My Spirit Animal is a capybara. No, I'm not Native American, nor did I ever believe in anything New Age, necessarily, but it's true. I had to look it up, myself, because I always confuse Chupacabra and capybara. To set it straight for you, too, the Chupacabra is a mythical creature that sucks the blood of goats, and a capybara is a rodent. Not just any rodent, mind you, but the world's largest rodent. It looks more like a giant, bristly, groundhog or very short-haired and enormous Guinea pig.
I know a capybara is my Spirit Animal because I dreamed of it. You might think I would be disappointed that my Spirit Animal is the world's largest rodent, but he was my guide, he kept me safe, and he even spoke, giving me sage advice in a deep, soothing voice. In my dream, I knelt down and hugged him; his fur was stiff yet yielding.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Friday, February 27, 2015
Pageant Question 12: If you could go back in time and meet one person, who would it be, and why?
I was very good at going to school. I had been doing it since I was three, so by the time I got to college, I knew how to sit and listen for hours, how to take pages and pages of notes from lectures, how to read dozens of books in a matter of months, and how to write so my professors were happy campers. I was a vessel. I was a programmable robot. I was an excellent student.
What I wasn't good at was socializing (no surprise there) or noticing what was right in front of my face. I had a real hard time with change. I had gotten extremely comfortable in my uncomfortable life, and I didn't like to look ahead to the time when I would graduate, so I began actively researching graduate programs even back in my junior year. It was the first semester of my senior year, however, that I looked up. Literally. I looked up during APY 377 (the awesomely titled "Magic, Witchcraft and Sorcery"), and actually saw.
I mean, I would glance up during class to look at pictures on the overhead or what the professor might write on the whiteboard, sometimes another student would make a noise and I'd glance, or sometimes I would stare into space and think, but this time, I looked up, and I felt like I became disconnected from my body. I observed the classroom: a lecture hall class with plastic bucket seats and swing-arm desks in funky 1960s colors. I observed the cement floor covered with industrial carpeting in a neutral brown. I observed the three giant whiteboards at the front of the room, the ghosts of notes past lingering in blues and blacks. I observed the other students, not nearly as many today as would be during an exam, mostly surreptitiously on their phones and a few taking notes and a few more than that staring blindly into space. I observed the professor, looming over the podium, gripping the sides and reading from his notes. Probably the same notes he had used for decades. I observed with a detachment that let me finally see the professor as a human being, and he looked like hell. My sudden observation allowed me to dig back into my less-observant memory for images of the professor earlier in the semester, and I noted that he looked markedly worse today. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn't showered or slept in at least a few days. But his eyes--his eyes were bright sparks in the recesses of their darkened sockets. He looked alive.
At the end of class, I noted that the professor was packing up in a hurry, stuffing papers into folders and jamming it all into his bag. Rarely did anyone ever stop to speak to the professor in a lecture hall class, so I knew I'd have but a moment to stop him.
"Professor Stevens," I began, and he started as if I had caught him stealing.
What I wasn't good at was socializing (no surprise there) or noticing what was right in front of my face. I had a real hard time with change. I had gotten extremely comfortable in my uncomfortable life, and I didn't like to look ahead to the time when I would graduate, so I began actively researching graduate programs even back in my junior year. It was the first semester of my senior year, however, that I looked up. Literally. I looked up during APY 377 (the awesomely titled "Magic, Witchcraft and Sorcery"), and actually saw.
I mean, I would glance up during class to look at pictures on the overhead or what the professor might write on the whiteboard, sometimes another student would make a noise and I'd glance, or sometimes I would stare into space and think, but this time, I looked up, and I felt like I became disconnected from my body. I observed the classroom: a lecture hall class with plastic bucket seats and swing-arm desks in funky 1960s colors. I observed the cement floor covered with industrial carpeting in a neutral brown. I observed the three giant whiteboards at the front of the room, the ghosts of notes past lingering in blues and blacks. I observed the other students, not nearly as many today as would be during an exam, mostly surreptitiously on their phones and a few taking notes and a few more than that staring blindly into space. I observed the professor, looming over the podium, gripping the sides and reading from his notes. Probably the same notes he had used for decades. I observed with a detachment that let me finally see the professor as a human being, and he looked like hell. My sudden observation allowed me to dig back into my less-observant memory for images of the professor earlier in the semester, and I noted that he looked markedly worse today. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn't showered or slept in at least a few days. But his eyes--his eyes were bright sparks in the recesses of their darkened sockets. He looked alive.
At the end of class, I noted that the professor was packing up in a hurry, stuffing papers into folders and jamming it all into his bag. Rarely did anyone ever stop to speak to the professor in a lecture hall class, so I knew I'd have but a moment to stop him.
"Professor Stevens," I began, and he started as if I had caught him stealing.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Pageant Question 11: Do you believe in good luck charms, and do you have any?
The Rambler shuddered as James pushed the engine and he suppressed an urge to snap at Kyla when she whined in the passenger seat. "Come on, baby," James muttered to the six-wheeler. "You can do it." It wasn't far back to base, but on foot it would be impossible. All the passengers knew they would be dead outside the relative comfort of the old transport. The left front wheel hit another hole and dipped ominously to that side, the rabbit's foot dangling from the control panel swinging on its short, beaded chain.
"Kyla," James said through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the rutted path. "Pull yourself together, and reassure the passengers; that is your job, isn't it?"
"Kyla," James said through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the rutted path. "Pull yourself together, and reassure the passengers; that is your job, isn't it?"
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Pageant Question 10: If you could go back to a certain time in your life, what would it be and why?
When my beautiful baby boy turned three, I stopped going to play group, swim at the Y, and "Mommy-n-Me" yoga. Cutting of his grandmother was harder, but not impossible. I purged our apartment of all his toys, diapers and training toilet. If anybody who cared to knew me cared at all, they would have been seriously concerned. It was far worse than they could have imagined.
Raising Calvin alone was not easy, and I abused myself every day with thoughts of how stupid I was when I had slept with his father. I barely even remembered the man, and he was a man. He wore a suit and everything. I was old enough to know better, and this guy was so professional, so pulled-together, I thought he was okay. He wasn't. Luckily, he never tried to contact us. He had to have found out I had a baby, but not so much as a peep. I say I was lucky, though I really could have used the money. Calvin and I lived in an attic apartment in the city, and it was cramped, even though we didn't have a lot. I couldn't imagine how women and girls who weren't educated managed when I could barely make it through social services application processes. I was persistent, though, which is why Calvin was enrolled in so many great programs. Not anymore, though.
