Today's writing assignment: Once, with another woman...



Today's assignment turned out to be more personal and emotionally charged than anticipated. And so I have elected to not share it. If you're curious and do want to read it, please e-mail me. And I'll take requests under consideration.

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Today's Writing Assignment: There's music in the background.


Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe

And he keeps it … ah … out of sight.



Come September was the newest nightclub on the 1959 block. Broads, dames, thugs, slicks and squealers are always lookin' for a diversion in the nitty gritty. Jimmy Diver owned the joint. Even got Bobby Darin to sing for him. You can bet pennies to prostitutes that Bobby owed Jimmy a favor.




Ya know when that shark bites, with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread



Mako sharks are my favorite shark. Sleek and silver beneath the ocean glass. Silent. Stealthy. Dangerous. Like me.



Fancy gloves, though, wears old MacHeath, babe

So there’s nevah, nevah a trace of red.



The blade cuts sweet. It slices real nice like. Through the flesh clean as fish. The rain had pooled in the cracked concrete, leaving oily rainbows dancing to big band swirl of music. The blood began to mix with the oil and water, created what could be considered a sacrilegious communion.



Now on the sidewalk … uuh, huh … whoo … sunny mornin’ … uuh, huh

Lies a body just oozin' life … eeek!

And someone’s sneakin' ‘round the corner

Could that someone be Mack the Knife?



The smoke from the club emanated into the alley. The scent of Banana peels from banana splits, strawberry hats from strawberry daiquiris, and the bite of vodka tonic congealed into a euphoric mixture. The acrid air slithered into his lungs and breathed in real deep. The cement was wet with fresh rain. But the cement became wet twice over with the blood. Deep red, brown blood. Oozed over cracks and seeped into the porous surface.







A-there's a tugboat … huh, huh, huh … down by the river don’tcha know

Where a cement bag’s just a'droopin' on down

Oh, that cement is just, it's there for the weight, dear

Five'll get ya ten old Macky’s back in town.



Now, d'ja hear ‘bout Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe

After drawin' out all his hard-earned cash

And now MacHeath spends just like a sailor

Could it be our boy's done somethin' rash?



Now … Jenny Diver … ho, ho … yeah … Sukey Tawdry

Ooh … Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown

Oh, the line forms on the right, babe

Now that Macky’s back in town.



Aah … I said Jenny Diver … whoa … Sukey Tawdry

Look out to Miss Lotte Lenya and old Lucy Brown

Yes, that line forms on the right, babe

Now that Macky’s back in town …


Look out … old Macky is back!!

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Write about a year ago.



twenty one ways to dissect a woman



I

A woman is only one

With herself.



II

A man and a woman

Is not one.

They are two

Divided by emotions

And genitals.



III

If she wears lipstick

The color of blood

She is passionate.

The color of blood varies.



IV

It is a conspiracy

Among corporations

To never have congruous

Measurements.

Jeans vary in size

The way hips vary size.



V

A woman is not notches in a headboard.

Or in a little black book.

Or her measurements.

Or her IQ.

Or candles on a cake.



VI

Upon marital status:

The box next to "Mrs." does not need

To be filled in.



VII

The mirror does not reflect.

She does.



VIII

Eyes are nice

But blue eyes

Are not to be trusted.

Sorry Frankie.



IX

Sensuous are hands

Like a sculptor

Or a bass player.

But she cannot be played

Like a fiddle.



X

Honey glazed throats

Pour over her soul.

She falls in love with sound.

Sinatra and Scottsmen

are inducive of swoons.



XI

Lips

And fingertips

Will never lick a truth.

But she does love

A good lie.



XII

Size matters.

Small words

Do big wonders.



XIII

Her toes are off limits.



XIV

If she is at one

She will not wear shoes

Despite discomfort.



XV

She is free:

Sneezes

And breezes

Maternity leaves

A tale of Greensleeves

Long in the dust.



XVI

Talent is never wasted.

It is only

misplaced.



XVII

Musculature of mind

Dictates

Desires.

She can convince herself

Of the most

Incredible

Innane

Insane

Things.



XVIII

She loves.



XIX

She lives.



XX

And walks in beauty

Like the night.



XI

But she is never

Ever

A poem.

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I didn't get the job.


She said I was "talented" and offered me a job on their "floor" because they needed someone to start sooner than I could, since I'm graduating in the middle of May. She said that the store frequently uses those employees to help with the events.


Yeah. But I wouldn't be creating, planning or managing the event.


That job on the "floor" she offered me? It was a freakin' bookseller job.


I almost started crying right then and there.


It was all I could do to compose myself and say, "I really wanted to put my degree to work after I graduate. And as I understand it, Ann Arbor is an expensive place to live, and I don't think I'd be able to afford it on a bookseller's salary. Maybe if I don't find anything else, I'll be able to exercise that as an option."


Lorie knows how much that terrifies me: to be a person with an English degree just working in a bookstore. Because that basically describes everyone I knew at the previous bookstore I worked.


So that's all I'm good for: to be a grunt in a bookstore.


I can't believe I went to all that trouble in making a portfolio of graphic design to show her.


I feel like such a loser.

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Today's Assignment: Write about a time you did something you didn't want to do.


It's never clean cut like the razor slice of paper that always seems to know just the right place to scissor open my skin. But even if the things I've done weren't cut and dry like those bloodless paper-cuts, they still annoy the heck hell fuck out of me. For instance, look at what I just did. I swore. I'm not comfortable with swearing the way I'm not comfortable with my reflection. But I keep singing Mary Prankster songs out loud and I keep looking at myself in the mirror. Because hopefully, one day, I'll be able to say "damn" or "shit" or "fuck" without blushing and the word won't hang in the air like that annoying green alien on The Flintstones. I'll give the word a kind of dignity, the way Sean Connery sounds when he cusses on screen. He tell me all about fucking prom queens, as long as his voice is smooth and honey-glazed. The accent doesn't hurt, either.


I didn't want to wear make-up, but I do because my skin breaks out now. I went all through my adolescence without so much as a pimple, and now that I'm an adult, I have a breakout around "that time of the month."


I didn't want to get married. And it's still hard to reconcile in my mind. Because I used to be this big anti-marriage-anti-institutional-prone-to-questioning-everything-kind-of-person. And now, I'm not. Well, I still question everything, but now that I'm married, it feels like I let myself down. Like I sold out. Like I'm not really allowed to question things, because who am I to question when I allowed a piece of paper to cage me?


If I ever met someone, I wanted our relationship to transcend the tradition of marriage. And back when I thought I was going to be a famous writer, I wanted stories of me in classrooms to be accompanied by nervous laughter about the times I read Shakespeare scenes in the nude with the love of my life. Or how I was in love one glorious, magnificent time, and he (I was even open to the possibility of she) got me to settle down and we had seven children, all named for our favorite writers, and so none of them would be named Joseph or Conrad or Edmund or Spencer.


But instead, I allowed myself be institutionalized.


I try to rationalize and think that it's okay. This is the one glorious and magnificent love of my life. And who am I allow one piece of paper dictate my sense of self? It's okay to change your mind. You're supposed to grow. "The sun shines to-day also."


It's a slow process. But who photo-synthesis was a snap?

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The following is from A Writer's Book of Days: A Spirited Companion & Muse for the Writing Life by Judy Reeves.





It's scary how true that is.

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Laura's questions:


1) Say you decide to have some babies. What would you name your first daughter? How about your first son?


We don't want to have children, so I do not have any names picked out. Besides, I think it would be hard to pick out names for people who don't exist yet, it'd be like trying to pick out their personality before it's formed.



2) With all the violence in the world, what would you say is the most violent crime and why?


