Here's my entry for this week's Prompt Tuesday:
A black-habited Catholic sister
met a strapping young Father who kissed her
He said "do not mourn He,
cause you've never had me!"
So she said "Then de-veil me, Mister!"
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Prompt Tuesday -- October 14, 2008
I have a strangely haunting fear of not finishing a book. It is a sort of guilt and fear mixed together that causes me to keep the book and organize it on a shelf with other books I haven’t yet finished. As they pile up (sideways, that is), I have this fear that I will someday die without having finished them all. Weird, I know.
So, after having read and enjoyed many Jack Kerouac books, for example, I came across, yet again, that unfinished copy of Big Sur recently and I threw it away. I didn’t donate it to the Salvation Army. I didn’t put it up there on my “unfinished reading shelf.” I had the balls to just say: “You know what? This book sucks! I will NEVER have time set aside to waste on this particular book!” And I tossed it. And by ridding myself of it, I gained permission to actualize that I don’t have obsess my way to the end of something to know it’s not for me.
Now if I can just start learning how to walk out of movies, things will be even better! :)
Monday, August 18, 2008
Prompt Tuesday -- August 18, 2008
This is just to say . . .
I have filled the freezer
with your splendid body parts
that I took from your charming yet lifeless body.
Forgive me -- but your hands were so lovely
and they had been upon me so passionately the night before.
I could not bear to part with them.
And your cute, natty dreads -- and soft lips.
Your head with the still surprised look on its brow.
I'll preserve my memories of our short time together.
You were so sweet -- and are now so cold.
-- Jeffrey Dahlmer Carlos Williams
I have filled the freezer
with your splendid body parts
that I took from your charming yet lifeless body.
Forgive me -- but your hands were so lovely
and they had been upon me so passionately the night before.
I could not bear to part with them.
And your cute, natty dreads -- and soft lips.
Your head with the still surprised look on its brow.
I'll preserve my memories of our short time together.
You were so sweet -- and are now so cold.
-- Jeffrey Dahlmer Carlos Williams
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Prompt Tuesdays -- Create an Aesop's Fable
The Turtle and His Sculpture
One particularly hot and humid day, a turtle was feeling bored and listless. So, at the edge of his pond, he stacked some polished, round pond rocks upon the mushy sand — first a large rock, then a small rock, and then a medium rock on the very top.
A fox came walking by, and seeing the rocks exclaimed. “My friend! I see what you are after! The medium rock on top of the others symbolizes the plight of man to reach the pinnacle of his success!”
The fox ran into the forest and returned with a bear. The bear, upon hearing the fox's translation, exclaimed. “Yes, I agree, Brother Fox, but you see the large stone on the very bottom symbolizes the plight of the supporters, helping others smaller and weaker than them.”
The fox and the bear ran back into the forest and returned with the badger, who, upon hearing the fox’s and bear’s interpretation of the turtle’s sculpture, exclaimed “Absoutely, my friends – but do you not see the middle rock symbolizes the plight of the hunted, pulling the universe together in pure harmony?”
Finally, unable to contain himself, the turtle exclaimed. “But you are all wrong! The rocks are just supposed to look like a tree stump!” Upon which, all three of the other animals shrugged and walked back into the forest unimpressed.
Moral: Artists, keep your mouths shut! The interpretation of your sheer genius is often from the unintentional!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Prompt Tuesdays --> Infomercial
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Simply cinch the LEGION-EASE unit to the troop’s pack-frame in front of you – and push the button, and hold-on! LEGION-EASE’s advanced H2-NOW technology generates a spray of fresh mirage-spring water using the free-radical sweat particles suspended in the air surrounding your trampling line of legionnaires.
Remember: LEGION-EASE For those Long Desert Crossings! You’ll never traipse the same again!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Prompt Tuesdays: Wallace Stevens Poem . . .
Suddenly, he noticed something gleaming down in the bottom of the sink . . . down inside the disposal, actually, under that rubber, flappy thing. A glow, of sorts, lay beyond. He rested the scrubber against the side of the sink, dropping the glass with its clinging, concupiscent curds, and leaned forward.
