This is my November Novel -- A 50,000 word exercise used to help those of us who would like to write but don't ever seem to find the time to write. (I don't seem to be able to ever find enough time to write)
This story is one that has been creeping around in my head -- so here you go, follow along as the month progresses -- Lets see if i can do it.
GIVE ME DEATH -- By T.S. Smith
Prologue
The shrill whistle blew marking the end of another day. Dirt and grime covered every inch of exposed skin and clothing the young man wore. His Dickies were more gray silt than tan with the debris. His white hard hat puffed a plumb of rubble into the air as he tapped it roughly against his leg. He wiped his brow with a dirty red work rag that left behind a gash of moist dirt in its wake. He replaced the hat -- tapping it home on his head, gathered his lunch pail and tattered jacket into his free hand.
His pace was resigned -- almost reluctant to leave the shelter of the giant crane’s cabin; he slowly placed his gloved hands and steel-toed boots on the long metal ladder, descending the thirty-odd steps to the ground below.
He lifted his time card out of the rack containing fifty duplicate time cards. The only discerning difference was the T. Thomas printed at the top of his. He slid the card into the time clock flinching as the clock stamped the time and bit a chunk out of the side of the beige benign surface. He slid it back into the rack where its home would be until the next workday.
T. Thomas turned and walked through the steel meshed gates to the sidewalk beyond then slowly trotted down the street toward home, head bent counting the separations in the sidewalk to himself. There were two hundred and twelve separations until he reached home. Tomorrow there would be two hundred and twelve separations in the sidewalk on his way back.
GIVE ME DEATH
By T.S. Smith
Have you ever given much thought to your own death? Not that I think about you dying, well not much, at least. However, I do think an awful lot about myself dying -- it’s an obsession really. I also obsess about the death of those around me -- those who are close to me -- those who I really wish would die. Not you of course, you’re fine in your perfect world, but mine isn’t quite as nice as yours is. Let me illustrate….
My name is Tom T. Thomas, or in reality, my birth certificate is emblazoned with the name Thomas Thomas Thomas. I didn’t have the most creative parents. I had to change my first name to Tom in grade school just to keep the bullies off my back -- if I’d only knew then what I know now I would have let them beat me to a bloody pulp before puberty reared its ugly head.
My mother -- who held me bound in purgatory for nine months, felt little need to touch me after giving birth. She felt her job was adequately finished. Most of the care I received in the early years came from my grandmother -- luckily enough she died choking to death on a chicken bone along with the dog. We buried them together to save my father from having to dig another hole. I didn’t cry at the funeral. To be honest I was happy to see my grandmother die, she was a miserable woman and would have likely made a top three spot on my list of people who should die.
She always smelled of a week old ashtray and flowers mixed, it was a revolting aroma. Her lips had a permanent divot where the Lucky Strike cigarette sat with an inch long ash dangling precariously waiting to drop on my body as she dressed or bathed me. She also wore the reddest lipstick and nail polish -- a color that’s only natural with arterial bleeding. Her skin was always pasty white except for those areas nicotine had painted yellow. The contrast between the red and pasty white lead me to believe she was a vampire -- and my dreams were darker those nights she tucked me into bed. My last waking visions of those blood red lips wrinkled with age, lowering over my face to kiss me goodnight -- still gives me nightmares.
My father on the other hand was a wonderful man. He loved having a son to carry on the family name -- even if that name was obviously so common. When he came home from work in the evenings he would tossle my hair and ask, “How was your day?” I nodded dutifully, even though I was unable to articulate the horrors I lived every waking moment he wasn’t in the house. On the weekends my life was bearable. My father would take me to the park, or fishing, or just sit and read the paper to me depending on how miserable the weather was outside.
It was one of those beautiful sunny days at the park that the only bright spot in my life was extinguished.
Walking along the tree lined lane of the park my father reached up and grabbed his left arm as if someone had suddenly hit him. I watched his face in horror as the pain gripped his chest and he was -- in seconds -- laying face first in the grass, dead. I cried that day.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Healing Hearts
My friend and coworker is learning first hand what it’s like to help heal a heart. Death, I’m afraid, touches us all at one point or another and how we deal with grief is unique to each of us. Psychologists like to classify grief in a group of stages.
SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE
Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.
I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.
During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.
We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.
I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.
While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.
This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.
Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.
SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE
Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.
I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.
During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.
We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.
I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.
While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.
This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.
Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Practiced at the Art of Procrastination
The road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions; it’s paved with the bodies of procrastinators. Those who don’t procrastinate are driving the steamrollers.My to-do list has become quite extensive this past week. The holidays tend to do this to women. The house needs a holiday cleaning, cookie recipes need baked, and I don’t even want to figure out what box I packed the Christmas decorations in last year. We were flooded twice in the past few years so much of what I once had is now floating somewhere in the Atlantic. If you notice a fake Christmas tree, it’s probably mine.
So with the never ending list of my own, we add to that -- Halloween parties at work and school (plus the opportunity to TP the local haunted tree up the street from my house -- not to worry, it’s a yearly event graciously accepted by the owners of said tree), Thanksgiving, a music recital (thrown in for good measure), Christmas parties at work and school, New Years Eve parties (amateur night, I tend to stay in for those), and then the Monster’s Birthday. Three months crammed full of stuff to do. I’m starting to feel my age and the ever-present devil sitting on my shoulder whispering into my ear, “Procrastinate.”
To be honest, I don’t know how some women do it because I sure as hell can’t keep up with the PTA, wannabe Martha Stewart, school moms. I’m quite happy just being able to get out of bed in the morning, have enough energy to shower and head off to work. (Mind you, my work starts when most of you all go to bed. I sleep during the day, which is a whole other set of problems that lends itself to procrastination.)
Of course, the older I get, the faster time essentially flies by, so that being said -- those same three months will fill all of about 50 minutes in age related time. “And what does that mean?” you ask. Well that means, I will run around like a chicken with its head cut off for several weeks during which the prospective D’days will arrive and I will possibly be able to enjoy a combined total of 50 minutes of the festivities. So instead of being a crazed lunatic this year I decided to prioritize those things that needed to be done thinking I would have more time to enjoy the holidays.
“How’s it going?” you ask. Well, I’m getting to it…
Saturday, October 10, 2009
“M” Kind of Day
Monday, an expletive to most, madness for me on the Full “M”oon “M”adness “M”onday. It was my “M” kind of day. Do you ever have those? Days that seem to stick out in your memory better then some, more abstract then others.
I have those kinds of days.
Numbers do that to me also.
I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.
Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.
I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.
That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.
Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.
They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.
They are great teachers.
I have those kinds of days.
Numbers do that to me also.
I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.
Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.
I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.
That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.
Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.
They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.
