It’s not blame shuffling. Seriously.

Yesterday, one of my best friends and I traveled into town. There’s a massive bookshop there, one which my family and I perused for years. It takes up an entire city block and wafts odors of fresh coffee, musty old tomes, and the cool chalky smell of imagination.

We whiled away a couple hours there, then turned back to the light rail stations to head home. We were clear out of the city before we realized we’d gotten on the wrong train. So, we got off, and, with the help of a friendly woman, got a rough idea where to change trains. Of course, it meant going back into the city.

We waited for ten minutes, boarded the train and traveled for another ten, got off, and started walking. I could have sworn the tracks were a few blocks over from where we got off. They weren’t. Three blocks later, we turned around and headed back to the station.

This was all in ninety degree plus weather. I could feel my ears frying as we trudged across sweltering concrete patches of sidewalk and sizzling asphalt. A couple of defiant women in their twenties carried lit cigarettes onto the train at one point, so the resulting fumes of burning leaves threatened migraine to act with the heat.

Arriving at last at the station we left three blocks back, we watched a train leave that we could have taken. While we waited for the next one, in the shade of the awning, I suddenly looked down and spotted a copper disk.

“Look, Steve,” I said, bending down and picking up the penny, “If we had gotten the right train at first and got back to the right station and all of that, I wouldn’t have found this penny.”

Steve chuckled. He’s such a good sport. Considering most of the suggestions that got us lost and missing trains in the first place were mine.

I know God tailored each one of us to bring out our full potential. Even our supposed weaknesses end up being part of His plan. Of course I didn’t really think that God’s point of me missing that train was so I could eventually find that penny.

Or was it? I have no idea.

God Dealt

Another of The 3 A.M. Epiphany exercises, this one finished out the chapter on perspectives. I didn’t really follow the intent of the instructions as Kitely probably wanted. The object was to write a simple scene from God’s perspective, keeping in mind how God would view those simple events in the scene, knowing all the details.

Yeah, the book itself admitted the exercise was a trick. Impossible, even. Anyway, here’s my attempt.

Exercise 13. 200 words. GOD.

Roy Dill Therou hated his name and chose two new cards for his poker hand. He hoped for two more diamonds. What he didn’t know was the cinnamon stick-chewing, 40-year-old man to his left, Veritas Boris Fernandez, held the ten and on his left, Fred “Berry” Timothy Crandell, who worked at the local computer company and often dreamed of travelling to the Caribbean, possessed the nine. Roy Dill Therou winced in his left eyelid at the new cards. Two sevens. Not the straight flush he’d been hoping for. Still, two for a total of three sevents would beat Veritas Boris Fernandez’s pair of eights and pair of fours. Neither of them knew that yet. Besides, Veritas Boris Fernandez didn’t catch the flinch, due to his wife’s warning that her mother would be staying for the week echoing in his mind out of the blue. His hand clammed around the frigid glass of whiskey and moved it three millimeters to the right, then 2.8973 millimeters to the left. Roy Dill Therouh had that last name because his great-great-grandfather left his home in Bston and enlisted  in the 12th Massachusetts and sighned his name thus, scorning his old last name of Leonard. Roy Dill Therou, oblivious to all this, tossed a blue chip into the center pile, adding $5.00 to the tall of $3.00. Because his subconscious mind caught the tell of Veritas Boris Fernandez’s whiskey-moving, he would take the total pot in ten minutes time, becoming $176.00 reicher for it. Then his family would benefit two hours after that, his life insurance assuring them a substantial sum after the truck stopped too late.

Wow. What a load. Full of POV shifts and run on sentences and no paragraph breaks. I think, though, that God’s stream of consciousness would be worse than that if it was written down in this world. What do you think?

Secret Messages of Winnie the Pooh

Dinner’s dangerous. It’s like X-Treme sports with the life-threatening element and the huge grins of the sunglasses-wearing athletic guys who get their pictures taken while ascending vertical walls of ice/rock/sides of beached blue whales. Except no one is sweating through their shirts. And the danger mainly arises from choking on one’s food because of Dad’s outrageous Humphrey Bogart impression or some such equivalent.

