I love fresh, sticky snow.
Meanwhile, my husband is in Hawaii,
missing out.
Or is it the other way around?
It's awfully pretty both places.
1.24.2010
1.23.2010
unDismal
I woke up this morning in a great mood.
Coffee, good kids, easy-going plans for the day.
It was dismal outside. I don't mean it was raining, which it was. I don't mean it was dirty, which it was. I mean it was dismal - the kind of day that tries to suck the joy right out of you. The grey clouds hung low, so low that the tops of tall trees were hazy. The top of the high, hilly spine that is the headpiece to Duluth's bed by Lake Superior wasn't even visible. It was drizzling, then raining, then nothing, then sleeting, then ... The snow was a foul mix of sand, dirt, exhaust, trash and who knows what else. Between the drippy, sloppy sounds, the chilled humidity, and the greasy blurs of grey/brown - every sense was regaled with DISMAL.
But, I wasn't depressed, despondent or even a little blue.
I noted the dismal day and kept right on laughing, cracking jokes and smiling at anyone who looked my way. Flashing my teeth, spreading a little joy and dancing through the puddled parking lots - I kept the dismal at bay. I was going to take a picture of the dismal day, to try to capture just how horribly dreary and ugly it was... and then I noticed how bright my jeans looked against the nasty concrete sidewalk in front of the hardware store.
Friends located east of me on the globe were talking about what a beautiful, glorious sunny day their world was having. I think mine was just as beautiful and glorious. Why?
I have no idea.
But it felt good.
1.21.2010
#fridayflash "Verklempt"
He dropped it.
His eyes widened into chasms of uncertainty as time slowed. He flailed in mental stop-motion, ineffectually grasping to regain hold of it.
Dust motes sparkled, twinkling a slow waltz in front of his eyes. His mind buzzed with the electric hum of a thousand devastating consequences. Potential - shattering into the dull smithereens of decayed dreams.
His breath, captive in his expanded lungs, prickled and itched to escape. The pressure pulsed ominously on his pores, while the folds of his brain began unraveling. What would happen?
The cat in the closed box winked.
……………
“It’s okay, honey. We can reschedule for another night if you have to work,” she sighed.
“You still love me?” he said, in a quick rush of liberated air.
“Of course I do! It’s just dinner, we can celebrate in other ways when you get home,” her voice warm again after her pause had slowed time. “I’ll see you later, big guy.” She hung up.
…………….
He stared at the picture of his new wife, her heart his most prized possession.
Redemption reanimated his body and he touched the velvet box on his desk. Inside, the platinum cat pendant with diamond eyes lay curled in satin, awaiting its new home close to her heart.
His eyes widened into chasms of uncertainty as time slowed. He flailed in mental stop-motion, ineffectually grasping to regain hold of it.
Dust motes sparkled, twinkling a slow waltz in front of his eyes. His mind buzzed with the electric hum of a thousand devastating consequences. Potential - shattering into the dull smithereens of decayed dreams.
His breath, captive in his expanded lungs, prickled and itched to escape. The pressure pulsed ominously on his pores, while the folds of his brain began unraveling. What would happen?
The cat in the closed box winked.
……………
“It’s okay, honey. We can reschedule for another night if you have to work,” she sighed.
“You still love me?” he said, in a quick rush of liberated air.
“Of course I do! It’s just dinner, we can celebrate in other ways when you get home,” her voice warm again after her pause had slowed time. “I’ll see you later, big guy.” She hung up.
…………….
He stared at the picture of his new wife, her heart his most prized possession.
Redemption reanimated his body and he touched the velvet box on his desk. Inside, the platinum cat pendant with diamond eyes lay curled in satin, awaiting its new home close to her heart.
*ahem* a little uh.. dedication
This morning, as I sat at the helm of my revived virtual world, I glanced over at the window and saw my ravaged geranium bonsai, now in full bloom, backlit by the sun.
I captured the moment and... Wait, a short backstory is in order.
Recently, the unexpected happened.
I met someone interesting.
In between my mundane activities and stretches of boredom, this person reached out across the miles to make herself known to me and put a spark of anticipation into my days. I didn't realize at first (how could I?) that this person might turn out to be a New Friend.
People (especially online) tend to be passing through, reacting to one blip of your signal with perhaps a return beep, then moving on to other things. Blipping and beeping, texting and tweeting - it's a fickle wwworld, with lots of dry, shifting dunes stretching between oases.
She commented.
I commented.
We commented. We dug deeper and commented more.
We followed and made stalking jokes.
I felt inspired to do some writing, perhaps something creative.
We emailed. We shared.
Inspiration was courting, creativity sat by my side.
We chatted. We told secrets.
For Hours.
We talk about possible trips to meet In Person.
Where is it all leading? Who knows!
But so far, I'm enjoying every moment.
So.
This morning, as I sat at the helm of my revived virtual world, I glanced over at the window and saw my ravaged geranium bonsai, now in full bloom, backlit by the sun.
I captured the moment and am now dedicating this moment to her.
And yes, I'm feeling bit silly, a tad self-conscious - but what the hell?
Carpe diem.
1.18.2010
Enough!
I am really tired of that last post staring me in the face, but am not feeling particularly bloggy.
