What can you do with just a dollar? Use a dollar bill as your medium or inspiration today.
I got a dollar I got a dollar, I got a dollar, hey hey, hey hey. I love that little ditty.
The dollar bill versatile in so many ways could be used for almost anything, I prefer the way that gets me high. Rolled into a tight spiral of encouragement. Thank you dollar bill for your assistance. Of-course I would prefer a straw, but alas the dollar bill has done the deed tonight. Four out of five dollar bills contain traces of my favorite substance. Oh what a life, to constantly have access to the most wonder drug, to my drug. Oh if only I could bask in the lifestyle. You dollar bill you. So lucky. So crisp, so perfectly rolled. Is it time for another?
Friday, May 27, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Day 14 - Part 4
Make something microscopic. How small can you work? Can you make something that requires a magnifying glass or microscope to see.
Please note: the following entry doesn't really touch on the topic above, but after reading the prompt, this is what I wrote. This misdirection was completely involuntary. I apologize but the writers words cannot always be controlled.
It was still pitch black when Jamie and I left his apartment. I had expected to see the sun peaking above the horizon by now, but it seemed as if today the black clouds would overpower the sun. And yesterday I had thought summer was arriving. That’s Seattle weather for you. Everything seemed oddly still as we pulled out of the gravel lot and found our way to the highway. Jamie was driving slowly, cautiously in his tank of a vehicle. Was he thinking the same as I?
At one point he reached over to turn on the radio. Our eyes met as it gave a static blare and voices flipped in and out. “this. . . become. . . put. . . place. . . possible. . .how many. . .”He pressed scan but all we could hear was the same static reception overtaking the waves.
The highway was dead, empty, vacant, like a house prepped to be fumigated, only all the pests had left as well. Somewhere in front of us were break lights. Where were all the people, the police, the bugs, the birds? Where was the sign of life?
Jamie had turned on his windshield wipers as it started to rain. They scraped across his front window in desperate need of replacement. How could he live in Seattle and not have decent wiper blades? The rain fell in big dark blobs smacking at the windshield breaking the silence.
“Something’s wrong,” Jamie said confirming the suspicion in my mind. He picked up his phone and called Bart. He placed it on speakerphone.
“Jamie! Man, is that you?” The reception was shotty and we could barely make him out.
“Man, whats happening?” Jamie responded, but Bart couldn’t hear him.
Bart mumbled something we couldn’t make out, we heard the word highway and frenchy’s and then we lost connection. Whatever had made everyone disappear had interfered with cell phone signals as well. Jamie whips a u-turn in the middle of the highway.
“What the fuck Jamie!” I scream.
“I gotta go back to my place and we gotta get off the highway, find another route.”
“Jamie?”
“Look,” he said halfway looking at me halfway looking at the road. He lit a cigarette and handed one to me. I took it, inhaling slowly the medicine that I hoped would calm me down. “You know how I am always talking about shit going down, like economic, political, and governmental shit, like utter collapse, like chaos, like hell.” The ash on my cigarette fixed itself to the tip as I smoked, creating the most perfect cylindrical ash. How were my hands so calm? They are never this calm. “ Well, Kate. Something has happened. I don’t know what, but it’s something along those lines. Something serious.” He took my cigarette from me and tossed it out his window. I had been holding the butt end for some time now.
When we got up into his apartment he started running around like crazy pulling things out from everywhere. Books fell in mounds on the floor as he tore through looking for specific items. A hiking pack, sleeping bags, batteries, an am/fm transmitter radio, a black and white picture of a man and woman with a dog, a few heavy jackets, a changes of clothes, and a first aid kit. I picked up the picture and placed it inside of the inscribed Jane Eyre book and placed them in my purse. Then I began to stuff bags with the items Jamie was piling on the floor. I looked through the kitchen for food, but found nothing. Jamie told me not to worry about that, Frenchy’s would have all the food we needed.
“We’re going to Frenchy’s?”
He stopped dead in his tracks, came up and took both of my hands, “You are the only person I have seen since we came here last night. I don’t know what has happened to everyone, where have they gone? I know Bart is alive. I heard his voice. I have to go with him, see what he knows, and then we will decide from there where to go. I understand not wanting to leave, but we can’t stay in this city, we wouldn’t survive. Kate you have the choice. You don’t have to come with me. I hope you will, but I completely understand. You have family, I have none.”
“But your mom?”
“My mom died last year of cancer. When I speak of her it’s because I miss her dearly. I have no one, but you and Bart and Genie. They were so good to me when Mom died, took me into their family, fed me, kept me alive, helped me get through her death. I have to go to them.”
I nodded, “My dad, he lives in upstate Michigan. He always told me to come there if anything happened.”
The city remained dark on our way over to Frenchy’s. We took the back roads watching the street lights blink yellow or not at all. We stopped by my apartment for me to grab a few things, two of which were Wallace and Grommet. Jamie urged me to leave them, that they could fend for themselves, but he could see the hurt in my eyes, when he mentioned it and said nothing more.
It was pitch black on the outside and inside when we got to Frenchy’s. We parked around back and let ourselves in through the backdoor. Jamie held my hand and led us with a flashlight. It was eerily quiet in there. A stark contrast between how it normally is and now, the freezers didn’t even hum with life. Jamie’s flashlight showed disaster, as if someone had vandalized the entire kitchen. Dishes everywhere, cabinets open, everything astray.
In the corner something banged against a loose bowl. Jamie shown the flashlight in that direction and we heard a cock of what sounded like a pistol. Jamie stepped in front of me. “Who’s there?” spoke a female’s voice from the darkness.
“Genie?” Jamie said dropping my hand as he started to walk towards the stranger. Genie emerged into the light, her dark hair in a frizz around her face. She waddled towards him, the bulge of her belly guiding her. She was pregnant. They embraced each other. “You scared the shit out of me,” he said into her curls. He let go of her embrace and he rubbed her belly. “How’s baby Diego?”
“Grumpy,” she replied and turned to me embracing me with a hug. Genie worked in the restaurant with me, so I knew her well, as a co-worker. I had never hugged her. She smelled of lavender and frankincense. “Sorry about the gun,” she said to me, “Bart told me to shoot anyone if they came in here.” She turned to speak to the both of us, “He went down the street to see if others were alive. He should be back shortly.” She guided us into the front of the restaurant, stepping carefully over the astray objects. She sat down in a back booth. A candle was lit on the table, everything else was dark. We sat down in the booth. The pleather seat sticky from use. Jamie went to the bar and filled two pints with dark stouts and another with ginger ale for Genie before joining us.
“You can put these on my tab,” he said with a smirk as he sat down.
I took a big gulp of my beer, noticing that Jamie had done the same. Would this help relieve any of the stress?
In the kitchen we heard the door bang open and then the rustle over the pots and pans, “Genie, it’ s me love,” Bart said bursting out of the door. Genie lowered her pistol. “Jamie man. You’re alive. I couldn’t hear you on the phone. I didn’t know what to think.” They embraced each other like brothers. Then he turned to me and bear hugged me, “ Glad you made it through the rapture Cat.”
“Rapture?”
Bart kissed Genie on the head and joined her in the booth. Jamie brought him a beer.
“That’s what they’re calling it,” Genie said. “We heard it on the radio in the car over here. People all over the city are just,” she paused, “dead.”
“Homeless people on the street shot to death. Nursing home, orphanages, schools, university dorms full of thousands bombed. It ain’t no rapture,” Bart says, “It’s military genocide.”
“Only it’s not targeting one group, it’s targeting everyone,” Jamie speculated. Bart took a big gulp of his beer, in the silence you could hear his adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed. We all remained silent.
Please note: the following entry doesn't really touch on the topic above, but after reading the prompt, this is what I wrote. This misdirection was completely involuntary. I apologize but the writers words cannot always be controlled.
It was still pitch black when Jamie and I left his apartment. I had expected to see the sun peaking above the horizon by now, but it seemed as if today the black clouds would overpower the sun. And yesterday I had thought summer was arriving. That’s Seattle weather for you. Everything seemed oddly still as we pulled out of the gravel lot and found our way to the highway. Jamie was driving slowly, cautiously in his tank of a vehicle. Was he thinking the same as I?
At one point he reached over to turn on the radio. Our eyes met as it gave a static blare and voices flipped in and out. “this. . . become. . . put. . . place. . . possible. . .how many. . .”He pressed scan but all we could hear was the same static reception overtaking the waves.
The highway was dead, empty, vacant, like a house prepped to be fumigated, only all the pests had left as well. Somewhere in front of us were break lights. Where were all the people, the police, the bugs, the birds? Where was the sign of life?
