough at a younger age to take advantage of their presence in my life and the memories they had to share? Now I am left with fleeting memories of my own, of the two strongest fathers I ever had; men who molded my loves and my dreams. I miss them both so much it hurts to remember them but I can't forget, they are too important a piece of the person I have become.

apocalyptic dreams, take x

2007-01-29T17:20:00.000-05:00

My dream last night was long, vivid and very cinematic. Plus it was yet another in the Zombie Apocalypse series.

While previous dreams contained the traditional slow shambling zombies, these were much different. To be honest they weren’t zombies at all. Instead, a significant portion of the world's population was victim of an infection. Only human flesh would satisfy their hunger. There were some physical signs of their infection: a change to their skin tone, they produced far more body heat and as a result seemed to sweat a lot more than the average person. But mostly you knew them by the way they would chase you down and kill you for your flesh.

I was living and working in a highly guarded building in a city where we conducted scientific experiments and research on the infection. Working along side us were aliens, the tall hairless gray type aliens that have been featured in so many stories and films. They had had some experience with the infection and they’d give us information and items from their own past from that time. Although it seemed they either didn’t know much or were playing with us by only providing small amounts of information at a time.

Additionally the aliens and our senior scientists were participating in some misdirection; it could have been either to protect themselves or something more nefarious. At one point my team and I were transported (via a slick black pod) to their ship. We met them in a large room that was filled with a thick mist and exchanged some research data. Later it was revealed that “their ship” was actually a room in the basement of our own scientific compound in the city.

One such alien item was a belt I was wearing. It didn't completely repel someone with the infection, but it certainly stalled them for a moment if they got too close. I would wear this on the occasions I would have to exit our offices and go out into the wild.

It was like a war zone outside. The number of infected people was pretty low in the city, as we were under martial protection. There were soldiers everywhere and they could demand your papers (proof of non-infection) at any time.

The suburbs and countryside were the worst. The non-infected tried to maintain their normal lives but the infected hunted the streets and woods. At some point I and some co-workers were caught in a house on a suburban street. We had lost our military protection while out gathering data and had broken into this empty house.

The quickest way back to the city was via the main street in front of the house (we had broken in from the back somewhere). The street seemed quiet enough but we were nervous, especially one of my partners. He sensed something was wrong.

Late that afternoon, we could hear the loud rhythmic thumping of hip-hop music. It was coming from one of the other houses on the street. Music wasn't normally something the infected cared about, and very often acted as a lure as the sounds of non-infected human activity was just the sound of food to them. So it was easy to assume that the music came from the home of a non-infected person. My anxious partner demanded we watch the street carefully before making any move toward the outside. We slunk up to the front windows and watched the street and the row of houses on the other side.

A few moments after the music started, a man looked out of a house on the opposite side of the street. It was the same house with the music. He came out, crossed his front lawn and nervously made his way down the street. Shortly afterward, a few doors down from him (across from us) a couple of women nervously peeked out. We couldn’t hear their words but they seemed to be discussing the man down the late. The younger was pointing in his direction as if to say “Look, he went somewhere why can’t we?” The older woman allowed herself to be led from her home by the younger woman. They looked about carefully crossed their lawn to head the opposite direction of the man.

That was when the trap was sprung. From out of a well hidden hole in the neighboring yard came five or six infected. They chased down the women and dragged them screaming away. One of the infected started gnawing on the younger woman as they carried her screaming. It was horrible to see.

As the women were taken, the man from down the street slunk back into his home. One of the infected, probably their leader, nodded to him as he shamefully ran back into his house. Apparently he had made a deal with the infected in order for them to capture some fresh meat.

We were able at some point to slip from our house and start our way back to the relative safety of the city. Along the way we spotted in the distance military being dispatched into the country; olive drab tanks and trucks of men rolling into the night. We may have joined them but they were heading the opposite direction we wanted.

