As the Germans would say, Quatch

So I composed a blog post last night and it was all funny and nice, it had pictures and faux insights and lame witticisms and I felt so smugly pleased with it. And then I remembered that smug is a 4 letter word and oh-my-god I was being smug. Not a good feeling at all. Like that feeling in a dream where you realize you're not wearing pants. Only I'm wearing pants and this is definitely not a dream.
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Add to that rejection and rebuffs and criticism on more than a few fronts, writing and personal, and I am feeling smacked around. Well maybe I shouldn't be such a puss. I can do this. I can go deeper and document the ugly. I just need to put my head down and get to it.
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My new motto: expectations are the enemy of happiness.
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Reading this guy almost daily. So good it makes me cringe.

Ephemeral

Sometimes I worry that I'm missing the point.

I'm a heady person, I think; I spend beaucoup time musing over my stories, eavesdropping, daydreaming, wondering, making up narratives about people, a girl with prematurely gray hair, razor cut and tinged with purple; or the tall dude at Rudy's wearing shoes that looked like they were made from red felt.

So many lovely, subtle details and yet the big picture eludes me. Why such a horde of shoppers at Value Village on President's Day? Hm, because everything in the store was 50% off--as announced by the truck-sized sign at the entrance. Which I missed because I had something on my mind.

There's little subtlety in this graffiti I snapped at Stone Way and Bridge, bordering a gaping construction zone hole.
What is art?
Love life.
Already painted over. Already gone.

The Power

I captured this upraised fist at Tubs last year.
The dark, gnarled branches didn't seem so significant at first.
But now that time has passed and my mindset is altered, I think they mean everything: the power of the organic, of nature, of raw human strength plus a darker less forthright force.
It's stark and still so beautiful.

Achtung baby--creative sparks may be flammable

I'd be lying if I said my fictional characters weren't inspired by real people. The key is inspired--I'll hear a funny phrase (wif Ruf) or see someone striking (a slender blue-eyed boy in pink sneaks) and my imagination ignites--a scene, a fragment, a creative spark that excites and motivates me.
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Recently I immortalized a real person in a quasi-fictional piece. It was self-serving, I get that. I was exploring my own curiosity at the expense of a rather bewildered friend. I'm not a fictional character, he said gently, when I demanded why he hadn't read the whole piece. I'd imposed my analytical ego on him, I realized, turned the coolest of provocateurs into the object of mundane inspection, as though his looks and words and beats--as though he himself--were mine to examine and manipulate. How did I trespass so blithely? I guess because when I'm writing, I'm god, and everything is material for a new world.
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So, I apologized and made him tear it up, but I'm worried: is this is an unforgivable infringement, or the kind of thing that can weather a friendship in a good way, like a broken-in leather jacket or retro Puma kicks?
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As a side note my weekly story submissions roll on. The rejection I got yesterday noted Your story made it past the first reader, try us again. A no, but minus the slap. I'll take it.

Happy Belated Jamers

Oh I'm a bad auntie.
Not in a Michael Jackson way. In a truly negligent sense.

My niece turned sixteen this past week and did I say anything to anybody here?
Negative. I gave her the equivalent of a digital cricket chirp.

So--happy belated birfday Jamers!
You are a fun, smart, beautiful goofball and I can't wait to celebrate next week with some 3-D Johnny Depp, dancin' Wii rabbits and Vietnamese food. Love ya lots!

Overheard around town

The other morning an agitated kid boarded my bus and plopped down next to me. Poaching my space, leaning over my lap, he was coo-ing, crowing even, like a gangly anxious bird. In his hand I saw a note:

30 bus
1. Pull cord when you see the 7-11
2. Get off the bus

Somebody had clearly thought through the chain of events for this birdy boy. I wondered if previous notes had omitted the part about de-busing, if he'd ridden around town until the route ended and the exasperated driver ended his or her shift and tried to figure out what to do about the kid cawing in the back.

Tree fitty and an octopologist

My sis just got back from six days in Knoxville (sounds like the first line of a country song don't it)--and brought with her pictures of local graffiti. It warms my cynical heart that others find street art amusing and provocative and worth preserving. I have pictures of some tags that were up at Bridge and Stone Way and recently painted over--more when I can get those posted.

For now, enjoy some Knawksville graffiti: