Mae's walls closed in on her, Fred, the shelves filled with dusty tchotchke. Golden age turned lovers and objects into death traps. She needed to speak. It'd been years since Mae had anything to say. She'd long ago hung her heart on the wall in a nice Certificate of Achievement-sized frame. It had the most grime of any ornament in Mae’s cluttered world. Mae wanted to tell Fred something about the two of them not loving enough of the same things to have made their dotage less bitter, but she didn't know exactly how to phrase it. All she knew was she had to act quickly. Mae's invisibility would come to an end and then Fred and the neighbors would see what had lain hidden among them for so long. Fred and the rest were such a critical bunch.
Semi-Daily Scribbles
Carving out a corner to post random crap.
recent posts
about
-
-
Humans can justify anything. It's all about The-Pursuit-of-a-Feel-Good, Follow-Your-BigB-Right-On-Into-Eternity, Happy & Peppy & Bursting with Love & Stuff life. Right? Sure.
Darla the Artist has it all figured out. She stops making things, she stops … she just stops. That pretty well nails it. Darla the Daughter / Sister / Patient comes and goes and never sticks around long enough to supplant Darla the Artist.
Art for Art's … The Citizen's Responsibility to … Society's Function In …
Dr. Makeda keeps meticulous notes.
-
This just in: This just is. Time, breath, pain, bliss. We're all in it. Minute-to-minute. Possessions are a blight. We chase after filler and fluff and can't keep up. Little of what I have can be called my own, so just let go. Three cheers–one wish–follow at your own risk. -
Mama had the megrims and Lettie was left to herself again. She sat on her bed, tracing the outlines of the bright yellow smiley face flowers stamped on her bedspread before turning her attention to the fresh outbreak of poison oak on the backs of her knees. Hot, itchy-scratchy pain and with no more ointment in the medicine cabinet. Summer vacay had officially kicked off in spectacular fashion. Lettie doubted even Marnie could be of use, today anyway, to chase off the bad ideas and icky thoughts that left Grand Prismatic-sized rents throughout her entire self-perceived personhood. Yeah, it was going to be one of those days. The volume on the TV in the next room, Mama's room, got louder by four or five settings. What else? Lettie wondered how many times this week Mama would watch that movie. Never a good sign when the wind began to scream and the men cried, "I've never seen one that big!" -
Busy, busy bee. Mother of all industry. If it's true we write what we know, best to know as much as possible. One needs something quote worthy to say when one's work is called "a shabbily disguised conversion story." Either own the act of disciple-making, or close up shop. People say they prefer the truth, but there will always be an audience for well-spoken lies. -
For those following along, My Five Star Heart goes to the work that is fiercely authentic. I like it when My Own Private Icky Button is pushed by bloodlust and love's grotesqueries. Poetry that comes in great gushes and not dribbles. Make your piece so ugly it's pretty by sheer effort. Make me queasy and I'll put another nickel in the slot. Anything less than uncomfortable is forgotten before the end credits roll. -
Anne doesn't want to answer your questions. She knows you know her dark glasses aren't a fashion statement. Looks like rain today. Anne can't understand why you'd want to know how she's doing. Truth is bothersome when it comes to chitchat. No one likes to hear a fear story or a shame story. Her hero's not done with her yet. 15 years is about endurance, not romance. 15 years leaves scars and memory loss. Now's not the time for a love story. Hate keeps its vows. -
The third act fell flat.
Damn that lazy dream sequence!
Sequins hide loose ends. -
do that artificial thing you do
ruffle blue feathers and count white lies
and then call it the story that wrote itself
yellow heads bend backwards to look you in the eyes
this is a dizzy way to live and leaves us sick
some desperate kind of love -
Everyone is a writer. Everyone has a book to push. But who's reading this stuff? Here's a secret: very few people I met in the cubicles of Talley Insurance Company read. The reason is mostly a time thing, but most of the people I unscientifically polled had never been readers to begin with. If these people were able to squeeze extra minutes out of their 24 hours, the time was spent on the kids, or simply sitting in front of the TV to eventually nod off. When I told a colleague I write books, (yeah, yeah you've heard it before–insurance agent by day, writer by night) he asked: "Ew, why would you want to do that?" I think about this question a lot (with and without the 'Ew'). What is the answer? If I really must do it … well, … That thar be chicken scratch for another day.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 