So, in the meantime, here's a picture for my own viewing pleasure.
1.15.2010
#fridayflash "The Right Thing to Say"
Her friend pulled the truck up to the doors of the hotel. She glanced over at him and said, “Thanks for the ride.” Not bothering to acknowledge his hurt look at the brief comment, she got out, shut the door and walked through the double glass doors and into the hotel lobby. To her right she saw her mother, father and friends, some already standing, waiting for her to join them. The look on every face was of raw concern, whether smiling through it or just frozen in place, like so many deer in the headlights. She couldn’t deal with them right now – she needed to be alone.
The elevator doors stood across the vast lobby and in a split moment’s decision, she headed straight for them instead of to the collective support that waited, holding its breath to see what she would do. She heard someone call her name but kept walking. The elevator doors slid silently open and she stepped in, pushed number three and waited for the doors to close. She saw her dad walking to catch up, the hitch in his walk apparent. He liked to say he’d broken every bone in his body at least once, some twice – and it was the walk that betrayed he might not be exaggerating much. The door slid closed and she rode up alone to the third floor.
She made it to the room and pushed down on the door handle, before she realized she didn’t have the cardkey. She tried again, hoping maybe it would just open out of respect for her need, but the door wasn’t obliging. She leaned her forehead on the cool wood, content just to stand there forever, realizing with surprised detachment that she still smelled like the hospital, like witch hazel.
A hand reached out to her shoulder and gently pulled her back to make room. Her dad slid the cardkey in with his weathered, almost mahogany-tanned hand with its thick, clean nails. He liked to show her “nail strengthening exercises” for those times when one is caught without their pocketknife and needs to pry something loose with a fingernail. She didn’t quite believe the exercises worked, but did them anyway because his nails were unbendable, tough and she wanted to believe everything he took the time to tell her.
He opened the door and she went to the far bed and sat on the edge, facing the window. He stood alongside her with his hands in his pockets, also not seeing the same vista through the opaque curtains. He waited for her.
“Dad? That sucked.”
“I know, honey.” His voice, made deeper, and face were ravaged with pain and empathy, his slate-gray eyes searching the curtains for something to make her okay.
The tears welled up into her eyes, making the room blur into an underwater realm of pleasantly colored light woods, and distinctly hotel-like colors and patterns. She stood up and buried her face in his shoulder. The tears flowed from her eyes in hot rivers and she clutched at the front of his lightly plaid shirt with both hands. All the grief and anguish had surprised her – she never cried. It welled out of her as if some foreign entity had possessed her. She was both crying and watching herself carry on, embarrassed but not unclenching the fists of plaid shirt in her hands. Her dad embraced her with both arms, not saying a word – just holding her, gentle and solid.
She could smell his familiar morning odor of spice and musk from his “cheap, but does the job” aftershave, coffee, and 40 years of mentholated cigarettes. He hadn’t started smoking until he was in the hospital, after some Korean War injury he never talked about. His buddies would bring him cartons of smokes and he’d just pass ‘em on to others in the ward, until someone brought him menthols, and the smell reminded him of one of his meds. He started smoking them as if they’d somehow have the same effect, and had never quit. She had picked up the habit the night of her 16th birthday, when it was legal, because she wanted to be just like him.
Her nose clogged up now, forcing her mouth open to catch ragged breaths of air. The sounds that escaped her were not of her. They were from some mewling, grotesque cave creature. Why had she done it? Why had she acted so cavalier about it all? The only time she had felt slightly off-kilter with the whole deal was when she was looking at her father, the pain in his eyes over her decision apparent, only slightly hidden by his love for her. He was her rock, and she had shaken him without regard, but he was too kind to say anything. Her tears were not only for herself, but for the pain she had caused him and, unknowingly, for the guilt of that inflicted pain she would carry long after he was gone.
When she became self-aware again, the tears subsided. She pulled back and hung there, feeling cleaned out and used up. She didn’t know how long they’d stood there, but it had been long enough. Cracking a little grin, she touched the black smudges of mascara and slick wetness of her dad’s shirt.
“I got your shirt dirty.”
“Oh Christ, it’ll wash.” He cracked a little grin back at her, reaching into his back pocket to get his hanky. He handed it to her and, knowing better than unfolding it, she dabbed at her puffed and sore eyes. She took a deep, only slightly ragged breath and tried a wider smile at him. His moist eyes twinkled, under his slightly bushy, grayed brows and he touched her cheek, “That’s my girl.” And she was.
The elevator doors stood across the vast lobby and in a split moment’s decision, she headed straight for them instead of to the collective support that waited, holding its breath to see what she would do. She heard someone call her name but kept walking. The elevator doors slid silently open and she stepped in, pushed number three and waited for the doors to close. She saw her dad walking to catch up, the hitch in his walk apparent. He liked to say he’d broken every bone in his body at least once, some twice – and it was the walk that betrayed he might not be exaggerating much. The door slid closed and she rode up alone to the third floor.
She made it to the room and pushed down on the door handle, before she realized she didn’t have the cardkey. She tried again, hoping maybe it would just open out of respect for her need, but the door wasn’t obliging. She leaned her forehead on the cool wood, content just to stand there forever, realizing with surprised detachment that she still smelled like the hospital, like witch hazel.
