Poem of the Week

[in Just-]

By E.E. Cummings

in Just- 
spring          when the world is mud- 
luscious the little 
lame balloonman 


whistles          far          and wee 


and eddieandbill come 
running from marbles and
piracies and it's 
spring


when the world is puddle-wonderful


the queer 
old balloonman whistles 
far          and             wee 
and bettyandisbel come dancing 


from hop-scotch and jump-rope and 


it's 
spring 
and 

         the 


                  goat-footed 


balloonMan          whistles 
far 
and 
wee

***

Hey, it's that thing! That thing that I used to do every Friday!

With the days of spring officially upon us, it seemed a good time to return to the Cummings well. Always one of my favorites, E.E. Cummings' best springtime poem touches on everything significant about this season. There's both a sense of revelry and one of dread in this poem, which features a wonderfully damp and rejuvinated world now inhabited by boys and girls at play... and an almost-predatory toy vendor. Creepy.

Why I'm Still Single 51

You're never fully dressed without a terrifying, terrifying smile.

Cooking with Braddy: Balsamic Roast Beef French Dip Sandwich

I haven't taken advantage of the shiny new crockpot I got for Christmas, which is a crime on the same level as neglecting a fully-functional blender. So, since I had a little disposable income, I decided to try out a roast.

Roasts aren't really all that difficult: put huge chunk of meat in a hot puddle until the meat won't kill you anymore. A traditional Sunday roast was actually one of the first things I ever attempted to make, so this slight variation was a bit of a step up, challenge-wise. Although, really, even here there's not much of a challenge. The puddle was just slightly more decorative than usual.

And, frankly, one might wonder what makes a roast worth prettying up, when nothing you do to the outside of the meat really affects the internal flavor. A roast is a roast, and no matter how zesty the liquid it stews in gets, it tastes just the same. BUT since that flavor is "delicious," there's not really a problem.

Still, it is a shame to let all that delicious liquid go to waste... which is why turning the roast into a French dip sandwich is such a good idea. The leftover cooking liquid makes a flavorful au jus. Balsamic vinegar tends to overwhelm every other flavor in a dish; however, here it provides a sweet foundation for the rest of the roast.

Okay, Pinterest, you win. You have my attention forever.

Why I'm Still Single 50

You're welcome.

Project 8: Another One Pulls Him Up

The world has turned another round.
It ground me down to paste.
The cup of life has flooded over
And I ain't got a taste.
To leave my mug so empty now
Would be an awful waste.

Hey, there! Bring the bottle 'round.
Come on, man, fill my cup!
Every time one of us falls down,
Another one pulls him up.

My wife won't let me home no more.
My little boy turned ten.
Why's she so mad that I
Forgot his birthday again?
It's not like I was there last year.
Didn't she learn her lesson then?

Hey, there! Bring the bottle 'round.
Come on, man, fill my cup!
Every time one of us falls down,
Another one pulls him up.

I never make enough at work.
I've never won the lottery.
I drop my head at guys with suits
And noses full of snobbery.
Thank God I don't need that much dough
For this kind of camaraderie!

Hey, there! Bring the bottle 'round.
Come on, man, fill my cup!
Every time one of us falls down,
Another one pulls him up.

I like drinking songs. I'm also Mormon, so I don't have many opportunities to sing drinking songs. Well, I guess I COULD sing them, but without a drink in my hands, I'd probably look a little funny singing drinking songs.

Actually, I don't even know: Do people SING drinking songs anymore? Or has karaoke completely taken over?

Regardless, I was inspired to write this piece by the few "drinking songs" I hear, like Toby Keith's "Red Solo Cup" or Psychostick's "Beer!" Heck, I even like those songs that get a chorus of frat boys to sing along, like "Gives You Hell" or "Carry On." However, while those songs were definitely my inspiration, I couldn't shake the image of Merry and Pippin from Lord of the Rings dancing on the tables, so Tolkein was probably the chief influence on this poem.

And all of that doesn't matter, because what I REALLY want to talk about is the picture. This is the first Project 52 picture I'm actually proud of. It fits the tone of the written piece better than most of the other things I've done. More importantly, it was actually a skill-stretcher. I drew the picture in Procreate on my iPad, and, for the first time, I think I was able to capture my usual paper and ink style on the digital device. From there, I added color, a process which took several hours. The result, though? Probably my favorite picture since the bunny one.

Although I don't know that I really captured the "faded jeans" effect quite like I would have wanted.

Project 7: The Thief Goes to Heaven

"To day shalt thou be with me in paradise."

I shit you not, that's exactly what He said.

Nice of Him to say, but I don't feel much better. After all, I'm hanging there with these big old spikes through my hands, and I'm staring down at myself and just wishing they'd crucified me with my pants on. Now, I've got nothing to be ashamed of, but there isn't anybody going up on that tree looking fully staffed, if you know what I mean.

Now, maybe you've never been crucified before, so you don't have a point for comparison. To give you some idea what it feels like... actually, you know what? I don't think I want to give you too much detail. Let's just say it's kind of like having your lungs ripped through your wrists and tied up around your neck.

Is that not descriptive enough for you? Your morbid curiosity not satisfied? Well, just in case you ever decide to experience crucifixion for yourself, I don't want to be the one who ruined the surprise.

So finally, finally I black out, and it's nothing at all like being asleep. I feel conscious, completely aware of my surroundings, but there's nothing there. No surroundings. I don't feel any pain, sure, but really I don't feel anything at all... and frankly that's a relief at this point. I try to wiggle my fingers, but nothing moves. I can't even look down to see if my fingers are still there, or if I'm just some flatulent ghost trailing vapors as I go. I just kind of, you know, am.

And seriously, the whole time, the only thing I could think about was how crazy I'd go if I got an itch on my beytsim.

I drift like that, no sense of movement or direction, for what feels like a dull eternity. Eventually, I see this blinking light off in the distance. A little prick of light is all it was, but looking at it hurt like hell. It grows broader and larger, slicing the darkness in half. All at once, there's up and down again. There's depth, too, and a horizon of sorts that I'm heading for. I can see exactly how far away the light is and what it's illuminating.

There's a small congregation just lolling around what looks like a field of clouds. Everyone's dressed in white robes, and they've got these golden ropes tied around their waists. I can't make out what they're walking in; their feet are completely covered by ground, whatever it is. They're talking to each other. I can't hear what they're saying - their voices mash together in that polite, thunderous muttering you hear in a crowd right before someone gets up to speak.

My wrist spasms, and I realize I can actually move again. I look down towards my feet, expecting to see myself wearing the same robes as everyone else is. I'm not, of course. I'm wearing the same thing I was wearing back on Calvary. So I'm quick to cover my last hanging shred of dignity just as some woman in the crowd catches sight of me and points.

Trying not to move my hands, I kick vainly against the air. Still I keep falling closer and closer to the field of clouds and all those staring eyes. Something tells me not to be afraid, but I can't help it. I do not want to land. That's when the creepiest thing happens. All the talking has stopped. Everyone looks up at my flailing naked body and smiles. They don't laugh or gossip. They just watch me, tight-lipped and silent, while I descend. My feet touch ground, and it's like they sink in a little bit before they find something solid. It trips me up, and I fall back, landing right on my tuchis.

And then He's there, and, you know, He's not awkward or gawkish at all. He walks right up to me, hoists me up, and He smiles. I can see all of his teeth. He puts His arm around my naked shoulder, and He says to me, "There's someone here you have to meet."

He walks me around and introduces me to all His friends - and it's no surprise, but He is friends with everybody. He walks me around the crowd and recites everyone's names just like that. It took hours... or maybe days. In a place like that, who can tell?

And through it all, these folks just keep smiling and nodding. I think one of them maybe said he was sorry I died. They just stare at me, with these rigid eyes, not even daring to duck their heads a little bit.

Maybe you've forgotten, but I've been naked this whole time.

I finally turn to Him, and I whisper, like a kid talking to his father in public, that maybe I could get some pants or something. He gets this big grin - a different kind of grin than the last one. He had a thousand ways of communicating with a smile, and each smile was completely different. This one actually looked pleasantly embarrassed. He says, "Of course. I forgot."

He walks off to get me a robe, and I'm left there wondering - and I'm sorry if this sounds blasphemous, but I doubt that matters now - but I say to myself, "How could he just forget?" I mean, He just came here the same way I did. Did He land, sparkly robe already in place? Or were His holy whatsits hanging out, too?

