THE SEVEN SHADES OF LOVE

...or...

"How To Determine Why You’re Not Worthy of Being In Love With The Perfect Person Because You’re Color Blind"

          I read in Smilla’s Sense of Snow, that Icelandic Eskimo’s have seventeen words to describe sleet, snow and ice. The next week an actress on TV said, “The Inuit language has twenty-seven different words for frozen water.” Both of these synchronistic snippets got stuck in the linked fence between my right and left hemispheres. The following week I overheard a conversation between a bruised-banana lady — yellow suit with patches of brown from high collar to low heel — and a silver haired, gray skinned woman wearing a purple and teal blouse that hurt my left eye more than my right. (Yes, I always eavesdrop in public; I’m a writer. Sue me.) Banana said, "Oh, I just love that color on you." And her mother snipped back, "You always love everything. Love, love, love; is there anything that you only like a little? Or simply don’t care for?"

At that moment the synergy of the two unrelated ideas handcuffed themselves together on a bench just behind my left temple and I realized: We need more than one word to describe love.

Love (which I shudder to use in a sentence without wondering what vague and disjointed meaning you — my reader — may confer upon it) can be distilled down to seven shades:

Red Love is the first primary love — the foundational love — or the love of Mother. It is also love of Father and parental love: the love of one’s children. A catch-phrase is 'family love'; even though Red Love is limited to blood relatives.

Red Love is unending. Red Love can incorporate, but often has very little to do with: generosity or kindness, caring, sharing, commitment, protection, and communication. Instead, Red Love rides on the shoulders of: obeying, trusting, teaching, learning and respecting.

Easily mixed with black (no color/no love), Red Love — regardless how dark it becomes — never can become completely black.

Reciprocity is never an issue with Red Love. It does not flow from one person to another. It merely exists, like air, which gives life. Liking or associating with Red Loves is irrelevant; as in, “I love my sister. brother. mom. dad. parents. daughter. son. children, because we’re family, but I can’t stand to be in the same room with him. her. them, for more than five minutes — or I lose my shit.” Red love is based on a soul-connection existing before a child’s birth and lasting after one’s death. Born from the small confidences, the large punishments, the hidden Kool-Aid stains and the decades of sharing the same silverware…Red Love only dissipates after every person, with a memory of that Red Loved person, has gone (and I don't mean to Tipperary).

Blue Love is the second primary love. Blue Love is the love of life-long best friends and extended family. This incorporates co-workers, family members one gains through marriage and partnership connections, as well as other long-term friendships.

Blue Love is reciprocal. In fact, reciprocation is a strong requirement for this love to survive. It’s difficult, but not impossible, to Blue Love an acquaintance if he does not Blue Love you in return. If you Blue Love your brother-in-law, divorce can cause your friendship to fade like a bruise. If you Blue Love a co-worker and leave your job, maintaining your Blue Love-friendship can become strenuous work.

It is possible to marry a Blue Love. Roommates marry to cut costs; acquaintances marry out of obligation, religious reasons, or financial responsibilities; and friends marry because of pregnancy. All these rational and un-emotional reasons are not necessarily bad reasons to commit to someone for a long period of time. Blue Love can be nice. It can be filled with comfort and caring; as well as kindness, sharing, commitment, protection, and communication.

Blue Love is not very sturdy. Like a favorite pair of blue jeans — it can fade over time without careful, constant attention. But, like a deep blue lake, it can be the center of two people’s enjoyment and camaraderie. However, since Blue Love doesn’t contain the emotions of bliss, euphoria or passion, it’s the easiest reciprocal-love to walk away from.

Yellow Love is the last primary love. This is the love or connection one feels for pets, infants, mentally challenged (including autistic and Alzheimer’s) and others who are incapable — or won’t — return our love.

This love is filled with empathy, commitment, teaching, sharing, and warmth; but Yellow Love is not a reciprocated love. If someone has a yellow love 'crush,' which becomes a shared feeling, the reciprocity causes that Yellow Love to bloom into a Blue, Violet or Green Love.

The yellow Sun’s rays shine down on the Earth. The Earth doesn’t give anything back. But — no matter — the sun keeps shining.

One who knows Yellow Love, understands the object of their love may never recognize it. This is not to say animals, newborn baby’s, or senile relatives are incapable of returning affection. But love of another’s attention, feeding, touch, and care is not really love for a person but merely a way of saying thank you.

Violet Love is the first and most prevalent of the secondary loves. Violet Love is a mixture of Red and Blue Love. Combining family love with best friend love, Violet Love is the devoted love of a chosen partner.

This love, based upon trust, sharing, open communication, unending kindness, common interests and rational commitments, is not as unromantic nor as calculated as it sounds.

Violets are winter flowers; strong and sturdy in cold, bad weather.

A couple who is physically attracted to each other, enjoy each other’s bedroom abilities, respect each other’s values, and possess each other's pre-requisites (..."She enjoys watching all my channels"..."His farts smell like summer strawberries"...) may settle into a comfortable Violet Love full of passion and equality. A Violet Love jam-packed with respectful, mutual decisions can be the foundation for a fantastic relationship or wonderful marriage.

Violets die in direct summer heat. If communication fails, commitments change, or agreements become dashed by a summer monsoon, Violet Love can quickly blacken.

Green Love: the second secondary love, is a twisted-twisty love. Green Love is the combination of Blue and Yellow Love. This combination of ‘must be reciprocated two-way-love,’ and ‘never to be reciprocated one-way-love,’ is fickle, unpredictable, sometimes ugly, always irrational, and miserably difficult to scrape off the bottom of your Birkenstocks.

Green with envy is a reasonable catch-phrase; envy of another’s possessions runs along the same vein as it’s running mate: jealousy. Lust is the bloated poster child for Green Love.

Never enduring and certainly without a required direction — vanity and narcissism are Green Loves, just like their stepchildren: addiction and obsession. It can be bestowed on inanimate objects (“I love that ‘52 Chevy”) and it can be gone without warning or explanation. Manias are based on Green Love. When a crush turns into a stalking, ordinary Yellow Love molds into a sick Green Love.

Orange Love is the last, most valuable (and rarest) secondary love. Orange Love is the combination of Red and Yellow Love. This mix of family love with non-reciprocating love is confusing because Red Love simply is — and doesn’t flow from person to person — and Yellow Love only flows in one direction. Rain is merely air (always present) and water (flowing in one direction) and just like rain, Orange Love attempts to soak through and permeate everyone. It is self-love.

‘Orange’ rhymes with no other word in the English language and to possess Orange Love is unique. To love oneself is as strong and important as Red Love, and as simple and spontaneous as the Yellow Love of a puppy.

Religions claim the love of their deity is Orange Love. Of the several flavors of god available in your grocer’s freezer, all have 'love' somewhere in his or her résumé. But to claim Orange Love is god’s love is not wrong, it’s just not completely accurate.

Millions of people (conditioned by their societies, families, or by their intentionally confusing religions) believe it is wrong to love one self. They mistake 'selfish' with 'self worth', and preach: "Think of others first, not yourself."

If you don’t love yourself first, foremost, and — most important — before loving anyone else, you can’t (or won’t) understand why that person loves you. Until you learn to Orange Love yourself with all your rough spots and mistakes you will find it impossible to hear your inner voice, your awareness will be limited to the physical, tangible world, and you will only understand those things your five senses tell you exist. Consequently, love will fall outside your ken.

Two people who have not discovered Orange Love (before they discovered each other) are incapable of White Love. They can never leave the Blue-Green-Violet Love arena.

White Love is the combination of all the loves under one roof. White Love is connected and unconnected to the other love-colors. None of their traits or characteristics can withstand the brilliance, yet their combined descriptions are what constitute White Love.