Jamie had turned on his windshield wipers as it started to rain. They scraped across his front window in desperate need of replacement. How could he live in Seattle and not have decent wiper blades? The rain fell in big dark blobs smacking at the windshield breaking the silence.
“Something’s wrong,” Jamie said confirming the suspicion in my mind. He picked up his phone and called Bart. He placed it on speakerphone.
“Jamie! Man, is that you?” The reception was shotty and we could barely make him out.
“Man, whats happening?” Jamie responded, but Bart couldn’t hear him.
Bart mumbled something we couldn’t make out, we heard the word highway and frenchy’s and then we lost connection. Whatever had made everyone disappear had interfered with cell phone signals as well. Jamie whips a u-turn in the middle of the highway.
“What the fuck Jamie!” I scream.
“I gotta go back to my place and we gotta get off the highway, find another route.”
“Jamie?”
“Look,” he said halfway looking at me halfway looking at the road. He lit a cigarette and handed one to me. I took it, inhaling slowly the medicine that I hoped would calm me down. “You know how I am always talking about shit going down, like economic, political, and governmental shit, like utter collapse, like chaos, like hell.” The ash on my cigarette fixed itself to the tip as I smoked, creating the most perfect cylindrical ash. How were my hands so calm? They are never this calm. “ Well, Kate. Something has happened. I don’t know what, but it’s something along those lines. Something serious.” He took my cigarette from me and tossed it out his window. I had been holding the butt end for some time now.
When we got up into his apartment he started running around like crazy pulling things out from everywhere. Books fell in mounds on the floor as he tore through looking for specific items. A hiking pack, sleeping bags, batteries, an am/fm transmitter radio, a black and white picture of a man and woman with a dog, a few heavy jackets, a changes of clothes, and a first aid kit. I picked up the picture and placed it inside of the inscribed Jane Eyre book and placed them in my purse. Then I began to stuff bags with the items Jamie was piling on the floor. I looked through the kitchen for food, but found nothing. Jamie told me not to worry about that, Frenchy’s would have all the food we needed.
“We’re going to Frenchy’s?”
He stopped dead in his tracks, came up and took both of my hands, “You are the only person I have seen since we came here last night. I don’t know what has happened to everyone, where have they gone? I know Bart is alive. I heard his voice. I have to go with him, see what he knows, and then we will decide from there where to go. I understand not wanting to leave, but we can’t stay in this city, we wouldn’t survive. Kate you have the choice. You don’t have to come with me. I hope you will, but I completely understand. You have family, I have none.”
“But your mom?”
“My mom died last year of cancer. When I speak of her it’s because I miss her dearly. I have no one, but you and Bart and Genie. They were so good to me when Mom died, took me into their family, fed me, kept me alive, helped me get through her death. I have to go to them.”
I nodded, “My dad, he lives in upstate Michigan. He always told me to come there if anything happened.”
The city remained dark on our way over to Frenchy’s. We took the back roads watching the street lights blink yellow or not at all. We stopped by my apartment for me to grab a few things, two of which were Wallace and Grommet. Jamie urged me to leave them, that they could fend for themselves, but he could see the hurt in my eyes, when he mentioned it and said nothing more.
It was pitch black on the outside and inside when we got to Frenchy’s. We parked around back and let ourselves in through the backdoor. Jamie held my hand and led us with a flashlight. It was eerily quiet in there. A stark contrast between how it normally is and now, the freezers didn’t even hum with life. Jamie’s flashlight showed disaster, as if someone had vandalized the entire kitchen. Dishes everywhere, cabinets open, everything astray.
In the corner something banged against a loose bowl. Jamie shown the flashlight in that direction and we heard a cock of what sounded like a pistol. Jamie stepped in front of me. “Who’s there?” spoke a female’s voice from the darkness.
“Genie?” Jamie said dropping my hand as he started to walk towards the stranger. Genie emerged into the light, her dark hair in a frizz around her face. She waddled towards him, the bulge of her belly guiding her. She was pregnant. They embraced each other. “You scared the shit out of me,” he said into her curls. He let go of her embrace and he rubbed her belly. “How’s baby Diego?”
“Grumpy,” she replied and turned to me embracing me with a hug. Genie worked in the restaurant with me, so I knew her well, as a co-worker. I had never hugged her. She smelled of lavender and frankincense. “Sorry about the gun,” she said to me, “Bart told me to shoot anyone if they came in here.” She turned to speak to the both of us, “He went down the street to see if others were alive. He should be back shortly.” She guided us into the front of the restaurant, stepping carefully over the astray objects. She sat down in a back booth. A candle was lit on the table, everything else was dark. We sat down in the booth. The pleather seat sticky from use. Jamie went to the bar and filled two pints with dark stouts and another with ginger ale for Genie before joining us.
“You can put these on my tab,” he said with a smirk as he sat down.
I took a big gulp of my beer, noticing that Jamie had done the same. Would this help relieve any of the stress?
In the kitchen we heard the door bang open and then the rustle over the pots and pans, “Genie, it’ s me love,” Bart said bursting out of the door. Genie lowered her pistol. “Jamie man. You’re alive. I couldn’t hear you on the phone. I didn’t know what to think.” They embraced each other like brothers. Then he turned to me and bear hugged me, “ Glad you made it through the rapture Cat.”
“Rapture?”
Bart kissed Genie on the head and joined her in the booth. Jamie brought him a beer.
“That’s what they’re calling it,” Genie said. “We heard it on the radio in the car over here. People all over the city are just,” she paused, “dead.”
“Homeless people on the street shot to death. Nursing home, orphanages, schools, university dorms full of thousands bombed. It ain’t no rapture,” Bart says, “It’s military genocide.”
“Only it’s not targeting one group, it’s targeting everyone,” Jamie speculated. Bart took a big gulp of his beer, in the silence you could hear his adam's apple move up and down as he swallowed. We all remained silent.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Day 13 - Part 3
Use tea leaves or tea bags (used or unused) or even just liquid tea (in a cup or not) to create something today.
This entry is an extension of two previous entries. Check out posts from Day 4 and Day 5 for the precursors.
Jamie drinks tea and so the next morning I woke to the screaming of the kettle on the hot iron stove. Of-course I thought it was my alarm, grumbled something like shut up you condescending bastard and rolled over. This was part of my normal morning routine, only I wasn’t in my pillow laden double bed, I was on Jamie’s couch and I rolled completely off, smacking my head on the cold floor.
“What the,” I complained opening my eyes and waiting for them to focus. When they finally did all I could see were books, floor to ceiling literally. Jane Eyre was lying next to me on the floor and as I read the cover my mind put the pieces back into place. I was at Jamie’s! I searched around for my sweater to cover my camisole, plus I was cold now that I was uncovered. I found it slipped it on and buttoned it up. Where was Jamie and where was the heat?
As if to answer my question, Jamie walked up behind me with two steaming mugs in his hand. He handed one to me as he did every morning at the coffee shop. Mmm, I thought, coffee.
“I hope you were warm enough last night, my propane tank went out the other day and I haven’t had a chance to refill it yet.”
I shook my head yes and took a sip of my coffee. Surprised at the taste, I made a face. “That’s not coffee.”
Jamie smirked. “No it’s not. Haven’t you ever had tea?”
I shook my head no and took another sip. I hope he doesn’t smell my morning breath.
The tea actually wasn’t that bad, but I didn’t tell Jamie that. “What time is it?” I asked noticing it was still dark outside.
“Four-Thirty.”
“What?” My eyes peeled open.
“I gotta open the shop here in a bit and I gotta drop you off before.”
“Oh Jamie, don’t worry about me,” I said looking around for my shoes, “I can walk, no big deal, where are we?”
He chuckled, “Don’t worry I won’t make you walk from here, you’d never make it home.”
I smiled at him to say thank you and glanced down at my tea. I had already finished half of it. “Where’s the bathroom?”
When I came out of the bathroom, Jamie was out on his porch. I grabbed a blanket from the couch wrapped it around my shoulders and followed the cold air from the open door out to him.
“You must be crazy. It’s freezing out here.”
“I like to watch the city while it’s sleeping.”
I looked out at the view and saw a marina. I had no idea Jamie lived next to the sound. All the boats were lined up and docked in their bays. Rocking peacefully in the breeze. They looked like little kids in their beds all tucked away for the night. I looked over at Jamie and he was looking at me which made me blush. Good thing it was still dark outside. I smiled at him and looked away. God I wish I knew what he was thinking, but instead of reading my mind all he said was, “ I guess we should get going.”
