blood

strange oddball characters have been emerging in my writing of late. here's something i quickly wrote up recently. warning: it's somewhat bloooody

untitled (and unfinished.. but it's what i have now)

imagine a survey question: why don't you floss everyday?
a) laziness
b) forgetfulness
c) don't care
d) other

99.9% of the non-flossing adults select one of the first three options. i select (d), other. my 'other' is 'blood' -- if i flossed everyday there wouldn't be blood, and for me, the joy of flossing is the taste-my-blood experience.

your jaw that has dropped in horror? push it back up. there is a rational reason for this behavior, and you will be convinced when i'm through.

you, the snob you are, drink wine. you wax on about the buttery flavors, the caramel, the big mouth, the hint of cardamom. if i told you there was a liquid finer than wine you would laugh and look at me as if i were a child drinking grape juice. silly boy, you'd say. one day, you'll come around.

well, i did come around, but not to wine. i learned that i make my own sweet nectar. it happened many years ago. i just had the most fabulous rare steak in my life -- pink, tender, juicy. that steak brought me near heaven. five days later i found it.

in the bathroom, i looked in the mirror and saw a bit of swelling around my upper front teeth. 'hmm, not good,' i thought, 'time to floss.' so i wrapped the waxy string around my fingers and went to work. i watched in the mirror as the blood started to trickle down my tooth -- it fell and hit my tongue and the most wonderful taste of aged beef, iron and caramel enveloped me. i was shocked. my tongue darted to my front teeth and voraciously scrubbed the blood off -- more heaven. what was this? i panicked. could i be safe in the wilderness if i tasted so good?

indeed, this tasty blood may sound wonderful -- the best liquid to drink on earth is coursing through my veins. but all i could imagine, at first, was the horror of knowing that i would be feasted upon by my fellow humans if only the knew. for the next two weeks i walked around with band-aids and a strong fear of being discovered.

but then i flossed again, after two weeks, and the blood was mediocre, even bad -- the worst two buck chuck ever! what had happened!?!

....

postsecret interview online

as promised, here's the link to my full interview with frank warren.

you can find the "secrets" issue this is part of here.

one fun article is:

Tampons and Taboos
Hsiao-Yun Chu

my interview with postsecret founder frank warren

i think many of you have seen postsecret, a site where people send anonymous postcards to an artist revealing deep secrets and he posts them online. i had a chance to interview the site "curator" frank warren recently for ambidextrous, the stanford design magazine. i'll post a link to the online content of the issue (the theme is "secrets") when it becomes available.

but my interview is available now in pdf format. here's a quote to entice you:

omar: Can some abstract secrets just not be doctored onto a postcard?

frank: I think that the postcard format creates limitations but also wonderful opportunities… A postcard is usually six inches by four inches. It’s a very finite amount of space to express your secret on. Because of that, you can’t waste any words. Each word has to really pull something out of your heart that exposes what you’re trying to share. I really think, in every case, each one of those postcards in its own way is incomplete. It’s imperfect. Because of that, it allows you, the viewer, to draw upon your own experiences, values, hopes, desires, and fears to interpret the secret you’re reading in a way that makes sense to you—to complete the story in a way that doesn’t just show you something more about somebody you haven’t met on the planet, but can also invite you, the viewer, to discover something new in yourself by projecting on somebody else’s postcard … (pdf)

i'm going to write more about the topic of form and content in another post. my ideas have been percolating. stay tuned!

making eggs with george and fred

a story about making eggs. clearly i'm on an egg kick, i dunno why! hope you enjoy it:

"Now give me your nose and smell this," George told Fred.

Fred plopped his nose into George's greens-filled hand, inhaled and exclaimed, "Ahh wonderful! That is life!"

"No, that is thyme, an herb," remarked George matter-of-factly and continued, "Thyme brings life to omelets in particular. That horrid thing you made the other day with peppers and onions and ham and tomatoes and God knows what other added abominations -- all you needed was thyme and cheese -- one tenth the cost, one thousand times the taste."

Fred frowned. George was mounting his high horse. How high would he go today?