Talking about or attempting to describe White Love (as I’m failing to do here) with someone who’s never experienced it first hand, is as difficult and near-impossible as successfully describing Quantum Theory (quantum theorists even have difficulty talking with each other).

Billons of people have never known White Love; it is as rare as being struck by lightning. Sure, everyone wants to believe they experienced it. It’s the ultimate! Who wants to believe they are one of the masses; one of the 'also ran'?

To shop for White Love (sound ridiculous?...it’s simple) the only thing required is a few minutes of conversation. Sit down. Talk. You can be blind or blindfolded, because a person’s looks have nothing to do with White Love. Sexual attraction does not enter into the equation. When you first met, did you think about her body or her looks? Were you first attracted to him physically? Is their appearance a factor in how you think of them? Yes? That would be Green or Violet Love — my sad, attentive, reader.

White Love is immediately identifiable. A person who feels White Love for another is totally enthralled by that persons thoughts, feelings, words, emotions, and (like a junkie in need of a fix) will do anything, within value limits, to be in the continued company of that person. Every word flows effortlessly and smoothly; time moves without notice. The soul connection is so strong when talking with a White Lover, it seems as one is talking with oneself. "I feel as if I’ve always known you," is a common sentiment. Ideals, values, goals, characteristics, all seem identical; differences seem to melt away like white snow on white sand in the white desert.

Reciprocation is not required to feel White Love. One person can feel White Love for someone who feels Violet, Green or Blue Love in return. This usually happens because the person who does not feel White Love has yet to know Orange Love and it’s impossible to attain White Love if you don’t already possess Orange Love.

If my relationship ended today I would consider all the time I spent with him/her:

(1) A big wasted chunk of my life.

(2) A good excuse to cut off his balls with a filet knife from his tackle box, as soon as he falls asleep; the bastard. Teach him to end a relationship with me.

(3) Impossible. I've earned and received tenure. No way, after all this time, is she walking out of this relationship! I’ll take everything she owns and her bratty kids!

(4) A period in my life, filled with happy and sad times, but I wouldn’t be the person I am today if it were not for our time together.

Although an attempt at humor — 1, 2, and 3 are answers from a person without Orange Love, living life through the eyes of their partner. Always thinking: "His/her love of me proves I’m a good person." Everyone without Orange Love blames the demise of his or her Blue-Green-Violet relationship on the other partner.

If both feel Orange Love, and are equally self-aware, both know they are valuable individuals, no matter who they are sharing their toilet paper roll with. And both realize neither is wasting their life doing anything, anywhere, for anyone, except themselves. Past experiences are all valuable and necessary, directly resulting in the person they are today (whom they Orange Love).

So if the love of a partner fades away, there should never be blame. (Unless, of course, she wants to take the ‘52 Chevy, because I Green Love that hunk of metal and I’ll bash it into a pile of glass and paint chips before I’ll let her take it).

Magpie Love is the epiphany of love. Magpie love occurs when two Orange Lovers (pre-approved to maybe, eventually, find White Love) bump into each other, recognize feelings of White Love for the other, and, while discussing their feelings, learn of the others White Love.

Magpies mate for life. Two White Lovers — when recognizing shared White Love — are hit in a mutual rush of torrential greatness. Bliss. Euphoria. The dancing-on-a-cloud be-all, that ends-all.

Experiencing life in Magpie Love makes every mundane action and routine, a task worth doing if done together. No idea is too unimportant, no topic unspeakable, every conversation orgasmic.

Unending, selfish, unselfishness is a description for Magpie Love. I like that concise label so much, I’m going to repeat it.

• Unending - forever lasting with no ability to wane.
• Selfish - putting one’s own interests first.
• Unselfishness - doing everything for another and putting one’s own interests last.

In Magpie Love, one White Lover will do anything to bring pleasure to the other, because doing so brings the pleasure-giver, more happiness than it delivers.

And so, patient reader, you have the color chart. Hold it up to yourself; examine your past and present relationships. Once you determine what you had/have, and what you want — then…

…as long as the two magpies doing the méringue don't bump into Rane Beaux, our waitress, causing your slice of lemon-kiwi pie with cherry meringue, to slide off the dessert tray and plop upside down on my grape and blueberry mango surprise — forcing her to become white hot enraged and throw us all out into the dry, desert, blackness — then, once you pay for our dessert, I’ll treat you to the story of,

Love’s Living Centers

-or-

"Seven Locations Where Love Settles When You Aren’t Paying Attention"

Book Recommendation: The Face

This par-level Koontz romps around in a wintry-SoCal-familiar-territory and intentionally remains not too supernaturally over-the-top. His smooth writing style (although riddled with repetitious exposition in places) compliments the routine plot, which is equally comfortable-predictable while the suspense is slightly restrained. In this story, city detectives with guardian angels are pitted against one caotic-obsessive kidnapper. Not as good as From the Corner of His Eye, or Odd Thomas, but better than dozens of others. This book can be found in second-hand bookstores.

Book Recommendation: The Sixth Commandment

Maybe, in the early years of Vietnam, Mr. Sanders found himself holding a gem, after weeks of banging on a Smith Corona, and attempted—but failed—to locate the correct combination of PCP-laced crank, which made that bestseller possible. Probably not. Instead, he penned bad sentence after worse and people bought the NEW YORK TIMES #1 BESTSELLING AUTHOR covers.

Having left him on shelves for decades, I forgot about the incessant adverbs ('His flaky eyelids rose slowly.'; '… she asked bluntly.'; and '...I said softly to him...') as well as his passive voice ('I had been right'; '....I'd fingered her as the author...’; and '...they had noticed me...'). Reading the late Mr. Sanders encourages using inconcise and grammatically incorrect sentences. Avoid him (and Vincent Lardo, who capitalizes on the dead author's name).

Quill Cog Native

"We are not a blanket: one piece of unbroken cloth of the same color and texture; we are more like a quillt: many patches, many colors, all woven and held together by a common orange thread." - Snapperhead misquoting Jesse Jackson

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

Life Meme - from aibee's tag

What were three of the stupidest things you've done?

1. Married in 1982, divorced in 1985.
2. Married in 1986, divorced in 1991.
3. Married in 1992, divorced in 2002.

I’ll let that stand alone in all it blazing stupidity.

Who has the most influence in your life?

I do.

My fox-point Siamese and my paramour exert the only external influences, all of which I love (except for the incessant yowling).

Who would you pick up for 'Dinner For Six' with your time machine?

1. Jack Ruby (ran a strip-club in Dallas, died in prison of syphilis, shot Oswald, what stories he could tell!)
2. Adolph Hitler (guarantees one interesting conversation: his explanation as to why he never eats meat).
3. P.K. Dick (I would need someone much more crazy-intelligent than me to ask the others bizarre questions and then argue with their answers). I suspect Phillip would refuse to get into the time machine (paranoia was his forte). If so, I’d find H.D. Thoreau after he spent 22 months living in the woods.
4. Eleanor Roosevelt (I bet she could — and, with a little coaxing and after-dinner drinks, will — kick Adolph’s ass in a bare-knuckle fight).
5. Vincent Van Gogh before he removed his ear. (He and Adolph can swap suicide stories; besides that, he and I were both born on the same day…only 106 years apart).

If granted three non-supernatural wishes, what would they be?

1. My ex-wife would die peacefully, in her sleep. Tonight.
2. My paramour would get promoted. Next week.
3. My sister would find someone with the je ne sais qua that makes her blissful. Soon.

Name two things you regret your city not having and two things people should avoid.

Phoenix, Arizona would be better if it had:

1. A better art-house theater catering to a quick turnover of crunching-the-top, fringe, indie, and foreign films.
   
2. White Castle or Krystal Burgers.

Avoid:

1. Going outside in June, July, and August unless wearing SPF 189 while dashing between an air conditioned space and a swimming pool or vice versa.
2. Staying indoors the other nine months of the year.

