~'Conquest' by The White Stripes because it begs, borrows and steals.

~'Arrested Development' because when did Jason Bateman get so yummy and fun to watch?

~"For the crown you've placed upon my head

Feels too heavy now
And I don't know what to say to you
But I'll smile anyhow
And all the time I'm thinking

I want to be a hunter again
I want to see the world alone again
To take a chance on life again
So let me go." -Dido, because i forgot how good independence feels.

hi gang! typing at you on Morning 1 after Nite 1 on the new bed. a queen-size sleep number. plenty of room to stretch and it doesn't sag like a second chin! bliss i tell ya. and, perhaps more importantly, Louie likes it too.

much news on the front lately: i begin passport proceedings next week. more on that later.

headed to the hospital in a few so i'll just do a quick drop of some more exercises. thanks for staying, playing and parlaying. i send a wink and a clink and happy weekend wishes.

~~~~~~~~

celery root

Ugliness is the predominant trait, but you're a woman and so, forgiving. Shortly, its gnarls and sworls become quite endearing. You'll see, it's mild inside. It's like a man you don't like at first.

Don’t be intimidated by the large pot. After it's filled, you're soon surrounded with warm earth.
Be reasonable with the choppings of onion and rational with the portion of potato. Measure with your eyes and your intuition. Ingenuity requires it.

Don’t forget the soup stone! I keep mine in my apron pocket. The stone will let you know where it wants to live outside the pot.

Garnish with lovage and soigne bleu.
As you pull apart bread to serve with the stew, say this little prayer -

please love these hands
please love these hands
as they keep my soup stone warm.

words: predominant & intimidate

~~~~~

circumstances

The ocean prepares a woman for loss
as a first kiss readies her for bruises
so the seamstress teaches her daughter to lie.


The way the insomniac styles her hair
as sad as dimples gone unnoticed
so trained is a timid eye.

As silence makes a meal strange
the way morning makes a mother sick
so the placement of his hand did cast this dye.

words: train & meal

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ven con Migo

To stop a man from cheating, plant a bovine liver in the whore's front yard. Place a swatch of red velvet in her letter box and she'll know what it's for.
To receive his full attention in the evenings, greet him at the door wearing a tangerine scarf. Place a plump green pepper next to the wine. For optimal concentration, shall his glass be made of crystal.

Does your child sleep on his stomach? If he ignores your commands with heavy-lidded reserve, let him be. He is not simple, the little one is clairvoyant. Kiss his eyelids -first left, then right, then left again. Best to place a pearl on his bedside should he foresee too much.

For a woman who hesitates to marry, rub her nape with butter while she sleeps. Then make her a gift of fresh fish. Very important that it lose no scales in the giving.
For a woman who only births little girls, light a blood candle in the morning and ask her to wear rouge to church on Sunday.
If she is greedy for your affection, do not drink wine out of crystal.

words: optimal & clairvoyant

~~~~~

cheers!

~'Never Get Old' by Sinead O'Connor because it's a slow-motion moving song and it feels like an 'i came to the show by myself' song.

~Girl 27, an investigative flick based on a true story (from 65 years ago) of a rape victim hired along with a hundred or so other girls to perform a dance routine for MGM studio heads. not only did no one have to pay for the brutality, but her reputation was ruined and she eventually disappeared. oddly enough, her daughter went to work in the police force, retired due to injury, and taught a criminal justice class that my sister took. some may disagree, and i might even disagree with myself at some point, but sex crime is the most brutal and ever-lasting type of victimization imaginable.

~"The man least dependent upon the morrow goes to meet the morrow most cheerfully.", Epicurus


clearly, i'm working no theme tonite. i've got a party to attend tonite and some wicked boots to go with it. just going to drop in a couple of my marathon'd tales. i wonder if it's better if i tell you what words i was assigned AFTER the tale. ....hrmmm. let's try it.

here we go.

~~~

Mr. Porter

The kids think I'm a dolt. I'm not that much older than they are, that's the thing.
Like them, I want to yell YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M CAPABLE OF.

Part of me wants to explain my 'marshmallow shoe', tell them about the scar tissue. Tell them I played every sport. Part of me thinks they'd throw some sympathy my way, collectively say 'Hey, he's had it rough. Let's ease up on the guy.' and then volunteer to wash the eggs off my car.

Most of the kids drive new cars. They park in the teacher's lot but they aren't supposed to. Most days I end up parking on the street. I've had that car for 9 and 1/2 years.