It was the morning of Calvin's third birthday, and spring finally seemed to be around for good. I was up extra early to decorate and set out his presents (a real vintage Speak & Spell I found at a thrift store and fixed up, a stuffed dog that had to have been donated new, and some clothes--sorry, kid.) In the morning, Calvin usually woke himself and called me from his bedroom, "Mommy!" he'd call in a sing-song voice. "I'm a-way-ake!" Bustling about, taping up streamers, I didn't notice he hadn't called yet, and it was after eight. I wasn't a nervous mother, but of course I worried. I pictured him, smothered in his pillow. I pictured having a doctor explaining "sudden infant death" could happen to toddlers, too. I pictured him kidnapped by his absent father, whom I might not even recognize if I saw him on the street.
Calvin, however, was awake. I found him sitting up in his bed, staring at his hands. He turned them over and looked at the backs, then again to the palms. The look on his face frightened me because it was so awestruck and intense. "Calvin?" I asked from the door. "You okay, buddy?" My voice startled him, and my toddler looked up at me, stared for what seemed like a very long time, put his hands to his mouth and burst into tears.
I ran to his bed and held his shaking body. What in the world had scared my baby so badly? "It's okay, it's okay," I crooned over and over, rocking him. Finally, Calvin was down to sniffles, and he said something he had never said before, "Mom?"
"Mom?" I repeated, sitting back to look at him. I smiled, thinking that suddenly my baby at age three now thought himself old enough to graduate from "Mommy". My smile faded when I saw his glistening blue eyes searching my face so intently. "What is it, Calvin? What's the matter, buddy?"
"Mom... I can't believe it's you. I'm really here."
Raising Calvin alone was not easy, and I abused myself every day with thoughts of how stupid I was when I had slept with his father. I barely even remembered the man, and he was a man. He wore a suit and everything. I was old enough to know better, and this guy was so professional, so pulled-together, I thought he was okay. He wasn't. Luckily, he never tried to contact us. He had to have found out I had a baby, but not so much as a peep. I say I was lucky, though I really could have used the money. Calvin and I lived in an attic apartment in the city, and it was cramped, even though we didn't have a lot. I couldn't imagine how women and girls who weren't educated managed when I could barely make it through social services application processes. I was persistent, though, which is why Calvin was enrolled in so many great programs. Not anymore, though.
It was the morning of Calvin's third birthday, and spring finally seemed to be around for good. I was up extra early to decorate and set out his presents (a real vintage Speak & Spell I found at a thrift store and fixed up, a stuffed dog that had to have been donated new, and some clothes--sorry, kid.) In the morning, Calvin usually woke himself and called me from his bedroom, "Mommy!" he'd call in a sing-song voice. "I'm a-way-ake!" Bustling about, taping up streamers, I didn't notice he hadn't called yet, and it was after eight. I wasn't a nervous mother, but of course I worried. I pictured him, smothered in his pillow. I pictured having a doctor explaining "sudden infant death" could happen to toddlers, too. I pictured him kidnapped by his absent father, whom I might not even recognize if I saw him on the street.
Calvin, however, was awake. I found him sitting up in his bed, staring at his hands. He turned them over and looked at the backs, then again to the palms. The look on his face frightened me because it was so awestruck and intense. "Calvin?" I asked from the door. "You okay, buddy?" My voice startled him, and my toddler looked up at me, stared for what seemed like a very long time, put his hands to his mouth and burst into tears.
I ran to his bed and held his shaking body. What in the world had scared my baby so badly? "It's okay, it's okay," I crooned over and over, rocking him. Finally, Calvin was down to sniffles, and he said something he had never said before, "Mom?"
"Mom?" I repeated, sitting back to look at him. I smiled, thinking that suddenly my baby at age three now thought himself old enough to graduate from "Mommy". My smile faded when I saw his glistening blue eyes searching my face so intently. "What is it, Calvin? What's the matter, buddy?"
"Mom... I can't believe it's you. I'm really here."
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Pageant Question 9: What is your biggest disappointment in life?
"What about Old Lor, there, hmm?" the man at the bar nodded sideways at the wisp of an old man dozing in one of the armed chairs nearest the fire.
"What about him, Shane?" The Traveler spared only a narrow-eyed glance at the old man. Most people didn't spare him even that as he wasn't much to see. Wild grey hair bristled out from under his crushed, felt hat and over the layers of his invariably filthy clothes. The Traveler was, in contrast, impeccable, in the newest traveling fashion. Travelers were hired to move merchandise, or even people, across the untamed lands, and they were well-paid for it. This Traveler thought highly of himself, as he had always, so far, been successful with his deliveries. Today, however, was his third day in the luckless, so-called "town" of Janesburg. If it weren't for the unprecedented pay he was receiving, the Traveler would have abandoned the commission, but he saw this job as his next step up.
Traditionally, Travelers were hired, and they sub-contracted as they saw fit. In this case, the Traveler had hired Shane on his first day to be his labor. Shane was in his late 30s, but strong, knowledgeable, and surprisingly intelligent for a labor-hire. Shane had been trying to help the Traveler fill out their company with a mage for these past three days, but no reputable magic-worker would take them up on the Traveler's increasingly generous pay. The job, they said, was too dangerous, and even impossible, which is how they came to be sitting, midday, in the local tavern, pondering their options.
"Well," said Shane, leaning in, "he's a mage." The bartender, near enough to overhear, barked a laugh. "He is, though! At least, that's what they say."
The bartender shook his head, "They say a lot, they do, but Old Lor's reputation was made by cruel children for sure."
The Traveler turned on his bar stool to better look at the old man. Old Lor was dust in a sack. A ruined mop in a coat. A pile of drunken bones. He was no mage, of that the Traveler was sure.
Shane, however, was becoming increasingly positive the rumors were true. The more he looked at Old Lor and remembered the tales, the more sure he became, especially when thinking about the pay from this single job and how it could start him on his own path as his own man. Confidence welling up, Shane stood. "I'll find out." Both the Traveler and the bartender watched in fascination.
"What about him, Shane?" The Traveler spared only a narrow-eyed glance at the old man. Most people didn't spare him even that as he wasn't much to see. Wild grey hair bristled out from under his crushed, felt hat and over the layers of his invariably filthy clothes. The Traveler was, in contrast, impeccable, in the newest traveling fashion. Travelers were hired to move merchandise, or even people, across the untamed lands, and they were well-paid for it. This Traveler thought highly of himself, as he had always, so far, been successful with his deliveries. Today, however, was his third day in the luckless, so-called "town" of Janesburg. If it weren't for the unprecedented pay he was receiving, the Traveler would have abandoned the commission, but he saw this job as his next step up.