This entry is an extension of two previous entries. Check out posts from Day 4 and Day 5 for the precursors.
Jamie drinks tea and so the next morning I woke to the screaming of the kettle on the hot iron stove. Of-course I thought it was my alarm, grumbled something like shut up you condescending bastard and rolled over. This was part of my normal morning routine, only I wasn’t in my pillow laden double bed, I was on Jamie’s couch and I rolled completely off, smacking my head on the cold floor.
“What the,” I complained opening my eyes and waiting for them to focus. When they finally did all I could see were books, floor to ceiling literally. Jane Eyre was lying next to me on the floor and as I read the cover my mind put the pieces back into place. I was at Jamie’s! I searched around for my sweater to cover my camisole, plus I was cold now that I was uncovered. I found it slipped it on and buttoned it up. Where was Jamie and where was the heat?
As if to answer my question, Jamie walked up behind me with two steaming mugs in his hand. He handed one to me as he did every morning at the coffee shop. Mmm, I thought, coffee.
“I hope you were warm enough last night, my propane tank went out the other day and I haven’t had a chance to refill it yet.”
I shook my head yes and took a sip of my coffee. Surprised at the taste, I made a face. “That’s not coffee.”
Jamie smirked. “No it’s not. Haven’t you ever had tea?”
I shook my head no and took another sip. I hope he doesn’t smell my morning breath.
The tea actually wasn’t that bad, but I didn’t tell Jamie that. “What time is it?” I asked noticing it was still dark outside.
“Four-Thirty.”
“What?” My eyes peeled open.
“I gotta open the shop here in a bit and I gotta drop you off before.”
“Oh Jamie, don’t worry about me,” I said looking around for my shoes, “I can walk, no big deal, where are we?”
He chuckled, “Don’t worry I won’t make you walk from here, you’d never make it home.”
I smiled at him to say thank you and glanced down at my tea. I had already finished half of it. “Where’s the bathroom?”
When I came out of the bathroom, Jamie was out on his porch. I grabbed a blanket from the couch wrapped it around my shoulders and followed the cold air from the open door out to him.
“You must be crazy. It’s freezing out here.”
“I like to watch the city while it’s sleeping.”
I looked out at the view and saw a marina. I had no idea Jamie lived next to the sound. All the boats were lined up and docked in their bays. Rocking peacefully in the breeze. They looked like little kids in their beds all tucked away for the night. I looked over at Jamie and he was looking at me which made me blush. Good thing it was still dark outside. I smiled at him and looked away. God I wish I knew what he was thinking, but instead of reading my mind all he said was, “ I guess we should get going.”
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Day 12
Camouflage. Create or alter something so it disappears into its background.
Things that are camouflaged:
Flounders, yum!
I bet even my frogs would be scared of this grasshopper.
Can you find what is camouflaged?
Random, but still camouflaged.
And this one is just for fun!
Day 11
This was my prompt: Work on the other hand. Pick a medium you’re comfortable with, then work with your nondominant hand – if you usually favor your right hand then only use your left and vice-versa.
But - . This is completely impossible. How do I even begin to find inspiration from that? I could write with my left hand, but it’d be completely unreadable. I could think with my left or right brain, but I don’t know which I use most often to begin with. So I am using today as a free day and simply just writing. Is this cheating on my 100 day challenge?
It feels like a breath of fresh air, not having to conform to a prompt, twist my mind into something that would fit into a jar or a space on the page, but then again, I also feel lost. I should ask you readers to provide me a prompt, you start a sentence and I’ll finish it, but that would never happen, because no one ever comments. Do you have a voice? Can you be heard? Can you speak? Neither could I, until I realized.
So, I guess today I will just catch you up on the ramblings of my life.
The air is getting heavy with warmth as spring turns to summer in less than 24 hours. The mosquitoes have created a pokeadotted pattern all over my legs and my mind is obsessed with ticks creeping and crawling on my body, real life vampires. It is officially summer in Raleigh. And the weather forecast proves it with 90 plus degree days for the entire week. Part of me has been waiting, urning for the heat of the summertime. The other part of me has not. That part has been urning for the bugless cool air of the Appalachian mountains. Will I ever go back?
This will be my first summer back in the Piedmont. I have not spent an entire summer here since 2006. Can I survive?
The air conditioning in my rental is broken. I have been forcing my frugal ways on my roommates since April, refusing to turn on the AC, explaining to them the unnecessary need for AC in May, but alas it has become summer and I could no longer convince two men with sweat dripping down their brows, that it was comfortable in the house, but really, I was comfortable. So, we shut all the windows and turned on the air, only to watch the thermometer rise from 79 to 80 to 81 to 82. The guys were not happy and I was once again reminded of the mountains. Will I ever stop longing for the Appalachians?
On Sunday night I woke up to the most beautiful thunderstorm. I have no idea what time it was since I had forgotten to put back on my watch after my evening shower. I keep waking up to lightning and thunder then falling back asleep only to be awakened a few minutes or hours later. It reminded me of the afternoon thunderstorms in Boone where the rain fell in giant drops and soaked everything almost instantly. When will everything stop making me think of Boone?
It is Monday and I am back at work.
But - . This is completely impossible. How do I even begin to find inspiration from that? I could write with my left hand, but it’d be completely unreadable. I could think with my left or right brain, but I don’t know which I use most often to begin with. So I am using today as a free day and simply just writing. Is this cheating on my 100 day challenge?
It feels like a breath of fresh air, not having to conform to a prompt, twist my mind into something that would fit into a jar or a space on the page, but then again, I also feel lost. I should ask you readers to provide me a prompt, you start a sentence and I’ll finish it, but that would never happen, because no one ever comments. Do you have a voice? Can you be heard? Can you speak? Neither could I, until I realized.
So, I guess today I will just catch you up on the ramblings of my life.
The air is getting heavy with warmth as spring turns to summer in less than 24 hours. The mosquitoes have created a pokeadotted pattern all over my legs and my mind is obsessed with ticks creeping and crawling on my body, real life vampires. It is officially summer in Raleigh. And the weather forecast proves it with 90 plus degree days for the entire week. Part of me has been waiting, urning for the heat of the summertime. The other part of me has not. That part has been urning for the bugless cool air of the Appalachian mountains. Will I ever go back?
This will be my first summer back in the Piedmont. I have not spent an entire summer here since 2006. Can I survive?
The air conditioning in my rental is broken. I have been forcing my frugal ways on my roommates since April, refusing to turn on the AC, explaining to them the unnecessary need for AC in May, but alas it has become summer and I could no longer convince two men with sweat dripping down their brows, that it was comfortable in the house, but really, I was comfortable. So, we shut all the windows and turned on the air, only to watch the thermometer rise from 79 to 80 to 81 to 82. The guys were not happy and I was once again reminded of the mountains. Will I ever stop longing for the Appalachians?
On Sunday night I woke up to the most beautiful thunderstorm. I have no idea what time it was since I had forgotten to put back on my watch after my evening shower. I keep waking up to lightning and thunder then falling back asleep only to be awakened a few minutes or hours later. It reminded me of the afternoon thunderstorms in Boone where the rain fell in giant drops and soaked everything almost instantly. When will everything stop making me think of Boone?
It is Monday and I am back at work.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Day 10
Use only water as your medium/inspiration today.
Water the most vital compound on the face of the earth. It covers over 70 percent of the earth’s surface. It is essential to all known forms of life, including my own. But yet, I have none. And there is none to be had anywhere around me. I am smack dab in the middle of the 30 percent of the world that is not covered in water. This is the driest place on earth. The inspiration for hell. The place where they send people like me, for torture. This is the Sahara.
In every direction it looks the same, tiny little coarse rock particles becoming the vain of my existence. And to think, as I child I loved the beach, would cry when Momma said it was time to leave, go home, shower off the sand. Ironic in a sense. But of course I never thought I would become what I have either. A trained killer and now the trained kill-e. They have left me here to die. And I don’t blame them, I have done the same to so many others. They are using all of my tricks on me.
I turn my canteen upside down. A drop of water rushes to the sand instantly evaporating. Well that was it. Now what? Death? Hallucinations? Perseverance?
I continue to push myself forward. If I have learned one thing it is to keep moving, always keep moving. So I do just that. Slow, snail paced.
