Scott: Really Late

So Friday I had exactly 0 minutes and 0 seconds to write and then I was stranded in Provolone over the weekend so I haven’t had a chance to post. But I feel bad that I keep missing so here’s my really late post.

Would they remember? How could they? It was almost 15 years ago that the Dust Bomb Club adjourned their first and last meeting. How had it stuck in his nine-and-a-half-year-old mind so well? In fifteen minutes and 47 seconds it would be exactly fifteen years since that muggy summer day when the four of them hopped the fence out of embassy housing and into their chirping wood.

That summer was spent leisurely making “dust bombs” to combat an enemy that never materialized but whom it seemed it was imperative to destroy. Or at least make really dirty.  Dirt/sweat mud filled the creases of their hands.

They each knew their mutual affection would be short-lived; a fact of life for military kids.  And so they made a pact, a solemn vow that would ensure their eventual reunion.

Now a grown man, Crislen sat in his $200 dress pants on the same dirt mound that was the cause of so many spankings. So many scoldings for getting his Osh Kosh BaGosh dirty.

As the fifteen year mark came and went, Crislen realized the real reason he heeded this childhood summon. He knew all along none of the others would show up. But now he knew what they were fighting.

Painted Angels–Revised

Still not satisfied. Never satisfied. But this is what I turned in today.

—–

The summer days felt endless, they blazed up and melted together-sticky and uncomfortable. Elliot hated everything about them. There was too much daylight, too much time, too much of that muggy Southern heat, and far too many bugs. The bushes shook with the constant dull buzzing of the jar flies and Elliot always cringed as he scooted past them, averting his gaze from their long wax-paper wings and bulging black eyeballs.

Summer meant too many hours feeling cooped up. Too much time listening to Eliza and Meredith argue over who had the cuter cut-offs or who went to the better pool party, and to Mom humming idly as she chopped up zucchini.

Elliot much preferred the refuge of Fall. The slight chill in the air, the back-to-school scuttle, the fresh notebooks and clean classrooms. He loved the crispness, the quiet-far from his hot, leaning house. Far from Meredith and Eliza who went to Jackson Creek Junior High School now. Far from his mother’s zucchini, and the constant dull buzzing of the vacuum (like the jar flies). She was always cleaning, always humming. Elliot was pretty sure she didn’t know how to do anything else. Just smile and clean. Organize the Tupperware. Windex the fishbowl. Shake out the sheets. Dustbust the couch cushions. Humming dying 70’s pop ballads as she went, like nothing in the world was wrong. It was excruciating.

But as long as the seasons were unavoidable, as long as Elliot had no way of escaping to a quiet classroom and shutting all of that away, he found refuge in the attic.

His father told him not to go up there once. He said the floorboards were weak. He said they weren’t strong enough to support some snot-nosed little boy stomping all over them. But what did he know? He just didn’t want Elliot to find all the old boxes stuffed with those nasty magazines of his. Well, Elliot had found them. And a lot more. Elliot made a hobby of unearthing these old family relics-he picked through the mess carefully, occasionally pocketing a fancy stopwatch or a fountain pen.

What he considered his best discovery of all, though, were the angels. There were stacks and stacks of them. Dusty canvases buried deep in a forgotten corner of the room. Most of them were incomplete-roughly sketched outlines with dabs of color only in their cheeks and lips. The angels had perfectly folded wings, gentle hands, and white flowing robes like smoke billowing around their naked feet. Sometimes there were no wings. Just a warm glow, healthy flushed white skin stretched over slight and elegant frames that stood suspended like magic in midair.

They were unfinished projects; unfit to hang on any wall or in any gallery. But Elliot found them-he traced their rough outlines with his fingers and made them his own. He invented elaborate tales about their origin. Ancient treasures, painted in dark majestic cathedrals, stowed on merchant ships coming to the Americas from Europe. Somehow they fell into the possession of a distant relative. A great Uncle or a 3^rd cousin twice removed. They were passed down generation to generation, until finally they were forgotten all together.

When Elliot found them, he was struck immediately by their elegance and grace. Blushing lightly, swathed in color, wide eyes peering up at him. How had they been forgotten? Clearly all their beauty and worth was lost on his dear mother. She was the only other person who ever frequented the attic-trekking up once a week to quickly dust over the furniture. She must have dusted over and around the paintings a million times without ever giving them a second thought. But she wouldn’t recognize a real work of art even if it slapped her in the face. She was never good at that sort of thing.

A few days after his crowning discovery, Elliot began to feel an urgent need to revive the dusty paintings, to breathe some life into them. It became his quest. He spent three afternoons up there-leaning painting after painting under the high attic window and copying them carefully, stroke for stroke, only this time adding in more color. He filled them in with more vibrancy than the originals. He filled in the blanks. Each night when he finished he shuffled through the stacks of crinkled paper and chose his favorites to bring down to his room with him. He pinned them around the headboard of his bed, and they watched over him while he slept.

Then near the end of August, things started to disappear from the attic. First the jam jars, then the bank records, then Grandma Lois’s wooden rocking chair that no longer rocked. They seemed to disappear on their own-with no trace of who took them or where they went. But then he caught her, clanking down the attic stairs noisily with a box of old books.

“What are you doing?!” Elliot asked, quietly horrified. He peered up at the cardboard box that was balanced on his mother’s hip.

“Just cleaning.” She smiled.

Elliot frowned, and let her push past him, before clambering up the stairs and flinging open the attic door. The floors were swept, rugs straightened, old boxes stacked and filed. His eyes shot to the corner where the angels once rested. They were gone.

“Where are you taking that stuff?!” he yelled as he thundered back down the stairs.

“Salvation Army, dear,” she called back.

“But you can’t do that! You can’t just throw stuff away like that!”

She wheeled around looking slightly miffed. “Of course I can Elliot, this stuff is mine!”

“No it isn’t. You’re so stupid! You don’t understand…not the paintings. Those were mine!”

She raised her eyebrows, quickly set down the box of books and snatched Elliot violently by the wrist. Her grip was firm. She was pulling him down the hall. She was silent for a long time but then as they reached the door to her bedroom, she let out an exasperated sigh. “Those are mine too, Elliot.”

She said his name fiercely. She released his wrist. The paintings were stacked up on her bed. She lifted one and pointed to a set of initials etched faintly in the corner.

Elliot felt his body jolt. He had never noticed them before. Right there in the corner. ALB. Abigail Larissa Blythe. No Michelangelo. Just Mom.

“You can have them if you’d like.” She shoved the painting into his arms. Then turned and left the room.

HELP!

Hey, so I am copying and pasting my comment I left below up here so it is more visible and I am more likely to get a response.

So I need some help.

Here are the 3 short little things I have posted on the “painted angels” theme. This is in reference to the last one:

ugh. I hate this now. At least I really dislike the beginning. Why does this happen so much? What do you think of mother’s POV vs. Elliot’s? What does this story need to feel more complete? What motivations would you like flushed out? What are your biggest questions? What needs to be more explicit? What sucks? What is okay? I need help! Because on Thursday I have to turn in a “master work” revision of one of the 3 previous stories I wrote for creative writing. And I think I want to keep working on this . But I need your thoughts.

Be (constructively) brutal. I promise I can take it because I am definitely my own worst critic and feel like everything I write is worthless about 4 seconds after the words leave my fingers and reach the page.

Scott: Summer 2009!

Today I just have some thoughts about our Summer 2009 Project.  First, it needs a name.  Not necessarily the name of the finished product (whatever that will be), but the name we will call it instead of just “the road trip.”  I think it should be a cool name, for undoubtedly it will set the tone for what we want to accomplish.  I personally don’t like literally descriptive titles along the lines of “Project: Awesome” or anything like that.  I think the use of “America” in the name would be cliche.  I kind of like the idea of it sounding like a band name or more like a moniker for the four of us.  Okay so, some ideas I’ve been thinking of (I’m just brainstorming so a lot of these are just what came out of my head):

Something to do with Tumble Weeds (Tumble Kids)

People, Places Sing

People Places

InPerson

Greensleeves (we would have to wear green sleeves)

State of Find

Salmonites

Grandiose Coast to Coast

Condiment Control

The Underground Love Trade

Persons Existent

Mammoth Disposition

Peculiar Ways

Nugget Communion

Tropical Perspective

Thoughts?  Comments?  Better ideas?

Scott: Better Late Than Never

So I’ve been thinking about these characters lately and I think I can feel a story developing somewhere.