Name an event that changed your life.

I joined the Boy Scouts. I learned to love and respect nature, camp, hike and explore the outdoors before I became an Eagle Scout. All of which were gateway experiences for the US Army, where I learned to protect, serve, defend and explore a big chunk of the world before I retired.

Tag five people.

I tagged my dinner guests. They accepted my tag, but apologize for not posting. Most were more amazed about my description of blogs and the web of internets than they were of the time machine.

Of course, if you read this meme and want to do it...consider yourself tagged.

film reviews (early summer 2005) and Keeper Alert (Hustle & Flow)

Mr and Mrs Smith (2005) directed by Doug Liman (The Bourne Identity, 2002); starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie: Snaprating=Cheaper, PROBLEM theme. Although the Smith's fight can be compared to the fight in War of the Roses, the steady humor and over-the-top shoot-n-blow-em-up's, make this more 'Grosse Point Blank meets Léon, The Professional' with a nod to Butch and Sundance.
Batman Begins (2005) directed by Christopher Nolan (Memento, 2000); starring Christian Bale and Katie Holmes: Snaprating=Keeper , CHARACTER theme (secondary theme elements: Problem and Milieu). This is, hands-down, the best superhero-film to date. This saga incorporates over-the-top action sequences, vehicle chases, fight scenes, and witty rejoinders (with far less CGI) as if Van Helsing, Die Hard and Indiana Jones were morphed with the first Batman.
Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith (2005) directed by George Lucas (Star Wars, 1977); starring Ewan McGregor and Natalie Portman: Star-Wars-fan Snaprating=Cheaper, all-others Snaprating=WFC, PROBLEM theme. The script was cribbed from a videogame sound-byte tech (no sentences over six words) and most scenes are CGI hand-me-downs from one of it's older, wiser, siblings or are attempts at humorous nods to films like The Fifth Element and Frankenstein.
War of the Worlds (2005) directed by Steven Spielberg (Minority Report, 2002); starring Tom Cruise and Dakota Fanning: Snaprating=WFD, PROBLEM theme. Fans of Independence Day and The Day After Tomorrow may enjoy this dark, awfully edited, CGI-dominant, retread.
La Marche de l'empereur (March of the Penguins) (2005) Luc Jacquet's directorial debut; starring thousands of emperor penguins: Snaprating=WFD, MILIEU theme. Old fans of the 'Wonderful World of Disney' and younger fans of the documentary Winged Migration will enjoy this tale of Antarctic-nature's hardships and triumphs.
Hustle & Flow (2005) directed by Craig Brewer (The Poor and Hungry, 2000); starring Terrence Howard and Taryn Manning: Snaprating=Keeper, CHARACTER theme. Comparison to 8 mile is easy and simply wrong because this film has the warmth of a great script, wonderful directing (at one point, a woman's song made me tear) and superb acting, which are missing from Slim's hollow autobiography.

Papa's Auto Opinion

          Recently a friend's dichotomy regarding her car purchase stirred thoughts from mental-compost-heap depths to my mind's surface, my keyboard, my screen — now it's on your screen ... in your mind.  This electronic artifice of passing along thoughts, replaces the decades-old verbal guidance my grandfather gave me.  Papa's wisdom is as vital today as it was when I was first-car shopping (only the dollar amounts are somewhat more than quadrupled).

          "Kiddo, there are four things everyone must keep in mind when owning and operating an automobile."  He used longer words rather than some of their available shorter equivalents and his voice carried decades of unfiltered Lucky Strikes in it's timbre.

          "Most important is maintenance and operating costs, which includes gasoline, oil, replacement rubber and repairs when the goddamn thing breaks down."  He said the word goddamn without emphasis.  Just another descriptor.  As if he was really saying, 'when the rusty-metal thing breaks down'.

          "And the insurance premiums, which for someone your age is gonna be a kick-in-the-nuts unless you can convince your parents to include you on their policy."

          He never called either of them by name, leastways never that I recall.  Only pronouns seemed to exist in his dialogue.  He even called his own wife the same thing everyone called her, Nana.  I never noticed it until thinking about him after he died.  When I asked her about it, Nana said, "Of course he called people by their names.  You're mistaken.  You were young, Sonny."  Yeah.  Sonny.  The pronoun used by both of them for Uncle Milt, their son.  But I'm the mistaken one.

          "And then, of course, there are the annual registration and license plate costs.  And in this state there is an excise tax, as well as a fee for getting an inspection sticker."  He raised his voice a little at this point.  He didn't seem to be at all pleased with government-directed costs.

          "The very last thing to consider is the payment price. When I say price, do not get confused and think I mean the amount listed on the sticker unless you are paying cash on the barrelhead — and even I'm not walking around with seven grand in my pocket.  Price means: the amortization of the interest and the principal amount you borrow, all wrapped together into a monthly payment.  All the money you pay the bank, over the years you pay, is the price tag on your automobile.  The ONLY price tag."

          When I asked for his advice in selecting an affordable car, he responded with questions about my income and current expenses, did some calculations and said, "You can afford to spend about two-hundred a month on an automobile, give or take a few dollars."

          I immediately forgot almost everything he told me.  My mind clicked through current interest rates and how much I could borrow to keep my payments around two hundred.  Maybe he suspected what I was thinking, but his laugh-lines didn't show it.  Instead, he asked, "How many miles a week do you think you'll drive?"  I said, "To and from college a couple weekends a month, to the movies once in a while, in the summer I'd drive to work and around town; maybe a hundred miles a week or so?"

          Then he did some murmuring and thinking out loud for a long minute.  It sounded like, "...rate at that...per gallon...a year...seventy cents...every three...maybe quarterly..."  Then he looked at me and said, "You might be able to afford a $1,300 car as long as it gets over twenty miles to the gallon."

          I must have looked crestfallen or even crushed, because he laughed. "You paying any attention to me?"  I said, "Yes, Papa."  "Well, do the math.  500 miles a month is 6,000 miles a year.  If you get 20 miles to the gallon that's 300 gallons of gasoline you need to buy next year.  An easy way to predict the rest of the maintenance costs — hoses, windshield wipers, fluids and the like — is to figure 100 dollars for every 1,000 miles.  At the current cost of gasoline, your maintenance costs will be around 900 dollars a year.  Liability-only insurance, on your parent's policy, should be around 500 a year and taxes and shit should be no more than 150 or so.  Now, that's over $1,500 a year on an automobile you have yet to put a price tag on.  If I co-sign, you might could get an 18-month loan for about $1,300 at a reasonable interest rate, and that is a $75-a-month payment, which would bring your monthly costs to the two-hundred mark."

          I told him I would think about what he said.  I went away and did my own calculations.  The result looked like this: $4,500 at ten percent interest for five years is $95 a month (I could afford the extra $20, he was being too conservative). I knew I could get a really great car for forty-five hundred dollars.

          When I talked to Papa on the phone later, I explained my calculations.  He said, "Why don't you borrow your mother's automobile and do a price comparison on automobiles with $4,500 stickers and then on similar cars on the same lot, but which are five years older.  See how your newer car fares after five years in the value-department.  Don't forget that your tastes in automobiles will probably change over the next five years as well."

          The following week, I did what he recommended.  I found a sporty-looking Datsun for $4,900, which was only slightly over a year old (and I was sure I could talk them down).  Then I was shown several older cars: A seven year old Toyota was marked at 1,900; an eight year old Honda was $2,000; and I found a six year old Ford for 1,750.  Papa said on the phone that night, "Seems you have learned that the car you spend almost six thousand dollars to purchase over a five year period will be worth less than two grand once you actually own it.  Why don't you see what kind of value you can get purchasing a twenty or even forty-year-old automobile?"