This dinner, after four-fifths of the family returned from vacation, we were long overdue for some humor around cilantro lime marinated steak and shrimp cocktail. Older Sis mentioned how she introduced Winnie the Pooh to her friend in Ireland. Liddle Sis and Mum put in how they noticed “Disney colors” at the nearest Home Depot when they visited there that day, including ones featuring A.A. Milne’s work. Tigger Tummy Orange, Winnie the Pooh yellow, and Piglet Pink were just a few.

I blame Terry Pratchett and his sardonic sarcasm rampant in his literature. My mind, already corrupted from a good six years worth of reading his books, ground through the reference while I savored my last bite of cilantro seasoned beef. Across the table, Older Sis’s eye took on an unholy gleam and, since she was the one who introduced me to Pratchett’s novels in the first place, I knew I would not be alone in coming up with irreverent titles for new hues of paint.

“Woozel Snow Yellow?” Older Sis beat me to the punch and received one in the arm from Mum as reward. Even so, I spotted a slight twitch at the corner of the latter’s mouth at the suggestion.

“Drowning Eeyore Purple?” I said, referencing the chapter on “Pooh Sticks.” Then, since Rabbit had to be OCD, “Rabbit’s Pills Powder Blue?”

And on it went. Careless-Pedestrian-Cigarette-Hundred-Acre-Wood-In-Flames-Red? Tigger’s Straitjacket White? After awhile, conversation turned to the “Strengthening Medicine” Tigger took in one chapter, how he enjoyed it so much, how it was all he ever ate at meals from that moment onward, and how Roo was tickled pink to avoid his dose for the day. Younger Sis snickered and said, “I wonder what exactly was in that ‘medicine.’”

“Yes, I can see it now,” I replied, “Ten years after Tigger starts taking the medicine, he’s in AA!”

Somehow the discussion turned to Winnie the Pooh and the Beatles, or Winnie the Pooh and Queen. Older Sis wondered how “Tigger in the Sky with Diamonds” would have sounded, then the table dissolved into hilarity after “I am the Woozel, Koo Koo Katchoo.” Soon, Bohemian Rhapsody received new lyrics as the meal drew to a close: “I’m just a poor bear, I get no good honey; he’s just a poor bear, from the hundred acre woods, you see.”

I wonder if Seth Grahame-Smith would consider making The World of Winnie the Pooh. And Zombies. It would be hard to keep a lot of the conflict:

“…Owl licked the end of his pencil and wondered how to spell ‘birthday.’ Then the Zombies, by this time having clambered their way up the tree, burst through his door. Startled, the bird gave a loud squawk and flew out a window. As the Zombies closed in upon the house’s remaining inhabitant, the bear looked around and said, ‘Oh bother.’”

-The World of Winnie the Pooh: Apocalypse Edition

Thankfully, though, Pooh would survive. He is a bear of “very little brain,” after all.

Half Day

So a few days ago, I didn’t do much. Usually, I putter around, pull a few weeds, pile them in neat heaps along the edges of the lawn, but that day, I skipped work.

Then Lament in A Minor invited me along to a blacksmith potluck. I thought, “Oh great. I’m going to be out of place, me with my noodle-arms, sandals, and otaku-reference vocabulary.” So what did I say? “Sure.” Of course. Free food. My college kid instincts were on full bore despite the fact it was summer and I finished classes in May.

We drove down to the local historical landmark where carpenters, blacksmiths, and others plied their trade in nineteenth century clothing with nineteenth century dialect for tourists. That evening, in year two thousand apparel, they sat around the ancient tables they scavenged from buildings around the place, ate fried chicken, and generally discussed “blood channels” “four pound hammers” and “bull tongs” while I smiled and nodded. And smiled and nodded.

Thankfully, before long, one of my friends pulled me into the smithy and Lament handed me a pair of gloves. Time to learn a wee bit of metal working, they said. I was never more conscious of my cargo pants, sandals, and geeky appearance. Then, as the scent of hot iron, molten bee’s wax, and old coke washed over me, I thought, “Hey. I’m here in a smithy. Closer to an artisan’s trade than I’ve ever been or written about. Buggrit, let’s kick this pig.”

It didn’t help that a procession of ten people came to watch me for two minutes at a time. That atop the fact I was fumbling with white-hot metal with long tongs while wearing large gloves. But it was bloomin’ hot in the forge and everyone could darn well attribute any blushes I exhibited to the smelting heat, thank you very much.

My second or third hammer stroke cast sparks around the room, one which found itself on the bare skin of my foot. I winced. Lament’s friend loaned me his shoes and walked me through the process of forging a coat hook. Quenching hot metal in the sooty waters of the barrel next to the forge made up for the excessive heat two inches away from my bare arm whenever I held the metal in the coals. My siblings and I rarely get to quench red-hot metal in water; when we do, it’s marshmallow skewers and Dad yells at us for damaging the tempers or whatnot.

When I at last finished my crude and blackened coat hook, the chap showed me how to heat it up one last time, then rub it with bee’s wax. The rough reek of heated iron gave way to the sugary scent of honey; imagine, a dully lit forge with blunt objects lining the walls, waves of heat issuing from either end, orange sparks blossoming from each hammer stroke, and then, a breeze blows through the room, and the steam from the bee’s wax wafts, carrying the scent of flowers throughout.

Poetry. Sheer poetry.

Of course, dad did mess up on the V&Ts later that evening and gave me two shots of Grey Goose rather than one. So, this could be reminiscence borne of inebriation.

Who cares? Now I have a coat hook. That I made. Probably a scar on my foot from flying sparks, too.

Two out of the two aren’t bad.

Drag yourself through.

A month or two ago, I bought a book titled The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Exercises That Transform Your Fiction by Brian Kitely. Since then, I’ve written about fifty pages with the results from each entry. Some are absolute rot; others aren’t half bad. The latter category might appear here more often than not. So here goes. Enjoy.

Chapter 1 – Point of View. Exercise 2: Imperative

Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands: do this, do that, etc.

Impromptu Title: Drag Yourself Through

Turn the dial on the toaster just so. Don’t settle for punching the lever down twice because you have to dash out in five minutes. Open the closet and take out your Philadelphia eagles jacket. Put it over your button-up and tie. Graze your fingers on the tie before zipping. Picture the half-amused, half-mischievous expression on Lori’s face when she gave it to you. Hate the tie. Love the tie-giver because she cried and was so human when you gave her the ring. Wear the ring.

Wear the tie to remember she is gone.

Break out of the memory paralysis by the sound of toast birth. Curl numb fingers around the edge of the crust and position the toast to receive jam. Taste strawberries and sugar and savory wheat. Decide that a piece of white bread toast might be nice once in awhile. Forget to pour yourself coffee and not notice as you drink cream and sugar.

Grab your briefcase. Catch a glimpse of your messy hair in the mirror. Brush the locks and strands of brown out of blue eyes. Exit. Close door. Lock door. Turn and smile at the janitor. Ask about his kids. Consider his invitation to dine with them tonight. Surprise yourself by accepting. Head down the hallway toward the stairs.

Catch the door at the bottom. Make sure it closes quietly. Wince at the memory of the cold look Ms. Hughes gave you the last time it slammed. Walk quietly out the thin glass doors. Feel the smell of the city stomp up your nostrils and burn in a wash of cigarette fumes, hot dogs with sweet onion, and the damp odor of a passing Alsatian, soaked with his owner in the earlier rain. Half-snicker when you catch a phrase of two passing joggers’ conversation. Take it out of context and build upon it in your mind while your hand rises to catch a taxi. Almost share the story with the cabby aafter you slam the door and give him the address. Decide to save it for Lori.

Curse.

Stare out the window. Reply noncommittally to the cabby’s excitement over the latest Celtic-reggae group. Wonder how bagpipes and steel drums sound together. Imagine. Hide your smile at the thought of Mel Gibson giving the Braveheart speech in a Jamaican accent. Share that thought with the cabby. Share a good chuckle for a few seconds, then a full laugh from him as the complete hilarity hits, and laugh at his guffaw. Feel a bit better.

Arrive, pay, and get out. Push the polished brass to open the oak door into City Hall. Listen as your footsteps ring dully, lost in the hubbub of the lobby. Apologize as the toe of your shoe catches the heel of another. Accept the clap on the shoulder from the good-natured victim. Feel nervous. Undo the left clasp on the briefcase as you approach the main reception desk. Smile at the secretary. Unclasp the second clasp and pull out the stapled forms and long list of signatures. Hesitate before handing them to her.

Eye the name at the top of the list. Wish again she stood beside you at that moment. Grit your teeth. Feel small flames prick at your eyes. Shove your glasses higher on the bridge of your nose to cover wiping away the pre-tears.Hand over the papers. Watch as her name leaves with the receptionist.

Watch as another piece of Lori disappears.

I gave blood and I enjoyed it.

I really do admire nurses and Red Cross Workers. Their patience levels must be extreme to have to deal with the nervous, the fidgety, and the reluctant donors that show up at the schools, the businesses, and university campuses. To keep smiling and talking and working through the process of extracting blood from unsettled indiviuals can’t be easy.

Keeping up a brave face wasn’t easy for me, I confess, especially when it took about half an hour to go through all the questions on the tests, get the bags set up, check temperatures, blood pressure, ad infinitum. Still, compared to the agonizing wait, the moment the needle went into my arm was kind of a relief. After that, it was just ten minutes of laying back, chatting up the cute nurses (okay, so mine was fifty-two and married. She was still nice), and generally exchanging grins with other donors I recognized.

Of course, my poor sister didn’t have it so easy. Her nurse missed the vein and tried to move the needle around while it was still in the skin. A nurse close by caught my sister’s eye and her jaw dropped at how white my sister turned in that instant. All the nurses without patients at the moment converged on her area, bringing her water and cold cloths and elevating her feet. My sister didn’t faint, though she later said, “I heard the music in my mp3 player growing quieter and quieter…” After that, the general consensus agreed they shouldn’t push things and she didn’t give blood. I still think she’s a trooper for trying, though.

Another chap, a muscular, tall fire cadet, went before me. When he finished up, he sort of stumbled over to the snack and recovery table, mumbling he was fine. Two minutes later, they wheeled him on the crash cart over to the free corner next to me. Another group of nurses attended him and left him to recover while he called his girlfriend for a ride home. I shot a glance over at him and he gave a rueful wave. I returned it with a sympathetic shrug. “It happens,” I said, and told him about my sister.

“It’s funny,” the cadet said, repositioning the cold cloth on his forehead, “I’ve seen people die, covered huge wounds, but I really don’t like giving or taking shots. It’s so weird.”

I admit that I felt proud for not fainting or needing the crash cart like the fire cadet, feeling justified in my 135 pounds of wire and toothpicks, and feeling that I proved my masculinity. However, on further thought, I found it didn’t really matter. The mere fact that I’d given blood, that the fire cadet had given blood, that my sister had done her best to give blood, that my dad later came in to give blood, too, all proved that we were brave and that we cared. Heck, even the volunteers, among them an elementary school kid who bounced around importantly from bed to bed offering snacks and water to bemused donors, were to be lauded for their support.

I didn’t think about my blood going to some wounded soldier in Iraq or Afghanistan, or some bleeding little kid in Africa. Not to sound cold or anything, but I just didn’t think about that when I went in there, or even when I agreed to give blood in the first place. I just wanted to show solidarity with my little sister and dad. My dad identified his reason when we drove home afterwards. A close relative of ours survived leukemia and could no longer give blood for the rest of her life. “We’ve got to give because she can’t,” he said.

Honey Sticks

Church for me, I confess, did not possess much appeal when I was beset with the pretweens and on through high school. Basically, I picked out the funny anecdotes from the meat of the pastor’s sermons and laughed at those. The rest of the time, I just zoned, fidgeted, wish I remembered my watch, or doodled on the church programs. Sure, the pastor’s animation and passion for his subject did not fail to escape my notice; I simply didn’t find any of the content memorable.

AWANAs, or the Thursday night church youth-type gatherings, were much the same. Memorize verses for a buck that could be redeemed at a monthy bazaar, sing songs with motions and expressions, play games with your age group, then listen to a guest speaker expound on a weekly theme. Some of the speakers could not compare to the pastor in degree of interesting stories, and all failed to leave me with a lesson that stuck.