A hand reached out to her shoulder and gently pulled her back to make room. Her dad slid the cardkey in with his weathered, almost mahogany-tanned hand with its thick, clean nails. He liked to show her “nail strengthening exercises” for those times when one is caught without their pocketknife and needs to pry something loose with a fingernail. She didn’t quite believe the exercises worked, but did them anyway because his nails were unbendable, tough and she wanted to believe everything he took the time to tell her.
He opened the door and she went to the far bed and sat on the edge, facing the window. He stood alongside her with his hands in his pockets, also not seeing the same vista through the opaque curtains. He waited for her.
“Dad? That sucked.”
“I know, honey.” His voice, made deeper, and face were ravaged with pain and empathy, his slate-gray eyes searching the curtains for something to make her okay.
The tears welled up into her eyes, making the room blur into an underwater realm of pleasantly colored light woods, and distinctly hotel-like colors and patterns. She stood up and buried her face in his shoulder. The tears flowed from her eyes in hot rivers and she clutched at the front of his lightly plaid shirt with both hands. All the grief and anguish had surprised her – she never cried. It welled out of her as if some foreign entity had possessed her. She was both crying and watching herself carry on, embarrassed but not unclenching the fists of plaid shirt in her hands. Her dad embraced her with both arms, not saying a word – just holding her, gentle and solid.
She could smell his familiar morning odor of spice and musk from his “cheap, but does the job” aftershave, coffee, and 40 years of mentholated cigarettes. He hadn’t started smoking until he was in the hospital, after some Korean War injury he never talked about. His buddies would bring him cartons of smokes and he’d just pass ‘em on to others in the ward, until someone brought him menthols, and the smell reminded him of one of his meds. He started smoking them as if they’d somehow have the same effect, and had never quit. She had picked up the habit the night of her 16th birthday, when it was legal, because she wanted to be just like him.
Her nose clogged up now, forcing her mouth open to catch ragged breaths of air. The sounds that escaped her were not of her. They were from some mewling, grotesque cave creature. Why had she done it? Why had she acted so cavalier about it all? The only time she had felt slightly off-kilter with the whole deal was when she was looking at her father, the pain in his eyes over her decision apparent, only slightly hidden by his love for her. He was her rock, and she had shaken him without regard, but he was too kind to say anything. Her tears were not only for herself, but for the pain she had caused him and, unknowingly, for the guilt of that inflicted pain she would carry long after he was gone.
When she became self-aware again, the tears subsided. She pulled back and hung there, feeling cleaned out and used up. She didn’t know how long they’d stood there, but it had been long enough. Cracking a little grin, she touched the black smudges of mascara and slick wetness of her dad’s shirt.
“I got your shirt dirty.”
“Oh Christ, it’ll wash.” He cracked a little grin back at her, reaching into his back pocket to get his hanky. He handed it to her and, knowing better than unfolding it, she dabbed at her puffed and sore eyes. She took a deep, only slightly ragged breath and tried a wider smile at him. His moist eyes twinkled, under his slightly bushy, grayed brows and he touched her cheek, “That’s my girl.” And she was.
1.12.2010
Today's Rationalization
Pictured above is my blooming geranium bonsai.
I'm quite proud of it and it's lovely photogenic lines.
As a serial destroyer of proper bonsai trees and shrubs,
a gentle suggestion was given to me
to try taming the precocious geranium,
as it might be easier on my conscience and pocketbook.
It's aesthetic lines and startling blooms remind me that,
although my paths may wander without comprehensible reason,
occasionally I am rewarded with unexpected beauty.
1.10.2010
Acupuncture & Indian Food: Novella of First Experiences
On Saturday, I went with my eldest daughter and my sister-in-law to my first acupuncture session and first Indian dining experience. Both locations were dimly lit so I couldn't provide my own pictures, so I have, with minimal guilt, stolen all photos to make this a more interesting experience for you and more time consuming and annoying one for me. Go Martyrs!
My SiL is one of those new-agey types, which normally provides a lot of scoffy mirth in our family, but on occasion she lures me into some of her wonky gigs - usually with a little food bribery. She knew I'd not tried Indian food before and was hankering to - so she offered to buy me Indian lunch if I went to a "community" acupuncture session this month with her. (Having failed her last month, as I withdrew at the last minute due to stress ... Irony noted.)
The acupuncture studio was in an old office space above the Electric Fetus (Great music/head shop/cool stuff store - but don't say "I'd like an electric fetus candle for Christmas", unless you are with someone who knows that the Electric Fetus is the name of a store, not a contraption). We deshod outside the door and walked into the tiny room partitioned with curtains. The obligatory decor (prints of Buddha, myriads of official looking certifiying certificates, and lots of - WAIT - enough detail, this could become book length. I'm sure it looked like every other desperately hopeful acupuncture joint.
Sitting in a comfy recliner facing some random, close-eyed woman with needles poking out of her head, and my SiL and daughter to either side of me in their own comfy chairs, I tried to relax. Everyone's feet were facing the center of the room, and luckily I treated this outing like a 3rd date and had shaved, pumiced, gratered and painted before leaving home. When it was my turn to get punctured, the waif-like Mistress of the Needle asked me some questions, I told her no lies, and she proceeded to gently palpate areas of my body and stick pins in my feet, legs, hands and yes - on the top of my head. The last made me jump a little - I did not expect my skin to make a quiet popping noise as it broke the skin. Yes, ew. But - no pain!
