tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59013511373959794832023-11-15T06:10:42.084-08:00oneironauticsOneironaut: a person who explores the world of dreams
In this case, an exploration of self and style in the written and visual formEmilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-62702949270263092082009-04-28T11:42:00.001-07:002009-04-28T11:45:50.978-07:00In Memory of the Lettuce Cat<span style="font-size:130%;">The Veggie Cat</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">c. 5th grade</span><br /><br />The cat stalks his prey all through the night.<br />His dark fur cloak is pulled on tight.<br />Suddenly his victim comes in sight.<br />He pounces on it with all his might.<br /><br />But what is that thing that hangs from his teeth?<br />What is it now that dangles beneath?<br />What innocent creature was given no grief?<br />That poor, helpless lettuce leaf.<br /><br /><br /><br />I'm going to miss you, Tsar.Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-61167652991593250042009-04-27T14:03:00.000-07:002009-04-27T14:12:04.140-07:00Facebook Photos of JapanFrom that dastardly site of incalculable procrastination:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2042300&l=9fd70&id=52903123">Flying and Orientation</a><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2042352&l=32f16&id=52903123">Kyoto Tour</a><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2042608&l=27ea8&id=52903123">Homestay</a><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2042918&l=041a3&id=52903123">More Kyoto and Yawatashi</a><br />Nijo Castle <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2043680&l=adb98&id=52903123">1</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2043681&l=69399&id=52903123">2</a><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044000&l=7e961&id=52903123">Sport's Day</a><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044005&l=9a450&id=52903123">Yukata Fitting</a><br />Fushimi Inari Shrine <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044803&l=a685b&id=52903123">1</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044806&l=0fbcb&id=52903123">2</a><br /><a href="http://http//www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044807&l=5480d&id=52903123">Gaidai Festival</a><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044810&l=a94db&id=52903123">Yawatashi Cultural Festival</a><br />Nara <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044811&l=c2be7&id=52903123">1</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044812&l=253e3&id=52903123">2</a>, and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2044815&l=8e8b8&id=52903123">3</a><br />Actually Autumn <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045265&l=3c09e&id=52903123">1</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045266&l=f3982&id=52903123">2</a><br />Philosopher's Path and Ginkakuji <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045267&l=bfec8&id=52903123">1</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045268&l=03648&id=52903123">2</a><br />Tokyo <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045712&l=9b691&id=52903123">1</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045729&l=5c5aa&id=52903123">2</a>, and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045730&l=35b72&id=52903123">3</a><br />Autumn Leaves <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045731&l=3064e&id=52903123">1</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045732&l=ea7cd&id=52903123">2</a><br />Kyoto Gyoen and Kinkakuji <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045880&l=86ee3&id=52903123">1</a> and <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2045881&l=bf138&id=52903123">2</a>Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-16767636889954175052008-12-14T23:01:00.000-08:002008-12-14T23:05:31.940-08:00Well, thenthis was definitely a failed project, wasn't it? I must say I somewhat expected that from the beginning; I've never been good at keeping a journal, and although there are certainly exciting experiences to be had abroad, I didn't think a new location would automatically transfer to a new habit.<br /><br />I have been writing a bit in my paper journal, noting thoughts and taking down a few events in minimal detail. I have a fair number of pictures (thought not as many as I might like) to document my travels, and I shall link to all of those albums here. Overall, however, I suppose I shall just have to attempt to write down my experiences at a later date.<br /><br />Right now, I'm procrastinating on studying for finals and writing a few papers, so I don't have time to describe anything.<br /><br />Only a week left in Japan. I shall be taking the night bus to Hiroshima Wednesday night, and it'll probably all be downhill from there. I'm very ready to be back in the states. There are many things I haven't seen, but I'm honestly exhausted and terribly missing snow. Temperatures have been in the 50s and 60s here. It's hard to get in the Christmas spirit.Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-69845627622403836912008-10-05T17:58:00.000-07:002008-10-05T18:24:45.150-07:00The Public Bathsare not like those in ancient Rome, but that's what I kept thinking when I visited them with my host mother last night. I kept expecting there to be carved stone reliefs and tiled mosaics depicting sexual acts above the clothes <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">cubbies</span>. There were, of course, none.<br /><br />The baths weren't very crowded, likely due to the downpour of rain. Upon entering, you place your shoes in a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">cubby</span> on either the male or female side of the wall. The doors are marked with the characters for "male" and "female", so as long as you have a very basic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">kanji</span> knowledge, you're fine. =) And after you walk in the door, you hand your 1<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">oo</span> yen to the woman at the desk, and I'm sure she'd let you know if you were being an ignorant foreigner and direct you to the right side.<br /><br />The first room is a changing room with what looked like tatami flooring. I was a little surprise by this, since I'd heard you're not supposed to get tatami too wet, but I guess it's okay. There were benches and numerous <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">cubbies</span> with plastic baskets to store your clothes, purse, etc. If you wanted, you could pay to use a locked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">cubby</span>, but I didn't see anyone bothering with them. Once you're sufficiently naked, you can take your various soaps, wash cloth, and requisite plastic tub into the bath room. (Between the changing room and the bath room there is another narrow room with sinks--I'm not sure what goes on here, as we didn't use it.)<br /><br />Upon entering the bath, you sit yourself on a plastic stool facing the wall and use the various faucets to wash, lather, rinse, etc., yourself. There are three faucets--one hot water, one cold water, and one hot water shower. This is where your plastic tub becomes a necessity: although you could wash yourself entirely under the shower, the usual way to clean yourself is by filling your tub with water and dousing yourself with it. You can use the tub to wet or rinse out your wash cloth (these are much longer than American wash cloths, and are therefore much easier to use in scrubbing your back), or to splash water on your face, etc. I found the shower very useful in rinsing my hair, though--thus far I've found it rather difficult to get all the suds out with bucketfuls of water.