Traditionally, Travelers were hired, and they sub-contracted as they saw fit. In this case, the Traveler had hired Shane on his first day to be his labor. Shane was in his late 30s, but strong, knowledgeable, and surprisingly intelligent for a labor-hire. Shane had been trying to help the Traveler fill out their company with a mage for these past three days, but no reputable magic-worker would take them up on the Traveler's increasingly generous pay. The job, they said, was too dangerous, and even impossible, which is how they came to be sitting, midday, in the local tavern, pondering their options.
"Well," said Shane, leaning in, "he's a mage." The bartender, near enough to overhear, barked a laugh. "He is, though! At least, that's what they say."
The bartender shook his head, "They say a lot, they do, but Old Lor's reputation was made by cruel children for sure."
The Traveler turned on his bar stool to better look at the old man. Old Lor was dust in a sack. A ruined mop in a coat. A pile of drunken bones. He was no mage, of that the Traveler was sure.
Shane, however, was becoming increasingly positive the rumors were true. The more he looked at Old Lor and remembered the tales, the more sure he became, especially when thinking about the pay from this single job and how it could start him on his own path as his own man. Confidence welling up, Shane stood. "I'll find out." Both the Traveler and the bartender watched in fascination.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Pageant Question 8: What one thing do you want people to remember about you at the end of your life?
Hadal was the eldest member of the tribal community, and he was dying. He knew he was dying; he know a lot of things, though he didn't often have the words for them. Hadal had kept his tribe safe through the years by his daily observations of the winds and sky, by his implementation of a scout system, and by his ability to find the underlying causes behind events. Most in his tribe thought Hadal was in communication with the gods, and that he was given special knowledge, but he knew that anyone could do what he did, if only they would take a moment to think.
At this moment, Hadal was sitting in one of his favorite places along an overlook on the clifftop. There was a tree and a stone and he leaned back in the angle they made and thought. Hadal thought further forward than he had ever thought before, and he imagined the generations of decedents of his people. He imagined what they would do based on what they would need when more children were born, and more elderly lived longer, as Hadal had lived longer than his parents, who had lived longer than their parents. The elder imagined a future that he could not even name, and he saw the wind blowing the dust. He saw the clifftop where he sat worn by the wind. He saw the river that gave them life eating the world. He saw the clouds gather and release, relentlessly through births and deaths. He saw the world washed and his people taken.
He let these images wash over him, like the warm wind was at that moment, and he sat until the next thought came as it always did. It was a question: what would remain?
At this moment, Hadal was sitting in one of his favorite places along an overlook on the clifftop. There was a tree and a stone and he leaned back in the angle they made and thought. Hadal thought further forward than he had ever thought before, and he imagined the generations of decedents of his people. He imagined what they would do based on what they would need when more children were born, and more elderly lived longer, as Hadal had lived longer than his parents, who had lived longer than their parents. The elder imagined a future that he could not even name, and he saw the wind blowing the dust. He saw the clifftop where he sat worn by the wind. He saw the river that gave them life eating the world. He saw the clouds gather and release, relentlessly through births and deaths. He saw the world washed and his people taken.
He let these images wash over him, like the warm wind was at that moment, and he sat until the next thought came as it always did. It was a question: what would remain?
Blog Commentary - Let's Get Back to Fiction
When I finished my 365 story starts (the original purpose of "Once Upon a Time Project"), I thought I'd go through the list of pageant questions I have for my Public Speaking students (one of my current jobs is teaching SPK 101 at a private university.) My rule to myself was: just start writing and don't go back (except for obvious spelling errors--there still may be some less obvious errors...)
But I miss my fiction! I miss starting all those different stories, even though I agonized sometimes and wondered how I'd ever get another out of me. I liked exploring where I might go, and I could get out a lot of ideas I didn't know I even had until I pushed myself. So I had an idea:
I will use the pageant questions as inspiration for a story start. Perhaps I can go back to the personal essay for some of them, but, seriously, if I'm sick of myself, why wouldn't you be sick of me, too? I will continue to post the original question, so you can see it, but my posts may go anywhere based on sparks in my brain.
If anyone has found this blog based on pageant questions and would like advice for answering them, please ask me anything! There are plenty of tips and techniques, some of which may be apparent if you read the first seven I wrote essay-style (like: have a theme! Repeat the question. Go back to the question. Preview and recap main points. Use a transition between main points. Have examples/stories/anecdotes. Use two or three main points. Try an attention-grabber and a final thought.)
Lesson over. I need to see what Question #8 is and how it will inspire the start of a story for me!
Once upon a time...
But I miss my fiction! I miss starting all those different stories, even though I agonized sometimes and wondered how I'd ever get another out of me. I liked exploring where I might go, and I could get out a lot of ideas I didn't know I even had until I pushed myself. So I had an idea:
I will use the pageant questions as inspiration for a story start. Perhaps I can go back to the personal essay for some of them, but, seriously, if I'm sick of myself, why wouldn't you be sick of me, too? I will continue to post the original question, so you can see it, but my posts may go anywhere based on sparks in my brain.
If anyone has found this blog based on pageant questions and would like advice for answering them, please ask me anything! There are plenty of tips and techniques, some of which may be apparent if you read the first seven I wrote essay-style (like: have a theme! Repeat the question. Go back to the question. Preview and recap main points. Use a transition between main points. Have examples/stories/anecdotes. Use two or three main points. Try an attention-grabber and a final thought.)
Lesson over. I need to see what Question #8 is and how it will inspire the start of a story for me!
Once upon a time...
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Pageant Question 7: What real-life job would you never want and why?
I second guess my half of conversations decades old, worrying I said the wrong thing. Potentially missing opportunities because I can't figure out what to do keeps me up at night. I worry that my actions hurt someone else. I agonize over what to have for lunch. I sometimes can't decide what to listen to on my iPod for so long, I miss the opportunity to listen at all. I am the exact opposite of what is needed in a doctor. I would never want to be a doctor because I would need to make life or death decisions. I would need to defend those decisions. I would need to live with them for the rest of my life, and I don't think I could.
Doctors need to make decisions quickly, and you'd think, as an improviser, that would be okay for me. But you'd be wrong. I can decide in an improv scene without a problem because it's made up! I've killed kittens by twisting their necks. I've eviscerated myself and jumped rope with my intestines. I can do anything in improv, and I'm not really hurting anything. Deciding a course of treatment for a real, live patient? No way. I can't figure out what to watch with dinner, much less what to do about a person's tumor. Besides the initial decision, even worse is my post-decision second guessing.
"I suggested watching Kung Fu Hustle, but maybe Battle Royale would have been better..." "I thought I wanted to listen to Rush, but I saw that I have Traffic on my playlist, too, so maybe I should stop this song and... No, wait, I was enjoying that, so I'll go back... Now I don't feel like it." "I ordered the mac and cheese, but your fish fry looks really good. I should have... Aw, drats." You don't want a doctor like that hovering over your anesthetized body with a scalpel.