My mind construes images of ice cold glasses of water. The perspiration bubbling like a burn wound, popping, oozing down the side of the glass. I reach out to grab it. It is gone. In the distance there is a swimming pool, so crystal clear and still as the sunlight dances on top of the water. I walk to the edge and look down. I am caught in a staring competition with myself. Only I don’t recognize myself. Who is that man? I blink and loose both the competition and the pool, but instead it is snowing. Heavily. Big puffy snowflakes twisting, floating, falling to the ground. I stick out my tongue to catch them. No snowflake is alike. Nothing sticks to my tongue.
I must keep going. But all of these delusions are distracting me. What have I done to get here? And then I remember. That reflection really was me. The person I had become, the trained killer, an assassin. I followed in the steps of my father, who I had never known, who had probably died a death similar to the way I am dieing at this very moment. Could I find his bones here if I dug deep enough. Would I want to?
Water the most vital compound on the face of the earth. It covers over 70 percent of the earth’s surface. It is essential to all known forms of life, including my own. But yet, I have none. And there is none to be had anywhere around me. I am smack dab in the middle of the 30 percent of the world that is not covered in water. This is the driest place on earth. The inspiration for hell. The place where they send people like me, for torture. This is the Sahara. And then I began to cry. One of the worst things to do when you are without water in the middle of the dessert, abandoned.
Water the most vital compound on the face of the earth. It covers over 70 percent of the earth’s surface. It is essential to all known forms of life, including my own. But yet, I have none. And there is none to be had anywhere around me. I am smack dab in the middle of the 30 percent of the world that is not covered in water. This is the driest place on earth. The inspiration for hell. The place where they send people like me, for torture. This is the Sahara.
In every direction it looks the same, tiny little coarse rock particles becoming the vain of my existence. And to think, as I child I loved the beach, would cry when Momma said it was time to leave, go home, shower off the sand. Ironic in a sense. But of course I never thought I would become what I have either. A trained killer and now the trained kill-e. They have left me here to die. And I don’t blame them, I have done the same to so many others. They are using all of my tricks on me.
I turn my canteen upside down. A drop of water rushes to the sand instantly evaporating. Well that was it. Now what? Death? Hallucinations? Perseverance?
I continue to push myself forward. If I have learned one thing it is to keep moving, always keep moving. So I do just that. Slow, snail paced.
My mind construes images of ice cold glasses of water. The perspiration bubbling like a burn wound, popping, oozing down the side of the glass. I reach out to grab it. It is gone. In the distance there is a swimming pool, so crystal clear and still as the sunlight dances on top of the water. I walk to the edge and look down. I am caught in a staring competition with myself. Only I don’t recognize myself. Who is that man? I blink and loose both the competition and the pool, but instead it is snowing. Heavily. Big puffy snowflakes twisting, floating, falling to the ground. I stick out my tongue to catch them. No snowflake is alike. Nothing sticks to my tongue.
I must keep going. But all of these delusions are distracting me. What have I done to get here? And then I remember. That reflection really was me. The person I had become, the trained killer, an assassin. I followed in the steps of my father, who I had never known, who had probably died a death similar to the way I am dieing at this very moment. Could I find his bones here if I dug deep enough. Would I want to?
Water the most vital compound on the face of the earth. It covers over 70 percent of the earth’s surface. It is essential to all known forms of life, including my own. But yet, I have none. And there is none to be had anywhere around me. I am smack dab in the middle of the 30 percent of the world that is not covered in water. This is the driest place on earth. The inspiration for hell. The place where they send people like me, for torture. This is the Sahara. And then I began to cry. One of the worst things to do when you are without water in the middle of the dessert, abandoned.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Day 9
Make something with your breakfast before you eat it.
Oh my goodness what a difficult task, to do something with my breakfast before I eat it. Don’t you realize I am starving here. I haven’t eaten since last night. My stomach has grumbled me awake this morning. I must eat as to appease the innards. But ugh, I will succumb.
Biting Jaws
Appeal my tummy
Gracious for food
Easy to toast
Leaves me full
BAGEL
Oh my goodness what a difficult task, to do something with my breakfast before I eat it. Don’t you realize I am starving here. I haven’t eaten since last night. My stomach has grumbled me awake this morning. I must eat as to appease the innards. But ugh, I will succumb.
Biting Jaws
Appeal my tummy
Gracious for food
Easy to toast
Leaves me full
BAGEL
Day 8
Transform an old book into something new by cutting, folding, gluing, and so on.
The Not So Very Hungry Caterpillar
By Dana Lauren, adapted from Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar
Please note this story has not won numerous awards, including an American Institute of Graphic Arts Award in 1970, the Selection du Grand Pris des Treize in France in 1972, and the Nakamori Reader’s Prize in Japan in 1975. This story was not cited as one of the “Ten Best Picture Books of the Year” in 1969 by NY Times and has not been translated into over 50 different languages. In fact, this story does not have any pictures and has never been published or made into a book.
The very hungry caterpillar wasn’t hungry at all. He shrank and shrank and shrank and shrank and wondered why he wasn’t ten feet tall.
I just ate too much, he told the ladybugs, I ate it all on up. And now I am so full, I don’t think I could take another bite for my entire life.
Oh no, oh no, the ladybugs screamed, now you will never turn into a beautiful butterfly.
A butterfly, I never could, cause I am a moth you see. I think I might just go and hibernate to see what will happen to me.
And a little while later a moth pops out in the dark and flys around without a spark. The ladybugs have gone to sleep which makes the moth so happy to see. Thank god those bright red things are no longer screaming at me. I can fly around in the dark and just be ugly ole gray me.
The Not So Very Hungry Caterpillar
By Dana Lauren, adapted from Eric Carle’s The Very Hungry Caterpillar
Please note this story has not won numerous awards, including an American Institute of Graphic Arts Award in 1970, the Selection du Grand Pris des Treize in France in 1972, and the Nakamori Reader’s Prize in Japan in 1975. This story was not cited as one of the “Ten Best Picture Books of the Year” in 1969 by NY Times and has not been translated into over 50 different languages. In fact, this story does not have any pictures and has never been published or made into a book.
The very hungry caterpillar wasn’t hungry at all. He shrank and shrank and shrank and shrank and wondered why he wasn’t ten feet tall.
I just ate too much, he told the ladybugs, I ate it all on up. And now I am so full, I don’t think I could take another bite for my entire life.
Oh no, oh no, the ladybugs screamed, now you will never turn into a beautiful butterfly.
A butterfly, I never could, cause I am a moth you see. I think I might just go and hibernate to see what will happen to me.
And a little while later a moth pops out in the dark and flys around without a spark. The ladybugs have gone to sleep which makes the moth so happy to see. Thank god those bright red things are no longer screaming at me. I can fly around in the dark and just be ugly ole gray me.
Day 7
One week down! See how fast it goes? Today, make a stencil and use it in your work.
As a child, my creative artistic mom was always coming up with new crafts for my sisters and I to indulge in. Most of the time they revolved around the upcoming holiday or someone’s birthday. One day for my birthday we made these beautiful beach bags, with puff paint outlining the beautiful red peaks of the beach umbrella. On the reverse side a beautiful blue dolphin and a smiley yellow sun. I loved this bag and filled it every summer with the latest Little House on the Prairie or Babysitters Club book, goggles, and beach towel and carried it down to the sandy shores of the OBX. A few years after I made it, just when the colors were beginning to fade, the puff paint was starting to crack, and the sand had made the canvas fabric soft, my family and I were down around Pea Island driving along the beaches and playing in the dark sand when the tide came up and washed this bag and all of its belongs away. I was too young at this point to realize the change in the tides and had carelessly threw my bag down in the sand. I was so upset. The beautiful beach bag was one of a kind, really. It could never be replaced. Ever!
A few years later, when I had forgotten about this bag, my older sister Layne gave me a birthday present, and as I ripped open the paper and peered inside, there was the bag. What? How could it be? As I pulled it out and admired the design, I noticed subtle differences. The blue a little bit brighter, the handles a tad longer, the umbrella multicolors. She had made me a new bag. That summer I sported that thing like it was a new prada, but when the summer faded into fall I place the bag away and the next year when I turned 13, I replaced it with an old Jansport. I had gotten too old for the dolphins and umbrellas and beach scene, but the bag stayed in a box until I found it last year. Maybe when Ansley, my niece gets older I can pass the beautiful handmade beach bag down to her and she will cherish it as much as I did.