          I think my response used catch phrases like 'clunker' and 'gas hog' but it couldn't hurt to humor him.  I checked classifieds and drove my stepfather's van to a local farm.  The farmer was selling three antiques: a 1953 Oldsmobile tank for $750; a 1961 Corvair for $1,000; and a four-door 1949 Pontiac with one of those external windshield visors and no back seat (he said it was made that way for traveling salesmen to store their wares).  He wanted $650 for it because it needed a new paint job and the tires were in bad shape.  All three ran perfectly.  He didn't seem to be bothered at all by some teenager showing up and asking to drive his cars up and down the county road in front of his place.

          "So, those old cars seem to have gained their value back." Papa said after I told him about my test drives.  "I doubt if that Corvair cost much more than a thousand when it rolled off the assembly line."  I told him I suspected maintenance and gas would cost more, since these cars were older, probably harder to find parts for, and said they would get worse mileage (especially the eight-cylinder Olds).

          "Bullshit," he said. "That Corvair will get at least 20 miles to the gallon and I bet it is easier, and cheaper, to fix and find parts for.  But don't take my word on it.  Call any shop-mechanic and ask him.  Tell him what you are considering purchasing and what your concerns are about repairs.  Just ask how much he would charge to examine a car before you purchase it, to provide his mechanical opinion of it's condition."

          The mechanic said he loved working on old classics.  He preferred them.  They were the cars on which he learned.  Parts were always available and they cost no more than new-car parts.  He said, "There's nothing better made than Detroit-steel."  And, "all cars need repairs, but newer ones sometimes cost more in labor, because everything is jam-packed together under the hood and I always haveta move major components outta the way just ta do simple stuff, like change spark plugs.  If you want my opinion, buy a older car."
          Papa shared this wisdom with all his "grandkiddo's."  Although I don't think his granddaughters listened (or his guidance was drowned out by all the fear-based auto-industry commercials).  Now my sisters and nieces drive always new, trade-before-it-needs-tires, money-sinkholes, with the best fear-induced 'extended warranty' they can feel comfortable paying for.  Papa's grandsons did listen.  If there is one clear demarcation between the sexes in my extended family it's seen in our vehicles.

$35K, new.  Insurance is not too bad.  Mostly garaged except winters and whenever she needs to tow her horse trailer (because it has a ten-cylinder engine which makes a fill-up cost two arms and one leg).  She only repairs it at the dealer she bought it from, so maintenance costs are not equitable to any other sane person I know.  She combats her fears by driving something that one needs a gangway to embark into and debark from.  WORTH LESS THAN $18K IN TRADE (which will happen soon).

$5K, when it was 37 years old.  Maintenance negligible, fancy improvements and paint cost more than anything.  He drives it every day.  It's orange and that almost makes up for no air conditioner.  Rarely needed in the Midwest, he says.  WORTH OVER $8K TODAY.

$8,500, when it was fifty years old.  Almost no engine maintenance (but it came with a new engine and new interior).  An extra car which is driven weekends, when it's raining, or when his motorcycle is in the shop (which seems to be more than just once in a while).  It is great to drive and has an after-market air conditioner.  He has already put 70K miles on it.  WORTH ABOUT $12K TODAY.

About 20K new.  Insurance is phenomenal (because she drives as if she's the only person on the road, fast).  Maintenance is acceptable if you disregard the cost of the accident repairs.  WORTH ABOUT 11K TODAY (More, if the next owner doesn't check accident history).

$3K, when it was 31 years old.  Almost no maintenance costs.  Liability insurance less than two hundred dollars a year.  Drove it for six years and over 30K miles and sold it for the same price I bought it.  I don't presently own a car.

65K or more, new.  This is her toy.  She doesn't know how much anything costs because she doesn't 'do the bills'.  It gets picked up by 'the garage' for all routine maintenance, and nothing is ever wrong with it unless there is a light or a noise.  Nonetheless, IT IS WORTH ABOUT 50K TODAY (and it will be traded next year).

Minimum blogger standards revisited

I wrote a post in May explaining my winnowing three blogs from the applaudable ranks. Others, who will also be missed, now join them. Writing less than twice a month was the issue in my May post; now here are a few other reasons to lose my applause.

Uninteresting writing: Some bloggers become enmeshed in describing daily details or environment up to—and beyond—the point where their writing is as interesting as watching my Hayward AquaPilot suck dead bugs (which is actually interesting for about 23.57 seconds).

Self-promotion: Overly narcissistic blogs have a friends and family niche; unless I'm related to the ugly-in-every-picture I prefer not to see your digital storeroom. Along the same artery, those who seem to have a need to throw their shoulder out of joint with self-aggrandizement: less is more, even when it comes to masturbatory-back-patting.

Jerry's kids: Some blog-reads are very much a romp in Springerland. Although I'm oddly interested when I stumble across the show and may even watch for a few minutes (mesmerized by toothless, mouth-breathers) I don't program the show on TeVo.

By request: Asking to be removed from applaudable status to avoid being listed here if one's writing (or my opinion of it) flagged in the future, seemed—at first glance—abnegation bordering on fatalism. But I suspect it's far more confusing and falls somewhere between 'shouldn't pander approval' and 'control-curtail stressors'. So, although I still applaud their writing, I bow to their wishes.

To these bloggers, I wave a hypertextural goodbye (even though some may have been gone long, long, ago)...

• the uglier house
• sepia tone dreams
• fluffmuppet takes on nyc
• written inc.
• spelunk in the trunk
• unfounded shamanic shifting & powerful foolish wondering [added 11 Jul]
• rezzee's blog [added 11 Jul]

After slip-skipping thru the atmo-blog, I complied an informal census, which indicates all blogs fit into these cubbies:

• 20% - written in a language I could not read (unfortunately)
• 18% - focused on political or religious subject matter (with proselytizeable foaming and rants)
• 14% - advertisement or word-cache for another site
• 12% - yet to be determined, as the blog was too new
• 11% - caught my attention and held it (and were appended to my clap-pending list)
• 9% - fan site (sports, pr0n, celebs)
• 7% - juvenile (creative over-attempts)
• 5% - digital album niche (friends and family oriented)
• 4% - simply dislikable (for various reasons)

vaca-enn-we

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

I'll be back for fireworks

I'm actually scuba diving in Mexico's Sea of Cortez, not fishing; unless fishing means 'breathing underwater like a fish'.

In Korea, Butterflying means 'having sex with multiple partners' (like a butterfly flitting from one flower to the next). I heard the word Sharking used in the context of 'obtaining something fraudulently' (like sharks who will steal your hooked catch before you reel it in). Cowing refers to 'frightening someone with threats' (because cows will retreat to hollering and arm waiving).

Maybe I am fishing.

I'll be back not to celebrate the fourth day of next month but to watch the colors in the sky that night.

Until then, check out the blogs listed on my sidebar (applaudable blogs and standing ovational blogs), the sites found by clicking my micro-buttons, as well as my phantastic photos and unarguably, art sites.

Oh, if you read any of my clap-pending blogs, please tell me if they make you clap.
Until next week - enjoy your summer or winter (depending on which shoe fits).

My Tarot Card (how-so-very Sonoran Desert I am - inside as well as out)

You are the Sun card. The light of the Sun reveals all. The Sun is joyful and bright, without fear or reservation. The childish nature of the Sun allows you to play and feel free. Exploration can truly take place in the light of day when nothing is hidden. The Sun's rays fill you with energy so that you may live life to its fullest, milking pleasure out of each day. Such joy and energy can bring wealth and physical pleasure. To shine in the light of day is to have confidence, to soak up its rays is to feel the freedom of a child.

