I used to say “you could be right. “When my husband would make some outlandish statement that I just didn’t want to get into. my AA sponsor gave me this trick and it worked until he figured it out, being a smart rat and all. so today I have a new one which is I say “good point. “It kind of shuts down the conversation without my having to enter into the debate and reminds me of another Recovery slogan— “ resign from the debating society.”
It may be July today, but tomorrow it will be August. And you know what that means. For me it means I’m half way through my 77th summer.
For a few weeks now I have not written much, unable to think of what to write. I have written a thing here and a thing there, but no two sentences together. Maybe I’ve invented a new form. Here it is so far. These might be titles of books I’ll never write, or essays I’ll never write, or maybe just incomplete thoughts, which seems to sum up so much these days.
Civilization is Winning
No Country for Atheists, Being Atheist in Fundamentalist Christian society sucks.
Welcome to the Pyrocene. The anthropocene was short lived.
Climate Change Deniers are Arsonists, moral felons.
Misophonia, In a word, Shutup.
Candlefish, (Euchalon, For your next Birthday Cake.) Candlefish are made of so much fat when they dry out you can light them with a match and they burn like a . . . candle.
I stole a word from your list for my post today. Hope you don't mind. Misophonia. One of my favorite topics (and something I actually do have, I think). Started writing a memoir about it a couple of years ago, then stopped. Couldn't stand the sound of it any more. (yuk yuk)
No copyright on words. : ) I don't like talking about things like that, but I fall into that category too, and have to refrain, restrain, myself from unloading on noisemakers. There's just too much noise in this culture, and some people are oblivious. So . . .
Additional thought: Also hard when you're oblivious to your own sounds. E.g., like when I'm out walking idly around town in my boots and suddenly become aware of my own noisy footsteps. Freaks me out and makes me turn around every time to see who's following me. Okay. Going to shut up now. :)
My 77th summer* came to an end last Monday. And the freak weather and the freak fires increase and increase, and world leaders either deny the problem or make plans for getting more fire engines.
I mean that tongue in cheek, more or less, because in the scale ( scheme) of things "equipment" aligned against what will be perpetual fire is sort of a joke. A few rich folks houses will be saved, sometimes.
Some amazing images of whole lines of fire engines along a forest road, ready to (attempt to) stop the approaching line of monster flames. But comforting fictions are what politics is all about.
Probably one of the worst things about being called Thor, Thor thought as he walked across town to avoid taking an Uber – some pretty bad things went on in Ubers, he'd heard, and he'd rather hedge his bets – was that that name spoke of strength, courage, straightforwardness, decisiveness, in a word, no-nonsense (if that was one word and not two, yes, it might well be two), a Norse God and a Marvel hero, and there were as yet (despite his having passed sixty) no signs of his personal development heading in that direction.
Shouldn't I have turned right back there, he wondered, before deciding he could cut across later. At least hoping he could. He seemed to remember a side street that would take him the way he thought he should be going. The devil with all this walking around in city streets, he thought, was that a feller could get lost pretty fast. Without a map. Maybe he could buy a map. He never carried a smartphone, as they called it. You couldn't trust those things, could you? He'd read about someone whose phone made him drive straight into a river. So where could he get a map?
Never ask a passer-by. Never. They'll have you figured for a weakling and you'll get mugged at the next dark corner. Even if it was sunny, like today. There's always a dark corner somewhere. And a criminal in the darkest part ready to drag you in and take everything you've got.
There's a sign up there pointing to the place I need to go. But can I go that way on foot? No pedestrians, it says. Maybe I can walk alongside without getting on the freeway or whatever it might be, I never know the difference between a highway, a freeway, a parkway. Can I find a simple street? And look! That highway or I don't know what turns and crosses a bridge. Over a river. It could be a raging torrent. Or a big deep slow freezing cold river. Or polluted, it's likely polluted, a person could get cancer just from breathing the air by it without drinking or anything like jumping in, maybe I shouldn't think too much about jumping in. Particularly as I never wanted to learn to swim, way too risky with your head going under and your nose filling up.
Couldn’t decide what to write. Then saw a certain word on Tod’s post and it set this off.
First Sophie said she would, and then she said she wouldn’t. Then she said she did, and then she didn’t. Hansard wanted to know why she was so undecided now. And what was he gonna do?
It had been going on like this for a long time, Hansard feeling like he was making good progress, getting all that much closer to achieving his dream of Sophie becoming his wife, screwing up his courage to pop the question. Then out of the blue she’d just blow him off, as if he never existed and nothing between them had ever happened. And then it would start up all over again, go along great for a while, and then she’d be gone once more. Hansard could never really figure out why. And, of course, he never really wanted to ask Sophie about it in case he’d lose her for good. But after a few years of this on-again-off-again business, he decided he must confront the woman.
The spiral began.
Was it something I said?
Maybe.
Something I did?
Could be.
Should I change my after shave?
Well, now you mention it, wouldn’t hurt.
My clothes?
Your clothes are fine.
You do like me, Sophie, don’t you?
Yes, yes, of course I like you. At least most of the time, I guess.
It must be my appearance then. You don’t find me attractive. You think I’m old and ugly. That’s it,
isn’t it?
No, no, it’s not that, exactly.
What is it, then? You have to tell me. I can’t stand us going on like this.
Okay, you’re right. I do have to tell you. I have misophonia.
Miso what?
Misophonia. It means hatred of sound.
Uh? What sound?
Well, for starters, I can’t stand the sound of your voice when you talk.
Oh, well why didn’t you just say so before? I don’t have to talk, you know. I mean, if it will make you feel better, keep us together.
Really? You’d stop talking for me?
Sure, Sophie. Anything for you. What else? What other sounds do you hate?
Well, since we’re being honest, I hate the sound of your name. Hansard. Who would ever give someone such a stupid name? Sounds like Hazard. Or that book where they keep the parliamentary debates, and you know how much I hate politics.
I could change my name, Sophie. How about I shorten it to Hans? You know, as in Hans Christian Anderson. You could think of me as your book of fairy tales.
Oh, good idea. I think I’d like that. Mmm. Well, while we’re at it, being all honest and everything, could you also maybe stop making all those grunting noises when you …..
And so it went, Sophie telling Hans more and more of the sounds he made that she hated, and Hans promising to change his ways and stop making those sounds, he’d do anything for her, anything.
At last, Sophie brought up how much she hated listening to the sounds Hans made when he was eating. Hans promised to stop eating. He did stop eating. Then he died. And wouldn’t you know it? Sophie missed all his sounds.
Hans has no backbone whatsoever! I'm sorry he died, but sheesh! Meanwhile, Sophie should maybe invest in some earplugs.... And never go to Japan, where slurping is the norm. (I'll admit, it took me a bit to get used to my husband's slurping.....)
That's funny about Japan. When I first heard about misophonia back in covid days, I honestly thought they were talking about some kind of miso soup. Also, funny what we can get used to. Thanks mary g.
My father slurped his soup. He was in Japan at the end of WW2. I never dreamed that's where he picked it up. I can still hear it, and it's been at least 40 years since I sat down to a bowl of soup with him.
so fun. i love the pacing leading up to the misphomia. and i felt seen. it's far too easy to get hung up on the small annoyances in a partner and miss the bigger picture.
It's really bizarre because I had no idea where I got the name Hansard from until I saw the headline last night about Glen Hansard's death. Must have also seen it before I wrote the story and it was in my subconscious? Weird.
I once had my close friend, Liz, do my astrological chart.
“Four houses in Libra. I have never seen such a Libra-y chart. It’s a miracle you function at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Libras are the scales, balancing everything. That can lead to a paralyzing amount of indecisiveness.”
She was right and wrong. I actually did okay with the big decisions of my life but damn, could I hem and haw about the most minor shit. This is why it takes me twice as long to shop as my husband. Tide detergent or pods? Nectarines or peaches? Mama Celeste or the Red Barron? I remind myself of Robin Williams in “Moscow on the Hudson,” the Russian defector who wants to do something for his host family, so offers to shop. He is so overwhelmed by the amount of choices for “coffee” on his list, that he faints in the shopping aisle.
I deal with such dilemmas by using small decision-forcing techniques, like favoring the choice that comes first alphabetically, or just making rules that I lean on. For example, whenever they ask for volunteers to check their carry-on, if no one is picking me up at my destination, I just say yes. To be “the considerate guy.”
The other trick is to wait until the next morning to decide whether to send an angry email. Invariably, I refrain to send it, not because I disagree with the sentiment expressed, but because I see clearly that the recipient will only hear the anger, and not read the words. But I save these emails (some are very well-written, if I say so myself) and come across them later with labels drawn from the first sentence, like “Sparemeyourcondescension.docx.” For some reason, I don’t delete them, as if some historian in the future will be going through my digital oeuvre and be intrigued, wondering whether to include this in my biography.
Recently, I wanted very much to ask a friend what she knew about the estrangement of two other friends. I suppose I imagined that I could somehow clear up the misperceptions that I am sure undergird it. At the last second, I deleted the inquiring email. I have somehow managed to stay friends with these three women, and could easily imagine my attempts at diplomacy completely backfiring. They are grown-ass women who can’t figure things out on their own.
That last line! Cracked me up. Also, i see the carry-on bag has once again reared its (stress-inducing) head! I just read an article that says they don't actually need anyone to check their bags for space, unless you are the unlucky last person to board and there's really no more space. They just want to board more quickly so they can take off on time and save money. And boarding with bags takes longer. So the whole "we need 20 people to check their bags because there's not enough room" is false!
And I fell for it again Wednesday, flying back from Seattle! Never again! (If they at least offered a free cocktail. Which I bet they would if they REALLY needed the volunteers.)
If I ran out of hair conditioner....I shudder to consider it. I grew up in Seattle where there were no air conditioners and no need of them (similar to the French)--until now. The heat and fires in Europe--so horrible to contemplate. (John, I hope you're okay.)
There are small fires round here. One the other day not far away on a farm (we know the farmer) where an overhead electric cable overheated and fell on wheat stubble. But the fire brigade snuffed it out pretty quickly.
I've seen many a summer in this region, and this is the first one to make me think that air con is probably necessary.
What about Leos? My guy is a Leo and if he could he'd spend all day in the paper towel aisle, then all night with the melons. I can't watch. I go the freezer aisle and count the pizza varieties.
A single bright spotlight seared Henry's eyes. It reminded him of a 90s sci-fi movie, like Independence Day when the optimistic humans tried to welcome a UFO to New York, only to be zapped into oblivion.
"Why am I thinking about Independence Day?"
He could hear a mess of dogs barking and men shouting. The darkness hid how many of them there were or how close they were. Turning his head back, he saw the single spotlight had split into two. Lara and Josh had already made it over the highway. The lights had burned a blind spot into his eyes and prevented him from differentiating their bodies from the swaying trees.
The tangle of sound had become individual dogs and people, their cries carried along in the warm air. Looking down, the asphalt was shifting its color from black to gray. The lights angled low towards the road, and the engine propelling them emitted a pathetic whine. Cars passed by on the other side of the highway, a quick flash accompanied by a thrust of warm air and rumbling engines.
His body was still and scratches stung his bare legs. His gut was solid in his body, like he might be able to withstand two tons of metal colliding with him at seventy miles per hour. White phosphorescent light bathed him.
This may be the last day of July (I swear I wrote that without seeing Tod’s post) but tomorrow is August and August is the best month because August contains August 23rd, which is my birthday (no gifts, please) and my great-nephew’s birthday (little bastard was born at 1AM and I was born at 2AM so he beat me, but at least we’re both Virgos!), and 2 friends’ birthdays, and I live on the Q23 bus route.
Q? For Queens. And queens reminds me of tradition. Tradition! Now, who knows musicals like a queen? Who is this, who comes here? Who who who who who? Oh mamma mia let me go. Now I think about it, doesn’t Bohemian Rhapsody sound like that song from Fiddler?
So many questions.
But you know, when I ask questions I no longer expect answers. Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen waiting for answers only to find out guess what? There are none! Not a single answer in all god’s creation, which is unfortunate when there are so many questions. Sunrise, sunset, under the boardwalk, up on the roof, whenever and wherever, there are questions. And none of those questions have answers.
Once I thought I might try a change of venue. What would happen if I moved across the street, onto the sunny side, to ask my questions? Would life look brighter over there? Might there be an answer? I tried it once but it was a cloudy day so, no. No brighter side of life over there. I looked for a rainbow on a rainy day but there was no sunshine so that’s another time a question went unanswered.
I could go an asking but it’s getting late, like, twenty five, maybe twenty six, to four. See, time runs backwards for me, which raises more questions. Which, you know, have no answers. We’ve all learned that by now, haven’t we.
There’s no end to this (how could there be?), so I’ll stop. But before I do I’ll say that life in the fast lane, like, answering a prompt and posting it in 10 minutes is breathless-making and I haven’t many breaths left. I mean, I’m not that old, but I will be older on the 23rd of August (no gifts!) and they’re counting down, my breaths. So, no editing, no revisions, no waiting to see what the meaning is. Just go! 400 words.
You've written a little bit of this. A little bit of that. A pot. A pan. A broom. A hat. (Oh my god, if you get that reference, you really are a queen.) Gift is in the mail!
What do we need? Nothing much! Yikes, Mary. Last week I wanted baseball guys out of my head (except for Wayne Garrett) and now I want Anatevka gone! I do wish I had been alert enough to know I was seeing Bette Midler as a daughter. I was wee! How was I to know?
In third grade I played Rolf, the Nazi Youth who sang Sixteen Going on Seventeen. I got the part because I was a Cub Scout and so had a uniform (and sang pretty well, too). My line: Letter for Captain Von Trapp, at which Liesl and I sang and danced our way to stardom. When my Liesl finished High School, she moved to Oklahoma (!) and had a lot of kids and is now archconservative and, 69 going on 70, not a pleasant person.
Most gay men can be divided between having had a crush on Captain Von Trapp or Rolf. And of course a different kind of crush on The Baroness. "After all, I do have the finest couturier in Vienna" being a line I appreciated even at 11.
Oh that turn at the end is so funny. I just finished agonizing over an invite to a BBQ for today (I'm not going). I got the invite 5 months ago. I know you can perhaps imagine the contortions.
haha. you should go. the thing about invitations is that if you write, something unexpected will always happen. its not worth it if there’s pain involved.
my mermaid! it's very soggy out, she might well be washed up there. Alas, I'm indoors in the AC. She and I will have to wait for our fated meeting on the emerald shores.
I'd see Vittorio in Erasmus Park. Usually on his own. Looked like he'd come to do some thinking.
'He could do with less thinking and more action.'
My sweetheart was lovely but all opinion. And Hana was her best friend. Vittorio and Hana had been a Neighbourhood item for ten years. This, to my lovely lady, was an outrage.
The action she wanted was for Vittorio to propose, 'Ten years. It's hardly credible.'
I nodded. Times in the past I didn't nod and her full wrath had rained down on me. I nodded again for good measure.
She continued, 'Hana is an angel, she deserves better. No, she's a saint with all that patience.'
I bumped into Vittorio in Bar Perro, 'Hey, fella. How ya hangin.'
'So, so.'
'How's Hana?'
'No idea, buddy. She's moved to the coast. Got a job as a children's entertainer.'
'No kiddin?'
'Yeah, not even a postcard. Rumour is she's runnin around with a pastry chef.'
'You bothered?'
'Sure, I'm bothered. I gave that girl ten of my best years. Every Christmas and summertime I went down on one knee. My grandmother's ring is special, a diamond as big as a blueberry. She turned me down every time. And now this pastry guy is whippin up a storm.'
'Sorry to hear that, Vittorio. Maybe she'll be back.'
I thought my girl would he happy. What I don't know about women would fill a bible.
'I can't believe that Hana: she's cried on my shoulder for years. Now it's all sandcastles, amour-amour and cream puffs. What a turn-up. Poor Vittorio.'
We spotted him in the park, she was over in a skid. For an hour she name-dropped six friends, all single, all looking. She asked about the ring. Vittorio had it with him.
'Wow, they were right about the blueberry.'
My sweetheart was impressed, very impressed.
That Saturday I took her to Bar Perro. I knew straight off there was something wrong.
Eventually, 'Anything you'd like to ask me?'
I didn't nod. I shook my head. Big mistake.
'Hey, mister. I've been so busy worryin about Hana, I'd forgotten we've been steppin out for a long, long time. Still no proposal, no diamond, not even a tiny one.'
She stomped off. I didn't see her all summer. Then I heard the news that shit Vittorio had been back on his knee.
I met her in the park wearing a sheepish smile, a smile soon shaded in the glitter sparkling off the ring on her finger.
If I understand it right, if I zig, I'll be right where I should be. That would be a good thing. But if I zag, I'll be right where you are, and that would be a bad thing. You've warned me. You've threatened me. You're bigger than me.
If I understand it right, if I go left, I'll be on my way, safely away from you. That would be a good thing. But if I go left, I'll be heading right to you and that would be a bad thing.
If I understand it right, you don't expect me, though, so that would be a good thing. I can come in strong and quick, another good thing. But if you see me coming, you can brace for an impact I won't survive well, and that would be a bad thing. You're bigger than me.
If I understand it right, this problem is not going to go away on its own, and that is definitely a bad thing.You'll always be limiting my choices, and that's an even worse thing. But, understanding this right, I've just about had it, and although that's a bad thing, it might just lead to a good thing.
Beaten, beleaguered, bloodied, and bruised, that would be a bad thing; but I can heal, and that's a good thing. And free at last, if I understand it right, is the best of things.
Marvin considered his options for the dance. Maybe Martha would be willing. But wait, maybe his mother might get involved, and that would be a disaster. A miasmal stench. Mother always … But wait, maybe Martha would want to bring her sister, Melonie. That would staunch the toxic flow his mother’s attempted interventions would bring.
Nothing would matter in the end. So why even try? Perhaps Melonie would be able to drive. That would give Marvin an opportunity to escape with both women. What a convenient plan. It would be like a James Bond meets George Smiley getaway. Well, maybe not. He was no dashing Bond-esque kind of guy. Nor would the girls appreciate his trying to be such. And he wasn’t exactly a George Smiley either. He could never be that subtle.
So what were his choices? Maybe? Oh, screw it. He would just take the bus to Martha’s place, invite her to the dance, which was going to be in walking distance from her place, pick up Melonie from her barista job, and then the three of them would cozy up. But what was he thinking? What a Walter Mitty series of thoughts. He didn’t really know Melonie. All he had ever done was eye her in the cafeteria. She wasn’t even in one of his classes. And Martha? She would be pissed at his trying to manage two girls. He’d be lucky if she ever shared her notes with him again, let alone spoke to him. And his mother. Oh my god, he realized he hadn’t even asked her if he could be home after 10:30. What a mess this was turning out to be.
Maybe he would just stay home and rewatch a few of the Star Wars back stories on Disney.
Maybe we're just enjoying sitting here. How can you tell if you're enjoying it?
Maybe she's just patiently waiting for me to act.
Maybe I could try that old high school trick, the fake yawn as you stretch out both arms, then slowly lower one over her shoulders.
Maybe I can do it really obviously, ironically, so she thinks it's funny.
Maybe I'm hilarious and don't know it.
Maybe I'm deluding myself.
Or maybe the spark of interest I saw in her eyes earlier—left eye, of course, the right obscured by that patch, which makes her even more mysterious, possibly seafaring, a pirate, a marauder (dumb stereotype, right? do the anophthalmic take umbrage the way other minorities do when we generalize? why would I think these thoughts? what's wrong with me? do I even deserve a woman this gorgeous? not pretty, but beautiful, because strange, because imperfections heighten, because wabi-sabi, man, the Japanese are right, they're always right, I mean, look at these serious sushi dudes, how they work those knives, every cut so decisive, never a doubt, blades flashing under the lights)—maybe it was a real spark, not just a reflection.
Maybe the soul really is a kind of fire. Is that profound, or stupid?
Maybe I should ask her if she knows the concept of wabi-sabi. What am I saying? Of course she does! She knows more about it than I do!
Maybe she's into me, and I just can't tell, sitting next to her, the way I could if we were across a table and I was looking into her eyes. Eye. Oh, if I make some inadvertent remark about her eye, it's sepuku for me. Maybe I'll grab a knife from one of these guys.
Maybe the bar wasn't the best place to sit. I know Rilke says love isn't about facing each other, but looking in the same direction together—a nice idea, but it’s bullshit, right?
Maybe it's too early to think about love.
Maybe? Duh.
Maybe by now she sees that I'm a complete idiot, unable to act, make a move, think of a single goddamn thing to say.
Maybe her depth perception is limited, so she can't tell how shallow I am.
Maybe all my vacillating isn't deep or thoughtful, just dithering. Maybe by the time you’re my age, you should know what the hell you want.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I'll order for both of us. Show her I not only know what I want, but what she wants. It's old school, but isn't domineering masculinity making a comeback?
Maybe warm sake? Or cold. Both? No! Dude. Show her you know what you're doing. Just order the food, man, just make a decision for once in your life.
"I'll have the nigiri. And the lady will have the cycloptopus. I mean, octopus! She'll have the octopus!"
Love this, and especially that ending. Nailed! This reminded me of one of my favorite monologues. Nicolas Cage in Adaptation: "What if I learned Russian or something? Or took up an instrument? I could speak Chinese. I'd be the screenwriter who speaks Chinese and plays the oboe. That would be cool." https://soundcloud.com/mohamed-monem-mahmod/adaptation
Love this, so funny: "I know Rilke says love isn't about facing each other, but looking in the same direction together—a nice idea, but it’s bullshit, right?"
The megaplex movie theaters are mostly rubble now, torched by drones launched by a coalition of billionaires. Breeding grounds for undesirables, according to them. But this place in Englewood was spared, somehow, maybe rebel deities? Two theaters remain intact, two films play in continuous loop, two of Scriv 's favorites. Heaven? Scriv wonders, or is it hell. He can only choose one, so maybe it's purgatory and he whatever film he chooses will play on continuous loop for eternity. The nihilistic new wave laissez-faire violence of Godart's Breathless until the end of time? Or Red and Andy reuniting on the beach at the end of Shawshank only to be imprisoned again and again and again. To know how it ends, every time. Surely that, is hell? Like Prometheus, dude, was it worth it? Being chained to a mountain while eagles eat your regenerated liver every day, all because you gave humans fire? What if you got a do-over?
I’m a maybe-ish kind of person too. That maybe why my first marriage didn’t work? Great prompt; if I wasn’t so wiped out by the heat—even here in Santa Monica!—I might have participated. Maybe.
Looking forward to what Mr Saunders has in store for us tomorrow. And hoping he’s moved on from the Irish folk tale.
A flash of red. Chirps, cheeps, trills and tweets.
It was just too much.
Chloe jumped down and raced to the back door, pawing at it while loudly meowing.
Emily got up to let her out. “OK, Chloe, but if you’re going into the garden you need to stay there for a while.”
The cat dashed out but soon realized the pavers were hot on her paws – and all the birds had scattered. She went back to the door, mewling and tapping on it.
Emily had just returned to the couch but now went to let Chloe back in. She opened the window, hoping that would satisfy her pet.
At first it seemed to work so Emily settled back down.
Then the birds and the birdsongs were back – louder without the glass – and now there were squirrels, too. And lizards! And lovely smells on the breeze that caused Chloe’s tail to twitch.
She was back at the door: MEOWR! MEOWR! Paws going clack, clack, clack.
“Really, Chloe?” Emily sighed as she got up again. Not for the first time, she thought about getting a pet door so Chloe could come and go as she pleased without Emily’s agency.
Yes, she told herself, I need a cat flap.
But that, of course, would require installation. Could she do it herself? Doubtful.
And after all that trouble, would Chloe even use it? Or would she still want “personal service”?
Having chased off all the birds and squirrels, and failed to catch a lizard, Chloe was back at the door, almost screaming and banging at it.
Emily got up and let Chloe back in. Yes, I’m for sure getting a cat flap. Chloe will use it if I don’t cater to her, if she can’t get in and out any other way.
But what other animals might use it? Could a squirrel get in – or worse, a skunk?
Having lapped a little water, Chloe was back at the door: MEOWR, MEOWR, YOWWWR! Thud, thud, thud.
Emily thought, I’ll ignore her. But Chloe’s near-shrieks were getting on Emily’s nerves. She couldn’t concentrate on her book. So she got up yet again.
There were cat doors you could buy that made sure only the cat could use it, but they were probably complicated – and expensive! Which one would be the best? How much work would it take to find out, to get it installed? Was it worth it?
Chloe at the door again, more insistent than ever.
Emily had decided. She was definitely getting that cat door.
I used to say “you could be right. “When my husband would make some outlandish statement that I just didn’t want to get into. my AA sponsor gave me this trick and it worked until he figured it out, being a smart rat and all. so today I have a new one which is I say “good point. “It kind of shuts down the conversation without my having to enter into the debate and reminds me of another Recovery slogan— “ resign from the debating society.”
oh, man, i love that slogan. I'm one of those people who will not stop pressing a point. Need to hand in my resignation immediately.
Good Points. Fortunately I never make any outlandish statements, so won't need to remember this intel.
I used you could be right on my ex-husband for year and we still divorced.
Polly, I just wrote a piece that ends with me saying under my breath, "God grant me the serenity..."
I said that countless times too.
In L.A. we say, "God grant me the celebrity..."
God grant me the temerity would also work.
God grant me the clarity
"good point" is a great snooty putdown!
John, snooty is one of the kinder things I’ve been called.
I've always been kind, Christine.
Gosh that's hard to believe, CB.
It may be July today, but tomorrow it will be August. And you know what that means. For me it means I’m half way through my 77th summer.
For a few weeks now I have not written much, unable to think of what to write. I have written a thing here and a thing there, but no two sentences together. Maybe I’ve invented a new form. Here it is so far. These might be titles of books I’ll never write, or essays I’ll never write, or maybe just incomplete thoughts, which seems to sum up so much these days.
Civilization is Winning
No Country for Atheists, Being Atheist in Fundamentalist Christian society sucks.
Welcome to the Pyrocene. The anthropocene was short lived.
Climate Change Deniers are Arsonists, moral felons.
Misophonia, In a word, Shutup.
Candlefish, (Euchalon, For your next Birthday Cake.) Candlefish are made of so much fat when they dry out you can light them with a match and they burn like a . . . candle.
it's hard to concentrate when the world is burning. (I had to look up euchalon--they are also called hooligans.) Happy halfway to January!
Of course. That's it. The story! The fish are on fire and the world is burning.
“Misophonia, In a word, shut up” perfect
"No Country for Atheists, Being Atheist in Fundamentalist Christian society sucks." It sure does, mister.
But we won't get started on that here.
No. No long string on that one. See? We're at least decisive about that.
I stole a word from your list for my post today. Hope you don't mind. Misophonia. One of my favorite topics (and something I actually do have, I think). Started writing a memoir about it a couple of years ago, then stopped. Couldn't stand the sound of it any more. (yuk yuk)
No copyright on words. : ) I don't like talking about things like that, but I fall into that category too, and have to refrain, restrain, myself from unloading on noisemakers. There's just too much noise in this culture, and some people are oblivious. So . . .
Thank you re copyright note. I find most people are oblivious. Don't know about you, but earplugs don't work for me. They fall out. So ...