"And your omelet was all mushed and battered -- like it had been to war and returned, gnarled and featureless. Thyme plus grated cheese plus technique -- that's what you need."

"Tell me more," Fred replied, somewhat mockingly.

"I will!" retorted George. "Fred, give me your hand."

Fred gave George his hand. George proceeded to move it side to side, in gentle contours, with slight flourishes at the end of the curves. "Do you know what your hand is capable of?" George began. "Such subtle motions. Such grace. Now, you use it like a seal's flipper -- arf arf arf arf arf! You are a seal when you take a kitchen item in your hand. Or a masturbator -- all you have is one gross motion. Disgusting. The omelet is dead to me before it enteres my mouth -- how can i enjoy the food created by a seal who masterbates with his kitchen tools?"

"Arf arf arf," replied Fred.

George looked stern. "Ha ha, very funny. Well George, my mission, this very day, is to turn you into a dolphin. This day i will make you smarter than a seal but not give you hands."

"Arf, arf!" mocked Fred.

George ignored him. "Then I will make you into a baboon. Big movements, like beating meat, tenderizing, done right. Then, on the third day, I will make you human. You will flip an omelet with grace and I will scream in joy as the thyme and cheese hit my tongue." George smacked his lips and, with purpose in his eyes, said, "Now let us begin."

George hurried away, with Fred arfing behind him.

i'll never forget

last week at my writing class one of our prompts was to use the sentence "i'll never forget" or the sentence "i'll remember" whenever we wanted or we got stuck. it produced a lot of dark pieces. here's mine:

i'll never forget her distance eyes after the third glass, always after the third glass. in happier times the green in her irises would tint a bit gray, she'd smile and look at nothing in particular. it was only later that i learned the distance eyes prefaced the breakdown.

i'll never forget that first time she hit me. a beast came back from her distant eyes and her nails ripped out some of my arm, a scar there now. i love her, still, though she's gone.

i'll never forget how it ended. did i give up, or did she? i always rationalized her drinking and violence as addiction, impulse. she would tell me about her lack of self-control, how she couldn't help herself.

did i become cynical? her hand reaching for a glass -- is that impulse? pouring the too full drink, bringing it to her mouth, repeating not once, not twice but three too full glasses -- is that impulse? that would all take minutes, not seconds -- seconds are impulses, minutes are conscious decisions.

i'll never forget when i told her that she was weak and uncaring -- not sick and in need of help. she had just hit me. was my outburst an impulse? i remember saying sorry, saying i had lost control -- how disgusted i was with myself. i wasn't sorry, it was conscious.

and now i sit here disgusted with that memory -- that i would not stand up for myself, nor care for her or believe that she needed it.

i'll never forget her distant eyes after the third glass. i'm so broken -- i love her and love myself and these will never fit.

about last night

this is from my writing class. the prompt was "about last night." i read this aloud, but it's so much easier to understand with italics representing one individual.

[beep vibrate. cell phone is answered]

so.. about last night.
uh, yeah?
well, i was sorta, you know... it wasn't anything.
oh, er, yeah me too. i didn't think.. uh..
yeah, thinking, god! where did that go?
seriously, if my brain is ice, i was melted.
er.. yeah melted. i see that, like slush and dirt. woh, dirty!
yeah and no shovel, er.. yeah
so.. um. about last night.
uh, yeah?
well, ok, maybe i meant some of it.
really? well.. um..
yeah so i was more ice, less slush
oh
yeah
well ... ok...
so do you want to...
oh wait i have another call.

[click]

The Magnificient Midge

"Both male and female Chironomidae [nonbiting midges] have mouths but will never use them, for the adults live only to breed. They have stored enough food in their bodies from their larval days to fuel the furious beating of their wings."

The male midge's "rapid [wing] motion raises their body temperature and may make them more potent. Females, lurking nearby in the grass or bushes, dart into the swarm once the males have become irresistible to them."



"Marissa, I'm not going to be able to resist much longer -- look at Walter's wings!"

Marg the midge, perched atop a blade of grass, admired the rhythmic dance of the male midges in the adjacent field. Her friend, Marissa the midge, hovered lower, unconvinced by the dance.

"Every night you fixate on Walter. How many flaws must I point out? Look at his metathorax -- I tell you he still eats, even to this day! No midge is that fat!"

But Marg could not stop swooning. "Think about our kids. His powerful wings, my lithe hind legs, they'd be the most attractive larvae."

Marissa hovered, unconvinced. She spun and looked up. "Wait Marg, wait. Check out Andre."

Andre flew into view above them. His wingers weren't as fast as Walter's; nor his metathorax as large. But Marg could not deny that he was something special. Andre was not rotating horizontally on the fourth wing beat like every other midge -- instead, he rotated vertically, showing off his glistening spiracles. When Andre's head faced Marg and Marissa he winked and caressed his mesothorax with his forelegs. Marg wondered what Andre's forelegs would feel like on her mesothorax.

another something written

one of the prompts last week was a page of onomatopoeia words (words like clang, hiss, boom, ...)

here's what i wrote. i'm working on the granny character:

there is a loud clang against the fence. everyone looks up from their activity: the women stop gossiping; the men lift mouths from their scotch; the kids cease rolling around in the grass; even the whole chicken roasting on the spit seems to do a double take and perk up towards the noise.

on the other side of the fence stands a formidable granny. in her right hand, a large shovel, rusted end -- almost red, as if she's used it to bludgeon, one too many times. in her left hand, a readers digest, large-print. she has everyone's attention. clang! clang! clang! she runs the shovel along the fence for good measure.

"good!" she shrieks, "now you're well interrupted, like you interrupted me!"

the women shuffle. some of the men mutter -- but immediately hush with one stare from the granny, who points the death shovel at them. the children are quiet. somehow, the fire has gone out under the chicken.

"mr and mrs neighbor, a word please."

the hosts of the bbq shuffle to the fence, their friends looking on as if a death sentence is about to be handed down. judge granny presides, and in her court all are guilty.

"why, mr and mrs neighbor, on sunday, god's day, do i hear a gaggle of geese in my yard?"

"uh, geese.. hmm?" mr neighbor replies.

"you buffoon you are the goose, this is your gaggle. do you know, mr neighbor, that i have killed geese with this very shovel?"

a yelp emanates from the children. "mommy, i'm scared. i peed my pants."

"deal with that child, mrs neighbor," granny spits.

mrs neighbor hustles to the child. granny turns, twirling the heavy shovel in one hand. clang! she bangs it against the fence. everyone jumps.

"mr neighbor, i will resume my reading now. if i hear your gaggle again, it will be you with a mess in your pants, be assured."

creative writing.. how creative

i'm taking a creative writing class at the writing salon in sf. the class is called "Exploring Your Writer's Voice". so far i've had two classes and i'm really enjoying it. the group leader (our fearless leader) chris provides us with prompts, we write whatever we want (following the prompt where it might take us, or not), and then we share our writing with the group, who offers positive feedback on the writing, focusing on the writing, not the writer. for me, this is about fiction, and so i try to step out -- lie, have fun, create.

this has really helped me reinvigorate my writing bug. here's the last prompt chris provided tonight, along with my response.

prompt: there is still joy.

what omar wrote:

"look another vineyard -- drink!" and so they drink up -- not i, they, drink up -- everyone but me. designated driver to napa and sonoma. why did i pull the short straw?

we're driving on the silverado trail. oh look another pothole -- i gun the car at it -- the drinkers can take that!

ah napa. some of the best wine in the world -- wine I, the humble driver, could appreciate. and what do my friends ask me to do? drive them around the back roads, and whenever they see a vineyard they drink. when the bottle runs dry i take them to the nearest winery, they run inside, bellow "bring me your cheapest wine!" and run back to the car. spot. drink. stop. repeat.

i get a whiff of their latest chard -- oaky, is that almond.. wait, bring it back. oh, another vineyard. they drink. they laugh. i cry. but i laugh too. this is so ridiculous. gunning for a pothole, i relish the little bumpy joys in life.

socks with hole

into the shoe not a peep
out of the shoe, i weep
for the sock i have worn
is now slightly torn
the second in only a week