Which Tarot Card Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Q on Next Generation can do it, right?

          "I'm staunch catholic."  He said.  "I know that I don't come off as being religious because I cuss and stuff but I never say goddamn.  My belief is strong."  He raised a beer can toward his bulging lower lip (which made him look like he'd been punched in the face) and spit into it.  His spit was the color and consistency of baby shit but it smelled like wintergreen.  I wanted to ask him why he used staunch as an adjective, but changed my mind.  He probably didn't know why and if he did, I didn't care.

          "Yea?  I gotta be honest with ya, Jim.  I'd never have guessed.  You hide it well."

          "Well, I don't push my faith on others if that's what you mean."

          "No, it isn't.  But tell me this: Do you believe the bible is an interesting collection of allegories handed down to guide people, or do you take everything in it literally?"

          "The bible is all true."

          "Everything?"

          "Yep."  Another thick brown drool entered the can.

          "We definitely see things differently.  Since I believe it's mostly allegory, do you mind if I ask you some specific questions about it?"  Jim shrugged.  The four Budweisers and his dip of Skoal must be causing a measurable degree of fuckit.  "Do you believe that Adam and Eve were the first people on earth and that they had two sons Cain and Able?"

          "Sure."

          "Then, can you explain how Cain and Able had kids?"

          "The bible doesn't say.  God could have made a women for Cain to marry.  Just because it doesn't say, doesn't mean it didn't happen.  It doesn't say how or when he made lots of things."

          "Ok.  There's a portion of the Bible that lists all the people who begat, beginning with Adam, and I've read where someone added all those people until they came to some person that they could date with some accuracy, which indicated the earth is four to six thousand years old.  Are you familiar with this?"  He was nodding half way through my question, so I added the are-you-familiar part of my question just to be polite.

          "It really is around four thousand years old."

          "What about fossilized dinosaur bones?"

          "God put them under the ground."

          "What?"

          "He wants humans to discover these things."  Jim used his fingers to make air-quotes when he said the word discover.  "He wants us to be able to come up with theories and to become scientists and archeologists and shit.  He put all those fossils and diamonds and oil and other energy sources like uranium inside the earth for us to find."

          "So you don't believe that millions of years ago those bones were actually the skeletons of live animals?  And that oil and coal is formed by billions of years of heat and pressure exerted on organic material?"  My voice was getting higher.  I was either closing on him or losing him.  I couldn't tell.

          "God put all that stuff in the earth when he made it.   Maybe he wanted us to think the earth was billions of years old."

          Losing him; I decided to try a different tactic.  "Do you agree that there are tectonic plates that move the continents around?  Maybe a half-inch a year or so?"

          "Yea, I guess so."  He sounded skeptically unfamiliar so got up and brought us two more beers. I decided I needed more details.

          "Earthquakes are caused by these plates bumping and shifting.  Agreed?"

          "Sure."

          "If you back-track all the half-inch movements for hundreds of millions of half-inches.  The east coast of South America and the west coast of Africa line up almost perfectly.  Which, clearly, indicates the earth is old-old and not only a couple thousand years."

          "Unless God made everything move apart really fast on the day he made the earth."

          With logic like that, why was I even having this conversation?  Oh.  Because of free beer and because I was unable to converse about hunting, WWF, TV, or Sports.  The only other thing to do was engage this wonderfully foolish redneck in some type of verbal poker.

          I took another sip from my can and folded my invisible hand.

          It takes all kinds.  If everyone thought like me, I wouldn't have anyone to banter with, bitch at, disagree with, or despise.  Boring peaceful banality would rule until I found some way to disagree with myself.

cicatrize it

"If you do a good job for others, you heal yourself at the same time. Although an ugly cicatrized scar may mark your journey, a dose of joy is a spiritual cure. It transcends all barriers." -- snapperhead misquoting Ed Sullivan.

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

Keeper Alert & Film-theme Rule of Snap

KEEPER ALERT
Batman Begins (2005) directed by Christopher Nolan (Memento, 2000); starring Christian Bale and Katie Holmes: Snaprating=Keeper, Character theme (all other themes are present to a lesser extent). This is hands-down the best superhero-film. This saga incorporates over-the-top action sequences and chases, interesting fight scenes, and witty rejoiners (with less CGI) as if Van Helsing, Die Hard and Indiana Jones were morphed with the first Batman.

Film Theme Rule of Snap
I've been asked if there is a quick way to determine if a film has a Character, Problem, Milieu or Re-Order theme. This is the 'Rule of Snap':

New sidecar cat: clap-pending

There are a few new buttons in my stack worth a look, however (and more importantly) I've added a new catagory above applaudable, called: clap-pending blogs.

These sites are currently being read and scrutinized. If 'newly discovered', then they have something that caught my eye but I'm uncertain if they are worthy of applause. If they once held a position of Applaudable or Standing Ovationable, something (more than likely: a long gap of writing without a 'gone fishin' sign in the window) has caused me to no longer consider them worthy.

The reason I've added this catagory is that, up until now, I bookmarked sites for future reading; but I'm now interested in your comments and suggestions (and will remain open even when this post drops into the archives). If you think a 'clap-pending blog' should become applaudable or even that the claps should be ending, let me know here or at veachglines(at)gmail(dot)com.

Natunatch 19

"Love (understood as the desire of good for another) is in fact so unnatural a phenomenon that it can scarcely repeat itself more than nineteen times before the soul, unable to become virgin for a twentieth go-round, gives up; not having energy enough to cast itself out again into the ocean of another's soul." -- snapperhead misquoting James Joyce.

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

Prophet of the blog-as-art aesthetic

          One of my 'official questions', posed to Scoots at Yes but still... was:  In any style, write a succinct review of the blog: snapperhead.  His answer sat me back in my chair as if, mid-dinner, Hedwig just cat-walked over me.  I felt a surge of pride-to-the-point-of-embarrassment.  I, like anyone, appreciate kind words and recognition, as when MontiLee at The Diner [at] Penda's Relm complimented my blog with her post I'm Honored.  What follows is Scoot's answer, for which I feel exceptionally unworthy, because of my most recent feeble attempt at encapsulation-reviews.   Nonetheless, thank you, Scoots.

          On seeing Snapperhead, I immediately thought of Raging Bull.  Jake LaMotta would not be remarkable were he merely a boxer, merely an abusive husband, merely a man played by Robert DeNiro; what makes Jake LaMotta one of film's greatest characters, with an emotional heft distinct from anything his real-life counterpart might compel us to feel, is the combination of those three traits into a seamless whole.

           Snapperhead is no different. To find 'digital renderings' like this one:

          Seemingly surreal but with recognizable details threatening to peak out, a woman behind the yellow wallpaper of Veach Glines's depressed woman who happens to paint is not in itself a stunning revelation.

          To find insightful film criticism, or humorous digs at the French, would again hardly be remarkable.  Indeed, Glines fills his sidebar with links to sites that could provide similar content.  I will return to this point later.

          What makes Snapperhead remarkable is its fusion of these diverse elements into a cogent whole, bound together by the consistent personality and ever-high standards of Glines.

          Yet, also, Glines is remarkable for his attitude about the blogosphere.  His sidebar, with its 'applaudable' and 'standing ovationable' blogs, represents the relatively rare stance the author-artist takes: that blogging can be an art form.  Blogs are not, for him, merely an engine by which politically-minded citizens can effect social change, nor merely a way to let one's friends know what is happening in one's life.  Blogging is neither so lofty nor so trivial that Glines will excuse poor quality; instead, he demands engaging, high-quality content. He is a prophet of the blog-as-art aesthetic.

          Picture me, prostrate, head pointed in a east-north-easterly direction, towards Ohio.

Knotted Picayune

"Music hath charms to smoothe out some of the more salvageable breasts, which have been made hard as rocks with silicone and saltwater, or even to unbend a knotted cloak which was hurriedly used to strangle." - snapperhead misquoting William Congreve, playwrite, dead nearly three centuries.

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

The Official Interview Game

Questions posed by Jennifer at Jenn's Random Thoughts. I don't do most meme's, and certainly don't tag others when I do them....but....this is different. A volunteer rather than a draft meme is one I might enjoy.

1. Because I don't know much about you, tell me about yourself. Your likes, dislikes, things that make you happy, sad, etc. Give me all the good stuff.
   
   - This already-blog-answered-answer can be found at Allow Me to Introduce Myself. Since I like verbose simplicity and dislike redundancy, I’ll let those 100 points stand (it includes all my good and bad stuff).
   
   
2. You're from the fantastic state of Arizona. Would you ever leave such a great state behind and move if you were to fall in love with a woman on the other side of the country?
   
   - Certainly, of course, by all means. I’ve moved more times in my life than I’ve fallen in lust and love combined — leaving the Sonoran Desert for the high plains of love or even the higher mountains of enamor would only require me to unhitch my appaloosa and hit the dusty trail.
   
   
3. Art is amazing. I suck at it. Can you teach me how to be artistic?
   
   - I don’t think it is possible to teach someone to ‘be artistic’; if a person already possesses an eye, ear, or taste (for painting, singing or cooking, as it were) then it's possible to refine and improve their raw talent. The short answer is: no.
   
   (Now to contradict myself.) It is very possible to instruct someone how to construct something considered ‘creative’ and even ‘art’ by others — in a sense, what I’m saying is, I could teach you how to combine specific items (let’s say…cloth, foam, paint, wood, and …ummm… ten thousand plastic drinking straws from Piggly Wiggly) into a large modern wall construction. You would have done everything, I’d only provide guidance. The end result: You'd have created something fab to hang over your momma's hand-me-down sofa and most of the other women in the trailer park, as well as Bubba and his other brother Earl, would think you created some art, sure nuf, fuckn eh. (When I re-read this last sentence, I sound rather harsh, heartless, and flagrantly small-minded about the inb-red-states but, really, it's all a facade...and only a set-up for my last answer.)
   
   
4. Up all night, sleep all day or sleep all night, up all day? Why?
   
   - Both. I have no semblance of routine or schedule. I’m up for about twenty hours and I sleep about nine. Which means, simply, I sleep when tired and stay awake until that time rolls around again. Why? Because I can.
   
   
5. Southern girls are sexy, right?
   
   - I hold a special place in my heart for women from: the southeastern Baltic and former Soviet states and countries (Slavic women have a very sexy lilt to their deep voices...I think I became aware of Natasha from Bullwinkle at an impressionable age); South Korea; the Southwestern states of the US of A; and Southern Austrailia (women downunder, can be wonderfully bold). But a women from any former-confederate state is simply unattractive (even after she removes her NASCAR t-shirt, spits out her dip, and irons her daddy's hooded white robe).
   

The Official Interview Game Rules

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying “interview me.”
   
2. I will respond by asking you five questions — each person’s will be different.
   
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
   
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
   
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
   

Celebrating Writers and Artists

Something as arbitrary as—this—my 100th post, is an innocuous reason for celebration; albeit, I do have ten fingers and toes, so am able to recognize the peculiar, ingrained, some would say gravitational, pull of round numbers. And, celebrating arbitrary notions is more acceptable (to me) than the reasons many hold as sufficient to give them pause or to raise their glass. Celebrating births or deaths (90% of all national/federal/bank holidays) feels akin to complimenting someone on their overall appearance or their selection of vehicle — ridiculous (unless, of course, they had a hand in design or construction; Frankenstein and Ford: nice work). Consequently, I have very few things on my calendar worthy of a party. So, recognizing the rollover of my blog’s odometer is as good a reason as any for a small *hurrah*.

Today's hurrah is directed at you — who write and create — for us, who read and view. Please understand, I've walked this rocky trail before and stirred up more controversy with complements than one might expect from derision. Controversy is good. So, this time I replaced my 'labels' with my 'editorial eye and pen'. This is also intended to stir-the-pot, provide insight on what really constitues copyright violations and acceptable creative commmons license usages, and entertain my frequent (if merely lurking) readers.

If you are one of the following 20 Applaudable or Standing Ovational bloggers, and take umbrage with my editing (no matter if it was for length, content, clarity, spelling or grammar) rather than thinking of my rendition as demeaning, consider this a humble tribute. (If it bothers you so, so, so very much: hire a different editor to sing your praises.) And now for something catagorically less-is-more:

• Pick Yin at Life is Great is almost a Malaysian mirror of snapperhead (except not), with her photos in place of my Digital Renderings, and little speculative fiction, her film reviews and book opinions are interspersed with blog and helpful technical advice. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  I was driving home from the gym last night. It was almost eleven and raining quite heavily. I grumbled to myself about the possibility of getting wet after reaching home as my house has an uncovered porch, till I saw a bread man pedalling carefully on his bike in front of me.

  Just as I thanked God, ‘at least I have a roof on four wheels compared to him and his rotis all soaking wet’ (and then thought: I really should not complain at all), one of his High Five Wheat breads turned loose and fell rolling onto the wet road.

  “Alah... kesiannya!” I thought. It may have been just a loaf of very affordable bread to me, but to the bread man it was his bread and butter, literally. I followed behind him slowly in my car and then not one minute later, another loaf fell off! By the time both of us parted at a road junction, he'd lost five loaves of High Five Wheats. Worst of all I couldn’t do anything about it. It was raining and if I honked him (my mother’s suggestion, later), he would’ve thought I wanted him to go faster.

  I prayed for the bread man when I got home and reminded myself to think of the poor guy the next time I fuss about getting wet in the rain.





• 'Irishwind' at odium generis humani has amazing drive and zeal for a young writer, can overuse fuck as an adjective (a little more fucking adjectivial-imagination would be fucking adverbial-helpful), and comes close to not being included as an applaudable blogger because of her “alter-ego’s” membership in a weblog which is, arguably, candidate for worst blog in the blogosphere — nonetheless, here is an (edited) excerpt of her good-angry, blog:
  

  Sometimes it scares you when you think you're something else, when you have a feeling something's wrong with you. You feel it happening — like a disease you can never be cured of — eating you from inside. Every time you look at everyone else's perfect life you're one step closer to being consumed by your greed; to succumbing to the impulse of stripping them of what they possess, until they are blind, wasted, and helpless.

  Yes, stealing what was never yours. Ahh, the covetous monster you are.





• 'Spoonleg' at Spelunk in the Trunk prolifically writes a diary-opinion blog containing creative non-fiction stories centering around her family, work, and life-lessons. With a humorous wink-and-nudge, these stories never fail to entertain. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  I recently decided I needed to do something to get my fat ass into motion, which did not involve traversing the oft-tread path from bed to fridge. Since I figured exercise — in pretty much any form — is nothing more than high-priced torture, I decided to just go all the way and find the most unbearable, insufferable, incredibly horrific, kill-me-now-because-Hell-can't-be-THIS-bad, form of exercise known to man. Compared to this, the carnage in Full Metal Jacket is like an episode of the Smurfs. Lasik surgery performed by a chainsaw-wielding Stevie Wonder is less painful. Walking in on your parents having wild, viagra-assisted, butt sex in your bed is less traumatizing. Yes, my friends, I speak of Birkram Yoga.





• 'Davecat' at shouting to hear the echoes has uncanny insight into very interesting design (no matter the epoch), revels in his agoraphobia with his sacrosanct other and is a Standing Ovational blogger I’d willingly meet in the meat (if my tan and his lighter-shade-of-pale wouldn’t, like matter and anti-matter, cause universe implosion. . .maybe that’s the best reason). Here is an (edited) excerpt of his wonderful, acerbically humorous, blog:
  

  How many five year olds could I personally take on at once? If thrown in a gym with only the clothes on my back and a protective cup, I could take out probably fifty of them before I became too exhausted. If allowed the use of an offensive article, I'd go for a seven-foot length of chain. Not a heavy chain, but something like a dog lead, with that clip thing at the end — light, but damaging. Even if I couldn't take them all out on the first attack, it'd be more than enough to immobilize, whereupon I'd just go back and finish them off later.

  Do feel free to give your own personal estimations of how many five-year olds you could take out!

  Anyone responding with anything disparaging will be openly mocked, by the way, just so you know.





• 'French Maid Character' at the uglier house writes a diary-type blog in which she vents her frustrations, provides lessons based on life experiences and — sometimes with an overdose of dark, anger — an insightful glimpse which her readers can learn from. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  
  I feel a little bad regarding the bitchy comment I made yesterday about: '…my roommate probably wanted to fuck his houseguests'. In this particular instance it was doubtful (I hope), since he was on suicide watch for the young man and working with other agencies trying to provide support for the young man's partner. Neither of them are here anymore (and I really hope they're going to be OK). I talked to my roommate about it because I wanted to know why he needed to keep his shotgun at our neighbor's house for safekeeping. I expressed my concern about his capacity for taking on the responsibility of another person's will to live. Although we ended up having a fairly positive exchange, I stand by my assertion: it’s generally a safe assumption — my roommate wants to fuck his houseguests.





• 'Breadmaker' at unreasonable scenarios is almost a twisty-bun-combination of the two bloggers above Davecat and French Maid Character (not in a twin-goldfish-from-different-ponds way, but in a ‘koi versus carp’ way) and his applaudable diary and opinion-observation blog is riddled with wry insights and outsights. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  Maybe I should just let this play itself out. I imagine most of my recent health problems are due to this wretched house I live in, with it's dusty vents, leaky pipes, and roommates who smoke and cough everywhere — and of course the cat who leaves a thick trail of hair in his wake. The only reason I've stayed here so long is because the cat is adorable, the roommates are funny and lovable and my bedroom is really quite amazingly large. Plus, I really hate moving more than anything. But now that I've started to "fall apart" I think it's time for a change. I'm also going to try acupuncture, or Reiki (I can't decide.)





• 'Rezzee' and many others (like 'Raven' and 'Shamantic! The Wise') at rezzee's blog and unfounded shamanic shifting and powerful foolish wondering are docent questioners, anxious to listen and more willing to understand, who can be — occasionally — overly mellifluous, bordering on obfuscation, but who troll through the effluvium (each in their own applaudable way) only to return with sharable bounty which will enhance their reader’s knowledge (and maybe, awareness). These are (edited and paraphrased) excerpts from their insightfully interesting, blogs:

  We do our best to keep up with the latest and greatest in as many fields as possible, while all the time recognizing our personal insights can never oppose higher reason and scientifically tested findings, but must complement science and reason whenever the bigger picture is revealed (no matter what temporary contradiction now seems to appear). Yet, the main reason we study the external sciences is for the sheer wonder of it!

  Fear signals that something needs to shift (lest something in reality becomes a danger, rather than merely instructive — closer to a nightmare than a creative dream). When considering: global warming, what I fear is the attitude in which our society is mired, combined with all the heartless arguing and line-drawing. The global warming fuss, as I perceive it, is arguing for the sake of arguing and has more to do with attention-seeking and political strategizing than the actual expression of fear caused by an impending doom.





• 'Aibee' (Anna) at aibiffity writes (mostly, now) about her fecundity. Albeit focused in scope, she writes very lucidly about her thoughts, feelings, emotions, and actions which have placed her on the road to becoming a mother. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  I wanted a child who was better than me, so I chose a donor who was. He was the student I've never been, a musician and a thinker. That donor is lost to me now. The donor I got is someone who, while lovely, won't give this child the pieces missing in me.

  I fear for my child, I fear it being the sum of our deficits.

  From my donor’s perspective though, he said when we discussed this (and I use the term loosely, because, what do you call a conversation that starts and ends with his sentiments: if only it had happened differently?...Oh, I'm stuck on the if-only’s also, but I'm an introverted, rational, problem solver, so use my angst as a platform for solutions. He's, well, he's just stuck.) that he got someone who, if he could have chosen, had the attributes he'd want in the mother of his child.

  I got someone who's good at soccer.





• 'Bucky Four-Eyes' at The Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion is the US of A’s northern-bookend to Spoonleg’s southern one. They are similar in prose, prolificacy and pragmaticism (or lack thereof) while the writers are wildly different in almost every way. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  Apes, chimps, baboons, they're all monkeys to me. I am not a zoologist, and I may not even be continent, so allow me my sloppy species identification.

  In any case, eventually we found ourselves in front of the chimpanzee exhibit, where some chimps napped and a few pranced and cavorted for our amusement. We were standing in the middle of a decent-sized group of strangers when one of the female chimps flopped down on her back and flung her legs as wide open as they would go. We were lookin' right into the heart of her monkey allure. A few people politely suppressed giggles.

  Not my husband. He laughed heartily, and then said — loud enough to be heard in the fucking butterfly house, "Hey! She looks just like YOU, honey!"

  I just stood completely still and prayed for the monkeyhouse people to disperse and stop staring at me like...well, like the chimp with her ankles behind her ears.

  The whole thing just makes me paranoid about my shaving habits.





• 'FIST' at The Sagas of a Fist in a City, a relative newcomer in my Standing Ovationables, contains stark, stolid, yet tensile prose authored by a rhetorician now fisting the big-city whom I greatly admire (regardless of his contemporary author disdain). Here is an (edited) excerpt from his fantastically descriptive and poetic blog:

  Glowing from window to floor — then on towels, back of the door: orange streetlight streams in a dense diagonal. As splinter-glints from splashes wave along, off, from, white enamel, Fist gives a finger to the sky of night and city light, outside, as he drops deeper down in the width of warmth. The demands of the day almost past — silent, still, alone at last…only for a moment. Until the arrival of…the corner of a cherry tomato; slipped out from the well of anus, circling the tree of the leg, dragged by the sloshing current to the land's-end-of-toe — before dawdling along to settle on the plain-like expanse of gut. Beautiful thing!




• Catherine Thatch at laughingsky is a prolific and talented writer of period (periodical? — sorry, you’ll have to read her to understand this inside joke) speculative fiction; her commentary-type Standing Ovational blog is optimistically focused on life and — mostly — celebrates the glass containing a half-glimpse of full-ocean breeze. Here’s an (edited) excerpt:

  I never planned my off-the-face-of-the-Earth drop, before. But I'm glad I did, because of what I learned: planning-time is wasted-time. I now know, by experience, that I had it right all along: I just needed to step off the damn flight deck, right then, without contemplation. And not heed the words of the well intentioned (who wanted me to live life by their example). Abandoning my instinct-guided impulse — my Zen way — was a mistake.

  Planning is not for me. When people take the time to plan their large life changes, they fear the change! During the time spent planning they come to realize all the opportunities for chaos to reign and things to 'go wrong', they suffer anticipation stress, and they experience disappointment when their plan unravels (as it always does). I like my way, and now that I’ve tried it their way, I know that for sure.

  Although my mind will never be closed to doing things differently, I’ll never tell my gut to shut up and listen to the real adults ever again.





