Time Line
6:00 a.m: Jack gets off bus (sees Elvis)
-Elvis in the restaurant
6:10 a.m: Jamal parks car and enters Casino
7:30- 8:00 am: Greg cooks breakfast for Silvia and Jamal
- Silvia thinks her performer is Elvis, but it’s actually Penny P
7 ish a.m: Jamal takes his breakfast and goes to meet Elroy
- Staff gets info that Anthony might be in danger
9:00 a.m: Jamal sees Jack gets paranoid; Jack pays no attention and finds Leonard
10:00 a.m: Demitri talks to Amaya
10:05 a.m: Angela says thank you to Greg for covering for him because he came late
11:00 a.m: ELVIS CONVENTION
- Penny gives drugs to Penny
11:45p.m: Elroy’s elevator scene, gets assaulted tells Jamal
- Elroy tells Jamal and tells Anthony
12:00p.m: Angela/Riya rants about Anthony
1:30p.m: Silvia hits the slots and meets Jack
Friday, April 24, 2009
Casino Character Connections
Elvis
Jenny--> Kevin (love connection)
Kevin→ Jenny, Jack, Greg
Dimitri→ Gina (Dimitri one sided love)
Gina → Greg (sees her brother), Dimitri, Amaya (front desk)
Greg → Silvia, Kevin
Jack→ Penny
Elroy
Clive→ Amaya (love connection), Jack (drinks), Marissa (friends)
Penny→ Jack (friends)
Silvia →Greg (cooks), Penny (mother)
Anthony
Jamal
Greg
Gina
Dimitri
Elroy
Amaya
Jenny--> Kevin (love connection)
Kevin→ Jenny, Jack, Greg
Dimitri→ Gina (Dimitri one sided love)
Gina → Greg (sees her brother), Dimitri, Amaya (front desk)
Greg → Silvia, Kevin
Jack→ Penny
Elroy
Clive→ Amaya (love connection), Jack (drinks), Marissa (friends)
Penny→ Jack (friends)
Silvia →Greg (cooks), Penny (mother)
Anthony
Jamal
Greg
Gina
Dimitri
Elroy
Amaya
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Period 1 Novel - Alice
The loud buzzing of my phone’s alarm, set to vibrate, shatters the blackness. For a moment I’m not sure where I am, sure it must be the middle of the night, as I’m in my room with all the curtains drawn, and then I see the merciless numbers glowing at me from my humming phone. 8:55 PM.
“Shit!” I leap up and promptly trip and fall on my face. The poncho I fell asleep in seems irrevocably twisted around my ankles. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I extricate myself. Still 8:55.
I barely remember to grab my purse on the way out the door, and I don’t even bother saying goodbye to my mother, who is comatose in front of some variant on Dateline. By 8:56 I’m behind the wheel and backing out of the driveway. I just miss the neighbor’s tricycle, which for some reason has ended up on the edge of our lawn. “I hate cul-de-sacs,” I inform the dashboard irritably, and drive out a little bit faster than I should. Or a lot faster.
But my unorthodox driving gets me to the Ruby Planet Diner at 8:58, which is plenty of time. 120 whole seconds to spare. I take 10 to glance in the rearview mirror, and wince. My hair looks like six birds have tried to take pieces of it for their nest. But there’s no time to fix it, so I open the door and swing my legs out, cursing my unfortunate napping habit the entire time. Though I’m not sure what I expected to happen while sitting in my room with the lights out and the curtains drawn.
At the sight of the Ruby Planet, I momentarily can’t bring my legs to move. Sometimes I wish I could smash that stupid garish red planet. Like a pumpkin. It kind of looks like a pumpkin. It’s not even real red. We’ve had too many comments on it than I really care to remember. “It gives the whole place a…spacial feel,” a very earnest blonde in her mid-twenties had told me once. We were supposed to treat the customers graciously, but I couldn’t even bring myself to force a smile at that one—I just gave her the menu.
And ended up cracking up over it in the kitchen with Frederick a few minutes later, but that didn’t matter.
Speaking of Frederick, he was going to make fun of me again, and I knew it, and I didn’t particularly care. Standing up and surveying my park job, I realize that, for one thing, I’m in a handicapped space, and for another, it’s the worst parking job I’ve ever seen, let alone done.
But it’s 8:59, and there’s no time to worry about that now. I run to the Ruby Planet, twisting my hair into a bun with one hand as I do so—or trying to. As I pull open the door the hairtie slips off my fingers and lands on the worn red carpet. I reach for it just as the door opens on me and almost clocks me on the side of the head.
I start to utter an expletive. Then I look up and see who nearly concussed me, and I change my mind. I want to say something far worse.
