Sooz has given us the five new words, and because sleep has not been an option for me this week, I figured...why put off til tomorrow, what you can do tonight? And in the Texas style, Sooz went BIG with the challenge.
This is how it works: you get 5 words and with these 5 words you have to write an entry. The words might or might not be related. You decide how to combine them, and how long your entry will be. You tag your entry with 5wordchallenge and whatever other tags you like. Finally, you put the words in bold.
sililoquy, manhole, discover, television, optimism
In one week the challenge will be passed on to someone that participated in this one.
Here goes...
She stood before him. The moment was illuminated by the blue glow of the television he used to make the silence between them appear cordial.
They met long ago, the way lovers meet in those steamy novels written by authors with vampy names. She caught her heel on the rim of a loosened manhole cover and tripped into him. In all the ways a woman could dream of tripping into two strong arms prepared to steady her, she managed to play her role with a clumsy grace that made her immediately endearing. Time would stop, as it did in those lurid tales of seedy romance, but only they would notice it. He would discover in those 4 seconds lust borne of chance. There had been no formal search and no planned prowl. She would sweep a random curl away from her face and blush crimson as he asked her if she was okay. Her response would include an absent ramble about her shoe which would prompt him to inspect it casually for a scuff mark. He would ask her if she’d like a cup of coffee to collect her self. It had been a natural encounter.
She fell into his arms a child, but she would leave them a woman.
Rehearsing love’s final soliloquy repeatedly in her head, she took the remote from his hand and let it drop to the carpet with a muffled thud. So many years ago he had been full of life; it was a thought that prompted a melancholy smile. She pre-empted his complaint with a carefully crafted edict full of optimism her words of disgust would eventually belie. Harsh words of truth, to sting his numb ears back to their utmost sensitivity.
She would wake him from the slumber of his indifference to say goodbye but it would be months before he would actually hear it.
I swear I'm a lot smarter than this.
After virtually forgeting the process and rules, sending out torrents of emails and then having to explain my mental breakdown...I am now back together with my sanity long enough to announce this week's 5 word challenge creator.
And frankly I'm glad to do it. I nearly got my ass kicked by Mathilde on this last one though her post was brilliant as usual. Jason did a cool fantasy piece with a startling end; Unique did a deep haunting expression of memory; Sooz had me laughing out loud and Red Pen shared a heartbreaking bit of prose.
Here's
how it works: you get 5 words and with these 5 words you have to write
an entry. The words might or might not be related. You decide how to
combine them, and how long your entry will be. You tag your entry with 5wordchallenge and whatever other tags you like.
Finally, you put the words in bold.
This week's words are: word1, word2, word3, word4, word5
Don't forget to add the rules!
And the baton goes to................................................................
Sooz!
You have some fire, I know you'll make it a great one.
I mentioned to Patty after she mentioned Pan's Labyrinth that I had been waiting to see it anxiously. I finally did last night with my buddy Steve.
Even after reading the reviews...nothing quite prepares you for it. Visually stunning, written with an intensity and beauty that literally takes your breath away while you crouch down in your seat, writhing with anxiety, fear and intensity. We were both exhausted by the end of it. Truly an adult fairy tale in every sense of the word. It is an expression of so many things. So rich with innocence and the end of it. The notion of magic and fantasy and the innocence and wonder of it, intertwined with the harsh realities and horrors of actual life. The brutality, that can sometimes crossover into both worlds.
Ugh. I wrote reviews of the movie in my sleep, over and over again. None rich enough to compel you enough to see it if you have not yet. i cannot do it justice. I will say this...it is hard to watch. I don't want to include any spoilers...but damn I sure am anxious to hear what others have to say about it. From the music, to the language of the movie, I can't shake it from my head. Patty mentioned how she felt when she left the theater...Steve said practically the same thing. We both rode home in near silence.
I don't blog much about my professional life, but I was reminded of a rather amusing story when Jason noticed the number of holes I have in my ear.
I often forget they are there until someone points them out. I have five holes in each ear. I don't do anything particularly flashy with them, small silver studs and then maybe a hoop or something else in the first hole that I received when I was eight years old.
I begged, and I was never one to nag as a child. But the earrings? I just had to have them. They seemed back then a critical rite of passage that my parents were completely denying me. My father objected more than my mother did. I think for him, earrings had a direct connection to breasts, boys and puberty - so he shoved the notion off as long as he possibly could. My mother grew tired of asking him and having to be the bearer of bad news, so she would make up incredible difficult hurdles for me to clear. Straight A's, a clean room and cleaning up the dogs mess out in the backyard without having to be asked.
My mother learned a vital lesson that year. If I want something badly enough, I will make the impossible, possible. Having married my father, she should've known I was bound to inherit his ferocity. I was meek, but beneath that was a layer of stubborn persistence I can only assume was exasperating for her at times. After wearing her down and boldly insisting that she should uphold her end of the bargain - she took me to the local mall for that first hole. My Dad raged, ranted, yelled and screamed and eventually got over it.
I requested the second hole when I was fourteen. Mom, recalling the raising of the roof my father did with the first one, adamantly refused. I vowed to do anything to no avail. She told me I was on my own. Persistent as I was, I was not bold enough to go to the King of the Jungle and ask his permission. So I let it go, until my sixteenth birthday. My Dad didn't notice that second hole until an impromptu discussion about a family issue almost four months later. I suppose he caught a glint of metal under the flourescent lights in our kitchen and he lifted my hair away from my face with squinted eyes and pursed lips.
Holes three and four were issued in college, for no other reason than boredom. There was something about the piercing experience I liked loved. There was something liberating in it. Each punch was a seemingly violent, but virtually painless way of rejecting some of the burdens of academia, responsibility and strict code I had swallowed unwillfully over the course of my young life. I wanted some sort of stamp that affirmed that although I was following my father's strict regimin and doing the things I was instructed to do, there was another side of me that yearned for the freedom, empowerment...the very excitement of independent expression. Each punch felt like another airhole in my body. Another way to release the steam of a lifelong simmer. I suppose it's why I can understand my sister's intoxication with piercing - though she's a wilder soul then I could ever wish to be. And she's way more angry, for reasons I completely understand.
The fifth hole? *smiles*. That one was just to piss off a boss. I was working at one of the oldest advertising agencies in Philly, and I had a very conservative boss, the VP of Operations. I was a senior account executive, spent a lot of time on the road with the sales team, pitching prospective accounts on our products and services, on my way to becoming a Client Relations Manager. I was 26, always opinionated, a bit mouthy, never afraid to share an idea or to reject an idea that didn't fit the need. Even if it was his. We had an amazing relationship, as different as we were. He respected me for what I brought to the table, and in turn there wasn't a thing I wasn't willing to do to ensure we closed a lot of business. One afternoon, we were having lunch at his favorite seafood place, celebrating my 5th year at the agency. While we were chatting he made a comment about my earrings, asking me why I had so many.
I hadn't really thought about why I had them, but my Dad warned me many times about the negative perspectives many employers would have about them. I shrugged that off using the mantra I still use today whenever my ears become an issue.
"Hire me for my mind, not for the lack of accessories around it."
Still, Chris, my VP of Operations was asking the million dollar question. I wasn't annoyed, because they hadn't been an issue thus far. We were about to pitch to a very large (conservative) pharmaceutical company in North Jersey, and he aked if I thought it might be better to remove them for the presentation. I shook my head, and continued picking about my shrimp, believing the matter closed.
I could feel Chris staring into my forehead for a few moments, weighing his next thought carefully. He knew I could not be budged, just as he could not. It was one of the things we respected about each other. When I did look up at him finally, the corner of his mouth had curled into a wry smile.
"Just don't get any more, whatever you do."
The next morning I arrived in his office with shiny new piercing number five. We're still in touch today, and he still recalls that day with a weary chuckle. We got the account, with my five shiny holes in tact. He claimed he was going to fire me if we hadn't.