She left me there to marinate in my newly skewered chi. I waited for something to happen. I listened to the chanty music. I watched the fountain. I checked out the bottom of random woman's feet (hardly calloused!). I closed my eyes and thought about if my chin was obviously doubling. I counted everyone else's needles and found I only had 7 compared to their over 10 or more - which made me momentarily jealous, then smug - because I was obviously in better overall health. I thought about Indian food. I wondered how I was to tell if I was feeling something or was it just the fountain, dim lights and soft chanty music making me relaxed. I thought about how this wasn't an ideal situation to scientifically deduce if those various needles were doing any good. I wondered how long I had to sit there. At some point, she came and took the needles out and smiled with warm expectancy at me. I smiled back unsurely, chirped "Thanks!" and jumped up to get on to my Indian food. I'm sorry to say I don't know if it worked, but I'd do it again for no other reason than it's not bad to relax in a cozy setting while mimicking a pin cushion.
Next stop - India Palace. Nice decor, dimly lit with fancy elephant gods and pretty exotic ladies decorating the walls. Sadly, they only offered buffet lunch (I loathe buffets), but since I was being Daring that day I didn't moan. Clientele was mainly those Green & Therefore Cool smuggy types (huge population of those in Duluth) and Indians (dot not feather, although huge population of the latter in Duluth as well).
I didn't order any beverage since I wasn't paying, although some of the strange yogurty drinks looked promising. Everything looked kind of yucky except the bread (paan) and the chutney (I liked the mint), but that's true of some of the dishes I make so it didn't mean they weren't good, right? Well, the curried meatballs looked bad and were bad. But the tandoori chicken was yummy, and the saag paneer (spinach & cheese goo) was scrumptious over some really tasty basmati rice. (Yes, I looked all these up a minute ago, since of course I didn't memorize the names on the spot. Eating excursion, not to-be-quizzed-later.) The rice pudding (kheer) was exceptional and surprisingly flavored. I'd go back, but not for buffet.
And a day later? I'm still feeling relatively stress-free and the Indian food did not give me heartburn. About as much as one can hope for!
My SiL is one of those new-agey types, which normally provides a lot of scoffy mirth in our family, but on occasion she lures me into some of her wonky gigs - usually with a little food bribery. She knew I'd not tried Indian food before and was hankering to - so she offered to buy me Indian lunch if I went to a "community" acupuncture session this month with her. (Having failed her last month, as I withdrew at the last minute due to stress ... Irony noted.)
The acupuncture studio was in an old office space above the Electric Fetus (Great music/head shop/cool stuff store - but don't say "I'd like an electric fetus candle for Christmas", unless you are with someone who knows that the Electric Fetus is the name of a store, not a contraption). We deshod outside the door and walked into the tiny room partitioned with curtains. The obligatory decor (prints of Buddha, myriads of official looking certifiying certificates, and lots of - WAIT - enough detail, this could become book length. I'm sure it looked like every other desperately hopeful acupuncture joint.
She left me there to marinate in my newly skewered chi. I waited for something to happen. I listened to the chanty music. I watched the fountain. I checked out the bottom of random woman's feet (hardly calloused!). I closed my eyes and thought about if my chin was obviously doubling. I counted everyone else's needles and found I only had 7 compared to their over 10 or more - which made me momentarily jealous, then smug - because I was obviously in better overall health. I thought about Indian food. I wondered how I was to tell if I was feeling something or was it just the fountain, dim lights and soft chanty music making me relaxed. I thought about how this wasn't an ideal situation to scientifically deduce if those various needles were doing any good. I wondered how long I had to sit there. At some point, she came and took the needles out and smiled with warm expectancy at me. I smiled back unsurely, chirped "Thanks!" and jumped up to get on to my Indian food. I'm sorry to say I don't know if it worked, but I'd do it again for no other reason than it's not bad to relax in a cozy setting while mimicking a pin cushion.
Next stop - India Palace. Nice decor, dimly lit with fancy elephant gods and pretty exotic ladies decorating the walls. Sadly, they only offered buffet lunch (I loathe buffets), but since I was being Daring that day I didn't moan. Clientele was mainly those Green & Therefore Cool smuggy types (huge population of those in Duluth) and Indians (dot not feather, although huge population of the latter in Duluth as well).
And a day later? I'm still feeling relatively stress-free and the Indian food did not give me heartburn. About as much as one can hope for!
1.09.2010
Winter Beach
Here are few photos taken on Jan 8, 2010 on an excursion to the shores of Lake Superior with my daughter.
Temperature was 6 degrees.
All ice boulders and ice rocks on shore of Lake Superior. None of these are actually rocks, some are as large as 3ft across.
Icicle pool, about the size of a hot tub.
Not hot.
Breakwater on Wisconsin Point
Taken from the shoreline - new ice field created by incoming ice and slush from the lake.
Loose sand blown away from frozen sand, leaving beach detritus on small pedestals.
Me, freezing, but enjoying the ice beach excursion.
