I'm happy to be writing again.  Very calming.  I wrote in pen over the last week or so and am typing it up and editing as well. 

I've also been reading much more lately.  Sadly online time steals away from writing and reading, and I'm making an effort toward that too.

I can't read the genre in which I write while I'm writing, but finding a story whose words are captivating (Christopher Nolan is where I'm spending time these days), seem to get my head in the proper space to write more than drivel.  Well hopefully.  Writing is hope.  Maybe.  It's a look forward anyway.  Again proper head space. 

Back to word 3190.  Hah, I looked.

It's early

Good morning.  I woke with the best line to write.  Scary and full, and I have no idea how I'll use it.

Instead of writing here, when I have to urge to do so, I've actually been working on a few stories.  One in particular.  And I also figured out the hook on how to end that one.  I had no idea, and now I do.  Thank you Neil deGrasse Tyson.  Amazing stuff he shares.

I also got a copy of The Banyon Tree by Christopher Nolan, which I started yesterday.  How sad his word voice is gone.  Because of that, I ordered Dam Burst of Dreams which was his book of poetry published when he was 15.  I might be more curious about that than his two others.  I'll let you know. 


Have a great day.

::looks around::

From September's issue of Poetry:

Motherhood is perfect cover; you an hide away and no one would think to look for you.  You are not a free agent, hence uninteresting.  Your social self is a wraith in memory while your bodily self mucks about with a bairn in an afterlife quarantined to the physical.

This is a perfect description.  In an article entitled "As If Nature Talked Back to Me:  A Notebook" by Ange Mlinko.

I got only as far as this and then my kids needed something.  Perfect for this article, really.  I figured I'd better get this out there, because it should be, and also because we are going to be gone all day today, so I mightn't have a chance to remember.

Memory is a casualty of parenting as well.  When you most want it to be at its strongest.

I hope the article goes into how one can use this invisibility, to watch the world not watching you.  Middle age does the same thing, but with parenting, especially new parents, the watching the world does is at the baby or child.  You are watching too, so it works.  Middle age though, is when one learns to take advantage of being invisible.  The lines on ones face, and the grey sprouting is like Harry's cloak.  Draped over the face, it allows so much.  Not a bad trade off really.

Anyway, off for the day.  Hopefully I will remember to put the issue of Poetry in my purse, and will be able to read it on the drive. 

Small world this internet

Whilst googling last night on a topic, I can't even remember, I found a series of links that led me to a fellow I almost sort of dated in college.  We hung out then,  I guess you'd call it, what 27 or so years ago.   Anyway, he wrote poetry then, and I discovered last night he still does.  He's had two books of poetry published.  There was an amazon link, so in a few days, I'll be reading what he's written since.

Small world this internet.  And I have to say I'm very curious.  I remember he was a fairly strong poet, complicated images.  He lurked around the poetry people then, and was probably better than all the so called, self proclaimed poets.  But then when you are 21, you can call yourself as you wish.  You probably should.

Anyway, curious.

New in town?

Just a drive by here.  I'm back from vacation.  It was fun and mostly restful.  I got about 2000 words written one afternoon, when everyone else was out fishing.  A scene that I wasn't sure how to deal with, so I just wrote it instead of worrying about writing it.  It's the start of the climax of the story.  I'm not sure I got it right, but I did catch something.  Hey, ... I was fishing too.

Have a good one.

I didn't quite know how to phrase it...

Because I believe this is my way of looking at it also, "In memory of the tragic death of a pop legend at only 50-years-old, a man who was deeply influential during the last decades of the 20th century and whose music I still love today"

Ha, Strummer! Thank you Rob!

Capital thoughts

Off to Washington DC to visit friends. Be back in a few days.

(As in regards to my writing, the point here, I have been being drawn back in to my original Trapper story, that I have been writing, and not writing, for almost 5 years.  Somehow the characters are drawing me back in, and I have been thinking of them frequently.  I do want to find out how that story ends.  I sort of know, but as with all things there should be happy surprises.  Note my use of the adjective happy.  Don't like unhappy surprises at all.  So when I get back, I am going to try to get back in that writing mode, for that particular story.

I know, that surprises me too.)

The Maytrees

I read The Maytrees by Annie Dillard last night.  Really fast read.  It's an odd little story about a marriage, its development and its sort of breakup, and how people can find each other again, with the oddest broken boned death request I've ever read.  Which really shows courage in trusting your characters to be themselves.

The thing that struck me most wasn't about actual plot, because I'm not one for love triangles, especially when one or more of the triad doesn't see the wreckage caused.  The neat thing I noticed was the lack of dialogue.  There really isn't much at all.  The inner life of the characters move the story forward and it works.  That really surprises me because most writing advice says to use dialogue to achieve movement and momentum in the story.  And since I have such a hard time writing dialogue, this was a pleasant breath of fresh air for me.  It can be done, and done very well.  The prose is lovely, and the images and the tone are too.  It reads much more like poetry.  Dialogue just isn't needed.  It's as if Dillard so fills the story with the story and the words of the story, that talking about it (silence and talking are huge themes in this story) wouldn't do much.  Lou, the wife, is a silent women and treasures that for herself.  Her husband, Maytree known by his last name), is a poet.  Not much for the talking either and doesn't mind a bit that his wife is quiet.  The unspoken things as is said.