They are great teachers.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Getting Organized
I write in long hand -- something, I guess, that's unusual for writers in general, I don't know.
In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page, you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.
I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available than to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too.
I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically.
I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)
In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page, you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.
I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available than to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too.
I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically.
I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)
What I’m All About
This phrase is interesting -- “What I’m all about.” I saw this on my Facebook page relating to a person (who is my friend) tagged in a set of pictures. These pictures referenced a person's (who isn’t my friend) culmination of existence. Houses they want to live in, cars they want to drive, people they like, but don’t know, and people they love and do know -- the list is extensive, but not all encompassing.
Are we (the royal ‘we’) the sum of a quantifiable list of material items?
That is hard to answer, so I am on a quest to see if it’s possible. I started to put together a photo collection of my own list. The “What I’m all about” list.
Sure, I found, just as the person before me, items that I wanted. I mean who doesn’t like Italian shoes, or Coco Channel’s exquisite taste. Oh and the shiny, shiny cars… ooooh sparkly. I can find images of authors, actors, directors, sports teams -- all of which I enjoy, covet and love. I can put in family photos (these I love much more). But, how do you find images that reference feelings… I love a certain time of the year that isn’t easy to find in photographs. It is the time right before the leaves turn bright orange and red outside the doors of my house. It is a time just before autumn arrives. There are usually only one or two days just like this. The air is a bit snappy; you can almost taste autumn beating on the door. I can’t find a picture of this.Therefore, I guess I can’t make an all-inclusive list of “What I’m all about.” Well, at least not until they find a way to download my brain into the computer and upload that information to my Facebook page.
Go have fun. See if you can find pictures of “What you’re about.”
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Characters Becoming Part of the Family
The girl I am writing about, ‘Trees’ an assassin, which is her birthright, is a lot like me -- compartmentalizing many of the more traumatic episodes in her life along with those that are genuinely good. They share the same storage box, only divided by balsa wood separations, the grooves cut in irregular intervals of the drawers allowing more then one memory to be contained. Think, apothecary cabinet. I still can’t figure out my own filing system until I need to retieve something.The Grand Canyon is today’s memory and the drawer slides out; cross sections of other memories relating to that surreal place are contained in here. I want to use the Grand Canyon analogously in my book.
(excerpt from book)
The Grand Canyon had looked so surreal, like a backdrop painting in a Western being filmed. As I stood there on the rim, I wanted to reach out my hand and touch the canvas to see if the paint was still wet. Actually, I wanted to drag my fingers across the canvas smearing at it, because I knew in my mind that it couldn’t be real.
That memory now retrieved from its cedar drawer has texture in my mind. I can recall it with clarity, just as I saw it, standing there those many years ago. I didn’t get to close, I still had, as I do now, fears of falling -- vertigo --which my character has also inherited. And with that memory -- another slot in the drawer opened up -- reminding me that a friend of mine Patrick had been with me on that trip. I hadn’t thought about him in… I don’t know how long, that drawer wasn’t opened at the moment.
But I believe that Trees sees things the same way I do at times, a little of the surreal leaking into her imagination -- watching from the sidelines.
(excerpt from book)
“Life is like Billboards racing past at 70mph. They are large enough to make an impression, but pass quickly by, with acknowledgement to the designer -- sometimes -- for their creative insight, if they leave a lasting impression.”
Trees watched the man die -- commit suicide right in front of her eyes with the same fascination she had when seeing the Grand Canyon. The artist had been talented, it looked almost real to her eyes, and her hand lifted to the canvas wanting to test the paint, seeing if it was still wet.
I think that’s what watching someone die would be like, that’s how my mind would interpret it. Life on film or a master’s oil painting hung in the Louvre. Real, but wet with paint.
This reminded me of the first hospital rotation I did while working on the ambulance. I was in the emergency room of Allegheny General Hospital. A gun shot victim was wheeled into trauma and I watched with detached interest, like watching a movie. I didn’t smell it, I didn’t feel it, I was sitting there on the leather seat at the Metropolitan Museum admiring the painting, and how realistically God paints. Could I get close enough to see the brush strokes? Or a stray hair from the sable brush still embedded in the medium?
That was how I viewed trauma, that was how my brain kept me sane in those instances, that is how I kept my psyche in tact and I know that is how Trees does it too.
(excerpt from book)
Her mind shields her from the reality, making it beautiful to watch, and she smiles a secret smile, something no one else would notice or understand as they passed by her in that moment as she looks at the painting. Most people would just flinch and pass on by. But she sees the genius in the brush strokes, the attention to detail. The way the light falls just right, turning what should be bright red into muddy brown and she smiles because she knows the artist personally, intimately, and in the right hand corner of the canvas she sees her name.
Facebook Family
Facebook, I am not sure just how ingenious an application this is, but I am happy to have it available to me. I live nearly 2000 miles away from family and friends I grew up with -- this is how I stay in touch with their everyday lives. Personally, I love it.I popped on the site this morning after I woke up just to check in on the cousins. My beautiful cousin Holly is getting married in a couple months so I like to keep abreast of the latest happenings -- of course, it is just another family gathering that I won’t be able to attend, which pisses me off. I have missed many of these family events because of work or the general lack of funds. Oh, that demon which is money. My second cousin posted some wonderful photographs of my grandparents (Anna May and Fritz) and my aunt and uncles (Judy, Ronnie, and Wayne -- George (Freddie as I remember him, was away at school or in Germany when this photo was taken) which I dearly love. I had to copy them off the computer so I could print them out and hang them on the wall at my house. I want to be able to pass on the knowledge of my grandparents to my daughter -- she will never get to meet them, they died when I was
pretty young.
Trying to keep family and friends close in this global world is tougher then people would guess and I am glad there are some applications out there trying to make it a little more simple. Still the cost of a stamp still outweighs the price of internet connections. I think I will start writing letters again just so people get something in their mail besides the regularly occurring bills.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Writer Writes
After taking time away from the friend (and foe) my almighty computer for the better part of a month an a half, I still found myself writing, armed with pen and paper in hand (something that I am never without). I am writing a book -- well actually, a novel (of all the hair-brained ideas -- yes I know what you’re thinking). So even when you don’t write, you write. It may be in your head, it might be in your dreams -- I daydream in the shower, on occasion. But never the less when you write, wow do you write (I am starting to think it’s an illness).
As of late, my daughter has caught the bug of writing, making up stories about her favorite things and writing for assignments at school. She is in the fourth grade this year and writing becomes a major part of that grade’s homework makeup, not only in English (Language Arts as they call it now) but also in mathematics, which I found a little unusual to say the least. You now have to write your process for logic in math. Things have changed since I was in school. I wonder if it’s for the better.