The trip into the city was hard; there were groups of protesters taking to the streets. Most were preaching peaceful relations with the infected. They believed there had to be a way to live side by side with the cannibals, if we could find ways to provide food to them that didn’t require killing. The social ramifications of growing human flesh to be consumed, was too complicated for the government to handle, not to mention the low level of trust among the non-infected. Anyway, we had to make our way back to our compound.

Along the way we were cornered by one of these groups of protesters. They didn’t hurt us, and it was hard to tell if they were infected themselves or not. They did however hold us captive in order to talk about their position. After much talk they eventually were ready to let us go, their leader insisting on taking us to our scientific compound.

We were being let go, but the highly charismatic leader of this particular group had caught my eye and I his. My dream closed with a struggle; he wanted to kiss me and was holding me firmly in his arms, his face close to my own. But he wouldn’t say whether he was infected or not and my own distrust and paranoia were battling against my own desire to kiss him. I was looking into his brown eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek as I had my internal struggle.

Priorities

2007-01-16T09:39:00.000-05:00

The reason I get more writing done at work is that I'm in a 'work like' atmosphere. I'm seated comfortably at a desk with a computer in front of me. I can play a little soft music. I have a window to gaze out of when I need to look into space.

I don't have this at home. We have a plan for a writing space, it's just getting into gear and implementing it that's the problem. Again, I need to prioritize my writing and having a space to work in is getting moved to the top of the list.

Art is Good, Especially When It Pisses Me Off

2007-01-11T14:04:00.000-05:00

The barrier dividing the road from the sidewalk on the South Street Bridge is covered in graffiti. I don't walk across the bridge every day, so each trip has a little something new. Some of it is the traditional street tagging type, but most of it looks like art student rebellion. There are a lot of stencils, my favorite being of a bird cracking out of a human skull shell, and lately there have been a series of color foam core cutouts of carrots and stars stuck to the barrier and fencing. It's the posters that are the most detailed.

One poster in particular struck me yesterday. I didn't stop to look closely, but at first glance it had the look of a black and white photo. The image was of a naked man. The man seemed youngish and there was no background scenery to give him context. I assumed it was the artist himself. At first I thought, "Damn, that takes courage to pose like that." But as I started considering the angle of the pose and the look on the man's face I started getting angry.

Why angry, you ask? First of all the man looked, for lack of a better word, hard. His jaw seemed set and he was glaring down his nose at the camera. Secondly, the picture was taken facing the standing man at an upward angle. In other words, the camera is at "blow job" level. We the audience are about to give this man head and the man's look wasn't one of blissful sexin'.

What was the artist's purpose of angling the picture this way? Did they expect the audience to interpret the angle that way? And if so who could be their target audience? I figure, heterosexual women and gay men would cover the bulk of people who would recognize this view. Well that just pisses me off even more. Why target them? What is the point of this art? Is the message that I, an average heterosexual woman, belong on my knees in front of this nameless man? He doesn't even seem to represent anything. He's just a young naked man who could be one of a million random young naked men.

Does this lack of individuality make him a symbol of the arrogance of his peers? If that is the artist's goal, then I'm not as angry. But still, the look on his face didn't strike me as the arrogance of youth. It's the arrogance of power. Or is that just what my brain wants to see? I'm concerned about the powerful demanding what they will from the weak and I very much relate to the weak. Is the interpretation entirely my own making?

I found myself ranting internally about the poster the rest of my walk home. My final decision was this; freedom of speech gives all artists a right to produce art no matter how insulting someone else may find it. This piece stirred up feelings in me that I didn't like. Even writing about it now is pushing me into the rage of yesterday. But this is good that it pushed my buttons. I spent my 30 minute walk home thinking about something bigger than the banality of my every day life.

Still, if I met the artist at a party, I'd probably want to punch him.

Motivation

2007-01-10T12:24:00.000-05:00

What is it about motivation that I find it so hard to capture and keep? I want to write. I'm happy and comfortable when I write. I love how I feel after I write. But do I write every day? No. I'm too lazy and easily distracted by unimportant things like Muppet Show DVDs or LEGO Star Wars.

