Poetry

What does a poet do but
Grasp the dust motes or leviathan
In trembling fingers
And
Pulls out her own heart fibers
To use as wrapping ribbon
While dripping tears of pride
And
Offers it to say
This was mine
But now it's yours.

Photo from ihatefog Flickr.

For Valentine's Day

Invitation To Love
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Come when the nights are bright with stars
Or come when the moon is mellow;
Come when the sun his golden bars
Drops on the hay-field yellow.
Come in the twilight soft and gray,
Come in the night or come in the day
Come, O love, whene'er you may,
And you are welcome, welcome.

You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,
You are soft as the nesting dove.
Come to my hears and bring it to rest
As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.

Come when my heart is full of grief
Or when my heart is merry;
Come with the falling of the leaf
Or with the redd'ning cherry.
Come when the year's first blossom blows
Come when the summer gleams and glows,
Come with the winter's drifting snows,
And you are welcome, welcome.

Paul Laurence Dunbar was one of the first African American poets to gain national recognition.
From Poem-A-Day.

Two good scenes...

...from very different shows.

In The Fades, two best friends combat ghost zombie apocalyptic warriors.  No, not all at once, in succession-it makes sense on TV planet.  In any case, there's a great scene that I'm not sure came from the writers, the directors, or the actors.  Two best friends are sitting on a bench eating ice cream, delivering some fairly mundane exposition.  However, what makes the scene cool is that they eat a bite, trade ice cream, and then eat a bite. Then they trade again.  It's a wonderful character moment to show that these guys have been friends since they were probably about two years old.  It's also a good  Pope-in-the-pool moment from "Save the Cat." Pope-in-the-pool means that if you have to deliver exposition, there better be something fascinating like the Pope swimming in a backyard pool to hold the viewers' interest.  These guys trading ice cream sure did the trick.

Another one is more of a line reading.  In Empire, Terrence Howard as Lucius Lyon is the patriarch of a family of three sons and a hip-hop impresario.  When one of his sons begins to date one of the hot young artists, Lucius says to his girlfriend/Girl Friday "Let's keep them together." It's a tossed off line, but the result is chilling because it shows not only the extent of his power but how far he's willing to meddle in the lives of those he's purported to love.  Terrence Howard gives it no weight at all in his delivery, which is what makes it land so hard.

Sigh...

The backlash against the Amtrak Writer's Residency

So even though it took a few weeks, it's no surprise Republicans are starting to come out against the delightful new writer residency program that has the public actually talking about Amtrak in a positive way. The program, which began with a whimsical tweet and recently became official, will send up to 24 writers on overnight journeys to take some inspiration from the American countryside. More than 9,000 people have reportedly applied.

Personally I think having 24 grateful wordslingers spreading the Amtrak word far and wide would be a good thing.  How many people will start to consider taking the train because of the word of mouth?

And this confirms that Amtrak will not be displacing paid customers.  The residents will occupy unsold rooms that would otherwise go empty. 

Retreat! Retreat!

When it's a writing retreat, it's actually an advance in getting projects done.  My two writer friends are great because we have tons of fun, but we all are goal oriented and keep each other working, working, working!  The only problem is they make me laugh until I cry.  AND THEY DO IT ON PURPOSE!!

What's Going On...

...at Edward Copeland on Film, where I have been a contributor.

Lazy, lazy, lazy

The cold open for The Walking Dead's "18 Miles Out" was a lazy writer's trick.  By flash forwarding to some zombie lumbering goodness, the writers tease the action so that they could fall back on the talky talky again.  It was a promise to have some good stuff later on.  Again, I ask thee, why not just have it all be good stuff?  The flash forward technique worked better in the Shane and the Haircut episode because it was demonstrating his journey--here he is at point C, and he got there through points A and B.  But in "18," I can't see any other purpose than to grab attention.  Lazy.  After the cold open, we get Rick and Shane talking it out. As much as I love Jon Berenthal's sullen 14 year old act when Shane's getting talked at, that scene felt looong.

Like Christmas!

So I  basically got everything I asked for in my last blog post about The Walking Dead.  I didn't ask for more zombies, but got them too.  Essentially I asked for more tension within scenes, and the latest episode, "Triggerfinger," had that in spades. *Spoilers from here* Glen, Rick and Herschel being pinned down in the bar even had shades of the highway scene I referenced.  If I didn't know more about TV production I'd think someone out there was listening.