Whatever.
My neighbor in Nashville, Webcruiser tagged me on this one. I've done it before...but surely I can dig up five more relatively unknown things about me. And Geebie, I won't tag you again so don't even start protesting.
5 more things about me:
1. One of my favorite colors is brown. I tend to like earth tones in general. I'm surprised at how many people look at me with surprise when I tell them that. I suppose to many, it is a forgettable color easy to be overlooked when competing with fiery vibrant red, or deeply spiritual blue. I suppose what I like about it (and earth tones in general) is that you can bring virtually any other color element to it and make it work. It can be subtle like soft browns and whispered pinks, or it can be electric like deep brown and perky teal. Still, brown brings me an immediate calm, especially when it is rich and deep chocolate. My couch is brown, the second biggest color in my wardrobe is brown, most of the artwork I gravitate to is brown, the earth that fosters growth is brown...my skin is brown. Yeah...I love it.
3. I once worked with the sports department of a local news affiliate in Philadelphia, for two weeks. In college, I wanted desperately to be a sportscaster. My final year at Penn, I had an opportunity to work for the KYW Sports team as a production assistant. This meant logging incredible amounts of sports reel for the evening news, making recommendations on the footage that might work well for the highlight reel, or support top stories of the night. I rarely got an opportunity to actually go out with the team and collect video...but I tell you, after two weeks of logging film copiously, I saw why many athletes have had issue with women in the locker room. One word, "wow." Why did I stay for only two weeks? The hours. I had no reliable transportation and the job would have required I take a cab home each night at 3am. My father was terrified. I just couldn't afford the cab fare, and the station wouldn't pay for it. Besides, most of the men in the department didn't want me there anyway - with the exception of Ukee Washington, who was as kind as kind could be. I went on to become a production assistant to Larry Kane for a local program called, "The Bulletin." I learned a lot more, and went on to explore television production a bit more extensively after that. I eventually went into radio production for awhile, and hosted a radio newsprogram on a small public station in Philly before moving into newsmagazine production and sales for a small non-profit and finally into the corporate arena.
4. I had a non-cancerous tumor the size of a NFL football removed from my abdomen three years ago. Specifically, a uterine fibroid tumor. Very common among women typically in their early forties on (especially among African Americans), these fibroids are usually very small and don't cause many problems. I developed a cluster of them that fused and grew to an enormous size before I turned 31 years of age. It literally looked as if I was carry a baby in the third trimester. Apparently, I suffered from a hormone imbalance that caused mine to grow so rapidly. I developed severe anemia and a partially herniated disc from where the tumor pushed against my spine. Thanks to God and an expert surgeon who said it was the largest tumor he had ever seen in someone my age, all I have to show for the experience now is a hairline scar that runs from one hip to the other (similar to a c-section, but a bit longer) and a healthier attitude. I'm grateful for the experience because it was the catalyst for great change in my life: my eating habits, the way I handle stress, my fear of surgery/needles/illness and my overall health.
5. I have had the same best friend since I was five years old. His name is Jameel, and other than my sister - he's the only other person that could chronicle all the phases of RPM, and remind me of things I've long forgotten. When I interact with him, or hold one of his children in my arms...I still find it hard to believe we're adults. When I look in his eyes, I always see the children we once were. Adulthood nearly always complicates things...but through all of our trials and tribulations - he's the friend I know will always, always, always be there. If I stray too far, he's always there to rope me back in. No questions asked, even if if the last thing I might have wanted. It gets no truer than that.
What do you do to ensure you get a good night's sleep?
Submitted by Jacob's Ladder.
End it with a cup of tea/teasan. No matter how late, no matter the mood, no matter the temperature outside. A perfectly steeped cup of tea, and a good read helps me even on my most troubling, rapid fire brain nights.
The one lately that's making me smile is Numi.
Their Lime teasan is AMAZING and it's really good for headaches too.
Regarding the conundrum that is I could care less versus I couldn't care less.