I lacked a large amount of maturity. I didn’t see those gatherings every Sunday, every Thursday night as anything more than the casual hang-out with friends whom I never saw at my school or everyday life. I lacked connection with them outside the church. And I lacked the willingness to care.

Now, I still lack maturity. I still lack connection with most of those at my church. But the willingness to care? I have that aplenty. I care, now. I want to grow closer to the people in my church, to reach out as they reach out to me and God would have me extend my hand and touch them as He touched me.

At our old church, a few of the family adults got together for bible studies. Most of their kids, though, were younger than me and girls. We managed to have some good times – you don’t grow up with two sisters without learning how to connect somewhat with the fairer sex – playing poker, taking trips to the beach, and so on. It all lacked the connection I yearned for, though.

So when we were introduced by a family friend to another church, one which she attended along with her husband and four boys, two who were around my age and attended my high school for a few terms, I think God reached down and prodded me on my shoulder. Granted, we haven’t moved much beyond staying in that circle of friends, but since they started a family study group, we’ve branched out and gotten to know a few more people within the church. It’s a start. It’s a later start, but now it’s a start I want.

On one of the beach trips before the new church, one of the mothers produced several pencil-shaped, plastic sticks. Upon closer inspection, I could see they were full of honey and were so named “Honey Sticks.” You had to bite at a corner of one end until the plastic gave way and a tiny rivulet of golden sticky bee chow drizzled out onto your tongue. Each tube contained enough honey for a goodly taste, but not enough to make one sick of the honey itself.

Today, at a local farm, Mum bought a few plants for her summer garden. We went to ring out (guess who had to carry most of them to the register) and my little sister headed for the cookie shelves with the homade chocolate ones. I wasn’t in the mood for a pastry. Then I caught sight of the holders full of brightly colored tubes near the register. We soon left, little sis with her cookie, and me with four kinds of honey sticks, one lime green, one powder blue, one deep purple, and the other flourescent orange. Throughout the afternoon, I ate them and remembered the first time I tried them.

I first tried them when God and I walked down separate paths. Now that I have turned and headed toward His path again, up pop the Honey Sticks to provide a link to the past and a memory of how things used to be. And how much I don’t want them to be like that again.

Except for the Honey Sticks. They were good. And they still are.

Don't put them in your back pocket and sit down. Trust me. Just don't.

Chex Quest and Chauvinism

Okay, so the title is misleading. As far as I can see, offhand, Chex Quest does not contain chauvinism of any kind. If you’re an avid feminist and decry this fun children’s computer game of Doom-era antiquity as misogynistic, kindly keep your comments to yourself and take some anti-hysteria medicine.

I digress.

Back in the day of elementary school, when everything was losing your pencils, half your markers, mucking up the pristine whiteness of your paint trays with yellow, blue, and green, breakfast was easier. Back then, I was a kid and the only thing important about the “most important meal of the day” was the cereal. Now, we didn’t really indulge in the types where cardboard encased in sugar or stale, delicious marshmallows hid among the grain. Instead, Mum found various economy-sized cereals that allowed us tolerable-tasting bits and bites from a brightly colored box with puzzles on the back and prizes inside.

Aside from the usual plastic figurine crap that you see every two-year-old chewing on and every forty-three-year old bachelor arranging in neat rows on his computer monitor, some of the prizes were pretty cool. Chex was the first cereal, according to Wikipedia, to release a CD-ROM game in their boxes of product. I remember pulling the CD out, loading the game on our old Gateway, and playing through the 2D graphics and cheesy storyline aimed at appealing to tween booger humor and mother’s nutrition-promoting instincts alike.

Youtube has everything and after I rabbit-trailed for a bit, I typed in “chex quest opening.” The video popped up, the midi music rolled, and half an hour later, I found myself looking on google for a place to download the game and its sequel. Dumb nostalgia.

In one of my summer classes today, Shakespeare in Film, we watched The Taming of the Shrew. I’d never seen the movie or read the play before and so I was surprised at the idea. I think I am too accustomed to tragic romances, witty romances, give and take romances, but hey, this works. Imagine a rambunctious man (Petrutchio) marrying a wild woman (Katherina), then teaching her a lesson by acting as a bigger brat than she.