It was a spyrograph. And colored pens. And his old rollerskates. Sitting there, untouched, as he remembered them.
Someone was yammering behind him. A voice he heard most nights. Something about spreadsheets and fuel injection and knee braces and insecticide. Something about the second half of that Kerouac book he never finished that sat on the living room shelf, dust blanketing the top edge of the pages. Or was it boxed up in the attic? Or had it been sold for pennies at some yard sale to make room for the annually-grouped Sunset magazine folios. Why hadn’t he finished it? Something about SAT tests, he seemed to remember. And car insurance. And wisdom teeth.
Was he really here now? Had he really wanted this? Had he already called the roller of big cigars? Was he that roller?
He reached deep into the drain, . . . grabbed it by the innards and pulled it inside out, the plumbing slopping out onto the linoleum in globbed intestinal piles . . . the small gear ringlets and pens from the spyograph clattering cleanly to the floor along with the skates, a tablet of Mad Libs, his first velcro wallet. Inside, an ASB card -- the laminated photo showing his hair parted in the middle, . . . his freckles darker, . . . more defined. And there was something in those eyes. Something forward looking. Something he had not seen in the mirror in a long, long time.
He strapped on his roller skates – a tad tight perhaps– stood, and rolled through the dining room, past the open front door, and onto the porch. The queen palms stood silhouetted against the phone lines in the twilight sky, a slightly humid and salty taste to the air.
There was an unread second half of a Kerouac book to find out there somewhere.
It was a spyrograph. And colored pens. And his old rollerskates. Sitting there, untouched, as he remembered them.
Someone was yammering behind him. A voice he heard most nights. Something about spreadsheets and fuel injection and knee braces and insecticide. Something about the second half of that Kerouac book he never finished that sat on the living room shelf, dust blanketing the top edge of the pages. Or was it boxed up in the attic? Or had it been sold for pennies at some yard sale to make room for the annually-grouped Sunset magazine folios. Why hadn’t he finished it? Something about SAT tests, he seemed to remember. And car insurance. And wisdom teeth.
Was he really here now? Had he really wanted this? Had he already called the roller of big cigars? Was he that roller?
He reached deep into the drain, . . . grabbed it by the innards and pulled it inside out, the plumbing slopping out onto the linoleum in globbed intestinal piles . . . the small gear ringlets and pens from the spyograph clattering cleanly to the floor along with the skates, a tablet of Mad Libs, his first velcro wallet. Inside, an ASB card -- the laminated photo showing his hair parted in the middle, . . . his freckles darker, . . . more defined. And there was something in those eyes. Something forward looking. Something he had not seen in the mirror in a long, long time.
He strapped on his roller skates – a tad tight perhaps– stood, and rolled through the dining room, past the open front door, and onto the porch. The queen palms stood silhouetted against the phone lines in the twilight sky, a slightly humid and salty taste to the air.
There was an unread second half of a Kerouac book to find out there somewhere.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Tuesday Writing Prompt: Using Photo
Yet another Tuesday writing prompt from Deb Anderson's Blog. The words I derived from the picture were: Misty, Boat, cold.Here goes nothing . . . A soft-of How-To Memoir, based on real experience! LOL! :)
--------------------------------
Sleeping in a Hammock
with a Sleeping Bag in the Sierra.
It's not easy, somehow crawing into a sleeping bag in a backpacking hammock, but I've done it many times. It takes dexterity, but is well worth the effort. Sleeping in a hammock is one of life's wonderous experiences, but it can get cold at night in the Sierra Nevada, and so a sleeping bag is mandatory to keep the slumberer warm in those cold, and sometimes misty, evenings.
After first checking my hammock for snags, tears, or rips -- and ensuring the ropes tight and secure -- I tuck the sleeping bag into the hammock end to end, and then gingerly sit in the middle. Next, leaning back, I slowly release pressure on my feet until I am laying sideways in the hammock on top of the sleeping bag. The sleeping bag may slip toward the center, but it is okay to ignore that for now. The important thing is, your ass is holding the sleeping bag in place within the hammock.
I then roll sideways slowly, letting my legs slip up over the edge of the hammock, and pulling the netting back behind my head. The ropes may squeek between the trees at this point, but you can ignore that as, in the first sentence, you've already checked the ropes and are certain that they are tied securely, correct? Pull your shoulder toward the open end of the sleeping bag, and then rock back and forth, like you are in a little boat, until you are laying on your back on extended sleeping bag.
Shit. I forgot. I was supposed to unzip it the sleeping bag first. Well, I can . . . uh . . . reach down here and . . . yes. Now I begin to tuck my feet into the sleeping bag without upsetting the hammock. (If I forgot to untie my shoelaces, I'll need to start the entire process over again.) Now I kick off my shoes, tuck my feet inside, pull the netting of the hammock around my sides, and shift up and down until I'm safe inside. Now, reaching down slowly, without turning too far over (to avoid a spill), grab the zipper handle and pull upward.
Boys, when you have to go to the bathroom at night, simply extend your manhood out of the zippered sleeping bag, stick yourself through the nylon hammock mesh, and squirt the nearest bush. This also comes in handy for marking your territory against racoons and bears. Bears get hungry in the Sierra Nevada, especially with large Sausage-looking human-beings in hammocks dangling between two trees.
Girls, I'm sorry. I guess I forgot to mention, you shouldn't have drank those last two cups of campfire-warmed cocoa! Without the proper "gear" you are shit-outta-luck!
Next Week: The sound of the wind hissing in the pine needles and the gentle glow of the campfire. What could be better?
Friday, June 6, 2008
Tuesday Writing Prompt: "Dear Diary"
“Dear Diary?” he asked. “What? As a title?”
She fumbled with the chromed ashtray lid on her armrest. The Packard was older but well kept – the ashtray lid evidently an exception.
“Chester, I asked you to loosen this lid. Use oil or something on the hinge of it. Today.”
Chester raised a finger to his hat – and nodded slightly.
Unable to budge it, she rolled down the window to the sound of engines humming at the intersection of 49th and 5th outside Rockefeller Center. The rain shot down onto the windows in firm, window-rattling missiles. Her long, ruby fingernails tapped the cigarette holder into the dreary twilight.
“Yes. Dear Diary. I’ve quite made up my mind.”
“But, Darling, last week . . . surely you . . .”
“I won’t have it any other way,” she said, looking down at her skirt for ash and smoothing the green silk. “Chester, cut over on 44th, please. Lunch at the Algonquin today. I wish to sit by the hearth with the firelight behind me. I feel like a wretched, wrinkled, rumpled, dampened mess.”
Chester lifted his right forefinger off the wheel in deferent recognition.
She turned to Robert and lifted her eyebrows. “Need I remind you, dear husband, that you are addressing a Pulitzer Prize–winning, Tony Award–winning author of 17 plays, 8 of which have gone to broadway, 3 of which have become hits, and one of which has been made into a movie for which I also received an Oscar. A shared Oscar, albeit, but I hardly think that . . .”
“Dear Diary it is, then.” He said, slumping down into the seat and watching the rain run down his window in small diverting creeks, the tightness growing in his stomach. Her original title, My Dearest Love Robert, had touched him in a way he hadn’t felt for years – since before the awards and glamour. Since before the limousines and the park-side move.
Somehow he knew it wouldn’t last.
She fumbled with the chromed ashtray lid on her armrest. The Packard was older but well kept – the ashtray lid evidently an exception.
“Chester, I asked you to loosen this lid. Use oil or something on the hinge of it. Today.”
Chester raised a finger to his hat – and nodded slightly.
Unable to budge it, she rolled down the window to the sound of engines humming at the intersection of 49th and 5th outside Rockefeller Center. The rain shot down onto the windows in firm, window-rattling missiles. Her long, ruby fingernails tapped the cigarette holder into the dreary twilight.
“Yes. Dear Diary. I’ve quite made up my mind.”
“But, Darling, last week . . . surely you . . .”
“I won’t have it any other way,” she said, looking down at her skirt for ash and smoothing the green silk. “Chester, cut over on 44th, please. Lunch at the Algonquin today. I wish to sit by the hearth with the firelight behind me. I feel like a wretched, wrinkled, rumpled, dampened mess.”