<br /><br />Once you're sufficiently clean--no suds!--you can enter the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ofuro</span> proper. This is essentially a very large American-style hot tub, but without all that noxious chlorine. If you're used to those, the temperature is perfect--nice and steamy, just enough to make your toes tingle. You can soak there as long as you like, though we didn't stay more than five minutes.<br /><br />Following your happy soak, you shower once again in one of the stalls against the wall. I'm not entirely sure why, but it was nice and warm, so I wasn't about to complain. Then we returned to the changing room, where we dried ourselves, redressed, and packed up our things.<br /><br />All in all, a very relaxing experience, if you can get past the whole "I'm a foreigner standing naked in a room of other naked women" thing. I found that taking off my glasses made the process much easier.<br /><br /><br />Excelsior!Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-27844179460923019922008-10-05T01:09:00.000-07:002008-10-05T17:58:26.092-07:00After a long deliberation, a post!Why, you ask, do I bother keeping this blog if I insist on not posting messages to it? Funny you should ask! I haven't the slightest idea!<br /><br />Since my last post, I have spent over a month in Japan traversing the border between Osaka and Kyoto prefectures. My <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">homestay</span> family lives in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Yawatashi</span>, three-to-five stations away from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kansai</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Gaidai</span> campus (depending on how far and which way you want to walk). My commute consists of 12-20 minutes of walking to the train station, about 15-20 minutes waiting for/on the train, and another 12-20 minute walk to campus/home. Generally, I assume it's going to take an hour and plan my departure accordingly. I thought I'd hate walking so long every day, but I'm already getting used to it. We'll see how long I hold that opinion once the temperature actually drops.<br /><br />My first few weeks in Japan were definitely filled with the last dregs of summer. After the comparatively cool late-August weather in Minnesota, the hot and humid coastal climate of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kansai</span> was quite a shock, and I determined on the spot that I would <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">not</span> plan to live in Japan for any extended period of time--not in this climate, anyway. As soon as we hit the autumnal equinox two weeks ago, the temperature took a happy drop to a slightly warm, but comfortable fall temperature. The leaves have been changing colors on the sly; I've been seeing more and more fallen leaves, but barely any trees have tinges of color.<br /><br />I've visited various places and attempted various things--though I have not yet been to karaoke or drank sake--but none have been so ridiculously exciting as to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">warrant</span> a post here. Perhaps when I'm feeling more ambitious, I'll transfer more notes from my notebook to this blog. For now, let me leave you with a list of various Japan observations.<br /><br /><ul><li>Don't expect to do much baking while in Japan. Very few people have ovens, and the traditional American baking supplies are difficult to find. When you do find them, they are often sold in small packets, which makes sense if you only intend to bake one thing, but which may make avid bakers rather frustrated.</li><li>None of the Japanese people I've spoken to so far have ever heard of putting peanut butter and jam together in the same sandwich. I have seen peanut butter sandwiches and jam-and-margarine sandwiches sold in convenience stores, but apparently peanut butter AND jelly is somewhat ridiculous. You CAN find peanut butter, though, if you look. I bought a small jar of Skippy Extra Crunchy, which looks ridiculously American save for a small bit of Japanese on the side of the label. The Ingredients are also listed in English.</li><li>Japanese light switches do not switch up and down, like American switches, but side-to-side. In my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">homestay</span>, they also have little lights in them so as to aid in finding them in the dark, as well as to indicated whether or not that particular switch is turned "on" or not. Very convenient.</li><li>When there are sidewalks (I miss lots of sidewalks!) there are often raised lines and bumps to guide the blind down the sidewalk safely. Crosswalks also often make noise to indicate when it is safe to cross. They get a bit annoying if you've got your windows open at night, but it seems like a very considerate thing to do.</li><li>Bicycles are all over the place and can be almost as dangerous as cars. All the same, it seems rather dangerous to be a bicyclist due to all the pedestrian and vehicular traffic. . . . Actually, commuting in general is a little treacherous.</li><li>I am ridiculously glad I can't drive here.</li><li>It is nearly impossible to find wheat bread. White bread abounds, but as yet I have only seen one sort of wheat-like bread sold. Bread is also sliced very thickly, between two and three times as thick as the usual American slices. This makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches difficult unless one can either find the rare thin-sliced bread or is rather good at slicing large pieces in half.</li><li>I have yet to find cilantro. This makes me sad, for the tomatoes are delicious and richly deserve to become salsa.</li><li>Everyone and their dog has a cell phone. (Actually, this is not at all true, but it appears so as you glance down the seats in the train. At least a third of the passengers at any given time will have their cell phones out and their thumbs in use. All of these people will also have charms of some sort dangling off of their phones--yes, the sort of charms that people generally mock in the States--whether they are male, female, young, or old.)</li><li>Very few people have dryers to accompany their washing machines. Instead, they hang-dry their clothes--not on a clothes line, but on hangers clipped to racks.</li><li>I found a gecko in my room, and he was adorable.</li></ul><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Ja</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">matta</span>!Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-74229480261561452792008-09-01T23:02:00.000-07:002008-09-01T23:11:27.868-07:00ArrivalWe'll see how coherent this is. I don't think I'd experienced jet-lag before, but I think I get it now. It's a cloud around your mind, a faint headache and exhaustion, but more of an aura of numbness, as though your brain isn't getting enough oxygen or something. I was fine until about an hour after I woke up, and then it attacked.<br /><br />But! Some things I've noticed so far.<br /><br />The charter bus we rode from the airport had seatbelts. I'd always wondered why American buses don't ever have seat belts. I was also strangely surprised by the fact that the bus door was on the opposite side as back home. I should have expected it, since the traffic flow is backwards here, but it was immediately startling.<br /><br />The showers in the dorms make a ridiculous amount of sense. Rather than turning on a continual spray, pressing the handle produces a strong shower for about 30 seconds, then turns off, giving you time to lather or shave or whatever you need to do. It's a great way to save water--I'd at times considered doing that sort of thing at home, but there you feel awkward about turning off the shower--it's not normal for it to start and stop--but now it's expected.<br /><br />I tried out a vending machine this morning, and I was surprised to receive my grapefruit drink, via the machine's slot, in an un-topped paper cup and filled with crushed ice. Amazing! It's like a fountain drink, filled by a machine.<br /><br />It was also quite delicious.<br /><br />More to come later!Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-27516450024202353662007-01-12T12:37:00.000-08:002009-04-27T14:02:11.984-07:00Windfishers<span style="font-weight: bold;">This story was written for my fall Creative Writing class and has recently been published in the GAC Firethorne! Yay! Now I just have to get my hands on a copy of it. =)</span><br /> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Denyl's grandfather's hands enclose his, and he imagines he can feel the heavy callouses despite the leather of the gloves between them.<span style=""> </span>He wonders why Grandfather wears them at all; the callouses now protect far better than the gloves ever could.<span style=""> </span>Beyond the constricting leather, the man's skin is bronzed and sun-wrinkled and stands dark against the child-tan of Denyl's skin.<span style=""> </span>Denyl tries not to think about how trapped he feels by his grandfather's grasp.<span style=""> </span>It's been years since they stood like this, hand over hand, aiming to send a kite to the sky.<span style=""> </span>Though his hands have grown since he first learned to fly his festival kite, they still feel swallowed by the enormity of Grandfather's experienced fingers.<span style=""> </span>He wonders if this is what a dust moth feels like, still cocooned: all tiny and trapped and desperate for flight.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Today, they're fishing, grandfather and grandchild, because Denyl can use all his fingers when counting his age.<span style=""> </span>Today, he can finally use the mottled lure-kite his sister fashioned for him.<span style=""> </span>In the morning sun, the magnificence of its existence can almost outshine the uneven stitches and unstable framework, because today the kite, trailing two knotless lines, is his and his alone.<span style=""> </span>In his mind, he can hear Syra's tight-lipped amusement at his near-forgotten criticism of the kite's construction.<span style=""> </span>“Really, Denyl,” she chides, “you could have made it yourself for all the trouble you give me.”<span style=""> </span>But he never wanted to be a kite-stitcher like she did.<span style=""> </span>He is going to be a windfisher, and that means he flies.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>“And—gently . . . hup!”<span style=""> </span>Grandfather's voice rises easily over the hiss of wind, talking Denyl through the motions of pulling the lure-kite to a tail-stand in the sand and letting the wind catch it full on.<span style=""> </span>Denyl wants to tell him that he knows how to get it flying, that he's know it for years, that lift-off with two lines can't be so different from lift-off with one, but he keeps quiet.<span style=""> </span>He's ten and an adult now, or close to it, and he's too old to complain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The kite takes to the air in a quick breath, gliding over endless dunes and contrasting against the dark outcrops that mark the village.<span style=""> </span>It sags briefly as the two lend out the line, faltering in a brief lull, then leaps up again as the wind rebounds.<span style=""> </span>Soon, it wafts high above them, a bright set of patchwork wings against the pale clouds.<span style=""> </span>Its hooks flash silver in the sunlight, mimicking scales glistening beneath a fish's feathers.<span style=""> </span>Gazing up at it, Denyl squishes sand between bare toes and focuses on the coarse, familiar heat to avoid grinning like the child he is no longer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>“Isn't she a beauty?” his grandfather says, showing sand-worn teeth in a smile and making it alright to show a little pride.<span style=""> </span>Denyl's own lips tug upward, too.<span style=""> </span>From this distance, all the flaws he'd seen before seem to have blown away with the wind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Grandfather lets him hold the lines steady while he double-checks that they've tied the kite securely to the rocks behind them.<span style=""> </span>Though the kite itself is small, the wind surges in their ears, and the fish will do its best to tear the lure free before it plunges to the dunes.<span style=""> </span>Denyl slowly lets out the line.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>His grandfather relieves his hands of the controls, satisfied with the anchors and the height.<span style=""> </span>Denyl doesn't want to let him—the kite feels alive under his gloved hands, like a true fish leashed on a string—but he reluctantly hands over the lines.<span style=""> </span>For a moment, Grandfather wiggles the lines, testing the control.<span style=""> </span>“She's a little warrior, this one,” he tells him, dry lips laughing.<span style=""> </span>“Watch careful, now—let's see what she can do.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Denyl's eyes somehow manage to balance between the movements of Grandfather's gloved hands and the kite above.<span style=""> </span>Grandfather's fingers are magic, as though through the lines he has gained another body, one that flies and dances instead of creaking.<span style=""> </span>Under his guidance, the kite dips and spins, side to side and end over end without losing altitude, and Denyl is reminded of why his grandfather still leads the windfishers on hunt days.<span style=""> </span>He wonders how he could have thought the kite lived with his rough movements when he now expects it to burst into fish-song.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>It isn't long before the colorful display attracts one of the smaller fish from above the thin layer of clouds.<span style=""> </span>On a clear day, the sky seems to writhe with the faceted scales and glossy feathers of the windfish, their occasional swarms acting as intermittent sunspots above the desert expanse.<span style=""> </span>The stories say that before the sun grew hot, fish lived in valleys filled with rain and deserts with tears for sand.<span style=""> </span>When the water rose to the sky, so left the fish, fleeing after their fleeing home and adopting the feathers and wings that let them survive it.<span style=""> </span>Denyl is ten today, and doesn't believe in stories anymore, but somehow the way the fish moves reminds him of water moving from jar to jar, and suddenly he's no longer so certain of his doubt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>“Alright, Denyl,” Grandfather calls, handing off the lines once more.<span style=""> </span>“Why don't you give it a try?”<span style=""> </span>Denyl returns his gloved hands to the lines, but somehow after watching his grandfather work the kite seems riotous.<span style=""> </span>He is suddenly clumsy, and all the confidence he'd had with his one-stringed festival kite vanishes into the wind.<span style=""> </span>The chin-length child-cut of his hair foils him, distracting him as Grandfather's windfisher crop cannot when it darts over his eyes.