2. Write a one-paragraph description of a room in your house. Use as many specific details and senses as possible.
As you walk through the broad entry, past the partly-sheathed pocket door, you'll see a room of contradictions. A spanking-new paint job in soft creamy Pottery Barn colors, but with noticeable chips where wall meets ceiling. A contemporary sectional sofa in sleek dark leather, surrounded on either side by the bright primary plastics of a toddler's toys. Piles and piles of hip-lit books crammed into dark wood mission-style shelves face off against an enormous flat-panel plasma TV that rises like an obelisk opposite the sofa. Modern, espresso-wood furniture cleaned to gleaming perches atop a shabby and pockmarked hardwood floor. A small longhaired tortoiseshell cat purrs with insistent contentment, her body scarcely making a dent on the firm sofa cushion. The soundtrack to the room is the white-noise hum of a baby monitor, the kind of loudness you don't notice until it's gone. Even the smells offer contradictions: coffee and pledge, leather and stale Cheerios. It's as if a yuppie and a suburban housewife are quietly fighting to the death in here, and maybe they are.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Describe the fatal accident of a highway stripe painter
Dawn was just seeping into the sky, oozing light as red as blood, when Hank realized he'd left the urn at home. Dammit, he thought, even beyond the grave That Woman still managed to cause trouble. He heaved a sigh, pushed the worn leather hat up off his head, and rubbed at his bald spot. What now?
The pickup sputtered as if in reply, and it occurred to Hank that maybe the decision of what to do next could wait till after a fillup. Coffee for him, diesel for the truck. How far to the next station? Maybe he should have gotten one of those fancy GPS systems That Woman was always talking about. He glanced at the fuel gauge, where the needle hovered menacingly between the quarter-tank mark and "E". He could make it a few more miles, maybe even ten if he had to. But he hoped he wouldn't have to. Exhaustion from the long trip was finally setting in, and he really needed that coffee.
Hank mashed at his itchy eyes. Austin and Lake Travis seemed too far away to imagine, and here he was driving all the way there because That Woman wanted her ashes scattered along the shore. Ridiculous. She was always wanting frivolous things like that. Always wanted, Hank corrected himself. Wanted. Past tense. The highway swam a little before him, but it was just the tiredness. Tears weren't for men like Hank, and definitely not over That Woman. He scraped indignantly at his eye with the heel of his hand, trying to pry the offending dust out.
--WUMP--
The pickup lurched strangely, sickeningly, as if he'd taken if off a curb. Hank glanced blearily in the rearview mirror and saw nothing, just a tornado of dust in its wake. Stupid coyotes, he thought. He hoped he wouldn't have another dent in the wheel well this time. He had enough to worry about. Thank the Lord he hadn't lost control of the truck and followed it over the ditch--it was a good 5 feet down. Worthless creatures.
That Woman would have insisted on going back, wasting time to make sure that the coyote was put out of his misery. No more, thought Hank. I can just go and leave it in peace. Coffee and diesel were waiting for him at a truck stop somewhere up ahead. He patted his rifle absentmindedly; even though he wasn't going to be using it those fond feelings had still been called up. A man should have affection for his rifle, thought Hank. A man needs to be able to rely on his rifle.
The pickup sputtered as if in reply, and it occurred to Hank that maybe the decision of what to do next could wait till after a fillup. Coffee for him, diesel for the truck. How far to the next station? Maybe he should have gotten one of those fancy GPS systems That Woman was always talking about. He glanced at the fuel gauge, where the needle hovered menacingly between the quarter-tank mark and "E". He could make it a few more miles, maybe even ten if he had to. But he hoped he wouldn't have to. Exhaustion from the long trip was finally setting in, and he really needed that coffee.
Hank mashed at his itchy eyes. Austin and Lake Travis seemed too far away to imagine, and here he was driving all the way there because That Woman wanted her ashes scattered along the shore. Ridiculous. She was always wanting frivolous things like that. Always wanted, Hank corrected himself. Wanted. Past tense. The highway swam a little before him, but it was just the tiredness. Tears weren't for men like Hank, and definitely not over That Woman. He scraped indignantly at his eye with the heel of his hand, trying to pry the offending dust out.
--WUMP--
The pickup lurched strangely, sickeningly, as if he'd taken if off a curb. Hank glanced blearily in the rearview mirror and saw nothing, just a tornado of dust in its wake. Stupid coyotes, he thought. He hoped he wouldn't have another dent in the wheel well this time. He had enough to worry about. Thank the Lord he hadn't lost control of the truck and followed it over the ditch--it was a good 5 feet down. Worthless creatures.
