(fiction posting -- I'm a writer; it's allowed)
Scott No. 479 found out that he was capable of harboring great joy and great malice simultaneously. The thought crossed Scott No. 479’s mind that perhaps harboring both these emotions at once was not healthy. Or at least not something that a normal, well adjusted adult should do.
Scott No. 479 didn’t trust himself to speak so he just nodded. Nodded. Tried to keep eye contact and rubbed his hands together as a means of keeping himself from grinning like a fool. He had an image of a miniature Scott No. 479 inside his head doing a jig complete with dancing and chanting along the lines of “She’s gone! She’s gone! She’s really gone! The Twit from work is really gone!” After which the miniature Scott No. 479 broke into the running man complete with “booya” noises.
The Twit was speaking over the shouting and dancing inside Scott No. 479’s head. “As it turns out, I’m resigning. But they’re going to hire someone on for my position because you have that project coming up that you’ll need help with.”
The miniature Scott No. 479 stopped in mid washing-machine to point and yell indignantly. “I don’t need help with that project. I barely needed your help with this project. The answer is no, you turd, no, they won’t hire someone to help me; they’ll hire someone so that I can train them to take my job when I graduate. As I was supposed to be training you before you proved untrainable. Turd.” The miniature Scott No. 479 seriously considered spitting but thought better of it as he wasn’t sure he could do it without embarrassing himself.
“So I wish you well with that.” The Twit’s voice went up at the end as if she was asking Scott No. 479 some sort of question as if there was some sort of appropriate response he could give her.
“F--- that,” was the response from the miniature Scott No. 479. “Too bad you didn’t wish me well while you were still working here. Maybe that way I wouldn’t have had to do your shit as well as mine so that we would make the deadline.”
Scott No. 479 decided that he did not give a flying rat’s ass as to whether or not he was well adjusted so long as it didn’t effect his current part time employment, his GPA or his golf swing. Scott No. 479 made a mental note to learn to play golf in order to measure the latter of those three indicators.
For the first time in this conversation Scott No. 479 opened his mouth to speak. “So I guess I’ll see you around campus.”
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Professions
<>James Tate:
"As a child I was exasperated by the question: 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' Here you are, six years old, you know, trying to put together this little model airplane, and they say, 'What are you going to be?' I just wanted to say, 'I'm going to be seven. Next year I'm going to be eight. Leave me alone ... Whatever it is I'm going to be, let it be a surprise. Or I'd rather be nothing at all. And if you keep asking me this I'm probably just going to be a guy who avoids interviews.'
"The question persisted, but at the age of seven I started getting cagey and hit on an answer that got these people off my back. I told them I was going to be a writer, and that silenced them right away. And I went back to kicking my pet squirrel."
I like this because of it's irreverence -- you should see my seminar project then you'll understand how I've found a kindred spirit in Tate. Hell, even the crack-baby short story I did for Chiarella's workshop last fall possesses that same off the wall, too harsh but slightly funny quality.
... Heithouse says that the answer that shuts people up isn't a writer, it's a lawyer, because it sounds respectable. Well ya wanna know what? This past semester English Lit/Writing people ask me what I'm going to do come May and I tell them Law School and they all look at me with sad little faces and say "so you don't want to be a writer?" ... Um, no, I just thought law school would be a hoot, a good place to set my first novel. I say I'm going to law school and then conversation doesn't end there sadly. I hate to burst your bubble but it doesn't. I get the "what are you going to do with that?" question (where the cynical part of myself says it's because I'm female that they can't come up with that answer all by themselves). This question is that much harder to answer than the more direct question of "what area are you interested in?" which is easier because I just tell them international law and I'm done with that conversation because practically no one knows international lawyers because they don't do divorces. Ew, civil law, not even going to go there. But what do I want to do once I'm a lawyer? Practice law? I'll have loans to pay off so yes. Be a trial lawyer? Hell no. Work in politics? There's an answer no one likes to hear. ... I hate that look they give you. That "you were such a nice girl until you said that" look.
"As a child I was exasperated by the question: 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' Here you are, six years old, you know, trying to put together this little model airplane, and they say, 'What are you going to be?' I just wanted to say, 'I'm going to be seven. Next year I'm going to be eight. Leave me alone ... Whatever it is I'm going to be, let it be a surprise. Or I'd rather be nothing at all. And if you keep asking me this I'm probably just going to be a guy who avoids interviews.'
"The question persisted, but at the age of seven I started getting cagey and hit on an answer that got these people off my back. I told them I was going to be a writer, and that silenced them right away. And I went back to kicking my pet squirrel."
I like this because of it's irreverence -- you should see my seminar project then you'll understand how I've found a kindred spirit in Tate. Hell, even the crack-baby short story I did for Chiarella's workshop last fall possesses that same off the wall, too harsh but slightly funny quality.
... Heithouse says that the answer that shuts people up isn't a writer, it's a lawyer, because it sounds respectable. Well ya wanna know what? This past semester English Lit/Writing people ask me what I'm going to do come May and I tell them Law School and they all look at me with sad little faces and say "so you don't want to be a writer?" ... Um, no, I just thought law school would be a hoot, a good place to set my first novel. I say I'm going to law school and then conversation doesn't end there sadly. I hate to burst your bubble but it doesn't. I get the "what are you going to do with that?" question (where the cynical part of myself says it's because I'm female that they can't come up with that answer all by themselves). This question is that much harder to answer than the more direct question of "what area are you interested in?" which is easier because I just tell them international law and I'm done with that conversation because practically no one knows international lawyers because they don't do divorces. Ew, civil law, not even going to go there. But what do I want to do once I'm a lawyer? Practice law? I'll have loans to pay off so yes. Be a trial lawyer? Hell no. Work in politics? There's an answer no one likes to hear. ... I hate that look they give you. That "you were such a nice girl until you said that" look.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Scott No. 53
(fiction posting -- I'm a writer; it's allowed)
From an early age Scott No. 53 knew he wanted to be an only child. His parents, however, did not consult him when they had his brother thirteen months later. Old enough to walk and wandering around the kitchen Scott No. 53 managed to get a hold of a long handled meat fork, and carried it over to the other end of the kitchen where the baby bassinet was set up holding the only sibling he had to contend with at the time. His mother turned around horrified to see Scott No. 53 blindly poking the meat fork into the baby basinet.
Scott No. 53 still contends that life would have been easier if they had stopped after him. Instead they had five more. His attempt to remedy the situation with a meat fork was unsuccessful.
About seventeen years later Scott No. 53 and first brother were fist fighting about something. This started in the kitchen, and lead out of the kitchen, and into the living room and then they fell in the coat closet. The whole time their 4’10” mother was beating them indiscriminately with a broom yelling: “Stop it! Get off of him! Stop it!” Ten year old little sister was following their mother around crying buckets of tears, certain that one of them was going to kill the other and if that failed their mom was going to kill them both with the broom.
In retrospect little sister claimed it was a very traumatic experience for her. Scott No. 53 just nodded at her remark and repeated his request to be an only child which he has now missed by forty-some years.
From an early age Scott No. 53 knew he wanted to be an only child. His parents, however, did not consult him when they had his brother thirteen months later. Old enough to walk and wandering around the kitchen Scott No. 53 managed to get a hold of a long handled meat fork, and carried it over to the other end of the kitchen where the baby bassinet was set up holding the only sibling he had to contend with at the time. His mother turned around horrified to see Scott No. 53 blindly poking the meat fork into the baby basinet.
Scott No. 53 still contends that life would have been easier if they had stopped after him. Instead they had five more. His attempt to remedy the situation with a meat fork was unsuccessful.
About seventeen years later Scott No. 53 and first brother were fist fighting about something. This started in the kitchen, and lead out of the kitchen, and into the living room and then they fell in the coat closet. The whole time their 4’10” mother was beating them indiscriminately with a broom yelling: “Stop it! Get off of him! Stop it!” Ten year old little sister was following their mother around crying buckets of tears, certain that one of them was going to kill the other and if that failed their mom was going to kill them both with the broom.
In retrospect little sister claimed it was a very traumatic experience for her. Scott No. 53 just nodded at her remark and repeated his request to be an only child which he has now missed by forty-some years.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Speak Coffee to Me
(fiction posting -- I'm a writer; it's allowed)
He smells good. Damn him for smelling good. But he’s subtle about it. Subtlety makes it all the better. A whiff of boy that you get when you in physical proximity. I want that around. Around me. While I’m doing daily tasks. While relaxing and having fun. Not just when we’re at bars or kissing.
He makes bad jokes. And immediately apologizes for making them. It’s so cute. Sometimes the jokes actually are funny. I laugh. And I tell him it wasn’t as bad as he thinks. Sometimes they really are bad. I get to laugh at him for those. It’s so cute. I love that does it.
I want him in my life and I’m not certain how to get him there. I don’t know how to get myself there: sitting on the kitchen counter in a sparse but fairly clean house apartment. Soft sunshine coming in through the window over the kitchen sink. To my left there’s a brown ring burned into the counter from a previous tenant. He never really noticed it. The kitchen’s clean, not gross or grimy or molding so I don’t mind the burn marks either. And he’ll walk up to me where I sit on the counter, laughing and smiling, coffee brewing a few feet away. No lines, no stories, no brush off. He won’t speak sex to me, or love or even chocolate. He’ll speak coffee to me. Bitter and bold and full of life. Starting with the aroma and not stopping until it’s filled all my senses. He’ll speak coffee. Sweet, delirious coffee.
He smells good. Damn him for smelling good. But he’s subtle about it. Subtlety makes it all the better. A whiff of boy that you get when you in physical proximity. I want that around. Around me. While I’m doing daily tasks. While relaxing and having fun. Not just when we’re at bars or kissing.
He makes bad jokes. And immediately apologizes for making them. It’s so cute. Sometimes the jokes actually are funny. I laugh. And I tell him it wasn’t as bad as he thinks. Sometimes they really are bad. I get to laugh at him for those. It’s so cute. I love that does it.
I want him in my life and I’m not certain how to get him there. I don’t know how to get myself there: sitting on the kitchen counter in a sparse but fairly clean house apartment. Soft sunshine coming in through the window over the kitchen sink. To my left there’s a brown ring burned into the counter from a previous tenant. He never really noticed it. The kitchen’s clean, not gross or grimy or molding so I don’t mind the burn marks either. And he’ll walk up to me where I sit on the counter, laughing and smiling, coffee brewing a few feet away. No lines, no stories, no brush off. He won’t speak sex to me, or love or even chocolate. He’ll speak coffee to me. Bitter and bold and full of life. Starting with the aroma and not stopping until it’s filled all my senses. He’ll speak coffee. Sweet, delirious coffee.
A Lack of Outrage
The Cobert Report has a point: Outrage is the thing that drives Americans to the polls. And as we approach midterm elections I pause to wonder, what are we enraged about today? Is there anything new? Or is the hope merely to allow the two year old wounds from the barbs of the last national election do their work?
With nothing new to enrage us and bring the base out to the polls my guess is that those who vote this November are going to be those who would vote anyways. You know, people who actually follow politics. People who can name both their mayor and their US Representative. (Do such people really exist? Can we count them off on our fingers?) This is how the Democrats think they’ll take back the house: a lack of hype. … Well that and of course there’s the fact that the Republican honeymoon is over.
With nothing new to enrage us and bring the base out to the polls my guess is that those who vote this November are going to be those who would vote anyways. You know, people who actually follow politics. People who can name both their mayor and their US Representative. (Do such people really exist? Can we count them off on our fingers?) This is how the Democrats think they’ll take back the house: a lack of hype. … Well that and of course there’s the fact that the Republican honeymoon is over.
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