“Alice!” Michael Jenkins widens his eyes at me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I work here,” I say brusquely.
“Yeah, I forgot, would you believe it?” He leans against the door as though we have all the time in the world. “So, wait, do you go to school in the area?”
“I’m not in school this year,” I say curtly.
He looks surprised. “But weren’t you the one who got As in everything? Without studying? And every time I said I had to study you said—“
“And every time I look pointedly at the entrance behind you, which you are blocking, meaning I can’t get to my shift which I am now one minute late for, you ignore me.” I take the door from him and offer my best saccharine smile. “Have a lovely day.”
He looks vaguely offended, but finally takes the hint and leaves the foyer, stomping just a bit as he does so, or maybe I imagine it. I close the door behind me as roughly as I can and expel a long, frustrated sigh.
“Well, how is our little bundle of joy today?”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “Frederick, I’m not in the mood.”
“Better clock in quick,” he says, leaning against the counter. “You only have—“ He checks his watch. “Oh, negative two minutes. Plenty of time.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than stand there and mock me? Like, I don’t know, maybe serve a customer?”
“I’m a senior waiter,” he says. “Star server. Employee of the month.”
I roll my eyes. “Senior waiter, my ass. We don’t have senior waiters. And for the life of me I can’t imagine how you got employee of the month. Though I might nominate you for annoying asshole of the month.”
“God, Alice. You really hurt me. You knife me.”
“Maybe the ‘employee who thinks he’s funny and really isn’t remotely’ of the month.”
“You’re now—“ He checks his watch. “Three and a half minutes late, Allie.”
“Do you want to die?” I ask conversationally, and head for the bathrooms.
“Where are you going?” he calls.
“I still have to get my fucking uniform on.” I indicate my T-shirt and jeans.
“Don’t use vulgarities in front of the customers.”
“There are no customers here,” I point out, and it’s true, the hall leading to the restrooms is empty.
“A technicality. You’re still on duty.” He pauses. “And have been for almost five minutes now.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, and was that another ex-boy toy?” he asks as I open the door to the women’s room halfway.
I sigh. “Unfortunately.”
“God, you really did date the entire male population of Morristone High.”
“Shut up,” I say sharply. “And I was only with him for a month. He was so boring I wanted to shoot myself.”
“And you certainly looked bored stiff in the foyer just now.”
“Well, I just woke up from a nap.”
“No, I meant it. Even I could feel the disdain emanating from you, all the way inside. It was, like, oozing off your skin.”
“All right, Frederick, that’s enough. Go do work.”
“I should be telling you that,” he says, but leaves anyway.
I am ridiculously excited for the day that I can burn the polyester shirt I’m pulling over my head right now. Which will hopefully be at the end of this year. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to give the uniforms back, but honestly, it doesn’t really matter. I remember when I thought working at the Ruby Planet would be fun, red skirt and all. I had only been there once then. Also, I hadn’t realized at that point that my parents were planning to refuse to pay for any college.
I also didn’t realize that my ex-boyfriends would have an uncanny habit of turning up at the diner. All the time.
Which Frederick thinks is hilarious. A couple of the other people on waitstaff and one of the cooks are convinced that Frederick and I are in love. This is patently false, not least because he makes more of a career out of annoying me than anything else. After high school, I’m ready to be done with dating for a long time, and I want to focus on actually going somewhere with my life. I’m definitely not planning to get tied down to someone at the tedious job I’m only using as a jumping-off point anyway. I refuse to end up like my parents, still in the same town they’re born in, stuck in the same miserable loop.
I try to comb my hair, but it’s basically a lost cause, so I just pull it back as tightly as I can and leave the bathroom. It’s now 9:08, and now I just have to hope that my manager doesn’t—
“Alice!”
I wince and turn around. “David?”
“What time are you supposed to be here?”
“Nine?”
“And what time is it?”
“9:08?”
“Exactly. Now, do you want to explain to me why you’re coming out of the restroom instead of being ready to go when you got in the door?”
“Um…”
David is shorter than me, which sometimes makes it difficult to take him seriously. He shakes his head in disgust now. “Whatever. I’m honestly too tired to yell at you.”
“That’s funny, because the reason I’m late is that I fell—“
“I don’t want to hear about your narcolepsy right now. Go find some customers.” He waves his hand and disappears.
And of course Frederick is there again. “You’re lucky David is David.”
“Go drink hydrochloric acid,” I suggest good-naturedly, and walk off to show an older couple to a table.
“Shit!” I leap up and promptly trip and fall on my face. The poncho I fell asleep in seems irrevocably twisted around my ankles. “Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter as I extricate myself. Still 8:55.
I barely remember to grab my purse on the way out the door, and I don’t even bother saying goodbye to my mother, who is comatose in front of some variant on Dateline. By 8:56 I’m behind the wheel and backing out of the driveway. I just miss the neighbor’s tricycle, which for some reason has ended up on the edge of our lawn. “I hate cul-de-sacs,” I inform the dashboard irritably, and drive out a little bit faster than I should. Or a lot faster.
But my unorthodox driving gets me to the Ruby Planet Diner at 8:58, which is plenty of time. 120 whole seconds to spare. I take 10 to glance in the rearview mirror, and wince. My hair looks like six birds have tried to take pieces of it for their nest. But there’s no time to fix it, so I open the door and swing my legs out, cursing my unfortunate napping habit the entire time. Though I’m not sure what I expected to happen while sitting in my room with the lights out and the curtains drawn.
At the sight of the Ruby Planet, I momentarily can’t bring my legs to move. Sometimes I wish I could smash that stupid garish red planet. Like a pumpkin. It kind of looks like a pumpkin. It’s not even real red. We’ve had too many comments on it than I really care to remember. “It gives the whole place a…spacial feel,” a very earnest blonde in her mid-twenties had told me once. We were supposed to treat the customers graciously, but I couldn’t even bring myself to force a smile at that one—I just gave her the menu.
And ended up cracking up over it in the kitchen with Frederick a few minutes later, but that didn’t matter.
Speaking of Frederick, he was going to make fun of me again, and I knew it, and I didn’t particularly care. Standing up and surveying my park job, I realize that, for one thing, I’m in a handicapped space, and for another, it’s the worst parking job I’ve ever seen, let alone done.
But it’s 8:59, and there’s no time to worry about that now. I run to the Ruby Planet, twisting my hair into a bun with one hand as I do so—or trying to. As I pull open the door the hairtie slips off my fingers and lands on the worn red carpet. I reach for it just as the door opens on me and almost clocks me on the side of the head.
I start to utter an expletive. Then I look up and see who nearly concussed me, and I change my mind. I want to say something far worse.
“Alice!” Michael Jenkins widens his eyes at me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“I work here,” I say brusquely.
“Yeah, I forgot, would you believe it?” He leans against the door as though we have all the time in the world. “So, wait, do you go to school in the area?”
“I’m not in school this year,” I say curtly.
He looks surprised. “But weren’t you the one who got As in everything? Without studying? And every time I said I had to study you said—“
“And every time I look pointedly at the entrance behind you, which you are blocking, meaning I can’t get to my shift which I am now one minute late for, you ignore me.” I take the door from him and offer my best saccharine smile. “Have a lovely day.”
He looks vaguely offended, but finally takes the hint and leaves the foyer, stomping just a bit as he does so, or maybe I imagine it. I close the door behind me as roughly as I can and expel a long, frustrated sigh.
“Well, how is our little bundle of joy today?”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes. “Frederick, I’m not in the mood.”
“Better clock in quick,” he says, leaning against the counter. “You only have—“ He checks his watch. “Oh, negative two minutes. Plenty of time.”
“Don’t you have anything better to do than stand there and mock me? Like, I don’t know, maybe serve a customer?”
“I’m a senior waiter,” he says. “Star server. Employee of the month.”
I roll my eyes. “Senior waiter, my ass. We don’t have senior waiters. And for the life of me I can’t imagine how you got employee of the month. Though I might nominate you for annoying asshole of the month.”
“God, Alice. You really hurt me. You knife me.”
“Maybe the ‘employee who thinks he’s funny and really isn’t remotely’ of the month.”
“You’re now—“ He checks his watch. “Three and a half minutes late, Allie.”
“Do you want to die?” I ask conversationally, and head for the bathrooms.
“Where are you going?” he calls.
“I still have to get my fucking uniform on.” I indicate my T-shirt and jeans.
“Don’t use vulgarities in front of the customers.”
“There are no customers here,” I point out, and it’s true, the hall leading to the restrooms is empty.
“A technicality. You’re still on duty.” He pauses. “And have been for almost five minutes now.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, and was that another ex-boy toy?” he asks as I open the door to the women’s room halfway.
I sigh. “Unfortunately.”
“God, you really did date the entire male population of Morristone High.”
“Shut up,” I say sharply. “And I was only with him for a month. He was so boring I wanted to shoot myself.”
“And you certainly looked bored stiff in the foyer just now.”
“Well, I just woke up from a nap.”
“No, I meant it. Even I could feel the disdain emanating from you, all the way inside. It was, like, oozing off your skin.”
“All right, Frederick, that’s enough. Go do work.”
“I should be telling you that,” he says, but leaves anyway.
