What's in a name?

Blech

After a hard day's work seriously cleaning house, I suddenly feel freezing cold and nauseated. This is me, feeling sorry for myself:



Update: Fever of 101. Now I'm really feeling sorry for myself.

Daily Write: Tell It Like It Is

"What do you mean, you lost it? How do you just lose something like that? You're fucking shitting me." He pushed his chair back from the table violently, jumped up and began to pace around the room.

He wasn't taking this well. The vein on his temple was swollen and pulsing to the beat of his heart. The tension in his shoulders, clenched hands, and set jaw, was obvious. Trying to explain, again, wasn't going to help. He was at his breaking point, and nothing she said could change that.

In silence, she went to get him a beer. The quick whooshing sound of the carbon dioxide escaping was a comfort. This tiny pressure equalization translated into some sign for her, that everything was going to be alright, somehow, eventually.

His back was to her; he'd arrived at the window and was staring out at the night-darkened hillside below, watching the headlights of a car as it wound its way up the switchbacks. He'd fallen silent as well, thinking. Planning their next step, and the step after that, and the one after that too. She could only hope that those steps still involved her.

She drew the cool, damp bottle across her forehead quickly, and with her free hand wiped the mix of sweat and condensation from her brow as she walked towards him.

Daily Write: Fishbowl

At night, the house felt like a giant fishbowl, all the uncovered glass of the doors and windows leaving the interior completely exposed, in stark contrast to the murky black beyond its walls. Alone there, even though she knew it was irrational, she couldn't help feeling frequent waves of fear and vulnerability. Nobody was out there, she repeatedly told herself.

But, if someone were out there, they'd be the worst kind of person. They'd have terrible intentions. They'd be a crazy stalker voyeur robber rapist killer. Nobody would just happen to be out there, idly wandering by, with no harmful potential; it was a remote place, and people didn't just show up for no reason.

She pulled the blanket around her legs, and settled into the couch a little deeper, trying to keep her eyes on the television, and away from the darkness beyond the huge transparent plates. She never watched anything remotely frightening in this house, needing instead to calm her nerves with comedies and educational shows. She used the noise and distraction of the TV to keep her company, and help her past the adrenaline rushes... overreactions to a branch breaking off of a dead tree in the wind, to water sloshing against the dock and the shore, to the bats swooping near the eaves of the house, flitting darkly into her peripheral vision, just barely illuminated by the light leaking outward from the house.

The spotlight's heat was intense, and its beam blinding. Seth felt the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, his brow, and even across his cheekbones. He had to work hard to keep himself from wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and swiping his fingertips down the slope of his nose and under his eye. Nervous perspiration, and a nervous reaction to it, neither of which was really going to win the audience over. He lifted his eyes from the floor, and tried to look out into the crowd confidently, selecting his mark, and directing his next line to her.

"So I was out on a date the other night... a first date. We were having a good time, chatting it up over dinner...."

She seemed to be enjoying herself, the hint of a smile turning the corners of her mouth up. Her relaxed and open posture, mixed with just a hint of curiosity, seemed to be inviting him to continue spinning his tale, and Seth fed into it, gaining a bit of confidence.

Stand-up was something he'd dreamed of doing for years, but shy and reserved, he never thought he'd have the guts to do it. He watched Comedy Central every day, and Leno and Conan at night. Soaking in the ideas and the influences, wrote his bits on break at the Stop & Shop... rehearsing them in his head as he collected carts in the parking lot, and sometimes working them out aloud pacing in his living room, with his old grey cat for an audience.

"... talking about Ted Kennedy and his brain tumor. A shame about such an amazing guy, and JFK, and RFK too, I said. And then I asked her if she liked The Dead Kennedys."

He squinted into the light again, waiting for the ripple of laughter, hearing nothing but the sounds in his own head: crickets, punctuated by a sarcastic rimshot.

Bentley, hyped up after his bath, earned first place! (OK, he was the only one participating...)