Part of me wants to tell them that the consequence of injury is Geometry.

words: marshmallow & consequence

~~~~~~~

Courtesy of a Bandit

I could have worked at hospital or university. Certainly I've brains for it,
just not the proper tolerance.
I could never sit through seminar or academy conference with such windbags and their abrupt pomp. Not for me, I'm afraid.


I can lay in wait for hours, cramped in a crawl space waiting for a couple to leave; I have the ability to stand still long enough, silent enough until a family finally sleeps, not scratching my ear, not clearing my throat, not once.

Regard these nice velvet slippers which I prop upon a lounge chair. Regard the lounge on the deck of this ship for which I purchased a transatlantic ticket. In full, with paper money.

I have all of my hair which is kissed with silver just where it ought to be. My smoking jacket has someone else's monogram on it, but it is hand-stitched and lined with satin cool to the touch.

I'm lean, not winded. My custom- to eat slowly, to eat with my eyes, my nose and tongue, to leave on my plate several bites of food no matter how divine.
To leave a woman wanting, no matter how much of a gift she makes herself. This manner trumps all others as it can be learned but never taught.

I sip champagne, stamp a cigarette, request a dance in one fluid sweep. This evening, I've my eye on the widow with the ivory cone to her ear. I believe it safe to say that not one in this sizeable dining room has noticed the andalusite snap on her clutch.

I am a purveyor of purpose. Those I visit are ultimately thankful.
Once I've gone, they feel the fortune they have left.


words: trump & abrupt
~~~

cheers all. thanks for your comments and curiosities. clink.

taking stock, quietly

~'Knights of Cydonia' by Muse because it reminds me of sitting in the passenger's seat of my pal Christian's car, driving in LA. it's a good place to be sitting.

~Repulsion, hey rocky! watch me pull a rabbit outta my purse! but seriously, some of Deneuve's stares make perfect sense to me.

~"...this girl I see has grown so unfamiliar/and as she stands to leave with a stranger by her side/she can't help but laugh at a life grown so peculiar." -Cowboy Junkies, because that's me recently.

hiya gang, it's early-ish on the fifth day of the week. i've got a weekend packed with activity so i wanted to get my well-wishings out before i depart. i wish you well.

i've got a couple more tales to share, but before i do, something interesting to report about the untitled one.
if you haven't been keeping up, here are my self-imposed rules to get my ass back in gear and churning copy again:
1. assign myself 2 random words
2. give myself 15 minutes to write a tale surrounding those words
3. pencil to paper and it must be complete in 15 minutes and all tweaks and alterations are to be completed within those 15 minutes. it's not that i'm limiting myself so much as i'm just trying to get. it. out.
4. generally, i title it (or not) after it's written but once in a while a word will tug at my brainsleeve and say 'i should be paired with those other two words'.

so something really cool happened when i went to title untitled. i was writing ferociously, finished ferociously and immediately titled it "cape cod, 1914". i swear to Sara Lee that i don't know anything about cape cod or why the year 1914 crept in. i've scraped my days and happenings and could find nothing that would spark this date. hand to Godot.

so i got curious about what the f** that date meant and it lead to some really really fascinating research. i love research almost as much as i love deadlines. turns out to be a great story about this fella named August Belmont, Jr. here's what i uncovered:

on july 29, 1914 wealthy NY financier August Belmont opened the Cape Cod Canal. the isthmus was cut and cape cod effectively became an island.

Belmont's toll was too expensive for mariners. even if it could have accommodated their pockets, it certainly didn't accommodate their vessels. with too narrow a width and too shallow a depth, mariners bypassed the canal and used the standard outer routes.

-Belmont was a harvard grad and known sprinter. responsible for introducing spiked track shoes to the US.
-he owned/bred race horses, built Belmont Park Racetrack.
-he was one of the earlies investors of Interborough Rapid Transit, NY Subway. he owned the world's only private subway car which he used to give free tours of the transit. the car's name is Mineola.

one of his race horses, named Rock Sand. Belmont sold him and Rock Sand was taken, along with many other wealthy americans' horses on account of the anti-betting laws in NY, to europe.

because of his finely-strung temperament (most likely inbreeding and stress), Rock Sand developed a number of nervous habits, among them gorging himself on his straw bedding and kicking and throwing himself against the walls of his stall, frequently injuring himself
this prompted the owners to pad his stall and replace his bedding with sawdust.

Rock Sand's heart stopped on July 20, 1914--9 days before Belmont opened Cape Cod Canal.


there's a great tale in there. enjoy and thanks for staying. happy week's end. cheers.

~~

words: torpid & silver

untitled



Our women wait for the new moon before cutting the children's hair. They bury
the tips in the evening sand behind a makeshift, yellow-birch fence.

A horseshoe moon means a dry season approaches.
A season so dry that not even the hale and hearty beach plum will answer.

There was such a moon when fever struck your body. The wood of our house cracked as if to let the salt air in to please you. The house claims and protects you with a suspicious ardor.