12.14.2009
vocabulary
The amusing problem of a 5 yr old having an extensive vocabulary is that some words fall sideways into their brain.
"Can I go outside and play in the snow? I'll get all bungled up! Do I have to wear a scarp?"
"Can I go outside and play in the snow? I'll get all bungled up! Do I have to wear a scarp?"
9.18.2009
#fridayflash "Family Ties"
It started almost imperceptibly, after she had unexpectedly become the single parent of too many kids. Small breaks for contemplation over a cigarette and a cup of coffee lasted longer. Moments of introspection lengthened into mornings of mulling and afternoons of inaction. She was letting go of exercising her maternal obligations in favor of the internal occupation of thinking about them. Hard decisions, bad memories and fears plied for her attention alongside hopes, fantasies and recollections - and ruminating on these had become an addiction. She thought incessantly on ways to keep her family safe and well cared for with only one parent. She was their mother, it was her obligation.
As some of her brood got older and more able to handle the daily routine without her help, she had more time to think about how she shouldn’t let the children do all the work. The children would say her name three or four times before she would hear it. Her irritation was evident in the sharp snap of her reply or the slicing redirection of her gaze from the window to the intrusive child. Alternatively, she’d often let a child sit on her lap while her hand would gently stroke their arm or hair in time to some invisible metronome. They thought of her as a loving mother because of those moments. That she would, perhaps once a week, sit them all down for lengthy and repetitive lectures on How to Be a Good Child in the Face of Adversity, showed them that she cared.
The smaller children figured out that if they waylaid her coming out of the bathroom or getting back from a cigarette run, they might get to occupy her attention for a short while before she was drawn inexorably back to the chair. There were more and more days that she would answer the older children’s questions, but in a dazed manner, as if she’d been struck on the head recently or was just coming out of a faint and wasn’t sure where she was at the moment. There were nights when she never made it to bed. One of the smaller children would make a midnight potty trip and see the glow of her cigarette reflecting off the windowpane, and a pang of loss would clench their heart. Misunderstanding that pang for fear, they’d hurry back into bed and hold tightly to their bears or blankets until falling back to sleep. She had begun to slightly frighten some of the children, but she was unaware of it. For her part, when she noticed a small child padding from the bathroom at night, she was wracked with guilt over the state of their sad little lives, or the fact that they didn’t call to her for help anymore. She didn’t understand why she’d lost them, so she would contemplate that as well.
The school officials dealt endlessly with behaviorally difficult children and parents, so her quiet and unobtrusive family was somewhat of a relief, regardless of the fact she never showed up to the children’s concerts or conferences. It was all too easy for her to continue, even intensify, her introspective ways. The eldest children graduated but continued living at home to “help out”. They’d hold family meetings and discuss important matters by her chair, more out of respect than necessity because they rarely could break her reverie. The children took good care of her - fixing her food, which would often sit for hours unnoticed unless someone took away the coffee and cigarettes , at least until she’d get a few grudging bites in her mouth. Only the braver children would take away her necessities though, risking the cuss words hissed through clenched teeth, flashing eyes and invariably repentant tears at having been mean to one of her children. Years passed by and nothing much changed except the children’s height.
It started almost imperceptibly, after she had stopped caring for herself altogether. Through the years, small trinkets and fresh flowers had often been left on the table by her chair from this or that child, as tokens of their love. But now that she needed her personal hygiene attended to, the children made small changes. Increasingly, she was dressed in more colorful houserobes and wore more jewelry. She had become a sort of living icon, enshrined on her chair with her cigarette smoke curling through the air like incense. They brushed her hair until it gleamed, and applied soft make-up to her wan cheeks. They kept her safe and well cared for between them all. She was their mother, it was their obligation.
As some of her brood got older and more able to handle the daily routine without her help, she had more time to think about how she shouldn’t let the children do all the work. The children would say her name three or four times before she would hear it. Her irritation was evident in the sharp snap of her reply or the slicing redirection of her gaze from the window to the intrusive child. Alternatively, she’d often let a child sit on her lap while her hand would gently stroke their arm or hair in time to some invisible metronome. They thought of her as a loving mother because of those moments. That she would, perhaps once a week, sit them all down for lengthy and repetitive lectures on How to Be a Good Child in the Face of Adversity, showed them that she cared.
The smaller children figured out that if they waylaid her coming out of the bathroom or getting back from a cigarette run, they might get to occupy her attention for a short while before she was drawn inexorably back to the chair. There were more and more days that she would answer the older children’s questions, but in a dazed manner, as if she’d been struck on the head recently or was just coming out of a faint and wasn’t sure where she was at the moment. There were nights when she never made it to bed. One of the smaller children would make a midnight potty trip and see the glow of her cigarette reflecting off the windowpane, and a pang of loss would clench their heart. Misunderstanding that pang for fear, they’d hurry back into bed and hold tightly to their bears or blankets until falling back to sleep. She had begun to slightly frighten some of the children, but she was unaware of it. For her part, when she noticed a small child padding from the bathroom at night, she was wracked with guilt over the state of their sad little lives, or the fact that they didn’t call to her for help anymore. She didn’t understand why she’d lost them, so she would contemplate that as well.