The latest project of writing -- something she does every week -- is to use her spelling words to write a story. They receive 20 standard spelling words for the week and 5 additional challenge words. This past week had the word eerie. Eerie is a great word with Halloween just around the corner, it draws up all kinds of interesting images that I could write about. However, we live in Pennsylvania, we have a town called Erie, this was the definition my daughter equated with eerie… It became a place not a feeling. I had to laugh when she wrote in her story that the Tiger had gone to Eerie. I guess definitions aren’t part of the curriculum accompanying spelling words these days.
All that aside, I think that Erie should change their name for the Halloween holiday, just for fun. Wouldn’t that be a blast. Then we really could go to an Eerie Erie.
As of late, my daughter has caught the bug of writing, making up stories about her favorite things and writing for assignments at school. She is in the fourth grade this year and writing becomes a major part of that grade’s homework makeup, not only in English (Language Arts as they call it now) but also in mathematics, which I found a little unusual to say the least. You now have to write your process for logic in math. Things have changed since I was in school. I wonder if it’s for the better.
The latest project of writing -- something she does every week -- is to use her spelling words to write a story. They receive 20 standard spelling words for the week and 5 additional challenge words. This past week had the word eerie. Eerie is a great word with Halloween just around the corner, it draws up all kinds of interesting images that I could write about. However, we live in Pennsylvania, we have a town called Erie, this was the definition my daughter equated with eerie… It became a place not a feeling. I had to laugh when she wrote in her story that the Tiger had gone to Eerie. I guess definitions aren’t part of the curriculum accompanying spelling words these days.
All that aside, I think that Erie should change their name for the Halloween holiday, just for fun. Wouldn’t that be a blast. Then we really could go to an Eerie Erie.
Extended Hiatus
Wow, sorry for the delay posting to the blog. It’s been well over a month and a half since I had a chance to sit down at the computer. Argh. Illness, work, and a computer that is so old it doesn’t like to get up in the mornings anymore then I do. I will put an end to this delay today, I hope. Keep your fingers crossed the computer decides not to take a nap on me.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Guerrilla Film Making At Its Finest
The previous post was from the blog spot on the 48-hour film project. This, if you don’t know what it is, is a national film makers project that gives, us (film makers) the opportunity to see if we can hold up under the pressure of creating a 7 minute film in 48 hours. The kicker is you can’t write the film until you get the information from the Producers of the 48-hour film project.
Friday, August 7, 2009
There was a hum everywhere in the air. Artwork sat against the walls as primarily men filled the meeting area. There was a bobbing of heads here and there checking to see whom the ‘new kids’ were. Team members, chit, chatted back and forth with anxious postures -- some of them -- accept those ‘who knew what to expect.’ It is surprising that only 1 in 10 people here is a woman -- filmmaking is still overwhelmingly male dominated.
The crew’s are meeting with the BIG PRODUCERS of the 48-hour film project to get our Genre. Each team pulls from the hat, you get a genre then, or you can put it back and wait for the catch all genres they pick at the end. We pulled Fantasy -- This means that our film has to have the elements of a fantasy film -- something like “Legend,” “Star Wars,” they are flights of fancy films that have elements of myth and magic in them.
A couple of the team members weren’t too sure about doing the fantasy genre, but I assured them it would be fine, and that I could write a script for anything (no matter what the genre was we picked).
So then, we waited for the next elements that had to be incorporated into the film. First was a prop. Each team has to use the same prop in their film. The prop was a “present,” and it did not have to be wrapped.
Next, we had a character that had to be incorporated into each team’s film. The character was Alan or Alana Beaumont and they had to be a Phony. Guess what that means. They had to be someone they weren’t. It was a bit vague to be sure, but okay, I can handle that.
Last, we got a single line of dialogue. It was, “that’s never happened before.”
Okay we had all our elements for the film, we had to make a fantasy film, with a present, which included a character Alan or Alana Beaumont who was a phony and someone had to say the line “that’s never happened before.”
“GO MAKE YOUR MOVIE” the producer shouted at the group of people who were standing around. Everyone and I mean everyone made a B’line for the door. The films had to be turned in completed with all the paperwork by 7:30 on Sunday. That evening with information in hand, I set out to complete my first task, making the script into something “fantasy related” that incorporated all our needed items. By three o’clock on Saturday morning, we had a script and it was emailed to everyone on the team. -- First task completed. It wasn’t a blockbuster-writing job, but it would make them laugh (the audience).
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Saturday morning at 10:00 a.m. everyone (except the sleeping writer) invaded en masse at the Allegheny Country Club swimming pool to shoot the majority of our film. They were kind enough to allow us the use of their pool without payment. I can’t say enough about how wonderful they were to us, and how interested the members of the club were in what we were doing.
I made my way to the pool around 11:30 a.m. just in time for the beginning of major shooting. Aaron our cinematographer filmed much of the opening sequence before I arrived (mostly second unit stuff) -- he has a fabulous eye for beauty in simplicity, and I was happy he was part of the team. Aaron conferred with me when I arrived, they were already ‘off script’ -- shooting things out of order, and so adjustment in the story line had to be made, on the fly. Not a major deal, but an issue nonetheless. I didn’t want to waste another couple of hours trying to re-shoot the opening, so we just adapted. “Be the willow, not the oak.” Bend with the problems don’t cause more. We didn’t have time to re-shoot; we would work around the problem. We shot everything except 2 very small scenes in the 7 hours at the pool. Then everyone was off to eat and finish the last 2 scenes after dinner.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Editing started that night -- Aaron started splicing shots together. He had the majority of the film done by 1:00 p.m. on Sunday. I came in for final sound check, music placement and to double check continuity -- which I was amazed was exceptional considering no markers were placed for cameras during the entire shoot. Our composer Josh, a one-man wonder, scored the entire film in a single evening while Aaron cut and spliced and worked his magic. 6:00 p.m. Sunday, Aaron burned the film to DVD and flash drive -- and Kirsten our producer (that girl is a genius when it comes to finding things) strolled out the door to deliver our film.
Thursday the 13th of August, at 7:00 p.m. is the premier of our collaboration. 15 Actors and 3 additional crewmembers (I, Aaron and Josh) will see our film on the big screen. 48 hours in the making -- 8 minutes 12 seconds on screen. Not a second of that time is regretted.
This is guerrilla film making at its finest.
I will tell you all about the premier if you are unable to attend.
Friday, August 7, 2009
There was a hum everywhere in the air. Artwork sat against the walls as primarily men filled the meeting area. There was a bobbing of heads here and there checking to see whom the ‘new kids’ were. Team members, chit, chatted back and forth with anxious postures -- some of them -- accept those ‘who knew what to expect.’ It is surprising that only 1 in 10 people here is a woman -- filmmaking is still overwhelmingly male dominated.
