Category: Daily

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Day 137: Deckard’s Stuff

The stars aligned so I watched “Blade Runner” on HD-DVD last night.  I started that at ten and ended after midnight.  These HD movies shine.  It’s like going back to the theatre to watch the thing–maybe even better.

What struck me aside from the clarity was the scale.  Everything in a shot was heaped on.  I don’t know what the budget was, but it’s as if a four year old were set in charge of making their own chocolate milk.  Just one more squeeze and I’m done–promise.  Everywhere the camera landed there was stuff: characterization stuff, tone stuff, mood stuff, genre stuff.  Everywhere: stuff.

I hope when I write that I learn to convey that even if a character doesn’t open a closet through out the entire novel that if they did stuff would tumble out. 

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Day 136: Nothing In Particular

I considered rolling another day with the Styx theme, but decided against it in favor of a bit of rambling instead. The point of this post will be to simply keep my fingers moving around the keyboard. and the thoughts flowing from my head. I believe that this is what is referred to as free writing. As I recall from having done this on paper in high school it results in crap. I suspect it was my creative writing teacher’s way of filling out an hour when he didn’t have enough material otherwise.

I do this sort of thing for the girls when they can’t sleep. I have two versions: Talk About My Day and Talk About the Stuff in My Room. Talking about my day is mostly geared toward getting the girls to wind down and to think about the sequence of events during the day. The point of talking about the stuff in their room is for them to listen to my hopefully soothing voice as they become acquainted with the items in their room.

Of course they are familiar with these items in their regular rooms, but we found on traveling from our home in the mountains to the grandparents that it made sleeping easier if we talked them through their new nightly surroundings for the week. The practice stems from my childhood fear and then annoyance of waking up in a strange place with no bearings. Being able to anchor the bookshelf next to the door and the dresser across from the window before you nod off has a calming effect when you wake up halfway and don’t immediately recognize where you are.

I like to think I am a baby whisperer, but I’m not. If they don’t respond in the first round or two I start wanted to pop their heads off.

I do love that they are growing more sophisticated everyday. Asking questions and formulating complex sentences. Thinking ahead tot he future. Wondering a little about the past. One’s brain is a steel trap of details. When we lose stuff or can’t find something we ask her. The other one can dredge up an event from months ago like it just happened and she still has the Band-Aid to prove it. It’s a wonder they don’t use more four letter words.

Word count: 402

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Day 135: Too Much Time on My Hands

Originally here.

I’m really in my office. Thirty-four floors above the 16th Street Mall in downtown Denver, Colorado. I feel as if I am in a Polaroid from the 70’s. The blues faded, the reds indistinct, and the blacks turned a sickly green. The “Welcome Back Kotter” t-shirt I’m wearing is an iron-on and the collar isn’t the same color as the shirt. I have on that first round of Nikes: blue with a yellow trademark. For some reason I am on a wall. I’m twelve, but the look on my face is veteran. I’ve been effected by what I’m seeing, but I don’t care.

There is no such photograph.

In the memory that follows I don’t wear those clothes but pretend I do because they are the only ones I can recall from that era.

[a whole buncha stuff here]

From that summer there is a single recording of me. Its corners rounded in the style of the day; it’s format clearly 110. I’m on the back of a motorcycle, t-shirt, shorts, flip-flops, and a helmet–“Gotta protect your head.”

My boredom drove me to the most dangerous spot I could find. The made-to-look-like-adobe cinder block wall I am sitting atop is too tall to have climbed directly. At first I’d expected my Uncle to return quickly so I just sat on the tailgate and swung my legs. Later I decided he’d be longer. I hopped from the bed of the pick-up to the wall and walked it like a tightrope to the end. Sword-leafed yuccas and some taller but equally daunting plants lined the outside of the wall. If I missed them when I fell, I’d still get a mouthful of sand and a couple of scrapes from something. You can’t fall here in the High Desert and not get at least that.

Probably the adult look on my face comes from staring out at the desert wondering how these people determine which parts are good for putting a house on and which parts aren’t or discerning where the highway we rode in on disappears into the hills and where it goes after that. Puzzles a kid won’t solve quickly. I’m sure my thoughts devolved to something that happened the Saturday before. I awoke early to find my Aunt and Uncle up already–him still up from the night before? His animated conversation and smokey clothes didn’t distract me from the bag of doughnuts nor the pile of unorganized cash on the kitchen counter. He pulled more out of his front pockets while I stood there and added it to the wad of treasure. It was just ones and few quarters.

Here on the wall Tuesday drifts to a close. Maybe Wednesday drifts–in Summer, who knows.

Word count: 286