The school officials dealt endlessly with behaviorally difficult children and parents, so her quiet and unobtrusive family was somewhat of a relief, regardless of the fact she never showed up to the children’s concerts or conferences. It was all too easy for her to continue, even intensify, her introspective ways. The eldest children graduated but continued living at home to “help out”. They’d hold family meetings and discuss important matters by her chair, more out of respect than necessity because they rarely could break her reverie. The children took good care of her - fixing her food, which would often sit for hours unnoticed unless someone took away the coffee and cigarettes , at least until she’d get a few grudging bites in her mouth. Only the braver children would take away her necessities though, risking the cuss words hissed through clenched teeth, flashing eyes and invariably repentant tears at having been mean to one of her children. Years passed by and nothing much changed except the children’s height.
It started almost imperceptibly, after she had stopped caring for herself altogether. Through the years, small trinkets and fresh flowers had often been left on the table by her chair from this or that child, as tokens of their love. But now that she needed her personal hygiene attended to, the children made small changes. Increasingly, she was dressed in more colorful houserobes and wore more jewelry. She had become a sort of living icon, enshrined on her chair with her cigarette smoke curling through the air like incense. They brushed her hair until it gleamed, and applied soft make-up to her wan cheeks. They kept her safe and well cared for between them all. She was their mother, it was their obligation.
9.11.2009
#fridayflash "Letter to the Editor"
To the Editors of Gourmet Trends,
We, here at GenetiFoods Corporation, would like to set the record straight regarding your brief article about our new line of treats. We are not the “barbaric overachievers” of the food industry, nor are we “blithe caterers to the X-omnis”, as your magazine erroneously labeled our corporation and our endeavors in the last issue (May 2120). We cater to all vores and do not ally ourselves with nor show preference to any specific group. (In fact, our efforts in creating more products for the insectivores are unparalleled – and everyvore knows that they are the toughest consumer market of all, with their overabundance of naturally occurring, albeit highly distasteful, food supply.) By designating us as “barbaric”, you designate our global customers as barbarians!
GenetiFoods Corp. does not overachieve, but rather we simply strive to feed the people. Our vast array of meticulously formulated consumables has withstood the test of time – from the early years of genhanced meats and vegenmatter to better feed growing global populations through the Famine War, to keeping up with supply and demand through the dark Green Age, and continues today in these times of highly demarcated consumer vore-factions. We are a global corporation retaining amazing longevity and the continued trust of all the vores. We have always been at the forefront of the Consumption Question – spearheading bold, and may we add successful, moves in the genetic engineering of new food products, safely and consistently.
Considering the latest atrocities committed by the extremist vore-factions of omnis and veguerillas (which epitomize barbarity, with their growing propensity towards mutual elimination, the latter in a vindictive reversal of long-held morals with its “eat the hunter” campaign), we feel strongly that our good name not be allied with any such extremist groups. Please retract your statements publically and without delay.
We would hope that our new line of tasty treats, e.g. JelliedBears and Elecones, inspires some revitalization of joie de vivre in the various vore markets. The older vores amongst us can attest to having made it a long way in a short time regarding global satiation, and more’s the pity to backslide into the Green Age-mentality of “feed to live” rather than enjoy one’s food – which is what we thought your publication is trying to overcome.
Adiro Helesthion Grubenhoff III, CEO
GenetiFoods Corporation
(story and illustration both by me)
We, here at GenetiFoods Corporation, would like to set the record straight regarding your brief article about our new line of treats. We are not the “barbaric overachievers” of the food industry, nor are we “blithe caterers to the X-omnis”, as your magazine erroneously labeled our corporation and our endeavors in the last issue (May 2120). We cater to all vores and do not ally ourselves with nor show preference to any specific group. (In fact, our efforts in creating more products for the insectivores are unparalleled – and everyvore knows that they are the toughest consumer market of all, with their overabundance of naturally occurring, albeit highly distasteful, food supply.) By designating us as “barbaric”, you designate our global customers as barbarians!
GenetiFoods Corp. does not overachieve, but rather we simply strive to feed the people. Our vast array of meticulously formulated consumables has withstood the test of time – from the early years of genhanced meats and vegenmatter to better feed growing global populations through the Famine War, to keeping up with supply and demand through the dark Green Age, and continues today in these times of highly demarcated consumer vore-factions. We are a global corporation retaining amazing longevity and the continued trust of all the vores. We have always been at the forefront of the Consumption Question – spearheading bold, and may we add successful, moves in the genetic engineering of new food products, safely and consistently.
Considering the latest atrocities committed by the extremist vore-factions of omnis and veguerillas (which epitomize barbarity, with their growing propensity towards mutual elimination, the latter in a vindictive reversal of long-held morals with its “eat the hunter” campaign), we feel strongly that our good name not be allied with any such extremist groups. Please retract your statements publically and without delay.
We would hope that our new line of tasty treats, e.g. JelliedBears and Elecones, inspires some revitalization of joie de vivre in the various vore markets. The older vores amongst us can attest to having made it a long way in a short time regarding global satiation, and more’s the pity to backslide into the Green Age-mentality of “feed to live” rather than enjoy one’s food – which is what we thought your publication is trying to overcome.