The crew’s are meeting with the BIG PRODUCERS of the 48-hour film project to get our Genre. Each team pulls from the hat, you get a genre then, or you can put it back and wait for the catch all genres they pick at the end. We pulled Fantasy -- This means that our film has to have the elements of a fantasy film -- something like “Legend,” “Star Wars,” they are flights of fancy films that have elements of myth and magic in them.
A couple of the team members weren’t too sure about doing the fantasy genre, but I assured them it would be fine, and that I could write a script for anything (no matter what the genre was we picked).
So then, we waited for the next elements that had to be incorporated into the film. First was a prop. Each team has to use the same prop in their film. The prop was a “present,” and it did not have to be wrapped.
Next, we had a character that had to be incorporated into each team’s film. The character was Alan or Alana Beaumont and they had to be a Phony. Guess what that means. They had to be someone they weren’t. It was a bit vague to be sure, but okay, I can handle that.
Last, we got a single line of dialogue. It was, “that’s never happened before.”
Okay we had all our elements for the film, we had to make a fantasy film, with a present, which included a character Alan or Alana Beaumont who was a phony and someone had to say the line “that’s never happened before.”
“GO MAKE YOUR MOVIE” the producer shouted at the group of people who were standing around. Everyone and I mean everyone made a B’line for the door. The films had to be turned in completed with all the paperwork by 7:30 on Sunday. That evening with information in hand, I set out to complete my first task, making the script into something “fantasy related” that incorporated all our needed items. By three o’clock on Saturday morning, we had a script and it was emailed to everyone on the team. -- First task completed. It wasn’t a blockbuster-writing job, but it would make them laugh (the audience).
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Saturday morning at 10:00 a.m. everyone (except the sleeping writer) invaded en masse at the Allegheny Country Club swimming pool to shoot the majority of our film. They were kind enough to allow us the use of their pool without payment. I can’t say enough about how wonderful they were to us, and how interested the members of the club were in what we were doing.
I made my way to the pool around 11:30 a.m. just in time for the beginning of major shooting. Aaron our cinematographer filmed much of the opening sequence before I arrived (mostly second unit stuff) -- he has a fabulous eye for beauty in simplicity, and I was happy he was part of the team. Aaron conferred with me when I arrived, they were already ‘off script’ -- shooting things out of order, and so adjustment in the story line had to be made, on the fly. Not a major deal, but an issue nonetheless. I didn’t want to waste another couple of hours trying to re-shoot the opening, so we just adapted. “Be the willow, not the oak.” Bend with the problems don’t cause more. We didn’t have time to re-shoot; we would work around the problem. We shot everything except 2 very small scenes in the 7 hours at the pool. Then everyone was off to eat and finish the last 2 scenes after dinner.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Editing started that night -- Aaron started splicing shots together. He had the majority of the film done by 1:00 p.m. on Sunday. I came in for final sound check, music placement and to double check continuity -- which I was amazed was exceptional considering no markers were placed for cameras during the entire shoot. Our composer Josh, a one-man wonder, scored the entire film in a single evening while Aaron cut and spliced and worked his magic. 6:00 p.m. Sunday, Aaron burned the film to DVD and flash drive -- and Kirsten our producer (that girl is a genius when it comes to finding things) strolled out the door to deliver our film.
Thursday the 13th of August, at 7:00 p.m. is the premier of our collaboration. 15 Actors and 3 additional crewmembers (I, Aaron and Josh) will see our film on the big screen. 48 hours in the making -- 8 minutes 12 seconds on screen. Not a second of that time is regretted.
This is guerrilla film making at its finest.
I will tell you all about the premier if you are unable to attend.
Recipe for Creative Vision in 48 Hours
8 hours of script writing via email with an hour at eat n' park for dinner where we missed each other (producer and writer). We were each at the wrong eat n' park.
12 hours of shooting at locations
2 dedicated families (feeding the cast and crew)
2 hand-held mini digital cameras (with underwater shots included -- stroke of brilliance on the cinematographers part)
1 mic, no lighting except natural
Throngs of people not in the shot, but making noise enough to be in the shot.
1 composer, writing an entire score in an evening, beautiful and ethereal
15 actors - learning lines in seconds and trying not to crack up during takes
1 cinematographer with a an eye for beauty
4 directors/camera operators, making sure we followed the story -- well pretty close
12 hours of editing, -- with the occasional glitch in the system (save, save, save).
48 hours of little or no sleep, but all seriously fun.
12 hours of shooting at locations
2 dedicated families (feeding the cast and crew)
2 hand-held mini digital cameras (with underwater shots included -- stroke of brilliance on the cinematographers part)
1 mic, no lighting except natural
Throngs of people not in the shot, but making noise enough to be in the shot.
1 composer, writing an entire score in an evening, beautiful and ethereal
15 actors - learning lines in seconds and trying not to crack up during takes
1 cinematographer with a an eye for beauty
4 directors/camera operators, making sure we followed the story -- well pretty close
12 hours of editing, -- with the occasional glitch in the system (save, save, save).
48 hours of little or no sleep, but all seriously fun.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Writing On Robert
“Robert Fulghum?”
“Yes, Robert Fulghum,” I say.
“The writer?” he asked again.
“Duh, of course. Who else?” I answered, again.
A conversation with a friend over who makes me laugh and cry.
I read Robert’s first book on a bus on my way to work. I’m a fan, through and through.
I got stares from people around me. I could guess what they said.
“Why is she laughing? And so loud too.”
I didn’t care, Robert is funny, and then I would wipe a tear starting at the corner of my eye.
“Now she’s crying. What the hell is she reading?”
Robert can make you cry with a pen stroke.
Of course, they would have to guess. Not many people, at the time, had heard of
Robert Fulghum.
My mother wrote this inscription inside a book given to me at Christmas, “Artists and writers see the world differently than others.” That was all, a simple line that summed up my life to her.
She was correct.
Writers, like Mr. Fulghum, see beauty in the smallest of things. A meatloaf sandwich in a refrigerator at 3:00 in the morning -- for instance. The refrigerator is humming to the same frequency his body does. This was ‘Meatloaf in B flat major.’ Something so simple gives us pause to reevaluate the meaning of our life. Slow down, don’t just stop to smell the roses, darn it, smell the entire garden. Then, look at it -- I mean really look at it. It’s a miracle -- sitting in your yard. But we don’t see it, we are traveling at a speed of 60 mph and it’s a blur of red and green. We are missing the miracles of our life for work and appointments, PTA meetings and drive thru value meals.
As I’m writing this my daughter wants to play with me. “Come play with me mommy,” she says. Well, I’m not going to miss time with her just to write for you all. My miracle is waiting to play with me, and she smells like my garden of roses. I’m going to enjoy that garden while it grows. Check back with you all later.
Go enjoy your garden.