If there were any job for which I am not suited, it is a doctor, primarily because of my reluctant and regretful decision-making. Not only do doctors have to spend so much time and money preparing for their profession, they need a temperament that can live with decisions that determine the course of someone else's life. Since I can't even live with my own decisions, "doctor" is not for me.
Doctors need to make decisions quickly, and you'd think, as an improviser, that would be okay for me. But you'd be wrong. I can decide in an improv scene without a problem because it's made up! I've killed kittens by twisting their necks. I've eviscerated myself and jumped rope with my intestines. I can do anything in improv, and I'm not really hurting anything. Deciding a course of treatment for a real, live patient? No way. I can't figure out what to watch with dinner, much less what to do about a person's tumor. Besides the initial decision, even worse is my post-decision second guessing.
"I suggested watching Kung Fu Hustle, but maybe Battle Royale would have been better..." "I thought I wanted to listen to Rush, but I saw that I have Traffic on my playlist, too, so maybe I should stop this song and... No, wait, I was enjoying that, so I'll go back... Now I don't feel like it." "I ordered the mac and cheese, but your fish fry looks really good. I should have... Aw, drats." You don't want a doctor like that hovering over your anesthetized body with a scalpel.
If there were any job for which I am not suited, it is a doctor, primarily because of my reluctant and regretful decision-making. Not only do doctors have to spend so much time and money preparing for their profession, they need a temperament that can live with decisions that determine the course of someone else's life. Since I can't even live with my own decisions, "doctor" is not for me.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Pageant Question 6: What is the worst habit you have?
When you think of habits, most people thing of physical habits, like biting nails, eating junk food, or picking your nose. While physical habits might be more obvious, I think people's most damaging habits are hidden inside their brains. These are the habits that are harder to break because you often don't notice that they're habits, and even if you do, they cannot be physically broken; mental habits need to be broken mentally. It's true about my own worst mental habit: I worry too much about what others are doing or thinking.
If you're a nail biter, you, and likely anyone who knows you, will notice. Even strangers will notice because you physically exhibit your habit. You have to notice because you have the physical evidence, your ragged nails, right in front of you. When your habit is internal, it's harder to see, and other people won't be able to point it out to you. I finally noticed my worst habit some years ago when I wondered for the millionth time why I wasn't getting what I wanted to do done. Eventually, I discovered the pattern. I would sit down to work, and wonder what my significant other was doing. Was he okay? Did he need me? Was he killing time until I noticed he was okay? Maybe I shouldn't even be doing my work... Maybe other people thought I was wasting my time. Maybe others thought I should be doing... what? I would find myself stopping my task because I second guessed the importance and even the validity of my choice of work. Did my significant other know my habit of worrying whether or not he needed me was making me frustrated and wishy-washy? No. Could he stop me if he didn't know? Nope. More importantly, could I stop myself now that I finally knew?
Let's go back to that nail biter. There are ways to physically stop yourself from biting your nails. Bandages, keeping your hands or mouth busy, putting bad-tasting medicine on your nails will all help you stop the habit. Mental pathways are tougher. I must recognize the moment and stop myself without physical assistance. I find myself sitting here right now, wondering if my manfriend wants me to join him in playing Kinect Sports on the XBox. Does he want me to watch? Encourage him? Is he hungry for lunch? Does he think I should be grading because he knows that's what will drive me crazy enough to complain to him later? As a matter of fact, am I a bad teacher because I can't get through all these exams right now? If I really want to make a go of our self-employment, shouldn't I be working on something for that? What did Geddy Lee do when starting Rush, and shouldn't I work just as hard? Why am I doing this?? Gaaaaaahhhhhhh!
My worst habit is hidden, and, therefore, hard to recognize and even harder to stop. Mental habits probably plague more people than physical habits, and while they might not be as overtly gross as picking your nose, they are more damaging. Because I worry too much about what others are thinking, I don't take care of myself. I need to reframe my thoughts: if I take care of myself, others will be taken care of better, too, because I won't be fretting and I will get done what I need to do, which is what I want to do. Look into your own mind. Do you have a mental habit that is holding you back? If you have a physical habit, look beyond the physical and see if there isn't a mental habit lurking behind.
If you're a nail biter, you, and likely anyone who knows you, will notice. Even strangers will notice because you physically exhibit your habit. You have to notice because you have the physical evidence, your ragged nails, right in front of you. When your habit is internal, it's harder to see, and other people won't be able to point it out to you. I finally noticed my worst habit some years ago when I wondered for the millionth time why I wasn't getting what I wanted to do done. Eventually, I discovered the pattern. I would sit down to work, and wonder what my significant other was doing. Was he okay? Did he need me? Was he killing time until I noticed he was okay? Maybe I shouldn't even be doing my work... Maybe other people thought I was wasting my time. Maybe others thought I should be doing... what? I would find myself stopping my task because I second guessed the importance and even the validity of my choice of work. Did my significant other know my habit of worrying whether or not he needed me was making me frustrated and wishy-washy? No. Could he stop me if he didn't know? Nope. More importantly, could I stop myself now that I finally knew?
Let's go back to that nail biter. There are ways to physically stop yourself from biting your nails. Bandages, keeping your hands or mouth busy, putting bad-tasting medicine on your nails will all help you stop the habit. Mental pathways are tougher. I must recognize the moment and stop myself without physical assistance. I find myself sitting here right now, wondering if my manfriend wants me to join him in playing Kinect Sports on the XBox. Does he want me to watch? Encourage him? Is he hungry for lunch? Does he think I should be grading because he knows that's what will drive me crazy enough to complain to him later? As a matter of fact, am I a bad teacher because I can't get through all these exams right now? If I really want to make a go of our self-employment, shouldn't I be working on something for that? What did Geddy Lee do when starting Rush, and shouldn't I work just as hard? Why am I doing this?? Gaaaaaahhhhhhh!
My worst habit is hidden, and, therefore, hard to recognize and even harder to stop. Mental habits probably plague more people than physical habits, and while they might not be as overtly gross as picking your nose, they are more damaging. Because I worry too much about what others are thinking, I don't take care of myself. I need to reframe my thoughts: if I take care of myself, others will be taken care of better, too, because I won't be fretting and I will get done what I need to do, which is what I want to do. Look into your own mind. Do you have a mental habit that is holding you back? If you have a physical habit, look beyond the physical and see if there isn't a mental habit lurking behind.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Pageant Question 5: What bothers you most about what is happening in this country today?
