Distracted

Today, I had a few paragraphs already written to post, but I became depressed by the casualties list on antiwar.com and really do not feel up to writing anymore tonight. One of the soldiers killed on August 15th was 19 years old.

19. Years. Old. And, depending on his birthday, that would mean he was only 14 when the powers shifted and somehow the son of a mediocre neo-conservative fascist was elected president against the popular vote. In August of my 19th year, I was sneaking out of my parent’s house to smoke cigarettes and watch the sunset with my friends. The only people who long for war are the people who refuse to die in it.

Dime a Dozen

Here are the first two paragraphs of a story that has been sitting on the top shelf of my brain for many weeks now. In posting it for the world to see (the “world” being the three people who stumbled upon this blog last month when I actually posted entries, Quinn’s sister Emilie, Joey and maybe Sharsta), I hope to encourage myself to write more often. We’ll see if it works.

* * *

Even after his wife had left him, she was everywhere in his house. He couldn’t find a glass, a shirt, a box in the closet without her hand covering his. He knew she was alive and well, out somewhere in the world without him, alive and a love of someone new and young. He had no regrets save for the state of his home.

He kept his hair long, not because of any style, but because his hair was long before it was acceptable for men to have long hair. He was a rebel, a fighter in literary revolution. A man of intellect; seldom bothered with the nuisance of family, or bills. Even though his long hair was balding, he carefully combed the long strands to fan around his neck and shoulders every morning. Thin at the top, a pale half moon of forehead was proudly displayed as a sign of brilliance. He was obsessed with Melville and believed Moby Dick to be the greatest literary work of all time, his own writings coming in a close second.

* * *

Random Roadside Attraction

A green and yellow painted toilet sitting above the sidewalk on a small abandoned lot, the lid up and bold black letters reading, “No more stinking condos!”

At first I thought it read, “No more stinking condoms!” which I can’t agree with at all, since condoms are probably one of the better inventions of mankind, right up there with tampons and sliced bread. I had to double take to read it correctly, and since the abandoned lot is much too small for any type of building, there must be some dealing in the work that I know nothing about. But a green and yellow toilet rooted on 7th street isn’t something to miss, so it must mean something.

(Side note: Lucy Lawless, who plays the brave and beloved Xena: Warrior Princess, was once asked in an interview what modern marvel would impress Xena the most. The correct response? Tampons.)

Reading List

These blogs have been distracting me all day. I had some serious catching up to do after being away for a week.

World O'Crap

Sadly, No

Mr. TBogg

Bats Left, Throws Right

Jesus' General

Bartholomew's Notes on Religion

Democratic Underground

Although, this blurb from Democratic Underground makes me sicker than the smell of burning pork flesh, and should not be read without remembering that those in power did not get that way from being kind hearted and compassionate individuals:

* * *

"I love these (gas) prices. The higher, the better," said Frank Gafke, of Galveston, a senior service leader for Halliburton on the Texas Gulf Coast. Gafke said Halliburton's profits - and his savings account - had increased markedly since fuel prices began rising.

He predicted that prices soon will reach $3 per gallon for automobile drivers, as well as for recreational boaters.And, he said, relief at the pump probably won't come anytime soon.

"Oil just hit $66 per barrel and gas jumped up 6 cents," Gafke said.

"And if we take any action against Iran, that's only going to cause more price increases...."

* * *

Because nothing says “We love America” like having our soldiers die for this man’s yacht payments.

For your amusement

30 second movie re-makes, starring bunnies.
"Alien" with pink bunny ears is good fun.

Freak out in Moon Age Daydream, oh yeah!

(Today’s title has been provided by David Bowie.
Today's sub-title is "Post that starts out coherent but ends in a frustrating, rambling tirade.")
Enjoy.

It’s been a week, and I know no one will believe that I’ve been at a bar for that long, so it’s time to (finally) blog. I could try to lie and say, “No, but really, I was at the bar for a looong time,” but those who know me would laugh at the thought of a drunken Natalie staying in just one place for over a span of an hour or so, much less a week, without loud protests for bar hopping, dancing, or hash browns. In fact, since last Wednesday, I have spent a looong time in several bars all within walking distance of the house, but not a week’s worth of time. The rest of the time, I went to the Movies at Crown Point and saw “Batman Begins,” bought a cheap sewing machine at Value City for $40, and played nurse to a sick Joey. He’s hasn’t been sick, save for a small cold or dizzy spell, since the day I met him. But I played the part of a nurse well, and he is feeling better today.

Today there are words knocking to escape my head, poems maybe, a scream of ideas that passed between my walk from the dishwasher to living room, fading fast. Beneath the layer of daily thought, something wants to be born, I’m waiting. Let’s say the contractions have begun.

It started this morning, a slap-on-the-forehead realization that comes from doing nothing more than normal, but couldn’t be reached before.
A short story I haven’t touched since its last revision in May tugged on my unconscious sleeve, loudly proclaiming, “There should have been a monologue in the second part, before the end! That’s why it wasn’t working in third person narration!”
Of course. I changed it to first person in the last draft to help the plot move smoothly towards the end, but if I had just left it third person and added another page or so before the ending, the reader would have been left with a better impression of the character and that would have made the ending stronger. Crystal clear, 2 months later. Time is an author’s best friend and worst enemy.

Ever since that realization, other characters from completely different stories have been whispering suggestions beneath my hearing all day. I struggled to catch them all and write down notes. For example:
“The character Dorrie should have carried a walkman instead of a CD player to emphasize her separation! Duh!”
“Why did you cut the scene with the goldfish? Where did that go? That was good!”
And so on. It’s not a can of worms that’s been opened. Worms are much more silent and polite.