Additional thought: Also hard when you're oblivious to your own sounds. E.g., like when I'm out walking idly around town in my boots and suddenly become aware of my own noisy footsteps. Freaks me out and makes me turn around every time to see who's following me. Okay. Going to shut up now. :)
My 77th summer* came to an end last Monday. And the freak weather and the freak fires increase and increase, and world leaders either deny the problem or make plans for getting more fire engines.
* shouldn't it be 78th?
I listened to a story on the radio yesterday about the fires in France, and they said the government was investing in fire fighting equipment !
Yeah. After years and years of no investment because capitalists don't like that kind of thing.
And don't mention "climate".
I mean that tongue in cheek, more or less, because in the scale ( scheme) of things "equipment" aligned against what will be perpetual fire is sort of a joke. A few rich folks houses will be saved, sometimes.
Some amazing images of whole lines of fire engines along a forest road, ready to (attempt to) stop the approaching line of monster flames. But comforting fictions are what politics is all about.
I wondered about that * but felt 77th was close enough, without dealing with the complicated math.
Probably one of the worst things about being called Thor, Thor thought as he walked across town to avoid taking an Uber – some pretty bad things went on in Ubers, he'd heard, and he'd rather hedge his bets – was that that name spoke of strength, courage, straightforwardness, decisiveness, in a word, no-nonsense (if that was one word and not two, yes, it might well be two), a Norse God and a Marvel hero, and there were as yet (despite his having passed sixty) no signs of his personal development heading in that direction.
Shouldn't I have turned right back there, he wondered, before deciding he could cut across later. At least hoping he could. He seemed to remember a side street that would take him the way he thought he should be going. The devil with all this walking around in city streets, he thought, was that a feller could get lost pretty fast. Without a map. Maybe he could buy a map. He never carried a smartphone, as they called it. You couldn't trust those things, could you? He'd read about someone whose phone made him drive straight into a river. So where could he get a map?
Never ask a passer-by. Never. They'll have you figured for a weakling and you'll get mugged at the next dark corner. Even if it was sunny, like today. There's always a dark corner somewhere. And a criminal in the darkest part ready to drag you in and take everything you've got.
There's a sign up there pointing to the place I need to go. But can I go that way on foot? No pedestrians, it says. Maybe I can walk alongside without getting on the freeway or whatever it might be, I never know the difference between a highway, a freeway, a parkway. Can I find a simple street? And look! That highway or I don't know what turns and crosses a bridge. Over a river. It could be a raging torrent. Or a big deep slow freezing cold river. Or polluted, it's likely polluted, a person could get cancer just from breathing the air by it without drinking or anything like jumping in, maybe I shouldn't think too much about jumping in. Particularly as I never wanted to learn to swim, way too risky with your head going under and your nose filling up.
Thor turned away from the river.
(400 words and Thor is lost, maybe).
Thor the Undecider. Too funny. Also, this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DOW_kPzY_JY
Exactly. Also features "That's a very good point" meaning "Bullshit!"
Couldn’t decide what to write. Then saw a certain word on Tod’s post and it set this off.
First Sophie said she would, and then she said she wouldn’t. Then she said she did, and then she didn’t. Hansard wanted to know why she was so undecided now. And what was he gonna do?
It had been going on like this for a long time, Hansard feeling like he was making good progress, getting all that much closer to achieving his dream of Sophie becoming his wife, screwing up his courage to pop the question. Then out of the blue she’d just blow him off, as if he never existed and nothing between them had ever happened. And then it would start up all over again, go along great for a while, and then she’d be gone once more. Hansard could never really figure out why. And, of course, he never really wanted to ask Sophie about it in case he’d lose her for good. But after a few years of this on-again-off-again business, he decided he must confront the woman.
The spiral began.
Was it something I said?
Maybe.
Something I did?
Could be.
Should I change my after shave?
Well, now you mention it, wouldn’t hurt.
My clothes?
Your clothes are fine.
You do like me, Sophie, don’t you?
Yes, yes, of course I like you. At least most of the time, I guess.
It must be my appearance then. You don’t find me attractive. You think I’m old and ugly. That’s it,
isn’t it?
No, no, it’s not that, exactly.
What is it, then? You have to tell me. I can’t stand us going on like this.
Okay, you’re right. I do have to tell you. I have misophonia.
Miso what?
Misophonia. It means hatred of sound.
Uh? What sound?
Well, for starters, I can’t stand the sound of your voice when you talk.
Oh, well why didn’t you just say so before? I don’t have to talk, you know. I mean, if it will make you feel better, keep us together.
Really? You’d stop talking for me?
Sure, Sophie. Anything for you. What else? What other sounds do you hate?
Well, since we’re being honest, I hate the sound of your name. Hansard. Who would ever give someone such a stupid name? Sounds like Hazard. Or that book where they keep the parliamentary debates, and you know how much I hate politics.
I could change my name, Sophie. How about I shorten it to Hans? You know, as in Hans Christian Anderson. You could think of me as your book of fairy tales.
Oh, good idea. I think I’d like that. Mmm. Well, while we’re at it, being all honest and everything, could you also maybe stop making all those grunting noises when you …..
And so it went, Sophie telling Hans more and more of the sounds he made that she hated, and Hans promising to change his ways and stop making those sounds, he’d do anything for her, anything.
At last, Sophie brought up how much she hated listening to the sounds Hans made when he was eating. Hans promised to stop eating. He did stop eating. Then he died. And wouldn’t you know it? Sophie missed all his sounds.
Hans has no backbone whatsoever! I'm sorry he died, but sheesh! Meanwhile, Sophie should maybe invest in some earplugs.... And never go to Japan, where slurping is the norm. (I'll admit, it took me a bit to get used to my husband's slurping.....)
That's funny about Japan. When I first heard about misophonia back in covid days, I honestly thought they were talking about some kind of miso soup. Also, funny what we can get used to. Thanks mary g.
Yes, what we can get used to!
My father slurped his soup. He was in Japan at the end of WW2. I never dreamed that's where he picked it up. I can still hear it, and it's been at least 40 years since I sat down to a bowl of soup with him.
This story had terrific pace. And raced towards a neat conclusion. Great work!
Oh, thanks so much, Terry!
so fun. i love the pacing leading up to the misphomia. and i felt seen. it's far too easy to get hung up on the small annoyances in a partner and miss the bigger picture.
Thanks, Kenzo! Very true. Big picture can be hard to keep in mind.
There I was thinking I liked the name Hansard! I'm glad Sophie cleared that up for me. She's really in touch!
It's really bizarre because I had no idea where I got the name Hansard from until I saw the headline last night about Glen Hansard's death. Must have also seen it before I wrote the story and it was in my subconscious? Weird.
I wondered.
So strange. At least for me as someone who hasn't written a lot of fiction or attempted these fast turn around prompts before. Does it happen to you?
All kinds of things pop up when we write. I usually have no idea what I'm going to write until it appears on the page.
And no psychedelics necessary. :)
maybe that's why I liked the name Hansard? The zeitgeist has long, insinuative fingers.