Chester lifted his right forefinger off the wheel in deferent recognition.
She turned to Robert and lifted her eyebrows. “Need I remind you, dear husband, that you are addressing a Pulitzer Prize–winning, Tony Award–winning author of 17 plays, 8 of which have gone to broadway, 3 of which have become hits, and one of which has been made into a movie for which I also received an Oscar. A shared Oscar, albeit, but I hardly think that . . .”
“Dear Diary it is, then.” He said, slumping down into the seat and watching the rain run down his window in small diverting creeks, the tightness growing in his stomach. Her original title, My Dearest Love Robert, had touched him in a way he hadn’t felt for years – since before the awards and glamour. Since before the limousines and the park-side move.
Somehow he knew it wouldn’t last.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Tuesday Writing Prompt: An Elder's Voice
Do not judge lest ye be judged, gentile. We provide the young with shelter, sustenance, a loving home, and a loving family. We watch them crawl, then toddle, then run. We nurture them, teach them, and provide them with a job, a sense of purpose. And we also warn them of your gentile ways -- of the dark, hateful, unrighteous ways of the Lucifer outside the boundaries of the Lord Thy God's circle of protection.
We lead our boys, our young men, to become leaders -- not only in the ways of self-sacrifice, strength, and breadwinning, but also of the faith, the pursuit of righteousness, and acceptance of the Elder's guidance. And, for our females, we educate in not only the craftsmanship of a holy household, but the pursuit of a blessed and fruitful womb. Ah, the blessed joys of dedication, holy union, and motherhood. For they shall balance the duties of not only fulfilling the Elder's carnal requirements, but for fulfilling our Lord's dictates for an honorable and pleasing wife. And, as celebrated by King David in Song of Solomon, to suckle our blessed projeny on breasts that have just budded forth not one year's hence.
Blessed be Moroni. Blessed be Jesus Christ, the Eternal God, who manifests himself and our truth to all people and nations.
Blessed be thy name.
We lead our boys, our young men, to become leaders -- not only in the ways of self-sacrifice, strength, and breadwinning, but also of the faith, the pursuit of righteousness, and acceptance of the Elder's guidance. And, for our females, we educate in not only the craftsmanship of a holy household, but the pursuit of a blessed and fruitful womb. Ah, the blessed joys of dedication, holy union, and motherhood. For they shall balance the duties of not only fulfilling the Elder's carnal requirements, but for fulfilling our Lord's dictates for an honorable and pleasing wife. And, as celebrated by King David in Song of Solomon, to suckle our blessed projeny on breasts that have just budded forth not one year's hence.
Blessed be Moroni. Blessed be Jesus Christ, the Eternal God, who manifests himself and our truth to all people and nations.
Blessed be thy name.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Tuesday Writing Prompt (May 20, 2008)
The Angel
It is a very strange feeling, one that I haven't experienced before. That is clearly my jacket. I put it on this morning, long sleeved and black leather, with our club's angel insignia. And my watch, the Corum Bubble with the roulette-wheel face. And my hand, laying upwardly open, fingers moving slightly, my wedding ring sparkling from the early evening sunlight.
I didn't see the tree across the road until after the turn. Pine trees everywhere, actually, but I can't smell their fragrance. I can't breathe in, in fact. I try, but it is like I have no breath. I can move my lips, but I can emit no sound. I can look about -- but I cannot turn my head. Why am I laying over there, but looking at myself from over here? How can I be looking across the road at myself laying down . . . and at my Harley, laying sideways. At the bottom of my boots, with their nearly new, barely scuffed soles.
My body feels light and tingly, but my vision is clear. My body is there, but my ponytail is here, laying long and braided on the road before my eyes, under my chin, pointing toward my feet on the other side of the road. I . . . I don't understand. How can this be? Am I an angel?
It is a very strange feeling, one that I haven't experienced before. That is clearly my jacket. I put it on this morning, long sleeved and black leather, with our club's angel insignia. And my watch, the Corum Bubble with the roulette-wheel face. And my hand, laying upwardly open, fingers moving slightly, my wedding ring sparkling from the early evening sunlight.
