May 27, 2010

It's suckitis day. Here I sit, my mind wanders around the room looking for words and catchy phrases, a few clues perhaps. But where is my muse? The one who guides me through the story, lets me see the characters clearly. Not here. Not here in my abyss. Somewhere between all the gray matter creative cells exist. Lately, for the last four years, they've remained mysteriously hidden. Killed off by reckless comments by meaningful "friends" who will remain anonymous. Friends who refer to themselves as writers - and yes they do write. But not in my style, so where do they come into my picture? They write without creativity. I do. My words have theme and motif...follow some sort of pattern. But I blame myself for releasing my works to the masses before they were ready - to the masses of those unprepared for my style. They only know their own, after-all. Why am I feeling such a grudge against them which drips into my work? I don't want to feel so abandoned by them, yet I do. Ramblings continue within the circuits, for no one to understand, at least no one in the realm of company I kept. Sometimes I think I need a new circle of writer-friends. Ones who get it. Ones with a small bit of degree to back up their claims of glory. Some semblance of writing balance in their curriculum vitae. I'm doing my part to add to mine - now I need friends with the same mind set. I'm sure they are out there. I just need to dig.

May 26, 2010

What can you say about a guy dressed in khaki pants, green golf shirt, has a regular hair cut, but he's wearing woman's clip-on pearl earrings? Within an hour ago I was coming out of the grocery store, basket full of grocery bags when this weird little guy approaches. "Hey," he yells. "Do you like your car?" Right away I knew a weird moment was about to unfold; the earrings my first clue. As fast as I could I tossed the grocery bags into the back seat, my heart racing with each toss. All I could think was why all the weirdos find me, because sometimes I think my skin is a natural piece of velcro. Or maybe it's my aura sending out the "weirdo-attracting" vibes. On the other hand, it could be worse. My aura used to toss out "loser-attracting" vibes. But still, why do all the weirdos of the world find me? Is it my friendly face, the way I walk or could it be my car? It's a Ford - not much going on there, but now I know why middle-aged men buy Porsches and Corvettes. Regular cars attract weirdness - hot cars bring on the babes. I get all the unapproachables, but still, weirdos are better than losers, whom in my experience all drove Porsches and Corvettes. Go figure.

May 24, 2010 (Caution: Crazy Notion Ahead)

If there were one thing I'd do to change the world, I think I'd remove all the narrow-minded thinkers. It'd be a herculean task, after all there are so many, but a genocide is in order from where I view things via the morning newspaper. Talk about who's responsible for the gushing oil well, blame put on the party seated at the table by ones who didn't have a shot in hell of ever receiving such a position. Sara Palin, need I say more? Yes, in a nutshell she's certifiably nuts, her life one cashew short of a reality series. Not that I wish her eradication from the planet, but I feel the need to slap a giant swath of duct tape across her mouth, a permanent security that would keep her worthless words at bay. Perhaps genocide of the narrow-minded is a crazy notion, but why is it that all the good people are the ones scrutinized and killed off?

May 22, 2010

Lately I've given some thought to un-facing on Facebook. A friend commented that it was becoming too much, and those who matter to her have her digits. I'm beginning to realize that the art of face to face or phone-to-phone contact has become a decreased commodity in today's culture. Face to face contact is gone, taking with it social skills and a part of life that once was an event to look forward to: going somewhere to meet with a friend - to talk about whatever pops in mind, or crosses before our faces. The sound of laughter and expression - those spur of the moment comments gone with the computer age. Cyber-space has become the twenty-first century's new suit of armor. Arguing and the chance to come to an understanding hidden behind a keyboard and monitor. It's sort of sad and crippling to society.

May 19, 2010

Today I met the killer of small crawling objects, a man known as the exterminator. Not the same as the half-robotic one played by California's governor. This was just your normal every day dude carrying in his pick-up hazardous chemicals. The master of infestation, destroyer of colonies where unsuspecting creepy-crawlies hide within crevices because they can. Exterminator man didn't wear a special suit - no armor, rubber boots or silly mask. He performed his destruction using a shiny aluminum sprayer, talking to the critters while he sprayed. "How'd you get in there?" he asked the ceiling. Bug speak comes in the form of saw-dust piles, webs and strange munching sounds. All silent to the normal human, but exterminator man understood them very well, spraying wherever they silently screamed. Usually I feel for little creatures, especially the unsuspecting ones, but in the case of ones who move silently within the walls, their only calling card a pile of sawdust, my opinion changes greatly. After all, homes are for humans. I've never desired to inhabit an ant hill, only follow my strong desire to destroy those piling between sidewalk cracks.

