It's going to take years to untangle the knot, so get used to inconclusive results. The words'll sound right but won't jibe with the idea. Or, the idea will feel like a hot poker jabbed in your belly, but you've lost your last coherent sentence. Years, I'm telling you. And you're going to end up more guinea pig than scientist, so there's that. But you had to climb all the way up to the high dive. Most people are just fine with a good soak in the Jacuzzi®.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
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Darla Varney was on the Interstate headed westbound when the timer beeped. Ingredients for baked French toast were neatly laid out on the counter ready for assembly. Thick slices of stale bread. Cinnamon and raisins. Milk and eggs whipped to pale yellow perfection. No note. Important things needed to be memorized. By the time the oven reached 350 degrees F, Darla was too far away to get breakfast on the table by 7:00. Her clammy hands clamped onto the rental's steering wheel.
"I got you a venti macchiato with extra drizzle." Darla looked over at the passenger and made one of her frowny smiles. "It's going to get cold," the young man said.
"We'll take the next exit. Can you believe I went for groceries and forgot to gas up?"
"Happens all the time." Darla's navigator sipped his own extra fancy coffee and returned his attention to the mileposts.
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digressive chatter
digestive splatter
my display drips
with status
that doesn't
matterturn off the worry machine
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You need to spend a lot of alone time to figure shit out. Like, for example, is anything random? If you could hover above a topographical map of where you've been (and where you haven't been) because of decisions made, you'd see little black ants fanning out toward all sorts of possibilities. In that sprawling, spiralling, back-and-forth and sometimes straight diagram you'd see:1.) Where the fork in the road you ignored led.
2.) What precisely that sharp word did.
3.) The effect of neglect all in the name of "I've got so much on my plate."We're unsettled by random occurrences because we didn't see 'em comin'. However, the freight train bearing down on us sees only a little black ant scurrying hither, thither, and yon.
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I'm a grown woman, for God's sake. I can leave the house for ten minutes and go for a walk. Can't they understand that?And then he runs out of the house, barefoot and clad in too-large-for-his-skinny-frame neon green pajamas. Maia and Pookie walk by this house nearly every day; she's never seen the boy before. 4'7" or thereabouts, longish, uneven sandy blonde hair, blotchy caramel-colored skin, those funny see-through braces on his teeth as he stands on the sidewalk smiling and staring.
"I sure like your dog," he says. "I wish we could have a small one like that." Pookie waddles over and licks the boy's toes. He laughs. "Yeah…toes," the boy says as he laughs some more. "We can only have big ones." Just then a black sedan pockmarked with rust pulls up to the curb in front of the boy's house. A man of muscular build dressed in a black t-shirt, black sweatpants, white crew sox, and bright orange sandals gets out from behind the wheel. He carefully balances two to-go cups and two packs of Marlboro Reds and kicks the driver's side door shut with one of his orange feet. "Hey Jim," says the boy to the man. The man nods once as he eyes Maia and her dog. The boy runs back up the walk to open the front door. Over his shoulder the boy calls to Maia. "See you later." Pookie barks as the man enters a shadowy hallway. The boy follows the man inside; his pajamas glow in the dark. The door closes behind them and Maia whistles softly for Pookie to pick up the pace. Maia notices the For Lease sign in the boy's front yard as she and the dog continue on their way. A sharp whiff of sweet autumnal decay is carried on the breeze as maple leaves sway high above Elk Street.
Gary dips a piece of toast into the steaming mug as he looks through the slats of the beige vinyl shades. He's glad Maia is doing something about her weight.
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blip says: don't feel like it's a slap in the face. it's nothing but a donut in the hole. if betsy needs to come back to earth pretend you're unaware the air is so thin up there. no one cares for know-it-alls. fading star power left a churning, swirling whirligig in its wake that ate betsy's happy place. she has no choice but to return to the world of dust and straw. we've all become belatedly jaded but we still read betsy's blog to see which one of us she kills next. each death hidden in the text. completely off the page it would seem. -
Under what moon does Mini's witchery reveal itself? She can't balance her checkbook or change a light bulb under cover of daylight, so when does the trickery come out to play? It's bad enough, when the winds are right, a toss of Mini's ginger locks casts a spell over anyone who's near. Minds turn to mush and tongues tell Mini exactly what she wants to hear. But when the Universe shows support for Mini's little quibbles and fits and cries of "Life's not fair!" it's tough to stomach. Signs are so hard to read when the letters keep changing. Mini's intentions are always good, and all things are possible with patient, detail-oriented friends. Where in the sky does Mini hide this elusive lucky star? -
So here's what I wanted to tell you the other day in Piggly Wiggly => => More people need to make art for medicinal purposes. Cheap therapy! But does that art always have to be labeled with a $9.99 sticker and set out on the shelves? Ask yourself: Would someone who does not live inside my head be interested in My Thing? Am I going to foist my interpretive dance on you and then get all bent out of shape when there's no applause? Yes/No? Remember…everyone is nice and nobody cares. Do it for you or just don't do it. Go whittle or doodle or warble or snap. Magic happens when you make stuff.p.s.
Ta-da! Like a Raisin Pie shows up on your doorstep. Hope you like 🙂qp
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Tess told me she fought with her old editor to keep that part of the story intact. The teen pregnancy/baby makes two part of the novel. I didn't say anything. I simply smiled and nodded and poured Tess a fresh cup of tea. The middle child learns to keep her mouth shut and to play both sides of a fight. I could easily have said Beverly hates the baby angle. How Beverly feels the bundle of joy is a contrivance to make readers care about the protagonist. See, that is the sticking point. No one likes Clara, Tess's heroine (mouthpiece) because she's written as a girl with a genius-level IQ, dates the captain of the football team, and has a full ride to any university on the planet. Parents dead, but wealthy. A perfect, pretty, rich, megabrain. So much like Tess (except for the dead parents part, thank God!) but Clara has the advantage of being a fictional character. A mythical being I can hate instead of my little sister. But this crap is right in Beverly's wheelhouse. She's a writer, too, and works as a developmental editor at one of the three remaining publishing houses. Beverly has it on good authority (her best friend, Melvin, who works for one of the other guys and whom she plied with alcohol to squeeze the details out of) Wattley & Pragle's Young Adult imprint, elemental, would be interested in Tess's manuscript if she ditches the kid and explores Clara's college experience. Everyone loves their college days but babies are a buzzkill. Having this knowledge on the tip of my tongue made me bite down on it even harder. Tess would have to wait and hear the news from her agent. All I can say is I am so grateful I'm an accountant. Art is for people who like to quarrel and fuss every chance they get.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 