So Close and Yet So Far

The Walking Dead has been a disappointment.  Not in ratings-it's drawing tons of viewers.  However, the water cooler discussion after each episode, or at least the virtual one I follow on Twitter and the like, is about continual disappointment.  There seems to be an unfulfilled promise that is nagging at the amorphous crowd that is "the viewership."  Some complain it's the farm that stagnating the story, others complain about characters like Lori who don't demonstrate much agency, one camp is firmly in the "more zombies" category, and yet others are just mad that Frank Darabont is no longer part of the project.  If it were just a rotten show, people would quit watching it, and there wouldn't be so much sturm und drang about it.  But The Walking Dead has such a great concept, right-on production values, and moments of brilliance (hiding under the vehicles on the highway as the herd shuffles by, anyone?) that when the story drags, its a--well, drag.  You're rooting for it.  You want it to live up to the hype.  So when it doesn't, the let down has more impact.

#FridayFlash #100words Return Trip

"Why?"

"Because we’re going home."

"Why are we going home?"

"That’s where we live."

“Why are we going now?”

“Because it’s time.  Okay, enough questions, sweetie.  Let me have your arm.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Just a little poke, like the other times.”

“Why does it work?”

“It just does.  Now relax.”

“Okay.  How does it work?”

“That’s very complicated and difficult for a four year old to understand.”

“How long will it take?”

“Not long.  Are you sleepy?”

“Yes.  Why must I be sleepy?”

“You know why.”

“Because I must dream for us to go home.”

“That’s right.  Sweet dreams.”

#FridayFlash #200words Empty

“Ew, gross,” she thought. 

The old man picked up the horseapple from the road and bounced it up and down in his hand.  He had tobacco stains down his shirt.  She thought it really didn’t matter that he was handling poop because he couldn’t get any dirtier.

 

“Get to the station!” he cackled.  That’s what she thought he said, because his toothless speech was indistinct.  Then she wondered why there was a pile of horseapples in the middle of the paved road. 

That’s when he winged it at her.  He actually threw it at her head, surprisingly fast.  She ducked and backed up against her stalled car.  She felt a flash of anger, not just at the old man who was throwing horseapples at her, but at the idiots who screwed up the gas station signs so badly.

He picked up another one, and she edged around the car to put it between her and the loony old man.  He scuffled toward her vehicle, bouncing his ammunition.

“Stop it!” she yelled.  He didn’t stop.  He threw it at her.  So she bolted into the high grass on the side of the road.

Right where the others were hiding in wait.

The Week Between

A glorious post about the week between Christmas and New Years.  Poetical, even.
http://toulousestreet.wordpress.com/2010/12/28/a-silent-night-kind-of-afternoon/

#FridayFlash #200words Close the Gates 3

Part 1 
Part 2

Ting Ting dropped Rachel’s hand and walked to the base of the hill.  She sat down on the ground cross-legged and arranged her skirt around her knees and feet.

“What’s that?” asked Rachel.

There was a visible shimmer in the air around Ting Ting.  It hadn’t been there before, but when the others looked at her, they could see it, as if they could see the very air around her.  She turned her palms upward on her knees and closed her eyes.

Darla winced.

“What’s that racket?” she asked.  The feeling of dread had coalesced into a low humming, almost buzzing sound.

“I feel it in my stomach,” she said.  The pitch was so low it was almost beyond their capability to hear.

“I wonder,” said the priest.  He stopped himself.

“Wonder what?” asked Amrita.  She had taken half a step backward, terrified.  Unconsciously she had turned as if to run away.  Yet she remained.

“I wonder if making yourselves known so soon will prove to be disadvantageous.  You’re not nearly ready…”

“Damn straight!” said Darla, before her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open.

For Ting Ting, legs still crossed, eyes still closed, was slowly levitating from the ground.

#FridayFlash #120words Burlesque

“That’s not burlesque,” he said.  She was on stage, breathing heavily, having performed a strenuous three minute dance routine.

“What?”

“That’s not burlesque.  You’re a good dancer. Not talented, you’re not free enough, but you’re definitely not a burlesque performer.” He looked at the list on his clipboard.

“This is where the jobs are,” she said.

“That’s true.  We’re back in fashion.  But you have no idea what it is we do here.”

“You show the sexuality…”

“No,” he interrupted.  “We don’t.  You do.  That’s what you just did.  I now know exactly what you can do, and how.”