• Miram Jones, at scribblingwoman, seems to voraciously comb thru, troll the depths of, and poach from the web of internets — providing incalculable (in both quantity and quality) amounts of links. This, combined with her applaudable book and art recommendations, is a place for every one-stop-blog-hopper. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  I went to bed with a migraine. This means that I took some meds then ensconced myself in a complicated apparatus of pillows, ice packs, eye-shades and ear plugs. The Jinker Boy hovered, solicitous.

  When I woke up a few hours later, after he had gone to bed, I found myself surrounded by a number of very small toys tucked into the crook of my shoulder and leaning up against my head. There was one in my hand.

  And my headache was gone.

  Coincidence?





• 'Scoots' and his friends over at Yes But Still ... study human nature and provide their unique brand of slant on routine Gen-Y nothingness (not Seinfeldesque exactly, but forked from the same Big Salad) even though none of the YBS contributors should fear the 'wordy' brand, Scoots can shine a humorous glow-stick with his prolific insights. Here are (edited) excerpts:

  Never try to enter an ongoing conversation, which you've had no part in, by throwing out a witty rejoinder that will cement you in legend forever: it never works. However, remarkably similar arsenals of cultural references can allow for a synergistic effect to take conversations on completely bizarre paths.

  "The next time I speak to a girl who isn't sleeping with three other guys, I'll be sure not to involve Bob Saget," is one such statement.

  But, all appearances to the contrary, I have yet to reach the true gist of my post, which is this, and by "this" I mean the bit of this sentence preceding "which is this."





• 'Kirihargie' (Kirstin) who can be seen at noncestralite, among other places, is an artist extraordinaire with wonderfully attuned — innate — eye-sense, which she relates into intimate images and words (which, at times, may include intricately personal thoughts and shots, which others may be unable to fathom or find relevant). Here is one selection of many:
  
  
  
  






• Laurie at divinities has an uncanny awareness of a story’s pacing and an extremely engaging tone, making her one of the most entertaining writers in the daily-diary niche (it’s amazing she isn’t writing romance novels for a living) although I can’t relate to her on any level other than that of 'loyal reader,' I consistently enjoy her finely-tuned life vignette’s. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  “He's in love with me," she offered, taking a sip of her Malibu Rum and pineapple juice drink.

  "Oh, is he?" I asked.

  "Yeah. Which kind of works out for me, because when I was asked to be in this wedding, I said 'Well, only if I can find someone to sleep with in the wedding party.' And, as it turns out, Jason's not half bad. Besides, I don't have anyone else, so, you know..."

  She laughed, but I couldn't figure out if she was joking. I took another look at Jason, spinning furiously now around the other dancers on the floor, making himself dizzy and laughing out loud. I looked back at Amy, perfectly put together in her bridesmaid ensemble. Not a hair out of place. The makeup she wore on her delicate features was flawless. Her teeth were impossibly white. I looked back at Jason. He was doubled over near the stage, trying to catch his breath and reclaim his ability to see straight.

  "Are you kidding me?" I asked.





• John Bailey's writing and art, at journal of a writing man, comes from the mind of a calm but exceptionally creative non-fiction writer and painter. Although his palette is conservative in it's structure and tone, relative to most elderly British gentlemen, he’s positively flamboyant. Here's an (edited) excerpt:

  "Right. People have been getting wonky legs and stuff since time began. Nothing new in it."

  And there isn't, of course, unless I care to take a sour note and point out that it's new for me. I'm not inclined to be sour about it, though, even if I do need, and seek, a good kick up the backside now and then when the miseries come a'calling.

  So, I did the big sigh thing, pulled out my paint box and brushes, taped a postcard onto my small drawing board, closed my eyes and... out popped the below rural cottage scene. Triggered by an isolated house I saw by a small inland loch on Skye, if I have it right. Doesn't matter, of course. I'm still enjoying doing the postcards, and I confess that my head is filled with similar scenes just now. It'd be rather nice to be out in the fresh air sketching them from life. But for the moment, I'm not inclined to wander far from home. I need to be on hand to make tea.

  






• Dana at Sepia-Tone Dreams matches her ability to analyze and become self-aware with her ability to write, albeit with a distinctly candid voice in her diary-type blog, (which misses being Standing Ovational only because of infrequent posts, even though when she does write it can be novella-length). Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  Why am I going across the entire country to a hospital, at no small expense? Because it's a specialty facility, which deals with women with dissociative disorders like I have. One of the difficulties of dealing with this kind of mental illness is there aren't many psychologists who specialize in it. So, years of therapy are often wasted in trying to address symptoms (anger issues, bipolar or borderline issues, post traumatic stress, alcohol and drug abuse, sexual and intimacy issues) and not with the disorder causing them. Often because (like with me) it goes undiagnosed for so long. So I'll be going through some fairly intensive therapy designed to help integrate the "various alts" I've created to deal with past trauma, and—to a lesser degree—my everyday life. Which makes me think of a scene in my favorite movie where Wesley (as Dread Pirate Roberts) tells Princess Buttercup: "Life is pain, Highness. Anyone telling you different is selling something".

  And, while life isn't all pain, in the past I've focused so much on that aspect, I sometimes forget about the joys.




• 'Penda' (MontiLee) can be found at The Diner at Penda’s Relm, (among others places) but her diner is a great place to read about interestingly morbid world-happenings couched in pointed, witty, commentary (not exactly Daily Show commentary, but not more than a few cushions away), and also some extremely superior fiction and creative non-fiction-with-a-smirk (the best flavor). Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  The women knocked on my door and asked if I had anything to kill wasps which had taken up residence in two old cars they'd just sold. They are sweet, these women, and older — and once you get past the gruff exterior, they have amazing wit. They are women who have lived life fighting and getting fought, and they are fun to talk to. I set out to help.

  Once the new owner of the vehicles arrived, a brother-in-law of one of the women, I decided to hang around because this guy didn’t look like the quickest cat on the freeway. She’d been making jokes about his mental capacity since before he arrived. He looked like a dirty Homer and smelled like old oily rags. He hooked up cables between his car and one of the dewasped cars, started his, and then told my neighbor, "okay, start her up."

  I said, "It’s a dead battery. You need to let it charge about ten minutes before you can try to start it." But I, apparently, had phased into a space-time parallel where all he could hear from me is what sounds like the buzzing of insects. I sighed audibly and watched as one of the well-meaning women tried to start the car. Nothing happened. What a surprise. Dirty Homer fiddled with the cables (because that must be the problem) and told her to try again. The car cranked but didn’t turn over.

  "You can try to jump it, but it’s a dead cell and may need a complete recharge," I said. It must have came out as white noise. I then said, "For ten bucks, the guy at the corner station will put it on his charger for an hour."

  He—and I’m not kidding—swatted at his ear.




• Danielle Thorburn at Fluffmuppet takes on NYC is a keen-eyed artist with a unique and playful flair in her digital renderings, opinion pieces, and creative non-fiction stories, although her blog’s productivity is prone to tide-like fluctuations, it remains Standing Ovationable. Here is an (edited) excerpt:

  I did some hardcore thinking on those concrete steps, taking in the vibe of my new house and settling into singledom (sometimes wondering if what mum told me about sitting on concrete and hemorrhoids were true). I was never alone out there, though; somewhere in my sight would be a neighborhood cat, skulking around a rose bush or walking like a supermodel on the chain link fence. I wooed those kitties with bodega cat food and scraps from the fish shop. I made them my furry new mates. Soon enough a mama cat brought her kittens over to meet me, I would hand feed them, imagining that I was like a urban Diane Fossy taming the wild beasts of the Brooklyn Jungle. And it wasn't long before I made mental notes of what boy cat shagged what girl cat and whose babies came from whom. I concentrated mainly on the cats which hung-out in neighbor’s yards and mine. I came up with this: