Hello, it's me.

So it's 1:20am on Sunday, and I was just pondering which topic to do for tomorrow when I got this email from Carol, one of our 30dow compadres. It was effin' perfect:(Carol's note): This blog called "Dear Old Love" is a really fun way to waste a few hours. Similar to postsecret- people mail in their notes anonymously to their exes. The blog owner comes up with the title.Some are sweet, some are sad and some are..vengeful. Write a note to an ex. And don't be shy.

We have to stop running into each other like this. Seriously. I have best friends that I don't randomly bump into as often as I see you. Mind you, it's only been , what five times, in the last twenty years, but still. Considering we started out at opposite ends of the state, the mind boggles. But, this is the biggest small town in the world.

I thought that last goodbye was the last goodbye back in '89. Odd that I should run into you on a school shuttle bus two years later. I left town for a year or two and returned in '93. How was I suppose to know that you were working in the kiosk at the mall directly in front of my store. Or that you would be working at that coffee shop I walked into a few years later. I wasn't dating at the time and actually thought about asking you out again, when you threw me for a loop and showed me the ring on your finger. Boy, that was awkward.

It was the last time that really caught me off gaurd. Last I heard, you were moving out of state, your future husband being a big attourney and all. Your dad told me when he came to my grandfather's funeral. That meant a lot. So, imagine. The last place I expected to see you at was Target. Cute kid. Although I imagine he looks more like his dad. I wonder how old he'll be when I run into you again.

Anyway, i just wanted to say hi. And I wanted you to know that we did good. Sure, we said a lot of things. And I imagine we meant them at the time, too. But, they did just seem like the things you're supposed to say. When you're young and in love as the cliche goes. Or what passes for love at that age. I have nothing but great memories. You hold the distinction of being the only person that I never broke up with and who never broke up with me. Like I said, we just lived at the opposite ends of the biggest state in the world. if this had been Rhode Island, maybe the story would have ended differently. I'm not saying we'd still be together, I just think it'd made for an uglier conclusion. But as it was, shit just ended. And we are the better for it.

Any way, I just wanted to say hi. That's all. I hope all is well. I'm great. I hope you are too. I'll see you when I see you.

The Incredible String Band - First Girl I Loved

Eaten out of house and home

When studying a foreign language, one of the most perplexing, yet amusing forms of speech to master is the idiom. It's one of those things where the literal interpretation usually ends up to be hilarious, offensive, or outright jibberish. Choose an American idiom and use its literal meaning as the basis for a story.

First course, the carpet. With firm fiber and course filament it nourishes the belly and pleases the tongue. Then the walls. Or rather, the wall paper. It tastes not of marigolds and orchids, but sour paste. It is remarkably hard to wash down as it sticks to the roof of the pallet. And when the last panel is stripped bare, the light fixtures go next. The crush of each bulb between my teeth is satisfying. My jaws grind away until I'm left with a fine powder like a bland spoonful of saccharine.

I do this alone. The wife has left. Took the furniture. The children have moved on. There is no one to disturb me today or tomorrow, however long this takes. Looking at the empty remains of what used to be my life, I know this is right.

Feeling brave, I move on to the porcelain. I use a hammer to smash it down to managable bits. I lack confidence in the strength of my teeth, so I avoid mishap by swallowing each piece whole like a bitter pill. I suppose most would have left this unpleasantness to the last, but I prefer to save the good stuff for the end. Best to just get the shit out of the way, up front. The cast iron tub and the fixtures present their own problem, so I decide to declare the victory symbolic and move to the kitchen.

Off come the cabinets. I whittle away slivers at first, but decide that this slows my progress, so I bear down and gnaw away with enthusiasm. For the first time in days, I can feel my face flush with enjoyment. I allow myself a smile and a small laugh before continuing. I don't know how long this has taken, but the sky tells me that it's been the better part of a day. Without interior light, I blindly grasp at chucks of wood. I'm lost in the delerium of deliberate action. I almost don't hear the knock at the door.