The most violent crime? Abusing your children. Because children are supposed to grow up and inherit the world, and when you beat them either physically, mentally or emotionally, you mess up the future because they either grow up into violent adults, or they're too afraid to have children of their own because they're likely to beat their children. Essentially when you hit a child, you start an endless vicious cycle.



3) If all the flowers in the world smelled like one type of flower, which flower would it be? (I think mine might be sampagita.)


I think mine would smell like hyacinth.

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Desmond is such a trendsetter.


I got out of bed really early because my mom was yelling at me.


I feel strange because the first time I don't send my brother's birthday present early, I get yelled at.


I'm so happy. I just found out that I have been accepted into Harvard. And Yale. I don't know which to choose... oh, why is life so hard sometimes?


Last night I had to go and pay Josh's bail. He's such a jerk. He got arrested for punching the Walmart clerk in the face for refusing to sell him beer and bullets. He's only 25!


I want to tell the world that I love you all! You're all so special to me! Would you like to share my twinkie?


I am updating this journal for the first time in ages, because I've been in prison.


Prison can be fun sometimes, but mostly the girls need to shave.


Today, I got a digital camera! Yes! I'm so ugly. Don't look at my photos pleeeeeze.


I want to say thanks to the academy for giving me this award.


I went to the doctor yesterday, and he said I have a terrible skin disease which prevents me from coming into contact with other human beings. Oh yeah, and bipolar disorder.


You should all do this quiz! It's amazingly accurate. You just put in your name and birthday, and it will tell you you're a moron.


Beware the frosted frogs.


That's enough for now. But I'll leave you with my favourite Charmed fan-fiction piece I wrote last year when I was in hospital.


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Things in italics are what I wrote. But the things in bold and italics are true.



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1. Do you intend to kick your own ass for saying something so galactically stupid as "There's no more room for childish fancies"? Better to quit breathing than to quit dreaming. Besides, if you're going to be an assassin super-spy it would be difficult for someone else to give you the ass-kicking you deserve.


I used to think that all I had was my dreams. But what have I done to achieve my dreams? Nothing. In fact, I seem to work against myself in every single regard. I never wanted to get married. So what did I do? I got married at 20. I wanted to go to NYU, and by the grace of God, they actually accepted me to the Dramatic Writing program. What do I do? I flee the city and withdraw from my dream after September 11th. I wanted to be published by the time I was 21, and by published I mean a book. What do I have? All I can credit to my name is a cretive non-fiction essay and some poetry in a single literary journal.


I have nothing to back up my dreaming.


People tell me to get published. I don't have the slightest idea as to how to go about achieving that. You need to submit. But in order to submit, you need an agent. You can't get an agent without being published.


I used to write really bad fantasy novels, but I could never get past page 88.


I wrote a screenplay last year that sucks the big one. And I have no idea how to revise it. And besides, no one is willing to read it so I can't even get feedback. I wrote the script for my screenwriting class, and not even my own professor gave me feedback. You basically got an A if you completed a full script by the end of the course.


I feel lost.


I've been digging myself a grave with the whole writing thing.


I beat myself up because I don't have any ideas. Because I have too many ideas. Because I don't have the time to write. Because I don't have the motivation. Because I don't have the energy. The patience. The skill. The research necessary for the subjects I'm interested in.


I get in my own way.


And I don't know how to get back out of my own way again.


I figure once I graduate, I probably will never write again. Except funny little articles for my website every now and again. I just want to dive into work and focus on that.


I had until I graduated, and I haven't completed or achieved anything.


The writing dream is exhausted.



2. Who is your favorite Shakespearean villain?


Hands down, my favorite is Angelo from Measure For Measure. I'm a sucker for religious temptation, hypocrisy and impropriety.



3. When are you going to write your first novel? Because this mincing, fear-of-success, I'm going to be a grown-up routine will only serve to consume you.


Never. I don't have what it takes to write a novel.



Aside: I do hope you are a)telling a bad joke, b) temporarily insane, or c) undergoing a short-lived bout of graduation phobia. I can agree with one thing, though. Giving up hope is always a good idea. You give up hope, but not dreams.



I'm sorry to say that I believe that I am none of the above. I'm pretty serious about this. Ever since I made the decision to give up on the writing thing earlier this week... I don't know. Life seems easier. It's okay that I haven't published anything. It's okay that I can't write a novel. It's okay that my writing sucks. Because it's not what I'm going to do anymore.

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Lorie's questions:


1. If you could have any job, what would you want to do? (You can be realistic or not in this answer, but I am thinking in terms of having some magical power to walk up to anyone and say, "Give me a job," and they will.)


Dream Answer:


Assassin Super Spy.



Less Dream More Realistic:


Film Director.



Realistic Answer:


Forensic Scientist




2. What inspired your new descriptive phrase, "no longer wants to be a writer"?



I have decided to give up writing. I'm about to graduate and enter the real world. There's no more room for childish fancies. My writing is mediocre at best. It's better if I don't keep hope.



3. How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?


Seven.

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Nick's questions:


1. What's the dirtiest sexual fantasy you've ever had? Bonus points if it includes me.


Hmmm... I don't know what classifies as "dirty" because I happen to think people should embrace their sexualities more, and if people embraced sexuality as a natural thing then we wouldn't have to be subjected to it all up in our faces in commericals and magazines and stuff. Because I think all of that is for shock value, and if we could just deal with sex as normal and healthy, then--Dear lord! When did I get up on this soapbox?


Okay. Back to the question: Hmmmm... Honestly, I always fantasized about kissing Angelina Jolie. But kissing doesn't mean that I wanted to do her. She just has the prettiest mouth.


This is a tough question to ask someone who doesn't fantasize... and it's not because I'm prudish or "above it" or anything. It's just that usually when I'm feelin' randy, I'll pounce on my husband. I feel it, I act upon it. There isn't a lot of fantasizing involved.


Ooooh. Okay. Fantasy: I just want to come home one day, and I'll be wearing one of those shirts that button. And it would be hecka cool if B would just tear the shirt apart, like popping the buttons off and everything. I like to be thrown around a bit, so that would be one heck of a turn on.



2. What is your favorite recreational passtime?


It used to be reading. Now I really like playing video games. So I think it's a tie really. But what I wish most of all was that we were more motivated to actually leave the apartment on weekends, because I would just love to spend the day walking around the museums we haven't been in very much. Like the National Gallery of Art.


3. Would you come out and get drunk with me already? You said you would if I went to Vegas with you that one time.


Hey! You were the one who wasn't able to come to Vegas, baby! And yes. I think you're the only person, aside from B, I'd feel comfortable getting drunk with because I know you wouldn't be judging me or we'd just be having fun. But we'd have to arrange a taxi or something, unless we actually are in Vegas since you can just walk everywhere there, because I won't get into a vehicle with someone who's had a drink. And so maybe we should arrange a date to celebrate our move back home or something. I've never been drunk, so it will be a new experience.




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This is blatantly taken from Desmond's journal (a link to his journal is on the right called: alex knight, if you're curious).


"I want everyone who reads this to ask me 3 questions, no more no less.


Ask me anything you want.


Then I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste this allowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything.


Okay, now here's the trick, if I feel uncomfortable answering the question on here, I will answer you directly, if I know your e-mail or ICQ or AIM or what-not. :-) So now let's get some questions."



And since I took the liberty and asked Des three questions, I'm abiding by the rules and giving everyone else the same opportunity.




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Ever get the feeling that you should be writing a paper and instead you're listening to mp3s and wondering where the time goes?


Oh well... Conan O'Brien will soon be on. He'll save me.




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Follow these instructions:


1) Go to www.Google.com


2) Type in (but don't hit enter): "weapons of mass destruction".


3) Hit the "I'm feeling lucky" button, instead of the normal "Google search" button.


4) Read carefully what appears to be a normal error message. Make sure you read the whole thing.


