September's 1 thru 10

	Her hair, caught by an offshore gust, became tangled around her face. She left it—as if certain the wind would shift. “How often have we had this conversation?” “We never tire of it,” she said. The smile in her voice didn’t make it all the way to the corners of her mouth and amounted to a long climb up a wooden stair from her eyes. “It’s slightly different every time. Like various gorp mixed into vanilla ice cream.” I said, “our talks are like sundaes?” “Yea...with fruit or jimmies—never the same; always similar, sweet, and comfortably predictable.”
	“Boringly so?” “No,” she said, turning her back to the sea. The wind combed her hair, exposing her profile. I once furiously struck that cheek with an intoxicated elbow. Hard. I don’t remember much about that night; but I do recall my desire to inflict some deserved damage. I obviously failed. “Are you going to grant me any wishes this time?” I asked. Her smile, from neck to forehead, was the kind that erased memories of anger and guaranteed people wouldn’t focus elsewhere. Looking askance, she said with her signature giggle, “maybe you need to rub a lamp or something.”
	As she walked away, the giggle—a closed mouth upper nasal thing—caused me to pause: What fricassee of dream-fate-imagination has brought me to this? Seeking to place her feet only onto cool shadows, she hopscotched planks, causing footfall echoes to vibrate the pier and startle a gull congregation into screeching flight. I followed the handrail, examining her words for possible innuendo and waiting for an ever-elusive combination of wind and afternoon shadow to indicate—from dorsal contours under her waist-length hair and lightly patterned shift—the existence of undergarments. Evidence suggested there were none. No bra, panties, or innuendo.
	She stopped and leaned against my handrail. As she braved the sun-scorched wood—under her arms, now, as well as her feet—I said her name for the first time in what seemed like decades but could have been centuries, “Zuella.” I wasn’t sure I had anything more, so I just watched her alternate cooling her soles like an indecisive flamingo. Our silence endured. Two gulls returned. Braking prior to landing, they reminded me of The Birds when their wings struck back the air. Before I could ask if she remembered it, she said, “Draw another portrait of me?” “OK.”
	Pens in hand, I positioned myself sideways and cross-legged on a bench. Zuella faced me. Before I began, she rotated, tossed her mane, and said over her left shoulder, “I think the wind will cooperate best, if I sit like this.” As I began to slash the pulpwood with her image, she said, “If I like the drawing, I’ll consider it.” Cryptic cunt. I assumed it referred to wishes, but wasn’t interested in feeding her ego enough to ask for clarification. The acrid ink commingled with drops from my face...which I assumed was sweat, spittle, blood, or all three.
	After an eternity of rendering—with both of us looking inward—I stored my pens. The finished sheet tore from the pad leaving an uneven stub on the left side. Standing, I handed it to her. “Who’s holding my bridle?” “You may be my sole chance at salvation and eternal rest, but you’re equally the focal point of every evil I know...you took the form of a domesticated dragon this time. I don’t know who holds it.” I lied, hoping she wouldn’t ask to see the pad. She stood and let the wind carry it into the dark water.
	I focused on the hand. After dropping my creation, it’s elbow retracted and fingers relaxed. Palm vertical, gravity caused it to cantilever slightly from the wrist—like a listless scavenger hanging on thermals above heavy automobile traffic—watching, and hoping, for death to feed it. I listened. There was no sound from the water as it consumed my mixture of fluids, ink, and paper; as it dissolved my crystallized thought-memories; my spite. As always, it accomplished it’s assignment without audible complaint. Likewise...I thought...the water and I have something in common. I wondered if it would be always so?
	Eventually—after endless redundancy became, in itself, redundant—then, if I evolved into a leashed monster, there would be some symmetry. I imagine we differ very little, Zuella and I. My reasons for being here were hers: the dance of owner and pet. “Chaos. It requires... ” Her voice now followed her gaze, which had descended with the portrait. She pronounced the ancient gods name as if reading it from a teleprompter for the first time; che-Ohss, instead of Kay-oss. The hand that didn’t destroy, climbed through her hair and busied itself behind her neck. I could hear it rustling. Softly.
	All in one motion, she backed into the railing and tossed her hair. She watched me as her hand snapped from neck to waist, carrying a bunched shift-strap. The other hand, with purpose again, assisted—in a deliberate manner—to force the dress into performing as a skirt. I examined the front of her unclothed upper torso. Having discarded all semblance of decorum into the timeless expanse—my stare didn’t leave her. Memories melded afresh. Her breathing had increased; in a temperature-less place like this, nipple non-contraction indicated a lack of arousal. Peripherally, I saw her face turn towards me.
	As the wind curtained most exposed skin on her ventral side with hair, I stood—sidling—my back never to the beast. Creosote and marigold from the breeze I couldn’t feel, reminded me of little summers, teetering on hot oozing beams which edged grandmother’s garden. Zuella said, “I doubt you’ll need much incentive...to take a sabbatical.” Although constructed like a statement, her end-inflection hinted at a question. “This sundae tastes different: A glimpse of mammary, a whiff of memories...and now I’m supposed to become compliant? Leave the pier? Wreak where pointed?” “I think so—yes.” That fucking giggle.