I am ridiculously excited for the day that I can burn the polyester shirt I’m pulling over my head right now. Which will hopefully be at the end of this year. I’m not sure if we’re supposed to give the uniforms back, but honestly, it doesn’t really matter. I remember when I thought working at the Ruby Planet would be fun, red skirt and all. I had only been there once then. Also, I hadn’t realized at that point that my parents were planning to refuse to pay for any college.
I also didn’t realize that my ex-boyfriends would have an uncanny habit of turning up at the diner. All the time.
Which Frederick thinks is hilarious. A couple of the other people on waitstaff and one of the cooks are convinced that Frederick and I are in love. This is patently false, not least because he makes more of a career out of annoying me than anything else. After high school, I’m ready to be done with dating for a long time, and I want to focus on actually going somewhere with my life. I’m definitely not planning to get tied down to someone at the tedious job I’m only using as a jumping-off point anyway. I refuse to end up like my parents, still in the same town they’re born in, stuck in the same miserable loop.
I try to comb my hair, but it’s basically a lost cause, so I just pull it back as tightly as I can and leave the bathroom. It’s now 9:08, and now I just have to hope that my manager doesn’t—
“Alice!”
I wince and turn around. “David?”
“What time are you supposed to be here?”
“Nine?”
“And what time is it?”
“9:08?”
“Exactly. Now, do you want to explain to me why you’re coming out of the restroom instead of being ready to go when you got in the door?”
“Um…”
David is shorter than me, which sometimes makes it difficult to take him seriously. He shakes his head in disgust now. “Whatever. I’m honestly too tired to yell at you.”
“That’s funny, because the reason I’m late is that I fell—“
“I don’t want to hear about your narcolepsy right now. Go find some customers.” He waves his hand and disappears.
And of course Frederick is there again. “You’re lucky David is David.”
“Go drink hydrochloric acid,” I suggest good-naturedly, and walk off to show an older couple to a table.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Censorship
O Horatio, wipe the chalkboard clean!
If you should write something you do not mean
Because if someone saw you take your chalk
And if you chose to make a mock-
ery, erase it so it won't be seen
In case you drew a pornographic scene
Scrub until its black, lustrous sheen
Is visible. Away you quickly walk!
O Horatio, wipe the chalkboard clean!
I don't think your mother would be keen
If she knew you, a pornographic fiend-
If she saw those nasty pictures, she'd balk-
Perhaps she'd sit you down to have a talk
How nipples, poop, and lube are all obscene-
O Horatio, wipe the chalkboard clean!
*NOTE: this is the poem my group wrote in class, a rondeau. I thought I'd post it so everyone could bask in its brilliance.
If you should write something you do not mean
Because if someone saw you take your chalk
And if you chose to make a mock-
ery, erase it so it won't be seen
In case you drew a pornographic scene
Scrub until its black, lustrous sheen
Is visible. Away you quickly walk!
O Horatio, wipe the chalkboard clean!
I don't think your mother would be keen
If she knew you, a pornographic fiend-
If she saw those nasty pictures, she'd balk-
Perhaps she'd sit you down to have a talk
How nipples, poop, and lube are all obscene-
O Horatio, wipe the chalkboard clean!
*NOTE: this is the poem my group wrote in class, a rondeau. I thought I'd post it so everyone could bask in its brilliance.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Visual
I woke up in the field this morning
to discover myself drowning
in waves of sprouting
young stems
of foxtails.
They shot up
all around me, riding
on rising swells of the warm
Summer's day. I am optimistic,
stranded as I may well be,
confused and lost with
no explanation
or hope.
But I see some
fresh life around me,
pushing on with no legs
to speak of, extracting green
bodies from the entire
brown earth only by
rite of good
nature.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Realization
“Are you two twins?” is always ringing, this is my life.
“Which is which?” strangers are singing, this is my life.
I could be listening to music, or quietly working,
then someone begins blubbering, this is my life.
Whether it is in a store, at a restaurant, or on the street,
Questions are constantly hovering, this is my life.
While being harassed people analyze thoroughly
and usually insult while inquiring, this is my life.
People become indifferent to the differences,
and morph two into one. How frustrating, this is my life.
I adore my other half and could not vision existence without her,
I just detest the ignorance and smothering. I am Lisa, and this is my life.
“Which is which?” strangers are singing, this is my life.
I could be listening to music, or quietly working,
then someone begins blubbering, this is my life.
Whether it is in a store, at a restaurant, or on the street,
Questions are constantly hovering, this is my life.
While being harassed people analyze thoroughly
and usually insult while inquiring, this is my life.
People become indifferent to the differences,
and morph two into one. How frustrating, this is my life.