I grew up on Sesame Street, Mister Rogers, and Mister Dress-Up (we're very near the Canadian border.) In the 1970s, the wave of 60s peace and love and caring was still riding high. I remember the public service announcement with the Indian crying over the pile of garbage. I remember seeing people of all kinds holding hands and wishing to teach the world to sing. We seemed on our way to a place where the air was clean and we were always polite and friendly. What bothers me most about this country today is that money has trumped care: care of our world and care for each other.
It doesn't seem like we learned the lessons of the 1970s' energy crisis or the eating away of the ozone layer by air conditioning and Aqua Net. I was taught by my childhood TV shows to care about Mother Nature. We turned off the water when we brushed, and we picked up garbage outside. Today, it appears better with recycling bins in every home and paper products being made out of recycled materials, but it is not as good as it seems. If we truly cared, we wouldn't be tearing down forests at all. We'd use hemp. If we truly cared, we wouldn't put our water in disposable plastic bottles. We'd keep our water clean enough to use tap. Hummers and 8-cylinder trucks, the resistance to renewable energy: how did we get here? Money. Money prevents us from change; otherwise, we would live in a world cared for by us. But it's not just the environment that is missing out on care because of big money, it's each other.
Why does the United States still have people who go hungry? Why do we still have homeless? Why do we still have illiterates? Why do we not take care of them all? Money. Again, it's money. I learned empathy from my childhood TV shows, and I believe it is our duty to care for one another, so how did "being on the dole" come to be an epithet? Schools are defunded and programs for education eliminated. People with psychiatric needs are forced out onto the streets instead of being cared for. Money. Money goes to those who have money, and those who have money find ways of holding on to their money and making more money. Money, says the US Supreme Court, is speech, which to me means that we are not all equal because my voice is not as loud, and others cannot be heard at all. Love of money trumps love of humankind.
If we had chosen to stay on the path towards caring for our Earth and caring for each other rather than caring for money more, we would be living in a much better world by now. What bothers me most about what is happening in this country today is the lack of care we show. It seems the only thing we care about is ourselves, and it shows. I urge everyone to imagine the world this could have been if the ideas of peace and love were not relegated to "hippies", but embraced by humankind. Where would we be today, and where could we be tomorrow?
It doesn't seem like we learned the lessons of the 1970s' energy crisis or the eating away of the ozone layer by air conditioning and Aqua Net. I was taught by my childhood TV shows to care about Mother Nature. We turned off the water when we brushed, and we picked up garbage outside. Today, it appears better with recycling bins in every home and paper products being made out of recycled materials, but it is not as good as it seems. If we truly cared, we wouldn't be tearing down forests at all. We'd use hemp. If we truly cared, we wouldn't put our water in disposable plastic bottles. We'd keep our water clean enough to use tap. Hummers and 8-cylinder trucks, the resistance to renewable energy: how did we get here? Money. Money prevents us from change; otherwise, we would live in a world cared for by us. But it's not just the environment that is missing out on care because of big money, it's each other.
Why does the United States still have people who go hungry? Why do we still have homeless? Why do we still have illiterates? Why do we not take care of them all? Money. Again, it's money. I learned empathy from my childhood TV shows, and I believe it is our duty to care for one another, so how did "being on the dole" come to be an epithet? Schools are defunded and programs for education eliminated. People with psychiatric needs are forced out onto the streets instead of being cared for. Money. Money goes to those who have money, and those who have money find ways of holding on to their money and making more money. Money, says the US Supreme Court, is speech, which to me means that we are not all equal because my voice is not as loud, and others cannot be heard at all. Love of money trumps love of humankind.
If we had chosen to stay on the path towards caring for our Earth and caring for each other rather than caring for money more, we would be living in a much better world by now. What bothers me most about what is happening in this country today is the lack of care we show. It seems the only thing we care about is ourselves, and it shows. I urge everyone to imagine the world this could have been if the ideas of peace and love were not relegated to "hippies", but embraced by humankind. Where would we be today, and where could we be tomorrow?
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Pageant Question 4: What motivates you?
Schadenfreude is the German word for "joy from the pain of others". What motivates me is not quite schadenfreude, but it could be a cousin. I am motivated by others trying and not being very good. I am motivated by two different results from others not being very good, one: when they're horrible but they think they're awesome; and two: when they're not perfect, but their enthusiasm and love for what they do makes it work. Since I am a performer, I look to other performers for these "schaden-motivators".
You probably agree that anyone who takes an 8-week class in any subject area will not be an expert by the time the class is done. Eight classes, maybe two hours each, is not enough to train someone to be an artist, a musician, or an actor. Unfortunately, too many people who take an 8-week improvisational comedy class think they are ready for paid gigs. No. No. No. Please, no. I don't care what the skill is, 16 hours is not enough to master the subject. I can only imagine painters feel the same way about people who take a community ed. oil painting class think it's enough to open their own exhibit. With over fifteen years of improv experience, I wonder how these people have come to believe they know it all when I certainly don't! There is always more to learn, more to practice, more to experience. These are bad improvisers, and the worst part is that they don't know it. And yet... they book shows. They advertise. They get an audience. Maybe not a repeat audience, but an audience. They teach classes! How can I NOT get up off my duff and work when these people are getting it done? I use them as motivation to actually use my experience and knowledge. If they can make it work without any, I can certainly make it work. My "schaden-motivation" is not solely from under-skilled people who don't understand they're not good. I also look to those who are skilled, but who are not perfect.
"Perfect is the enemy of good," means that if I wait for perfection, I won't get anything done and I'll never even have the chance to be good. I am motivated by performers who let it all hang out, even if they are flawed. These performers don't have the most beautiful singing voices, or they'll mess up, or they will never be the most technically proficient in their field, but they throw their hearts and souls into their work, and it shows. Their love and enthusiasm make up for any lacks, and these performers can be among the most famous in the world. One of my personal favorites in music is Steve Winwood--from Traffic, Blind Faith, and Spencer Davis Group. I love Steve Winwood, and one reason I love him even more is because his voice is not the most beautiful. I'm sure he wouldn't make it through any talent reality show audition these days, but I love to listen to him in all his imperfect perfection. Steve Winwood motivates me to just go for it, even if I'm not going to be the best. If I put my heart and soul into it, I can make up for any number of flaws. If I hold back, or wait until I'm "perfect", I will get nothing.
My motivation lies in others' failure and in others' flawed success. While "schaden-motivation" requires me to have joy in imperfection, I don't mean for it to be cruel. I won't root for failure, and I won't hunt for flaws. I will, however, push myself into action so I, too, have the chance to fail, and I, too, have the chance for my flaws to be out there for the world to see. If they can do it, I can, too!