<span style=""> </span>He tries to make the kite dance like Grandfather had, tries to keep the attention of the now indifferent fish above, but he lure moves jerkily, wildly, and finally plunges earthward to bury itself in the sand.<span style=""> </span>Startled, the fish vanishes back above the clouds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>“Whoa, there—she's a feisty one, isn't she?”<span style=""> </span>They spend precious minutes retrieving the fallen lure and untangling the lines in preparation for another attempt.<span style=""> </span>Grandfather speaks cheerfully about how he knows Denyl will get it next time, and darn those skittish little devils, hardly worth a dinner's meal, scrawny as they are, but Denyl can't bring himself to talk.<span style=""> </span>He is ten, and he going to be a windfisher, but what good is a windfisher who can't even keep his kite in the air?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Twenty tries later the sky is turning from clouded gray to deep sun-red, and Denyl has only just managed to keep the lure flying long enough to draw out another fish.<span style=""> </span>Grandfather encourages him with suggestions and smiles, but they both know there won't be time to refly the lure before dark if Denyl lets it fall again.<span style=""> </span>“We can always come back tomorrow,” Grandfather reassures, catching his grandchild's forlorn glances toward the darkening horizon.<span style=""> </span>All Denyl can consider is the thought of returning home empty-handed.<span style=""> </span>Without a fish, without a catch, everyone will see how he failed to learn the most basic windfishing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The fish, a dimwitted blue streamer with an elegant feathered tail, seems to regard the lure with a skeptical hunger.<span style=""> </span>Denyl does his best to make the lure dance enticingly, but it's almost all he can do to keep the kite steady in the uneven dusk gales.<span style=""> </span>Inevitably, the mottled kite falters and plummets, and nothing Denyl tries can rescue it from its fall.<span style=""> </span>He backpedals, dancing frantically to bring the kite back aloft, and a line snags on something, catching the kite in mid-fall.<span style=""> </span>Before Denyl can realize his fortune, the streamer decides its meal is fleeing and snatches the lure into a toothless mouth, and he's<span style=""> </span>too busy fighting the captured fish to consider the saving move.<span style=""> </span>He's suddenly grateful for the secure anchor of rock and the steadying grasp of his grandfather behind him, for he can feel his light frame almost lifted from the ground by the flailing streamer.<span style=""> </span>The taunt line almost digs through his gloves before a final snap brings the fish lifelessly to the sand.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>They race to retrieve it, the two generations, Grandfather's practiced sand-steady steps matching Denyl's young energy stride for stride.<span style=""> </span>“Look at that, Denyl,” his grandfather exclaims, hefting the dead streamer around his neck like a morbid, glistening scarf.<span style=""> </span>“And it's all yours.”<span style=""> </span>He smiles broadly, setting sun glinting in steel-blue eyes.<span style=""> </span>Denyl helps him reel up the line again, untie it from the anchor rock, pry the crushed kite from the streamer's jaws, but he can't bring himself to share in his elder's enthusiasm.<span style=""> </span>The fish isn't his.<span style=""> </span>It isn't his catch, isn't the result of his skill.<span style=""> </span>No matter how hard he might have tried, he knew only sheer luck and folly had saved him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>They return to the village just as the last light of day vanishes below the western horizon.<span style=""> </span>Denyl's grandfather lets him drape the streamer over his shoulders as they reach the top of the rock plateau, and it's all he can do to keep walking under its weight.<span style=""> </span>Neighbors call out cheers from mud-brick homes as the two pass by, and Denyl wants to tell them all to stop, that it isn't really his catch, that he hasn't really done anything, but the weight of the fish and the fear of their pity keep him silent.<span style=""> </span>He is a fraud on parade, and though the villagers smile, he can feel a jab of deserved ridicule from the unknowing well-wishers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>When they reach home, Syra steals the drapery from Denyl's neck and twirls it around the room.<span style=""> </span>“It's gorgeous, Denyl,” she cries, stroking the lush plumage of its tail.<span style=""> </span>“I'll make you a beautiful vest with it!<span style=""> </span>Some of the feathers—can I keep some of the feathers?”<span style=""> </span>She is dismayed by the state of her painstakingly-sewn lure-kite, but their mother shoos her away.<span style=""> </span>“Let him get some food into him before you go tormenting him like that!<span style=""> </span>My little man has brought home dinner—he should get some time to taste it.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>While she cooks, Father brings out the shears and trims Denyl's hair close to the scalp in an apprentice's shave.<span style=""> </span>He watches my childhood haircut fall to the floor in dark clumps and does his best not to cry.<span style=""> </span>Crying wastes water, and even if he is a fraud, he is still ten, and nearly an adult, and adults don't cry.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The evening passes in a quick series of eternities, and before he knows it, Denyl is lying in the dark of his room, expected to sleep.<span style=""> </span>The streamer meat squirms in his stomach as though to rectify the accident of its death, and his mangled lure stares down at him from a peg of honor on the clay-formed wall.<span style=""> </span>Its reproving gaze keeps him awake long after he can hear the pattered breathing of his family throughout the house.<span style=""> </span>Finally, he can stand it no longer.<span style=""> </span>Standing on his tiptoes, he takes the kite down from its peg and sneaks toward the door, intent on at least hiding his shame where it cannot watch him writhe.<span style=""> </span>On his way, he catches sight of Syra's thread and needles, forgotten, as they ofter were, near the oil-fire where she sews at night.<span style=""> </span>Seized by an idea, he snatches the tools and steals away into the cool of the night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The clouds have dispersed, revealing a dazzle of stars and a half-full moon.<span style=""> </span>The fires of the village have faded to embers in the deep of night, but the moon glows faithfully, its light refracting off the scales and feathers of the fish above.<span style=""> </span>By its light Denyl sets to work, mending the tears and retying the bracings of his once beautiful lure.<span style=""> </span>He is grimly pleased to see that his stitches are evener than his sister's, even in his haste.<span style=""> </span>Even so, it is a shoddier lure that he finally holds.<span style=""> </span>But it will fly, he knows, and this time he will manage what he'd failed so terribly that day.<span style=""> </span>Tucking the thread and needle in his pocket, he sets off for the sands.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>It is an unspoken rule that fishing is only to be done during the day, when the light spreads evenly and the fiercer fish keep to the higher altitudes, but Denyl is determined to prove his worth as a windfisher, if only to himself.