I adore my other half and could not vision existence without her,
I just detest the ignorance and smothering. I am Lisa, and this is my life.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Ramblings on a halfhearted love affair
Last night’s party didn’t start out so well,
but when it ended, I thought it was funny
how you couldn’t make the peace offering
any sooner—chances are you were thinking about
timing, or whether I even wanted solace;
probably thought I looked too bitter for comfort.
But for a while, I really didn’t need comfort—
I wanted revenge. Thoughts sprouted from a well
as murky as mist, hopeful to find solace
and fulfillment from attacking you and your funny
business—your mixed signals. I paced about
nervously trying to brew some consummate offering
of vengeance. But maybe I was just offering
my heart to a species that spurned the comfort
of companionship in exchange for pouting about,
or writing hopeless poems to ease how quickly tears well
up at the sight of your face. I guess it’s funny
how we were never anything, just one seeking solace
in another. Are there other ways to reach solace?
I’ve always thought that vices could work, offering
some sort of wholesome self. Would I start acting funny
if I married the bottle, or the pipe, or the comfort
of feeding and filling until satisfied? Well,
I’ve yet to try any. Those things bring about
dependency or a stern stoic letter about
how I should withdraw from school; seek solace.
But maybe soon we can start over. Well
prepared will I be when I start offering
some forgiveness. And from there I’ll get comfort
knowing we’re truly on good terms, back to those funny
moments when we’d joke about how funny
was whatsherface when she started flailing about
whatshisface, back to when I found comfort
in just being a friend helping you to get solace.
Last night’s party, with its overdue offering—
your notorious hugs—convinced me to purge the fiery well.
I wish you well, and I hope that the funny
times outnumber my offering, my ramblings about
how I’ve yet to attain solace, the ultimate comfort.
but when it ended, I thought it was funny
how you couldn’t make the peace offering
any sooner—chances are you were thinking about
timing, or whether I even wanted solace;
probably thought I looked too bitter for comfort.
But for a while, I really didn’t need comfort—
I wanted revenge. Thoughts sprouted from a well
as murky as mist, hopeful to find solace
and fulfillment from attacking you and your funny
business—your mixed signals. I paced about
nervously trying to brew some consummate offering
of vengeance. But maybe I was just offering
my heart to a species that spurned the comfort
of companionship in exchange for pouting about,
or writing hopeless poems to ease how quickly tears well
up at the sight of your face. I guess it’s funny
how we were never anything, just one seeking solace
in another. Are there other ways to reach solace?
I’ve always thought that vices could work, offering
some sort of wholesome self. Would I start acting funny
if I married the bottle, or the pipe, or the comfort
of feeding and filling until satisfied? Well,
I’ve yet to try any. Those things bring about
dependency or a stern stoic letter about
how I should withdraw from school; seek solace.
But maybe soon we can start over. Well
prepared will I be when I start offering
some forgiveness. And from there I’ll get comfort
knowing we’re truly on good terms, back to those funny
moments when we’d joke about how funny
was whatsherface when she started flailing about
whatshisface, back to when I found comfort
in just being a friend helping you to get solace.
Last night’s party, with its overdue offering—
your notorious hugs—convinced me to purge the fiery well.
I wish you well, and I hope that the funny
times outnumber my offering, my ramblings about
how I’ve yet to attain solace, the ultimate comfort.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Voicemail
Not long ago, when I was out shopping
I met your old friend and he said to tell you
He really does miss you. I gave him your number
And told him to call you, but he said he thought
That if I were to tell you, he wouldn’t feel caught.
Maybe he called you and maybe he didn’t.
I guess that it’s really not my place to know,
But I was just wond’ring ‘cause maybe I gave him
My number instead, but now I feel bad,
Even though it was the only chance that I had.
I told you I missed him just as much as you did
But he never noticed and you never cared.
You two were happy, but then you two fought
With me in the middle. I’d no place to turn to
And try as I might I just couldn’t spurn you.
I have always wished that you weren’t his friend
Or that, if you were, there was room for me too.
I wanted to know him as well as you did,
But I think that you always left me behind.
You left me to fend off the rest of mankind.
And then you just let him go fall by the wayside.
You used him and when he was used up you left.
It’s sort-of like how I feel sometimes as well.
You use people and when they’re gone then you grieve
It’s just that I never had courage to leave.
But when you lost him, you lost me in part
I wanted to follow him but I just couldn’t
Because unlike you I have loyalties also
And I always keep them, however untried
But sometimes I wish I could say that I lied.
I know you don’t miss him but I didn’t say that.
I think that I gave him my number instead.
I hope he will call me and then I will tell him
The stuff I’ve just said, and maybe he’ll hear
The truth, as I tell him about the past year.