You probably agree that anyone who takes an 8-week class in any subject area will not be an expert by the time the class is done. Eight classes, maybe two hours each, is not enough to train someone to be an artist, a musician, or an actor. Unfortunately, too many people who take an 8-week improvisational comedy class think they are ready for paid gigs. No. No. No. Please, no. I don't care what the skill is, 16 hours is not enough to master the subject. I can only imagine painters feel the same way about people who take a community ed. oil painting class think it's enough to open their own exhibit. With over fifteen years of improv experience, I wonder how these people have come to believe they know it all when I certainly don't! There is always more to learn, more to practice, more to experience. These are bad improvisers, and the worst part is that they don't know it. And yet... they book shows. They advertise. They get an audience. Maybe not a repeat audience, but an audience. They teach classes! How can I NOT get up off my duff and work when these people are getting it done? I use them as motivation to actually use my experience and knowledge. If they can make it work without any, I can certainly make it work. My "schaden-motivation" is not solely from under-skilled people who don't understand they're not good. I also look to those who are skilled, but who are not perfect.
"Perfect is the enemy of good," means that if I wait for perfection, I won't get anything done and I'll never even have the chance to be good. I am motivated by performers who let it all hang out, even if they are flawed. These performers don't have the most beautiful singing voices, or they'll mess up, or they will never be the most technically proficient in their field, but they throw their hearts and souls into their work, and it shows. Their love and enthusiasm make up for any lacks, and these performers can be among the most famous in the world. One of my personal favorites in music is Steve Winwood--from Traffic, Blind Faith, and Spencer Davis Group. I love Steve Winwood, and one reason I love him even more is because his voice is not the most beautiful. I'm sure he wouldn't make it through any talent reality show audition these days, but I love to listen to him in all his imperfect perfection. Steve Winwood motivates me to just go for it, even if I'm not going to be the best. If I put my heart and soul into it, I can make up for any number of flaws. If I hold back, or wait until I'm "perfect", I will get nothing.
My motivation lies in others' failure and in others' flawed success. While "schaden-motivation" requires me to have joy in imperfection, I don't mean for it to be cruel. I won't root for failure, and I won't hunt for flaws. I will, however, push myself into action so I, too, have the chance to fail, and I, too, have the chance for my flaws to be out there for the world to see. If they can do it, I can, too!
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Pageant Question 3: Describe your room to me.
Pee-wee Herman sits on dusty, hardcover theater books. He is now sporting a grey stick-on moustache, he has a deputy badge from Fantasy Island's Wild West Show, and a talking Elmo doll perches nervously in his lap. Pee-wee on the fireplace mantel means a lot to me. It means that I am free to be myself, and that my life now with my manfriend Andy is what it should be. To describe my room is to describe the entirety of our apartment, and my life.
When I was kid, I would pick up everything. I collected paperclips, buttons, notes, pennies, cool rocks. Not only was I a magpie, I was also a pack rat. I saved everything. I kept what I was given, what I made, and what I found. I taped it to my walls or into a notebook or I put it in a box and I saved it. I like stuff, and I keep it. If you look in our basement today, you will see the storage is full of boxes waiting for the moment we move into a house and I can unpack my life before now. I know I have lost some on the way, from the years where I had to restrain myself. I restrained my urges because people (specifically ex-husbands) would think I was crazy. They didn't like my stuff, and they thought a house needed to be "decorated". I was not myself. My rooms back then did not reflect me--there were no knickknacks, no stuffed animals, no weird pictures, no drawers of magpie objects. But you can't not be yourself forever, and I shed two husbands and two houses and I am now with a fellow magpie/pack rat.
My manfriend Andy shares my quirky love of weird things. We have a jar of "found objects": items we have picked up on the street that we thought were cool. I am so proud of this jar because it is so me. Our mantel is another representation of our combined oddity of expression. Andy's knickknacks mingle with mine and they both mingle with knickknacks we have found together. I don't have to hide it all away anymore. We sometimes stand in our living room and point out all the cool objects we have to one another. There's the hand and foot my cousin gave me. There is Frankenstein in his sweater. There are our green army men waiting to invade a fairy hut. Our apartment is not "decorated", but it is filled with our creative (and maybe a little obsessive) love.
I still have much of what was in my childhood room, and once Andy and I get our house, I look forward to unpacking the rest of who I am. To describe my room is to revisit the relief I feel when I remember that I am as free as I was as a child. Free to be the magpie and the pack rat, free to use a Pee-wee Herman doll as a focal point, and free to be me with someone who understands.
When I was kid, I would pick up everything. I collected paperclips, buttons, notes, pennies, cool rocks. Not only was I a magpie, I was also a pack rat. I saved everything. I kept what I was given, what I made, and what I found. I taped it to my walls or into a notebook or I put it in a box and I saved it. I like stuff, and I keep it. If you look in our basement today, you will see the storage is full of boxes waiting for the moment we move into a house and I can unpack my life before now. I know I have lost some on the way, from the years where I had to restrain myself. I restrained my urges because people (specifically ex-husbands) would think I was crazy. They didn't like my stuff, and they thought a house needed to be "decorated". I was not myself. My rooms back then did not reflect me--there were no knickknacks, no stuffed animals, no weird pictures, no drawers of magpie objects. But you can't not be yourself forever, and I shed two husbands and two houses and I am now with a fellow magpie/pack rat.
My manfriend Andy shares my quirky love of weird things. We have a jar of "found objects": items we have picked up on the street that we thought were cool. I am so proud of this jar because it is so me. Our mantel is another representation of our combined oddity of expression. Andy's knickknacks mingle with mine and they both mingle with knickknacks we have found together. I don't have to hide it all away anymore. We sometimes stand in our living room and point out all the cool objects we have to one another. There's the hand and foot my cousin gave me. There is Frankenstein in his sweater. There are our green army men waiting to invade a fairy hut. Our apartment is not "decorated", but it is filled with our creative (and maybe a little obsessive) love.
I still have much of what was in my childhood room, and once Andy and I get our house, I look forward to unpacking the rest of who I am. To describe my room is to revisit the relief I feel when I remember that I am as free as I was as a child. Free to be the magpie and the pack rat, free to use a Pee-wee Herman doll as a focal point, and free to be me with someone who understands.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Pageant Question 2: What is the best compliment you have ever received?
Who else finds it annoying when someone fishes for compliments? You can tell when someone is putting themselves down simply to force the other person to contradict and pay him or her a compliment. Hate it. Which is why a compliment when you're not expecting it is so much better: it becomes an honest surprise. The best compliment I ever received was from a now long-ago ex I'll call Carmello. I wasn't expecting it, and the surprise has stayed with me all these years.