When our women came with silver bread and sea carrots to rid you of the curse, the house would not allow them entrance. They declared us dire and let loose our goats.

We had five days of night and winds that whipped the sea grass with violence. When next the moon swelled, the house heaved a torpid sigh and your fever broke.

Our goats found their way back, wide-eyed and bleating, through the front door. Their harried return blew in whorls of baby hair and sand.



~~


words: admit & nothing

Sweatshirt

He backed out of the kitchen and into the snow, barefoot and breathing.
The house had taken on a smell of ages with nothing to show but stains.
Pockets of his sweatshirt had been haphazardly filled with coins and a stop watch
and an article from the local paper
A Baby in Arms is Worth a Thousand Dollars

His uncle had been taken in cuffs and a flash, admitting nothing.

He could time how long it would take for his feet to freeze or how quickly they would carry him across the Line.
He left the landscape to its own accusing quiet.

~~~
fin

Slow Strum

~'Keep their headz ringin' ' by Dr. Dre because he manages to rap "call me Clearasil" and still look like a bad-ass. what??

~Jack the Bear. it's tender and who couldn't use a little right about now?

~"El Tiempo No Importa"



words: legume & proboscis

Understory


Mister Picture-Meyer suffers full-moon symptoms whenever the Red Widow approaches.
All nicotine and brass she asks, 'What's that for?' and points to the calipers.
He's still explaining as she walks away.
'And what about that?'
'That's my lunch.'
'Tragedy.'

It's two days before she visits again issuing a command with the confidence that only hips and cashmere can afford. Seven-thirty and he's responsible for dessert.

Mister Picture-Meyer is buttoned-up and knocking on her door. He's brought books and star fruit.

'What're them books for?' leads to his explanation of the differences between Assassin Bugs and Ambush Bugs, though both in the same order Hemiptera.
He just about loses her until he presents the photo of the Wheel Bug Nymph with its proboscis penetrating a Satin Moth larva. The Red Widow's hand touches his as she reaches for the book. She wears a bumble bee brooch.

Mister Picture-Meyer is silently thrilled when she presents her dish of legumes and mayo and it looks like a bowl of bugs.

not much today, kids. i'm too tired of doctor appointments to make much sense today and not come off as sounding really pissed.

as always, thanks for playing, heads & spirits up. cheers.

Name That Propellant

~'The girl you lost to cocaine' by Sia because determination can be lovely.

~Mac, because it's a nice story about determination, quality, values and i love to see Turturro and Borowitz (his wife since 1985) act together.


~"The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep/And miles to go before I sleep." -Robert Frost because...yea.

hi gang-

looks as though yours truly will soon be buying a new bed. i'm loathe to spend so much money on something that seems like just an elevation of the floor, but what with my janky hip and collapsing spine...it's proven necessary. besides, no point in having silver dance pants if i can't wiggle. as with most things, i like firm so firm is what i'm going with. i must say, whatever that bed is that lindsay wagner advertises looks pretty choice. heck, if it's good enough for the bionic woman...
good news today: vitamin d has made an effort to peek around the blanket of clouds. it's not scheduled to last, but i'll take what i can get and be happy with it. mind you, that attitude doesn't stretch very far across topics.

getting right to it.

words: blur & bib

Seamstress

Once you get the invitation your nights are all determined.

The first night you measure your hips. They're sad and alone and strangers to touch.
Competing for attention is your crooked bust. The trick is to hide it with a velvet lattice bib.

Night two and you're polishing shoes. Blur the scuffs with wax and sticky ribbon. And that'll just have to do.

On night three you pink your complexion with all-over dreams that make you smile. For the darkness your teeth are thankful.

The fourth night finds you in curling bows. Your hair looks littered with moths. Practice sitting and sidelong glances and don't forget to breathe.

The fifth night he never shows.

~~

words: ridiculous & nectarines (didn't use the word nectarine, rather, used a type of nectarine- august red...just fit better in a more poeticalish kinda way)

untitled

3.15 in the morning and there's no light spying.
I tiptoe down the dark hall, into the guest bathroom and flip on a nightlight.
It's enough.
My hair stays put in a makeshift knot. Seated on the tub, the water's running warm but quiet. I shave my legs with a leisure almost, by now, unrecognizable. This kind of unhurried moment is so foreign I nearly panic. What's my excuse if found here?
This is my time of year: the temperature of honey. Honey, which never spoils.

These ridiculous guest towels -satin clamshell embroidery- they've never been used.

'Scarlet Cathedral' redefines my lips. I debate over whether the towel should be folded and placed back on the shelf. Yes. Yes it should. In my mind it's just courteous.

