December 2009
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Day Thirty-Three
Sleet is not dead rain, dead of exposure, falling frozen with rigor.
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Day Thirty-Two
Loud taqueria, winter night; I can’t hear you over this brisket.
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At the Airport Food Court
Will: Look, it's Mrs. Claus.
Sara: Yeah. I saw a few elves.
Will: Really?
Sara: Well, a woman in a funny hat.
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Wonder Boys in 25 Words or Less
jefftidball:
Absurd while simultaneously True, with no character who is not—as we all are—a disaster on some level. Christian Coen brothers, sorta. Grade: A–
IMDb Listing | Metacritic Listing | DVD @ Amazon
I rejoice, for Jeff Tidball is reviewing movies in 25 words or less again. You should be following Jeff Tidball’s tumblelog.
“A little flesh, a little breath, and a Reason to rule all—that is myself.”
– Marcus Aurelius
I’m reading his Meditations via the Penguin book Great Ideas series.
“Treat people as if they were what they ought to be, and you help them to become...”
– Goethe (via jefftidball)
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Day Thirty-One
Little black birds fly onto the eaves, little leaves falling in reverse.
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Day Thirty
Chicago’s orange patterns of light dye the clouds we pass through to land.
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Day Twenty-Nine
Watch the years fall off the black Lab in the white snow ere her sight dwindles.
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Day Twenty-Eight
Bobcat at the beach, washed by a green winter’s surf, half buried in sand.
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Day Twenty-Seven
Leave this Southern cold for northern woods and clean snow— fly into Christmas Eve.
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Day Twenty-Six
What if planes were birds? We’d watch them fly off sans tears. But planes are not birds.
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Day Twenty-Five
See how the dog yawns and squints into the sunlight, this warm winter day?
Today we are doled out spring midwinter—an errant day.
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Day Twenty-Four
Fiddling with the screws, filling the air with hot damns, failing to nail it.
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Day Twenty-Three
Who was that black dog— that infernal hound, flying from his master’s call?
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Day Twenty-Three
The orange dog bolts like a deer and is gone to the city of strays.
Apparently, I think with my fingers. A great deal of my writing develops as I type it, and as it’s too cold in my office to type properly, my thinking is being slowed along with my fingers. Thus my blogs are filled with notes for entries, instead of real entries. And many of those notes contain horrible typos borne of throwing my fingers around the keyboard like clubs slammed in the vague...
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Day Twenty-Two
Squirrel dodging rain— the rain isn’t ice yet, but give it a minute.
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Day Twenty-One
My head is a drum, a taiko drum, big and round. My blood’s a drummer.
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Day Twenty
Squirrel on a post, dog yelping, scrambling below, a window between.
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Day Nineteen
At temp. two-forty: caramel learns something it won’t ever forget.
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William Gibson's Moby-Dick
jaybushman:
Boing Boing is having another short fiction contest.
You may recall the “Found In Space” contest from a few weeks ago, for which I entered Jane Austen’s Doctor Who.
This time, the rule is to “re-write a scene from one classic book in the incongruous literary style of another.”
To wit, here is the opening of William Gibson’s Moby-Dick —
The sky over the port of New Bedford was...
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Day Eighteen
Winter mist, cotton sky touching down, filling streets— headlights like lances.
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Day Seventeen
She wobbles, falls down in the driveway. She mews, cries. My heart breaks open.
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Day Sixteen
We’re just two degrees away from the snow I want in car-snarling rain.
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Day Fifteen
Up on the ladder, knees quailing, I read aloud— a lying golem.
The last two days I have had Clint Mansell’s scores for The Fountain and Moon on over and over again as I’ve been revising text. Zen-like, somehow.
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