Read more about and by Robert at : www.robertfulghum.com
“Yes, Robert Fulghum,” I say.
“The writer?” he asked again.
“Duh, of course. Who else?” I answered, again.
A conversation with a friend over who makes me laugh and cry.
I read Robert’s first book on a bus on my way to work. I’m a fan, through and through.
I got stares from people around me. I could guess what they said.
“Why is she laughing? And so loud too.”
I didn’t care, Robert is funny, and then I would wipe a tear starting at the corner of my eye.
“Now she’s crying. What the hell is she reading?”
Robert can make you cry with a pen stroke.
Of course, they would have to guess. Not many people, at the time, had heard of
Robert Fulghum.
My mother wrote this inscription inside a book given to me at Christmas, “Artists and writers see the world differently than others.” That was all, a simple line that summed up my life to her.
She was correct.
Writers, like Mr. Fulghum, see beauty in the smallest of things. A meatloaf sandwich in a refrigerator at 3:00 in the morning -- for instance. The refrigerator is humming to the same frequency his body does. This was ‘Meatloaf in B flat major.’ Something so simple gives us pause to reevaluate the meaning of our life. Slow down, don’t just stop to smell the roses, darn it, smell the entire garden. Then, look at it -- I mean really look at it. It’s a miracle -- sitting in your yard. But we don’t see it, we are traveling at a speed of 60 mph and it’s a blur of red and green. We are missing the miracles of our life for work and appointments, PTA meetings and drive thru value meals.
As I’m writing this my daughter wants to play with me. “Come play with me mommy,” she says. Well, I’m not going to miss time with her just to write for you all. My miracle is waiting to play with me, and she smells like my garden of roses. I’m going to enjoy that garden while it grows. Check back with you all later.
Go enjoy your garden.
Read more about and by Robert at : www.robertfulghum.com
Friday, August 7, 2009
Start Your Engines
Red, Yellow, Green -- We're off
Okay wish us luck kids ---
The 48 hour film project starts today at 6:00. We have until 6:00 on
Sunday to turn in a completed film. I won't be blogging over the
weekend. I will be writing a movie.
See you all on MondayDrivers Start Your Engines -- Vaaaroooooom
:0)
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Lasting Impressions
Pink mascara lashes lengthen against baby blue sky batting away white candy-floss filled green valleys.
What a beautiful sunrise this morning.
The painters palette at work again. Although, I have to say, Arizona has the most awesome sunrises in the history of sunrises. In my view, of course.
The air, crisp and clean, rushing through the window, until it abruptly changes to skunk. It wasn’t his fault. I’m sure a car hit him, or another animal got too frisky with him. But, Au weh ist mir (‘Oh woe is me,’ for my non-German speaking friends), the smell.
The smell reaches your nose sending two signals to your brain. The first, ‘Oh god, a skunk,’ the other telling your hand to hit the up button on the window, which you, given the circumstances, will assuredly hit the down portion of the button first, filling the car with even more obnoxious gas before getting the window rolled-up, trapping the gasses inside the car with you. This is what we call a, ‘loose, loose scenario.’
These are lasting impressions. We take the good with the bad.
What a beautiful sunrise this morning.
The painters palette at work again. Although, I have to say, Arizona has the most awesome sunrises in the history of sunrises. In my view, of course.
The air, crisp and clean, rushing through the window, until it abruptly changes to skunk. It wasn’t his fault. I’m sure a car hit him, or another animal got too frisky with him. But, Au weh ist mir (‘Oh woe is me,’ for my non-German speaking friends), the smell.
The smell reaches your nose sending two signals to your brain. The first, ‘Oh god, a skunk,’ the other telling your hand to hit the up button on the window, which you, given the circumstances, will assuredly hit the down portion of the button first, filling the car with even more obnoxious gas before getting the window rolled-up, trapping the gasses inside the car with you. This is what we call a, ‘loose, loose scenario.’
These are lasting impressions. We take the good with the bad.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Traffic Jam of Ideas
I sit.
I sit looking at a blank page, not waiting for inspiration. I have plenty of inspiration. My brain is
a traffic jam of ideas. I wait for the chaos to clear so I can pick out an elegant one, a single well-designed idea, on which to write about today.
As a writer, I keep a few things with me at all times. One is a pen, the second is paper, usually
a spiral notebook, and third is a book -- it is usually the book I am reading that week, or
weekend, depending on how good the book is. I can eat up books like potato chips -- One is just
never enough.
I will dip into the well of writing from my notebook for this next story. It is a glimpse of something we all see at one time or another, but may take for granted. It is the airport. This is what I saw the day I picked up my daughter.
The Airport
The airport is a busy milling of ants running here and there, chauffeurs stand like statues holding illuminated signs of passengers they whisk away to exciting and boring places. Eyes race to a fro looking for family faces, signs of information and baggage claim carousels.
People who travel alone are expeditious, finding their avenues of exit quickly and easily.
There is a man with three small children in tow, things dangling from every possible clip on his already overflowing backpack, each hand filled with a smaller, more delicate one. They look at him with awe and wonder, their protector.
Women in heels, click clack their way across the floor, always perplexing me. How do they maneuver in airports, making connections in hubs, demanding miles of legwork?
The young couple is holding hands, tired from their journey. Who knows how many hours they flew? That same couple, aged with years of travel and worldly trials, walks thirty or so feet behind their younger selves, still hand in hand, still smiling, still tired from hours of travel and he still loves her, you can tell. He glances at her, making sure he isn’t dreaming, she smiles and grips his hand a little tighter, reassuring.
A women stands with me at carousel “J” for the United flight -- on time. She is waiting to see her daughter. It’s a reunion. They haven’t seen one another in twenty years. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach for her, butterflies and knots making their appearance. She has twenty minutes left to wait.
I watch a young couple embrace after their absence from one another. He wears a shirt stating,
“Life Begins.”
A new beginning, a new start, that is today for everyone in the airport. I decided to check the schedule again. I want to embrace my daughter; I miss her.
I want our life to begin.
I sit looking at a blank page, not waiting for inspiration. I have plenty of inspiration. My brain is
a traffic jam of ideas. I wait for the chaos to clear so I can pick out an elegant one, a single well-designed idea, on which to write about today.
As a writer, I keep a few things with me at all times. One is a pen, the second is paper, usually
a spiral notebook, and third is a book -- it is usually the book I am reading that week, or
weekend, depending on how good the book is. I can eat up books like potato chips -- One is just
never enough.
I will dip into the well of writing from my notebook for this next story. It is a glimpse of something we all see at one time or another, but may take for granted. It is the airport. This is what I saw the day I picked up my daughter.
The Airport
The airport is a busy milling of ants running here and there, chauffeurs stand like statues holding illuminated signs of passengers they whisk away to exciting and boring places. Eyes race to a fro looking for family faces, signs of information and baggage claim carousels.
