Long and Winding

Ah, discipline, it's just not me. I am haphazard incarnate. Whaddayagonnado? I try to blog frequently, but somehow...

So what's new? Well, the Telecaster has taken my songwriting in directions I never imagined it would. I'm very excited about it, but not sure how to attack what needs to happen next. I have a few ideas... but nothing concrete. I know that I need Eric and Dan absolutely, but I think I may also need Tommy and Merrill and even once in a while Daddy-o. My perspective is also shifting a bit - not so focused on the first-person narrative song now, sort of starting to shift to more story-telling, third-person stuff, which I really like.

And I've discovered that I like a little growl in my tone. I got a Vox amp which does the sugar-coated-road-grit sound perfectly, and I'm suddenly completely enchanted with dirt. I realize that this is part of me that's been dormant a long time. Darker impulses are finding their way into my voice, too, and I'm more comfortable with the imperfections in my character. I'm the nicest bitch you'll ever meet. Let me sing you a song...

An Experiment in Flash Fiction

My Blind Date with an Alien

“I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow, just started to apologize.

I waved his apology away. “No, no, I keed, I keed...”

He looked even more confused. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just a curious person.”

I smiled. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

He looked shocked, and his giant violet-blue eyes got even bigger. “What? Oh, I’m so sorry! How did it happen?” He almost reached for my hand.

I shook my head, letting my hair fall over my shoulder. “That’s just an old expression.”

He tilted his head and, if possible, looked yet more confused. “Old expression?”

Once again I found myself waving the subject away. “No matter. So, Curious George, where did you grow up?”

He smiled. “My name is Stephan, not George.”

“Sorry, you remind me of somebody called George.” I took a sip of my Chablis and restated my question. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Minnesota.”

I nodded encouragingly, but he didn’t pick up on my cue. “Oh, Minnesota. So you came to Iowa seeking relief from the cold winters, then?”

He shrugged. “No, the winters here aren’t much less cold than in Minnesota. I came here because I got a job at the University.”

I slapped the table top lightly. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re a hot shot astrophysicist, right?”

“No.” If it was possible for someone to look sick with confusion, it was my date. “I’m a... warm-blooded anthropologist.”

I had to laugh. “Even better! Studying us Earthlings, reporting back to the Mother Ship?”

His confusion turned to panic. “What are you talking about? You haven’t made one bit of sense this entire evening!”

“Do you live under a rock or something?”

He was visibly trembling. “No, I live in a nice house on Brown Street. Look, I’m sorry, Melissa, but I thought we had a connection, and now I just think you’re a terrible person, and I am going to pay the check and leave.”

I couldn’t resist. “Screw you guys, I’m going home.”

He rose in a lather, looked at me with real fury, and stalked out as I literally fell out of my chair sideways laughing. “B’dee b’dee b’dee, that’s all folks!”

Lillian's Last Dance

Lillian drained the last of her whiskey and sat back in the unfamiliar chair, waiting for the soft knock she knew was about to come. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to be nervous. “People do this all the time,” she whispered to herself. She had dressed in a very flattering pale blue dress of soft and stretchy fabric that flowed around her body like a soft breeze. Her nearly white hair was styled simply and softly, framing her still lovely face with it’s high cheekbones and dazzlingly blue eyes.
The soft knock came in the next moment, and she startled. Quickly composing herself she opened the door. A young and very handsome man stood on the other side.
“Lillian?” His voice was as dark and silky as his very expensive looking suit, with such a subtle hint of an accent that she could not recognize it.
“Yes, I’m Lillian.” Her voice was steady, she was impressed.
“I’m Michael. It’s very nice to finally meet you.”
Lillian stood aside to let him in. “Please, come in. Can I offer you... well, I have a little whiskey and I can probably get you some water.”
He immediately soothed. “No, no, Lillian, I’m just fine. Thank you for offering.” He set a case on the desk top. “You seem a little nervous. Why don’t we sit down and chat a little bit before we begin.”
She seemed both relieved and anxious. “Whatever you think is best.”
He held out a strong, golden brown hand and led her to the little sofa. “No, I don’t know best. You know best. But I understand being a little nervous.”
“Well, I have never done this before.” She laughed at the absurdity of the statement.
Michael smiled and laughed with her. “I don’t get very many repeat customers.”
Suddenly much more at ease, she leaned back on the couch and looked at Michael. “Well, maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.”
He laughed again, this time much less reserved. “Well, if I was a few years younger...”
“Nonsense. Nice suit, by the way. I used to work in alterations, way back in the day. I know good fabric when I see it.” She reached out tentatively to touch the sleeve.
“Some people might see it as a wicked indulgence, but,” he got conspiratorially quiet, “I love good fabrics. My mother was a seamstress in Italy, where I was born.”
“Oh, working in fashion?” She smiled as he nodded. “I wanted to be a designer, and I think I had some lovely ideas. But that’s a rough business to get into.”
He patted the hand that still rested on his sleeve. “Mama worked for several of the big designers in Milan. She worked from home, so she could raise her family.”
“Really? That’s almost unheard of in the fashion industry.”
“Because she was so fast, and so good they trusted her, and so she became personal friends with many of the designers.” He laughed. “I used to play with the scraps of fabric, making hats and capes and whatever my imagination wanted.”
She smiled. “Sounds like a wonderful childhood.” She drifted off a moment, imagining the young child with a flowing silk cape, running over cobblestone streets with a toy sword.
“It was. But that’s enough about me. Is this dress one of yours?”
She laughed. “Don’t you know Donna Karan when you see her? You flatter me!”
“It’s the perfect color for your eyes. Tell me, did you ever make any of your designs?”
She nodded. “A few. And I even sold some of them, back in the ‘50s, when a woman would wear a real gown on a date, you know, dinner and dancing.”
Michael nodded. “Yes, those were such beautiful nights. Do you like to dance?”
“Oh, I used to love dancing. I met my husband on a dance floor, actually.” She laughed. “I was out with another fella, but he wasn’t a very good dancer, and I saw Robert across the room dancing with some dazzling red-headed girl, and he was so graceful, so confident. I guess he must have known I was wishing I could dance with him, because he came over and asked me, and we danced for the next forty-five years.”
“And the red-head?”
“Became my dear sister-in-law.” She laughed. “I wouldn’t have wanted her as competition! She was gorgeous!”
“What about the poor fella you didn’t like dancing with?”
“He left with a girl who was... less interested in dancing.” She shook her head. “We were all so shocked! It was in some ways such an innocent time.”
He smiled. “What a wonderful story. I dream of finding a woman I can... dance with like that.” He gestured to the open part of the room. “Would you dance with me now?”
Lillian stopped herself before mentioning the lack of music. “Well, if you are gonna lead, I’m gonna follow!”
Michael got up off the sofa and gently drew her to her feet. His rich speaking voice translated to a wonderful singing voice as well. He sang a lovely song in Italian, one strong, confident hand around her slim waist and the other holding her hand like a child’s. He looked into her eyes as he sang, and she smiled like she was young again.
When he finished the song, he kissed her cheek, then drew back and bowed. “Thank you, my lady, for the dance.”
She returned his bow with a graceful curtsey. When she straightened, she said, “I think I’m ready now.”
He took both of her hands in his. “Are you completely sure, Lillian, that you want to do this? There is no going back.”
Her eyes closed for a moment and she looked up, over his shoulder and back to his face. “It isn’t gonna get any better than this. In fact, it hasn’t even been close to this good for a long time, so yeah. I’m sure.”
He nodded, and led her to the bed, and helped her sit on the edge. “Do you think you’ll want a blanket?”
She considered. “Yes, I think I would.”
He pulled one out of the chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed and laid it carefully beside her. Then he turned his attention to his case, and drew from it a bottle of liquid, kept cold with an ice pack.
“You’ve already signed all our forms, and we have the statement from your doctor, so we can just proceed without interruption.” He broke the seal and opened the bottle. Still sensing a bit of merriment in her eyes, he waved it under his nose and sniffed. “Ah, yes, a very good year.”
She laughed. “A good year to toast many good years.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away with her hand. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.”
He put the bottle down and sat next to her on the bed, taking her hands again. “I think you lived a wonderful life. There is no shame in a few tears when you are saying goodbye to that.”
She smiled through a few more tears. “Absolutely. I haven’t changed my mind. I’m just... well... it’s a life. That’s a precious thing.”
He was quiet for a moment. “It is a precious thing. Lillian, do you want to call your son?”
“No.” She was decisive without rancor. “No, he wouldn’t understand. He thinks I should come and live with him so he can take care of me. I can’t imagine inflicting anything more horrid on him. No. I’ve sent him a letter. He’ll know tomorrow.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’m ready when you are, Lillian.”
She sniffed and wiped her eyes again, and grinned. “Bring it.”
He went back to the desk. “Here it is.” He poured the slightly pink liquid into a plastic cup. “Sorry, we don’t have budget for wine glasses.”
Lillian laughed. “Well, it hardly matters at this point, does it?” She accepted the cup and drank the liquid down. “Damn, that stuff’s got quite a kick to it.”
He winked. “We don’t mess around.” He took the empty cup from her steady hand, and helped settle her back on the bed, then placed the cup and empty bottle in the trash and returned to the bed to cover Lillian with the blanket.
“Would you like some company until you fall asleep, or would you like to be alone?”
“Company would be lovely.”
Michael drew a chair up beside the bed and settled back.
“Would you like to talk?”
She sighed. “You know, if I’m not imposing, I would love to hear you sing to me. You have such a lovely soothing voice.”
“It would be my pleasure, and my honor.” She heard him shift in the chair slightly. “Anything in particular you want to hear?”
She sighed drowsily. “Do you know any of those old love songs like we used to slow dance to?”
“Ah, I know just the thing.” He sat up straight and sang to her in a soft, low voice as she drifted to sleep for the last time.

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see ‘em bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue, clouds of white
Bright blessed days, dark sacred nights
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of the people going by
I see friends shaking hands, sayin’ how do you do
They’re really sayin’ I love you

I hear babies cry, I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world*

*Song written by Bob Thiele (as George Douglas) and George David Weiss.

Beating Oneself Up

Still working with The I Ching for Writers... and lately the exercises have been forcing me to dig deep and really beat myself up a bit, which apparently I have needed. OLD stuff, shit I've been carrying around for who knows how long and who cares why has been dredged to the surface, and I've had to look at it, identify it, decide whether it has worth or validity, and then either clean it up and file it, or compost it. It's exhausting, but rewarding in a weird way. You get all those, "Oh! That explains a lot!" moments, which are often opportunities for hilarity. And when you write all of this down, you end up with a few strings of words here and there that are just... remarkable, and great fodder, judiciously edited, for future writings.

As always, stay tuned for further developments...

Looking inside

Inner truth is tricky stuff
It’s like trying to read your own future
In leaves, or cards
You interpret things the way you want
But at the risk of telling myself
What I want to hear
I’ll take a shot at it
And try to be honest about the truth
Okay, start with what we know:
I’m an introvert
I love being left to my own devices
Alone to think my own thoughts
Never having to censor myself or
Watch what I say so as not to
Light fires I don’t want to fight
Maybe we all do this
I’m creative, too, and never happier
Than when I am making something
From raw materials, or nothing at all
Out of my head, out of my mind
Yet my sanest moments are purely creative
The word Wicca, apparently, comes from
Roots that mean to bend or move
That’s a little factoid that has lodged itself
In my mind because that’s what
I imagine that I do when I create
Bend the Universe to my will
Make something that nobody has
Ever had before and that changes
Something, somewhere, somehow

Tool box stuff

A member of the writers group, Cindy, donated a couple copies of The I Ching for Writers by Sarah Jane Sloane, which is very cool. It's a good tool to have around for inspiration, but also just to improve your chops. It's good exercise to write something other than what you feel driven to write. Write from a purely intellectual place, and then get excited about that. Write from a voice you've never imagined using, like an old man or a child. Building chops. It's been really fun and interesting, and taking the exercises seriously will ultimately make me a better writer. That's a good thing.

WTF is up with Valentine's Day?

The traffic around the mall yesterday was almost as bad as Christmas. So, the annual orgy of giving and spending and running up the credit cards wasn't enough for people? If ever there was a holiday for staying home and putting your money where your mouth is (hmm, THAT can be taken more than a few ways), it's this one. I guess I must have missed a memo somewhere.

And this morning, I'm solitary on the couch with a box of tissues, some tea and a whole array of cold remedies before me. Maybe I'm not jaded, maybe it's just snot.