Oh I like that. Maybe? Can I get a side of sound with that? Seriously, though, that song from Once has me bawling every time.
"you don't know what you've got til it's gone, "
True, but not always. Depends on the sounds. :)
Hahahaha! Oh man. So good and so fun.
Thanks, Sea!
I once had my close friend, Liz, do my astrological chart.
“Four houses in Libra. I have never seen such a Libra-y chart. It’s a miracle you function at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Libras are the scales, balancing everything. That can lead to a paralyzing amount of indecisiveness.”
She was right and wrong. I actually did okay with the big decisions of my life but damn, could I hem and haw about the most minor shit. This is why it takes me twice as long to shop as my husband. Tide detergent or pods? Nectarines or peaches? Mama Celeste or the Red Barron? I remind myself of Robin Williams in “Moscow on the Hudson,” the Russian defector who wants to do something for his host family, so offers to shop. He is so overwhelmed by the amount of choices for “coffee” on his list, that he faints in the shopping aisle.
I deal with such dilemmas by using small decision-forcing techniques, like favoring the choice that comes first alphabetically, or just making rules that I lean on. For example, whenever they ask for volunteers to check their carry-on, if no one is picking me up at my destination, I just say yes. To be “the considerate guy.”
The other trick is to wait until the next morning to decide whether to send an angry email. Invariably, I refrain to send it, not because I disagree with the sentiment expressed, but because I see clearly that the recipient will only hear the anger, and not read the words. But I save these emails (some are very well-written, if I say so myself) and come across them later with labels drawn from the first sentence, like “Sparemeyourcondescension.docx.” For some reason, I don’t delete them, as if some historian in the future will be going through my digital oeuvre and be intrigued, wondering whether to include this in my biography.
Recently, I wanted very much to ask a friend what she knew about the estrangement of two other friends. I suppose I imagined that I could somehow clear up the misperceptions that I am sure undergird it. At the last second, I deleted the inquiring email. I have somehow managed to stay friends with these three women, and could easily imagine my attempts at diplomacy completely backfiring. They are grown-ass women who can’t figure things out on their own.
That last line! Cracked me up. Also, i see the carry-on bag has once again reared its (stress-inducing) head! I just read an article that says they don't actually need anyone to check their bags for space, unless you are the unlucky last person to board and there's really no more space. They just want to board more quickly so they can take off on time and save money. And boarding with bags takes longer. So the whole "we need 20 people to check their bags because there's not enough room" is false!
And I fell for it again Wednesday, flying back from Seattle! Never again! (If they at least offered a free cocktail. Which I bet they would if they REALLY needed the volunteers.)
Welcome back to the heat. Please god, do not let my air conditioner break down this weekend.
At first I read "hair conditioner." HA!
I feel so fortunate next to the French, who have largely eschewed air conditioning and who are suffering for it dearly.
If I ran out of hair conditioner....I shudder to consider it. I grew up in Seattle where there were no air conditioners and no need of them (similar to the French)--until now. The heat and fires in Europe--so horrible to contemplate. (John, I hope you're okay.)
Well... My socks got burnt. It's not funny.
There are small fires round here. One the other day not far away on a farm (we know the farmer) where an overhead electric cable overheated and fell on wheat stubble. But the fire brigade snuffed it out pretty quickly.
I've seen many a summer in this region, and this is the first one to make me think that air con is probably necessary.
What about Leos? My guy is a Leo and if he could he'd spend all day in the paper towel aisle, then all night with the melons. I can't watch. I go the freezer aisle and count the pizza varieties.
I’d be concerned about the melons.
we always end up with a very tasty melon so his method must work
I love yours!!!! Hahahha! I want to read those pissy emails.
A single bright spotlight seared Henry's eyes. It reminded him of a 90s sci-fi movie, like Independence Day when the optimistic humans tried to welcome a UFO to New York, only to be zapped into oblivion.
"Why am I thinking about Independence Day?"
He could hear a mess of dogs barking and men shouting. The darkness hid how many of them there were or how close they were. Turning his head back, he saw the single spotlight had split into two. Lara and Josh had already made it over the highway. The lights had burned a blind spot into his eyes and prevented him from differentiating their bodies from the swaying trees.
The tangle of sound had become individual dogs and people, their cries carried along in the warm air. Looking down, the asphalt was shifting its color from black to gray. The lights angled low towards the road, and the engine propelling them emitted a pathetic whine. Cars passed by on the other side of the highway, a quick flash accompanied by a thrust of warm air and rumbling engines.
His body was still and scratches stung his bare legs. His gut was solid in his body, like he might be able to withstand two tons of metal colliding with him at seventy miles per hour. White phosphorescent light bathed him.
This is so tense!!!! I'm not positive of what, exactly, is happening, but you've got me on the edge of my seat.
perhaps i need to to do a little more telling as well as showing!!! thank you though. and thank you for the fantastic prompt :)
Really liked this a lot, Kenzo. Very cinematic with the play of light and shadow and--great expression--"tangle of sound."
thank you so much Annemarie. I'm enjoying dipping my toe into creative writing with these prompts after 10 or so years
Glad you're enjoying it but your writing flows so well and is such a pleasure to read it sure doesn't seem like you've been away from it for 10 years.
This may be the last day of July (I swear I wrote that without seeing Tod’s post) but tomorrow is August and August is the best month because August contains August 23rd, which is my birthday (no gifts, please) and my great-nephew’s birthday (little bastard was born at 1AM and I was born at 2AM so he beat me, but at least we’re both Virgos!), and 2 friends’ birthdays, and I live on the Q23 bus route.
Q? For Queens. And queens reminds me of tradition. Tradition! Now, who knows musicals like a queen? Who is this, who comes here? Who who who who who? Oh mamma mia let me go. Now I think about it, doesn’t Bohemian Rhapsody sound like that song from Fiddler?
So many questions.
But you know, when I ask questions I no longer expect answers. Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen waiting for answers only to find out guess what? There are none! Not a single answer in all god’s creation, which is unfortunate when there are so many questions. Sunrise, sunset, under the boardwalk, up on the roof, whenever and wherever, there are questions. And none of those questions have answers.
Once I thought I might try a change of venue. What would happen if I moved across the street, onto the sunny side, to ask my questions? Would life look brighter over there? Might there be an answer? I tried it once but it was a cloudy day so, no. No brighter side of life over there. I looked for a rainbow on a rainy day but there was no sunshine so that’s another time a question went unanswered.
I could go an asking but it’s getting late, like, twenty five, maybe twenty six, to four. See, time runs backwards for me, which raises more questions. Which, you know, have no answers. We’ve all learned that by now, haven’t we.
There’s no end to this (how could there be?), so I’ll stop. But before I do I’ll say that life in the fast lane, like, answering a prompt and posting it in 10 minutes is breathless-making and I haven’t many breaths left. I mean, I’m not that old, but I will be older on the 23rd of August (no gifts!) and they’re counting down, my breaths. So, no editing, no revisions, no waiting to see what the meaning is. Just go! 400 words.
You've written a little bit of this. A little bit of that. A pot. A pan. A broom. A hat. (Oh my god, if you get that reference, you really are a queen.) Gift is in the mail!
What do we need? Nothing much! Yikes, Mary. Last week I wanted baseball guys out of my head (except for Wayne Garrett) and now I want Anatevka gone! I do wish I had been alert enough to know I was seeing Bette Midler as a daughter. I was wee! How was I to know?
By the time I saw it on Broadway, she was long gone. In the ninth grade, i played a fabulous Fruma Sarah, everybody still talks about it. (not.)
In third grade I played Rolf, the Nazi Youth who sang Sixteen Going on Seventeen. I got the part because I was a Cub Scout and so had a uniform (and sang pretty well, too). My line: Letter for Captain Von Trapp, at which Liesl and I sang and danced our way to stardom. When my Liesl finished High School, she moved to Oklahoma (!) and had a lot of kids and is now archconservative and, 69 going on 70, not a pleasant person.
of course I had a crush on Rolf
Most gay men can be divided between having had a crush on Captain Von Trapp or Rolf. And of course a different kind of crush on The Baroness. "After all, I do have the finest couturier in Vienna" being a line I appreciated even at 11.
Benjamin Button, just remember to enjoy 45-20, especially if you look like Brad Pitt.
And have some fun doing drag as "Ana Tevka." After all, you only live twice.
being edited
Love that ending. Maybe yes, maybe no speaks directly to my little indecisive heart.
As usual, you had me in stitches. If you didn't live so far away, I'd invite you over for dinner tonight.We could order in.
you are adorable
No, you are.
Oh that turn at the end is so funny. I just finished agonizing over an invite to a BBQ for today (I'm not going). I got the invite 5 months ago. I know you can perhaps imagine the contortions.
haha. you should go. the thing about invitations is that if you write, something unexpected will always happen. its not worth it if there’s pain involved.
Your mermaid might be there
my mermaid! it's very soggy out, she might well be washed up there. Alas, I'm indoors in the AC. She and I will have to wait for our fated meeting on the emerald shores.
yeah, she might still be looking for her hat on the rocks
I'd see Vittorio in Erasmus Park. Usually on his own. Looked like he'd come to do some thinking.
'He could do with less thinking and more action.'
My sweetheart was lovely but all opinion. And Hana was her best friend. Vittorio and Hana had been a Neighbourhood item for ten years. This, to my lovely lady, was an outrage.
The action she wanted was for Vittorio to propose, 'Ten years. It's hardly credible.'
I nodded. Times in the past I didn't nod and her full wrath had rained down on me. I nodded again for good measure.
She continued, 'Hana is an angel, she deserves better. No, she's a saint with all that patience.'
I bumped into Vittorio in Bar Perro, 'Hey, fella. How ya hangin.'
'So, so.'
'How's Hana?'
'No idea, buddy. She's moved to the coast. Got a job as a children's entertainer.'
'No kiddin?'
'Yeah, not even a postcard. Rumour is she's runnin around with a pastry chef.'
'You bothered?'
'Sure, I'm bothered. I gave that girl ten of my best years. Every Christmas and summertime I went down on one knee. My grandmother's ring is special, a diamond as big as a blueberry. She turned me down every time. And now this pastry guy is whippin up a storm.'
'Sorry to hear that, Vittorio. Maybe she'll be back.'
I thought my girl would he happy. What I don't know about women would fill a bible.
'I can't believe that Hana: she's cried on my shoulder for years. Now it's all sandcastles, amour-amour and cream puffs. What a turn-up. Poor Vittorio.'
We spotted him in the park, she was over in a skid. For an hour she name-dropped six friends, all single, all looking. She asked about the ring. Vittorio had it with him.
'Wow, they were right about the blueberry.'
My sweetheart was impressed, very impressed.
That Saturday I took her to Bar Perro. I knew straight off there was something wrong.
Eventually, 'Anything you'd like to ask me?'
I didn't nod. I shook my head. Big mistake.
'Hey, mister. I've been so busy worryin about Hana, I'd forgotten we've been steppin out for a long, long time. Still no proposal, no diamond, not even a tiny one.'
She stomped off. I didn't see her all summer. Then I heard the news that shit Vittorio had been back on his knee.
I met her in the park wearing a sheepish smile, a smile soon shaded in the glitter sparkling off the ring on her finger.
What a tale! As they say somewhere in this universe: He who snoozes, loses.
Well that's a nice howdyado. Did not see that coming. Just like the narrator. Good one!
I didn’t nod, big mistake. Happens to me all the time
Title: Good Things, Bad Things
If I understand it right, if I zig, I'll be right where I should be. That would be a good thing. But if I zag, I'll be right where you are, and that would be a bad thing. You've warned me. You've threatened me. You're bigger than me.
If I understand it right, if I go left, I'll be on my way, safely away from you. That would be a good thing. But if I go left, I'll be heading right to you and that would be a bad thing.
If I understand it right, you don't expect me, though, so that would be a good thing. I can come in strong and quick, another good thing. But if you see me coming, you can brace for an impact I won't survive well, and that would be a bad thing. You're bigger than me.
If I understand it right, this problem is not going to go away on its own, and that is definitely a bad thing.You'll always be limiting my choices, and that's an even worse thing. But, understanding this right, I've just about had it, and although that's a bad thing, it might just lead to a good thing.
Beaten, beleaguered, bloodied, and bruised, that would be a bad thing; but I can heal, and that's a good thing. And free at last, if I understand it right, is the best of things.
The Undecider finally decides! (I think.)
Marvin considered his options for the dance. Maybe Martha would be willing. But wait, maybe his mother might get involved, and that would be a disaster. A miasmal stench. Mother always … But wait, maybe Martha would want to bring her sister, Melonie. That would staunch the toxic flow his mother’s attempted interventions would bring.
Nothing would matter in the end. So why even try? Perhaps Melonie would be able to drive. That would give Marvin an opportunity to escape with both women. What a convenient plan. It would be like a James Bond meets George Smiley getaway. Well, maybe not. He was no dashing Bond-esque kind of guy. Nor would the girls appreciate his trying to be such. And he wasn’t exactly a George Smiley either. He could never be that subtle.
So what were his choices? Maybe? Oh, screw it. He would just take the bus to Martha’s place, invite her to the dance, which was going to be in walking distance from her place, pick up Melonie from her barista job, and then the three of them would cozy up. But what was he thinking? What a Walter Mitty series of thoughts. He didn’t really know Melonie. All he had ever done was eye her in the cafeteria. She wasn’t even in one of his classes. And Martha? She would be pissed at his trying to manage two girls. He’d be lucky if she ever shared her notes with him again, let alone spoke to him. And his mother. Oh my god, he realized he hadn’t even asked her if he could be home after 10:30. What a mess this was turning out to be.
Maybe he would just stay home and rewatch a few of the Star Wars back stories on Disney.
Sounds like a good plan. Can't go wrong with Star Wars.
Mr. Maybe
Maybe silence isn't awkward.
