until now, i leave you with this:
-mp.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
i am so sorry.
the past few weeks have been very hectic. the past few days, especially. I'm not sure when I'll get back to posting regularly... probably when I can start writing regularly again. (writer's block is really fun, kids!)
until now, i leave you with this:
-mp.
until now, i leave you with this:
-mp.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
hiatus.
looks like I've taken a two-week-long one.
I'll try to get it together as soon as I can, but the end of the semester was just really bush the week before last! as well as the beginning of the semester last week!
- mp.
I'll try to get it together as soon as I can, but the end of the semester was just really bush the week before last! as well as the beginning of the semester last week!
- mp.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sometimes.
From Only the Best Wishes for Me:
“Reilly.” Brennan’s voice was impatient and firm, as if he’d been trying to get Reilly’s attention for a while.
He blinked, his eyes fluttering to the corkboard Maria had hung on the wall next to the phone and hooks where the keys went. “What is it?”
The board had been decorated by scraps of paper in all shapes, sizes and colors. Maria’s bubbly handwriting covered most of them with reminders of press conferences, photo shoots, charity events and meetings for Dead or Kennidee’s private preschool. There were some scraps of paper with Reilly’s loopy, busy handwriting on them, too. Kennidee had even drawn some of her own pictures with her titles for them written in Maria’s hand. There was one that looked like four potatoes with an arrangement of sticks poking out of each one that Maria had labeled with names: the smallest potato had Chandler written under it in purple--Kennidee’s favorite color--crayon, followed by Kennidee, Mommy and Daddy. And another was of two blobs with black circles for eyes and empty circles for spots named Flapjack and Disco. The final drawing hadn't been tacked to the cardboard--instead, it laid on the cluttered granite countertop. It was of a kidney-shaped thing made out of straight edges labeled California with a simple drawing of a boxy house in the southern region and a drawing of a stick person. However, the label of the person had been written in her own disjointed, uncoordinated handwriting: Dad.
Holding the phone to his ear with one hand, he lifted the paper with his other to take a closer look. Had Maria told their three- almost four-year-old about his circumstance? Or had she sugarcoated it? “Daddy's gonna live somewhere else for a while.” He could see that scenario: his wife sitting down with his little girl, criss-cross on the floor in the living room and explaining in baby terms why he hadn’t been home for hours, days . . . weeks.
So she’d drawn the picture and given it to Maria, who’d set it down on top of-- A flutter of pink caught his attention and he looked past the picture to find a hot pink sticky note fluttering to the floor.
He ignored Brennan's explanation on the other line as he bent to pick up the note and turn it over. His stomach fluttered when he saw the note started with his name in Maria's handwriting.
Reilly -- It read.
That was all there was. There was no I love you or an address or phone number he could reach her out. Technically, there wasn’t really an explanation.
He reread the note once, twice, as many times as it took until he kind of came to the terms with the fact that he just wasn’t going to know what exactly was going on in her head until she decided to call him up and tell him.
“Reilly.” Brennan’s voice was impatient and firm, as if he’d been trying to get Reilly’s attention for a while.
He blinked, his eyes fluttering to the corkboard Maria had hung on the wall next to the phone and hooks where the keys went. “What is it?”
The board had been decorated by scraps of paper in all shapes, sizes and colors. Maria’s bubbly handwriting covered most of them with reminders of press conferences, photo shoots, charity events and meetings for Dead or Kennidee’s private preschool. There were some scraps of paper with Reilly’s loopy, busy handwriting on them, too. Kennidee had even drawn some of her own pictures with her titles for them written in Maria’s hand. There was one that looked like four potatoes with an arrangement of sticks poking out of each one that Maria had labeled with names: the smallest potato had Chandler written under it in purple--Kennidee’s favorite color--crayon, followed by Kennidee, Mommy and Daddy. And another was of two blobs with black circles for eyes and empty circles for spots named Flapjack and Disco. The final drawing hadn't been tacked to the cardboard--instead, it laid on the cluttered granite countertop. It was of a kidney-shaped thing made out of straight edges labeled California with a simple drawing of a boxy house in the southern region and a drawing of a stick person. However, the label of the person had been written in her own disjointed, uncoordinated handwriting: Dad.
Holding the phone to his ear with one hand, he lifted the paper with his other to take a closer look. Had Maria told their three- almost four-year-old about his circumstance? Or had she sugarcoated it? “Daddy's gonna live somewhere else for a while.” He could see that scenario: his wife sitting down with his little girl, criss-cross on the floor in the living room and explaining in baby terms why he hadn’t been home for hours, days . . . weeks.
So she’d drawn the picture and given it to Maria, who’d set it down on top of-- A flutter of pink caught his attention and he looked past the picture to find a hot pink sticky note fluttering to the floor.
He ignored Brennan's explanation on the other line as he bent to pick up the note and turn it over. His stomach fluttered when he saw the note started with his name in Maria's handwriting.
Reilly -- It read.