An excerpt from World Wide Words:
" The form I could care less has provoked a vast amount of comment and criticism in the past thirty years or so. Few people have had a kind word for it, and many have been vehemently opposed to it (William and Mary Morris, for example, in the Harper Dictionary of Contemporary Usage, back in 1975, called it “an ignorant debasement of language”, which seems much too powerful a condemnation). Writers are less inclined to abuse it these days, perhaps because Americans have had time to get used to it.
A bit of history first: the original expression, of course, was I couldn’t care less, meaning “it is impossible for me to have less interest or concern in this matter, since I am already utterly indifferent”. It is originally British. The first record of it in print I know of is in 1946, as the title of a book by Anthony Phelps, recording his experiences in Air Transport Auxiliary during World War II. It seems to have reached the US some time in the 1950s and to have become popular in the latter part of that decade. The inverted form I could care less was coined in the US and is found only there. It may have begun to be used in the early 1960s, though it turns up in a written form only in 1966.
...Taken literally, if one could care less, then one must care at least a
little, which is obviously the opposite of what is meant. It is so
clearly logical nonsense that to condemn it for being so (as some
commentators have done) misses the point. The intent is obviously
sarcastic — the speaker is really saying, “As if there was something in
the world that I care less about.”
...
There’s a close link between the stress pattern of I could care less
and the kind that appears in certain sarcastic or self-deprecatory
phrases that are associated with the Yiddish heritage and (especially)
New York Jewish speech. Perhaps the best known is I should be so lucky!,
in which the real sense is often “I have no hope of being so lucky”, a
closely similar stress pattern with the same sarcastic inversion of
meaning. "
I personally cringe when I hear people say "I could care less." And I don't buy the intentional sarcasm theory either. It's just not thinking about the logic of what you've just said. If you could actually care less...then what's the point in emphasis? Ignorant debasement of language, or just spoken without thought? Am I being an ass?
*sigh*
I was doing great, running my errands and feeling fine, a sunny day after nearly a week of rain in Austin. Floating along...and I hit a musical pothole. The haunting song (or cd) that I meant to take out of the cd changer during my travels, reappeared with arrogant vengeance.
Don't you love the songs that the moment you hear them, take you back to a very specific event, conversation...turning point? And instantly, you are back in the space to feel it all over again. I don't remember the drive home from the mall. I could do it in my sleep anyway. Physically, I was behind the wheel. Mentally I was sitting on a couch reliving the conversation I figured would be the last meaningful one...perhaps for a lifetime.
I hate when I'm right about things like that.
I am stunned that I am in this place. I am in awe that our lives aren't interwoven in an impossible to decipher design. I cannot believe I am in the same area code and we have become awkward strangers who avoid speaking because even we can't rationally explain why we aren't together. More than any of this, I cannot believe I'm alright with such a big piece of me...gone. Who knew? Not me, I tell you that.
...and this is my gameface...
The Fray - "Vienna"
The day's last one-way ticket train pulls in
We smile for the casual closure capturing
There goes the downpour
There goes my fare thee well
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
'Cause I'm already gone
There's so many words that we can say
Spoken upon long-distance melody
This is my hello
This is my goodness
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
'Cause I'm already gone
Maybe in five or ten yours and mine will meet again
Straighten this whole thing out
Maybe then honesty need not be feared as a friend or an enemy
But this is the distance
And this is my gameface
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
Is there really no way to reach me?
Am I already gone?
So this is your maverick
And this is Vienna
from NYCinephile, per his request. Cheers, and Happy Friday. :)
What inspires you?
- Movies/Books/Music that dare to be different - There is nothing more inspirational than any story told in a new and different way, I am hopelessly inspired by things that are brave enough to deviate away from any standard. I love the eclectic and unusual.
- My Sister - she's my cheerleader/guardian/personal comic/co-conspirator, her passion for her own art is my inspiration.
- You - with your words of encouragement, your experiences, your feedback and your unique perspectives on life, everyday you all give me something to think about.
- My Dad - because he believes I can do just about anything, and he's shown me firsthand what persistence and spirit can accomplish
What blocks your creativity?