Maybe we're just enjoying sitting here. How can you tell if you're enjoying it?
Maybe she's just patiently waiting for me to act.
Maybe I could try that old high school trick, the fake yawn as you stretch out both arms, then slowly lower one over her shoulders.
Maybe I can do it really obviously, ironically, so she thinks it's funny.
Maybe I'm hilarious and don't know it.
Maybe I'm deluding myself.
Or maybe the spark of interest I saw in her eyes earlier—left eye, of course, the right obscured by that patch, which makes her even more mysterious, possibly seafaring, a pirate, a marauder (dumb stereotype, right? do the anophthalmic take umbrage the way other minorities do when we generalize? why would I think these thoughts? what's wrong with me? do I even deserve a woman this gorgeous? not pretty, but beautiful, because strange, because imperfections heighten, because wabi-sabi, man, the Japanese are right, they're always right, I mean, look at these serious sushi dudes, how they work those knives, every cut so decisive, never a doubt, blades flashing under the lights)—maybe it was a real spark, not just a reflection.
Maybe the soul really is a kind of fire. Is that profound, or stupid?
Maybe I should ask her if she knows the concept of wabi-sabi. What am I saying? Of course she does! She knows more about it than I do!
Maybe she's into me, and I just can't tell, sitting next to her, the way I could if we were across a table and I was looking into her eyes. Eye. Oh, if I make some inadvertent remark about her eye, it's sepuku for me. Maybe I'll grab a knife from one of these guys.
Maybe the bar wasn't the best place to sit. I know Rilke says love isn't about facing each other, but looking in the same direction together—a nice idea, but it’s bullshit, right?
Maybe it's too early to think about love.
Maybe? Duh.
Maybe by now she sees that I'm a complete idiot, unable to act, make a move, think of a single goddamn thing to say.
Maybe her depth perception is limited, so she can't tell how shallow I am.
Maybe all my vacillating isn't deep or thoughtful, just dithering. Maybe by the time you’re my age, you should know what the hell you want.
Maybe I do.
Maybe I'll order for both of us. Show her I not only know what I want, but what she wants. It's old school, but isn't domineering masculinity making a comeback?
Maybe warm sake? Or cold. Both? No! Dude. Show her you know what you're doing. Just order the food, man, just make a decision for once in your life.
"I'll have the nigiri. And the lady will have the cycloptopus. I mean, octopus! She'll have the octopus!"
Love this, and especially that ending. Nailed! This reminded me of one of my favorite monologues. Nicolas Cage in Adaptation: "What if I learned Russian or something? Or took up an instrument? I could speak Chinese. I'd be the screenwriter who speaks Chinese and plays the oboe. That would be cool." https://soundcloud.com/mohamed-monem-mahmod/adaptation
So good! And the "cycloptopus"--perfect!
Love this, so funny: "I know Rilke says love isn't about facing each other, but looking in the same direction together—a nice idea, but it’s bullshit, right?"
Brilliant!!!!
Oh, those dates riven with indecision! The eyepatch is a genius device. Well done.
The megaplex movie theaters are mostly rubble now, torched by drones launched by a coalition of billionaires. Breeding grounds for undesirables, according to them. But this place in Englewood was spared, somehow, maybe rebel deities? Two theaters remain intact, two films play in continuous loop, two of Scriv 's favorites. Heaven? Scriv wonders, or is it hell. He can only choose one, so maybe it's purgatory and he whatever film he chooses will play on continuous loop for eternity. The nihilistic new wave laissez-faire violence of Godart's Breathless until the end of time? Or Red and Andy reuniting on the beach at the end of Shawshank only to be imprisoned again and again and again. To know how it ends, every time. Surely that, is hell? Like Prometheus, dude, was it worth it? Being chained to a mountain while eagles eat your regenerated liver every day, all because you gave humans fire? What if you got a do-over?
Oh, man, i was not prepared for this! (I'd choose the Godart. I think.)
I’m a maybe-ish kind of person too. That maybe why my first marriage didn’t work? Great prompt; if I wasn’t so wiped out by the heat—even here in Santa Monica!—I might have participated. Maybe.
Looking forward to what Mr Saunders has in store for us tomorrow. And hoping he’s moved on from the Irish folk tale.
oh, this heat! I think things are supposed to improve after today. I hope so, anyway. (And i'm with you on the Irish folk tale.)
Paint it
We need to paint this room.
Maybe, but what color?
White goes with everything.
Perhaps, but there are so many whites.
Maybe, but what color?
How about a neutral grey?
Perhaps, but there are so many whites.
Isn’t white just white?
How about a neutral grey?
It would look unhappy on a rainy day.
Isn’t white just white?
You need to make a decision.
It would look unhappy on a rainy day.
Happiness is making a decision.
You need to make a decision.
But what if it’s the wrong decision?
Happiness is making a decision.
My mind is made up.
But what if it’s the wrong decision?
I’ve decided……wallpaper!
Ha! Good luck with that wallpaper! (What color?)
Are You In? Or Out?
A flash of red. Chirps, cheeps, trills and tweets.
It was just too much.
Chloe jumped down and raced to the back door, pawing at it while loudly meowing.
Emily got up to let her out. “OK, Chloe, but if you’re going into the garden you need to stay there for a while.”
The cat dashed out but soon realized the pavers were hot on her paws – and all the birds had scattered. She went back to the door, mewling and tapping on it.
Emily had just returned to the couch but now went to let Chloe back in. She opened the window, hoping that would satisfy her pet.
At first it seemed to work so Emily settled back down.
Then the birds and the birdsongs were back – louder without the glass – and now there were squirrels, too. And lizards! And lovely smells on the breeze that caused Chloe’s tail to twitch.
She was back at the door: MEOWR! MEOWR! Paws going clack, clack, clack.
“Really, Chloe?” Emily sighed as she got up again. Not for the first time, she thought about getting a pet door so Chloe could come and go as she pleased without Emily’s agency.
Yes, she told herself, I need a cat flap.
But that, of course, would require installation. Could she do it herself? Doubtful.
And after all that trouble, would Chloe even use it? Or would she still want “personal service”?
Having chased off all the birds and squirrels, and failed to catch a lizard, Chloe was back at the door, almost screaming and banging at it.
Emily got up and let Chloe back in. Yes, I’m for sure getting a cat flap. Chloe will use it if I don’t cater to her, if she can’t get in and out any other way.
But what other animals might use it? Could a squirrel get in – or worse, a skunk?
Having lapped a little water, Chloe was back at the door: MEOWR, MEOWR, YOWWWR! Thud, thud, thud.
Emily thought, I’ll ignore her. But Chloe’s near-shrieks were getting on Emily’s nerves. She couldn’t concentrate on her book. So she got up yet again.
There were cat doors you could buy that made sure only the cat could use it, but they were probably complicated – and expensive! Which one would be the best? How much work would it take to find out, to get it installed? Was it worth it?
Chloe at the door again, more insistent than ever.
Emily had decided. She was definitely getting that cat door.
Maybe.