I was talking with RavenXefyre about this last night. As I rambled in her ear I realized that a lot of what I love about writing is the social aspect of the process. Sure I'm a loner and like to sit by myself writing, but I also I like writing in groups. In groups when you are stuck you have someone to bounce ideas off of, or have someone to hear particularly ridiculous sentences. After writing alone, I enjoy sending chapters of my silly chick-lit to the one girlfriend I know that appreciates such things.

RavenXefyre is much the same way. She has story ideas that have been percolating in her head for a year that she hasn't gotten out. She can sit and write with pen and paper, but she can't get it on the computer for editing and sharing. She's too distracted by things like email and web-surfing. In an effort to improve our writing habits, we agreed to try to get together soon for group writing sessions.

It's the same with exercise. I enjoy going to the gym. I love how I feel after a good workout. I'm a happier person when I work out regularly. But do I go to the gym regularly? No. I'm too lazy and easily distracted by unimportant things. (I just had a very strange sense of deja vu. How about you?)

I've read over and over in fitness magazines that you need to make exercise a priority and setting up appointments with yourself is a good way to enforce that priority. This is what I'm going to try with writing; to make daily appointments with the computer. Yeah, I probably should be doing this with exercise, but I have to take a stand on what I want more, because unfortunately I can't do everything. So, do I want to be physically fit or a better writer? Put that way, being a better writer is the winner.

For the group writing days I'm on the fence about who to invite. Obviously RavenXefyre is at the top of the list and I'll certainly include the NANOWRIMO group I was meeting this past November. But of my other friends and acquaintances? I'm not certain. They are good people, but some are pretty damn harsh when it comes to criticism and opinion. Hell, I'm worried how some will react to finding out I write (among other things) silly chick-lit. Some of the people I know have outright sneered at that sort of writing. Not that I blame them. I don't even read chick-lit because it's so fluffy.

The best thing to do is to start small and see what happens.

Other Lives

2007-01-05T15:18:00.000-05:00

For as long as I can remember, I've fantasized about living a different life. What was this born from? Was it a reaction to having an emotionally un-expressive family? Or possibly my tense relationship with my step-father? How about my far from normal poverty stricken childhood in the country? Oh, and let's not forget my inherited chemical imbalances. When put in black and white like this I can see it was all of the above. My fantasies were a way to escape everything that made me unhappy.

But all children play make-believe, you say. That's true, but I can't help but think I went a bit over the edge compared to other kids my own age.

Let me clarify what I mean by "over the edge". When I was little, in this case younger than 10-years-old, I would hide out in my bedroom and act out adventures with a string of celebrity crushes (because let's face facts, it was the late 70s and I was glued to television). My first fantasy boyfriend was Davy Jones from the Monkees. I was totally hooked on Monkees re-runs and playing my uncle's Monkees records. The romance was all fluffy and romantic, playing out very much like an episode of the show. Later on my elaborate fantasies involved Speed Racer or Derek Wildstar. Go ahead and laugh, but many a nerdy-girl secretly harbor crushes on anime characters. Hell, my husband's daughter had a thing for the boys of Gundam Wing. Like in their respective shows, our adventures together were that of after-school television. Still, it all sounds pretty normal doesn't it?

After adolescence my fantasy life got far more complex and original. I would hide out in the woods for hours playacting out a completely different life from my own. I knew it wasn't normal (thus the hiding) but going out there and being someone else for a while was something I had to do to keep myself from crying all the time. And it did turn into what I had to do. I didn't feel complete if I went a day without a bout of in depth fantasising.

That's over the edge right?

Anyway, after moving away from home, a lot of this crazy fantasy stuff faded. Now when I want to live vicariously through a fantasy I write it down.

What got me reminiscing was yesterday. Yesterday was a day of great hormonal imbalance along with lack of sleep and it being day 6 with a headache. I spent most of yesterday crying. It was bad enough I realized I couldn't play our regularly scheduled game of Burning Empires. My character in that game, Zlata, is sad and desperate and every time I tried thinking about what I wanted to accomplish with her I'd start crying over her desperation.