Marko is a retired professor of philosophy.  He moved from the Ukraine almost 40 years ago but still has a strong accent.  Unlike most Ukrainians, he is warm and jolly.  He is very accomplished in his field but is quite humble – always willing to learn from those around him.  Judith his wife of 38 years, an American he met while getting his PhD at Berkley, recently died of cancer.  She was a simple woman who didn’t understand most of the thoughts that constituted her husband’s livelihood.  The role she gladly accepted was one of support – dealing effortlessly with the trivialities of life whilst Marko wrestled with the ”big questions.”  After her passing, Marko was left unprepaired to face the insurance and the payment plans and other aspects of adult life he had been postponing for the passed several decades.  And so, he decided to go back to school and take those GE credits he never got around to (Berkley really doesn’t care about that when you’re published at age 20) along with his two kids Daniel and Liz.  The other students in his Math 1030 class never would have guessed the extent of his scholarly claut by the way he freely admitted when completely lost in the most simple of linear equations. 

A natural flirt, after the sting of his wife’s death wore off he fired his guilt and could be seen in various stages of wooing with all his female professors, married or not, although always with the most gentlemanly of intentions.  He began to give his company freely to a blind and brilliant professor of Literature named Edith, whom he suspected of being in love with him starting several years prior to his wife’s death.  Although a man of complete physical fidelity, Marko on occassion admitted during his marriage what now seemed like an elephant in every room they shared: that they (Edith and he) seemed perfect for one another.  “How unfortunate,” faculty members would often say in the absence of parties involved, “they didn’t meet before Marko married Judith.”

But after giving love a formidable second chance, Marko was forced to break Edith’s heart when he realized two things:  1)  He liked Edith’s seeing-eye dog more than her (“Marko, be honest – are you using me for my dog?”  “Yes.”) and 2)  He loved his wife more than he would have ever suspected while she was alive.  Her simple sweetness was a kind of brilliance few women possess in academia.

He retires from flirting and surrounds himself with dogs as his life fades into the memory of his unlikely soul mate.

more on Liz and Daniel later…  

Brooke: Late Show and Tell

So I came across this little nuggest of Animal collective goodness today.

It’s rather long, and some parts rather abrasive. But I really like it (especially the beginning first couple minutes…before the insane screaming. haha). And what interesting people!

Check it out!

Brooke: POV Shift?

She usually didn’t go into the Elliot’s room. With Eliza and Meredith she trespassed boldly–marching in like she had every right–dusting behind the blinds, shaking out the sheets, pairing their socks, vacuuming their closets. Sweeping through their bedrooms like an army inspector. And how they loathed her for it! They howled and they hollered about privacy and boundaries and nosy mothers.

She took no notice. She just hummed and told them she was “doing the cleaning.” She liked knowing that her daughters had nothing they could hide from her, nothing they could stash away that she couldn’t find.

But she usually didn’t go into Elliot’s room. Except for maybe once a week to deliver clean laundry.

His room was the smallest one, at the far end of the hallway. He kept his blinds closed in the summer. It was dark in there. He had an old cherry oak desk pushed into one corner. Stacks of fat books, maps of oceans and mountain ranges, a ceramic piggy bank clanking with quarters. He kept it fairly clean though, for a boy his age. And she didn’t like to go inside. She wasn’t sure why, but she usually felt like things worked best when she just left him well alone.

That was until she found the angels. They were pinned neatly around his headboard, littering his tabletop. Paints and brushes, jam jars filled with murky water. She was dropping off a load of fresh sheets, and there they were. Blushing lightly, swathed in color, wide eyes peering up at her from crinkled papers all around the room. Peering up from the past–a strange resurrection. Her hands were shaking, and her breath caught in her throat. She should have known that boy was up to something. The way he hid away every day. Well, now she knew where he was going. She dropped the sheets, and went straight to the attic. She started cleaning.

She shouldn’t have to feel tense like this. Shouldn’t have to wonder at every turn if the boy would turn up, if he were watching her. But somehow she knew he would find her. She was stacking the last box up with paintings when she heard his footsteps. Her skin prickled. She could feel him in the room. She heaved up the box, turned around nice and slow, letting a deceptive calm wash over her features.

There he was. Dark-haired and deliberate. Small for his age, always frowning. Her hand could fit easily around his wrists. But oh he was frowning, and his dark eyes were squinting at her. He was stopped in the doorway, a look of stunned indignation, like she was invading some sacred haven, some treasured hideaway. Didn’t he know this attic belonged to her? She could hear the words before he said them. Hear their accusatory slant.

“What are you doing?” he asked. An innocent question. But oh how he policed her.

“Just cleaning.” She smiled. Began to hum. Brushed it off.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s a mess up here Elliot, that’s why!” She didn’t mean to sound so defensive.

“But where,” his eyes darted to the corner where the angels used to sit, then to the box of paintings in her arms, “where are you taking those?”

She began stepping forward, she wanted to skirt around him, proceed to the truck without all this questioning. She wanted the angels to disappear.

“I’m taking a whole load of stuff to Salvation Army.”

She was almost to the door. He was the only thing in her way.

“You can’t take those!”

Now she was getting angry. “Of course I can take them Elliot. They’re mine!”

She could see him start to panic. See how he started to rage. She knew he didn’t understand– had no idea.

“They aren’t yours, mom!” His voice was high and harsh. “You can’t just throw them away like that… they’re mine!”

“I don’t think you understand dear,” she lifted a painting out of the box. “They are mine.” Her fingers tapped at the corner of the painting. Elliot squinted carefully.

She was pointing to a set of initials, etched faintly in the corner: ALB. Elliot shook his head, he still didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t. He would never think, never guess. Never in a million years.

“My name,” she said quietly.

And then there it was–the slow and heavy dawning, the light bulb going off. Elliot’s face fell. ALB, Abigail Larson Blythe. “Yours,” he repeated.

“That’s right…And I don’t appreciate you just coming up here and taking my stuff.”

Scott: Show and Tell: Norman McLaren

Norman McLaren started making films in  Scotland and moved to Canada just before World War II where he would gain recognition for his work in experimental film.  Because he didn’t own a camera, he did all his early work by painting/scratching film stock; a process which took a VERY long time and resulted in such delightful pieces as this http://youtube.com/watch?v=uC0w-yhkR1I. 

Platypus Rex: Midnight Verse

I’m trapped in a pocket watch

I’m punching my own crotch

And saying it’s half passed tic toc

But I can’t feel exactly what has passed half

There’s tear gas and laugh tracks

Leaking from my propane tank

A stank with no match

A half-hazzard assault with no opponent

But leaving a smoking crater in my gut of guts

Scraping paper cuts all over this moment.

Brooke: Fact or Fiction?

Meet Macario! Macario was born in Saudi Arabia to Filipino parents who worked in the oil business. Almost immediately after his birth he was sent to live with his half-blind and staunchly Catholic Grandmother who was having a mental breakdown (involving some bizarre religious hallucinations of various Catholic saints) and needed something positive to focus on. She cared for him as a son until he was 5 years old, at which point his real parents came back to get him. He claims it took several years to feel any connection to his birth mother because his earliest memories of a mother-figure were associated with his grandmother. Back in Saudi Arabia he went to school and learned to write and speak in Arabic, as well as English. During Desert Storm his parents sent him and his two other siblings back to the Philippines for a while to live with relatives again –because they felt it was too dangerous for them in the middle east. During phone calls home Macario recalls hearing bombs and explosions in the background. Long-time church members, his parents eventually decided to make a move to the United States (where he finished up High School), and Macario is now attending BYU and is in the process of becoming a naturalized citizen.

Now meet AJ. Born in Rwanda, AJ says he ended up in Utah because he was “kidnapped by the Mormons” many years ago. His whole immediate family now resides within the sate, although AJ himself is somewhat of a nomad. He saved up money when he was younger for a college education, but at the age of 16 his father left and he decided to spend all of his savings tracking him down. He ran away from home but never succeeded in finding his dad. Instead he discovered less than a year later that his father got sick and died of cancer soon after he left his family. In his father’s last will he purportedly left AJ several things, including a plot of land back in Rwanda. Now, AJ continues his free, on-the-road lifestyle. He plays shows in an alternative/indie band and works in diners and cafes to earn some cash and then spends it all in traveling the world. In Europe he was officially adopted into a band of gypsies and he wears a bracelet bearing their family symbol.

Now it is your job to guess. Who is fact, and who is fiction?