Sneak Peeks by Louise Yeiser

Carlow College Color

“Close your eyes for a few minutes and think about this classroom,” Sean Hardie, our guest lecturer, said.  After several minutes of clock-ticking silence, he asked us to open our eyes and write, but I had already wandered off.

Stone―rough stone―encased in stone.  Walking on stone.  Hard stone on the winding stairwells, glistening with silver specks.  Up and twist around, up and twist around.  On the second landing sits a granite sculpture on a wooden pedestal of a round woman, holding a child.  At the top, I never know which way to go until I hear my classmates talking and laughing on my left.

Thank you to Carlow University, Pittsburgh and Carlow College, Ireland for the opportunity to study with such an exceptional and talented group of writers.

May your weekend be filled with laughter and mindful meandering!

  From Louise

Looking Up

I guess, after having received 3 rejection emails in a row and brooding about it for almost two weeks (complete with the wearing of black and the covering of mirrors and the stopping of all clocks in the house), it is worth reminding myself that one of my 6-sentence essays, Annual Art, made it into 6 Sentences Volume 1, which can be purchased on Amazon.com.  If only I had met the deadline for the other five pieces I wanted to submit for that publication.  If only I had understood the significance of numbers and days of the week, and distinguished them, one from another.  If only I had looked at my calendar once in awhile and actually grasped the meaning of the little boxes filled with my handwriting.  If only my mind had stopped memorizing a digit, like say a 5, and then magically morphed it into, like say a 6, all within a matter of hours.  Obviously, I am deadline-challenged and that is an indisputable fact; but I’m thinking that with a few minor adjustments, such as a massive rewiring of the brain, I could learn to overcome it.  And thus, this morning, I am finally beginning to feel a glimmer of hope.  Then Long Story Short came along and decided to spur the glimmer along by informing me that one of my pieces, Forget Me Not, has been accepted for their June edition, complete with a complimentary press release that I can send to all my local newspapers and TV stations, which is just what I needed, since all the media of Pittsburgh and the surrounding areas are waiting on pins and needles to learn of my every move.  Won’t they be surprised to discover that as soon as one of my essays disappears from Flashquake at the end of May, another re-appears on Long Story Short for the month of June?  Life is lookin’ pretty good at the moment.  Yes, it is.  Except...oh, my God, what will I do about July?  I mustn't go there, I simply mustn't.  It ruins my happy little zen space I've got going on here.

Have a great weekend and do your best to stay in the moment!

From Louise

Lightbulb!

Every time I set out to write a new blog, I find myself wondering why I never have any new material.  I think I've been reworking the same old stuff over and over for weeks now, maybe months.  I know I have a good excuse, since I'm getting ready to graduate and getting ready to pursue further study in Ireland this summer and have about hundred jillion books about Ireland to read and about a thousand jillion more books to read that were written by Irish authors in Irish settings.  I suppose it would help if I actually wrote something in my journal now and then, instead of digging up rejects from the corners of my computer's basement and reworking them.  Oh, the challenge of breathing some semblance of life back into dead scrolls.  I may love the rewrite, but it keeps me from producing anything new.  And today, on the brink of graduation, with spring going nuts outside my window, blossoming here, bursting out there, I'm all about new.  Maybe this is the reason my "Memoir Writing" instructor required three pages in our journal for every day of the term last fall.  He was trying to cultivate healthy writing habits, yes?  Oh.  I get it.

Have a terrific weekend and may you discover something fresh and new while you're having it!

From Louise

Why I Love School

Juggling armloads of books and papers, we stepped from the lobby and piled into the parking garage elevator to go down to lower level 2.  The three girls and their tall, male companion were engrossed in conversation.  They were discussing someone’s performance in a class or a job.  Maybe an oral presentation of some kind?  This is not surprising, since we University of Pittsburgh students are coming up on finals, which some professors waive in favor of end-of-term projects due during the last weeks of class.  Alas, it is once again that sink-or-swim, performance-eval time of year.

“He did a really awesome job,” girl no. 1 said.  They all stood facing the elevator door, squinting up at the numbers, which were slow like the elevator was, but not as creaky.

“God, he, like, always does.  He’s really cool,” opined girl no. 2.  Rigorous head nodding ensued.

“And he’s, like, really nice to look at too,” girl no. 3 chimed in.

"Yeah, but he’s married,” said girl no. 2, which brought about a vast array of grimaces, head shakes and frowns.  The guy in the back swayed, as if he had shifted his weight onto the other leg.

“God.  They, like, all are,” said girl no. 1, which resulted in titters and renewed head-shaking.

“Well, I’m not,” the guy in the back of the elevator finally chimed in.  I was hopeful for him, since I thought he was cute.   "I'm not married," he said.

At this, girl no. 2 leaned against the side wall of the elevator, looked directly at me through thick, brown glasses, and then at him, and said, “But you’re in a serious relationship; what do you want from us?”  She turned and rested her eyes directly on me with no hint of a smile.  Serious.  Even grave.  Then they all burst out laughing.

I laughed all the way to my car.  And that, my friends, is exactly why I love being a student at the University of Pittsburgh, despite the fact that I'm almost 60 years old.

Study well this weekend and have a good laugh or two in spite of it all!

From Louise

A Strange, Sunny End

Vacation.  Usually I detach―reflect, ponder, meditate―and I emerge with intricate lists of changes, resolutions, switched priorities.  But this vacation has been spent writing, rewriting, reading, icing and resting a back injury, meeting deadlines and making electronic submissions, and staying in touch with crises large and small back home and trying to absorb them.  A betrayal here, a shock there, a death, a terminal illness much too close, hospice.  It’s been life as usual, with its gains and losses, going a little heavy on the losses, but at least I've had the added benefit of a shoreline and pelicans and sandpipers and palm trees and waves and blue and bathing suits and dolphins and warmth and sand filled with shells and juicy, fresh fruit in the bottom drawer of the fridge that must be savored standing in the middle of the kitchen because I can't wait to walk all the way into the dining nook to take the first bite.  As usual in mid-March, Naples is hopping with vacationers and tourists.  I bump into them everywhere, red faced with their white straps etched into scarlet shoulders, hair tousled, new shades that hide their eyes, so I can't see where they're looking.  On second thought, maybe it has been a real vacation.  Just a different sort.  Kind of uncomfortable and strange, but at least partly sunny.  I think I might be glad to be heading home today.  Naples vacation ending to a Pittsburgh spring beginning.

Good weekend to you.

      

From Louise

57 Ways to Agree with a Stranger

What does ketchup taste like?” asks a heavily accented woman’s voice.  Trying not to laugh or answer the question aloud, I lift the menu and study it intently.

“Well," and there is a long pause, "it tastes like ketchup, of course."  A man’s voice, muffled.  I am betting he has a mustache, but I am not going to turn around and stare at him to find out.

"Ketchup tastes like ketchup.  Of course!” I think.  "How could it be otherwise?"  I decide on the scrambled eggs as I glance at the full bottle of Heinz, lying upside down on my table next to the salt and pepper shakers with their shiny, silver tops.  I close my menu and motion to the server.  My flight leaves in less than an hour.

From Louise

P.S.  Have an agreeable weekend!

Well, What do you Know?

I've been the Ruler of the World since this summer, and didn't even know it.  Yesterday I googled my name to see what would pop up, only to discover that one of my SixSentences.com essays was used in a short story conference, held in July of 2007, sponsored by England's Edge Hill University.  Should I be honored to be studied or upset that someone used my piece without my permission?  Although it depends on what was said about my writing skill, I'm leaning toward honored.  I've been credited, so my work hasn't been stolen.  Just borrowed.  And my name is out there in a new way, like free advertising.  Kind of cool actually.  Check out the abstract on their website, or check the conference schedule here in the 10:45 to 11:45 slot, under Panel 2, or read the excerpt below:

Completing Narratives in Flash Fiction

Dr Paola Trimarco, The Open University

This paper examines how readers interpret and interact with flash fiction by completing the narratives in these extremely short stories. Specifically, I look at two pieces of writing, an untitled 6-word story by Graham Swift, which appeared in print in The Guardian, and 'Sparkles,' a 175-word story by Louise Yeiser, which appeared in the e-zine Six Sentences. An analysis of both stories suggests that readers employ pragmatic implicatures and make inferences from well-known social narratives. Moreover, I consider the role of other genres, such as riddles and blogs, used by readers in order to complete these narratives.

Wow.  I'm speechless, which doesn't happen often.   Okay, then.  Have a good weekend.

From Louise

A Cold and Rainy Nighttime Noel Wish

Have a Happy Holiday Weekend!

From Louise

My Annual Question: Whatever Happened to Thanksgiving?

My radio alarm woke me at 5 am.  I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard Kenny Loggins celebrating himself home, a song I associate with Christmas; and it isn’t even Thanksgiving yet.  But then again, why am I surprised?  Last night at the hardware store, where I went in search of a new mop, two boxes of Spic 'n Span powder, and a gallon of ammonia, there were huge, inflatable, moving, lit-from-the-inside, plastic Santas riding on motorcycles, coming down chimneys, and plopped in sleds pulled by a reindeer or two, lined up in messy rows in front of the store.  One cycle Santa was riding next to a white skeleton-faced Halloween specter with green hands, dressed in black robes and wearing goggles, on another motorcycle.  It’ s getting weird out there in Commercial Christmas Land.  When I walked into the store, I had to duck under the icicles and swoops of miniature lights suspended above my head, and negotiate my way around the pre-strung, well-lit Christmas trees and fake chimneys draped in gauze and glitter, loitering the lobby and turning it into an obstacle course.  I veered past the cash registers to be greeted by more bright holiday displays on the end-caps, sparkling wreaths, angels, snowmen, reindeer, holiday banners, more Christmas trees, all pre-strung and pre-lit in solid colors and multi-colors and white colors, and more and more and more Santas of all shapes and sizes, in all types of situations.  There were two shelves stuffed with crèches that contained bland, plastic forms of Jesus, Mary, Joseph, weary animals, and somewhere above the whole caboodle, a star.  Boxes of fake or real hay, God knows which, lined the floor under the crèches.  The Season of Stuff has begun.  I groan under the weight of it.

But let's go back to my 5 am awakening.  I arose from the dead an hour early to be sure I could fit everything into the day.  I need time to write, shower, drive to the dentist halfway across town to have a cavity filled at 8 am (joy to the world), and deliver my car to the detail shop by 10:30, since I’ve been carting drooling, shedding mastiffs around in it for weeks, plus on my last trip to Cincinnati, I foolishly ate some roasted peanuts in the shell (I repeat: in the shell) while I was driving, and the seat and mats of my car resemble something one would expect to see at the zoo, like the floor of an elephant’s pen, for example.  The car must be clean by 12:30, when I pick Ingeborg up for her runs to the grocery store, bank, and drugstore.  Then from 3 to 5 pm, I have a writer’s workshop at Pitt, and at 8 pm, I must be in my grownup clothes and in my seat at the Benedum Theater downtown to enjoy another superb performance by the Pittsburgh Opera, Elixer of Love.  Speaking of downtown, isn’t this Pittsburgh’s Light-Up Night?  Conveniently timed before Thanksgiving?  Which brings me back to my original question: whatever happened to Thanksgiving?  Maybe, in light of what the Commercial Christmas Land people have done to Christmas, it's best that they've overlooked Thanksgiving, which makes it the one and only holiday we can have all to ourselves.

Enjoy your post-Halloween, pre-Thanksgiving, Commercial Christmas Land, Season of Stuff weekend, and have a happy New Year.

From Louise

There's Something Boring On Around Here, Around Here

I practically ran through the door.  The other students, with bored poker faces firmly in place, glanced up from papers and notebooks, to watch me choose a seat, sit, fling my purse over the chair-back, drop my umbrella to the floor, struggle out of my jacket, and fumble around for my pen.  A moment later, Professor Elm banged noisily through the door, and assumed his teacher’s place in the front.  He sat and smiled at us, and we all looked at one another for a few minutes.

“You all look bored today,” Professor Elm said.

“So what else is new?” I thought.

“I’m bored today,” Professor Elm said.  I sat up in my seat.  Professor Elm was never bored.  Always excited, always ready to throw a new writing challenge our way, something he did with unabashed glee, I had never seen him anything other than on-the-edge-of-his-seat eager to delve further in, or move joyfully on, to the next adventurous idea that was always waiting for him to explore with his whole heart.  The sluggishness of our class did nothing to dampen his spirit, which I had assumed was impenetrable.

"What is it?  About the 8th week of school?” he asked.  The students nodded, which surprised me.  Normally, they were quite reluctant to respond, especially if it involved speaking out loud, so Professor Elm had to point his finger and select some poor victim to answer a question, if he entertained any hope of student participation in class discussions.

“This is around that time in the term when I tend to call off class because I’m bored.”  I looked around me.  All eyes were glued to him.  “Don’t take it personally.  It has nothing to do with you guys.  It’s just that right about now, I get tired of class and I get sick of looking at people all day long, and when this happens, I have been known to spontaneously cancel a class.”

"Hear!  Hear!”  I thought.

Professor Elm expressed very nicely how I feel today, not how I feel about his class, or about my writing, or about my other activities, but how I feel about today.  I’m bored, I’m tired, and I don’t want to do anything.  I’m sick of looking at people, I’m sick of talking to them, and I’m sick of moving around among them.  It’s a good time for me to cancel the day, in the same way Professor Elm talked of canceling his class.  I therefore issue the following proclamation:

This day (or what’s left of it), Friday, October 26, is hereby canceled.

I will change into my pj's and spend the rest of the afternoon, evening, and night in front of my television, watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns and old movies with my mastiffs, eating Hershey kisses, and doing my nails, and I will continue life as usual, starting tomorrow, first thing.

That is all.  I’m done, and I thank you.

And by the way, have a great weekend.

From Louise

On my Way to Charleston

The last person I dated was a salt-and-peppered Southern gentleman with a smooth tongue and charm that could be sliced any which way you pleased and still retain its essence.  We ended; but in my typical fashion, I began a love affair with his hometown, Charleston WV, a town captured by minor league baseball, and colored with the steady, languid flow of the Kanawha River that holds its stately homes, complete with piers and docks that stretch out over the water, and lush, green parks with strolling bands and picnickers.  Nearby is the quaint downtown, sprinkled with sparkly treasures like Taylor’s Books and an ice cream parlor specializing in homemade ice cream across Capitol street, which is loaded with stately trees whose arms open to provide an undulating, rustling canopy, a sheltered forest glen that is ready to receive its fair share of passersby, families, and tourists.  Power Baseball is no less engaging, home of the Toastman, whom I call Mr. Toast, a fan like no other.  Each Power game is filled with the cheers and burnt toast (à la Mr. Toast), dancing, singing, relay races, give-aways, guessing games and puzzles, and jumping (to Van Halen’s Jump, of course), while the videotaped images of screaming, bouncing heads and waving arms fly straight to the giant scoreboard looming over the outfield.  Power baseball is baseball at its very, very best―as old-fashioned and American as hot dogs and apple pie, with its fans of all shapes, ages, and sizes, who carry mitts, smiles, hats, and $1 beers.  I leave in a few hours for my third annual pilgrimage (for 2005, click here and 2006, here), and can hardly wait.  By going, I tap into a piece of Americana that is grander and more pervasive than Power Park could ever be.  I can hear my most childlike voice singing to my heart the words to the great song that I have known and loved forever: “Take me out to the ballgame!”  And by the way, please pass the peanuts and Cracker Jack.

Detour

Dashing out the door with nothing droll, dark, or deep to say.  So without further adieu or ado or a do or a doo doo, or whatever, I wish you a dudically delightful weekend.

From Louise

Bag a Brag

I am a woman of many talents.  Take this one, for example.

Or not.

Whatever.

At any rate, have a yummy weekend.

From Louise

By Minute

Yesterday I went to the gym to work out, armed and loaded with my i-Pod that was finally filled with my favorite songs that I've spent months downloading from my CD collection and off the internet.  This may not have been such a great idea because once I started listening, I began to tune out the rest of the world, and I didn’t want to unplug long enough to leave the treadmill and go to the weight room the way I was supposed to; so I missed the whole muscle-building thing, a vital part of ongoing health-care maintenance, in my opinion.  It seems that I have some issues with my music.  For example. . . .

Song: Minute By Minute by the Doobie Brothers.

Reaction: an audible “Awww” followed by a sigh, weak knees, a faraway look, and a wistful smile.

Reason: Years ago, I went to a live performance of Count Basie & his orchestra; and since I was the fortunate daughter of one of the event organizers, I had been seated at the first table, not more than four feet away from the sax section and their music stands, with the late, great Count himself at his piano front and left, and Freddie Green at his side on the guitar.  That night they were working with a new vocalist, who was about my age and extremely handsome (did I mention that he was COUNT BASIE's vocalist and that he was extremely handsome?), and they were preparing the audience to sit back and enjoy a brand, new arrangement of Minute By Minute for the brand, new vocalist.  I already loved that song, so I could hardly wait.

Beginning with the very first note, the singer turned his eyes on me, singling me out of the noisy crowd, and sang straight to me for the rest of the song―and I mean up-close and personal―suggestive, longing, full frontal, unwavering, direct eye contact singing-to-me, standing so close that I had to lean back and tilt my chin way up to see him.  After a few moments of this, the rest of the world disappeared into a whirlpool and ceased to exist, including the band that was practically blasting into my face and my parents who sat on either side of me.  I felt each word zing through my body, punching me here and warming me there, raising the hair on my arms, and ending in waves of tickles on the back of my neck.  I was mesmerized.  I couldn’t have looked away even if I had tried.  I didn’t.  I heard my mother say, “Weasie, he’s singing to you!”  I didn’t answer her.  I couldn’t.

30 years later, I can be walking on a treadmill in a smelly gym, trying to keep my middle-aged body in shape and watching the world news on my choice of no less than 6 TV monitors lining the wall around the indoor track, and all I have to do is hear the first bar of the Doobie Brothers’ intro, as it smooths out to the beat, and I can still turn into a quivering mass of jello (the instant kind, probably peach), and I'm young again, and so are my parents and Count Basie who were with me in the spotlight, and I'm surprised by a sweet bouquet of lyric and melody, delivered as a love song from a good-looking stranger of so long ago, who continues to play in my mind in any way my imagination wants.  No wonder I didn't want to turn it off and go lift weights.  Who would?

Yes, I guess I do have issues with my music.  I only hope that your issues are every bit as pleasant, and can pave your way to a terrific weekend.

From Louise

A Nod and A Link

Instead of my regular (and often late) Friday List blogging and my Friday Non-List blogging, I decided to write something entirely different.  Actually all I did was edit it, but regardless, I placed it right here.

Happy reading, happy weekend!

From Louise

The "F" Word

Sometimes I just want to sit in one spot, preferably a comfy one, and do nothing except lose myself in thought.  This morning is not one of those mornings.  Instead, I can picture myself tearing about the house, snatching clean dishes from their drying spot on the dishtowel spread out on the kitchen counter and plopping them into their corresponding cupboards, grabbing my freshly laundered blue jeans from the washer and flinging them into the dryer along with a sheet of yummy-smelling fabric softener, fidgeting at my rusty aluminum cafe table in the sun-room and handwriting dog-and-cat-care instructions for the pet sitter who will be in and out of my house all weekend, hurling myself into the black task chair in front of my computer to finish up a 3-page assignment due online Sunday night that I won’t have time to do this weekend because I’m leaving for Cincinnati straight from my Myth class that gets out at 2:00 pm, throwing my clothes, barely folded, into a suitcase, including one outfit that’s dressier than my normal uniform that consists of blue jeans, a long-sleeved tee shirt, sweater, and either comfy shoes or boots, skimming through one of the three 32-page articles about the Ancient Near East that I was supposed to study for my Myth class today, and gunning my car out of the Pitt parking lot under the Sailor’s and Soldier’s Building to zoom down I-79 South at 90 miles per hour, heading toward my father’s and stepmom’s house.  Too much to do, not enough time.  But I do this every year.  One minute I return home from Naples, the next minute I start back to school, and then I turn around and run off to Cincinnati to celebrate my stepmom’s and my birthdays that are on January 10 and 11.  At the end of month, I depart to Reading, PA for my regularly scheduled quarterly meetings at Caron, but at least I’ve got two weeks nestled in there to catch my breath, unpack my suitcase, and say hello to my dogs who can’t remember what I look like.  Yikes.  Since I’ve been on this January schedule for the last five years, I haven’t been able to take my Christmas decorations down much before Valentine’s Day.  I suppose this year could be a first, but it's not going to happen today, judging by the frazzle I feel this morning.  Frazzled does not equal efficient.  Frazzled means I walk into a room, forget why I walked into it, and then when I remember, realize that I had put down whatever it was that was once in my hand, which was a crucial component to whatever reason it was that I walked into the room in the first place.  See what I mean?  Frazzled.  So in conclusion, I would have to say that sitting in one place this morning and losing myself in thought is pretty much out of the question.  However, for you there is still hope.  I hope you have a fun, relaxing weekend.  And if you haven’t taken down your holiday decorations yet, please remove one and pack it away for me!

From Louise

In the Wild

I'm busy, and will be back soon, I promise.  In the meantime, you can amuse yourself with one of my faves, Dogs Gone Wild from Rob at Unspace, right here.  I dare you to not laugh.

Have a wild and crazy weekend!

From Louise

The Exquisite Taste of Brangelina

Oh, my God.  Have you heard the news?  For Brad’s birthday, Angelina gave him a trip to my state, beautiful Pennsylvania, to the Mill Run masterpiece of Frank Lloyd Wright, Fallingwater.  When the Western Pennsylvania Conservancy finally spilled the beans about the affair, this is what they had to say:

"He’s so hard to buy for,” Jolie told Fallingwater’s staff members during their visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s masterwork.

"Brad said he had wanted to experience Fallingwater ever since he took an architectural history course in college,” Fallingwater’s Curator of Education Cara Armstrong said.  “He and I talked quite a bit about design and art.  He was incredibly well informed about architecture.”

The couple took a two-hour private focused tour of Fallingwater, led by Armstrong, who described the couple as “very gracious and very engaged in the house.  As we say in the midwest, you could tell their mothers raised them right.”

"Brad said he had a visual sense of Fallingwater but experiencing it in person, hearing the sound of the waterfall cascading under the house and smelling the wood from the fireplace, was better than anything he could have imagined,” Armstrong said.  During their visit, both Pitt and Jolie commented on the beauty of the winter landscape of the Laurel Highlands, where Fallingwater is located.

After the tour, Angelina had arranged to have champagne and caviar sent in, which the couple shared in a private birthday celebration in Fallingwater’s living room.  Afterward, they invited the staff to join them and encouraged them to take the “snacks” home.

Arrangements for this intimate birthday celebration began about a week before Thanksgiving when staff at Fallingwater received a call from Jolie’s personal assistant in Asia.  The assistant was reluctant to provide the names of the couple but relented when Fallingwater Event Coordinator Edna King assured her she would be discreet.

This is the appropriate moment for me to come up with a snide, funny, or brilliant comment―some punchline or conclusion to shed light on the remarkable characters of the Brangelina team, or the natural, awe-inspiring wonder of my home state―and all I can think of is, this has to be a first.  I'll bet anyone 10 bucks that no one in the history of our planet has ever left Asia before, to fly halfway around the world through stormy, snowy weather to come spend the afternoon in Pennsylvania.  Am I right, or am I right?

Enjoy this wintry weekend.

From Louise

FlipFlopping Away

Who said flipflopping was a bad thing?  Isn’t that sort of what pendulums do to maintain balance and to keep time marching on?  For years now, the Republicans have acted, and the Dems have sat back and bitched and complained.  Now the Dems have taken control, so they must come up with some action other than bitching and complaining, which may be quite challenging since they’ve got a nice rhythm going, while the Reps recede into the background to take up the hew and cry.  I think bitching and complaining is the preferable position because it doesn’t require as much work as the action position, and it gets the most press coverage, as long as it’s liberal bitching and complaining, and not conservative bitching and complaining.  It’s sort of like working, working, working, and then embarking on an all-expenses-paid vacation.  Or struggling, struggling, struggling in a football game, and getting a free timeout to strategize and regroup.  Plus, I hate to admit it, but bitching and complaining is pretty fun.  If you do it with gusto, and aim it toward the right audience, it’s a no-lose situation.  You do nothing, while someone else makes all the mistakes that you get to scrutinize and condemn.  Simple!  You can do it in your sleep, or in front of the TV, or even in your pajamas.  Everyone’s tasks in life should be so easy.  Anyway, once the Dems have had a little time to screw it up, the voters will get ticked off again and vote the Reps back in, making the phenomenon of flipflopping the best natural check-and-balance that our country’s government could possibly have.  Although I think that if we could get out of the hard right and the hard left corners, and stay joyfully in the give-and-take, reasonable, able-to-agree-on-something middle, such drastic shifts of power would be unnecessary.

This weekend, be nice to your fellow man.  Hug a grieving Republican today and welcome him to the fun side.

From Louise

My Mother's Trunk

The old wooden trunk, held closed with thick, leather straps and lined with cedar, had been given to me by my mother, who got it from her mother, and perhaps even her mother’s mother.  My mother, who used to make quilts of white and lavender, pink and beige, lemon and green, kept her quilting pieces in that chest, whose sides were lined with sweet cedar.  Even though mom has been gone for almost 20 years, I know that whenever I open the chest to see the snatches of colors in their crisp, geometric shapes, I will be flooded with memory, exactly the way I am flooded with the sweet smell of cedar, and that for a quick piece of a moment, I can step back to yesterday.

Monkeying Around

Tender behind the bar

Love me true

Margaritas and palm trees

Green and brown

Tommy Bahama Naples

Silken fancies winking from hangers

Fans whirling over tableheads

Fast, slow, in between

Soft lights do wonders

for people’s skin

Their eyes sparkle and

their lips glisten

Even before they’ve sipped their

first strawberry daiquiri.

I would like to see a monkey bound in

Hop from table to table

Laughing, twirling, saying hello

Tipping its red cap

Bowing or curtsying, depending on

whether it’s a

boy or a girl.  (of course)

“Hello there, monkey,” say I, “Hello!”

“Must go.  Must go,” the monkey replies.

“People need me.”  Faces

watching, laughing, waving, weaving.

“So many people, so little time.”

“No, little monkey.  No, no!” I cry.

"Bad words! That’s what people

say, not primates!”

May your weekend be filled with mischief and silliness; and if endings are imminent, may they be smoother than the one I've chosen here.

From Louise

My Luxury Vacation

“Welcome to Naples,” I thought to myself, as I carefully stepped around the dried, upturned carcasses of several 2” long cockroaches.  On the desk, I found a note that read, “Your residence was serviced today by Bugs-R-Us.  Tech: Alex.”

"No kidding.  Really?” I thought, heading for the utility closet for a broom and a dustpan.  More dead cockroaches.  The jarring crunch beneath my foot told me that I had missed one, or scored a direct hit, depending on your point of view.  I found the sound rather comforting, since it emphasized the unmistakable, undeniable fact that they were indeed dead.  I like them much better that way.  They’re so much easier to manage.

It was deep twilight, and I had arrived at my dad’s Naples apartment, to find it filled with motionless reminders that life is life, whether I’m on vacation or not.  After I removed the bodies, scattering them into the salty wind over the stiff grass outside the front door, I wandered back inside and headed toward the kitchen to see if I needed any groceries for the morning, hoping that I could spend the rest of the evening in.  It was at that moment that I saw them.  Droppings.  Dark brown, with one pointed end.  Larger than roach droppings, larger than mouse droppings.  I moved closer to examine the evidence.  There were no mice in Southwest Florida.  A rat?  Oh, God.  A rat?  With a paper towel, I knocked the debris to the floor and cleaned the counter with 409 before I checked inside the fridge.  There was plenty of coffee and creamer, but I didn't want to set up the coffemaker the way I usually did before bed, preferring to retreat from the kitchen altogether.  I didn’t want to get trapped with an unknown entity inside the narrow space, hemmed in by appliances and yellow, wooden cabinets.  As long as it was nighttime, any clandestine lurker could claim the entire room as its rightful domain with no argument from me.  None whatsoever.

I unpacked both my suitcases and organized my week’s worth of this and that, even though I was nervous about opening doors and drawers, throwing the room’s lamp light into dark, quiet corners.  I wasn’t sure what would fly out at me, or sit like a lump, blinking, startled, before scrambling frantically away.  “They’re dead,” I reminded myself, as I hung my belt on the hook inside the bedroom closet.  “They’re all dead.”  But I was thinking about the larger droppings, which made their tidy trail across the kitchen counter, before falling off the edge onto the floor and vanishing into the wall.  “Does bug spray kill rats too?” I wondered, folding my favorite Danskin cotton shorts and tucking them into the second bureau drawer.  God, I hoped so.

I slept with the lights on, and was thrilled to wake up to daylight pouring into the apartment.  “The apartment is mine,” I gloated, leaping happily out of bed, going straight for the kitchen, to pour water into the coffee carafe.  “Let the coffee brewing begin!”  A quick inspection produced no more telltale tracks, droppings, bodies, or attempts by the universe to convince me that this was a vacation gone terribly awry.

So here I am.  On vacation.  A 4th of July week-long escape to an empty, still, very hot Naples, Florida.  Whatever happens, happens.  Whatever I find, I find.  I intend to enjoy my vacation, roaches, rats, and all.

Coming Soon to A Blog Near You*

*   to this one right here, actually.

I don't have time to post anything awe-inspiring, although I've had plenty of time to write stuff―it's just that I've been writing it for other places, like publishers and contests and "A Good Look at Mastiffs" and TypePad's Help Page, and stuff like that.

So, since I have around 70 readers a day who probably stumble on me by accident and at least one regular reader a day, I thought I would let you know that I've been busy because I'm behind in understanding my homework and reading assignments.  I'm not actually behind at school, I just don't know what my professor is talking about right now, and I have been wasting spending time working on that.

Long story short:  what is coming?  Lots of funky writing (you get to decide for yourself what funky means because in this instance, I don't know) and at least one new photo album.  But first I have to finish editing one of my photo albums in "A Good Look at Mastiffs", so please be patient.  I promise I will do something at least mildly entertaining for you at some point over the weekend.  That's what I'm shooting for, how 'bout you?  Whatever it is, have a great weekend.