I feel a lot better now that I have told you
That he asked me to wish you a “Happy Birthday!”
Goodbye and good riddance, now that I don’t need you.
I hear the phone ringing, so I think I’ll go.
But now I won’t lie when I tell him you know.
Just one last thing before I go answer.
I wanted to say that I know you’ll move on.
You’ll find a new boyfriend and best friend real soon.
Although you might think it, you’re whole world won’t crack.
Oh – and when you get this, please do not call back.
Angel
I so clearly remember you watching me, like a dream
Your eyes ignoring me studiously, like a dream.
The silence that always enveloped us, frigid and heated at once
The silence spoke volumes, precisely like a dream.
I’m constantly looking down upon you now
Just the opposite of how we used to be, like a dream.
When I lay catatonic in the whitest of rooms, your words soaked me
Though you never said a thing, scarcely like a dream.
As I watch them lower you into the welcoming dirt
I imagine its wisdom enveloping you, exactly like a dream.
Your eyes ignoring me studiously, like a dream.
The silence that always enveloped us, frigid and heated at once
The silence spoke volumes, precisely like a dream.
I’m constantly looking down upon you now
Just the opposite of how we used to be, like a dream.
When I lay catatonic in the whitest of rooms, your words soaked me
Though you never said a thing, scarcely like a dream.
As I watch them lower you into the welcoming dirt
I imagine its wisdom enveloping you, exactly like a dream.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
SALAMI
“Come ooooooooon,” John says as his ass furtively adapts to the velvet seat. He looks upon the stage nervously. “What’s the point of this? What am I going to get from some Jabba the Hutt singing her ass off?”
“John, you promised me you would see this,” Renée says. “It doesn’t hurt to have a little culture.” John groans, but she continues. “And that ‘Jabba the Hutt’ you’re talking about is one of the greatest opera stars around. She’s been playing Salome for years.”
“Shouldn’t it be Salami?” John asks.
“What?”
“Isn’t that how it’s said—Salami? I mean, I was looking at the program and it says here that the opera’s in German. So I guess you’d pronounce it like it is in German, y’know?”
“Um, sure.” Renée replies hesitantly.
“What’s the story of this opera anyway?”
“I thought you said you wanted to be surprised.”
“I lied.”
“Well, when was the last time you read the Bible?”
“Is that what it’s about?”
“Answer me.”
“I dunno.”
“Well, it’s about this—”
The lights dim down before she can explain any further. The orchestra tunes and allows the audience to engage in quick chatter. John decides to resume the conversation.
“So what’s it about?”
“A princess.”
“Stop right there.” John suddenly resolves that this is a ploy to curb his virility. “There’s no way my first opera’s gonna be some bullshit fairy tale.”
“Now you stop right there, John. I’m going to speak in terms you’ll probably understand. I paid a decent amount of money to spend what I thought would be a pleasant night for us. But you obviously think this is going to jeopardize the size of your balls, so you can just go back to—”
Another interruption. The conductor, a frail but confident looking gentleman, enters the orchestra pit. Judging from the boisterous applause, he’s a big shot. So much of a big shot the applause lasts five minutes. When it finally dies down, the old man turns to his orchestra and raises his baton.
For most of the opera, John fails to catch up on the action between the actors and reading the English supertitles on the seat in front of him. By the time he gets to the “Dance of the Seven Veils”, he is exhausted, unable to look forward to another pitiful antic the main character can fix up. Even if she’s stripping. But as the dance progresses, he cannot help but be amused. Here’s Salami shaking her ass like no tomorrow, ripping pieces of clothing to shreds as if she’s on fire. The unthinkable occurs: he starts liking it. He denies it, tries shutting his eyes, tries making up excuses. Maybe the lighting’s just hitting her in all the right places; maybe the drinks before the performance are beginning to kick in. Whatever the matter, he’s engrossed in the movement, in the music, in the marriage between the two. As they become more passionate, reckless, and fatigued, more clothing disappears.
“This is what’s been missing all my life.”
When the last strip of clothing is shed, he is the first to stand up, roaring with applause. He no longer recognizes Salami as ‘Matila the Hutt’. She is the definition of a woman.
Renée feels a little embarrassed; John appears to be reacting with too much enthusiasm. A man in the row behind her asks if this is her brother’s first time at the opera. She affirms this with a nod, and turns towards John in the midst of the audience’s wild applause.
“The show’s not over, you know! There’s more!” She has to shout.
“What else could there be?! It’s already the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
“She makes love to a severed head!”
John is shocked.
“John, you promised me you would see this,” Renée says. “It doesn’t hurt to have a little culture.” John groans, but she continues. “And that ‘Jabba the Hutt’ you’re talking about is one of the greatest opera stars around. She’s been playing Salome for years.”