Looking at the aftermath of yesterday's emotional upheaval, I thought my reaction was interesting. In my youth I would have retreated into a fantasy world to escape my sadness. Yesterday I avoided a fantasy world so I could work through my sadness. Does this mean I'm sane? Shit, it's only taken 30 years.

Knitting Thoughts

2007-01-02T15:49:00.000-05:00

A few months ago a friend asked what I think about while knitting. I stuttered, probably gave him a blank look, and couldn't say exactly. I never really paid much attention. Since then I've paid a lot of attention to what my brain does while I knit, and man, is it dull.

If I'm working on a complicated project, or something I'm making up as I go along, I pay a lot of attention to the knitting process. I'll take notes on what I'm doing, measuring the piece, counting stitches, recounting stitches, cursing when I drop something, etc. My head is filled with knitting mumbo jumbo.

If the pattern I'm knitting is easily memorized my mind is free to wander much more. This is the knitting I do while watching television or when I need to de-stress. Just enough of my over active mind is taken up with the knitting, that the rest of my brain is free to focus on other things like what the hell is going on in Lost.

There is something about the precision of knitting that I find mentally settling. I have a mild anxiety disorder that flares up on occasion. My mind starts racing as much as my heart rate and I'll feel flustered and out of control. Once I start knitting I'm forced to think about one repetitive thing for a few moments and helps me relax enough to put all my other thoughts in order along that same knitting rhythm.

In that same mental organization vein, I've been toying with the idea of knitting while writing. There are moments when I'm writing that I sit back and stare at the screen, mulling over exactly what sort of wording I want to use, or think about the different topics I want to involve. These are times it would probably be good for me to have a half-knit sock by my side. I could lean back pick up my sock and organize my thoughts over a few rounds.

The meditative properties of knitting have been talked about for years by other people. There are a few books that look at knitting from Buddhist perspective (Zen and the Art of Knitting and Mindful Knitting are two I know about) and I'm certain I saw some on yoga and knitting. I'm interested in reading them, but don't necessarily need to read about how knitting and personal meditation are linked. I practice it nearly every day.

While very often my meditative knitting is focused on myself, I also like to focus that meditation on other people. I don't like discussing my personal beliefs however one thing I believe is the power of personal thought. Call it prayer, vibes, energy, or whatever: I believe that positive meditation directed toward another person can be healing or comforting to them. So yes, I'm a big fan of the comfort or prayer shawl. The general practice of the comfort shawl is to meditate for the person for whom you are knitting as you knit their gift. I've done it all of once and found it to be both a draining and uplifting mental exercise. Try it sometime. Think positive, healing thoughts about one person for 5 minutes. For someone as cynical and selfish as myself it's tough. Now try to imagine doing that 30 minutes a day for a month (the amount of time it took me to make a lap blanket). It was remarkably hard work, but worth the effort.

Anyway, there's not much point here other than to say I'm a scattered thinker and knitting helps organize my head a bit.

Return to Sender

2006-12-29T17:02:00.000-05:00

We get a lot of mail for other people. The majority of it makes sense; it’s either for the previous residents or their children, after all the previous family had lived in the house for something like 50 years. Others pieces of mail are obvious mistakes because of handwriting; when someone’s 4s or 7s look like 9s letters bound for 24th or 27th Streets end up at my house on 29th. Sometimes it’s a North vs. South addressing problem. North 29th Street is quite a ways away from my home on South 29th Street, just a single letter can send a piece of mail to the wrong side of the city.

Others pieces of mail are more mysterious. Names I’ve never heard of have been addressed clearly to our address. Usually they are just catalogs, in which case I leaf through them and toss them in the recycling bin. The latest however was a holiday card. In a wave of Good Holiday Spirit, I thought it would be nice to let the sender know that the address they had for this person was wrong. I took a marker and wrote across the envelope “Not at this Address” and dropped the card back into the post.