I have mixed feelings about the actual plot, but the execution was just marvelous.  It gives me courage for my less than dialogue filled stories. 

The God Clown is Near

I've been picking my way through Steampunk, and today read the story by Jay Lake, The God Clown Is Near. I like Jay Lake's blog, one of my favourite writing blogs, and I have picked up his Mainspring novel, several times, but always put it back down, because I'm dealing with my own angel story, and don't want to read others, although probably I should.

Anyway, the strength of this story is its world building. I can't say I've ever read another short story with such strength of world. No time recently anyway. The story is about a fellow, an inventor scientist of sorts, who is commissioned to build a "moral clown". The detail, set very succinctly into the story, invisible in its fullness, really works to build this. Like the writer concentrating on getting it correct, the protagonist does the same. Frankenstien themes in a way. Freaky scary to say the least, with enough gore to make it real, and enough humour to take just enough edge off. I appreciate that. It's like the mafia vibe is running through this world. The world is huge, and well thought out for a short story. It is fully developed, and I appreciate that too, like this tiny bit of a short story was just plucked out of that world. That is really hard to do well, and he definitely succeeded. And the end is messy, and unexpected, and even though it ends quickly, it ends just as it should.

I tend not to revel in the steampunk oeuvre, searching out for more, because I keep thinking it needs a good cleaning, or shining. Dust it, or something ;-). I need to read more if this story was any indication of what it can be. . Colour me happily surprised.

Fun, you decide

I've gotten a little bit more written on my newest short story.  I'm fairly happy with how it's progressing.  The writing part is actually fun on this one too.  Again, the amusements I find writing always surprise me.  It is a joyous thing to do.  I'd hate to ever reach the place where it isn't.  Saw a link today, that I've lost (bane of my online life I say) where the woman was award winning, but only just wanted to write.  I think that is a great place to be.  She'd give up getting and being published in a second, as she just wants to write, and finds that effort, the publishing parts, to be her bane.  (Not sure if that is the correct word usage, but I like the way it sounds.)  ::shrugs::

That is all.  Have a great day. 

I need to figure out a new tag for my new story.   Oooh, genesis.  Multiple meansing! Perfect!

I didn't think I'd get a new story idea so quickly, but was given an idea by my son. Children are a wonder, in their openness and their generosity.

I just started writing it.

My dad

I'm back.  Napowrimo didn't swallow me whole or anything. 

I was home because my father died after a long illness. 

I'm hanging in there.  Mostly much stillness now.

V

30. Definitions: Poetry

Definitions: Poetry

Like a slap or a sucker punch one doesn’t expect,

to the gut, or to the heart. Like

a baseball bat, to the back of the head

on the way up the driveway from the mailbox.

Sometimes just a petal’s touch, or a laugh,

or a shout in the street. Under cover

obscured from sight, or blazing

in the fire, hanging on the page.

Cities built on words, steel

streaming upright, the sparrow

on the wire, hiding from the

hawk, circling about the cloud.

The sloped shoulder of the man carrying

his narrative to bed. The silk pillows fluff around

the chestnut hair, curled

like a leisurely coupled rhyme.

Thank you for reading, everyone. Much appreciated!

Vicky

::puts down pen::

29. Listening

Listening

The floor boards don't even
hear you walk on them.
You tread like a shadow
across our lives.
A winged beginning
that whispered a spell
of roses twined around
a wire stem.  You vanish
and then you reemerge
as a specter, a thorn
of delight, scented with gold,
and scrubbed with the slats
of amazement.

Vicky

28. An Abundance of Risings

An Abundance of Risings

Flour settles on your apron;
your muscled hand kneads
the dough into pleasant shapes,
formed by how you were loved.
The knife cuts into the loaves,
nestled close on the wooden board.
You facilitate feeding
of the crowds, sharing slices
buttered with effort,
portioned with mute reflection.

27. Neighbour's Yards

Neighbour's Yards

The plaid gold rises
from the spring green, mowed flat.  Dry,
the drought approaches

26. Gardening

Gardening

I scratch deeply through the page,
use my pencil like a plough
marking those pages below
with my anger as my gauge.

Maybe they will offer up
something I can harvest now.
I will wander down the row,
before I have to regroup,

consider my poetry.
Pages blank for this reason?
It might not be my season,
to accomplish artistry.

I know what's missing - content-
in today's poem non-event.

Vicky, using her Poetry tag today only because she has every day so far. 
Passing the sputum tag, much more accurate

25. Close

Close

I deleted the photos
off the camera.  Saved
though they were, the erasing
still had me pause
quietly for their passing.
Since we don't flick
through photos anymore,
in shoe boxes or albums,
we click through them,
file after digital file,
the erasing seemed more
permanent, seemed absent
for not being in my hands
held close.

24. Exhibition

Exhibition

When I look at paintings, I think
the words are missing.  I want
to see the stories of the boy
in that hat, or who the duchess
was looking at, past the artist,
or if the hugging pigeons were cooked
with the onions and garlic, if the broth
was sopped with the flat loaves.
I'm left hanging over
the edge of the frame
looking in, wanting more.