People who travel alone are expeditious, finding their avenues of exit quickly and easily.
There is a man with three small children in tow, things dangling from every possible clip on his already overflowing backpack, each hand filled with a smaller, more delicate one. They look at him with awe and wonder, their protector.
Women in heels, click clack their way across the floor, always perplexing me. How do they maneuver in airports, making connections in hubs, demanding miles of legwork?
The young couple is holding hands, tired from their journey. Who knows how many hours they flew? That same couple, aged with years of travel and worldly trials, walks thirty or so feet behind their younger selves, still hand in hand, still smiling, still tired from hours of travel and he still loves her, you can tell. He glances at her, making sure he isn’t dreaming, she smiles and grips his hand a little tighter, reassuring.
A women stands with me at carousel “J” for the United flight -- on time. She is waiting to see her daughter. It’s a reunion. They haven’t seen one another in twenty years. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach for her, butterflies and knots making their appearance. She has twenty minutes left to wait.
I watch a young couple embrace after their absence from one another. He wears a shirt stating,
“Life Begins.”
A new beginning, a new start, that is today for everyone in the airport. I decided to check the schedule again. I want to embrace my daughter; I miss her.
I want our life to begin.
Singing the Blues and Other Hues
Judith, my aunt, and mother to my cousins Kevin and Melodie, sings.
She also plays the piano, a talent I envy. Oh yes, it’s a brilliant emerald green, this envy. She is also the first reader and editor of my stories. (Not this blog however, or it would be grammatically correct, all the time.)
Judy has the ‘ear’, which in musical terms means perfect pitch. Like a perfumer, who has a perfect ‘nose’ for sniffing out fragrance, Judy can hear a song and know with certainty what key it’s in, what cords are used and best of all, can tune my guitar without picking up a tuner.
This is talent. To me, one of the finest talents in the world.
She came to visit my humble abode (and when I say humble, I mean the straw house from the three little pigs) in September after a whirlwind trip through Germany, visiting her brother who was turning 70 years old. Many members of my family were on that trip to Germany. I, however, didn’t go. I’m poor, a writer, enough said.
I was thrilled when she came to visit; I would have kept her here permanently, if the gods allowed it. We sat and talked about her life and music. The stories are so much better when you’re old enough to understand them. I showed her the first ‘inklings’ of the story, Ms. Abigail Spotty’s Rainbow Spots, I was writing for my daughter. Kelsey hates that I named her Abigail; she is just Ms. Spotty to her.
Judy talked about Vegas, one of the first places she worked, and Gene Autry, for whom she worked. She met many wonderful people during her stay in Vegas, Liberace (that man sparkled), The Rat Pack’s Dean Martin and many other singers, songwriters and big band leaders, of the day. To be honest, I was star struck. WOW.
I got around to asking her about a song she wrote many years ago. The song is called, “Just a Bend in The Road.” Eddy Arnold performed this song on one of his albums. (I don’t know if there are right infringements to this song, so I can’t incorporate it into the blog.)
Judy came to the VFW here in Millvale and played for everyone in the club. Oh happy day. She took requests, sitting in that smoke filled bar and put a smile on everyone’s face. That is a blessing. That, my friends, is talent with a capital T. My husband, Kevin still talks about that day with a glimmer in his eyes. He wishes she would come to stay, too.
She never did play the song, “Just a Bend in The Road.” She told me the story behind the song, which is a private part of her life. Someday she'll let me tell the story.
And Maybe she will come sing the blues for us again.
You come along and sing in your hue.
She also plays the piano, a talent I envy. Oh yes, it’s a brilliant emerald green, this envy. She is also the first reader and editor of my stories. (Not this blog however, or it would be grammatically correct, all the time.)
Judy has the ‘ear’, which in musical terms means perfect pitch. Like a perfumer, who has a perfect ‘nose’ for sniffing out fragrance, Judy can hear a song and know with certainty what key it’s in, what cords are used and best of all, can tune my guitar without picking up a tuner.
This is talent. To me, one of the finest talents in the world.
She came to visit my humble abode (and when I say humble, I mean the straw house from the three little pigs) in September after a whirlwind trip through Germany, visiting her brother who was turning 70 years old. Many members of my family were on that trip to Germany. I, however, didn’t go. I’m poor, a writer, enough said.
I was thrilled when she came to visit; I would have kept her here permanently, if the gods allowed it. We sat and talked about her life and music. The stories are so much better when you’re old enough to understand them. I showed her the first ‘inklings’ of the story, Ms. Abigail Spotty’s Rainbow Spots, I was writing for my daughter. Kelsey hates that I named her Abigail; she is just Ms. Spotty to her.
Judy talked about Vegas, one of the first places she worked, and Gene Autry, for whom she worked. She met many wonderful people during her stay in Vegas, Liberace (that man sparkled), The Rat Pack’s Dean Martin and many other singers, songwriters and big band leaders, of the day. To be honest, I was star struck. WOW.
I got around to asking her about a song she wrote many years ago. The song is called, “Just a Bend in The Road.” Eddy Arnold performed this song on one of his albums. (I don’t know if there are right infringements to this song, so I can’t incorporate it into the blog.)
Judy came to the VFW here in Millvale and played for everyone in the club. Oh happy day. She took requests, sitting in that smoke filled bar and put a smile on everyone’s face. That is a blessing. That, my friends, is talent with a capital T. My husband, Kevin still talks about that day with a glimmer in his eyes. He wishes she would come to stay, too.
She never did play the song, “Just a Bend in The Road.” She told me the story behind the song, which is a private part of her life. Someday she'll let me tell the story.
And Maybe she will come sing the blues for us again.
You come along and sing in your hue.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Cracking Creative
Since I was old enough to hold a crayon, I have been creative. To be honest, I was creative before I held a crayon. Smelly art however, may not count.
My mother told me a story of, coming home to an awful smell, overpowering the house and my father, blissful in his ignorance, hadn’t noticed any smell.
I am giving you fare warning, if you have a weak stomach -- stop now.
“Oh god, Roger, what the hell is that smell?”
I am sure my mother held a hand to her face, trying desperately to block the odor. He most likely just shrugged, wondering why she asked. She proceeded to my nursery room finding me, happy -- enjoying my first masterpiece of creativity.
“Jesus Roger.”
I know my mother pretty well; I am truncating what you might have heard. Her spoken words would have had more flourish, (meaning, a truck driver would have blushed).
The white walls and crib were now a subtle shade of greenish brown and so was I. My diaper had been my first palette and the walls and crib, my first canvas. Luckily enough, I don’t remember this every happening. I only have the word of my mother and she wouldn’t make this up. Who would make up a story this horrifically wonderful?
I was the Picasso of poop.