<span style=""> </span>Out on the sands, he quickly ties his lines to an anchor rock and, with the only practice motion he has, sets the lure-kite into the blue-black of the sky.<span style=""> </span>He wants to hurry, to attract a fish and catch it before someone realizes he's gone, but he forces himself to carefully learn the kit's new limits.<span style=""> </span>It falls several times that night, but with repetition he finds himself slowly growing confident with its quirks.<span style=""> </span>He finally begins trying some of the elegant maneuvers his grandfather had employed so easily and is delighted to find that his awkward turns and dips have grown less awkward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>A lesser drake-fish, impressively winged, begins courting the lure.<span style=""> </span>Denyl's movements are still jerky, but he manages to put on a small show for the slow-witted fish, dancing away from it until he's sure it will lunge for the lure.<span style=""> </span>Cautiously, Denyl courts the drake:<span style=""> </span>closer, closer, dip, twirl.<span style=""> </span>Closer.<span style=""> </span>Finally, in a surge of motion, the drake-fish bites.<span style=""> </span>The action nearly vaults Denyl into the air, and he clings to the dual-lines instinctively.<span style=""> </span>A windfisher never lets go, he tells himself senselessly, suddenly only aware of the wind screaming in his ears as the ground flutters away from his feet.<span style=""> </span>It occurs to him, as he finds the ground too far away to consider a too-late release, that only his anchor rock keeps him from being carried away by the panicking creature.<span style=""> </span>As the catcher and the caught rise above the rock, Denyl sees the line slip, and is hurled into the sky.<span style=""> </span>He is ten, he realizes, and he is still a child.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Terrified, he flails his legs to entwine them in the lines dangling beneath him, already feeling his abused hands slip on their tentative hold.<span style=""> </span>Dampness slaps him in the face, windfish blood, and he tries to comfort himself with the knowledge that the drake-fish will be unable to fly for much longer.<span style=""> </span>He tries to watch the ground beneath him, but it seems unnaturally far away, and his ill-gotten meal churns more violently in his stomach.<span style=""> </span>Everything below him looks the same, so he closes his eyes and concentrates on avoiding falling from the hijacked lines.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>He loses track of time before the drake-fish finally sinks desert-ward, sending him tumbling lengthwise into the dunes.<span style=""> </span>The impact scrapes at his skin, knocking the breath from his lungs and burying him in a wave of sand.<span style=""> </span>Exhausted, he fights for the surface and gasps for air, then chokes on the dust that comes with it.<span style=""> </span>He can hear the drake's death cries a way off, strangled by sand.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Once he regains his senses, Denyl scours the horizon for some sight of the village and it's familiar plateau.<span style=""> </span>Nothing is recognizable.<span style=""> </span>Already the sky is turning pink again, heralding morning, and he desperately tries to remember how close dawn had been when the drake had made off with him.<span style=""> </span>The detail eludes him, as does any direction change he might have made in his flight.<span style=""> </span>He will not cry, he reminds himself, because crying wastes water, and he has to be an adult or else he'll never get home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>His body feels the wrong size, stretched too loose and swelled too tight as he trudges toward the fallen drake-fish, trailing his lure-kite's lines behind him.<span style=""> </span>By the time he reaches it, it lies in a lifeless lump, half-covered by blood-sticky sand.<span style=""> </span>He forces reasonable thoughts through his head.<span style=""> </span>If he flies his kite high, the village will see it.<span style=""> </span>They'll look for it.<span style=""> </span>The first thing a child learns is how to fly a rescue kite.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The fallen husk of the drake terrifies him, but he pries its jaws open and tries to retrieve the lure-kite from within.<span style=""> </span>Its state hits him with another gust of hopelessness, though he secretly expected it; the lure is mangled beyond repair.<span style=""> </span>Large gouges mar its stitched face.<span style=""> </span>The frame is fully snapped.<span style=""> </span>Were he in the village, he'd never expect it to fly again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>A few minutes pass motionless, pinned under the weight of his ten year old despair.<span style=""> </span>The new-risen sun sears at the back of his neck where his hair once covered and wakes him, and he wipes the beginning of tears from his eyes and licks them from his arm.<span style=""> </span>The drake's wing catches his eye, spread haphazardly alongside the fish and already beginning to seize up under the fresh sun.<span style=""> </span>A possibility prods itself at the back of his mind.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>He snaps one of the loose hooks free from his now useless kite and begins slashing at the flesh securing the drake's wing.<span style=""> </span>It doesn't want to come free, but adrenaline goads him on, and finally it separates from the body.<span style=""> </span>It seems impossibly light, and he finds himself grinning desperately as the wind tries to steal it away from him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The line separates easily from the remains of his lure, and he deftly secures it to the freed wing with a four-lined brindle.<span style=""> </span>The makeshift kite seems to leap in his hands, laking on some of the life its previous owner had so recently forgone.<span style=""> </span>Before he dared release it, he tied the far end of the line to the drake itself, letting the beast act as anchor stone.<span style=""> </span>Finally the kite is soaring high above him, and he stumbles his way beneath the drake's remaining wing to escape the growing sunlight.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>He awakens to a deeply parched throat and voices shouting his name.<span style=""> </span>Crawling out from under the drake's wing, he squints blearily across the desert.<span style=""> </span>The sun hangs low in the sky, brushed with clouds, and he looks up, amazed to see his wing-kite still dancing in the wind.<span style=""> </span>“Denyl!<span style=""> </span>Denyl!”<span style=""> </span>The seconds pass like mirages and he finds himself scooped into his father's arms.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>The rest of the search party sets to work on the fallen beast, unwilling to let the catch go to the sands.<span style=""> </span>Someone hands Denyl a skin of water and he swishes the first taste around in his mouth before swallowing it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>“Well, would you look at that?” Grandfather laughs, concealing his newly-relieved worry, and winks at his grandchild as though he'd expected to find the boy like this all along.<span style=""> </span>“The man wasn't satisfied with a mere streamer.<span style=""> </span>Now what will Syra choose for your vest, I wonder?”