The then “tamed” Katherina gave a beautiful speech about the duty of wives being to support their husbands since they protect and provide and so on. Not much was said about the duty of men, though.

When the inevitable remarks on the outright subjugation of women were voiced, the professor of the class agreed and brought to consideration the fact that The Taming of the Shrew was actually moderate for its time. She cited other examples where stories centered around men beating and crippling their wives to force them to fulfill their domestic roles. In comedic tales, no less. Comedic as was considered by the popular culture back then, that is.

Now, in the interest of juxtaposition and crossovers (damn you, fanfic and all that you lend my overactive imagination), what if Lady Macbeth were married to Petruchio? Would the manipulative mind of Macbeth triumph over the boisterous tactics of the Italian gentleman?

Lady Macbeth: …a little water clears us of this deed.

Petruchio: That is not water. ‘Tis wine, wife.

Lady Macbeth: Y’know what? Just die, already. You’re annoying, it is water, and I’m unsexed. [stabs him] Why ever did you come all the way from Italy to marry me in Scotland, anyway? Who cares. I’m off to spearhead the feminist movement. And find some spot remover. [Exeunt]

I smell the beginnings of a flash cartoon series with possible cult following.

Orrrrr maybe that’s just the vacuum cleaner burning. The rug hasn’t been subjected to that in years.

After So Long

After so long, it is difficult to think of things about which to write.

My St. Patty’s day was nothing to brag about really. Mum pinched me for not wearing green and I pinched her back, reminding her that she gave birth to a son with GREEN eyes. She huffed and said those didn’t count.

Jealousy, jealousy.

I didn’t even have a drink to celebrate. Thankfully, my sib’s taking me out tonight. Now that Patty’s day has come and gone, the local pubs will have quieted down to mere insanity levels. Hopefully.

Still, with this much time on my hands, I have pondered some greater mysteries of life.

Like, if a knight farted in his armor, did it echo?

Movie Quotes as Titles?

I know, a lot of them don’t work. A little imagination, however, provides at least five minutes of entertainment…

Frankly, My Dear, I Don’t Give A Dam – a southern gentleman and the wife of a Northern carpetbagger clash over the financing of a project to harness hydroelectric power along the Missouri.

Oh. And a few of the words and letters can be rearranged.

Are You Tryng To Cartouche Me, Mrs. Robinson? – in ancient Egypt, an aspiring scribe teaches one of Pharoh’s mistresses how to write.

Of course, it might be helpful if everyone knew what a “cartouche” was. Including me.

We’ll Always Shave Paris – On the eve of World War II, an American barber has a series of comical misadventures in Northern Africa.

Go Ahead – Bake My Clay – a potter-turned-policeman matches wits with a notorious assassin.

I never saw Dirty Harry. So sue me.

The Bluff That Dreams Are Made Of – capitalist country invades Middle Eastern territory for oil and a porcelain figure of a bird.

The Maltese Falcon was supposed to be gem-studded and all, but since we never actually saw it, dammit then who cares?

E.T. Go Alone – rather than bach it at their senior prom, two aliens take a trip around the universe for a taste of the nightlife on various planets.

Harold and Kumar in space. Oh wait. That was Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

*dodges the 45,324 knives and sundry kitchen utensils thrown at him by the Douglas Adams fans.

Okay, okay! Sorry! Geeze…

May The Floors Be With You – trapped in space, the members of an interstellar expedition must survive and repair their ship in zero gravity with no magnetic soled boots.

Somebody forgot to stop at Payless.

Beeeeeeeeerrrrrrrs, Johnny! – the events surrounding a bartender’s descent into madness.

I’ll be Jack – Two hundred years into the future, a cyborg assassin stars in the remake of Pirates of the Caribbean.

I’m Gonna Make Him Coffee He Can’t Refuse – Caught in a mob war, an meek barista tags along with one of the Mafia’s most lethal assassins

This is Walmart! – Anxious to boost sales, a manager adds a Greek restaurant to the store, kicking out MacDonalds and inciting a war between the community and corporate headquarters.