I'm sure it wasn't long after that, crayons made their appearance on the scene, then pencils, acrylic and finally oils, with plenty of paper and canvas thrown in for good measure.
I am an artist in the truest sense of the word. I have created all my life, in multiple mediums.
Writing was thrown into the mix somewhere on the timeline of 45 years, probably during Jr. High School. Writing wasn't something that came easily to me, nor did reading. I stumbled around in the darkness of words, unintelligent in their meaning.
A wonderful English teacher in 7th grade opened my world and mind to the written word. The first story I remember breaking through the darkness was, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -- by C.S. Lewis. The door cracked open and blinding light shone through. I was engaged in the story, which the teacher dutifully read to us each day in class. The characters came to life in that classroom. My mother purchased the rest of the stories for me, which I devoured with a voracious appetite. I was starving and didn’t realize it.
I sat, unmoving for days, lost in worlds completely foreign to me, saturating my minds eye with images of magical places, beasts that talked and children who were brave beyond measure. I was hooked, a story junkie looking for my next fix.
High school brought with it the classics, Dickens, Melville, Steinbeck and Homer. Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Withering Heights and the Tale of Two Cities, were lost on me. I didn’t appreciate them. I didn’t know how to appreciate them because I was new to the written word. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I grew to love the classics, thankfully.
I bravely brandish a shirt, which states, “I read banned books.” A philosophy I happily live by. "Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it." Edmund Burke (1729-1797). All books and art are part of our history. The good, the bad, and the ugly (idiotic idea -- banning things -- censors, argh).
Writing starts in lower grades, but I didn’t become competent in the concept of writing until High school. Essays -- WOO HOO. This is where you learn serious organization of thought into coherent sentences and paragraphs on a blank page. Most people I knew hated essays. For me, it was a place for creativity. I was given a blank canvas and words colored my new palette.
Blue ethereal skies filled with beetle black ash, vomiting forth in volcanic explosions of words. Who could not write with a palette like that? They are vibrant, multi-hued expressions of what we see, just like a painter with dollops of paint on his canvas; the writer paints a picture, allowing us a glimpse into his or her perceptions.
Beautifully creative.
My mother told me a story of, coming home to an awful smell, overpowering the house and my father, blissful in his ignorance, hadn’t noticed any smell.
I am giving you fare warning, if you have a weak stomach -- stop now.
“Oh god, Roger, what the hell is that smell?”
I am sure my mother held a hand to her face, trying desperately to block the odor. He most likely just shrugged, wondering why she asked. She proceeded to my nursery room finding me, happy -- enjoying my first masterpiece of creativity.
“Jesus Roger.”
I know my mother pretty well; I am truncating what you might have heard. Her spoken words would have had more flourish, (meaning, a truck driver would have blushed).
The white walls and crib were now a subtle shade of greenish brown and so was I. My diaper had been my first palette and the walls and crib, my first canvas. Luckily enough, I don’t remember this every happening. I only have the word of my mother and she wouldn’t make this up. Who would make up a story this horrifically wonderful?
I was the Picasso of poop.
I'm sure it wasn't long after that, crayons made their appearance on the scene, then pencils, acrylic and finally oils, with plenty of paper and canvas thrown in for good measure.
I am an artist in the truest sense of the word. I have created all my life, in multiple mediums.
Writing was thrown into the mix somewhere on the timeline of 45 years, probably during Jr. High School. Writing wasn't something that came easily to me, nor did reading. I stumbled around in the darkness of words, unintelligent in their meaning.
A wonderful English teacher in 7th grade opened my world and mind to the written word. The first story I remember breaking through the darkness was, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe -- by C.S. Lewis. The door cracked open and blinding light shone through. I was engaged in the story, which the teacher dutifully read to us each day in class. The characters came to life in that classroom. My mother purchased the rest of the stories for me, which I devoured with a voracious appetite. I was starving and didn’t realize it.
I sat, unmoving for days, lost in worlds completely foreign to me, saturating my minds eye with images of magical places, beasts that talked and children who were brave beyond measure. I was hooked, a story junkie looking for my next fix.
High school brought with it the classics, Dickens, Melville, Steinbeck and Homer. Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men, Withering Heights and the Tale of Two Cities, were lost on me. I didn’t appreciate them. I didn’t know how to appreciate them because I was new to the written word. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I grew to love the classics, thankfully.
I bravely brandish a shirt, which states, “I read banned books.” A philosophy I happily live by. "Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it." Edmund Burke (1729-1797). All books and art are part of our history. The good, the bad, and the ugly (idiotic idea -- banning things -- censors, argh).
Writing starts in lower grades, but I didn’t become competent in the concept of writing until High school. Essays -- WOO HOO. This is where you learn serious organization of thought into coherent sentences and paragraphs on a blank page. Most people I knew hated essays. For me, it was a place for creativity. I was given a blank canvas and words colored my new palette.
Blue ethereal skies filled with beetle black ash, vomiting forth in volcanic explosions of words. Who could not write with a palette like that? They are vibrant, multi-hued expressions of what we see, just like a painter with dollops of paint on his canvas; the writer paints a picture, allowing us a glimpse into his or her perceptions.
Beautifully creative.
A World of Work
In the beginning God created the Heavens and the Earth -- and all manner of creatures to fill that earth, including Adam and Eve of course.
Let’s look at this for a second. God created -- this means the omnipotent being that he is had to work (didn‘t he see that coming). Sure, he only had to work for six of the 7 days, getting his holiday after, but the man/women/being had to w.o.r.k. (I’m thinking I wouldn’t have wanted the job.)
Therefore, Adam and Eve had to find jobs. Their first job was naming everything. I would like to have been a fly on the wall when body parts came up in that conversation, or for that matter the platypus. I mean -- really -- platypus. Their main job however, was not to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge. This seems like a pretty easy job to me, but alas, no -- Eve sticks her big nose into Adams business, “You need to assert yourself, you’ll never make manager if you don’t take initiative.” That is how I hear the conversation starting. “Go on show him you can take charge.”
I get a chuckle from the thought of Eve brow beating Adam.
Oh, so many wives have had this conversation. I knew it started somewhere.
Back to work.
Let’s look at this for a second. God created -- this means the omnipotent being that he is had to work (didn‘t he see that coming). Sure, he only had to work for six of the 7 days, getting his holiday after, but the man/women/being had to w.o.r.k. (I’m thinking I wouldn’t have wanted the job.)
Therefore, Adam and Eve had to find jobs. Their first job was naming everything. I would like to have been a fly on the wall when body parts came up in that conversation, or for that matter the platypus. I mean -- really -- platypus. Their main job however, was not to eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge. This seems like a pretty easy job to me, but alas, no -- Eve sticks her big nose into Adams business, “You need to assert yourself, you’ll never make manager if you don’t take initiative.” That is how I hear the conversation starting. “Go on show him you can take charge.”