May 18, 2010

I went for a walk with my Monster Chihuahua. Along the way we met a cat. She wore a jeweled collar with a tiny bell attached. I imagined her owners thought it would scare away birds. Friendly soul, though. When I called her she approached - timid at first. I'm sure my vicious chihuahua was a bit frightening. You know, six pounds in comparison to what, a bird? This cat had an unusual coat - almost as if she wore another cat on her back. Legs white and face white, the rest of her gray tiger. Once she saw Monster Chihuahua not a threat, she purred and let me scratch her head. I had to wonder if she ever visited my back yard, but once I realized she was a she, I knew she wasn't responsible for the nasty pee smell I don't enjoy whenever I open windows. But I had to wonder why she wasn't scared of me. How did she know that I wasn't some crazy cat abductor? Not that I am. I don't go around stealing cats, but if the right dog wandered into my yard, I'd consider it possession - nine-tenths of the law and all that rot, after all.

May 17, 2010

I need to find a "toad crossing" sign. One I can place beyond my front step. Every time I step out this small toad hops across, either in front of my feet or behind them. My nightmare is that I won't see him hopping, and oh dear, I hate the sound of squishing flesh under my shoe. How does one remove toad guts, any way? And they have built-in disguises, so if I do happen to step on one, it's through no fault except Mother Nature. I'm sure she gave them the stealth covering to protect them from predators, but did she stop to think about my feet? I weigh approximately 126 pounds (depending on the day). I imagine toad's weight is enough to warrant a first class stamp. I hope his eyesight is better than mine. Depending from which side he hops, he's got a death wish if trekking from my left. I might devise my own sign as a reminder every time I step out. There are better things to crush, moving objects of nature not my preference. So, please little toad, beware the eight and a half. I sometimes tread lightly, but comparatively speaking, I am Godzilla in your toad-dom.

May 16, 2010

I often wonder what happened to him. Where did he go? One day on the planet, the next somewhere else. Completely disappearing as if a new form of human stealth. But even present he was absent. Cold heart soundlessly beating in his chest. Warmth only when necessary, in broad daylight. Always on the ready to slice out others hearts with one fast stroke. Bittersweet memories erased by his pain. How does one exist with such a dull spirit? Not in the dark but not in light. Somewhere in between, the limbo for lost souls on earth. Terra-firma of zero gravity. He floats within slime - perhaps that's where he is, yet still occupying the deep corner of my heart, a place he once warmed. Still wonder if he looks mad at the world as it returns his cold glare. Can't keep his own fire burning. Lost in its embers cooling beneath the shroud of unknown origins. Past regrets, he has many. But erased for self-preservation, or perhaps a warped form of posterity. His cold steel heart not stainless beneath leather wrapping.

May 15, 2010

Sometimes I wonder about where my magic pen went. It had colorful dots and moved freely across the paper, each word spectacular. I've since misplaced it, although it once came up missing, or swiped. Terrible incident at school, one day it was beside me, and then gone. I tried not to become accusatory, but I knew of a fellow student who was a self-professed klepto. I immediately wanted to shake him down, but didn't. Instead I inquired of the professor whether or not my magic pen had been turned int. He said, "Nope." And then I dropped the word that I felt that perhaps it had been stolen. "Stolen!" he said. "Not in my class. This isn't what the class is about." Well, okay. Maybe I misspoke, but the next day my pen miraculously appeared on the arm of a chair. Prof said that I probably left it there myself. But I knew better. I searched that chair when magic pen disappeared. Who was he kidding? Yes. Fact that my one eye is blind, I can see clearly with the other. Truth in that. Professor maybe was the swiper. Maybe he needed my pen's mojo. That's cool. But where is that magic pen now? I need the streamline feel of its shaft and smooth sail of its ink. For a few strokes of magic.

May 14, 2010

The curtains exhale and inhale, the wind pushing them in an effort to seduce the insiders out. I prefer to stay put for now, watching cars whiz passed and listen to bird speak. They've got it going on, conversing about last nights storm or the cat that got away. That damn cat roaming my garden leaving his scent for me to wish I owned a gun whenever I open windows. Not that I hate cats, because I don't. I just despise the smell they leave behind, as if it's some sort of alluring device to get me out of the house. That works. I go out and hunt down the damned cat, and then I spray the bushes with a neutralizer. Works, but doesn't keep him away. A bee-bee gun would, I think. Just a little sting in the tail to get my point across, or perhaps a Rottweiler would do the trick. One that can hide well inside the bushes.