- Competition - Nothing is more deflating to my creativity then unnecessary competition. It distracts from my focus, and threatens to make me more focused to the end result - then the quality of my work. When I feel it happening, I extract myself from that sort of exchange very quickly. It just doesn't serve me.
- Clutter - yes, I am a bit of a clean freak. I can't think in a cluttered environment. I get moody, irritated...almost panicked.
Do you do anything special to get your creative juices flowing?
- Meditate - It helps to quiet my thoughts enough to allow me to express them.
- Scenery - I love the Bee Caves, Westlake and Town Lake
- SoCo - some of my most adored little shops in Austin are on South Congress. I usually drag Steve along, and we make a day of eating fun foods, visiting some cool galleries, and finding new aromatherapeutic treasures. And First Thursdays are pretty fun too.
- Journal - go back through my journals, and see what pregnant thoughts lie in my rambles.
- Barnes and Noble with a Sugar free vanilla soy latte. So perfect together.
What time of day do you feel most inspired?
I tend to my most introspective in the morning - so that's when I log my thoughts. But I make sense of them in the evening, typically between 9pm and 1am.
How do you like to express your creative energy?
*smiles* I'm a writer.
(it feels good to say that)
Last night, I pulled into the mini mall off of William Cannon, to see if I could get my nails done. It's been nearly a
month, my nails were getting a bit long and I had one that needed some major repair. Although I've been going to this spot regularly for nearly a year, I can rarely get my favorite technician, Henry - because I never make an appointment. It was 6:30 when I found a parking space. I assumed they would close at 9, as the salons back home in Philly did. Not so. The place was closing in thirty minutes.
I faltered at the door...wondering if I should be one of those people I loathe. The ones who come in requesting an hours’ worth of service fifteen minutes before closing. I stood there with my hand on the door, weighing the odds when Henry appeared from a back room off to the left. Henry has only done my nails a handful of times, but each time he has, I grow more respectful of his craft. He waved me over and began preparing his station for me, immediately.
Henry is one of my favorite studies. He's Vietnamese-American, raised by immigrant parents. Looking at him, I would guess him to be about 40. Clearly he works in the salon as something to do, as opposed to it being his livelihood. At his station, he keeps his realtor business cards, and he is always dressed as if he may dash off at any moment to show someone a home. I had often wondered if he owned the salon, because he does not have the air of an employee, at all.
He's different then any other nail tech in the place. Henry seems to pick the hands he wants to work on, and every employee in the salon seems to accept this with a silent grace. If nothing of interest arrives, Henry disappears with his cell phone into the back room. He does not smile in the almost effusive manner that the other techs do as customers arrive. He does not bother to engage customers in conversations and he rarely greets people with more than a grunt of recognition. Henry exists in his own world and he chooses carefully who will be granted admission.
I suppose that is what I like about him. Even from the first time I sat in his chair and went about being ignored for over an hour. He reminds me of my East coast upbringing, where little is spoken by mouth, but you can learn someone’s entire personality in their silence. In an odd way, that is comforting to me. I don’t have to work hard to find some common conversation, or pretend we’re friends or even in the mood for superfluous chatter. I could simply sit, and watch him work.
And watching him work, is where I began my study. If you’ve ever been to a nail salon, you know the process is nearly mechanical. It is a series of concentrated steps that finish with either a basic manicure or an extensive, ornate amusement park of nail design. No matter what you choose, you can bet it has been done millions of times before. The tech may talk with you about trivial days events, or they may talk on a cell phone, or to a neighboring technician while you nod off, stare into space or look lazily at a television looming over your head. The experience is entirely what you make it, and every technician seems to have learned this as they learn the techniques of acrylic application with a paintbrush.
Not so with Henry. My first visit with him, Henry began by studying my hand while I explained to him what I wanted. He was only partially listening. The other part of him was studying me. My hand, my jewelry, the technique of the technician before him. He scowled, he smiled at a private joke and even shook his head in total disapproval as he turned my hand this way and that. I learned quickly with Henry to just be quiet, and let him figure out what I was looking for.
“You want these shortened quite a bit?”
Before I could answer, he grunted his approval, still studying my fingers. My first time in his chair, I felt like he studied my hands more than any lover ever could.
“You have long fingers, these nails are too blocky, too thick. Makes your hands look big...bulky. You don’t need all of that.” He appeared to be talking to himself, because he made no eye contact with me at all during his assessment.
As he began to work, clearing away evidence of mediocre manicures of the past and clearing his pallet for his own effort, I watched him carefully bring the surface of my nail back to its original composition. As he worked, several technicians loomed over his shoulder, watching him work. He would occasionally blurt out thoughts in Vietnamese to them and they would nod at each other with what appeared to be a reverence.
When I left that day, I had the most memorable manicure I’ve ever experienced, and Henry had barely said six words to me.
This evening, he seemed almost happy to see me. He took my hand and shook his head again, dismayed at the excess shape given to my nails.
“When are you going to start making appointments with me?”
I looked at him, almost unsure he was speaking to me. He raised his eyes and waited for my answer.
“I am never sure when you’re going to be here. I always look for you when I come in.”
He nodded, and continued surveying my nails. I thanked him for taking me so late in the day, unannounced and he was almost warm in his dismissal of my late arrival. And without another word, he went to work.
I love to watch him, because he takes so much pride in his work. He’s a perfectionist, his perfectly styled hair and perfect nails would give him away even if his work did not. He is purposeful in every motion, and focused entirely on each nail as if it were a canvas. This time, in an effort to get to know him, I asked him about his realtor business card.
Henry looked up with interest when I asked him if he sold commercial or residential properties. I had found the key. He opened quickly, telling me about his preference for commercial over residential and the differences in the market here versus the East Coast. I shared with him my East Coast upbringing and we compared notes on the differences in culture here in Austin, versus New York and Philadelphia. Just as quickly as the conversation began, it ended. It almost seemed as if Henry realized he was coming dangerously close to having an enjoyable conversation – so he answered my next question about his work with a gruff affirmation, before resuming his focus on his work.
American Idol blared on the television behind his head, so I began to watch that while I waited for my insides to sort out what I learned about him from that five minutes of free exchange.
“I am a musician as well.”
It took me a moment to realized he had spoken, again, to me.
“The last singer? She was off pitch, and she didn’t follow the melody.”
I laughed, and agreed. When I asked him what instrument he played, he again came to life.
“I play the keyboard, I used to have a band too. We used to play weddings and small events – not anymore though, people left, moved away, jobs took them in different directions.”
As he continued working on my hands, I would occasionally mention for him to turn around to watch contestants I found particularly amusing. We’d laugh or nod in approval at each. And again, almost like clockwork, Henry would resume his work with a gruff answer which was my indication to cease the chatter. It became almost an amusing game of duck, duck goose. If I could find the right topic, he would come alive with a story only to abruptly come to a stop.
“There was another of these shows, one for comedy, a Vietnamese man won the competition. I think it was a year or maybe two years ago. I was shocked.”
It was another random blurt, which I happily consumed to learn more about him. But that was all he would offer. He went back to explaining the proper shape of my nails and the logic behind the length I preferred to keep them.
“Are you a writer?” He finally asked as he buffed the last nail to brilliant perfection.
I cocked my head, unsure of how to answer. Technically, I am a marketing director. So I asked for clarification to be sure.
“Do I type a lot?”
He shook his head. “Are you a writer?” He was insistent.
I waited for a moment as he studied my face for a silent answer. He nodded curtly and I did the same. Quickly, he stood indicating my nails were done. And they were perfect, as always whenever he takes care of them.
“Be sure to make an appointment next time for when I am here. Call first.”
I smiled and nodded. “You did a beautiful job Henry, thanks so much. I will definitely make appointments in the future.”
He was already walking away. I heard an “mmmph,” which I took as an affirmation and the wish for a goodnight.