I realize this isn't the typical way to approach a daily write, because I'm not actually writing a creative piece from the prompt, but instead just jotting down some thoughts I have had about a project to undertake with writing, that I was reminded of by the prompt. At least I won't forget my idea this way!

Probably a couple of years ago, I had the thought that I'd write letters, but not from me. From some imaginary character, to some other imaginary character or characters. The reader, by going through this stack of letters one at a time, would gain insight into the character... learn about her personality, her daily doings, what was on her mind, and learn a bit about who she was writing to, although of course only from her perspective (with no response letters from those recipients to base more balanced opinions on). I think I decided this was a neat approach after reading a book that was a compilation of real letters... "Dear Writer, Dear Actress: The Love Letters of Anton Chekhov and Olga Knipper."

Anyway... somehow seeing "dear diary" as my prompt today, I again got to thinking about this sort of device, only this time it would be an imaginary character who was writing in her diary, versus writing letters. I think, as a writing practice, to do that sort of thing every day, or every week, slowly adding to the pile of letters or diary entries, as a real person would who's actually writing the letters or diary entries in the first-person, would be a really interesting way to learn how to develop a character... to slowly get to know who it was you were writing about... to see them develop over time, without a real preconception of who they are, or where they're going, to begin with.

Yeah, so that's my little idea, and yeah, it's not really a normal daily write, but I guess it's not without value to have this jotted down!

He sat in pine bark mulch, with his back against a stiff shrub of some kind, outside of what looked like a generic office building. Having been outside for a few days now, he realized that shrubs have a little give to them, and aren't so soul-suckingly cold as brick walls. Mulch gave off a pleasant organic smell, covering up his own odor, and that of the piss and garbage that seemed to pervade every inch of downtown.

He shifted around in the worn-out corduroy sport coat, with suede elbow patches, and tried in vain to get a little warmth out of it. He pulled the sleeves down just a tiny bit further over his bony wrists, and recrossed his arms tightly over his knees.

Every exhalation created a little fog of steamy breath in the chill night air. He was so cold, he couldn't imagine it getting much worse, and wondered if people who froze to death really knew that it was happening to them, or whether, like he, they just felt so cold that it was painful, and almost unimaginable, and then... eventually... they didn't feel anything at all anymore. It wasn't like him to cry, but if ever he were going to, this was pretty much the point at which it'd happen. Was he cold enough to cry tears of ice? He drifted off into a dream, imagining snowflakes falling lightly from his eyelashes, as time slowed, and the world faded to black.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

She wakes me up when she climbs out of bed, and after she's rounded the corner for the bathroom, I quietly crawl into the warm spot that she left. I doze, and listen to the sounds of her routine: the toilet flushing, the toothbrush whirring, the tap running, the shower water falling on tiles, the vent fan spinning... which always develops a loud rattle after being on for five minutes.

That rattle is what clues me into the fact that she's almost ready, and impatient as I can be, I get up, shake off the last of my night's sleep, and head for the bathroom too. I usually wait for her right on the threshold, blocking the way out of the bathroom, in the space between the doorway and her dressing area. Sometimes, when I really want the day to get going, I peek into the shower to see if she's actually still in there... disbelieving of how long she can take.

Sulkily, I stare off into the hallway while she towels off, combs her hair, puts in her contacts, and otherwise finishes up in the bathroom. Every now and then, I go so far as to let out a bit of a whiney moan, just because I know it annoys her, and want her to know how incredibly bored I am with the waiting, waiting, waiting to get the day started. These protests are always met with the same reaction: "Oh, hush." She's so dismissive of my needs sometimes.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

Wow, this blog totally hasn't gotten any love since I'd been using Vox, but now all of a sudden, I'm feeling more into it. My allegiances are once again shifting! And to show my intent, dear TypePad blog, I've gone and updated all your sidebar content to be current... for the first time in years! So yeah... the book, and the albums, and all that stuff... it's all what I'm into RIGHT NOW. How's that for service? And now, back to work.