It was back in my mail slot two days later. Either my note to the mail carrier wasn’t clear enough or this guy is living in my house. It’s a small house. I’m sure I would have seen him if he was living with us. Granted, sometimes I don’t see our part-time housemate, Will, for days on end. But with our having only one bathroom I certainly hear him move around a couple times a day. Maybe it's not Will that I hear moving around but rather this other guy?

Determined to get this letter back to the sender, I marked the envelope again. This time I put a big X through the recipient’s name and address and wrote “Return to Sender” across the top. A postal worker tired from many hours of Holiday overtime shouldn’t be able to miss that note.

The card hasn’t come back to the house. Instead, what got me thinking about this was an email I received this morning.

Two weeks ago I made an online purchase of some yarn. It wasn’t a large purchase. It’s just a second batch of yarn to complete a sweater project for my husband. Being the yarn junkie that I am, I’ve ordered from the company several times before and have had nothing but excellent service from them. Not this time however. The package they shipped out on the 19th of December was returned to their warehouse with the following message from the post office: “Undeliverable as Addressed”. Of course the address they have on file is my home; the exact same address they’ve used for all the other orders they’ve sent to my home.

I can’t help but find it odd that there should be a problem now after I’ve had a round of mysterious mail addressed to my home but to other people’s names. Is the universe trying to tell me I don’t live in this house? And if I don’t live here, or am not supposed to live here, where should I be living?

I hope it’s somewhere warm beside the ocean. I could go for a sunny sandy beach and a fruity drink with a paper umbrella right about now.

Headache

2006-12-28T20:54:00.000-05:00

Trying to come up with a writing topic is difficult when you feel as though a spike is being forced out of your head through your skull. My head is impossible to ignore so the pain will be my topic of the day.

There is pressure behind my eyes that's pushing up and forward toward my forehead and out against my temples. It's a ring of pain around my head, a halo of agony. When I close my eyes and focus on the pain, I can feel it throbbing in time with my heartbeat. That's when I feel nauseated, when my eyes are closed.

It's hard to focus on the computer screen. It's too close and bright to be comfortable. Instead I avert my eyes now and again to look out my office window. Somehow looking at the dark leafless tree outside eases the tension behind my eyes. Is it just because it's darker than my monitor? My head still hurts, just not as intensely. It's like miniature miners are chipping away at my head with little picks and hammers: pound, pound, pound. I wish they'd take a lunch break from all the pounding.

Neither aspirin nor caffeine have helped at all. All I want to do is lie down in bed with a cool compress against my brow. Like a sad heroine from a flowery historical romance novel I'll recline in a half swoon and try not to cry from the pain. A cup of ginger tea may help, if only for the soothing vapors it exudes. See, I'm even writing like a romance novelist. If I were in a historical romance novel some charming young doctor would make a house call and mix me a tonic to sooth the pain. Of course the tonic would have the secondary effect of loosening my stiff Victorian sensibilities. I'd make indecent proposals to the young doctor and he would succumb to my charms. How shocking.

Back in the real world: The nausea and light sensitivity scream "migraine" which isn't a good sign. I usually can only sleep them off, and even then sleep comes with difficulty. I may have to break out the Excedrin PM tonight. I hate to use sleep aids but if it means I sleep off this pain, then they are worth it.

Squeezing my brow with my cool fingertips helps ease the throbbing, but I can't hold the position forever. My fingers get tired and I have to let go. The pain rolls back in like a wave against my head.

In the past, I've joked with my husband that I need to invent a head vice for headaches like these. It could be outfitted to look like a hat and have a tightening crank on one side. Just slip it on, turn the crank a couple of times and tada! The headache has eased. I would love to have that spiffy head-vice-hat right now.

Now thoughts of trepanation start to flit though my mind. At this very moment it makes a lot of sense that a hole drilled in my skull will help relieve the pressure of the headache. But that's just the pain talking.

Speaking of trepanning, because who doesn't love talking about drilling holes in peoples skulls. Trepanning would be a great story starter (or ender depending on how it went). But then many other writers have figured that out already. I've already seen it in Pi and something else that's tickling my brain... Anyway, how could I make it original and interesting in a story of my own?