<span style=""> </span>Denyl catches his grandfather's gaze and looks at him with blank confusion, finally find the voice to rasp, “Why didn't you tell--”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Another laugh, another smile, and he takes away the water so the boy doesn't over-drink it.<span style=""> </span>“Sometimes being a windfisher is more than a little luck.<span style=""> </span>But let me tell you a secret, he adds, leaning in to whisper in Denyl's ear.<span style=""> </span>“My line snagged too, on my first catch.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style=""> </span>Denyl watches his grandfather for a while as the party begins trudging back to the village, then gives up on thinking and huddles in his father's embrace, letting himself enjoy being, for just a little while longer, ten, and still a child. </p>Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-40000301994083989952006-12-08T08:08:00.000-08:002009-04-27T14:02:11.984-07:00Prompt 7Fear:<br />Something has come unlatched inside of my chest. Something's gotten loose; it's clamouring around in my chest, banging, immitating my heart--but hearts wouldn't dare speed like this, swerve corners and smash erraticly against ribs. It's taken my hands--they belong to someone else, now, shuddering and flinching and waving like I hadn't intended them to.<br /><br />It's filling my brain with novacane; numb, numb, but I can still feel the 'oh my God what's going on ' flashes, like latex-free surgical gloves and spurts of pain when the drill gets too deep. I think I'm making noise, but who knows, 'cause my ears are filled with the cotton balls that taste oh so creepy stuffed beside your tongue.<br /><br />Deep breaths, deep breaths--deep breaths like shudders, can't keep that away!--R.E.L.A.X., relax, relax--relax and make the shivers come, can't keep it still!--calm, calm, and it'll all be over soon-----<br /><br /><br />Love:<br />Love? Hearing your friend's little sister died in a car accident, crash-boom, on her way to see her sister at college, surprise visit, took her friend with her, both gone instantly. Don't know what to say to her, how to console her, because you're sorry, damn sorry, but you're still so glad it wasn't your little brother gone. (More kids died that year, like some curse--three in one month, four more throughout the summer, all so young, all so like your little sixteen-year-old brother.)<br /><br />She makes jokes about it, says now she has twice as much space for her room, can read all her sister's books, has the whole house to herself, and you just press on a smile 'cause you know it's all crap, 'cause they never got along but she misses her more than anything. It's not like when your other friend lost her dad over Christmas break, 'cause the thought of losing a parent is like being chained to the rock and having your liver eaten daily, but you can do something, you can take charge and take care of things, you have a purpose to keep away the loss. But a sister dies, a brother dies, and all you can do is keep going to classes and hug your parents and pretend it doesn't hurt to come home and know they're not there.<br /><br />You were always the mean older sister when you were kids; you were perfect, he couldn't do anything right, and you took your anger out on him and smile for everyone else. Later, you realized he was a person, and a wonderful one, and had great talent and had never deserved to be the target of your anger. And when he avoids your hugs and you 'cause he's a high schooler and too cool for that stuff, it crumples your throat a little, because you're oh so proud of him, of everything he does. And even if he won't admit it out loud, he welds you a coatrack for Christmas, and you know he really does love you back.<br /><br /><br />Nature:<br />(This is something I was thinking of working up for my poem. I wrote it in the Arb after a particularly bad day.)<br /><br />If I come to you properly<br />in the light of day<br />through your proper gates<br />announce myself with the knock<br />of my feet on the first<br />cobblestones of your arch<br />Will you let me in?<br />Will you let me bask in<br />your sun and your shade<br />and your color and your scent?<br />Will you cover me?<br />Already the leaves are burning.<br />Already the crows are shouting<br />for my removal.<br /><br />If I come to you illegally<br />in the dark of night<br />intruding your boundaries<br />sneak myself in with the swish<br />of my feet on the first<br />wildgrasses of your border<br />Will you let me in?<br />Will you let me hide in<br />your shadow and your moon<br />and your sound and your feel?<br />already the leaves are applauding.<br />Already the paths are cooling<br />to soothe my aching feet.<br /><br />I know your rules:<br />Stay on the path<br />leave only footprints<br />Never consume what the<br />faeries offer.<br />But sometimes I need to<br />get away from the laws and<br />life and walk barefoot<br />through the gravel.<br />Will you let me in?<br />Will you cover me?Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-85660186272437135202006-11-12T22:00:00.000-08:002009-04-27T14:02:11.984-07:00Versus Asque<span style="font-weight: bold;">It's a draft! More specific detail needs to go into this, methinks . . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">----</span></span><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>It's not that I'm a mean person,</span> Shin'nen told herself as the first of the toads disappeared into Asque's desk drawer. <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm totally not. It's entirely his fault I'm having to resort to this.</span> In fact, before working with Asque she'd only been party to three practical jokes, two of which had been full-class efforts against a particularily incompetent high school choral instructor, so she considered her work quite admirable, for an amateur.<br /><br />There were six toads, and it had taken her all morning to catch them, even after she'd enlisted the help of two second graders determined to prove they weren't afraid of such things. She'd have preferred frogs--toads were far too generic--but hadn't quite felt like sloughing around in the wetter areas. Newts would have been ideal--she could give them little signs with Monty Python quotes--but that was most certainly out of the question. Now, in the heat of summer, toads were everywhere, so she was willing to make due.<br /><br />Week two of the Get Asque to React plot was progressing . . . well, rather terribly, Shin'nen had to admit. She could only chalk it up to her own inexperiences; at least, she could only let herself chalk it up to that. If the actual truth was that the plot itself was flawed, she didn't want to hear it--at least until she'd come up with a better plan.<br /><br />It wasn't as though there was that much else to do, after all. It had been another of those slow months at the office, which meant there were useful things to do about a tenth of the time and nothing to do but read romance novels and tax returns besides. (Shin'nen had immediately decided that if she ever caught Asque reading romance novels--or herself willingly reading tax returns--she'd consider herself defeated.) It had been when she'd noticed herself considering enrolling in an online university that she realized something had to be done. And since, as she was sure Asque would agree, her boredom was all her coworker's fault, it was only fair that he be the subject of her new hobby.