“But that’s good, though, right?” she asked.

“No.  You should leave me wondering.  Burlesque is the art of the tease.  Next!”

Guesting

I find Twitter quite a lot of fun, and one of the people I enjoy communicating with is Derek Haines, an Aussie writer living in Switzerland.  He's finishing up his latest book, and therefore has limited time for new content in his blog.  He made a call for guest writers, and has kindly given some space for a post I wrote about adventures in my Seattle's Child gig.  Take a look, and I'm sure you'll find lots of good stuff over at Derek's place.

#FridayFlash #380words Close the Gates 2

Start here for Part 1.

They just stared at him.  Ting Ting looked around at the other women, and when she saw that the other women were concerned, her serenity faded for just a moment. She then grasped the hands of those closest to her, Amrita and Rachel.

“I don’t believe in Hell,” said Rachel.

“That’s not relevant in this case,” said the priest.

“What is relevant?” asked Darla.  “Where are the gates?  Why hasn’t anybody heard of this before?  You don’t sound Italian.  Where are all the demons flying around?  How did we get picked?  Is it a genetic thing?  Mama certainly never mentioned…”

The priest interrupted.  “I beg your pardon, but we’re still waiting to see if any of the others arrive.  I’ll give you as full an explanation as I can, but only after we have enough of you to even make an attempt.”

“An attempt? That doesn’t sound promising,” said Amrita.

“In the past we’ve had more.  Many more.  Dozens.   But now no one is answering the call.  I’m sorry, I misspoke.  Of course you all answered, and Farah is on her way from the Emirates.  She’s had difficulty traveling.”

“I bet she has,” said Darla.  “Muslim, right?”

“Yes, of course,” said the priest.  “But I’m hoping there are others who may come, who weren’t able to send word.”

“Hell you say,” said Darla.  “It’s the Vatican.  How do you not get word?  Can’t blame the temp for losing your messages.”

“I prefer to maintain hope,” he said.

“Not faith?” asked Darla.

“Both,” he replied.

Rachel noticed that Ting Ting was gazing off to the side, directly at the side of the hill.  She pointed, and Ting Ting nodded, letting go of her and Amrita’s hand.  She stepped off the porch, passing the priest on the step, and Rachel followed her.

Ting Ting and Rachel stood at the bottom of the hill.

“It feels like dread,” said Rachel, and Ting Ting reached for her hand again.  Darla walked up and stood beside Ting Ting.

“You’re right,” said Darla, “like when the pressure drops just before the hurricane gets there.”

“I don’t see a gate,” said Amrita.  “How can we close it if nothing’s open?”

“You sense it, then,” said the priest, now standing behind them.  “That means it’s open.”

#FridayFlash #430words Close the Gates

“Oh Lord, a priest.  The Catholics are always behind this sort of thing.” Darla was a blowsy blond woman, with a ladies-who-lunch suit, big sprayed hair, long painted fingernails, false but relatively tasteful eyelashes, and gold jewelry.

“Behind what sort of thing?” asked Amrita.  “I beg your pardon, but do you know why we’ve been invited here?”  Her choli shirt was a brilliant cobalt blue and the sari draped around it was a vibrant magenta.

“Hell if I know.” Darla chortled. “My husband, ol’ Reverend Stick-in-the-Mud, hates it when I say that.”  She nudged TingTing, whose head was shaved and who was garbed in a dull gray floor length dress.

“Hello,” said TingTing.

“Hello back!” said Darla.  “What’s your name, honey?”

“Hello,” said TingTing.

“Hoo boy,” said Darla.

“My name is Rachel…” began a woman with one long braid down her back.

“You don’t look Jewish,” interrupted Darla.

“I’m not.  I’m Rachel Little Rider.  From Montana.”  Rachel was wearing jeans, a long sleeved t-shirt, and the lace-up boots called ropers.

The priest continued to walk toward them.  He was in full regalia and was carrying some file folders and a Bible.  They were on the front porch of a small, spare building.  It was situated on a flat area next to a sharply rising hill.  The priest approached them from the direction of another tiny building opposite the hill.

“Look,” said Darla.  “It’s clear we come from all different backgrounds.   ‘Hello’ here is a Buddhist, I did missionary work in Taiwan, you see.  Are you some sort of Hindu leader?” she asked Amrita.

“It’s challenging to explain.  I am a scholar of a number of texts, but most rituals are performed at home…” she replied.

“Well, you know your stuff, anyway,” interrupted Darla.  “I’m just saying, whenever there’s a party going on in the religion world, the Catholics are right there.”

“Party?” asked Rachel.

“Oh goodness me, my manners!  I’m Darla.  Darla Johnson,  of the First Baptist Church of Turnertown, Tennessee.  My husband is the pastor, of course, and I’m in charge of the education programs,” she said, just as the priest reached the porch.  “And I suppose, Father, oh, how funny that sounds!  You’ll be telling us why my mother left an instruction in her will that if I was to get a letter from the Vatican I should follow all instructions to the letter and why I ended up in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of other women who don’t know what’s going on either?”

It took him a moment to track her words.

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Johnson.  You’re here to close the gates of Hell.”

Cross-Contamination

I usually keep my two blogs separate, but I wanted to point out a post I have up on WatchingTreme, basically, because I worked hard on it!  It's a book review of sorts of Chin Music Press' upcoming Where We Know:  New Orleans as Home.

Twitter version--I really really liked it.  Now go read the post.  (Please?)

#FridayFlash #200words Intellectual Property

“How’d it go with the attorney?” he called out as he entered the house.  He could hear her crashing around and talking to herself.  Only when he entered the office, saw the chaos, and approached her could he see that she was crying.

“That asshole is turning it around!  Saying I got the idea for the show from his novel!”

“Which asshole?” he asked.  “Not your attorney.”

“No!  That plagiarizing, pseudo-writer asshole!” She began digging through papers randomly, not even really looking at them.

“What are you looking for, honey?”

“The first draft of the script.  From four years ago.  The one I printed out and marked up all over in blue pen.  It’s dated and it’s written on with ink, maybe they can CSI it and show the ink is four years old…”

He stopped her and gave her a hug.  He held her for a long time.

“We’ll find it.  Okay?  Just stop crying, that’ll help, yes?”

“Okay,” she said, and wiped her eyes. Then she lunged to the floor, startling him.  She stood up with a bunch of papers triumphantly clenched in her fist.  “Intellectual property, bitches!”

#FridayFlash #500words Lady Vengeance

He was not the type who usually came into her little shop.  She had handmade quilts, lace, and crocheted caps and mufflers, things like that.  Usually it was a wife and mother with little ones’ faces buried in her skirts who dropped by to pick up something she just could not get done on her own.  They were always slightly embarrassed, because a good wife and mother would get all the cooking and darning and knitting done as well as have a new quilt made for each winter.  She’d say how hard it was to raise a family, offer some sort of nicety to ease the sting.  Sometimes there would be a single man who’d come by, often older, a widower, perhaps, who needed to stock up on items to keep house.  Once a young man come by to buy a quilt for his sister’s hope chest—she was to be married in a month.  She thought that was right nice.  But this man did not look like he kept a good house.  As he staggered in it was quite clear to her that he was not only dirty, but stinking drunk. 

“May I help you, sir?” she asked, rising from her rocker next to the potbellied stove.  He muttered something that she could not understand.   He looked  at her and managed to focus his eyes.

“So you’re the new woman in town,” he said, lurching forward.

“Yes, I’ve just recently arrived.  Is there something I can get you?”

“No husband, nor other family,” he said, grinning in a very ugly way.

“If you’re not here to purchase…” she managed to say before he reached out and pawed at her shirtwaist.  She gasped and stepped back, but he just kept coming forward.   She felt the stove tools in their stand against the back of her leg, grabbed one, and thrust it toward the man.

“Huh!”  She had just poked him in the belly with the poker.  He stood there.

She was utterly petrified.  She was indeed alone, and had no idea what to do.  She could not think.  She lifted the poker and brought it down right on the man’s head.  The bar made a thunk against his scalp.

“Ah!” he yelped.  He stepped back.  The poker was down by her side now, and she swung it up in a sweeping arc and caught him sideways in the neck this time.

“Unh!” was what he said, and he turned and lurched for the door.  She lunged and stabbed him in the back.  Then she followed him out.  She still was not thinking, she just kept swinging the poker and noticing the man’s cries when she made contact. Someone grabbed her from behind and held her arms down by her side—she wasn’t sure who it was.  The man fell. 

“Damn!” said the man holding her still.  “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!”