The paint swatch was so brightly yellow, he was certain it could burn its way through his closed eyelids while he slept, potentially causing permanent retinal damage over time. Beige of some variety would be nice, or maybe a calming pale grey. This canary color was the stuff of nightmares. It blared at him, as if a driver out on the street below were leaning on his car's horn.

Of course, she loved it. "It's exactly what I want," was her happy declaration, clearly already feeling attached to her decision, and considering the matter completely within her domain, and so settled. He stared at the off-kilter square patch of sunny punishment on his wall, and debated his reaction to the question he knew was poised on her lips: "What do you think?"

She didn't really want to know what he thought. She was just perfectly polite, and felt that it was necessary to make a show of including him, and a demonstration of valuing his opinion. The expectation was that he would cave to her whims, at least in the realm of interior decorating, and frankly, he was exasperated by this particular cliché. He'd already assented, without so much as one word of doubt or complaint, to the floral bedding, the pastel bath towels, and the chipper little "Home Sweet Home" sampler hanging on the wall in their foyer. He was reaching his breaking point... almost ready to suggest, not without a generous helping of sarcasm, that they paint the bedroom black, including the windowpanes.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

Daily Write: Barrel of Laughs

The spotlight's heat was intense, and its beam blinding. Seth felt the beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, his brow, and even across his cheekbones. He had to work hard to keep himself from wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and swiping his fingertips down the slope of his nose and under his eye. Nervous perspiration, and a nervous reaction to it, neither of which was really going to win the audience over. He lifted his eyes from the floor, and tried to look out into the crowd confidently, selecting his mark, and directing his next line to her.

"So I was out on a date the other night... a first date. We were having a good time, chatting it up over dinner...."

She seemed to be enjoying herself, the hint of a smile turning the corners of her mouth up. Her relaxed and open posture, mixed with just a hint of curiosity, seemed to be inviting him to continue spinning his tale, and Seth fed into it, gaining a bit of confidence.

Stand-up was something he'd dreamed of doing for years, but shy and reserved, he never thought he'd have the guts to do it. He watched Comedy Central every day, and Leno and Conan at night. Soaking in the ideas and the influences, wrote his bits on break at the Stop & Shop... rehearsing them in his head as he collected carts in the parking lot, and sometimes working them out aloud pacing in his living room, with his old grey cat for an audience.

"... talking about Ted Kennedy and his brain tumor. A shame about such an amazing guy, and JFK, and RFK too, I said. And then I asked her if she liked The Dead Kennedys."

He squinted into the light again, waiting for the ripple of laughter, hearing nothing but the sounds in his own head: crickets, punctuated by a sarcastic rimshot.

Stick-Chewing Contest

Bentley, hyped up after his bath, earned first place! (OK, he was the only one participating...)

Daily Write: Dear Diary

I realize this isn't the typical way to approach a daily write, because I'm not actually writing a creative piece from the prompt, but instead just jotting down some thoughts I have had about a project to undertake with writing, that I was reminded of by the prompt. At least I won't forget my idea this way!

Probably a couple of years ago, I had the thought that I'd write letters, but not from me. From some imaginary character, to some other imaginary character or characters. The reader, by going through this stack of letters one at a time, would gain insight into the character... learn about her personality, her daily doings, what was on her mind, and learn a bit about who she was writing to, although of course only from her perspective (with no response letters from those recipients to base more balanced opinions on). I think I decided this was a neat approach after reading a book that was a compilation of real letters... "Dear Writer, Dear Actress: The Love Letters of Anton Chekhov and Olga Knipper."

Anyway... somehow seeing "dear diary" as my prompt today, I again got to thinking about this sort of device, only this time it would be an imaginary character who was writing in her diary, versus writing letters. I think, as a writing practice, to do that sort of thing every day, or every week, slowly adding to the pile of letters or diary entries, as a real person would who's actually writing the letters or diary entries in the first-person, would be a really interesting way to learn how to develop a character... to slowly get to know who it was you were writing about... to see them develop over time, without a real preconception of who they are, or where they're going, to begin with.