Someone at Google has a cool sense of humor.


In case it's taken down before you've had a chance to read it: click here -- I've taken a screen capture of it.

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So for the last week, my newest hobby has been to apply to every job I either 1) am qualified for or 2) think would be fun. I've scoured monster.com, careerbuilder.com, hotjobs.com, and even some specific state listings of jobs online.


I've only had my resume on monster.com and careerbuilder.com for a week. I've come up on 81 searches by employers at careerbuilder, but only had 10 click throughs. And so far only 5 employers at monster have clicked through my resume.


But I've applied to about.... 60 jobs... no probably more than that because I've applied to 45 at monster, and 17 at careerbuilder, and then I've applied to an assorted variety of jobs at Random House and the listings that sound interesting at the local online newspapers.


I now have two phone interviews lined up for jobs back home, not California, the other home. (Shhh, those of you who know where home is.)


One is a publicity/promotions/marketing manager for a groovy bookstore. And the other... well... I'm not entirely sure what the jobs is, it might be in sales... so I'm a little worried. I don't think I'd like sales. Marketing is different from sales, in my mind, because marketing has the possibility of being really fun in a creative sort of way. Sales... is too pushy. And sure, I can be pushy. But I was a telemarketer for a good 7 hours before I realized I cherished my soul.


Anyway, I'm very excited about the progress I'm making. I mean, they probably won't want me for the promotions job because I'm a new graduate and don't have enough experience and blah blah blah... but it's exciting nonetheless.

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As Good As It Gets was on in the background, and here's my favorite quote:


Carol: OK, we all have these terrible stories to get over, and you-...


Melvin Udall: It's not true. Some have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes with boats and friends and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But, a lot of people, that's their story. Good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you're that pissed that so many others had it good.

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So I ran across an old blog that I had back before Blogs were invented. It was in 1999. Let's see, what was going on then: I was 17 years old. The previous month I had been in 2 car accidents, both times I was rear-ended. I was heavily doped up on Vicodin most of the time. I couldn't walk yet. I was camped out on the couch, or crawled my way back to my bed. I was about to graduate high school the following month. Someone had shot our cute little dog on our own property, we never did figure out who it was. I was taking three college classes at the time, two graphic design classes and a watercolor class.



- - - - -



April 11th, 1999

Sunday

3:36 p.m.

"Save Ferris"


Did you know that dolphins are so intelligent that within only a few weeks of captivity, they can train humans to stand at the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.


Pretty nifty. But I wouldn't be able to eat fish if I were a dolphin. I don't like the taste of fish. It tastes gross. Like.. fish. *cringe*


I saw a pretty cool movie today, Flashback. With Keifer Sutherland (with such accolades as Three Musketeers, The Lost Boys, Eye for an Eye) and Dennis Hopper (Speed and The Mario Brothers Movie). It was actually really good, especially for being like 10 years old. It's about a guy who was a rebel in the 60s and is getting arrested for a stunt he did way back then and about how the FBI agent in charge of him finds his own self in the process...It's pretty cool. And funny. I'd recommend it to a friend. You know what I don't understand? In the 60s people took acid to make the world weird. Now the world is weird, people take prozac to make it normal.



- - - - -



You know what I don't understand? In the 60s people took acid to make the world weird. Now the world is weird, people take prozac to make it normal.


That is quite possibly the most profound thing I've ever forgot having said.


Ah, the beauty of Vicodin + innocence.

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The following was taken from this website. It's a Q&A session with Lee Silver, who is a Professor of Genetics at Princeton University where his laboratory is attempting to identify genes that influence personality and behavior.


You predicted, I think two years ago, that human cloning would be here with us, within two years.


I don't think I said that ... I predicted that human cloning would be with us in 10 years and I still believe that is the case, because there is a demand among a small number of people for this technology to have babies. It's being driven by the marketplace. I think that, ethically, one should not use this technology until they are convinced that it is safe and efficient, shown with the use of animals. But I don't think that physicians around the world are going to wait for the confirmation that it's safe and efficient in animals.


