An early-April deadline is a-looming, and a crazy couple days are a-coming. My superior math skillz indicate that means I must write 1,000 words between now and tonight's Syracuse game.
But HOW?
Sit down and do it, is the short answer. The long answer is a leetle more complicated.
Because there's a list of other things to do, too. And not on that list, but already accomplished:
1. Take a nap
2. Eat some stuff
3. Muse about ways to cleverly link the two bumper stickers seen Tuesday: "It's a Jeep Thing - You Wouldn't Understand" and "It's a Vince Gill Thing - You Wouldn't Understand." Think indignantly, Hey, I MIGHT understand! Just give me a freakin' chance, boss. Then realize that no, I do not understand Jeeps, nor Vince Gill, and I likely never will.
4. Remember that article about Vince Gill and Amy Grant and their blended family, and their refusal to talk about THE PAST. It was in Good Housekeeping, or Self, or People, read in some waiting room or other. VG: How can we understand you if you won't tell us anything?
5. Consider that Vince Gill might like being misunderstood. That his fans prefer exclusivity, and actively practice the shunning of outsiders. Mystery, excitement, etc.
6. But that doesn't explain the Jeeps. WHO CAN EXPLAIN THE JEEPS?
7. Think about getting ahead by making four dozen basil-cheese triangles for party. Remember that I need to write. Put off making basil-cheese triangles. Why do I always make those things? Phyllo dough is the most labor-intensive food substance on the planet.
8. Need to clean out fridge to make room for party food. Eat some more stuff.
9. Consider where to watch Syracuse game, since neighborhood sports bar is a Butler bar. Wonder if bodily harm will befall those who show up in orange.
10. Understand that a link between Vince Gill and Jeeps will come when I least expect it. Like maybe while writing 1,000 words en route to meeting deadline.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Be the Bear
I am coming out of hibernation, but slowly, so as not to startle my nervous system.
Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.
The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.
Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.
On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.
Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.
Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.
Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.
The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.
Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.
On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.
Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.
Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
New fiction @ Wigleaf
If you like the short fiction, then please point your world wide inter-browser to Wigleaf, which published my piece Hang Up.
Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.
Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.
It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.
Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.
Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.
It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.
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