Yeah, so that's my little idea, and yeah, it's not really a normal daily write, but I guess it's not without value to have this jotted down!

On Vox: Daily Write: Snowflakes

He sat in pine bark mulch, with his back against a stiff shrub of some kind, outside of what looked like a generic office building. Having been outside for a few days now, he realized that shrubs have a little give to them, and aren't so soul-suckingly cold as brick walls. Mulch gave off a pleasant organic smell, covering up his own odor, and that of the piss and garbage that seemed to pervade every inch of downtown.

He shifted around in the worn-out corduroy sport coat, with suede elbow patches, and tried in vain to get a little warmth out of it. He pulled the sleeves down just a tiny bit further over his bony wrists, and recrossed his arms tightly over his knees.

Every exhalation created a little fog of steamy breath in the chill night air. He was so cold, he couldn't imagine it getting much worse, and wondered if people who froze to death really knew that it was happening to them, or whether, like he, they just felt so cold that it was painful, and almost unimaginable, and then... eventually... they didn't feel anything at all anymore. It wasn't like him to cry, but if ever he were going to, this was pretty much the point at which it'd happen. Was he cold enough to cry tears of ice? He drifted off into a dream, imagining snowflakes falling lightly from his eyelashes, as time slowed, and the world faded to black.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

On Vox: Daily Write: Habits

She wakes me up when she climbs out of bed, and after she's rounded the corner for the bathroom, I quietly crawl into the warm spot that she left. I doze, and listen to the sounds of her routine: the toilet flushing, the toothbrush whirring, the tap running, the shower water falling on tiles, the vent fan spinning... which always develops a loud rattle after being on for five minutes.

That rattle is what clues me into the fact that she's almost ready, and impatient as I can be, I get up, shake off the last of my night's sleep, and head for the bathroom too. I usually wait for her right on the threshold, blocking the way out of the bathroom, in the space between the doorway and her dressing area. Sometimes, when I really want the day to get going, I peek into the shower to see if she's actually still in there... disbelieving of how long she can take.

Sulkily, I stare off into the hallway while she towels off, combs her hair, puts in her contacts, and otherwise finishes up in the bathroom. Every now and then, I go so far as to let out a bit of a whiney moan, just because I know it annoys her, and want her to know how incredibly bored I am with the waiting, waiting, waiting to get the day started. These protests are always met with the same reaction: "Oh, hush." She's so dismissive of my needs sometimes.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

Updated Sidebar

Wow, this blog totally hasn't gotten any love since I'd been using Vox, but now all of a sudden, I'm feeling more into it. My allegiances are once again shifting! And to show my intent, dear TypePad blog, I've gone and updated all your sidebar content to be current... for the first time in years! So yeah... the book, and the albums, and all that stuff... it's all what I'm into RIGHT NOW. How's that for service? And now, back to work.

On Vox: Daily Write: Compromise

The paint swatch was so brightly yellow, he was certain it could burn its way through his closed eyelids while he slept, potentially causing permanent retinal damage over time. Beige of some variety would be nice, or maybe a calming pale grey. This canary color was the stuff of nightmares. It blared at him, as if a driver out on the street below were leaning on his car's horn.

Of course, she loved it. "It's exactly what I want," was her happy declaration, clearly already feeling attached to her decision, and considering the matter completely within her domain, and so settled. He stared at the off-kilter square patch of sunny punishment on his wall, and debated his reaction to the question he knew was poised on her lips: "What do you think?"

She didn't really want to know what he thought. She was just perfectly polite, and felt that it was necessary to make a show of including him, and a demonstration of valuing his opinion. The expectation was that he would cave to her whims, at least in the realm of interior decorating, and frankly, he was exasperated by this particular cliché. He'd already assented, without so much as one word of doubt or complaint, to the floral bedding, the pastel bath towels, and the chipper little "Home Sweet Home" sampler hanging on the wall in their foyer. He was reaching his breaking point... almost ready to suggest, not without a generous helping of sarcasm, that they paint the bedroom black, including the windowpanes.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com