I get a chuckle from the thought of Eve brow beating Adam.
Oh, so many wives have had this conversation. I knew it started somewhere.
Back to work.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Life Of Laughter
Laughter is an automatic response (usually) to jocularity. When something is funny, we laugh, simple. We also laugh in response to horror, anger and fear, which is a defensive mechanism developed by men to show they ‘ain’t scared of nothing,’ -- that makes me laugh.
I am a laugher, but there was a period in my life when I wasn’t. I used to say, “Oh that’s funny,” but would never laugh. People thought: I was stuck up (of course that wasn’t the case), or just didn’t find ‘things’ as funny as normal people -- normal being the key word here. The problem was and still is, I have migraines and anyone who knows about these, (you’d rather put your head through the wall) light blinding, noise sensitive, head splitting types of headaches, will appreciate that certain things set them off. Of all the things that could and would possibly set them off, laughter was the culprit. I found this out (after years of going home so sick I wanted to die), at the amusement park. So, I stopped laughing, good-bye, the end.
Kevin, my cousin and jester in residence of our family, used to get me laughing so hard I would stop breathing as tears streamed down my face. I might even turn blue, if the jokes were particularly riotous. We loved to laugh and Kevin was always happy to help in that aspect of our lives. He was a class clown that George Carlin would have envied. Luckily enough, Kevin found an outlet for his jocularity. He moved to Hollywood and now tortures others with breathless, tear stained, sidesplitting glimpses into his endless well of jokes.
My sister Chris and my mother Susan (you remember her from the southern cooking piece I wrote) and me, used to sit in our estrogen based atmosphere and make each other laugh, boys are banned from this club. They found particular pleasure in trying to cause my death.
We will call this “Death by Taco Chip Inhalation.”
A little Mexican food restaurant, down the street from our home, was a favorite of ours. They would wait patiently until I consumed the crispy chips in the bowl before hitting me, upside the head, with punch lines of jokes. This, in turn, would instantly cause me to inhale fragments of chips into my lungs, making the two of them laugh even harder. At the time, it wasn’t funny to me. Years later I look back and laugh -- it was funny but dangerous.
They weren’t being mean (I hope), they were just enjoying the time spent together laughing.
After realizing that laughter was causing my migraines, I found a way to fix the problem medically (better living through chemistry). Thank goodness. Could you imagine going your entire life without laughing? Neither could I. So now I laugh and pretty regularly too I’m happy to say.
I have children now who need tortured with the jocularity that runs rampant in our family. I promise not to choke them on taco chips, or turn them blue -- maybe. I might see if I can get my kids to laugh milk through their noses though. George Carlin and I will both laugh, him in heaven (because God likes a good joke) and me here on earth.
She laughed.
I am a laugher, but there was a period in my life when I wasn’t. I used to say, “Oh that’s funny,” but would never laugh. People thought: I was stuck up (of course that wasn’t the case), or just didn’t find ‘things’ as funny as normal people -- normal being the key word here. The problem was and still is, I have migraines and anyone who knows about these, (you’d rather put your head through the wall) light blinding, noise sensitive, head splitting types of headaches, will appreciate that certain things set them off. Of all the things that could and would possibly set them off, laughter was the culprit. I found this out (after years of going home so sick I wanted to die), at the amusement park. So, I stopped laughing, good-bye, the end.
Kevin, my cousin and jester in residence of our family, used to get me laughing so hard I would stop breathing as tears streamed down my face. I might even turn blue, if the jokes were particularly riotous. We loved to laugh and Kevin was always happy to help in that aspect of our lives. He was a class clown that George Carlin would have envied. Luckily enough, Kevin found an outlet for his jocularity. He moved to Hollywood and now tortures others with breathless, tear stained, sidesplitting glimpses into his endless well of jokes.
My sister Chris and my mother Susan (you remember her from the southern cooking piece I wrote) and me, used to sit in our estrogen based atmosphere and make each other laugh, boys are banned from this club. They found particular pleasure in trying to cause my death.
We will call this “Death by Taco Chip Inhalation.”
A little Mexican food restaurant, down the street from our home, was a favorite of ours. They would wait patiently until I consumed the crispy chips in the bowl before hitting me, upside the head, with punch lines of jokes. This, in turn, would instantly cause me to inhale fragments of chips into my lungs, making the two of them laugh even harder. At the time, it wasn’t funny to me. Years later I look back and laugh -- it was funny but dangerous.
They weren’t being mean (I hope), they were just enjoying the time spent together laughing.
After realizing that laughter was causing my migraines, I found a way to fix the problem medically (better living through chemistry). Thank goodness. Could you imagine going your entire life without laughing? Neither could I. So now I laugh and pretty regularly too I’m happy to say.
I have children now who need tortured with the jocularity that runs rampant in our family. I promise not to choke them on taco chips, or turn them blue -- maybe. I might see if I can get my kids to laugh milk through their noses though. George Carlin and I will both laugh, him in heaven (because God likes a good joke) and me here on earth.
She laughed.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Oh The Food My Mother Cooks
On any given day, in Arizona, you can find my mother cooking something, she is an excellent cook. (She's a better cook than I am a writer.) Her mom, dad, and sister were and are expert cooks.Judy, her sister, owned a restaurant in Tennessee where I worked summers busing tables, rolling napkins and washed dishes during my stay. I learned a lot about food and cooking in those summers.
The one thing my mother and my aunt cooked, especially for me, is rutabagas. If you don’t know what rutabagas are, you will have to check with a produce manager in your supermarket. They fall somewhere in-between a kohlrabi and a turnip, closer to a turnip I think. They are large and somewhat waxy in texture on the outside and very much like a hard potato on the inside. My mother would peel them, boil them and finally mash them into an iron skillet with bacon fat and fry them. Oh, for the love of bacon fat. This was love for me. Emeril has no clue. BAM! to you sir.
The other food, which I alway loved (I think I got it twice in 18 years), is ham hocks and beans with cornbread. But not just any cornbread, oh no. It was Jiffy cornbread, the little blue box that was three for a dollar -- that was something special. If you haven’t eaten it, you don’t know what you’re missing. It is manna from heaven that cornbread. But, of course, it's a southern thing. It's soul food.
Southern women know how to cook (my mother is originally from the south). The love they have for cooking is counted in the calorie content of their food, and their food alone. You ask Mrs.
Paula Deen. If a southern woman cooks your food, the love she puts into her cooking will add 10 pounds to you before you leave the table. This is soul food, this is the food of love and this is my Southern heritage. Smothered chicken, red eye gravy, buttermilk biscuits and ham hocks do me just fine.Thank you mom. Can you pass another biscuit? I still have gravy on my plate.
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