As a child, my creative artistic mom was always coming up with new crafts for my sisters and I to indulge in. Most of the time they revolved around the upcoming holiday or someone’s birthday. One day for my birthday we made these beautiful beach bags, with puff paint outlining the beautiful red peaks of the beach umbrella. On the reverse side a beautiful blue dolphin and a smiley yellow sun. I loved this bag and filled it every summer with the latest Little House on the Prairie or Babysitters Club book, goggles, and beach towel and carried it down to the sandy shores of the OBX. A few years after I made it, just when the colors were beginning to fade, the puff paint was starting to crack, and the sand had made the canvas fabric soft, my family and I were down around Pea Island driving along the beaches and playing in the dark sand when the tide came up and washed this bag and all of its belongs away. I was too young at this point to realize the change in the tides and had carelessly threw my bag down in the sand. I was so upset. The beautiful beach bag was one of a kind, really. It could never be replaced. Ever!
A few years later, when I had forgotten about this bag, my older sister Layne gave me a birthday present, and as I ripped open the paper and peered inside, there was the bag. What? How could it be? As I pulled it out and admired the design, I noticed subtle differences. The blue a little bit brighter, the handles a tad longer, the umbrella multicolors. She had made me a new bag. That summer I sported that thing like it was a new prada, but when the summer faded into fall I place the bag away and the next year when I turned 13, I replaced it with an old Jansport. I had gotten too old for the dolphins and umbrellas and beach scene, but the bag stayed in a box until I found it last year. Maybe when Ansley, my niece gets older I can pass the beautiful handmade beach bag down to her and she will cherish it as much as I did.
Day 6
Look in the kitchen and work with the first fruit or vegetable you spot. It could be in the form of juice, jam, or even canned.
I recently became part of Backyard Produce, an online farmers market. I joined Backyard Produce as part of the 10% campaign in NC and because of a groupon. Yesterday, I got my second box of deliveries. It was full of sweet fruits, vegetables and even bagels. Now delivery day is my favorite day.
Ode to Delivery Day
Today is the most important day.
But I can never quite remember,
Until out on my porch a box doth lay.
Oh these people, these connoisseurs.
They leave the most precious vegetables,
In the shade on my porch
A little present for me to eat.
Oh how unforgettable
I will raise my big old torch
To convince the world to swear off meat.
Or maybe just to eat more veg.
It’s healthy I promise you.
Stand up like me and take a pledge
For organic and local products North Carolinians grew.
10 percent is all you need,
It’ll work,
If you join,
And support your local economy.
Farm to Fork.
Add your coins.
You too can find,
Waiting at your house
A box to provide you a piece of mind.
But watch out there’s a mouse,
Just kidding, there’s nothing hiding there.
The only things that you will see,
Are fresh and so yummy.
Big heads of lettuce the box doth bare,
Kale, apples, and broccoli
I wonder if they have some local honey?
Friday, May 13, 2011
Day 5 - Part 2
What do you collect? Work with a collection of objects you have in your home (or borrow a friend's if you like).
I decided to continue with the story from yesterday, because I was kinda diggin the characters.
Of course I couldn’t get Jamie out of my head for the rest of the day and it didn’t help that he said he was coming by later that night. Love. Love? What did he mean by that? Was I reading too far into it? This put me off my A game, which didn’t take much. By eight p.m. I was glad Jamie hadn’t stopped by yet. But, at eleven, when we were closing down, I was a little worried that he hadn’t. That wasn't normally like him.
“Hey Bart.” I yelled into the kitchen.
“What up Cat?”
I rolled my eyes, he thought it was hilarious to call me this, especially since I owned two cats.
“You heard from Jamie tonight.” Bart was co-owner and night cook at Frenchy’s and Jamie’s best friend. I knew he’d know.
“Yeah, he said he had something to take care of. Why? You expecting him?”
“Well, nah. Not really.” I tried to play it cool. “He just mentioned this morning he might stop by is all.”
“Well, if he said he’d stop by, he will. He’s good on his word.” Bart finished by winking at me. The same familiar wink Jamie was always shooting my way. I could feel my face turn red.
“Thanks, Bart.” I finished with my drawer and clocked out. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He probably just forgot, I told myself as I walked out of the restaurant. It had stopped raining and I breathed in deep the smell of the city after a rainfall, rejuvenating. As I looked up, there he was, legs crossed leaning against his car with a cigarette in his hand.
“What’s up, sketch ball?” I said. “You missed dinner.”
“Yeah I know. I had something to take care of.”
I peaked my eyebrows at him, but didn’t ask what. There was an awkward silence. “Welp,” I said, “see you later.” I turned to walk away.
He stepped in front of me , “Can I show you something?”
“I don’t know Jamie. It’s been a long day.” I wasn’t lying, it had been a long day. “ I need a shower and -.”
“You look good to me,” he said grabbing my hand and pulling me over to the passenger door. He opened the door for me, “Well, aren’t you gonna get in?”
I shook my head at him and got in. He shut the door behind me.
The old engine in his car rumbled to a slow start. He shoved it into gear and we took off towards the freeway in silence. The only noise was the churning of the engine and the beating of my heart. How well do I know Jamie? Did I just get in the car with a complete stranger?
“Um, so where we going?” I asked feeling the silence pressing down on me.
“You’ll see.”
“Mr. Elusive, huh?”
“It’ll explain why I skipped out on dinner tonight.”
“Oh, so this is where you were?”
“Not exactly.”
He reached into the back seat with such ease. The car glided along seamlessly. “This is where I was.”
He handed me “A book?”
It was olive green in color, the edges worn and faded, but seemingly well kept for its age. Jane Eyre, the cover read by Currer Bell. The binding creaked as I opened the page, and I saw that it was inscripted. “ To My dear friend Emily . I hope you enjoy this as much as I have. I find it oddly reflective of my own life. Charlotte.”
I looked up at him for meaning as we pulled into a gravel parking lot. “This is where I live,” is all he said.
I followed him through the brick entryway and up three flights of stairs to the top level. He unlocked the door and held it open for me. I carried the olive book pressed firmly against my chest.
His apartment was filled wall to wall, ceiling to ceiling with books. Everywhere I turned, covering the walls, stacked in front of the couch topped with a flat piece of wood as a coffee table, in the bare front kitchen cabinets where dishes should be, in the closets.
My mouth dropped uncontrollably and he started to laugh. He had been watching me the entire time as I walked through his apartment in silence and awe.
I shut my mouth, “Where you gonna put this one?”
He grabbed the book from my hand and replaced it with a beer, which he had grabbed while I was meandering mesmerized throughout his apartment, if you could call it that, an apartment. I still had not seen the bed, not that I was looking.
He sat down on the couch and I followed. “This one is special,” he said. “You saw the inscripture, right.”
I nodded my head.
“Well, let’s test your knowledge of literature, Miss professional journalist.”
“I wouldn’t call what I do professional.”
“You’ve heard of Jane Eyre, correct?” I rolled my eyes at him. “Alright, Alright,” he laughed, “let’s try something a bit harder. Have you heard of Charlotte Bronte?” I rolled my eyes at him again. “Just go with it, you know that Charlotte Bronte is the famous author who wrote Jane Eyre, everyone knows that, right?” I shook my head, yes. “But then why does the cover say, Currer Bell?”
Then it clicked. Currer Bell was Charlotte Bronte’s pen name. My eyes widen as I looked at Jamie, “But. Why?”
Jamie nodded his head at me. “You got it Charlotte gave to her friend, as a gift, the book she herself recently published. What’s more is this was published as an autobiography by Currer Bell.”
“How did you . . .?”
“It’s not worth much,” he said putting the book down on the makeshift coffee table. “I just like it.”
I was still a little stunned. “All of these?”
“No,” he laughed, “Just some are inscribed. Most of them aren’t. Some of them are rare prints. Some of them are just plain old. Others I just liked, either the way they look or felt in my hand, or the way they smell. I have a hard time not buying a book when I see one. It’s an obsession.”
“I’d say,” I blurted. My face immediately turned red. “Oh I’m sorry, Jamie. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
He was unphased. “Don’t worry about it. I know it’s out of control. I mean I don’t have a single dish in my kitchen cabinets. I don’t own one. I don’t want to, but if I did there’d be nowhere to put it. It drives my mom crazy, but I can’t help it. I just love books. I always have.”
Did Jamie actually just open up to me? Mr. Elusive Mysterious Jamie? And did he really just mention his mom? As far as I had been concerned Jamie was a mute orphan from Seattle that disliked ketchup. What a weirdo. I took a long sip of my beer and waited for him to say more.
But he didn’t, so I opened to the beginning and began to read. Jane Eyre had been my favorite book in high school. I lived by it. My copy was ripped, tattered, stained, smudged, missing pages, used.
I began to read, “ There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed,
At some point Jamie took over. And I sat on the couch listening to his voice read to me Jane Eyre like I had never heard it before. Who was this guy?
I decided to continue with the story from yesterday, because I was kinda diggin the characters.
Of course I couldn’t get Jamie out of my head for the rest of the day and it didn’t help that he said he was coming by later that night. Love. Love? What did he mean by that? Was I reading too far into it? This put me off my A game, which didn’t take much. By eight p.m. I was glad Jamie hadn’t stopped by yet. But, at eleven, when we were closing down, I was a little worried that he hadn’t. That wasn't normally like him.
“Hey Bart.” I yelled into the kitchen.
“What up Cat?”
I rolled my eyes, he thought it was hilarious to call me this, especially since I owned two cats.
“You heard from Jamie tonight.” Bart was co-owner and night cook at Frenchy’s and Jamie’s best friend. I knew he’d know.
“Yeah, he said he had something to take care of. Why? You expecting him?”
“Well, nah. Not really.” I tried to play it cool. “He just mentioned this morning he might stop by is all.”
“Well, if he said he’d stop by, he will. He’s good on his word.” Bart finished by winking at me. The same familiar wink Jamie was always shooting my way. I could feel my face turn red.
“Thanks, Bart.” I finished with my drawer and clocked out. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He probably just forgot, I told myself as I walked out of the restaurant. It had stopped raining and I breathed in deep the smell of the city after a rainfall, rejuvenating. As I looked up, there he was, legs crossed leaning against his car with a cigarette in his hand.
“What’s up, sketch ball?” I said. “You missed dinner.”
“Yeah I know. I had something to take care of.”
I peaked my eyebrows at him, but didn’t ask what. There was an awkward silence. “Welp,” I said, “see you later.” I turned to walk away.
He stepped in front of me , “Can I show you something?”
“I don’t know Jamie. It’s been a long day.” I wasn’t lying, it had been a long day. “ I need a shower and -.”
“You look good to me,” he said grabbing my hand and pulling me over to the passenger door. He opened the door for me, “Well, aren’t you gonna get in?”
I shook my head at him and got in. He shut the door behind me.
The old engine in his car rumbled to a slow start. He shoved it into gear and we took off towards the freeway in silence. The only noise was the churning of the engine and the beating of my heart. How well do I know Jamie? Did I just get in the car with a complete stranger?
“Um, so where we going?” I asked feeling the silence pressing down on me.
“You’ll see.”
“Mr. Elusive, huh?”
“It’ll explain why I skipped out on dinner tonight.”
“Oh, so this is where you were?”
“Not exactly.”
He reached into the back seat with such ease. The car glided along seamlessly. “This is where I was.”
He handed me “A book?”
It was olive green in color, the edges worn and faded, but seemingly well kept for its age. Jane Eyre, the cover read by Currer Bell. The binding creaked as I opened the page, and I saw that it was inscripted. “ To My dear friend Emily . I hope you enjoy this as much as I have. I find it oddly reflective of my own life. Charlotte.”
I looked up at him for meaning as we pulled into a gravel parking lot. “This is where I live,” is all he said.
I followed him through the brick entryway and up three flights of stairs to the top level. He unlocked the door and held it open for me. I carried the olive book pressed firmly against my chest.
His apartment was filled wall to wall, ceiling to ceiling with books. Everywhere I turned, covering the walls, stacked in front of the couch topped with a flat piece of wood as a coffee table, in the bare front kitchen cabinets where dishes should be, in the closets.
My mouth dropped uncontrollably and he started to laugh. He had been watching me the entire time as I walked through his apartment in silence and awe.
I shut my mouth, “Where you gonna put this one?”
He grabbed the book from my hand and replaced it with a beer, which he had grabbed while I was meandering mesmerized throughout his apartment, if you could call it that, an apartment. I still had not seen the bed, not that I was looking.
He sat down on the couch and I followed. “This one is special,” he said. “You saw the inscripture, right.”
I nodded my head.
“Well, let’s test your knowledge of literature, Miss professional journalist.”
“I wouldn’t call what I do professional.”
“You’ve heard of Jane Eyre, correct?” I rolled my eyes at him. “Alright, Alright,” he laughed, “let’s try something a bit harder. Have you heard of Charlotte Bronte?” I rolled my eyes at him again. “Just go with it, you know that Charlotte Bronte is the famous author who wrote Jane Eyre, everyone knows that, right?” I shook my head, yes. “But then why does the cover say, Currer Bell?”
Then it clicked. Currer Bell was Charlotte Bronte’s pen name. My eyes widen as I looked at Jamie, “But. Why?”
Jamie nodded his head at me. “You got it Charlotte gave to her friend, as a gift, the book she herself recently published. What’s more is this was published as an autobiography by Currer Bell.”
“How did you . . .?”
“It’s not worth much,” he said putting the book down on the makeshift coffee table. “I just like it.”
I was still a little stunned. “All of these?”
“No,” he laughed, “Just some are inscribed. Most of them aren’t. Some of them are rare prints. Some of them are just plain old. Others I just liked, either the way they look or felt in my hand, or the way they smell. I have a hard time not buying a book when I see one. It’s an obsession.”
“I’d say,” I blurted. My face immediately turned red. “Oh I’m sorry, Jamie. I didn’t mean anything by that.”
He was unphased. “Don’t worry about it. I know it’s out of control. I mean I don’t have a single dish in my kitchen cabinets. I don’t own one. I don’t want to, but if I did there’d be nowhere to put it. It drives my mom crazy, but I can’t help it. I just love books. I always have.”
Did Jamie actually just open up to me? Mr. Elusive Mysterious Jamie? And did he really just mention his mom? As far as I had been concerned Jamie was a mute orphan from Seattle that disliked ketchup. What a weirdo. I took a long sip of my beer and waited for him to say more.
But he didn’t, so I opened to the beginning and began to read. Jane Eyre had been my favorite book in high school. I lived by it. My copy was ripped, tattered, stained, smudged, missing pages, used.
I began to read, “ There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed,
In the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber and a ran so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question . . .
At some point Jamie took over. And I sat on the couch listening to his voice read to me Jane Eyre like I had never heard it before. Who was this guy?
Day 4 - Part 1 (I posted this yesterday, but blogger screwed me over and deleted it.)
I’m slowly realizing how hard this project actually is. And I’m like: Eeek. It’s only Day 4 and I feel totally in over my head. I mean I must be crazy to think I can use craft prompts as writing prompts. These questions were intended to be created with scissors and glue and paint and not the squeaky keys of my keyboard. On top of it all check out the prompt for today:
Take a five-minute walk, then make something using whatever materials are available where you’ve ended up. Leave it there for someone else to discover, but be sure to document it first!
This is the forecast for today: Showers and scattered thunderstorms. A few storms may be severe.
How am I expected to write something when I can’t even go outside? Uggh. But anyways, here’s my attempt:
I have lost track. I think it has been eighteen straight days of rain or maybe today makes nineteen. I don’t remember. It’s all grey. I never thought it was actually true until I moved here, but everyone was right. It does rain constantly in Seattle.
I let go of the sheer lace curtain, slipped on my rain boots, coat and grabbed my umbrella. Seattle is a place where every piece of rain gear is needed for protection and I promise you, you will still wound up getting wet, in one way or the other. It rains sideways. It rains diagonally. It even rains up. It doesn’t matter how, you’ll get wet.
It was a bit cool outside and I could feel the air nip at the tip of my nose. God, I am ready for summer. Strappy thong sandals, sundresses, shorts and cute boys in board shorts. Maybe this year I will meet somebody worth any of my time. I mean I did move here to make things happen. And so far, has anything happened?
This was my normal morning routine. Wake up early. Feed the cats, Wallace and Gromit. Slip out of the apartment before the city starts hustling and bustling. Then I find myself sitting for hours at the local coffee shop, immersed in the ramblings of my mind and the breaking news until it’s time for work. And then the next day I do it all over again. Today was nothing different.
The bell rings on the door as I push it open. Followed immediately by the roaring sound of the grinder, a constant background noise in this place. Jamie is methodically creating one of his signature drinks behind the counter. I find a spot in the corner next to the windows to bury myself in for the next few hours. The line is long so I hang back watching Jamie at a distance. This is my favorite part of the morning.
His index finger delicately levels the espresso grinds. The muscles on his tattooed arms flex as he tamps at the portafilter. Then he twists it into place on the espresso machine and punches a button which extracts the most perfectly timed espresso shot. In the meantime he is steaming the milk into a beautifully frothy mixture. It all comes together at the same time and he smiles slightly as he hands the drink to the customer. He executes it with such accuracy. How can he never falter in his routine? Even after nine years of waiting tables, I still make mistakes, spill a drink, mix up the orders. But not Jamie.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches me watching him. He winks at me and I panic for a second before looking away. I stare down at the screen of my computer, pretending to be engrossed in whatever is in front of me. Which is nothing, I haven’t even turned on my computer yet. I feel my face turn beet red. Hopefully he can’t see this, since he can only see the side of my face, but I let me hair hang down on that side just in case.
