Black Hole

From NASA's
From NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center.

I am staring at the page wondering: where are all of my ideas?

Over the weekend, I spent an embarrassing number of hours dragging a short story out of my “creative well.”

I had to beat it into a recognizable shape, and stretch it to meet guidelines and parameters. It was neither a graceful process, nor a painless one.

The story is not horrible; with a little fine-tuning I might like it.

What’s horrible is the black hole left behind–the fear that it was the very last idea I will hatch.

Fortunately, I can always write about writer’s block.

Uncle.

Had to write and submit an entire short story today, which nearly put me under.

Since I can’t squeeze out even one more coherent thought, I will instead share my favorite flow chart of all time.

From:
From: Toothpaste for Dinner.

Non-smoker

Photo by AZ.
Photo by AZ.

Today I have written a 100-word story in solidarity with a friend who has pledged to write a 100-word piece every day of November. Best of luck, Mr. Maher!

****

They stand in uncomfortable silence, staring at the door.

Arlen gestures vaguely with his laptop bag and considers his words.

“That was nice,” he says thinly.

Why is she still here?

She mustn’t come into his office building. He could be tainted associating with such weakness.

Cindy senses his acute disdain.

If only she were the Marlboro Man, she could fill her timid silence with a plume of smoke and a blatant disregard for consequences. Oh, to wield a tiny white stick of power and death, burning so brightly and briefly.

Instead, she folds herself into the space around him.

Rocky Horror Rubes

rhps-blk-1

When I was in high school, the Rocky Horror Picture Show came to my Midwest hometown for a screening or two. Since there was nowhere to go and nothing to do for persons of a certain age, hundreds of teenagers erupted into the theater, ready for anything.

Keep in mind that this was before the Internet had made such cultural phenomena ubiquitous. There was no shared cyber understanding of what Rocky Horror might mean or require. We just knew Rocky Horror was a Thing. We knew you were supposed to bring stuff and do stuff.

So people brought whatever they found lying around.

People dressed up, too–wearing next to nothing, or robes, or goth-wear, or ripped jeans with chains made out of safety pins. A bawdy girl from the Catholic high school was savagely drunk and dressed as a nun. “I’m here, bitches!” She barreled down the aisle as the movie started, laughing maniacally.

It took my breath away. I’d never seen anyone but a nun sport a habit.

The movie began.

Audience members didn’t know what to yell or do or throw, so they yelled and did and threw whatever occurred to them.

Pandemonium ensued.

As toilet paper comets launched across the room, and raw eggs and soda dripped from the screen, I saw the theater manager start pacing and muttering, “What to do? What to do?”

A guy in the front row clutched a ginormous box from Mr. Donut in his lap for no apparent reason. “Do you want a jelly donut?” he offered the distraught young man.

The manager grabbed it, chewing, while continuing to pace and mutter, his agitated shadow head joining Tim Curry and the rest of the cast on screen.

Even today, when I think about Rocky Horror, this is what I see: a donut-wielding twenty-something-year-old, poised to lose his job, a blob of grape goo in the corner of his mouth. There he was–the victim of our ignorance.

At one point, as the Brad and Janet characters were driving through a rainstorm, hundreds of people started throwing water around the theater. Squirt guns, bottles, cups, spit, whatever they had.

A drunken woman in her thirties lurched to her feet in front of me.

“What are you guys? A bunch of amateurs?” she yelled, completely hysterical. “They’re still in the car, fools. THEY CAN’T GET WET YET.”

Saavy woman. She must have been from Minneapolis.

Old School System Failure

photo (1)

In times of duress, I write the most critical information on my left hand.

Not on my palm–where it might be less noticeable–because that is less noticeable.

Also, more likely to wash away.

Now that I know better, I take notes on the triangle of flesh on the back of my hand, between my index finger and thumb.

Today when I awoke, I saw “MC” in black sharpie in my Very Important Memo triangle. MC?

I’ve spent the day ruling out a steady stream of possibilities–all clearly wrong:

  • MasterCard
  • Marginal cost
  • Memory card
  • Master of Ceremonies
  • Merry Christmas
  • Milk cows
  • Minecraft
  • Miss Congeniality
  • Motley Crue
  • Mentally challenged
  • MC Hammer?

Sigh. Any ideas?

Bird by Bird

A different bird.
A different bird.                                                                                            ©2012 Beret Olsen

I was up half the night for reasons unbeknownst to me, then startled early from my sliver of sleep by the odd thumps of an imaginary intruder. Heart pounding, I dismissed my fears, forcing myself to lie still as a board for another forty-five minutes.

Today, bleary-eyed and unproductive, I parceled 15 minutes to close my eyes and breathe. My plan? To reboot and arise again, convincing myself I felt refreshed and clearheaded. But the second my head touched the pillow, the strangest sound curdled in my cat’s throat. Next thing I knew, a flailing blob of black fur hurled itself across the room and a small bird began dive-bombing my eyes. Swell.

Clearly a moment of zen was out of the question. Instead, I heaved myself back into a vertical position and set about finding the bird. I had to get that creature out of the house before the cat disemboweled it on the bed.

The weird thing was, I couldn’t find it. The cat was no help, either. She was just as perplexed as I was.

How long are you supposed to look for a trapped bird?

Eventually I gave up and settled back in front of the computer to knock out some work.

After five minutes of relative peace, there was a little scrambling sound, followed by something hopping on my foot.

You might imagine that the problem was now solved–bird located!–except it can be quite a production to convince a bird to try the open door rather than flying into shelving units and closed windows. It’s like trying to shepherd a drunk friend out of a party, and they keep curling up on a pile of shoes or wandering off into a closet.

Later, I found myself ruminating on the frequent appearance of birds. They are everywhere for me these days. I hear them mentioned in a turn of phrase, a discussion of Halloween costumes, or see one staring at me while I eat breakfast. Two surfed on the hood of my car for a block or two after I stopped for coffee recently. I suppose I shouldn’t mention that the bird pictured above was killed in a brutal showdown in my bedroom and then hidden by my triumphant feline friend. I didn’t find that poor soul for a few weeks. And that’s not all. Almost every book I have read in the past few months has featured birds…including:

  • Little Bird of Heaven–Joyce Carol Oates
  • The Goldfinch–Donna Tartt (Not finished. No spoilers!)
  • Ocean at the End of the Lane–Neil Gaiman
  • Bird by Bird–Anne Lamott
  • Imperfect Birds–Anne Lamott

Even Hyperbole and a Half, by Allie Brosh, had a chapter about a parrot that I read and reread repeatedly throughout the summer. And on my book list to read next? When Women Were Birds by Terry Tempest Williams. I swear. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I also read Gone Girl, which has no significant bird that I recall).

If they were all crows, I would assume something terrible were about to befall me. I’m hoping I attract birds for a more benign reason. Perhaps I smell like a flower, or a heap of birdseed.

In any event, it’s time to get a feeder and a bell for the cat.

The Terrifying Truth about Dung Bunnies

From www.dungbunnies.com
From http://www.dungbunnies.com

I used to love snail mail. Despite the fact that my mailbox was mostly stuffed with adverts and bills and eye appointment reminders, getting a real live letter was so delicious that it was always worth a check.

Now I am afraid to look.

The transition happened very gradually. As the years flew by, there were fewer and fewer Victoria’s Secret catalogs, and a lot more Pottery Barn Kids. Not surprising, really. Once I’d ordered diapers online, all hell broke loose. Not that I minded looking at baby clothes now and then, but I was a little offended that the folks in the marketing department assumed I had switched to sensible undergarments.

As my kids got a bit older, my junk mail haul further devolved into catalogs of clogs and tchotchkes. I didn’t fully digest the severity of the situation until I found myself staring at a picture of a dung bunny. That’s right. An adorable rabbit statue made of manure. You leave it in your garden and as it decomposes, it adds vital nutrients to the soil. Suddenly, I realized: I am f*#!ing old. Some marketing director took one look at my profile and decided, “This lady does not exercise or travel. She no longer needs yoga pants or Bose speakers or groovy furnishings. This lady putters in her garden and makes loving decisions about mother earth. It is way more important for her ogle progressive, thoughtful novelty items than anything else the commercial world has to offer.”

Despair.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, The Most Important Gift Catalog in the World arrived:

heifer internatl

That’s right. Heifer International sent me a catalog. What demographic does that put me in? Wait. Don’t answer that. I definitely don’t want to know.

Next up was a magnetic schedule of the San Francisco 49ers with a plumber’s contact information on it.

plumber

I don’t get it. What is the connection? Let’s see, my toilet is broken, but I wonder when the game starts? And why me? Am I so old they think I can’t look up game times and phone numbers online?

Monday. The final straw. I received a postcard from a life coach.

life coach

Great. Now I can lie awake wondering where my life is going and whether my spouse loves me. You know, I didn’t need the life coach until I checked the mail. I’m not calling this one, though. If they can make me feel this horrible by sending me a postcard, why would I want to spend time and money for continued contact?

Most importantly: did they review my past purchase patterns and assume I needed some help?

Or…maybe they just read my blog.

 

Home

My assignment today: shoot “home.”

©Beret Olsen 2014
©2014 Beret Olsen

I was desperate to avoid a Hallmark moment, so I turned my camera lens toward the ugliest place I could think of–my sink full of dirty dishes.

I started photographing the surface bubbles in a pan full of oil and water, switching eventually to manual focus. Suddenly, it was possible to see the dying daisies in the window reflected and refracted in the bubbles. Despite my best efforts, then, I was overcome by my own homemade Hallmark moment. Taking a breath, looking slowly and deeply into the bottom of this messy life barrel, I found something of wonder.

Turning the Tables

Note to self: DON'T DO IT! from http://champperformance.com/the-art-of-behavioral-interviewing-and-why-it-works/
Note to self: DON’T YOU DARE! from http://champperformance.com/the-art-of-behavioral-interviewing-and-why-it-works/

I may be the world’s worst interviewee. This is not false modesty. I have always gotten good grades, good evaluations, and organized an attractive little resume. On paper I look pretty decent.

I manage to shower and dress professionally, too, but the moment I open my mouth, one would indeed be lucky to discover a point buried beneath my anxious blathering.

The single most detrimental piece of interviewing advice I ever received–unfortunately delivered on the eve of an interview for a ridiculously prestigious scholarship–was “just be yourself.”

Little did they know who I might be in the hot seat. Characteristics that might be beneficial or noteworthy in other circumstances–honesty, for example–are definitely a detriment for people like me during interviews.

The next day I heard myself confessing all kinds of unnecessary information, such as “I know I mentioned Pierre Bourdieu’s work in my essays, but I won’t pretend that I understood it–or even finished the book.” And, “I have no idea what I would do in your hypothetical scenario; I’ll just hope that situation never arises.” When I returned home from that train wreck, I must have cried on and off for a couple of weeks.

Despite the time that has elapsed since, other interview bombs continue to haunt, as well. “If your name were in the dictionary, what would the definition be?” I was asked once. I repressed most of what followed, but I’m pretty sure I kicked off my five minute answer with “occasionally loses things.” Honest people should never, ever answer a question like that. Take note, I now believe that interviewers should never, ever ask stupid questions like that, either.

Today, for the very first time, the tables were turned. I was so excited! There I was, asking the questions and evaluating the responses. I thought it would feel so empowering.

Nope. The woman was so eloquent and self-assured, so on-point and clear-headed, I found myself wondering how in the world I ever landed a job.

Sorry, Mom

From www.loving here.com.
From http://www.loving here.com.

It has recently come to my attention that a number of the most annoying things my kids do are exactly the same things I did to drive my mom crazy as a child. It would be reasonable to assume that such self-reflection would make me more patient and forgiving, but sadly this is not the case. It does prompt me to beg for my mother’s forgiveness, however. Better late than never.

Dear Mom,

I’m so sorry that I:

  • wandered off with the good kitchen shears/scotch tape/screwdriver/all the pens that work and then lost track of them.
  • dropped my backpack, coat, lunch box, boots, bags, and everything I owned in the doorway, leaving it for everyone to trip over.
  • used up all of the toilet paper and then proceeded to use up all of the Kleenex instead of hunting for a new roll.
  • interrupted you for the 23rd time in a row.
  • relocated my pile of stuff to the stairs when forced to remove it from the doorway.
  • couldn’t find my drugstore sneakers/homework/lunch/field trip slip and made everyone late, even though I said I was ready to go, and I’d spent the previous 30 minutes goofing around.
  • yelled “Mom!” from the top of the stairs repeatedly until you dropped everything to come to me.
  • left my dirty dishes everywhere but the dishwasher.
  • begged to stay up late and then was miserable and crabby for the next 2 days.
  • asked for help with homework and then said, “that’s not what we’re supposed to do.”
  • insisted on doing something myself and then lost it/spilled it/broke it/got hurt.
  • repeatedly said I did not need to use the restroom and then–five minutes down the road–suddenly had an emergency.
  • repeatedly rolled my eyes and said, “you don’t understand” in that egregious tween tone.

I’m well aware that these are not the worst of my transgressions, but simply reflect the level at which my kids are now competing. Here’s hoping that some of your patience and humor will eventually rub off so I manage to weather the tween years and beyond.

By the way, now I know what you mean by “what goes around comes around.”

Feel free to say, “I told you so.”

Your loving daughter.