I didn't see the tree across the road until after the turn. Pine trees everywhere, actually, but I can't smell their fragrance. I can't breathe in, in fact. I try, but it is like I have no breath. I can move my lips, but I can emit no sound. I can look about -- but I cannot turn my head. Why am I laying over there, but looking at myself from over here? How can I be looking across the road at myself laying down . . . and at my Harley, laying sideways. At the bottom of my boots, with their nearly new, barely scuffed soles.
My body feels light and tingly, but my vision is clear. My body is there, but my ponytail is here, laying long and braided on the road before my eyes, under my chin, pointing toward my feet on the other side of the road. I . . . I don't understand. How can this be? Am I an angel?
Tuesday Writing Prompt (From May 6, 2008)
My rapping knuckles emit a feeble tapping noise against the hardwood panels. I reach up and use the metal knocker. A clanking noise breaks the silence, and the window slowly slides up revealing a pair of gray eyes under bushy white eyebrows . . .
“Slide your manuscript in, please,” an old-yet-regal voice beckons.
Manuscript?, I think to myself. What manuscript? Was I supposed to . . . Ah, yes. Remembering that I had used my “Writing Prompt Tuesdays #1″ poem to plug a hole in my shoe, I quickly unlace and liberate it, smooth the page flat, and slide it under the bars toward the doorman’s squinted eyes.
“One moment, Sir,” the voice says as the window slides closed again.
Nearly an hour slips by and I toy with the idea of forraging for berries on the nearby bushes. I slip to the ground outside the door and lean upon it. The clanging awakens me, and I leap to my feet.
“Madam will see you now, sir.” More clanking and the door swings inwards. “I beg you to forgive the formalities, sir. Please enter. Ms. Rowling is very selective about her ghost-writing staff. She awaits you in the great hall.”
“Slide your manuscript in, please,” an old-yet-regal voice beckons.
Manuscript?, I think to myself. What manuscript? Was I supposed to . . . Ah, yes. Remembering that I had used my “Writing Prompt Tuesdays #1″ poem to plug a hole in my shoe, I quickly unlace and liberate it, smooth the page flat, and slide it under the bars toward the doorman’s squinted eyes.
“One moment, Sir,” the voice says as the window slides closed again.
Nearly an hour slips by and I toy with the idea of forraging for berries on the nearby bushes. I slip to the ground outside the door and lean upon it. The clanging awakens me, and I leap to my feet.
“Madam will see you now, sir.” More clanking and the door swings inwards. “I beg you to forgive the formalities, sir. Please enter. Ms. Rowling is very selective about her ghost-writing staff. She awaits you in the great hall.”
Tuesday Writing Prompt #1 (from 4/22/08)
Said Heathcliff to her long dry tresses,
“I feel like hippopota-messes.
Under the moors your teeth are dust,
your frilly buttons turned to rust.”
Said Heathcliff to her cold crevaces,
“Come dance with me upon the grasses.
With Venus now eclipsed with Mars
I’ll watch your eyes reflect the stars.”
Said Heathcliff to her at the dawn,
“Your whalebone hoopskirts turn me on.
And all the little things you brave
Like eating mushrooms from your grave.”
Said Catherine as they lay together,
“Your skin, Heathcliff, is supple leather.
Just shut your mouth and kiss me well
It’s cold down here, as cold as hell.”
— Paul R. Wade
“I feel like hippopota-messes.
Under the moors your teeth are dust,
your frilly buttons turned to rust.”
Said Heathcliff to her cold crevaces,
“Come dance with me upon the grasses.
With Venus now eclipsed with Mars
I’ll watch your eyes reflect the stars.”
Said Heathcliff to her at the dawn,
“Your whalebone hoopskirts turn me on.
And all the little things you brave
Like eating mushrooms from your grave.”
Said Catherine as they lay together,
“Your skin, Heathcliff, is supple leather.
Just shut your mouth and kiss me well
It’s cold down here, as cold as hell.”
— Paul R. Wade
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