— Dragon rendering by IRISHWIND at Odium Generis Humani — photos by Stefan Soell at FEMJOY —

continue reading this story's next 1000 words

Keeper Alert: The Constant Gardner

The Constant Gardener (2005) directed by Fernando Meirelles (City of God, 2002); starring Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (secondary Milieu theme). Fans of suspenseful romantic mysteries will love this wonderfully directed, edited, and acted amalgamation of Tears of the Sun, Beyond Borders, and The Bourne Supremacy.

Counterfeit Paper: A Valuable Teaching Tool

          If I were to teach an upper-level college writing class, I’d use this counterfeit book: The Earth Abides, by George R. Stewart, as the foundation for my semester.

          Just as secret service agents need real, expertly crafted, counterfeit bills removed from circulation and brought into their classroom to learn how to identify bad paper, every writer needs a counterfeit novel which made it into circulation and received praise.  Through deconstruction of this book, I could teach almost everything writers shouldn’t do.

          Hundreds of places the author could have ‘shown us’ with suspense, but instead ‘tells us’ with weak boring sentences.  For example, this is all we are told about our main character being attacked by a mountain lion:

  ...In the end there was bad luck, because Ish missed his shot and instead of killing a lion merely raked it across the shoulders, and it charged and mauled him before Ezra could get another shot home.  After that he walked with a little limp...

          And this, I believe, is the author’s failed attempt at suspense, which results in confusion (I’ve omitted nothing):

 ...one question, he knew, that they had not yet faced, and now she brought it forward.
“That would be fine!” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, it would.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You mean you don’t like it for me?”
“Yes.  It’s dangerous.  There’d be no one else but me, and I wouldn’t be any use.”
“But you can read—all the books.”
“Books!” he laughed a little as he spoke.  “The Practical Midwife?"...

          The first sentence was probably supposed to read:  …and now he brought it forward…  But even without the typo, this is not only horrible dialogue (in a book desperately short on dialogue) as well as massive misuse of exclamation points (three times on every page minimum!) but an example of the authors incessant self-censorship and avoidance of certain words and descriptions.  He avoids reference to human intercourse, birth, death, pain, anger, hatred, bigotry and bloodshed.  In a story detailing a handful of human survivors in 1949 California after a planet-wide plague—avoiding those topics (or glossing over them) becomes a herd of white dinosaurs in the room.

          There are thousands of poorly constructed sentences (like this one, which contains a large word-proximity hiccup):

…He began to temporize, just as he used to do when he said that he had a great deal of work to do and so buried himself in a book instead of going to a dance.

          Factual errors, which could have been avoided with a small amount of research, are prevalent (here are two):

…batteries with the acid not yet in them...they made the experiment of pouring the acid into a battery…put it into the station-wagon. It worked perfectly… (I guess in 1949, putting battery acid in the battery charged it too!){I comment-learned this is an accurate depiction of mid-20th century batteries.}
…The clock was run, he knew, by electrical impulses which were ordinarily timed at sixty to the minute. Now they must be coming less often… (AC power is 60 pulses per second).