“Shouldn’t it be Salami?” John asks.
“What?”
“Isn’t that how it’s said—Salami? I mean, I was looking at the program and it says here that the opera’s in German. So I guess you’d pronounce it like it is in German, y’know?”
“Um, sure.” Renée replies hesitantly.
“What’s the story of this opera anyway?”
“I thought you said you wanted to be surprised.”
“I lied.”
“Well, when was the last time you read the Bible?”
“Is that what it’s about?”
“Answer me.”
“I dunno.”
“Well, it’s about this—”
The lights dim down before she can explain any further. The orchestra tunes and allows the audience to engage in quick chatter. John decides to resume the conversation.
“So what’s it about?”
“A princess.”
“Stop right there.” John suddenly resolves that this is a ploy to curb his virility. “There’s no way my first opera’s gonna be some bullshit fairy tale.”
“Now you stop right there, John. I’m going to speak in terms you’ll probably understand. I paid a decent amount of money to spend what I thought would be a pleasant night for us. But you obviously think this is going to jeopardize the size of your balls, so you can just go back to—”
Another interruption. The conductor, a frail but confident looking gentleman, enters the orchestra pit. Judging from the boisterous applause, he’s a big shot. So much of a big shot the applause lasts five minutes. When it finally dies down, the old man turns to his orchestra and raises his baton.
For most of the opera, John fails to catch up on the action between the actors and reading the English supertitles on the seat in front of him. By the time he gets to the “Dance of the Seven Veils”, he is exhausted, unable to look forward to another pitiful antic the main character can fix up. Even if she’s stripping. But as the dance progresses, he cannot help but be amused. Here’s Salami shaking her ass like no tomorrow, ripping pieces of clothing to shreds as if she’s on fire. The unthinkable occurs: he starts liking it. He denies it, tries shutting his eyes, tries making up excuses. Maybe the lighting’s just hitting her in all the right places; maybe the drinks before the performance are beginning to kick in. Whatever the matter, he’s engrossed in the movement, in the music, in the marriage between the two. As they become more passionate, reckless, and fatigued, more clothing disappears.
“This is what’s been missing all my life.”
When the last strip of clothing is shed, he is the first to stand up, roaring with applause. He no longer recognizes Salami as ‘Matila the Hutt’. She is the definition of a woman.
Renée feels a little embarrassed; John appears to be reacting with too much enthusiasm. A man in the row behind her asks if this is her brother’s first time at the opera. She affirms this with a nod, and turns towards John in the midst of the audience’s wild applause.
“The show’s not over, you know! There’s more!” She has to shout.
“What else could there be?! It’s already the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
“She makes love to a severed head!”
John is shocked.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Home
Unheard of, isn't it?
A kiss leaving a sour taste in your mouth.
Something's vanished unnoticed
and is now in desperate need.
We all walked in stride
until the lights changed.
We froze near the corners
hearing sounds of our own.
But our mouths were closed,
mine was ajar.
They dusted the fingerprints
and found us as the culprit.
You pulled me along and
we ran towards the sunset
out of the town we called home.
A kiss leaving a sour taste in your mouth.
Something's vanished unnoticed
and is now in desperate need.
We all walked in stride
until the lights changed.
We froze near the corners
hearing sounds of our own.
But our mouths were closed,
mine was ajar.
They dusted the fingerprints
and found us as the culprit.
You pulled me along and
we ran towards the sunset
out of the town we called home.
Coming Down in Buckets
Sorry to say, he'd sit, in shame, in rain
All in his cup, he'd abstain sippin' rain
His body held on to small drops that fell
Soon They became. He was named sittin' rain
He could not move, he just hated the truth
They soon made love, was his dame love-in rain
That water's a whore, it's been in us all
But he needed the love, he tamed sin rain
Even his wife lost all hopes in her man
She knew she was to blame, fricken rain
She tried to confess what she did was wrong
But Shonté, there's no flame, he's stuck in rain.
All in his cup, he'd abstain sippin' rain
His body held on to small drops that fell
Soon They became. He was named sittin' rain
He could not move, he just hated the truth
They soon made love, was his dame love-in rain
That water's a whore, it's been in us all
But he needed the love, he tamed sin rain
Even his wife lost all hopes in her man
She knew she was to blame, fricken rain
She tried to confess what she did was wrong
But Shonté, there's no flame, he's stuck in rain.
November
A gentle breeze brushes past my cheek,
whispering wordless thoughts into my ear.
The radiator hums contentedly as I sag against it,
quietly singing a warm lullaby as
I gaze out the apartment window.
The air is sharp in my nose,
turning my face rosy.