May 13, 2010

I'm not sure if this is worth making an issue of. Mother's Day. I received a card from my daughter. One week prior to MD, she bought two new dresses. She lives under our roof, rent free; works full time (40 hrs. a week). I do the wash, make her bed, dinner, etc. I got a card. Hubby got me a card with $50.00 bucks in it. He made me dinner. Daughter lazed around. This disturbed me, but I don't want to make an issue, however, if the opening came, I'd say something. Last night opening rolled in. She came home carrying a shopping bag from DSW, containing two new pairs of shoes. So as she showed them to me and asked what I thought, I said, " Better than the card I got for Mother's Day." First she said, "Huh?" and then said, "I don't want to argue." All I replied was that I was merely making a point. Today I feel guilty, like a whiner. But damn, I'm her mother. Does she think that little of me? I mean, if she were unemployed and down on her luck, I'd understand it, but to show up with just a card is sort of saying that she doesn't think highly of me or appreciates me. Maybe she doesn't have to think highly of me, but at least show a little gratitude - a little more than a card that she bought five minutes before walking in the door. Seriously, where are her priorities? Why do I feel guilty for making a point?

May 12, 2010

The marvelous mucous migration, that's what I've got. From head to chest, out to my arms, down my back and wherever else it feels like roaming, mucous runs a marathon through my body. It doesn't help my schedule, forcing me to stay in bed beyond my usual wake up time. It doesn't help my writing in the sense that its sloppy goop smothers my breathing. Not that I need to breathe in order to think, or imagine, or sculpting words that make any sense. No, no. I can escape doing any of that without ills gripping my bones. Any excuse imaginable restricts my writing muscle. But, today, the mucous marathon isn't one of them. Today I'll write in the epic if it kills me. Even with Monster Chihuahua squeezed behind my back, I'll sit on chair's edge in order to stay connected to my story. It's just that sometimes the inner critic seeks its way from behind the mucous curtain, just peeking through enough to mock my words, because that's its chronic job. Part of its description to ridicule everything I've written. But on the other hand, the smothering effect of phlegm keeps ugly inner critic covered more so than usual. As disgusting at it sounds, I imagine the little critter covered in green slime. Good for it! I hope he gets this virus and it affects him one hundred times worse than it has gripped me.

May 11, 2010

The affliction of phlegm is upon me, settling in my nose, chest and throat. Its powerful slop oozing throughout every tissue, making joints ache where I didn't realize they existed. Does my trusty Monster Chihuahua realize my recent woes? Not in the least. Sniffling, sneezing and runny nose is invisible to her black and white state. Does she see that I want to sit and write, or nap. Naps. That's what I crave at the moment, but I've made this commitment to write 100 words a day. Today I'll master no more than that. 100 WORDS of gibberish in my current epic of which my inner critic has recently ignored, if only my Monster Chi would do the same. But no, she awaits no affliction. Her needs take precedence over all others. Give me a pat on the head, a treat for doing my bodily functions. That's your job, she tells me. And like a dutiful concubine, I follow her whims. It's better than clean-up. But still I must stick to my present commitment. 100 words. If only I had the thoughts to go with them, some sort of clue as to where the plot leads. Where is the plot, by the way? Be damned all those rules others speak of. Since when does art have rules? Since when have I ever tried following them? Who is that looking over my shoulder? No one. Hah! No one!

May 10, 2010

The calendar on the phone reads May 10. The temperature outside reads fifty-one. Confusion rules the realms, both external and internal. Should I write a lengthy passage in my current work, or revise what's already there? My toils of another time when I clearly saw the story. The present reveals nothing but angst and uncertainty. Where is this story going today? I need to stay connected to my characters, but today the spirit isn't moving me in that direction. Like the seasons, they aren't as they once were, my writing. The colorful scenes form, but the problem is in the performance, the execution. I should be able to spew a great yarn. The thermometer should read seventy-five. When will I ever get to put away my winter coat? The sky is clear, trees filled with lush green, yet my nose runs after returning from a small stint around the house. This is what the seasons have become. Unseasonable. This is what my writing has become. Unwritable. Somewhere in the continuum my muse resides, confused by its path, unable to