23. The Sprinkle On Top Of The Poem

The Sprinkle On Top Of The Poem

The space between ashes
to ashes and the dust
to dust, are the erased bits
all over my page after
the mistake.

I sweep them away but the smear
of pencil remains, dotted
with the bits.  The sprinkle
on top of the poem.

I bite my lip looking
for, hearing for,
the right word.  Maybe
if I sweep away the ash
in my eye, and the erased
bits once more, one
will show up.

22. Unexpected

Unexpected

...Enormous bags of popcorn stacked
in a truck, the driver grimaces.

My daughter wrote a poem
about me writing a poem
about her writing a poem.  

I've bandaged my wrist
rest because it had a split under
the devotion of joint effort.

Ice cream shouldn't require
argument,
only tasting and cool smiling.

A tumble of three untied shoes
look as if they lost their friend.

Stained glass and clay fish,
both bluer and oranger, are jewels
of light below the string lamp.

Chocolate chips fly
through the air well.  Despite their density,
their dreams lift them high...

21. Chickens Scaring Doves

Chickens Scaring Doves

My pancake making husband decided
to scare a dove with our dinner chicken.
He raised the package and waved it doveward.
The dove cooed, perhaps in proper response,
perhaps in fright, appalled at such action.
We threatened to boycott the fresh pancakes.
He shrugged, placed the dinner bird in the fridge,
and went back to the stove, to make some more
for us pancake loving, dove protecting
hungry family members on a Sunday.

20. A Decade of The Lost and The Found

A Decade of The Lost and The Found

No counter to retrieve you
or call number available,
so the bouquet of my discontent
still blooms.  Each year
neat packages of time
spends itself forward,
unspools itself backward,
still linear except
for the spinning petals,
the falling days,
the vibrant stems
and lofty soil
onto which memories still
grow.

19. Lay Of The Land

Lay Of The Land

You have a stone in your name.
The weight of your words drop
and spread rules across the land
scape between us.  Barren vistas
retaliate and push back
craters.  Details remind me
of the corniced facts
carved from your stone.  Body
law dictates the polite
language of reply.

18. Stories They Will Tell

Stories They Will Tell

The pencil box sits on the dried
counter.  Each pencil faces
north like a compass point searching
for direction.
Their ambition is as flat
the horizontal line
on which they will write.
The eraser bobs to and fro in use
only when flipped down, made
relevant in error.
The sharpest ones
are dangerous, both in point
and devotion
to intent.
Like a salad, they are tossed
about on selection.  The choicest
morsel for eating the page.

17. The Funeral

The Funeral

I remember in black
and white, the dusty
curbs, the greyed sky.
Us kids stood in the car.  The open
windows swallowed the wind,
and whipped our ponytails
on our shoulders.  The car slunk
past the dairy cooling tank.  The milk
waited to be bottled.  We were thirsty.
We parked and ran under
the tanks.  We were little
under the damp steel.  We looked down
at the gravel, and up at the stratus
low clouds.  We threw stones
at each other and never
missed.  The smell of beer
and cigarettes paved
the walk to the sided house down
the dead end road.

We skipped rope on the broken
sidewalk, the pebbles
flicking our bare
legs.  We never missed
a jump.

We played until the grown ups
were done, the faces of the tall
motionless.  Then we climbed
into the car for the ghost
silent ride home.

16. In The News

In the News

Alas poor Captain Jack! We hardly knew ya.
Your long pirate days have come to an end.
The swash buckle has been tightened. Indeed,
pirate joy on the seas has ceased to be.
Fold up your trashed tricorn, still your sails
and fetch your skull and crossbones pirate flag.
Store them away in Davy Jones locker
and wait for this sorrowful fad to pass.
Your day might return when pirates resume
their lawful place in lore and blessed song.

15. Last Call

Last Call

The double yellow line steered him
like a reel.  No veering allowed
to the side of the road where the hard
curb settled low.

The street lights
flashed white
flashed white
flashed white
on the shadowed rear seats. 

The train tracks wrecked nauseous
havoc on the concentration
of the turtled driver
bouncing
bouncing
over the rise
and the fall.  The headlights
chased the yellow line, while
the diminished three in the rear seat
hid low and cringed.

14. Issue

Issue

The silent violence rises.  No,
not the bloody butcherings
which have one gestating root, the dark
gift we burgle from ourselves,
but the invisible
sort where utterances
damage, meanings shred. 

When you can kiss
the baby's cheek and swear
to protect all that she will be,
you tell a tale
to the future.  She will be
the story, the proof
of who you were.

13. Counting Dust

Counting Dust

Dismantling daily life
requires efforts redolent
of kings.  The impregnable
ring of tower defenses
assess both the significance
and the execution.  The woolen
dusters and the sponge mop heads
lead the assault.

The crumbling spires
and rotting wood, are happy
with winter's end to see
the spring drive forward.

Cabbage scented robbers
steal away the levels of dust,
the smears of grease so the dry
sun can shine in.