          This book contains a main character and dozens of secondary characters we never grow to care about.  On almost every page a situation unfolds which could be easily re-written to involve the reader in the action, infuse the character(s) with depth and emotion(s), or add suspense to the plot.  Instead, the story centers around an emotionally dead man who preaches to a bland cast of less-than-ordinary idiots about their failure to reach for a fraction of their potential, while he wallows in an uncomfortable rut and never lifts a finger to attain any of his own potential.

          Aspiring writers and educators should use this counterfeit paper, available for less than the price of a cup of coffee at used bookstores, as a valuable learning/teaching tool.  In a time when there are so many books filled with examples of great writing—it's nice to have something chock-full of such a concentrated and vast range of terrible, boring, writing to weight down the other end of the scale.

         {I comment-learned, that opinions are like ...✴... and that many people are adamant theirs smells like daffodils in spring.  Mine smells the same as yours; but it's at the top of the ★☆☆☆☆ reviews on Goodreads because it must have passed a thumb test 👍 or three.}

read people who disagree:

Wonderful Comment From Mr Lumpy Dirtball

Improve yer ogling skillz

Yes, it is puerile. I know; it's not—at all—a valuable asset. I'm equally surprised that I was even remotely interested enough to play it several times...until I won....with 10 seconds to spare.
So, I also know you won't want to try it here.

Book Recommendation: Common Nonsense

I can take five minutes of Andy Rooney and not be too bothered by his crotchety befuddlement. These 150+ essays, however, are redundantly crammed with balderdash and misspellings (which made it through spell-check, but were—obviously—never eyeballed). One strikingly obtuse slice of balderdash, which he repeats at least twice: ...more people are alive today than all the people who ever lived..., caused me to become a fact-checker. I found some plausable semi-science by using the keywords: number-of-people-who-have-ever-lived. The results indicated that maybe 100 billion+ have been born in the last 50,000 years. The current world population is less than 6% of the people ever born, Mr Rooney.
These blog-like essays wouldn’t bother me if they were posted in a free web journal (and may even receive my applause) but compile them in a book and I expect editors, fact-checkers, and publishers have earned their percentages. Not true, here.
If someone gives you this book for free (I’m re-gifting mine) stick it next to your toilet. It’s not worth buying, but a couple of the essays will maybe pass the time while you take a dump.