Adiro Helesthion Grubenhoff III, CEO
GenetiFoods Corporation
(story and illustration both by me)
9.09.2009
Gigantic
I just watched, found kind of by chance*, a cool film called 'Gigantic' with a nifty cast (including awesome part played by Ed Asner!) and good soundtrack. It is one of those slightly odd movies with lots of interesting characters, half of which you either wish you were or wish were part of your life.
Insanely expensive mattresses, shroom tea, Chinese baby adoption, possibly imaginary stalker, dictator piñatas and ... Well, worth seeing, in my opinion. Yay for the unexpected entertainment!
* #1 daughter was in the mood for an easy-going romance film, so we searched by genre and looked at 'Gigantic' because it's the name of a great Pixies song. We then saw Zooey Deschanel's name and felt one good omen double, then triple with Ed Asner, and quadruple with John Goodman. We didn't recognize Paul Dano's name, but he was excellent in the lead.
Insanely expensive mattresses, shroom tea, Chinese baby adoption, possibly imaginary stalker, dictator piñatas and ... Well, worth seeing, in my opinion. Yay for the unexpected entertainment!
* #1 daughter was in the mood for an easy-going romance film, so we searched by genre and looked at 'Gigantic' because it's the name of a great Pixies song. We then saw Zooey Deschanel's name and felt one good omen double, then triple with Ed Asner, and quadruple with John Goodman. We didn't recognize Paul Dano's name, but he was excellent in the lead.
9.08.2009
Two Score
I am 40 years old today.
I wish it felt more magical or surreal, but I'm not as surprised by the lack of magic in the world anymore. Maybe that's what getting middle-aged is ... The realization that 99.9% of the time 'this is all there is'. The other .01% is what keeps you going, hoping, searching, waiting and observing.
It's kind of pathetic, but in an endearing way. Castles of sand, that kind of thing.
Now.. where's my coffee cup? I've got mundanities to avoid.
I wish it felt more magical or surreal, but I'm not as surprised by the lack of magic in the world anymore. Maybe that's what getting middle-aged is ... The realization that 99.9% of the time 'this is all there is'. The other .01% is what keeps you going, hoping, searching, waiting and observing.
It's kind of pathetic, but in an endearing way. Castles of sand, that kind of thing.
Now.. where's my coffee cup? I've got mundanities to avoid.
9.04.2009
#fridayflash - Stuck
Standing to one side, I watched the crouched figure remove a nail from between its lips. The figure swiveled slightly, sweeping its gaze past me just for a moment. The opaque eyes panned the landscape beyond without searching or wavering. I might have been a fleeting emotion; untouched, unobserved and unable to connect with this consumed being.
Slowly, it placed the nail on top of its pale foot and brought the hammer down in one precise swing. No hesitation in the movement, no acknowledgement of pain, only deep involvement in the process. Nail from lips, to foot, swing of hammer and repeat the process. The figure’s tortured feet bristled with the consecrated nails. The ground beneath was a red reflective pool of form, action and indifference.
I shut my eyes to the void where anguish should be, and opened them to the dim light of my office. My throat was dry when I spoke.
“It seems your parents requested this meeting, yes?”
Giving the file an explanatory nudge, I glanced over at the young woman sitting across from me in the over-stuffed chair. My question hung in the air, as expected. I was the last hope after neuroscientists, psychiatrists and shamans. I was the traveler to her living purgatory. But I wasn’t her hope.
“I’m sorry.” Pausing for gentle emphasis, I continued, “I cannot help you.”
My senses intensified to gage her reaction - a honed response from having issued this innocuous finality before. The young woman continued to mindlessly regard the carpet, picked for its soothing blend of soft colors and simple patterns. The decorator had done well, but the lack of vitality in the office was almost obtrusive. Or perhaps I was still dealing with remnants of the girl’s psyche.
I paged the attendant to escort the young woman back to her room.
Gazing at her parent’s number on top of the closed file, I reached for the telephone handset. My mind conjured up the vision of a hammer swinging down resolutely. My knuckles went to my eyes, rubbing ineffectively to erase the visual that looped quietly in my head.
(story & illustration by me)
Slowly, it placed the nail on top of its pale foot and brought the hammer down in one precise swing. No hesitation in the movement, no acknowledgement of pain, only deep involvement in the process. Nail from lips, to foot, swing of hammer and repeat the process. The figure’s tortured feet bristled with the consecrated nails. The ground beneath was a red reflective pool of form, action and indifference.
I shut my eyes to the void where anguish should be, and opened them to the dim light of my office. My throat was dry when I spoke.
“It seems your parents requested this meeting, yes?”
Giving the file an explanatory nudge, I glanced over at the young woman sitting across from me in the over-stuffed chair. My question hung in the air, as expected. I was the last hope after neuroscientists, psychiatrists and shamans. I was the traveler to her living purgatory. But I wasn’t her hope.
“I’m sorry.” Pausing for gentle emphasis, I continued, “I cannot help you.”
My senses intensified to gage her reaction - a honed response from having issued this innocuous finality before. The young woman continued to mindlessly regard the carpet, picked for its soothing blend of soft colors and simple patterns. The decorator had done well, but the lack of vitality in the office was almost obtrusive. Or perhaps I was still dealing with remnants of the girl’s psyche.
