Tagged: Writing
Walk of Shame
Her elbow as the hinge, her hand lowered the phone to the bed after she finished her morning dose of Dieter. She pushed the sheets off her body, bumping him, and climbed out of the bed.
Pulling her underwear followed by her pants over her hips, she remembered feeling the electricity of his fingers as he took them off only hours ago.
Fully dressed, she closed the door to his house and began her walk. Thinking about the night, she recalled her surprise at his home’s level of décor. At the bar, he was nicely dressed, but so were most of her other conquests. She discovered early on that not many men had the stamina to match the presentation of their home to the presentation of their body. But he did. She liked that.
She recalled that the wine he served her was remarkably smooth. “Then again at 2:00 am, (or was it 3?) what wine wasn’t?” she laughed to herself. They drank it in his wine cellar before he led her upstairs. She remembered thinking that she didn’t need the comfort of a bed. Loving how he was so in control, she willingly followed.
Already 9:00 am on a Sunday, she was sure everyone driving by could guess how she spent her night. After all, her hair was disheveled, she was in heels, and her clothing was not exactly the type women wear for a coffee run. Let them wonder, she thought. They would never guess everything. They would never know her feelings for him. They would never suspect that afterwards she turned his head–always heavier than expected–so the draining blood wouldn’t soil her half of the thousand count sheets as she slept it off.
Longing
We used to be so close. Your touch was so soft, so warm. When I needed you, you were always there for me. Sometimes you’d pull away in the middle of the night. Sometimes you’d get all twisted up. Sometimes it seemed like I had to fight to get you back. But return, you always did.
Recently, I feel like the one who has been neglecting you. I’m the one who has been staying away some nights. I’m the one who has chosen a shoddy imitation of you–even though I know better.
When we touched the other night I almost cried. A flood of memories came rushing back. We used to spend hours upon hours together. You don’t know how desperately I want to return to that life. I just can’t right now. There are bills to pay. There are mountains to explore. There is writing to do.
I’m sorry Sheets, but I just don’t think this reduced amount of time together will end anytime soon. I miss you.
Fear’s Heat
Waking up, he kept his eyes closed. He was uncomfortable for sure. Besides feeling like he was sleeping on uneven ground, he felt a disabling heat surround him. It was a stifling heat. He thought back to the last thing that he could remember. He knew he was not alone. He knew they had traveled to this place, their destination. But where were they? And where was she? And why was it so hot?
Sweating, he could feel his pants clinging to his legs as if he had just climbed fully clothed from a hot spring. A curiosity overtook his movements and he reached out with his hand blindly feeling for anything. He felt something hot. That’s all he knew for certain. Suddenly he felt, not cool air itself, but the memory of cool air–the memory that cooler temperatures existed somewhere not too far from where he was.
Time taking effect, he began to remember where they were. It was a campground. They had setup their tent, and she wanted to take a rest. He couldn’t believe his luck, and so they both crawled in the tent, sun blazing. He remembered that before dozing off into a restful slumber he reassured himself that she couldn’t get into too much trouble within the confines of a tent, especially not a four-season, dual-door, dual-vestibule beaut like his. Still, she did have a sleeping bag, a water bottle that emptied at a rate equivalent to a sippy cup, and Pingu, her pink penguin.
Finally, he heard her whispering. It was unintelligible, so he made the decision to open his eyes and see she was up to. Looking towards her whispers, he was immediately struck by a fear brought on by the inexplicable. Her hair was soaked. Her shorts just below her waistline were soaked. In a moment, realizing she had not ‘rested’ but stayed up playing for who knows how long in a hot tent with no vents open, her sweaty hair made sense. But why were her pants wet? She was a potty trained three and a half year old. Then he finally heard a full sentence as she guiltily turned, pouring water into her hand.
“Okay Pingu, we’re almost done with your shower.”
Review of “The Babysitter”–by Robert Coover
In Robert Coover’s “The Babysitter,” the experimental application of chronology renders it a textbook example of how post-modernistic writing can be a welcome return to storytelling as an end in itself. While clearly based in a very familiar late-twentieth century suburban neighborhood, the short story’s delivery of information elicits a most visceral reaction from the reader. Babies, toddlers, children, teenagers, adults, television characters and pinball machines are manipulated by men, women, boys and girls in a sequence that screams to be silenced. Not wanting to discover our worst fears, we read on.
More than simply a description of a Friday night gone wrong, “The Babysitter” uses a seemingly unorganized sequence of events (which incidentally can be organized if enough time is given to it—though doing so falls in the category of crime, I think) to simply affect the reader. The successful employment of this technique results in a victorious argument for the joy of reading.
Did a father molest a girl? Did that girl sleep with those evil boys? What the heck happened in the bathroom? Those questions are only asked by readers who just recently finished Aesop’s Fables. For Coover there is no moral. There is no guiding principle. There is no lesson. And this real-time affect the story has on the reader? It dissipates in the same amount of time it takes to read from the opening paragraph to the second paragraph’s first line.
The taboo subject matter is not taboo—though certainly still intended for adults—when conveyed using this post-modern form. There is a certain genius demonstrated in the ability to make what is become what is not. In “The Babysitter,” we enter a house full of distorting confusions and leave feeling better for it.
This Past Sunday Women Learned There Is A Fourth Species of Spider…Now Wondering, “Are there more?”
Black Widow, Brown Recluse, Daddy Long legs. Until Sunday, women knew of no other spiders. Until Sunday, women would see a spider, then say, “Is it a Black Widow?”
Or, “I think that’s a Brown Recluse…I read that leaving near-empty mayonnaise jars out will act like a trap, if you suspect you have them.”
Or, “Hey, look, a Daddy Long Legs. Did you know that Daddy Long Legs are the most deadly spider in the world? It’s true. They just don’t have big enough teeth to pierce our skin. Kill it anyway, will ya, hon?”
But this past Sunday, a spider had the nerve to bite a woman. The spider didn’t look anything like one of the three, so she did what any reasonable women would do and Google’d it. Using her phone to take a picture, she searched Google Images for the spider. Lo and behold, it was another species of spider altogether. All along she thought there were only three species of spiders.
Words cannot describe the joy she felt as she called her mom to share the news. Naturally, her mom didn’t believe her at first. But then her mom remembered that her father had always said there were more than three types of spiders when she told him what she thought she saw when she was growing up.
Alas, the elated feelings were fleeting as the mother daughter tandem soon realized they unknowingly opened the door to learning. “Are there more species we don’t know about?” they silently wondered to themselves.
Disappointment
When that Aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,/And bathed every vyne in swich licour/Of which vertur engendred is the flour…*
“Okay, Chaucer, that’s enough Middle Earth or whatever for tonight,” he thought, exhaling.
Straining to lift the book, heavy reading seemingly adding to the already heavy weight, he placed it beside him on the couch. He closed his notebook, and placed it too beside him. In a move foreshadowing a time not yet, he pushed the couch with his hands to stand up and proceeded to the kitchen. Water cup in hand, he turned the faucet on, and confirmed a cool temperature with a rapid flick of his fingers. He nearly finished in one swig, but habit caused him to stop early and pour out the remainder. The slightest feeling of guilt pestered him as he wasted the water. “Whatever.”
As he walked back towards the couch, he eyed an open bag of tortilla chips. “Pretty sure I’m doing chips and salsa tonight,” he announced.
At first, head movement; pupils adjusting to reality next. Finally, his friend smiled.
“We finished off the salsa the other night. It’s all gone,” the friend disclosed.
“That’s fine, we still have the Pace in the fridge,” he said, knowing his friend would never stoop so low to eat, let alone serve others, bottom-shelf salsa.
Like Aesop’s cloak-removing sun, his friend’s smile only grew.
“You finished the Pace?” he asked in disbelief.
“Well, there was only so much good stuff left, so I just mixed it all together. I didn’t want to run out with people over,” informed the friend.
“Oh.”
*****
*Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales
How To Be Angry
(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions.)
“I’m not going to the dinner tonight!” he foamed.
“But you always go,” she responded.
“Right, but this one is about (insert hot button issue), and I’m not going to sit there and listen to those morons act like they know what they’re talking about!” he retorted furiously.
He knew he was right. He knew what he believed. And he knew they were wrong.
He could destroy their ideas with logic. He could destroy their ideas with evidence. He could destroy their ideas with history. Listen to them? Associate with them? How could he? He didn’t even understand how they could exist. How could he possibly be expected to keep his cool when they were so blatantly wrong? No, he’d made up his mind, he wasn’t going.
Waking up, he saw he had a few more morning emails than normal. Several of his friends wrote that they missed his presence at the dinner. One said they were all looking forward to a dissenting opinion, and without him it was a rather bland evening. Immediately, he felt a pang of regret. He didn’t expect anyone to even notice he wasn’t there, let alone miss him. Kicking himself for forgetting that people are not arguments, people are not ideas, and people are not principles, he stood up and laboriously began his morning. At 55, he thought he’d have learned his lesson by now. Oh well, lucky for him the memories of his friends always welcoming him back with open arms burst through the floodgates.
Instructions for How To Be Angry
Step 1 – Make a decision without all the information.
Step 2 – Cease contact with anyone who disagrees with you.
Confusion
“Here it is,” he thought. Finally the call he’d been waiting for. “What the hell took so long?” It had been over two weeks. The guy’s tone wasn’t cheery. Does anyone actually enjoy the small talk in these situations? “Enough about how everyone is doing, just get to it. ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.”
“Fuck.”