The best example I can give you why physicians are not going to wait as they should is with ICSI, an intracytoplasmic sperm injection. This was a new technology developed in the early 1990s to overcome severe infertility and physicians did not wait to prove that it wasn't going to cause birth defects before they embraced it wholly across the country. We can use that history to understand how cloning is going to go. I'm not advocating the use of cloning in this way. I think it is wrong, but it's going to happen.


Can you explain simply what cloning is, because [some] people think that it's the creation of an adult copy.


When biologists use the term cloning, they mean something very different than what the public views cloning as. In the case of Dolly, what happened is the genetic material was taken from an adult cell and that genetic material was placed into an egg whose own genetic material had been removed. Under the right conditions, that egg with a complete set of genes, with a complete genomic material, could develop into an embryo. It would divide into multiple cells and that embryo could be placed back into a uterus to develop into a fetus and ultimately into a baby.


What would happen in those relationships?


Well, in purely genetic terms, if a woman used this procedure to have a baby, the child, the daughter would actually be the genetic sister of the mother. But I don't think that the mother would treat the child as a sister. The social situation would make the mother treat the child as a daughter ... we already have confused examples of heritage right now. If a person's father has an identical twin brother, then that person's uncle is also their genetic father in purely genetic terms. So we don't look at things in purely genetic terms. We look at things most often in social terms.


We have these confused identities and new forms of family, but we don't deliberately create them very often. In this instance, we are creating them and we are creating them within a private, market-driven industry.


When it comes to cloning, people are over emphasizing the genes ... the genes are being blown out of proportion. The reason is because every day somewhere in the world there are children born who look just like one parent and who grow up and behave just like one parent.


A clone will be no different than children who are already born today. It will pretty much look like one parent and it will have many of the same behavior predispositions as the one parent. But that already happens, so nobody is going got be able to distinguish a cloned child from a child who happens to look and behave like one parent.


- - - - -


Is it just me, or does the above sound utterly preposterous? I mean, it's a clone. It's essentially "you" -- yes, it's still a child. But would you want to raise yourself? That just seems so weird. And besides, wouldn't people start to wonder when the kid grows up and looks exactly like you did at their age? Even children who closely resemble their parents have still have their own identity, physically speaking. They're a blend of two genetic doners, which creates something completely different.


But I guess I was amused by this part: "If a person's father has an identical twin brother, then that person's uncle is also their genetic father in purely genetic terms." We should tell Nikki and James that, technically, they already have a kid since Mike's daughter was born, and Mike & James are identical twins. Think of how happy it'll make Nikki!



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This is the most pointless article I've read in a long time.


For anyone who hasn't been watching television much lately, due to either the crunch of college papers or working 58 hours a week, there's a weird new Victoria's Secret campaign. It features some pouty ingenue in spike heels and lacy lingerie, complete with angel wings, walking around near a Venice canal. Now, this is nothin' new, considering it's a Victoria's Secret ad. But spliced into the reel, is a strange Satanic looking voyeur of a man, looking at, or rather scowling at, whom we can only assume: the angel in a MiracleBra.


Now. This is the guy who plays the voyeuristic "Satan":





And apparently that's Bob Dylan. Could've fooled me.


But basically, I've been very confused about this ad campaign. I didn't know what they were trying to say. Who is the dude? Why is he scowling? Is he gonna get hint in the groin in some ironic twist?


I read the above linked article hoping to get some insight into the "storyline" of the commercial. But it didn't help me out one bit. It's just Victoria's Secret propaganda, with the head exec on duty foaming at the mouth and masturbating as he informs the reporter that since the ads started running, they've seen a spike in sales--what? Do they have a sister retail company that sells spy gear and after the commericals aired, saw a spike in the sales of night-vision goggles?


If anyone has seen that commerical and understands it, please inform me. Because I'm so confused.

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