August's 21 thru 31

	aware of th' measure—yea, I did things think o’ yer pleasure—'n cat gut strings tomorrow’s rose pink; Friday may be toooo new for a blazin' visibly different taste certainly I examine—the sound brings wild familiar famine—your voice sings of sorrow pour que; Friday may be toooo true a sound you’d hate to waste restrain celebration—hoop ear rings change th' station—grow punkin wings borrowed foam spray; Friday may be toooo blue for mohawk, shave my face Two fingers in th' pie, Three quail—the sky, Just so ya know why, freckles won’t cry, on Friiiiii-day.
	Children and teenagers are insane. Failing to interpret gray areas when things are not clear-cut right or wrong, a child sees only black and white situations. To stab someone is wrong, to hug them is right; unfortunately people’s indifference registers as punishment because it isn’t praise. Begin the correction process! Tell him, "I’ll never care about anything in your videogame world, ever." And tell her, "Repeating all your melodramatic 'she said’s' bores me." Teach children that the vast majority of their accomplishments fall somewhere between what you ate for lunch and what the DJ talked about during your morning commute.
	Slow blink. A colorful left eye. Iris contracted. Visible toward the bottom of the frame, almost in profile, it focuses up and beyond, over the stark nose’s bridge. Centered above the eye, the fast sloping skin of the nose tapers from the lower-left up to an angular arc of brow. Quite a few dark eyebrow hairs are visible at the top. Above the swoosh of nose is a distant, unfocused, background of bright peacefulness. The eyelid lowers. Slowly. The head descends within the frame. Pauses. A youth-tightened eyelid’s wrinkles, clean and shallow, open to reveal a complete lack of make-up.
	I have difficulty empathizing with anyone who professes to have Coulrophobia. I understand being afraid of heights; fall off a building—you could die. I sympathize with a fear of sharks; even those who eat little fish, because big teeth can maybe mean dead. Spiders? OK, some are poisonous. (Aren’t all these just fear of pain?) But, a fear of clowns...Jesus tap-dancing Christ! If you are incapable of rationally identifying a person wearing makeup and a costume, then you chose your fear, want this phobia, and—like any addict—must be getting something out of your ridiculous, Bozo fear.
	Either you’re the most beautiful-ugly, mouth-breathing, genius on the unpleasant side of the lake, or you’re a raven out of the tarry night: claws firmly gripped in a dead fetus buried in the landfill. You are a killer whale swimming into a pride of sea lions, hunting in the open; I’m ice fishing. Just collecting letters between people attempting to move from internet to phone to meeting—each ending when Durden Tyler tells enough 'truth' to make them avoid being hit by a onrushing VW, like crows fleeing fresh road kill. Two crows fled...care to land on the squirrel?
	I’m glad your money pit is still making you both happy (a gouging contractor is a learning experience — much like a kitchen ghost). I can’t recall the space over your garage; in fact, envisioning where the door will be installed, for the room you’re making, is not possible. Left-top of the stairs, I draw a blank. To the right of your beautiful wooden staircase I picture: guest room, hallway around it, and your bedroom; but my neurons failed to save images to the left. Funny, I recall your entire Brady Bunch house including bomb-shelter, loud walls, and mandatory nose icicles.
	Puffy writing—riddled with phrases skittering tangentially along the periphery of the direct object, blurring a sentence’s focus, (interesting, at times, in an esoteric rhetorician’s way) and intentionally luring the reader away from the message that eventually, hopefully, every sentence reaches—stymies objective thought, enjoyable reading, and informative communication. Like a ladle-full of recently consumed alphabet soup vomited in your lap, it can be tolerated and forgiven...once. A continuous and never-ending torrent of vomit in your lap becomes inexcusable after a very short period. Say, five seconds...maybe ten at the outside. Puffy writing is bad writing. Nuff said.
	Stranded in Maine while her husband was at sea in submarines, she had no friends and didn’t ask anyone how to care for you. Her family thought she was a fool to marry and get pregnant, so they didn’t talk. She thought you could survive on formula, so that’s all she fed you until you were almost a year. You cried and cried; she gave you bottle after bottle. You never stopped crying. She was a strongly stupid woman. Your first checkup, the doctor said: "He should have been on solid food for months". Now it’s labeled under 'cradle scars'.
	"The feces created when ignorance eats too much blind devotion" — is the best label I can compose for a wedding without a prenuptial agreement. Still insist on going ahead without one? Please be kind enough to remember my scorn once you stop referring to each other by unbearably cute, food-based nicknames and half of your earnings, as well as a sizeable chunk of your future pension, becomes sole property of the third party — formerly known as: sweet cakes. Yes, it is as unromantic as applying pre-sex foam and condoms; but even Herpes doesn’t take 25% out of every pre-death dollar.
	“If someone took money out of my wallet without permission — what should I do: punish him, or give him a second chance?” “Ummm...” I could almost hear his confabulation slamming against the damned-if-I-do and fucked-if-I-don’t. I almost laughed. “Doesn’t matter, now. You just admitted to it.” “No, I...” “It would be immeasurably stupid to blame your brother. After failing the question, don’t compound it by lying.” “But, I...” “The only words that might improve your position are: ‘sorry for taking your money and I won’t do it again.’ “Sorry for taking the money. I won’t do it ever again.”
	Self-awareness is anchored on a full container’s ability to pre-decide how it’s eventual empty self should be disposed. Some opt to become vulture shit. Others choose reduction to ash. Many are pickled, packed, and wrapped in lead-lined concrete before being buried below the frost. The decision is, ultimately, the only act of importance. Since every container’s actual choice matters less than the color of it’s undergarments and quality of it’s last dessert — I wish to become fish food. Weight my container and sink it deep. If cost is prohibitive: cremate, and drop the urn in any available ocean or sea.

