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Writing practice for today

“Today create a piece in which a speaker is visited by a messanger…” Room to Write, Bonnie Goldberg, pg. 178

She always visited The Dead Man before she left. If she exited the sculpture garden by the east stairs it was on her way out, more or less. Even when she was in a hurry to be somewhere else, she would stop to pay her respects to the vertigris statue of the dead man laying in his bed. Today was no different. Today, she hoped that the ritual would bring some peace to her mind. Nothing else had.

“I’m just…muddled,” she had told her friend when she left. The walk to the garden hadn’t straightened the whirl of thoughts either. She had sat on stone benches and scribbled long hand in her journals, but she couldn’t even put her finger on what was wrong, much less a find solution. There was something missing. She had put away something that she needed. Bells chimed somewhere in the world behind her and she knew she would need to be at work soon.

She gathered her things and stomped up the steps that led around the side of the museum. The confusion in her mind made her dizzy. The world was strangely colorless. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at the sky to see if it had become overcast. It didn’t matter to her if colors ceased to exist. A hedge leaned in high over her head. It seperated The Dead Man from the rest of the displays, created a green bedroom for him and the woman who leaned over him mourning.

She stopped suddenly when she realized there was someone else standing before the statue. Her heart raced as she recognized the short, dark-haired form of her friend. Her ears buzzed and her throat went dry. She followed me! she thought. And her heart brightened so much that she could once again see the deep greens of the grass and bushes, the strange blue of the weathered copper statue, and the dead gray of the flowers someone had left in the mourning woman’s hands. And she could see, once again, the blue-black luster of her friend’s hair. She made a little noise in her throat. It was a note of joy that tore through her body.

The figure turned then. The Asian man looked to her quizzicly. His face was as smooth and flawless as her friends, but darker and more angular. Not the same. Not as pleasing. As his lips parted to say something, her smile sank down, tied intimately with her stomach. His eyes lingered on her as he stepped by.

“I’m sorry that smile wasn’t for me,” he said over his shoulder.

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Eric and I have made a deal. My writing productivity wanes during the summer months, mainly because I hate, hate, hate the heat. I don’t much care for AC either because it leads me into terrible sour-throated colds. It’s a lose-lose situation. So, for the summer, I “have permission” to “goof-off” as long as the AC is off. If I turn on the air, I gotta write. It’s an interesting set-up and we will see how long it lasts…

My first “goof-off” session will be more web page improvements. I fiddled with my Rifts page this weekend and decided the frames aren’t going to work. So I need to change that. Also considering redesigning my meager gaming-ish page. And still wanting to change my poetry page. *sigh* Oh! and then a new page for our vaction pics. Heh, about this time of year every year I get into this kind of mood.

Also covered in summer “goof-off” (goof-off being everything that isn’t writing) reading for research, reading in general, and some writing practice/response-type stuff. *sigh again*

Marie has gotten so hard and I so need to do reserch. I feel, in an effort to get as much done as possible, that I’ve lost my way in writing. Dang it, off the path again! So, I’ve been given the summer to get back to it.

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I had a very nice three day weekend, topped off by amazingly deep sleep this morning. The dream I was having I could hardly shake off. It was about a small town in Nebraska (a town that is often in my dreams though it does not exist), several of cast from West Wing, and the ghost of a nun. Very odd dream, very lucid. And very comfortable although I woke up several times after the ghost would show up with that cold fuzzy feeling of a nightmare, but then I would just drop back into it.

Saturday night I was to the point I could have just killed Eric. Gawd I was pissed at him. The earache thing came back and my head was just killing me. And for some reason he seemed to feel it was my obligation to entertain him and when I wouldn’t, he went to bed grumpy. So I eventually went to bed too but couldn’t get to sleep. I really needed massage. I could tell Eric was awake but he wouldn’t aknowledge me. Ug, he was being such dork! Finally he relented and gave me a massage and I finally got to sleep. Granted, the pain in my head was probably making me a little over-sensitive and the night was awfully warm, but still…

The rest of the weekend was great. My DMing went well. And I got to play a bit, always a happy thing. I got my Tombstone pictures back (anyone know a site with good Southwestern graphics?), worked on my Rifts web pages (the frame is too much, gonna have to change it), and I kept the apartment from becoming a total wreak.

Today is going to be the last nice day of a three day cooler spell. *sigh* Then it’s back to 107… Why do I live here on the doorstep of hell?

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“If I had been born a man, I would have conquered Europe. As I was born a woman, I exhausted my energy in tirades against fate, and in eccentricities.”

Marie Konstantinovna Bashkirtseff

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Oh Yeah, Sing It with Me!

“Can you feel a little love…”

Heh, no one home downstairs so the bass is turned up.

Looking into concert tickets for August.


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Something of Interest…


Controversy is brewing over shortlists chosen for a couple of British book
prizes. The Orange prize, which is given to women writers, seems to be
creating the most furor. And organizers can blame only themselves. The
prize, which was established in 1996 after women writers complained that
prestigious literary awards were predominantly given to men, usually has a
panel of women judges. This year, however, organizers invited a panel of
three notable men to make selections, as well. Though the male panel’s
picks don’t count toward the award, organizers wanted to see if there would
be a gender difference. There was, and stinging criticism to boot. Judges
Paul Bailey (best known for his novel “Gabriel’s Lament”), Paul Henderson
(marketing director of Ottakers) and John Walsh (a former literary editor
at London’s Sunday Times) said the books were appalling, lacked humor, were
long on issues, and rarely included likable men characters, the Sunday
Times reported. Of the 18 novels read by both panels, only one book, “The
Idea of Perfection” by Kate Grenville, made both shortlists. The award will
be announced June 4.