“No,” he says. “…and I have no feedback to offer,” he volunteers.
“Chicken shit.” “No balls.”
“Look on the bright side.” “One closed door opens another.”
At least respect him as a person. “What kind of company would waste so much of someone’s time and energy?”
“But there is that other similar position…maybe there’s still hope?”
“No fucking feedback?” How is he supposed to learn from this? What lesson is there? He gives it his best, they say “no” and…(crickets)?
The day a person gets a new job is a pretty freakin’ great day in their life. What does that say about the day they don’t get a new job? Pretty freakin’ bad day in their life?
No reason given. “Thanks for nothing, fucktard.”
Easily the most epic failure of his life. What does it mean? Is he so out of touch that he couldn’t tell how the interviews went?
Asking for help regarding meaningful employment seems so weak to him.
“There’s a flip side to every coin.”
“Who knows…” For so long he had seen the future. No longer. What did that mean?
But all the literature demands staying positive. “Tomorrow will be a wonderful day.” Probably. For someone.
As for him, there was just shameful embarrassment for an immature reaction.
And confusion.
Same Sh!t, Different(?) Day
Unless you live under a rock, you heard that President Obama recently had three dictionary’s (Google, Merriam-Webster and Cambridge) add the following entry to the definition of literally: “Used to acknowledge that something is not literally true but is used for emphasis or to express strong feeling.”
In typical fashion, that isn’t the only, or most impactful, word/definition that the president had modified. While everyone was abuzz over the fact that a definition clearly in opposition to the word’s actual definition was added, nobody noticed the other word the president had changed: different. (Of all the words for this to happen to, that he chose ‘literally’ to accomplish his ultimate goal is genius as it is so fundamental to a dictionary that it necessarily would draw attention.)
If you go to dictionary.com and look up different you’ll find, “not alike in character or quality” as the number one definition. However, the same three dictionaries the president has in his pocket have caved to the pressure yet again. Instead of just adding a definition to the number two spot, though, they actually erased all the previous definitions and instead put, “being the same.”
Now, we could discuss how, yet again, the president’s actions–always hiding bigger changes behind smaller changes–are disreputable, but let’s not. We could discuss how, yet again, the president’s actions–endlessly overstepping the limited nature of his power–are illegal, but let’s not. We could discuss how, yet again, the president’s actions–his surprisingly unsurprising changing definitions of words–are narcissistic and disrespectful to all mankind, but let’s not. Instead, we will focus on how his most recent action, changing the definition of different, clearly illustrates how he has a fundamental misunderstanding of his main campaign promise: change.
President Barack Obama promised to change this country, presumably for the better. We turn again to dictionary.com and find that change is defined as, “to become different.” Do you understand what has happened? The nature of all the president’s flaws are revealed perfectly in this one seemingly minor action. He wants to have it all. He wants to “have his cake and eat it too”. He wants to “have it both ways.” However, as long as there is one other human–functional backbone included–in existence, he’s going to have a problem reconciling his ‘wants’ with reality.
His changing the definition of different doesn’t even make sense if he doesn’t have these ‘wants.’ How can a man who promises change fulfill his promise if everything is the same?
Some of us might be inclined to let this minor change be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Let’s turn to a dissenting opinion: His entertainment value alone has been worth it.
For those of us who first learned how inept presidents were with Clinton, we were even more disappointed in Bush II. And out of these three presidents that have done nothing but drop the ball, has President Obama not been easily the most enjoyable to watch. Will you join me in admitting that rather than getting upset, you actually hope President Obama never leaves office? Long Live King Obama!
Public Speaking Is Not Our Biggest Fear
For the last year and a half he had attended a most unique gathering of personalities on Thursday mornings. What began simply as a self-interested attempt to network for employment led him down an entirely different path than expected. More than a job, he found life.
Most groups and organizations he had joined were disappointments. But try as he might, it seemed he couldn’t avoid joining groups altogether. Hypocrisy acting as the evicting agent, he left nearly every organization he ever joined. But this one? This was different. This group offered nothing more than literal time and space to improve a particular life-skill. Each member joined in order to improve their ability to speak publicly. He found that hidden within an improved ability to speak publicly was the ability to communicate. Unexpectedly, he learned that lurking within communication was being.
He didn’t doubt that in the organization someone somewhere hungered selfishly for more and more members–humans-in-group will never satisfy their need to evangelize. Yet, for this group, any recruiting efforts more than admitting existence proved silly. Ultimately, convincing someone that they should face their largest fear and, over time, dis-cover who they actually are–all while in the presence of others–was not possible. Like the horse that can’t be forced to drink, people had to want to join.
While Descartes’ famous “I think, therefore I am” was a chapter essential to telling the story, the time had come to turn the page. Experience illuminated that he ‘was not’ without other people. Therefore, the next chapter began, “I communicate, therefore I am.”
Are you?