Evil Clown Generator

Generate your own Evil Clown at scottsmind.

Xjer-catch

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

random things my subconciousness said

Poached this idea from Pick Yin's 'Life is Great':

(rolled thru my brainpan between 1230 and 1530 today)

quick & dirty IQ

Your IQ Is 120

Your Logical Intelligence is Above Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Above Average

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

August's 11 thru 20

	I am not a very warm and loving person. I sometimes wish knowing this was enough to jump-start the hearth and make me gregarious, extroverted, and charismatic. Instead, I look at this person who I am, and feel contentment with what I see. I am not unhappy with this me. I enjoy being alone with hours of solitude. I write, edit, and plan future stories — all for me. I also read to expand my knowledge about, largely, useless and trivial things (to those who are not planning to incorporate it into a plot at some time, if the occasion arises).
	In more complicated times of simplicity our intelligentsia claimed we (on a flat earth) were infected with pox because of our sins. People traveled among us and struck themselves. Chanting about crimes against their deity, they scarred their skin, got paid, and headed to the next village to reopen their backs for some dinner. Were your distant relatives the soon to be survivors who merely watched, or were your great-grand-parents(x5) flagellants? Neither may have been foolishly pious — both may have been capitalizing on the plague by watching, or working in, a traveling road show; reality television for the middle ages.
	I hate consumer-oriented gifts. I’m a bad gift receiver. If you never sent me another tangible item, I would not think less of you, I’d think more of you: I’d say—with confidence—you understand my reasons for not exchanging gifts and being less of a consumer. The best gift I ever got was a hand-made drawing. My mother is the same. I sent her seven DVDs to show her sick and injured neighbors and whatnot. I got a curt, "no-thanks for all the junk mail I’m going to get because of this unwanted gift." I have been taught well.
	I stared at the large window in the back wall as I entered. The view was amazing. Wood flooring and all-weather furniture lent the room an open-to-nature feel. I walked to the corner of the window and bent down. The frame met with the metal bulkhead cleanly; no visible depth. A window made of azlocrilic would need a two-inch thick frame. "Something wrong?" Derek asked from behind me. Either Derek assumed anyone who could pull their focus away from the view must have discovered something wrong, or, the view was exacerbating some phobia of his. "It’s a screen." I said.
	"See?" My voice and legs raised me from the floor. We were now eye-level. "Yes. Not all secrets are to be kept." His mocking tone and threatening eyes coagulated his desire to see me kneeling or prostate. Never a convincing beggar or worshipper, I—instead—inhaled and jutted out my chest. "Did you expect to be alone in achieving your fulfillment?" "No." He started. His accusing finger poised before my nose. "But operating from your own rulebook, my sweet, brings about some nasty consequences." He leaned close. His attempt at imposing intimidation almost made me smirk. "Fear isn’t a tool."
	Shelby blinked. One dollar would have been fine. Perhaps he'd hoped to win one hundred dollars, tops. He could have gotten away with that, sure. But, as he sat fixed in his father's recliner, Lay's Potato Chip crumbs strewn from his skinny thighs to the corner of his limp lips, his right hand still clutching that shiny little card, he knew that he'd won much more than a C-note. The funny man on the small, glowing, screen repeated the winning numbers: "01-25-15-31-03-19-37." Shelby sat in stunned silence as the announcer signed off and commercials flashed before his widening eyes. Jackpot.
	Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago. Assigned to the 1st Battalion, 31st Infantry (Mechanized), from Camp Howze, Korea; living and working in a GP Large tent, located adjacent the DMZ on Camp Liberty Bell. Our patrol engaged one of theirs last week. Although no American was seriously wounded, we’re all on edge. The intelligent mosquitoes are insidious. A commo guy shot himself thru the head. He didn’t die. Our camo-nets provide a small amount of shade, but we’re still cooked by the heat of the sand. My son, whom I named after the James Bond author, was born. Yesterday. Twenty-one years ago.
	Design the perfect breast using only foodstuffs: First, take half of a Florida grapefruit; one that is just a slight bit larger than your average orange, would be preferred. Then take a miniature vanilla wafer; the ones which are about the size of a quarter...just a smooth little cookie...and place it slightly higher than the equatorial center of the fruit, towards the top of it — glued to the wall — so when you see it from straight on, it looks up at you. Finally, stick one of those little pink sour-sweet Smartie candies in the middle of that cookie.
	Not only breach but breach cesarean, I refused to turn around and start the dive. I must have grown accustomed to living in those warm confines for nine and a half months and lost all intention of standing on my head until the doctors figured out what I’d already discovered: there was no way I was getting my big ass through that little opening. So, I waited for them to come in and get me. Oh Yea. Two weeks late and never did a headstand. I was, and still am, an obstinate fuck (and have never liked being upside down).
	Unfortunately many people (parents are people first) do not accept things outside their radar. The same people who scorn television hatred—done to strangers by strangers—hurt their families and members of their communities with the exact same hatred. An Amish family cuts their children off like dead branches because they never returned after rumschpringe; a Jewish mother tears her clothing because a goy impregnated her daughter; parents excommunicate their son because his sexual orientation differs from theirs...in all cases, the reasons can be distilled down to: fear of the ‘unknown’ and the ‘different’ beyond the ring of firelight.