<br /><br />So far, of course, all her pranks had fallen utterly flat. It wasn't so much that they'd all failed to work, exactly--gluing his pens to the desk during lunch hour had been a particular favorite of her--but none gained any sort of reaction beyond mild annoyance at the inconvenience. Yesterday's crickets had ended up in <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span> jacket by the time they finished for the day, which she would have considered a victory if Asque hadn't ignored their presense altogether. The man, Shin'nen was beginning to believe, was a robot--only less prone to hilarious misinterpretations and completely impossible to reprogram. If the toads didn't work, she was considering just dumping a bucket of water on his head.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Except</span>, she admitted, <span style="font-style: italic;">that wouldn't be nearly as fun.</span> The last of the frogs vanished between a two folders labeled "S-Sj" and "Sk-T", and she slid the drawer shut, scampering to her own desk just as Asque returned in all his sweater-vested glory. <span style="font-style: italic;">Show time.</span>Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-53816491918543646942006-10-30T10:33:00.000-08:002009-04-27T14:02:11.984-07:00<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As well as prompt 4, this is also a continuation of the interaction begun in prompt 1.<br /><br />---<br /><br />"You shouldn't be a stitcher," Denyl finally blurted, then dug his gaze into the ground in embarrassment at the outburst. She <i>shouldn't. </i>She wasn't good at it; her stitches were all uneven and crooked, and her seams bunched and stretched. She was so much better at the crops, knowing just when to give the plants water and when to prune them back and just the best time to pick them. If she really wanted to help the village, that's what she should be doing.<br /><br />Syra's face bunched up in a sisterly huff, hurt and trying not to let her little brother know it. "Here's your kite," she bit off, and handed him the completed motley. He tried not to snatch it it away and stroked his fingers along the joints and seams, wishing he could smooth them with a touch.<br /><br />"No," she sighed, watching him, "I shouldn't. You should, but then you're going to be a fisher, aren't you?" Denyl glanced sharply at her. "Don't give me that look. I can see you're counting every time I messed up. You've got the fingers for it--all thin and fast and all that--and the eye. But it's not what you want to do, so you wouldn't really be best at it, you know." She reached out and took his small hands in her own and felt clumsy. "And I really love this. So I'll get better, I know I will. And you'll be a good windfisher because it's what you really love. So let's just believe in each other, okay?" </p>Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-29013877208851754732006-10-17T21:11:00.000-07:002009-04-27T14:02:11.985-07:00<p class="MsoNormal">This just sort of kept getting less funny as it got longer. Bleh. I can't seem to think of any situation involving animals that would drive people apart via comedy, I guess.</p><br />And skunks are darn cute.<br /><p class="MsoNormal">---<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">"Okay, so 'Mr. Albernon was clueing Mrs. Hagerstad in on the situation.'" Gita paused in her typing. "Crap. How do you spell 'clueing'?"<br /><br />Shelly shifted her weight on the mattress, leaning to peer at the screen. "'C-l-u-i-n-g', isn't it? Hey, the spell-checker's not underlining it, anyway."<br /><br />"Yeah, but it looks wrong . . . Huh, 'c-l-u-e-i-n-g' is right, too. What the heck?"<br /><br />"The English Language is messed up, that's what." <i>Okay,</i> Shelly thought, <i>this isn't going too bad. She's not crazy, she's not obnoxious, she doesn't decorate with skulls or something . . . </i>So far, the new kid wasn't bad. Out of class randomly assigned partner project, not bad. So far.<br /><br />The house had thrown her at first--immaculately clean despite the country location, with little doilies under the flower vases and an overabundance of Precious Moments memorabilia. Yech. But Gita's room was almost normal, and that was a comfort.<br /><br /><i>Scritch</i>. Something sounded over by the window, and Shelly puzzled at it for a moment. Gita didn't seem to notice. <i>Skuhscritch-scritch. </i>"Hey, Gita . . . mind if I open your shade?"<br /><br />"Huh? Oh, you heard that? Sure--it's probably just a chicken--they keep getting stuck in my window well. I was just gonna leave it until we got done."<br /><br />Shelly couldn't help but look, even if it was just a chicken. Reaching behind the typing Gita, she lifted the ribbed edge of the curtain. "Oh m'God!" she exclaimed, dropping the shade with a clack of plastic and clapped her hand over her mouth.<br /><br />"What?" Gita demanded, shutting the laptop in a mixture of worry and curiosity. "Is it bleeding or something?"<br /><br />"Gita," Shelly hissed, setting a finger to her lips, "there's a <i>skunk</i> in your window well!"<br /><br />"What? Oh, wow!"<br /><br />Shelly didn't understand why Gita was so casual about this. A skunk! A freaking skunk! As Gita began to raise the window shade, Shelly batted her hand away. "Don't do that! What if it, I dunno, gets <i>mad</i> or something!"<br /><br />Gita snorted and tugged the curtain up with a smooth movement. "It's just a skunk, Shell. It's not gonna hurt you." She pressed her nose to the glass, peering at the cornered animal with a soft sort of smile. "Look, it's just a baby. It's cute."<br /><br />"It is not cute. It's vicious. It'll give us rabies, and spray us, and we'll smell for weeks." Okay, Shelly admitted, it was sorta cute. Kinda. Maybe. Like a little striped kitten. But a <i>skunk</i>!<br /><br />"It will not." Gita pursed her lips, then sighed. "I'll take care of it later. Look, let's just get this thing finished already."<br /><br />"In <i>here</i>? With it right outside?"<br /><br />"It's not like it was freaked out by us when we were working before." Mildly exasperated, Gita tugged the shade closed again. "It won't even see us, right? Maybe it'll get out by itself."<br /><br />Shelly wasn't listening. She gnawed on the edge of her lip. "We gotta get rid of it. Shouldn't we, like, call Animal Control or something? Or the police? Or the fire department? Or your dad? Your dad could take care of it, right? He's home, right?"<br /><br />"Shelly, it's just a baby! Let it alone, okay?"<br /><br />"Gita, please can we get rid of it? It's a <i>skunk</i>."<br /><br />Lifting the edge of her window shade, Gita watched the puff of black and white scrabble at the smooth wood planks of her window well. It was so helpless, so fragile. Just trying to survive and all that. She let the shade drop. "Alright, fine. I'll get my dad. But you gotta help me bury it." She slid off the bed and toward the hallway.<br /><br />"Wait, what?"<br /><br />Gita rubbed the tip of her nose. "Well, you're right. I mean, we can't really move it without it spraying, so . . . he'll probably shoot it to take it out. So . . ."<br /><br />"Oh." Shelly peeked behind the shade for herself. It <i>was </i>so very small. And kinda cute.<br /><br />"I was gonna see if I could get a plank or something it could climb later, or see if it could get out by itself, since it's got pretty good paws and all, and . . ."<br /><br />"I guess . . . that's okay. It's . . . not so bad, I guess." She lifted the laptop and opened it on her own lap. "So, clueing, right?"<br /><br />Gita smiled and climbed back onto the bed. "Sure, cluing."