Jamie was one of the first people I met when I moved here. He helped get me a job as a waitress at Frenchy’s, a burger and fries place owned by his friends down the street. He comes by the bar a few times a week, orders food and shoots the shit with me while I’m working, but it never progresses any farther than that. He is just Jamie, a friend. Quite, reserved, collected. I barely know anything about him, other than the fact that he makes the best mocha soy lattes I have ever tasted. And he likes mustard, but not ketchup.
Immersed in my daydreams, I don’t even notice the café has cleared out and Jamie is walking towards me. I pet my bangs to make sure they aren’t sticking up in all directions.
“Hey, Kate.”
He hands me my mocha soy latte.
I blow on it then sip it. “Mmm. Delicious as always, Jamie. How do you do it?”
“Love,” he says. My eyes dart up to his face to see his look. It’s normal relaxed. I look back at my coffee. “What’s the topic today?”
“Massive execution of seagulls down in Golf Port.”
“Really? Seagull serial killer, that’s what you got.” He laughs.
“Yeah, it’s hard being a journalist. ”
“I guess you take what you can get, huh?”
I take another sip of my latte, “You can’t be picky if you wanna be a writer. Maybe one day this freelance stuff will stop, but for now, it’s all I got.”
The bell rings at the door announcing the arrival of a customer and the end of our conversation. He glances toward the register and then back at me, “Well hang in there champ.” On his way back up to the counter he turns back around, “You gonna be at Frenchy’s tonight? I was thinking about grabbing a bite to eat there.”
I shrug my shoulders, “Aren’t I always there?”
He smiles and turns to go back to work.
Take a five-minute walk, then make something using whatever materials are available where you’ve ended up. Leave it there for someone else to discover, but be sure to document it first!
This is the forecast for today: Showers and scattered thunderstorms. A few storms may be severe.
How am I expected to write something when I can’t even go outside? Uggh. But anyways, here’s my attempt:
I have lost track. I think it has been eighteen straight days of rain or maybe today makes nineteen. I don’t remember. It’s all grey. I never thought it was actually true until I moved here, but everyone was right. It does rain constantly in Seattle.
I let go of the sheer lace curtain, slipped on my rain boots, coat and grabbed my umbrella. Seattle is a place where every piece of rain gear is needed for protection and I promise you, you will still wound up getting wet, in one way or the other. It rains sideways. It rains diagonally. It even rains up. It doesn’t matter how, you’ll get wet.
It was a bit cool outside and I could feel the air nip at the tip of my nose. God, I am ready for summer. Strappy thong sandals, sundresses, shorts and cute boys in board shorts. Maybe this year I will meet somebody worth any of my time. I mean I did move here to make things happen. And so far, has anything happened?
This was my normal morning routine. Wake up early. Feed the cats, Wallace and Gromit. Slip out of the apartment before the city starts hustling and bustling. Then I find myself sitting for hours at the local coffee shop, immersed in the ramblings of my mind and the breaking news until it’s time for work. And then the next day I do it all over again. Today was nothing different.
The bell rings on the door as I push it open. Followed immediately by the roaring sound of the grinder, a constant background noise in this place. Jamie is methodically creating one of his signature drinks behind the counter. I find a spot in the corner next to the windows to bury myself in for the next few hours. The line is long so I hang back watching Jamie at a distance. This is my favorite part of the morning.
His index finger delicately levels the espresso grinds. The muscles on his tattooed arms flex as he tamps at the portafilter. Then he twists it into place on the espresso machine and punches a button which extracts the most perfectly timed espresso shot. In the meantime he is steaming the milk into a beautifully frothy mixture. It all comes together at the same time and he smiles slightly as he hands the drink to the customer. He executes it with such accuracy. How can he never falter in his routine? Even after nine years of waiting tables, I still make mistakes, spill a drink, mix up the orders. But not Jamie.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches me watching him. He winks at me and I panic for a second before looking away. I stare down at the screen of my computer, pretending to be engrossed in whatever is in front of me. Which is nothing, I haven’t even turned on my computer yet. I feel my face turn beet red. Hopefully he can’t see this, since he can only see the side of my face, but I let me hair hang down on that side just in case.
Jamie was one of the first people I met when I moved here. He helped get me a job as a waitress at Frenchy’s, a burger and fries place owned by his friends down the street. He comes by the bar a few times a week, orders food and shoots the shit with me while I’m working, but it never progresses any farther than that. He is just Jamie, a friend. Quite, reserved, collected. I barely know anything about him, other than the fact that he makes the best mocha soy lattes I have ever tasted. And he likes mustard, but not ketchup.
Immersed in my daydreams, I don’t even notice the café has cleared out and Jamie is walking towards me. I pet my bangs to make sure they aren’t sticking up in all directions.
“Hey, Kate.”
He hands me my mocha soy latte.
I blow on it then sip it. “Mmm. Delicious as always, Jamie. How do you do it?”
“Love,” he says. My eyes dart up to his face to see his look. It’s normal relaxed. I look back at my coffee. “What’s the topic today?”
“Massive execution of seagulls down in Golf Port.”
“Really? Seagull serial killer, that’s what you got.” He laughs.
“Yeah, it’s hard being a journalist. ”
“I guess you take what you can get, huh?”
I take another sip of my latte, “You can’t be picky if you wanna be a writer. Maybe one day this freelance stuff will stop, but for now, it’s all I got.”
The bell rings at the door announcing the arrival of a customer and the end of our conversation. He glances toward the register and then back at me, “Well hang in there champ.” On his way back up to the counter he turns back around, “You gonna be at Frenchy’s tonight? I was thinking about grabbing a bite to eat there.”
I shrug my shoulders, “Aren’t I always there?”
He smiles and turns to go back to work.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Day 3
Make something out of paper, but don’t use scissors or glue or draw it. What now? (And no, you don’t have to know origami to do this.)
Okay, so this is where using an arts and crafts book for writing doesn’t quite work, but bear with me. I tried my darndest.
The smell of life
The smell was raw, rancid, and not quite like rotten eggs, but definitely sulfuric. But I didn’t smell it anymore. And neither did most others around these parts. The smell was just something the tourists asked about, when there were tourists. Most of the town folk responded “That’s the smell of money, darlin’.” Others respond, “It’s the smell of life in a factory town.” And others nod their head and say “What smell?” But all that too has dwindled.
There ain’t much being made at there factory anymore. A few reams now and then to keep the machines oiled. A handful of workers still punch the clock every morning. The last loyal constituents. The ones that fear the outside the most. It’ s hard work here. Early Mornings. Long hours. Mechanic Rumblings. Headaches. But what else do we have.
Each day I fear the worst. I suffer from heartburn the first four hours of my day. And then again every night after dinner and through the night. It keeps me up. It eats at my health. I’d been there 45 years. I know nothing else. I have nothing else. To me the paper mill smelled of a warm house, food on the table, and smiles on my families faces, but now it smells like my broken dreams and unemployment.
I can’ t look my children in their eyes. I fear they’ll see the truth.
Okay, so this is where using an arts and crafts book for writing doesn’t quite work, but bear with me. I tried my darndest.
The smell of life
The smell was raw, rancid, and not quite like rotten eggs, but definitely sulfuric. But I didn’t smell it anymore. And neither did most others around these parts. The smell was just something the tourists asked about, when there were tourists. Most of the town folk responded “That’s the smell of money, darlin’.” Others respond, “It’s the smell of life in a factory town.” And others nod their head and say “What smell?” But all that too has dwindled.
There ain’t much being made at there factory anymore. A few reams now and then to keep the machines oiled. A handful of workers still punch the clock every morning. The last loyal constituents. The ones that fear the outside the most. It’ s hard work here. Early Mornings. Long hours. Mechanic Rumblings. Headaches. But what else do we have.
Each day I fear the worst. I suffer from heartburn the first four hours of my day. And then again every night after dinner and through the night. It keeps me up. It eats at my health. I’d been there 45 years. I know nothing else. I have nothing else. To me the paper mill smelled of a warm house, food on the table, and smiles on my families faces, but now it smells like my broken dreams and unemployment.