Film Reviews (Late Summer 2005)

Mysterious Skin (2004) directed by Gregg Araki (Splendor, 1999); starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Brady Corbet: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Depicting the ugly and troubling results of pedophilia (from two victim's points of view), this wonderfully directed film succeeds where The Woodsman and Palindromes did not.
Me and You and Everyone We Know (2005) directed by Miranda July (Jesus' Son, 1999); starring John Hawkes and Miranda July: Snaprating=Cheaper, RE-ORDER theme. This jigsaw-puzzle of vignettes paints an odd-joyful portrait of two characters and everyone they know. Fans of Todd Solondz's Happiness and Wes Anderson's Royal Tennenbaums will like this film.
The Devil's Rejects (2005) directed by Rob Zombie (House of 1000 Corpses, 2003); starring William Forsythe and Sid Haig: Gory-film-Fan Snaprating=Cheaper, All Others Snaprating=WFC, PROBLEM theme. A very gory — yet humorous — sequel, which outshines the slasher-flick which spawned it. Fans of Natural Born Killers will be thrilled by this shock-film because of it's caliber of acting and script.
The Chumscrubber (2005) directed by Arie Posin (Over My Dead Body, 2002); starring Jamie Bell and Camilla Belle: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme (secondary Re-Order theme). Fans of the Keepers Donnie Darko and American Beauty may enjoy this staged, Robert-Altman-esque, saga of self-medicated Californians because of the superb acting and the nod to Un Chien Andalou (1929).
Broken Flowers (2005) directed by Jim Jarmusch (Coffee and Cigarettes, 2003); starring Bill Murray and Sharon Stone: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Wonderfully directed, in a High Fidelity-meets-About Schmidt-way, this film never underestimates it's audience's intelligence. Cannes got it right this year.

Up and Down (Horem Pádem) (2004) directed by Jan Hrebejk (Divided We Fall, 2000); starring Petr Forman and Emília Vásáryová: Snaprating=WFC, RE-ORDER theme. A second-string depiction of hatred and bigotry, like an uncohesive Crash set in Europe.
Eulogy (2004) directed by Michael Clancy (Emily's Last Date, 1996); starring Zooey Deschanel, Debra Winger, Hank Azaria and Ray Romano: Snaprating=WFD, RE-ORDER Theme (Character sub-theme). A Hilarious mix of Big Chill and Home for the Holidays.
Employee of the Month (2004) directed by Mitch Rouse (directorial debut); starring Matt Dillon and Steve Zahn: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM theme. The skillfully written script overshadows all, even the the heavy-handed direction and average editing, in this amalgamation of Bad Santa, Clerks, and "About Last Night...".
Look at Me (Comme une image) (2004) directed by Agnès Jaoui (The Taste of Others, 2000); starring Marilou Berry and Jean-Pierre Bacri: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme. Fans of Real Women Have Curves may enjoy this story of a misunderstood daughter and her shallow family surrounded by French stereotypes.