I guess we all need some time to ourselves sometimes. I’m sorry. - Maria
That was all there was. There was no I love you or an address or phone number he could reach her out. Technically, there wasn’t really an explanation.
He reread the note once, twice, as many times as it took until he kind of came to the terms with the fact that he just wasn’t going to know what exactly was going on in her head until she decided to call him up and tell him.
Catching Up Part 2.
From Tiffany Blews:
The first thing she did once the last guests had left was turn to Summer, take a big, long drink of sparkling cider and mumble, “Please don’t say you told me so.”
And then she had dropped the glass bottle on her hardwood, where it shattered and spilled all over the floor, the wall and her shoes as Summer jumped out of her seat and ran to hug Josey. She held Josey as she cried and never once said “I told you so.” Nat and Rhonda had silently gone to work scrubbing the sticky drink off the floor and walls while Summer helped Josey out of her party dress and into her pajamas, into bed, all while she cried.
In the morning, she woke up to see a card on her bedside table with her name written on it in Summer’s handwriting. She cried over the poem about sisters her best friend had copied down for her inside the off-white card:
She had underlined and redrawn the words share and tears for emphasis, and Josey sat in her bed and cried over the card for fifteen minutes before crawling out of her bed and into the spotless living room to find a miniature Christmas tree standing on her coffee table, decorated by tinsel, tiny ornaments and infinitesimal blinking white lights that stood proudly over four tiny wrapped boxes that all had tags that read To Josey.
She knew that all of her aunts and her best friend were busy that Christmas morning, but she still cried over the fact that they had stayed up late and gone out of their way to make sure she didn’t feel alone. She sent each a message of thanks after opening the tiny packages, and then regretfully spent a few hours waiting for him to call.
Somebody did call after a few hours, but it wasn’t Chas at all. To her surprise, Eric had called to wish her a merry Christmas, and she could hear the voice of his girlfriend through the line. Shortly after, she had excused herself from the call and hung up to face her apartment alone, which suddenly seemed much bigger, emptier and quieter.
When nightfall came, the rain that had begun the night before still pounded relentlessly down on the dark city of angels and demons, and she couldn’t do anything but cry. She cried over her father that had disappeared before she ever had a chance to know him, she cried over her mother that died before she could really learn to appreciate her, she cried over Richie that had taken her whole heart and ripped it to pieces before she knew what love was, she cried over Nora for giving up on life just before Josey needed her most, and she cried over Chas for turning into the one person she thought he never wanted to be again. She wasn’t sure if anybody had ever spent their entire Christmas crying, but then again, she wondered if the city of Los Angeles had ever cried along with someone.
The first thing she did once the last guests had left was turn to Summer, take a big, long drink of sparkling cider and mumble, “Please don’t say you told me so.”
And then she had dropped the glass bottle on her hardwood, where it shattered and spilled all over the floor, the wall and her shoes as Summer jumped out of her seat and ran to hug Josey. She held Josey as she cried and never once said “I told you so.” Nat and Rhonda had silently gone to work scrubbing the sticky drink off the floor and walls while Summer helped Josey out of her party dress and into her pajamas, into bed, all while she cried.
In the morning, she woke up to see a card on her bedside table with her name written on it in Summer’s handwriting. She cried over the poem about sisters her best friend had copied down for her inside the off-white card:
What you mean to me,
Is more than I can express.
You see, I had no sister when I was little
To call when I was in distress.
When we first met,
We had no clue,
What was getting ready to happen,
Was not completely out of the blue.
God had a plan,
Throughout all the years,
He was making us for each other,
To share life's smiles and tears.
She had underlined and redrawn the words share and tears for emphasis, and Josey sat in her bed and cried over the card for fifteen minutes before crawling out of her bed and into the spotless living room to find a miniature Christmas tree standing on her coffee table, decorated by tinsel, tiny ornaments and infinitesimal blinking white lights that stood proudly over four tiny wrapped boxes that all had tags that read To Josey.
She knew that all of her aunts and her best friend were busy that Christmas morning, but she still cried over the fact that they had stayed up late and gone out of their way to make sure she didn’t feel alone. She sent each a message of thanks after opening the tiny packages, and then regretfully spent a few hours waiting for him to call.
Somebody did call after a few hours, but it wasn’t Chas at all. To her surprise, Eric had called to wish her a merry Christmas, and she could hear the voice of his girlfriend through the line. Shortly after, she had excused herself from the call and hung up to face her apartment alone, which suddenly seemed much bigger, emptier and quieter.
When nightfall came, the rain that had begun the night before still pounded relentlessly down on the dark city of angels and demons, and she couldn’t do anything but cry. She cried over her father that had disappeared before she ever had a chance to know him, she cried over her mother that died before she could really learn to appreciate her, she cried over Richie that had taken her whole heart and ripped it to pieces before she knew what love was, she cried over Nora for giving up on life just before Josey needed her most, and she cried over Chas for turning into the one person she thought he never wanted to be again. She wasn’t sure if anybody had ever spent their entire Christmas crying, but then again, she wondered if the city of Los Angeles had ever cried along with someone.
Catching Up Part 1.
Playing catch-up for the day's I've missed.
Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli - one of my favorites as a younger teenager. I just love it.
Funny Pic Friday:
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Jude.
Another piece from The Dreamer's Son.
A: I’M NOT CRAZY.
Q: NOT YET.
A:
Q:
A: DOES SHE CARE ABOUT ME?
Q: ELLE?
A: YES.
Q: DO YOU THINK SHE WOULD HAVE FLOWN ACROSS THE COUNTRY ON A HUNCH IF SHE DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU?
A: SO YES. SHE DOES.
Q: IF THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK.
A (WITH A LAUGH): YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID THAT.
Q: WHY DO PEOPLE GO TO INSANE ASYLUMS?
A: BECAUSE THEY’RE NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE IN THE REAL WORLD.
Q: NO. WHY DID YOU SAY THEY GO TO INSANE ASYLUMS?
A:
Q:
A: STOP TRICKING ME.
A: I’M NOT CRAZY.
Q: NOT YET.
A:
Q:
A: DOES SHE CARE ABOUT ME?
Q: ELLE?
A: YES.
Q: DO YOU THINK SHE WOULD HAVE FLOWN ACROSS THE COUNTRY ON A HUNCH IF SHE DIDN’T CARE ABOUT YOU?
A: SO YES. SHE DOES.
Q: IF THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK.
A (WITH A LAUGH): YOU COULD HAVE JUST SAID THAT.
Q: WHY DO PEOPLE GO TO INSANE ASYLUMS?
A: BECAUSE THEY’RE NO LONGER ACCEPTABLE IN THE REAL WORLD.
Q: NO. WHY DID YOU SAY THEY GO TO INSANE ASYLUMS?
A:
Q:
A: STOP TRICKING ME.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Tiffany Blews.
She stopped at the end of the hallway, glanced out the window at the neighbor’s house, a few acres away, and turned back to return to her room. However, something caught her eye in the window was she passed the dining room.
She squeezed past the giant table and stood in the window as she watched the spectacle going on outside. Aaron was riding a dark gray horse she assumed was David bareback around a pasture enclosed by a white fence and Jen sat behind with her arms around him. Both wore cowboy hats--hers was pink--both were talking and both were grinning. The sweetness of it all had Josey smiling to herself, and when someone cleared their throat behind her, she jumped and threw the thin, white curtains shut.
A short woman in a black sweatsuit she recognized as the maid stood in the wide doorway with a rag and some cleaning supplies in her hands, staring nervously at Josey.
“Oh,” Josey mumbled and smiled. “Hi.”
“Beautiful couple.” The maid had a thick Indian accent.
“Oh!” Josey glanced over her shoulder, slightly gestured to Aaron and Jen. “Yeah, they’re sweet.”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “Not them. You.”
Josey hesitated, jammed her hands into her pockets.
“Chas never bring girl home,” the maid admitted, though Josey already knew. “You special, yes?”
Josey laughed nervously. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”
The maid simply nodded and sprayed the dark tabletop, bent her head and went to work.
Josey returned to her room and as she got ready for the day, she wondered why the maid’s words had stuck to her so well. She already knew that Chas had never taken any of his girlfriends to meet his parents, so why did she keep replaying the words in her head? Chas never bring girl home. It wasn’t until much later in the day did she realize that the reason it had stuck was because of what the maid had said next.
You special.
She squeezed past the giant table and stood in the window as she watched the spectacle going on outside. Aaron was riding a dark gray horse she assumed was David bareback around a pasture enclosed by a white fence and Jen sat behind with her arms around him. Both wore cowboy hats--hers was pink--both were talking and both were grinning. The sweetness of it all had Josey smiling to herself, and when someone cleared their throat behind her, she jumped and threw the thin, white curtains shut.
A short woman in a black sweatsuit she recognized as the maid stood in the wide doorway with a rag and some cleaning supplies in her hands, staring nervously at Josey.
“Oh,” Josey mumbled and smiled. “Hi.”
“Beautiful couple.” The maid had a thick Indian accent.
“Oh!” Josey glanced over her shoulder, slightly gestured to Aaron and Jen. “Yeah, they’re sweet.”
“No,” she said stubbornly. “Not them. You.”
Josey hesitated, jammed her hands into her pockets.
“Chas never bring girl home,” the maid admitted, though Josey already knew. “You special, yes?”
Josey laughed nervously. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”
The maid simply nodded and sprayed the dark tabletop, bent her head and went to work.
Josey returned to her room and as she got ready for the day, she wondered why the maid’s words had stuck to her so well. She already knew that Chas had never taken any of his girlfriends to meet his parents, so why did she keep replaying the words in her head? Chas never bring girl home. It wasn’t until much later in the day did she realize that the reason it had stuck was because of what the maid had said next.
You special.
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