Month: May 2006

Getting Somewhere

For many years my daily rhythm of life involved getting somewhere and accomplishing something. A month ago I crashed my car into the curb on a dark corner, flipped the car three times, and ended up in this bed. I’ve spent the entire month feeling pretty sorry for myself and complaining a lot. The nurses probably talk about what a pain in the ass I am.

Then yesterday it occurred to me that maybe this whole holding still and lying down while my body heals thing is actually a blessing in disguise. I mean . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words about “getting somewhere.”

Retreat

Hikers in the woods
There were five people scattered in small cabins around the main house. The place was billed as a retreat, where writers could hike in the woods and clear their minds of all the debris of civilization while preparing their next great American novel.

Truth in advertising went out the window the first day, when the police were there all day questioning everyone because one of the cooks was stabbed eleven times with a big knife that police thought might be a kitchen butcher knife. Especially one extremely irritating detective named . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words about “retreat” or about something suggested by the photo.

Troubleshooting

Troubleshooting is what I hate
Yet it’s often my fate
To spend the day
In a broken way

To tinker and sputter
But never discover
How to fix fast
What seems to last and last

I don’t need the aid
Of a merry maid
I need a report
From tech support.

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “troubleshooting.”

Favorite childhood food

Crisp potato chips layered over a huge slather of sandwich spread. (Sandwich spread: really just mayo with chopped pickles in it.) All on white Rainbo bread.

Cold leftover scalloped potatoes and cold salmon patties for breakfast. Not the kind of scalloped potatoes you get in a box now-a-days. Real scalloped potatoes. And the salmon patties were probably fried in something ghastly like bacon grease.

Navy beans ‘n ham (greasy ham floating in a navy bean soup) on corn bread.

Ignorance was bliss.

Ball

“Just take this ball to a full service gas station and have it inflated,” the physical therapist said. He handed me a flattened hunk of rubber that he means to have me use as a computer chair. What century is this guy living in, I wonder. A full service gas station? I’ll bet he thinks bicycle pumps still come with one of those little needle gizmos on the end that was used to insert air in a football or basketball. Part of his idea is great: I do need to change my posture at the computer. Part of his idea is pure crap: full service gas is as dead as dial phones.

That’s the way thinking is. Parts of it are revised periodically and reflect the current state of events. Parts of it are stuck in some legacy mode that hasn’t changed since before the Beatles came over from Europe, or maybe since one cave man viewed another cave man he didn’t know as a source of danger. This mish-mash of ideas accounts for . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “ball.”

Macrame

Elizabeth wore a long, flowing, patterned skirt. Unlike most women her age, her hair was long, its heavy gray bulk tied back in a low-riding pony tail. She looked like the kind of woman who made macrame wall hangings while eating granola and smoking pot in her hippie-style youth. Her skin was permanently crinkled into smile lines around her eyes, which shone with a vibrant, alert, brown light. Her movements were unhurried and graceful. The air around her body for a radius of several feet felt quiet and kind.

She was to be my therapist. I came here determined to say nothing, but when I saw Elizabeth I felt chattier than one of those lonely old ladies you see in the grocery store trying to hold a conversation with the checker. . . .

Leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “macrame.”

Peacock

After the echo of the gunshot died away, the only sound was the squawk of the peacocks penned in the neighbor’s huge back lot. I dropped the gun, then picked it up again. I thought vaguely of fingerprints and not leaving the gun here. I should leave, but my feet were planted on the ground like tons of immoveable stone. I couldn’t move my eyes from the small round hole in my father’s forehead. The fact that he had stopped moving, stopped breathing, felt like the most fascinating bit of information I’d had since the age of seven when he started visiting me at night.

A sudden flood of relief ran through me, made me weak and I dropped to the grass gasping and crying . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “peacock.”

Pink

Have you heard the new solo album from the lead vocalist of Pink Floyd? It sounds exactly like Pink Floyd. His voice is the sound of Pink Floyd. (Well, you might factor in a bit of psychedelia going on in the background.) Just like Natalie Merchant’s voice is the sound of 10,000 Maniacs. Some voices are just so distinctive as to create a whole sound of their own.

The elusive voices are the ones that drive me crazy. The voiceover on the commercial you almost identify, but it escapes you. It nags, like trying to remember a name or a word you know but can’t bring up when you need it.

But you have to wonder about the irritating voices like . . .

Please leave a comment with your first 50 words about the topic “pink.”

Real beauty

She was a real beauty with flawless skin and long black hair. Her complexion was probably rosy, I guessed, although you couldn’t see it now. Just the gray pallor of death, underscored by the bright slash across her throat. I’d have to wait for the coroner to confirm that the slasher was left handed before I could officially say that this was the fourth victim of the killer we dubbed “Leftie.” But I knew it was Leftie’s work even without confirmation from the medical guys. We don’t normally have many serial slashers of any kind running amok in Dayton. . . .

Leave a comment with your first 50 words about “real beauty.”