My Obsolete Skill...Shorthand

You are 'Gregg shorthand'. Originally designed to enable people to write faster, it is also very useful for writing things which one does not want other people to read, inasmuch as almost no one knows shorthand any more.

You know how important it is to do things efficiently and on time. It 's comforting to say, 'practice makes perfect'. You also value your privacy, and (unlike some) you do not pretend to be friends with just everyone; that would be ridiculous. When you do make friends, you take them seriously, and faithfully keep what they confide in you to yourself. Unfortunately, your work (which is very important, of course) sometimes keeps you away from social activities, and you are often lonely. Your problem: Gregg shorthand has been obsolete for a long time.
What obsolete skill are you?
Quizilla

August's 1 thru 10

	"...expression becomes about the writing and not the message," is deluded pouting. Writing muddy sentences on your blog is one thing, but you accepted an invitation to write on my site, balked after your first submission was returned for a re-write, and quit. When a kid did this, I understood. Still living at home, my editing scraped across his corrected-by-Mom scab. Shoveling sentence fragments for a quarter-hour, followed by a few minutes chopping off extra words, will never result in a 100-word patch of quality. It may take hours and still need an editor’s grouting tools to make it fit.
	Your blood knows no better. By divorcing my half-sister’s and mine before they died (and entombing your own age-addled mother against her wishes) you cast my filial obligations like a Pharaoh—in tempera. You also, somehow, allowed your brother’s revulsion for family to spread into your daughter and in two decades, I—twenty years junior—become you, become grandma: a resident of, "...I don’t want to be here...please take me home...they hurt me". For which they are poorly paid; get on board! The length of purgatory will be in your hands until you lose the strength to suicide.
	Finding someone who brings bliss and contentment into your casa, and maybe future, makes me happy. Attempting to shine a gentle light on the soiled pigeon in her rearview mirror, our sister’s replacement-place (campus) was her way of trying to forget the lusty fingerprints, scripted lies, and nicotine-laced oxygen of her latest meet market. When culling the deceitful herd—using a one-way screening tool, having unlimited time, and obtaining double-blind protection carries the stigma: 'overly careful and tired of meeting on campus'. "We inter-met," may sound like snowboard-skydiving to those afraid of heights, but they don’t walk in your zapatos.
	I’ve been practicing nostalgic recall. When I squint my eyes just a teensy-weensy bit — the inch deep, football-sized chunk of flesh cut out of your left scapula, the additional nine months within scud-missile range of the most rabidly governed and impoverished millions on this planet, and the self-inflicted hurdy gerdy you danced because your concubine’s aunt Flo missed her stop-over flight — appear as inconvenient blips in a blessed existence. Your e-mail filters more than the TDC sewer smell, the twelve-hour days, and the 5½-day work-week. (Is it still?) But recollections always cause me to affectionately remember FDNY 1997 and 1998.
	The foolish think old needs to be hidden; negotiating with time by repeatedly celebrating their twenty-ninth birthday. Although I didn’t know you at 29, I’m glad to know you now and extremely pleased with the us of we — today, at the leading edge of your fourth decade. I could be happier only if our backyard was ocean beach or forested mountain…and maybe our horizon is blocking that abode from our view. Thank you for being the perfect paramour. My happiness has become blissful because of your influences and willingness to share your life with me for the last twenty-nine months.
	I do not publicly correct the grammar of friends or family (unless I’m in a banter-provoking mood). Today’s breakfast companion said, "I had this bamboo plant growing in a wine craft." I didn’t correct her. The Yankee-menace said, "It’s a kind of ham that’s curated." No correction. But I open a newly-trawled blog to '...obligation to people dieing of thirst if your knowledgeable of where to find water...' and I take a minute to comment. Why? Because spoken words are immediately lost in the hubbub. Hypertext is the new granite. Don’t chisel until you’re cured and your carafe is empty.
	Why—when I catapult over—do you categorically refuse to return my playful intentions? My cataclysmic vocalizations, pleading for active altercations, are always met by a minimal allocation of near-catatonic silence. I yell for your presence but you always skulk away. If you don’t understand the language of Siam, would it be such a catastrophe to try and teach me your Russian? Stop playing in the bathroom, alone, with that stupid ball; come out here and chase me! If your education doesn’t include how to play, then placate me...or my application to excommunicate you will be submitted in triplicate.
	My window frame over the unnamed city street—antiqued and nicotine coated by dead relatives—is the same rough shade of raw as the unfinished edgy patches. Payne’s gray façades tower over book-page concrete almost obliterated by their creator. Random crowd impressions, adorned by slices of hardboiled egg-moons and cliché pentagons, become lost under bland window shades. Unbalanced staring at fire escapes, which hinge above crooked marquees; all signs direct, all arrows point one way. Incessantly glimpsing this thoroughfare one decade on top of the next, I have ceased wondering about it’s unoriginality and begun questioning: Who lives in there?
	Indoor-only Popcorn was let outdoors by a taker. Budroe P. Wilson died under a bush in my front yard. Scared of heights, Louie ran to a neighbor-roof. Samantha, caught by a dog, died in my backyard. Doc chose to live elsewhere after four days of snow. The unnamed Siamese caught leukemia. Spencer hated living in a trailer park and Lloyd was given away to an ex-step. Momma-cat was taken to a distant farm. Evil black was buried in a pasture. A car hit Missy. Moe was given to a neighbor to be outdoors. Cody got run over by a bus.
	Memories naught, strange visages kept Shadows caught, beneath foot swept Images wrought, still carefully frozen Criteria fraught, non-randomly prep'd Headlong, hysterical, brief giddy delight Dandelion diphtheria, foraged crabapple cure Dirt-road rest area, porch-yard twilight His boost her quench, slaked well water pure Witness old fear, her balancing poise Uncertain too near, she backs in alarm Truck blazing steer with silent noise Evening blight peer, bath light decants Unwilling to face, unsettled turn Autumn unfazes, petals unlearn Chilling pout night’s ethereal warmth awakes Pickle jar blight, perturbed contemplates Gradual bleach to bone Pert turns to stone Lusty stares grown Babes die