That Woman would have insisted on going back, wasting time to make sure that the coyote was put out of his misery. No more, thought Hank. I can just go and leave it in peace. Coffee and diesel were waiting for him at a truck stop somewhere up ahead. He patted his rifle absentmindedly; even though he wasn't going to be using it those fond feelings had still been called up. A man should have affection for his rifle, thought Hank. A man needs to be able to rely on his rifle.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The DeCordova
Sometimes, kismet strikes and I actually find out about something cool in time to attend it, rather than two days after it has run its course. Today while debating about what activity we should select to occupy our unseasonably mild summer morning, I happened to run across a deal at the DeCordova that was simply irresistible--produce your Bank of America card and photo ID and enjoy free admission to the museum and sculpture garden on the first weekend of every month, through spring of 2009.
The DeCordova is one of those attractions that seizes my fancy so entirely that I want to somehow surpass just visiting it, I want to swallow it up, to pitch a tent and live there, to wrap it around me like a blanket. This, I say to Sean, is what makes the cost of living in Massachusetts worth it. This commitment to culture, to the mixing of contemporary art and natural beauty. We walk the idyllic green lawn of the sculpture garden, the sun pressing us but not so insistently that we feel compelled to duck inside. Bryce is sweetly ignorant of his own mortality, climbing the sculptures he can reach and plunging down hills with a child's freeness, his arms and legs akimbo, somehow defying gravity by not falling. He meets a little boy at a huge pile of sticks constructed from logs wrapped in discarded tires, laughs when the preschooler ducks behind one and then emerges, crying "Peek-a-boo!". He finally seems to be old enough to have a child's appreciation of great open spaces, he relishes running free now.
The elevator is out of service, so we climb mountains of stairs to take a cursory glance at the current exhibition before it's swept away in two weeks to make way for the next. I love the tintypes, love the strange surreal narrative paintings. I want to squeeze the rubber sculptures and see if they feel like Jell-O (there's a sample for touching in the hall by the restrooms, they do.). Bryce madly presses buttons and yells gibberish into headsets while I duck into the ladies' room, balancing far too many things in my hands for fear that my husband will be unable to adequately keep him safe if he's further burdened by a digital camera or lunch bag. Who is responsible for creating this mythology of semi-incompetence, I wonder.
We select salads and soups from the cafe (really just a glorified vending machine for premade grocery store crap), eat outside on the terrace. Bryce eats most of his almond butter and jelly sandwich, gulps some yogurt, and begins plotting his escape. The wall around the terrace is alarmingly short, maybe a foot at most, and the drop beyond it is frighteningly large. I am breathless with fear, chasing Bryce around the terrace, scooping him up before he can get near the edge. He wriggles, throwing his weight down in a mad bid for freedom. This is our lot in life, I think, to fight him in order to keep him safe. We will have this struggle for many years, for the foreseeable future. Such a strange fight. Can't he just trust that we want what's best for him?
The tiny backpack we wanted to buy for him is $42.50 at the museum shop, too expensive to justify. Had it been $29.90, or had he run towards it pointing and crying "Nay! Naaaay!" we probably would have bought it. But neither of these things occurred, so after a thorough inspection of all the wooden toys, we leave empty-handed.
Driving home, Bryce insists on more Cheerios for his snack trap, then nods off soundly before he can eat any of them. His head lolls forward at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable. I look out the window as we drive, for Lincoln is beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to live here, to bike the potholed roads every day, to visit the architecturally stunning library. The schools here are amazing, the scenery is incredible. But there are no sidewalks to stroll, and even the DeCordova's website remarks on the dearth of suitable eateries in the area. It's miles and miles from downtown. I sigh, happy to visit the DeCordova, just as happy to not make my home here.
The DeCordova is one of those attractions that seizes my fancy so entirely that I want to somehow surpass just visiting it, I want to swallow it up, to pitch a tent and live there, to wrap it around me like a blanket. This, I say to Sean, is what makes the cost of living in Massachusetts worth it. This commitment to culture, to the mixing of contemporary art and natural beauty. We walk the idyllic green lawn of the sculpture garden, the sun pressing us but not so insistently that we feel compelled to duck inside. Bryce is sweetly ignorant of his own mortality, climbing the sculptures he can reach and plunging down hills with a child's freeness, his arms and legs akimbo, somehow defying gravity by not falling. He meets a little boy at a huge pile of sticks constructed from logs wrapped in discarded tires, laughs when the preschooler ducks behind one and then emerges, crying "Peek-a-boo!". He finally seems to be old enough to have a child's appreciation of great open spaces, he relishes running free now.
The elevator is out of service, so we climb mountains of stairs to take a cursory glance at the current exhibition before it's swept away in two weeks to make way for the next. I love the tintypes, love the strange surreal narrative paintings. I want to squeeze the rubber sculptures and see if they feel like Jell-O (there's a sample for touching in the hall by the restrooms, they do.). Bryce madly presses buttons and yells gibberish into headsets while I duck into the ladies' room, balancing far too many things in my hands for fear that my husband will be unable to adequately keep him safe if he's further burdened by a digital camera or lunch bag. Who is responsible for creating this mythology of semi-incompetence, I wonder.
We select salads and soups from the cafe (really just a glorified vending machine for premade grocery store crap), eat outside on the terrace. Bryce eats most of his almond butter and jelly sandwich, gulps some yogurt, and begins plotting his escape. The wall around the terrace is alarmingly short, maybe a foot at most, and the drop beyond it is frighteningly large. I am breathless with fear, chasing Bryce around the terrace, scooping him up before he can get near the edge. He wriggles, throwing his weight down in a mad bid for freedom. This is our lot in life, I think, to fight him in order to keep him safe. We will have this struggle for many years, for the foreseeable future. Such a strange fight. Can't he just trust that we want what's best for him?
The tiny backpack we wanted to buy for him is $42.50 at the museum shop, too expensive to justify. Had it been $29.90, or had he run towards it pointing and crying "Nay! Naaaay!" we probably would have bought it. But neither of these things occurred, so after a thorough inspection of all the wooden toys, we leave empty-handed.
Driving home, Bryce insists on more Cheerios for his snack trap, then nods off soundly before he can eat any of them. His head lolls forward at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable. I look out the window as we drive, for Lincoln is beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to live here, to bike the potholed roads every day, to visit the architecturally stunning library. The schools here are amazing, the scenery is incredible. But there are no sidewalks to stroll, and even the DeCordova's website remarks on the dearth of suitable eateries in the area. It's miles and miles from downtown. I sigh, happy to visit the DeCordova, just as happy to not make my home here.
Jewels
Writing is jewelry-making, stringing the pearly spheres of words onto silver sentence chains. Change the order of the beads, of the jewels, and you change the overall effect of the necklace. Move the beads around, see how they complement each other. Would this bead look better over here? Add beads, take beads off. You don't want your necklace to be too busy, too crowded. But don't allow it to be boring in its spareness, either. What is it that you really want to express with this piece of jewelry? Would it be truer if we used this bead?
Forget it. Let's just scrap this necklace and start over.
Forget it. Let's just scrap this necklace and start over.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
May 8, 2006
(1- Complete an exercise in the first AND third person. 2- Write about a significant date)
The day started too cold to bear, the fan spilling cool air over my legs, coaxing goosebumps to prick through the razor stubble. The alarm blared insistently, an awful piercing beep. I reached over, bleary-eyed, and smacked the "snooze" button. Not quite time to get up yet. Wait...I don't have to work today. My heart gave a little lurch. I wasn't going to have to line my car up with the rest, scan my badge and go up the ramp to the dank parking garage. I wouldn't have to walk past the frizzy-haired townies in Kmart sweaters as they cackled and blew out cigarette smoke. I wouldn't have to tiptoe over the grey Berber carpet, sneaking past my supervisor's cube on my way to the restroom. I was finished with that job, and the other one wouldn't start for another week.
It was May 8, and I had fully recovered from the celebrating that marked my exit from a job I first loved, then hated as it evolved from an outlet for my creativity to a loathsome exercise in frustration. I was getting married in exactly two months to my fantastic longtime boyfriend. The weather was warming, finally making good on New England's teasing promises of summer. Everything was great, except for that niggling little detail of the late period.
The day started too cold to bear, the fan spilling cool air over my legs, coaxing goosebumps to prick through the razor stubble. The alarm blared insistently, an awful piercing beep. I reached over, bleary-eyed, and smacked the "snooze" button. Not quite time to get up yet. Wait...I don't have to work today. My heart gave a little lurch. I wasn't going to have to line my car up with the rest, scan my badge and go up the ramp to the dank parking garage. I wouldn't have to walk past the frizzy-haired townies in Kmart sweaters as they cackled and blew out cigarette smoke. I wouldn't have to tiptoe over the grey Berber carpet, sneaking past my supervisor's cube on my way to the restroom. I was finished with that job, and the other one wouldn't start for another week.
It was May 8, and I had fully recovered from the celebrating that marked my exit from a job I first loved, then hated as it evolved from an outlet for my creativity to a loathsome exercise in frustration. I was getting married in exactly two months to my fantastic longtime boyfriend. The weather was warming, finally making good on New England's teasing promises of summer. Everything was great, except for that niggling little detail of the late period.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Spark word - "Flirting"
Rebecca shoved the last of her textbooks into her faded L.L. Bean backpack, brushed some impudent stray hairs out of her mouth, and shuffled down the hall. Late for chemistry again, she thought, and I'm going to be stuck sitting next to Ed.
There were no assigned seats in Mr. Icarie's chemistry I class. The students sat four to a table, each one with its own natural gas connection and water tap placed squarely in its center for them to share. Whoever sat next to you was your partner for that day, and most students in the class had wised up and started making sure to arrive early so they could partner up with friends (or at least someone cute, or cool, or with the IQ of a colobus monkey..., Rebecca thought bitterly.) Whoever arrived last was almost always partnered with Ed.
Rebecca's feet slap-slapped against the linoleum in the hallway as she walked at a brisk clip (but not fast enough to appear uncool) towards the lab. Why, oh why can't people get out of the way? Slow-moving freshman, skanky burnouts loitering by their lockers, emo kids shuffling to the bathroom with quasi-tortured expressions and secret stashes of cigarettes buried in their pencil cases...get OUT of the WAY!
Almost there, almost there....around the corner and through the door, and she was there, and there was still another empty seat! Rebecca's shoulders had just started to relax under the weight of her backpack as she breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Icarie cleared his throat. "Rebecca," he began, "Christina and Amber are out today, so I'll need you to partner with Ed."
Rebecca felt the air rush out of the balloon of hope in her chest. Ed! Stupid Ed! What had she done to deserve that? She slumped in defeat and walked sourly to the seat in the corner, feeling the eyes of her classmates burning into her as she passed. Ed! As if she didn't have enough to worry about.
Rebecca shoved the last of her textbooks into her faded L.L. Bean backpack, brushed some impudent stray hairs out of her mouth, and shuffled down the hall. Late for chemistry again, she thought, and I'm going to be stuck sitting next to Ed.
There were no assigned seats in Mr. Icarie's chemistry I class. The students sat four to a table, each one with its own natural gas connection and water tap placed squarely in its center for them to share. Whoever sat next to you was your partner for that day, and most students in the class had wised up and started making sure to arrive early so they could partner up with friends (or at least someone cute, or cool, or with the IQ of a colobus monkey..., Rebecca thought bitterly.) Whoever arrived last was almost always partnered with Ed.
Rebecca's feet slap-slapped against the linoleum in the hallway as she walked at a brisk clip (but not fast enough to appear uncool) towards the lab. Why, oh why can't people get out of the way? Slow-moving freshman, skanky burnouts loitering by their lockers, emo kids shuffling to the bathroom with quasi-tortured expressions and secret stashes of cigarettes buried in their pencil cases...get OUT of the WAY!
Almost there, almost there....around the corner and through the door, and she was there, and there was still another empty seat! Rebecca's shoulders had just started to relax under the weight of her backpack as she breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Icarie cleared his throat. "Rebecca," he began, "Christina and Amber are out today, so I'll need you to partner with Ed."
Rebecca felt the air rush out of the balloon of hope in her chest. Ed! Stupid Ed! What had she done to deserve that? She slumped in defeat and walked sourly to the seat in the corner, feeling the eyes of her classmates burning into her as she passed. Ed! As if she didn't have enough to worry about.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Tell a Story in the Form of a Love Letter
My Dearest Madeline,
How long has it been since I've left? I can scarcely remember. it seems like it must have been a million years ago that we walked together in Central Park. Was it really only last fall? I still remember the way my coat, long and sleek and black as night, billowed around my ankles as we skipped along. Your shoes made such a jolly tap-tap on the walkway!
Things are different now, where I am is different. The man I am living with does not skip, nor would he ever think of allowing his shoes to sing gaily the way yours so often would. No, he is stoic and quiet and solemn. But don't worry, he is kind and gentle, and I know I hold a special place in his heart even if he doesn't frolic with me the way that you did. In the evenings when he comes home from work, I'll often sit with my head in his lap, and he'll idly stroke my hair. Such love! Such bliss! But never quite the way it was with you.
Oh Madeline, Madeline. It makes me quiver with misery that we ever could have allowed someone to come between us. Remember how you would read to me from those thick volumes on cold winter nights? We'd burrow into the blankets on your bed and lay together till the sun came up. Sharing your bed, Madeline, was a thing of more pleasure than I ever could have imagined. Your bed was for us and us alone, till he came into the picture. And to think that I believed you when you introduced him as your "friend".
No friend of mine, he. For now it's him lying with you in happy slumber on the bed, and I sleep alone.
Please don't take that to mean that I'm angry with you, dear Madeline nothing could be further from the truth. He has bewitched you, I know that he has. I feared it would happen from the first time he looked at me with displeasure (when you were looking away) and started to change the subject to discuss his "allergies". I saw the sympathy on your face, and I wanted to say that I had allergies too, I wanted to talk about how my skin is affected with any change in my diet. But my mouth seemed frozen shut, I know now that I should have spoken up, for that was the beginning of the end of our love affair.
When your "friend" started to come by more and more often, I should have put a stop to it. I should have forbade you to invite him here, I should have explained that I needed you. But again, i couldn't seem to find the words. Even when the day came that you sat me down and told me that he was moving in, and that I needed to go, I just sat there sadly, unable to speak.
No more. I cannot get you out of my head, dear Madeline. And now I know that I made an enormous mistake in allowing our love to slip through my fingers. I know you said it would be easier if we didn't stay friends, so I've respected that and not contacted you. But I can remain silent no longer. I must tell you now that I love you, that I adore you to the very core of my being. I beg you, leave him. We belong together. My place is by your side. I long for your voice, your touch. I cannot go on without you. Madeline, please reconsider.
If you say no, I won't contact you again. But please, don't say no. I remain...
...forever your dog,
--Scout
How long has it been since I've left? I can scarcely remember. it seems like it must have been a million years ago that we walked together in Central Park. Was it really only last fall? I still remember the way my coat, long and sleek and black as night, billowed around my ankles as we skipped along. Your shoes made such a jolly tap-tap on the walkway!
Things are different now, where I am is different. The man I am living with does not skip, nor would he ever think of allowing his shoes to sing gaily the way yours so often would. No, he is stoic and quiet and solemn. But don't worry, he is kind and gentle, and I know I hold a special place in his heart even if he doesn't frolic with me the way that you did. In the evenings when he comes home from work, I'll often sit with my head in his lap, and he'll idly stroke my hair. Such love! Such bliss! But never quite the way it was with you.
Oh Madeline, Madeline. It makes me quiver with misery that we ever could have allowed someone to come between us. Remember how you would read to me from those thick volumes on cold winter nights? We'd burrow into the blankets on your bed and lay together till the sun came up. Sharing your bed, Madeline, was a thing of more pleasure than I ever could have imagined. Your bed was for us and us alone, till he came into the picture. And to think that I believed you when you introduced him as your "friend".
No friend of mine, he. For now it's him lying with you in happy slumber on the bed, and I sleep alone.
Please don't take that to mean that I'm angry with you, dear Madeline nothing could be further from the truth. He has bewitched you, I know that he has. I feared it would happen from the first time he looked at me with displeasure (when you were looking away) and started to change the subject to discuss his "allergies". I saw the sympathy on your face, and I wanted to say that I had allergies too, I wanted to talk about how my skin is affected with any change in my diet. But my mouth seemed frozen shut, I know now that I should have spoken up, for that was the beginning of the end of our love affair.
When your "friend" started to come by more and more often, I should have put a stop to it. I should have forbade you to invite him here, I should have explained that I needed you. But again, i couldn't seem to find the words. Even when the day came that you sat me down and told me that he was moving in, and that I needed to go, I just sat there sadly, unable to speak.
No more. I cannot get you out of my head, dear Madeline. And now I know that I made an enormous mistake in allowing our love to slip through my fingers. I know you said it would be easier if we didn't stay friends, so I've respected that and not contacted you. But I can remain silent no longer. I must tell you now that I love you, that I adore you to the very core of my being. I beg you, leave him. We belong together. My place is by your side. I long for your voice, your touch. I cannot go on without you. Madeline, please reconsider.
If you say no, I won't contact you again. But please, don't say no. I remain...
...forever your dog,
--Scout
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