Brushing myself off, I answer with the chain on the hook.
- Sylvia. Good to see you.
- Mr. Barley. Is everything alright?
- Yes. Fine. And you?
- Mr. Barley, could you open the door?
- No, I'm afraid I don't want to spread what I've caught. I was trying to sleep. Doctor's orders.
- Mr. Barley, we can hear noises from in there. Is that blood in your mouth?
- Must be the next house. Sorry, can't talk.
- Mr. Barley, if this keeps up we'll have to...
I shut the door.

My eyes are adjusted to the lack of light and I make my way back to the tool box. I use a box cutter to dig a hole in the sheet rock just large enough to fit the point of a small hand saw. As quietly as I can, I start cutting away. If Sylvia Goode has a mind to call the authorities, I know I won't have much time left. Still, the slow mindful sawing keeps me from getting so determined that I don't watch the wiring. The last thing I need is to die of electrocution.

At last, I lay out stacks of square chalk cakes before me and return to my task. By the time I've finished the last one, I've almost run out of bottled water. I have to conserve what remains. Surveying the house from room to room, I grab whatever small objects I'd missed earlier and toss them in my mouth like candy store treasures. A stray drawer knob and the occaisional loose screw. There was even a set of keys that I'd though lost long ago. And as I walked around, I remembered the other things I'd lost and never see again. Mostly days and events and memories. A wife. Children. Parents. It was good, what I was doing. It was the only way.

As dawn broke, I knew that I had come to the last. I would not be able to avoid Sylvia Goode much longer. She would have the police here in no time once I started. I knew that this is how it would end, but I didn't mean I looked forward to it. And by this, I mean the Authorities. No, as to the house, this was the part that I'd been saving room for all along. this would be the dessert.

Walking into what used to be my living room, I stood before the picture window and watched the street outside come to life. The first if the neighborhood children had begun to play in the neat well manicured lawns up and down the block. The last of the sprinklers were shutting off. Across the street, Sylvia Goode watched me from her front porch. She had the face of woman who had met dissapointment at every turn in her life. She didn't know what real dissappointment was.

I cocked back my arm and punched through the glass. A jagged shard tore open a gaping lacertion in my forearm. It was worth it just to see her expression. I could see her run inside, surely on her way to a phone. There was a madman across the street, and goddamn it if she wasn't going to see that something was done about it.

As the blood began to pour from my arm, I picked up glass panel from the floor and put it to my mouth. I wept with anticipation of the taste.

Sparks - Eaten By The Monster Of Love

In A Paper Cup

So, I was going to do something else today, but since I was so drunk last night (and my computer shut down), I didn't get it in.
This morning (noon counts as morning, right?), I woke up from a dream about being in a town where a small volcano exploded. My brain took lots of strange things and put them together to create the reality of this experience, which ended up involving dinosaurs, antique stores, and banana cream pie milkshakes.
Natural disasters are something that almost all of us will deal with in our lifetime. Earthquakes, hurricanes, fires, tornadoes, tsunamis. They are also great elements in literature, for if it there were no tornadoes, how would Dorothy have made it to Oz?
Today, write about a natural disaster. Either write about your experience with one, or write about a fictional event from a character's first person point of view.


Looking out across the rushing water, a judgement come from on high, I held back the weeping that threatened to suffocate me. Bottlenecked at my throat like some grand crush of sorrow, the cry that had built up all day would hold for now, lest I be the first broken straw in what would surely be the beginning of the collapse of my family. I would remain stoic. For my dear Rosette. and for Emily. Like stone figures, we sat perched upon the roof and watched as God cleaned the slate once again. Reaching down with the hand of flood, He wiped away this minor abhorance. My Father believed this valley was cursed. But you cannot curse what is already damned.


My child can never unsee the the things that have happened today, and for that more than anything, I suspect the permanence of my piety. For if days like this shape us, they can also misshape us. Leave us broken. Leave us unwhole. Gazing down at Rosette, I wonder what part of her will be missing after today.


It started with rain. We awoke to flat loveless thunderclaps. Short sharp bursts that resembled the sound of magnificent boards slapping together. There was no rolling echo, just lightning making its firm declaration of intent. Through the window, the pregnant sky extended beyond the visible horizon, a thick violaceous blanket readying to smother all that lay before it. The first drops hit with weight and authority, slapping against the shingled roof like a swarm of locust. Emily rose from the bed and gathered her robe about her, lured away by the sound of Rosette stirring in the room across the hall.