By the back door, my sneakers are co-conspirators telling me to hurry.
True to season, there's a bowl of August Reds on the table. I take one. I take another.


In his room up the hall, the baby starts to cry.

I slip off my wedding band, leave it on the kitchen sink and lock the door behind me.

~~

always lock your doors, kids.
cheers. fin.

this just in

...under 5 minutes.

words: reprobate & intensity (thanks, ma!)

Last call

The first time you heard me laugh was at you.
I called you a reprobate drunk and you thought it was a mixed-bag compliment, high-minded and back-handed.
Night after night you came to the bar, sat in my section and flirted with the intensity of a man trying to remember his own name.
When you said that I had legs long enough to follow you home, I pulled the pen out of my hair and wrote down my number.

~

going for tapas tonite, gang. beer and potatoes! is a toast unto itself! clink, fin.

no funeral pie for me, please

~'Rise' by Public Image Ltd because it's full of "or" and "could be".

~Muddy Waters: Can't be Satisfied, an enthralling doc about a fascinating, talented fella whose mama was disappointed in him until the day she died. Unbelievable.

~"Never forget what a man says to you when he is angry." -Henry Ward Beecher. Listen, take it to heart, roll it around your tongue, then spit it out.

hi gang-

pull up a drink and have a seat. so i don't know where you are while you read this, but from my perch there is no sign of vitamin d making an appearance anytime too soon. the rain is persistent and i'm tired of waiting for warmth. so i create my own: i just bought a pair of betty boop cigarette pants, i'm learning the art of eyeliner, i bought a pair of silver dancin' pants and best of all, i brought home 50 pounds of 12 year old sweetness by the name of Louie. he's an old mutt and we're getting on swimmingly. my charming sis has nicknamed him King Louie if that gives you any indication of how i dote on him.

recently, i've been completely disappointed in myself (well, that bit isn't so recent) and mad at myself for having dropped my writing habit. *is it a habit? i gotta come back to that one.

so, i've put myself on a marathon mission. every day, i assign myself two random words that i must use in a tale within 15 minutes. i'm not sayin' they're publishable, but i am writing again. so for you poor suckers who are still here reading, i'm going to post. the point is to get my brain wrinkled and i find that a deadline, self-imposed or otherwise, is this gal's best friend. here are a coupla. in no particular order.

words: stainless steel

Nelda has all she needs

Nine-year-old Nelda has a stainless steel smile that she's proud of.
What that smile means is that she's the first in her family to
have a reason to smile. That smile means a greeting and a greeting
is the first thing you need to get a job
and a job is the thing you need to get money.
And money will buy her ma some flowers.

~

words: medallion & mulligrubs

Gardening at night

In an effort to keep the peace, Ms. Meriwether buried the jar in her garden.
Suspecting that the sight of the jar's components would dismay her neighbors, she buried it at night.
Though she'd claimed them fair-and-square, she was not an unreasonable woman when it came to the sensitivities of others. In fact, she took, albeit modest, pride in her considerate ways.

When rumor about Bertie's husband went round, Ms. Meriwether denied, teary-eyed, that she'd even heard it, much less sent mouths wagging from out her parlor. Then invited Bertie in for cognac.
-one brass semper fi medallion

When Lou came to and complained about her stones, Ms. Meriwether said, "Come into the light, dear, and let's look at how clear your blue eyes appear."
-three emerald buttons and one encrusted bumble bee brooch

Rather than rally with the rest against McMurray's yapping pooch, Ms. Meriwether offered the limping mutt scraps to cure his mulligrubs and occupy him otherwise.
-two yellowed incisors

That poor Mexican boy who tended the lawns was certainly not to blame for dead gardenias. Ms. Meriwether would not hear such patter and fixed him cold orange-flower water.
-one ivory cross on rope

No, the street had not been the same for some time now. Ms. Meriwether would not contribute to the unrest herself. So, she buried the jar in the night garden and marked the spot with a verdigris pedestal. In the light of day, she filled it with water to watch the dainty chirps bathe and sparkle.

~
words: wazoo & lacy

Dig

It was the passenger's seat what brought us together.
Purportedly, the blasted springs prodded your wazoo in an unpleasant way.
So we all three loaded up into the back for rides to the sight. Tight fit, as you might imagine in a British fourth-hand moto.

At first, rides back to camp tried us. We smelled like lacy cheese and mud dung, but knowing hot showers and gin & tonics waited, our jostled stenches fed our humour.
Even the driver spoke the language of stink and laughed with us, head out the window.

Thing is, we found nothing on the dig but each other really. McRay excavated the springs from the passenger's and we smiled to ourselves all the way back to our respective homes, looking forward to Copenhagen.

all for now, pals. thanks for playing. cheers clink!