detritus from a toad to a day

snap on over to my sidebar

For those who've not perused my sidebar for over a fortnight, I've added some interesting links covering a wide range of sites: From a useless bit of time-wasting at Virtual Stapler; thru a wonderful re-dubbed clip from the Disney Film 'Dumbo' at Pink Elephants; to a superior compilation of film lists and reviews at Movie Review Query Engine (MRQE).

Those in need of a heaping quantity of international information the US counter-intelligence community's World Fact Book now has a link; and, on a smaller scale, if you want to read an ever-changing story (being created by many writers, which I edit) Quill Ting now has a microbutton.

it was right, just that it waz (PMP lix)

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Prudence Aforé

"It is by the blind-idiocy of every wholesome American with an ability to squint and interpret what they see, that we have three unspeakably precious things: freedom of speech, freedom of conscience, and the prudence never to practice them." - Snapperhead misquoting Mark Twain

digital rendering by veach st. glines, creative commons license 2005

Book Recommendation: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

The matured and improved writing of J.K. Rowling has caught up with the ages of her characters. Because this sixth novel in the series walks comfortably in the resoled transition-book traveling slippers worn by The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, Children of Dune and Heartfire (Alvin Maker Series #5), this penultimate edition to the saga avoids the template-driven 'year of good outsmarting evil,' followed by it's predecessors. If the seventh book will actually be the last, I expect everything we think we know—now—will be turned upside-down between our ears, before the end of the next book.

Available online at discounted hardback prices (for those needing their fix). Non-addicts get a taste of JK at your library and this one will be available there, by the time you get a jones for it.