</p></span>Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-20121348978138537872006-09-29T08:04:00.000-07:002009-04-27T14:02:11.985-07:00I'm one of those pathetic sort of people who doesn't watch tv or read much news, so I feel sort of invasive pretending I can write the experiences of a person who's name I barely know. From the first time I saw the prompt for this, I was pretty certain of what I would write about . . . but I still have no idea WHO to write about.<br /><br />So, although the point of the assignment was probably to write with a certain person in mind and flesh out someone we don't really know . . .<br /><br /><br />She sprawled on the bed in her day clothes, shifting painfully to find the most comfortable position. The trainer was right: she was discovering muscles she didn't know she had, but only because she was now sore in ways she hadn't know existed. Here, in her own room, with the shades drawn, she could finally squish her face into the unbecoming mush it had been wanting to fall into all evening. "This is how normal people are supposed to feel," she muttered to herself, and she wasn't sure whether her words were bitter or wistful.<br /><br />She could always, she offered herself, go injured diva on the world, whine and complain about her situation, fire her trainer in a spoiled fury. But it wasn't as if a different trainer would get her ready for the actions sequences in November with any less pain, and although it would be wonderful to let loose like that . . . what came after would only be more frustrating.<br /><br />Sighing, she raked her fingers through her hair. It had been cut short for the last production, but the directors wanted it longer for the next filming. From the wigs she'd be wearing until her hair caught up, it looked like a dye job was in order, too. Oh, how nice it would be to have a hairstyle and <span style="font-style: italic;">keep</span> it for a year or so . . .<br /><br />Sometimes she wondered why she was still doing this, why she didn't retire, give up acting and publicity and media frenzies. She could sell books in some out-of-the-way oceanside town, catering to tourists in the warm months and lounging in the winter, enjoying a nice fireplace and the silky scent of campfire wood. "Or draw caricatures," she snorted aloud. "I've always been good at drawing caricatures."<br /><br />A voice wound up the stairs and through the locked door. "Honey, don't you have that thing at the rink in half an hour? Shouldn't you be getting going?"<br /><br />"Yeah, I'll be down in a minute!" Somehow, she knew, she wouldn't be complete without this life. The intregues, the drama, the fame made her feel like a member of the court, balancing friends and enemies to get ever closer to the power of the queen. And if she didn't have her acting, where would all those other people she'd been go?<br /><br />As she stood, stretching painfully, she wondered how long Danny would stay with her, and whether the girlscouts still liked pink or if girls were choosing another favorite color. She made a few faces in the mirror by the bed, imagining each of them on the cover of tabloids with a grimace and a laugh. Moving to the door, she returned a congenial smile to her face, opened the door, and--<span style="font-style: italic;">Lights! Camera! Action!</span>--stepped out into the hallway beyond.Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-86194125567645521902006-09-21T21:05:00.000-07:002009-04-27T14:02:11.985-07:00<span style="font-weight: bold;">I just realized I still had this sitting as a draft. Bother.</span><br /><br />Chores finished, he sat in the edges of the shade and watched his sister work. She dipped her curved needle in and out like a streamer-fish weaving in and out of the clouds, and he wondered if that elegant creature was the first inspiration for sewing. Beneath her fingers, a kite was slowly taking shape, patched in the motley of the scraps she'd saved that year.<br /><br />It took most of his concentration to avoid squirming and distracting his sister. Each stitch was critical, he knew, a difference between catching the air firmly or tearing in the wind. He scowled in what he thought must be a very manly way as he fought with his infuriatingly child-like body. It still thought he should be running about, chasing his friends, but he knew better. He was nearly ten, and too old for kid games.<br /><br />What attention remained was dedicated wholly to the kite. It was his, he knew, his very own, his first lure. He was determined to know every stitch. It was a basic beginner's lure, brightly colored to entice the smaller fish, but too unformed to attract too large a flier. Tomorrow Grandfather would teach him the double-string controls and Mother would cut his hair and he would earn the clothing of an apprentice windfisher.<br /><br />His eyes followed her fingers as each tiny stitch appeared, critically observing their shape and placement. That one was a little too big, he thought. That one too small. It'll give too much, it'll tear too easily. The spine made it inflexible, easy to break in the grasp of a fish. The brindle was too high; it'd dive in a hard wind. It wasn't perfect. But winds, it was his!<br /><br />His sister glanced up, noting his scrutiny with a skewed smile. "It's almost done," she said. "Do you want to do the last few stitches?"<br /><br />He shifted his weight from side to side and sat on his hands. "No," he said. She shrugged with her eyebrows, and he watched all the more intently as her needle dipped for the final times.Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5901351137395979483.post-90405700821004288742006-09-11T19:50:00.000-07:002009-04-27T14:02:11.985-07:00I recently purchased a new operating system to adhire to Gustavus' new no Win98 policy, a process that required much searching and gnashing of teeth. Ultimately I discovered a company offering academic discounts from which to order the software. The product arrived this morning accompanied by a catalogue wherein I found the following product:<br /><br /><blockquote>Dramatica Pro 4.1: The Ultimate Creative Writing Partner<br /></blockquote><br />Immediately the title was disconcerting. The blurb that followed, however, was far more frightening.<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">"</span></span>Dramatica presents a fresh approach to writing your story, one that stimulates you to create a solid structure, deeply dimensional characters, meaningful universal themes, and clearly defined dramatic conflict. And it does something no other writing software can do - it predicts the rest of your story, based on the decisions you've made! Dramatica pro 4.1 writing system is easier to use than ever. "Term Swap" replaces specialized Dramatica terms with plain English. Shorter & simpler paths in the StoryGuide help you quickly turn your idea into a story and begin writing.<span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">"</span></span></blockquote>More worrying details can be found in this product synopsis: <a href="http://www.filmwareproducts.com/WriteBrothers/wb904045.html">http://www.filmwareproducts.com/WriteBrothers/wb904045.html</a><br /><br />I'm not quite sure whether to be disgusted, terrified, or largely bemused. Perhaps all three. This is most certainly one of the more depressing programs I've discovered in my lifetime. Maybe I'm reading this wrong, but this seems to be largely an antithesis of creative writing. If this really has been"<span style=";font-family:Verdana;font-size:85%;" >embraced by writers, reviewers, and over 700 colleges and universities"</span>, I'm seriously worried about the future of the creative writing craft.Emilihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03135815195452923416noreply@blogger.com0