I was sent by my temp agency to work an "I Love Dance" competition selling bumper stickers and overpriced diamond-look pins that spelled out words like, "Dance" and "Tap" and "Dance Mom". I stood behind one of many black-draped folding tables and hawked my wares. Another temp stood at my table and she seemed about my age. She was tall, with braided hair and gold glasses that stood out against her dark skin. On our break, we walked across the street to grab snacks from the Wilson Farms then stood in the convention center hallway to look over the dancers and their families as we munched. When I got home after that long day on my feet, I told Carmello all about this girl because she was the highlight of my day.
She was quick and witty, but she delivered her wit in such an offhand, dry way that if you weren't listening carefully, you'd miss it. She could spot a person in the crowd and give a ripping commentary that made me spit out my Rold Gold pretzels. Carmelllo listened patiently for a while, and before he walked off to another room, he said, "She sounds like you."
My audience had left in the middle of my day's description, but I was too stunned to continue my story anyway. I don't even think he knew that it was such a complement to me, or how unexpected it was. I hadn't been fishing. I hadn't even realized the girl and I had anything in common. She was cool, and I didn't think I was cool at all. This possibly unintended compliment has stayed with me for all this time, even if the girl, and the ex, are long gone.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Pageant Question 1: What is the oldest article of clothing in your closet? Why is it still there?
Unlike Elsa from Disney's Frozen, I can never "Let It Go". I am a packrat, and I have saved everything I could. If it's missing, it wasn't my fault, and I will be trying to find a replacement. The oldest article of clothing in my closet is, technically, baby clothes, though I also have t-shirts from elementary school, hats I wore in middle school, totally tubular 80s clothes from high school, and jeans, sweaters, dresses, skirts, accessories through all the years until now. Why? Because I am ultra empathetic. I not only worry about how other people feel, I worry about things. Yes. Even things.
Being empathetic towards other people can be good, and it can be psychologically detrimental. On Sundays after church, we would go to Tops and my brother and I would usually join my mom in shopping while my dad would drive across to the gas station to fill up. I would often choose to stay with my dad because, and I remember saying this, "He might get lonely." Being aware how others feel is good, as long as you don't have to worry about how they feel. Compulsively. Tortuously. All night long. I have learned not to worry as much, but it can still crop up. But even the worrying about people can be understood; not so much the worrying about things.
Would my Ponytail Softball t-shirts feel bad if I donated them? Nooo........YES! Why should I hang on to that sweater from high school? Because I know what it's been through, and I couldn't leave it on its own. It's been with me for so long! And what about those baby clothes: the oldest articles of clothing in my closet. My parents received many of them before I was born. My mom and dad held onto them and trusted them to me when I was old enough. I put them on my dolls. I saved them. I have pictures of me in them. They are imbued with my baby years and all the love of my parents and grandparents, and how could I ever get rid of those little, flounced, pastel dresses that meant so much? I can't. Because I have a psychologically crippling amount of empathy.
I know that my empathy towards other people has helped me interact with and care for others. I also know that it has caused me many sleepless nights. My empathy towards inanimate objects has caused me to become a packrat, including clothes that I cannot wear, like my baby dresses. I believe the world needs more empathy. If people were as concerned about the feelings of others as I am concerned about the feelings of a snowsuit I had in 1973, the world would be a peaceful, if slightly more worried, place.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Done! Did It! Hooray for Me!
I did what I set out to do, even if I didn't do it quite as quickly as I intended. The "Once Upon A Time Project" was designed to force me to write the beginning of a story every single day for a year. I started on May 17, 2009. It's now February 12, 2015. While I didn't write on this blog every day, I did make it to 365, which I thought was pretty darn good. When I look back on my entries, I surprise myself by how much I have forgotten. According to the parameters I set, I didn't have to know where a story was going, and I usually didn't. There are some, though, that I kind of like, and I might mine my own blog for story ideas!
I would like to ask you (if there are any "you" reading this besides me) to comment on any story starters that sound intriguing--stories you would like to see continued. If there's anyone out there, please let me know.
I still firmly believe in nulla dies sine linea: never a day without a line. I do writing outside of this blog, but it's a good way to force myself to different places, so I think I will alter my purpose. To what, you ask?
Beauty pageant questions! Why not! Let's see how it goes.
While I won't hold my breath for them, I do look forward to seeing some comments!
Thank you for reading,
Karen
I would like to ask you (if there are any "you" reading this besides me) to comment on any story starters that sound intriguing--stories you would like to see continued. If there's anyone out there, please let me know.
I still firmly believe in nulla dies sine linea: never a day without a line. I do writing outside of this blog, but it's a good way to force myself to different places, so I think I will alter my purpose. To what, you ask?
Beauty pageant questions! Why not! Let's see how it goes.
While I won't hold my breath for them, I do look forward to seeing some comments!
Thank you for reading,
Karen
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
365
Tyra had left their group ages ago, so long that they had just about stopped wondering what had happened to her. The relief of her being gone had been enough for them to discuss for days, but days to weeks to however long it had been meant the stories about her had run their courses. Once in a while, Jen might snipe at Baxter, or, perhaps, Ross would put on a superior air, and the others would call a "Tyra" to diffuse the situation. Nobody wanted to be a Tyra. Though she had been tiring, annoying, and even dangerous, they still felt a sense of guilt when they found her body lodged under a cement pipe outside a crumbling, half-completed construction.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
364
The end of it all,
will there be burning
When the end finally comes,
will we still be here
At the end of me,
will you bear witness
At the end of you,
how can I ever be the same
All beginnings have an end,
or that is what we see
It's a limitation of humankind
to follow time only so far
The end of it all,
is it illusion
Or is end just the beginning
and we will meet again.
(Sorry about this being poetry, but I gotta go with the flow of whatever happens. Only one more "Once Upon a Time" left!)
will there be burning
When the end finally comes,
will we still be here
At the end of me,
will you bear witness
At the end of you,
how can I ever be the same
All beginnings have an end,
or that is what we see
It's a limitation of humankind
to follow time only so far
The end of it all,
is it illusion
Or is end just the beginning
and we will meet again.
(Sorry about this being poetry, but I gotta go with the flow of whatever happens. Only one more "Once Upon a Time" left!)