Just as He leaves, the murmur starts. They were all talking before I landed. I could hear them then, but they've been dead silent since He appeared. Now they're whispering and pointing, and I know I heard someone snicker. I look around, and, every time I turn, these people just look at me politely and nod. Thelre's nothing around worth laughing at that I can see, except, of course, for the skinny man in the middle of the group with his hands clasped solemnly over himself.

I can't take it anymore. I start making my way through the crowd, politely at first, all ducked eyes and "excuse me, pleases." The crowd is endless - every time I move past one smirking angel, there's another ten right behind. I start to run now, not even making a pretense of covering up anymore. The robed people move out of my way, and they just keep watching me. Finally, I get to the lip, where the cloudy floor spills off into the darkness like a waterfall.

And then I hear His voice again. "Don't go," He says. "Please."

But I had to go. Of course I did. I don't think He'd understand if I stayed and tried to explain it. I just had to go. I'm sure you understand, just sitting here listening to me, but He never could. At least, I don't think he could. So I jumped, and it was back out into the darkness for me. I found myself floating again, and then I landed here, and here you are.

I guess that's the whole story. So to answer your question: Heaven, you know, seemed like a nice enough place. Can't say much for the wardrobe, although the creepy robes were better than my choice of evening wear, I suppose. As for the place itself? Serene, you could say. Like a warm bath. Just not the place for me, I guess.

Okay, guys, this was a tough one for me personally. The blasphemy, the cursing... It's not really the sort of thing I actually want to write. However, the purpose of this little writing project is to try new things, to understand writing styles and techniques I haven't used traditionally. And this? FAR from my usual style.

However... well, this story just WOULDN'T work without the profanity. Seriously, I re-wrote that first line several times, and without the cursing, it just doesn't set the correct tone. The entire point of the story (authorial meddling here) is to explore the idea at a sinful person wouldn't WANT to go to heaven because he wouldn't feel comfortable there. And, frankly, if the narrator was all reverent and soft-spoken, he wouldn't seem all that out of place in heaven.

Special thanks to heidikins for her advice!

The picture started off a little more ornate than it wound up. I also finished the picture before I figured out the tone I was going for. Again, the two don't quite line up. But look at that gradual fade from blue to black, huh? I think it's pretty cool.

Cooking with Braddy: Golden Temple Curry

Ah... See, THIS is far more my speed.

I've been trying so many other cooking projects recently that I'd started to neglect the really flavorful dishes that got me into cooking in the first place. So I went once more back to the Mighty Spice Cookbook to get something with just a little more complexity to it. And, man, was it good.

Quick tangent: I've been asked why I don't actually post recipes on my blog, and the simple answer is that I don't feel comfortable sharing other people's brainchildren. If a recipe were MY brainchild, I'd have no problem publishing it. However, since most of these recipes are posted in books with copyright notices and all that, I'd feel bad brainkidnapping. So that's that.

Now, this recipe caused me two problems. The first one came from the two onions. I'm not usually bothered by cutting up onions, but two onions at once somehow really got me. My eyes were on fire, and, since my chest had previously been burned all the heck up from my first attempt to go exercising since the fall, I was feeling pretty fiery and miserable by the end of the day.

The second problem was one that only really occurred to me in hindsight. See, this recipe is actually called "Golden Temple LAMB Curry," but I didn't use lamb. I just grabbed one of those packages of stewing beef they have at the butcher's, which probably would have been okay if I'd adjusted the cooking time. The lamb was supposed to stew for an hour and a half (two Gilmore Girls episodes), but the beef probably didn't need that long. In the end, it felt a little tough and chewy.

Still pretty good, but next time I think I'll spring for the lamb.

Cooking BAKING with Braddy

Okay, so back in high school I was never a big fan of the science classes they made you take. I was just never interested in science as a subject, which is probably why I tend to like my "science fiction" to be the sort of jelly-bellied story where the science is complete fiction rather than the more cerebral fictions actually inspired by science. But I had to muscle through one scientific discipline to get that shiny new diploma, so, for some reason, I settled on chemistry.

For the record, I HATE chemistry. I was great at the subject... in theory. I could always make the math work out one the page, but the instant I had to pour vial A into beaker B, rather than getting compound C, I wound up with a great big pile of F.

That may be the reason I've been a little hesitant to really tackle baking seriously. I mean, I tried once, but the results were really less than desirable. However, over the weekend, the stars were in alignment, so I went out, bought some yeast and a couple of bread pans, and broke out the old chemistry set.

See, I've always looked at baking as being more like chemistry than other forms of cooking, especially considering the way baking components seem to work under my decidedly un-alchemistic fingers. Meat always behaves the way you want it to. Add heat, meat burn. Cheese always melts, tomatoes turn to sauce, and lettuce stays the heck out of my kitchen. But yeast? Baking soda? I feel like I need to ask these things their permission to put them in my food, and since the ultimate fate of the food I make is to be eaten, baking goods always tell me to piss off.

And that's... really about what happened here. The recipe I followed advised that I could activate the yeast with either sugar or honey, so I opted for the latter, thinking it would be healthier or something. But the yeast just straight up spurned the food. They just let the honey settle right on the bottom of the water while they dog-paddled on the surface. The pretentious little jerks.

I spent hours (approximately four episodes of Gilmore Girls) waiting for the bread to rise, but it just lounged lazily at the bottom of the pan. Well, at least until I put it in the oven, and then the dough decided it was time to pop out and say hello to the world like a sixteen-year-old girl at her coming out party.

So the bread itself was pretty good. Unfortunately, the only part that could actually be considered "bread" w the stuff on the outside. Once you got past the crust, the interior still felt gooey and sticky. It was like eating a Twinkie, if instead of cream filling it was just stuffed with a smaller, sludgier other Twinkie.

All things considered, though, the experiment was worth the failure. The most expensive ingredients were actually the re-usable bread pans, and considering I got to see Jess buy Rory's picnic basket and piss off Dean, I'm not even really out the time. Round two will likely be more successful.

Why I'm Still Single 49

...and all he really wanted to do was borrow it.

Project 6: Scavengers

Most people wouldn't believe in the existence of the Scavengers, even if one of the peculiar few who had heard of it ever dared to mention it. After all, who could give the notion of such a congregation of pickpockets, burglars, carjackers, and bandits who rob from the well-to-do only to throw their spoils away a credible thought? "No," most people would say, "robbers are motivated by greed or poverty. It's impossible that there could exist a brotherhood that would encourage its members to steal for sport."

And yet, such a fraternity of felons does exist, and tonight is the kickoff of the most anticipated event of their year: the Scavenger Hunt. Once a year, the entire brotherhood of bored suburbanites assemble and compete to see who can first collect a complete set of high-end loot. It's now a crisp, cool autumn evening - but don't ask me which one. Officially, authorities deny that the Scavenger Hunt exists, but you can bet it's going down if, on your evening commute home, you pass an unusual number of police cars on patrol through the neighborhoods.

Now, the most intimate secrets of the Scavenger Hunt are well-guarded and, like most well-guarded secrets, very boring. Far more entertaining are the individual Scavengers themselves. Take, for example, young Elliot Ross, who now paces back and forth in front of the Reed Hotel, a gaudily formal tower with bright rose-petal paint that somehow shines just as garishly at night as it did during the day. Ross wears a black-checked scarf around his neck, and he now pulls it just a little tighter to keep a small draft from sneaking in at his neckline. He pushes the wire rim glasses he wears up the bridge of his nose with a clean, if poorly manicured, finger, and then he shoves his hands back in the deep pockets of his black aviator's jacket. He glares down the street in both directions. No one comes up the street to meet him. Ross scrapes his boots on the ground again and coughs.

Tonight, Ross goes on his first Scavenger Hunt. You must excuse him if he appears a bit nervous.

A woman in a thick fur coat rounds the corner and walks towards the entrance to the hotel. Ross stops his pacing and stares at her as she approaches. She turns behind her and yells at someone still coming up behind her. German. Ross can't make the words out. A short, balding man steps out from the alley and mumbles a drunken apology to his partner. The two walk towards the entrance to the Reed Hotel. Bathed in the light spilling out onto the street, the woman looks at Ross expectantly.

"Annie?" he asks.

The woman looks at Ross, a slight sneer creeping around her lips before she manages to slip on her most condescending smile. "Door, please," she says. The coat slides down over her left shoulder, and she hikes it defensively back into place. The man burps and mumbles something.

"Not Annie, then," Ross says. The woman frowns at him and points to the door. Ross opens it with a deep bow. The German woman strolls through magnificently, barely missing catching the hem of her coat on the corner as Ross lets it fall prematurely shut. The drunken man stumbles to slide through the door before it closes. He grunts when the door hits his shoulder. Rather than push the door back open, the man pulls his hand through, ripping off a button in the process.

After the door has closed, Ross reaches down to picks the small black button off the ground. A slim hand with long, purple nails scrapes the button up before Ross can touch it. A young woman stands over him and looks down with a half-smile communicating both bemusement and disappointment.

"I guess you'd be Annie," Ross says. She seems far too young to be his contact, barely more than a teenager. The hair on the left side of her head had been shorn near to the skin, while the rest of her hair flows up and over her head then down so it just covers her left eye. Her hair, of course, is them same purple as her nails. She stands with one hand on her hip, the other playing with the fringes of a black checked scarf, much like the one Ross wears.

"I guess that makes you Mr. Ross," she says cheerfully. She doesn't mask her disappointment very well. Between you and me, I don't think she means to. Annie flicks her hand and looks at a thick gold watch. It slides back and forth over the pronounced curve of her wrist bone. Even at its tightest, the watch is much too big for her. "Just about nine," she says. "Time to start?"

"I'm ready," Ross says. "What's the first item on the list?"

Annie cocks an eyebrow. "You don't have the list yet?"

"Sorry," Ross says. "I didn't know I was supposed to steal it ahead of time." He fails to suppress a blush.

"The list is here," Annie says, waving her arm dramatically around her. "They always hide it somewhere at the meeting place. You new to this?"

Ross runs his fingers along the mortar connecting the bricks of the hotel wall. "No papers stuffed into cracks in the wall," he says, turning his eyes to the ground, "and nothing in the sidewalk, either." He looks upwards to the canopy over his head. "That only leaves..."

Annie sees the small dark shadow on top of the canopy. She wraps her hands around the brass pole and shimmies her way carefully up. Hanging from the edge, she pulls her head up and over. Whatever caused the dark shape is gone now. "Nothing there," she says as she drops down. "Well, it's a good thing I came prepared just in..."

Ross smiles and waves a small white envelope in front of Annie's face.

Annie grins. "I guess you're not so useless."

"Rock climbing," Ross says. "I'm very good at what I do."

"Me, too," Annie reaches into the front pocket of her jacket and produces a similar, unmarked envelope.

Ross blinks. "And what's that?"

"Oh, I picked this up off another Scavenger about a week back," Annie says. "It's another copy of the list. I always nick it ahead of time."

"That's dishonest," Ross says. He tears open the white envelope and starts to read the list.

"We're Scavengers, hon," Annie says. "Dishonest is the point. Anyway, let's get moving. We can go faster if we each have a copy of the list. First item is a black laptop computer. We can find one at the community college, I'm sure. Let's go."

Annie walks away from the building. Ross doesn't move. He blinks rapidly as his eyes pass again and again over the scrap of paper in his hand. "You sure you remember that list right?" he says.

"Remember nothing," Annie says. "I've got the list right here." She unfolds her paper and reads,"'One laptop computer, four to five years old, black casing...' It's all there."

"You should take a look at this." Ross hands her the paper.

Annie's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "It's a completely different list." Ross fails to suppress a smirk at Annie's obvious surprise. "You pick up the wrong list?"

"Maybe," Annie says. She bites on her lip as she thinks. Ross studies her face for any sign of panic or frustration.

"So much for prep work." Ross snatches his page back from Annie. "Let's go. Time's a-wasting."

Annie ignores Ross. "Either I intercepted another team's list somehow," Annie mumbles to herself, "or they changed the list. Or maybe somebody else slipped us a bum list and the one I've got is the correct one..."

"Why would someone give us a fake list?" Ross says.

"Probably payback for me stealing the list in the first place." Annie sighs and folds the paper back up. "Only one thing to do now."

"You're not giving up, are you?"

"Of course not," Annie says. "We just play a new game now. Tonight, we steal everything."

Hoo boy. Every time I fall behind during Project 52, you can bet a short story is to blame. I'm definitely biting off too much with each short story attempt. This one could EASILY have turned into a short novel - and, frankly, not letting it actually BE a short novel is doing "Scavengers" a disservice. Hence, this stilted and admittedly incomplete piece of fiction. Sorry.

I'm not actually all that familiar with the short story as a piece of art. I don't read short stories for fun, and, outside of the one fiction writing class I took in college, I've never really tried to write one. I've tended this far to approach short stories the same way I do novels, and, as a result, I expect too much of myself in too short a space.

That said, I definitely tried some things here that I think will serve me well going forward. I attempted a new narrative voice I've nev really tried in fiction before, and I attempted a present-tense narrative style that, while not wholly effective, definitely helps me understand its usage better. Even in the picture, which I was quite hurried in completing, taught me some things, mostly about the importance of variety in facial and body shapes, which I could have tried to exaggerate EVEN MORE.

Just... just pretend that I've actually SEEN the inside of a car, and please don't give me too much grief on proportions, 'kay?

Storybook Endings?

Y'all remember when I wrote a few months back about The Night Circus. Well, I've had a few months to think about the story more, and I've come across another aspect of the narrative that just bothers me. I really don't want to dwell on the negative aspects of the book any more than I already have, especially since I still think I would recommend The Night Circus to most anyone. However, I missed the book club discussion on The Night Circus when I was sick last month, so I've got to get this out of my system somehow.

So... Bailey.

The character Bailey is a farm boy, but not really the "poor and perfect" variety admired by Princess Buttercup. Well, he's probably poor, but he doesn't have enough of a personality to be considered perfect. His defining characteristic is that he doesn't want to be a farmer anymore... and, really, there's a lot of potential for a good character conflict there. I mean, a young man pursuing his dreams against the wishes of his family could make a pretty compelling story. Someone should write that book.

Shortly after Bailey gets introduced, we're given this little tidbit:

He reads histories and mythologies and fairy tales, wondering why it seems that only girls are ever swept away from their mundane lives on farms by knights or princes or wolves. It strikes him as unfair to not have the same fanciful opportunity himself. And he is not in the position to do any rescuing of his own.

You know, I read that quote, and something about it must have bothered me, although it wasn't apparent at first. Now I think about Bailey's attitude and find two major problems with it.

Firstly, this is a lazy attitude. Someone in the real world with this same attitude would NOT be sympathetic. Such an individual would just be lazy. Even in fiction, characters who simply pine after an escape from their dreary lives are some of the most maligned characters in all of fiction. I'm looking at you, Cinderella!

(That said, I did read a pretty interesting opinion from a friend about why Cinderella actually is an inspirational character. Check it out.)

The second issue I have with Bailey's attitude, though, is that it just ISN'T TRUE. Boys are recued from lives of mundanity in fairy tales and myths ALL THE TIME. The difference, though, is that boys get rescued at the BEGINNING of their stories, while girls get rescued at the END.

Think about it: For every Cinderella or Sleeping Beauty, you've got a Harry Potter or Luke Skywalker. Once the prince comes for the woman, the curtain lowers and the story is over. However, when the mysterious stranger takes the man away from home, there are still a good 350 pages left in the first volume of his seven book series.

So, okay, it's an annoying attitude Bailey has, but I think I'm actually more bugged by what it says about the most common story tropes. Why do these young men have to be swept out from their mundane lives? Why don't we admire them for lifting themselves out from their dissatisfying life? And why can't we have more stories about what happens to women AFTER their "happily ever whatever"?

That last point really came to mind when I watched Pixar's The Incredibles. It's ostensibly a movie about Mr. Incredible, but, really, I think the best, most three-dimensional character was actually Elasti-Girl. She's strong, competent, capable... and a wife and mother.

That's a lot of pondering I've been doing, and, really, I don't have much of a point to make other than the questions I've been asking. If you've got any favorite answers to my questions (self-made fantasy heroes, kick-butt moms, or anything similar), let me know. I'd be interested to read about them.