I stood ground at the glass pane, the opacity of the sky growing more inpenetrable with each passing minute. Across the street, I made out the thin frail shape of Miguel Sanchez. It was the first time in ten years that I'd seen him without his Mahogany cane. He resembled nothing less than a shadow in search of a body as he tried in vain to maneuver a wheelchair across his rain slick sidewalk. Without purchase, the tires slid in haphazardly with each thrust until a slight nudge to the right forced him over and left him rutted in the muddy grass. I watched him struggle for a while, then went to the closet and dressed for the rain.

Bob Dylan & The Band - Crash On The Levee (Down In The Flood)

The Ox and the Lady

2009 is the Year of the Ox, a beast of burden that occupies very little space in our literary history. Babe the blue ox has pretty much had to hold it down in that world, so help keep him company by writing an ode to the ox. A poem is probably the most fun way to go, but feel free to write in any style you want. Read more about the year of the ox on Wikipedia.


Ox was starting to sweat again. His hands were clammy and he was having a hard time steering in the rain as it was, but now it was getting worse. Each gust of wind made the car shake a bit more and he thought about slowing down before he reminded himself that it wasn't really an option. He was in this far and getting out was still a long way off. Now there was only Sweetness to deal with and then, he could leave town. At least then, he could feel like some progress had been made.

The next turn was a little too tight for the car to take peacefully and he skidded just enough to bring his stomach up to the bottom of his throat, before the wheels caught and he got the car back. He had just enough of a second to look down at the passenger seat and make sure that the kid was okay. She seemed scared, but even that much wasn't obvious. She should be scared even if she didn't have the sack over her head. And since she couldn't see what was happening, Ox was afraid she'd be nauseous as well. But she never complained. She just sat there in her green overalls and red sneakers with her hands folded on her lap. Her silence was made all the more obvious by the fact that the radio was off. It was starting to get to Ox, just a little bit.

This had been Leroy's play. It'd been his idea to do the kiddie snatch. It was his marker that this was going toward paying off. It was his girlfriends step kid that was getting taken. But somehow, it was Ox sitting here in the driver's seat of a stolen Aerostar van with a mute five year old on his right and Leroy was nowhere. The last Ox had heard from him was about five minutes before the snatch. Up until then, Ox couldn't avoid Leroy if he tried. He'd called every other hour for the past five days, ironing out every last detail. And now, there was nothing. Leroy wasn't picking up the phone. Ox was just short of scared, but not enough to blow the plan. The plan was bible. As long as he stuck to it, he'd be golden. Leroy or no, Ox was getting paid today.

Lee hazlewood - Stone Lost Child

fashionably late

1/1: It’s the first of the year and you have a blank canvas in front of you. On that glaringly white piece of paper, set your intention for the year. Fill that page with five words that reflect your goals for your life as a writer. Expand upon them if you want, or let them be powerful enough to speak for themselves.

My initial post was going to be awsomely pretentious. It was gonna encompass all my desires in terms of where I would like to get with my writing...

Saramago
Rushdie
Cormac
Irving (John, not Cifford)
Gaiman

And it's still a fair declaration. At least in terms of aspirtion. Great heights, sure, but who aims for the middle? Actually, I suppose plenty of people aim for the middle. But really, What band doesn't want to be bigger and better than the Beatles. Sure, most end up being Creed and Dishwalla, but sometimes you get lucky and end up in Big Star. The point is that without expectations and aspirations, you might as well leave the bat and glove at home, because you're never gonna get a turn at bat.

but that was what i had wanted to say at first. That was my initial pretentious post.

Today, I have to subscribe to these five words.

STOP. FUCKING. AROUND. WRITE. ALREADY.

All I'm saying is that it's a good thing for us all that F Scott Fitzgerald never had an XBOX 360.
That's all I'm saying. He'd have spent all weekend hanging out with these guys instead of getting drunk and writing.

Gotta finish up, so I can get back to killin' mutants...

Dolly Parton - Put It Off Until Tomorrow

WRITER'S TOOLBOX: 35 Best Tools for Writing Online

Just in case you hadn't seen this...
WRITER'S TOOLBOX: 35 Best Tools for Writing Online

finishing up

Thank You. See you in January.