Monday, February 9, 2015
363
The government was flawed, even the most socialist of citizens would admit that, but it was all we had. It mostly worked, too, but those who only looked at the flaws, and exaggerated those flaws, and illogically extrapolated those flaws into fears that the citizens took to heart, ignored the good parts. Today, they say we have freedom. Freedom from the government, however, does not mean actual freedom. Who do you suppose survived the fall of the government best? Yeah, the rich folk. The people who had the money to still get food and water and gas and electricity and protection. Everyone else was at the mercy of fear.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
362
"Every child needs to experience the final loss, Carter. That's why you're here." Grandpa Henry's barn was dark in the corners, a single, bare bulb swinging from its cord near the door made the shadows grow and shrink. Carter shivered in the clothes he threw on over his pajamas when his grandfather woke him. There was a small noise somewhere in the dark. "Come on, boy. You've got to watch." Carter pressed backwards, against his grandfather's large hand, but there would be no resisting his strong, farmer's push.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
361
Her lungs burned with every breath, her saliva felt thick, and it was only sheer force of will that kept her feet pounding one after the other after the other. Running had never been a passion for Julia. It had never been a vague wish, like, "I wish I could be a runner." Julia disliked running and wondered why people would subject themselves to it. She could see her goal, which gave her the boost she had heard about but never experienced. She almost thought she could feel the fabled "runner's high", though that was probably just the dizzy relief of knowing she was almost done. Almost there. Almost safe.
Friday, February 6, 2015
360
Entering online sweepstakes makes me feel as if I'm working towards my future. As if I am planning for a better life, though I know in reality that the odds of winning are worse than my chances of being struck by lightning, and far less than the frighteningly high odds of being killed by a hippopotamus.
I entered the "big money" sweeps, usually ten thousand dollars and up. I spend the money in my head, being practically and reserving nearly half for taxes. One hundred thousand is my favorite fantasy. Debts paid--such a small portion of the whole, really! House purchased--once there is no more rent, I would be saving more than five thousand dollars a year; that's taking into account taxes and new insurance and upkeep! Gifts given--thoughtful, long-lasting gifts, and not frivolous trinkets, either. I would give a new, used SUV to my parents, with regular maintenance. It wouldn't be a brand new vehicle, but newer than theirs now. I would give my brother a duplex--a real fixer-upper. He could handle the repairs, and he could rent out the other half to pay for taxes. Finally: savings. No fancy cars or clothes or jewels or cable TV. I want to live free. A garden. Solar panels. Freedom.
How many people could say one hundred thousand dollars would change their lives, and those of their families, so completely? So I enter another sweepstakes, and become one of the hopeful.
I entered the "big money" sweeps, usually ten thousand dollars and up. I spend the money in my head, being practically and reserving nearly half for taxes. One hundred thousand is my favorite fantasy. Debts paid--such a small portion of the whole, really! House purchased--once there is no more rent, I would be saving more than five thousand dollars a year; that's taking into account taxes and new insurance and upkeep! Gifts given--thoughtful, long-lasting gifts, and not frivolous trinkets, either. I would give a new, used SUV to my parents, with regular maintenance. It wouldn't be a brand new vehicle, but newer than theirs now. I would give my brother a duplex--a real fixer-upper. He could handle the repairs, and he could rent out the other half to pay for taxes. Finally: savings. No fancy cars or clothes or jewels or cable TV. I want to live free. A garden. Solar panels. Freedom.
How many people could say one hundred thousand dollars would change their lives, and those of their families, so completely? So I enter another sweepstakes, and become one of the hopeful.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
359
The early morning sun warmed the cement of the back patio and was starting to dry out the nightcrawlers. Hannah wrestled the sliding glass door open enough to slip through, being careful to close the screen behind her, as her mom would require. The patio was still cool on her bare feet, but it was warm enough out that her pink pajamas were enough. Hannah began rescuing the big worms by tossing them out into the still-dewy lawn. The day smelled fresh and clean with a hint of earth, which Hannah would always think of as the smell of worms.
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
358
The worst part about it was that Jenna knew she was slow. She remembered her life before the accident, and though she couldn't understand it all, she knew she had been smart. Jenna felt that her brain had become segmented, and if she reached and stretched she could grasp what she had, but she could only brush her fingertips against it. That was when the frustration and anger became too much and Jenna would scream and try to bash her broken head against the floor.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
357
Pages upon pages of faces, mostly black, mostly teenaged. The short descriptions more often than not highlighted all the reasons why you would never want one as your child: anger issues, problems with attachment, emotional instability, aggression, inability to control outbursts, poor attention span, lack of motivation in school. Cerebral palsy, fetal alcohol syndrome, Downs syndrome, spina bifida, and the catch-all of mental retardation. Another face, another face, another face. These kids would age-out before they ever had the chance to find their "forever family". Taken away or abandoned in childhood, their problems detailed so finely that no one reading would take the next step. Foster home to foster home, or, perhaps, to a group home, but never the adoptive home. Finally, the 18th birthday. A fine, store-bought cake without a name. Then, what, a hearty handshake and out you go? How do you live in an apartment at age eighteen without a family for support? If you have physical ailments, it is, perhaps, a group home for the rest of your life. Without visitors.
Monday, February 2, 2015
356
Jesse hated living in an apartment complex, but her husband had insisted on renting a two-bedroom in Melody Gardens because it was so close to the thruway he used to get to school and work. It also, he would point out, had a pool. Laundromat across the street, another in the basement of each building, a rec room with an old ping-pong table and single racquetball court with a basketball net inside, and ample parking. The walls were thin, the closets narrow, and everything was beige.
Whenever Rick went to work or school, Jesse would finish dishes or start a load of laundry, then plot their escape from the Beige Hell. Their second bedroom was an office with a single computer, and that was where she discovered that the man she married, nearly four years ago, was not what she thought he was. Rick was cheating on her.
In her heart, it felt like Rick, her husband, had died. No--worse: he had been killed. Murdered by the stranger who had kissed her goodbye this morning and drove off to... To where? Work? School? Or Nan's house? Or to coffee with Janette? Or was it to meet Marian in a cheap motel room?
Whenever Rick went to work or school, Jesse would finish dishes or start a load of laundry, then plot their escape from the Beige Hell. Their second bedroom was an office with a single computer, and that was where she discovered that the man she married, nearly four years ago, was not what she thought he was. Rick was cheating on her.
In her heart, it felt like Rick, her husband, had died. No--worse: he had been killed. Murdered by the stranger who had kissed her goodbye this morning and drove off to... To where? Work? School? Or Nan's house? Or to coffee with Janette? Or was it to meet Marian in a cheap motel room?
Sunday, February 1, 2015
355
It was a complete accident that we were among the first to leave and, therefore, one of the elite group who managed to grab a huge chunk of prime land. We had so much that we even sold some to a carefully chosen few who we knew would help protect our new acreage. We were generous enough with them that they didn't turn inward, and they were possessive enough to arm their outward borders. I was lucky that I knew at least a little about land, and was able to claim some with source water, instead of merely downstream water. Natural springs would stay clean, but downstream could be blocked, diverted, or even poisoned.
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