I can’ t look my children in their eyes. I fear they’ll see the truth.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Day 2
What’s your favorite animal? Use it as your inspiration today. (Noah Scalin, A Daily Creativity Journal, 365, Make something every day and change your life!)
“Who says dogs don’t know what they are doing? Reacting? React to this!”
A black little fury monster takes off towards the smell of smoked meat, roasting slowly in a metal grave. Something is being yelled after him as he runs, but he doesn’t know what it means, even after years of the same thing. Human hand pointing, snapping. Do something. Sit?
Anyways, the wind was blowing lightly through his ears as he ran, cool currents announcing an afternoon storm. He veered sharply to the left, taking a shortcut through the field. The grass engulfed him and made him disappear in the eyes of his human companion. He loved the grass, the long sharp blades tickled his stomach. The bugs jumping from plant to plant in a hissy fit from the interruption. He took his time in the meadow, swerving back and forth in between grass blades and Queens Anne’s Lace, until finally he reached the edge and there it was. He paused on the edge, slightly guarded by his meadowy haven. He stuck his long black nose into the air and breathed deep.
“Mmmm,” his stomach growled, “hamburgers, hotdogs, and,” he sniffed again, “steak? Is that steak I smell? A feast for a king. And what a king I am. Look at me.”
He pranced out of the meadow and straight up to the smell. His pink tongue hung, dangling to the side of his mouth, drooling. He didn’t even notice the family of four standing idly waiting for his feast fit for a king. And of course he didn’t see the large older man bound towards him with his hands spread. Or the young child with a stick in his hand. He was so close, almost there. He readied his tongue, and then he saw it, the gleaming spatula, dripping with juices, so sweet and tasty. And then he saw everything else.
The man swung his hand so close to his black matted locks, he could feel the air shift. His smell emanated anger. The child jabbed the air with his stick. Each jab inching its way closer and closer to his back legs. The family screaming in the background. He darted to the right, ran into the leg of the grill and veered off in the opposite direction, not thinking but reacting. He was running fast, but he couldn’t get away from the people. They were everywhere, but none of them familiar, none of them smelled like his. Then he was in the woods, had he ever been in these woods? He didn’t know. How could he not know? Where was he? Where was he supposed to be? Then somehow he heard something. Where did it come from? What was it? But somehow he found it, heard it again, followed it. Was it his name? And there at the edge of the woods, he bounded out and ran into something that smelled so sweet, so familiar, so wonderful. It had fallen from the impact of the furry monster. He jumped on top of it, front paws on the chest of this thing. He looked down at it and as his big black eyes focused on the face of his human companion, he began lovingly licking the face of his best friend.
“Who says dogs don’t know what they are doing? Reacting? React to this!”
A black little fury monster takes off towards the smell of smoked meat, roasting slowly in a metal grave. Something is being yelled after him as he runs, but he doesn’t know what it means, even after years of the same thing. Human hand pointing, snapping. Do something. Sit?
Anyways, the wind was blowing lightly through his ears as he ran, cool currents announcing an afternoon storm. He veered sharply to the left, taking a shortcut through the field. The grass engulfed him and made him disappear in the eyes of his human companion. He loved the grass, the long sharp blades tickled his stomach. The bugs jumping from plant to plant in a hissy fit from the interruption. He took his time in the meadow, swerving back and forth in between grass blades and Queens Anne’s Lace, until finally he reached the edge and there it was. He paused on the edge, slightly guarded by his meadowy haven. He stuck his long black nose into the air and breathed deep.
“Mmmm,” his stomach growled, “hamburgers, hotdogs, and,” he sniffed again, “steak? Is that steak I smell? A feast for a king. And what a king I am. Look at me.”
He pranced out of the meadow and straight up to the smell. His pink tongue hung, dangling to the side of his mouth, drooling. He didn’t even notice the family of four standing idly waiting for his feast fit for a king. And of course he didn’t see the large older man bound towards him with his hands spread. Or the young child with a stick in his hand. He was so close, almost there. He readied his tongue, and then he saw it, the gleaming spatula, dripping with juices, so sweet and tasty. And then he saw everything else.
The man swung his hand so close to his black matted locks, he could feel the air shift. His smell emanated anger. The child jabbed the air with his stick. Each jab inching its way closer and closer to his back legs. The family screaming in the background. He darted to the right, ran into the leg of the grill and veered off in the opposite direction, not thinking but reacting. He was running fast, but he couldn’t get away from the people. They were everywhere, but none of them familiar, none of them smelled like his. Then he was in the woods, had he ever been in these woods? He didn’t know. How could he not know? Where was he? Where was he supposed to be? Then somehow he heard something. Where did it come from? What was it? But somehow he found it, heard it again, followed it. Was it his name? And there at the edge of the woods, he bounded out and ran into something that smelled so sweet, so familiar, so wonderful. It had fallen from the impact of the furry monster. He jumped on top of it, front paws on the chest of this thing. He looked down at it and as his big black eyes focused on the face of his human companion, he began lovingly licking the face of his best friend.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Day 1
The first step is the hardest, so start small today and make something that fits in the palm of your hand using only the materials in your immediate environment. (Noah Scalin, A Daily Creativity Journal, 365, Make something every day and change your life!)
This is my stab at a haiku. I know. I missed the nail completely, but at least I stuck with 7 syllables all the way through.
A case of the Mondays
Grumpy groans and sleepy eyes.
I need coffee to survive.
Please be quick and let me be.
Oh Monday, don't bother me.
This is my stab at a haiku. I know. I missed the nail completely, but at least I stuck with 7 syllables all the way through.
A case of the Mondays
Grumpy groans and sleepy eyes.
I need coffee to survive.
Please be quick and let me be.
Oh Monday, don't bother me.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
I’m a sucker for sales, coupons, discounts, happy hours, and anything that will save me a buck. So, of-course I couldn’t stay away from Borders going-out-of-business sale and I crept in there one time a few months ago on the search for some cheap book store chairs or espresso crafts.
Just kidding.
Really, I had just finished my journal and thought for sure I would be able to find a sequel, be it hideous or not. But I didn’t find any of those. The Cary Borders location had been picked thin by people like me, spending money on nonessential items just to feel good about saving a buck. So, I spent 8 bucks on a 15 dollar regularly priced creativity journal that I would have never purchased had it not been on sale.
But wait, this isn’t how I wanted this blog post to go. Errg, the older I get the more easily frustrated I get by money. Does anyone want to go back to a barter system?
Anyone?
Let’s try this again. So, when I couldn’t find any writing journals or even cool coffee accessories, I ventured my way over to the crafts section. (By the way, I had left the store at this point declaring it a total bust, only to walk right back in and give it another go round. I was committed to spending some hard earned cash. I must have just gotten paid.) There were some pretty cool books in the craft section and probably would have bought almost all of them if some rude employee hadn’t decided that the area right in front of me was the area he need to straighten. And pronto. I mean, I understand you are losing your job and everything, but come on, that doesn’t excuse your jackass tendencies.
Anyways, back to the journal. I purchased Noah Scalin’s, from skulladay.com, 365 Daily Creativity Journal, in which he urges you to do something creative everyday for 365 days. His journal provides you with a prompt for each day and the only rule is, there are no rules! Now this is something, I can do.
I was really excited about the journal the first few days I had it. It slipped easily into my duffel bag of a purse and so I carried it around with me everywhere I went and pulled it out to read the prompts and excite my creativity. But yet, I never put pen to paper. I just kept waiting for a good time to start this year long project, because by god if I start it, I’ll finish it. So, I never started it.
The journal got pushed to the bottom of my purse and I lugged around an extra few pounds for the past few months waiting for the creativity to hit me. And it did. It whopped me in the ass every time I got in my car. It burned in my legs as I climbed the stairs. It even dug in my shoulder as it hung at my side. And today, It peeked it’s head out of my bag as I pulled it out and flipped back through it. Then I got it, why not use the prompts in Scalin’s Creativity Journal as writing prompts?? (I know I’m brilliant.) Only for now, I’m setting a realistic goal (Start small, grow to be big.).
Here are my rules:
Once a day, five days a week, Monday – Friday: WRITE. (Sorry, I always get the weekends and state holidays off. It’s called government employee.)
Use 1 -100 of Scalin’s prompts as inspiration. (Sorry, I am only committing to 100 creativity acts, for now.)
Share.
Learn.
Breathe.
Write.
Sounds simple, right.
Look for the project to be coming to blogs near you soon. jk. Just keep checking back in here.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Taking it back to the 90s.
How rad were the 90s?
I mean jellies, lace church socks, rabbit's feet good luck charms, and best friends matching charms.
Gotta love.
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