I paged the attendant to escort the young woman back to her room.
Gazing at her parent’s number on top of the closed file, I reached for the telephone handset. My mind conjured up the vision of a hammer swinging down resolutely. My knuckles went to my eyes, rubbing ineffectively to erase the visual that looped quietly in my head.
(story & illustration by me)
8.30.2009
... for my listening pleasure
Having written previously about my lack of tenacity concerning new interests/projects, I would like to mention one abiding interest - podcasts!
I've had my Zune for over 2 years (upgraded once) and here is the short list of podcasts that I continue to listen to religiously:
This American Life A stimulating weekly radio/TV/free podcast, centered around changing weekly themes and stories that illustrate that theme.
The Moth Great unrehearsed stories direct from the storyteller, spoken in front of a live audience. My favorite podcast!
PRI: Selected Shorts Wonderfully narrated works of short fiction in front of a live audience.
I highly recommend all three of the above. While I have listened to many various other podcasts and found them entertaining, none have stood the test of time quite as well.
An honorable mention goes to the following, as a kind of guilty pleasure:
Smodcast Kevin Smith & Scott Mosier (the movies Dogma, Clerks, Jay & Silent Bob, etc.), waxing unpoetic and often quite lascivious about anything and everything, but hilarious enough to keep me laughing on long drives. Not for the prude!
Other podcasts have either fallen by the wayside or are so hit-and-miss that I hesitate to recommend them, and a few more are still in testing stages.
Within the last few months I've also become a member of Audible, and have been enjoying audiobooks regularly (which has cut down on my podcast time). I did find that I'm picky as hell concerning the voice of the narrator. I'd give Neil Gaiman first place as best narrator, and second place goes to Shaun Dooley, who sadly only has narrated 3 books that I can find - hopefully more are in the works. Maybe that's another blog post.
Oh, where's the Esperanto podcasts you ask? Good question, beyond a few radio shows from various countries, the net is powerfully lacking in Esperanto podcasts. If anyone knows of any - let me know!
I've had my Zune for over 2 years (upgraded once) and here is the short list of podcasts that I continue to listen to religiously:
This American Life A stimulating weekly radio/TV/free podcast, centered around changing weekly themes and stories that illustrate that theme.
The Moth Great unrehearsed stories direct from the storyteller, spoken in front of a live audience. My favorite podcast!
PRI: Selected Shorts Wonderfully narrated works of short fiction in front of a live audience.
I highly recommend all three of the above. While I have listened to many various other podcasts and found them entertaining, none have stood the test of time quite as well.
An honorable mention goes to the following, as a kind of guilty pleasure:
Smodcast Kevin Smith & Scott Mosier (the movies Dogma, Clerks, Jay & Silent Bob, etc.), waxing unpoetic and often quite lascivious about anything and everything, but hilarious enough to keep me laughing on long drives. Not for the prude!
Other podcasts have either fallen by the wayside or are so hit-and-miss that I hesitate to recommend them, and a few more are still in testing stages.
Within the last few months I've also become a member of Audible, and have been enjoying audiobooks regularly (which has cut down on my podcast time). I did find that I'm picky as hell concerning the voice of the narrator. I'd give Neil Gaiman first place as best narrator, and second place goes to Shaun Dooley, who sadly only has narrated 3 books that I can find - hopefully more are in the works. Maybe that's another blog post.
Oh, where's the Esperanto podcasts you ask? Good question, beyond a few radio shows from various countries, the net is powerfully lacking in Esperanto podcasts. If anyone knows of any - let me know!
8.29.2009
Cat on a Butterfly Farm
Confession:
I'm learning to accept my character (flaw?) of being constantly distracted by new projects/interests, while rarely sticking to them. One can only receive gently amused looks from friends and family members for so long before accepting certain facts.
I've decided that it isn't a bad thing, as if I could stop myself somehow...
I'm learning to accept my character (flaw?) of being constantly distracted by new projects/interests, while rarely sticking to them. One can only receive gently amused looks from friends and family members for so long before accepting certain facts.
I've decided that it isn't a bad thing, as if I could stop myself somehow...
8.28.2009
kurta penso
Nu, mi lernas Esperanton kaj nun ĝi iĝas pli malfacila. Mia filino ankaŭ lernas, sed ŝi ne ŝatas paroli, nur skribu kaj legu ĝin.
Multaj personoj helpas nin, el tuta mondo! Mi havas novamikojn kiujn parolas Esperanton el Tŭitero, Lernu.net kaj Facebook. Kelkfoje, mi iris al babilejo kaj parolu kun esperantistoj. Mi supozas ke ĝin estos facila kun pli laboro.
Multaj personoj helpas nin, el tuta mondo! Mi havas novamikojn kiujn parolas Esperanton el Tŭitero, Lernu.net kaj Facebook. Kelkfoje, mi iris al babilejo kaj parolu kun esperantistoj. Mi supozas ke ĝin estos facila kun pli laboro.
8.18.2009
7.08.2009
Duluth Bear
This bear sits outside Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory in Canal Park, Duluth MN. It's kind of a mini Duluth icon... Maggie just got 6 stitches on her chin from a run-in with a post, which explains the bandaging on her face.
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