I can almost feel the atmosphere
weighing down upon me,
like a dream blanket so snug and velvety
that my eyelids slowly,
steadily,
silently,
droop shut.
whispering wordless thoughts into my ear.
The radiator hums contentedly as I sag against it,
quietly singing a warm lullaby as
I gaze out the apartment window.
The air is sharp in my nose,
turning my face rosy.
I can almost feel the atmosphere
weighing down upon me,
like a dream blanket so snug and velvety
that my eyelids slowly,
steadily,
silently,
droop shut.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Frost-Bitten Mind.
These branches.
These charcoaled and knotted branches.
Reaching for a grip upon something that my
Frost-bitten mind can't begin to comprehend.
Their upward roots point millions of fingers
At the very same thing.
Even the spotted few leaves, refusing to let go-
Until they notice me.
And mockingly fly, again, pointed to what,
I don't know.
But I'll sit until I do.
These charcoaled and knotted branches.
Reaching for a grip upon something that my
Frost-bitten mind can't begin to comprehend.
Their upward roots point millions of fingers
At the very same thing.
Even the spotted few leaves, refusing to let go-
Until they notice me.
And mockingly fly, again, pointed to what,
I don't know.
But I'll sit until I do.
Mountainside Air.
A berry twinged white tea, cold as ice, flowing down the jagged crooks,
Protruding out the face of a wise and knowing stone Buddha,
11 thousand silent, brooding feet high; high on that nature's air,
The air that rushes slowly around my outstretched and reaching arms,
Lifting me into those soft, welcoming, clouds, that accept my voice and weight
And carry my open soul to a cave that holds death, truly, and takes me in.
Breaks my expectations there, releasing me to a soft soil
Under an elm's sap-encrusted and Golden bark.
Breath that air of nature and Oriental Dao-
Feel its detailed currents breeze within your cold and begging soul.
And climb the mountain's top, and don't stop there, says Japhy,
As he runs the height of a mountain, and instills the Aesopian morals
Deep in my heart.
Protruding out the face of a wise and knowing stone Buddha,
11 thousand silent, brooding feet high; high on that nature's air,
The air that rushes slowly around my outstretched and reaching arms,
Lifting me into those soft, welcoming, clouds, that accept my voice and weight
And carry my open soul to a cave that holds death, truly, and takes me in.
Breaks my expectations there, releasing me to a soft soil
Under an elm's sap-encrusted and Golden bark.
Breath that air of nature and Oriental Dao-
Feel its detailed currents breeze within your cold and begging soul.
And climb the mountain's top, and don't stop there, says Japhy,
As he runs the height of a mountain, and instills the Aesopian morals
Deep in my heart.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Sapling Worlds.
A longing for a new and spiraling perception
Through the same twisted-green green eyes as always.
To search through infinite ranges of mountains-
Descending the aurora's purple valleys with a floating ability-
And to swim shimmering empty space's dark depths,
Breathing airy atmospheres of lands of dreams that hide
In a lunar forest, deep in the labyrinth of a hermit's lonely mind.
And to drift through an eternally green-
a tribal, south American green,
field that blesses me with lavender smells
That immerse my skin and eyes with a new understanding
of the soil's spirit.
And for a newly found center-
Entirely centered within an abyss' clear nothing.
Thoughts then flow, and form their individual
Sapling new worlds.
This I look for and continue to accept-
This free, free world.
Through the same twisted-green green eyes as always.
To search through infinite ranges of mountains-
Descending the aurora's purple valleys with a floating ability-
And to swim shimmering empty space's dark depths,
Breathing airy atmospheres of lands of dreams that hide
In a lunar forest, deep in the labyrinth of a hermit's lonely mind.
And to drift through an eternally green-
a tribal, south American green,
field that blesses me with lavender smells
That immerse my skin and eyes with a new understanding
of the soil's spirit.
And for a newly found center-
Entirely centered within an abyss' clear nothing.
Thoughts then flow, and form their individual
Sapling new worlds.
This I look for and continue to accept-
This free, free world.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Recession
Recession
by Claire Maby
I do not dream of him at all
Whenever we are thrust apart;
So as the world grows still more small,
I find avoidance is an art.
A selfish creature ‘til the end,
Sometimes I find I can’t refrain;
And searching for a list’ning friend,
My actions seem a lot the same.
Oh that he’d stay away awhile,
So in contentment I could smile.
by Claire Maby
I do not dream of him at all
Whenever we are thrust apart;
So as the world grows still more small,
I find avoidance is an art.
A selfish creature ‘til the end,
Sometimes I find I can’t refrain;
And searching for a list’ning friend,
My actions seem a lot the same.
Oh that he’d stay away awhile,
So in contentment I could smile.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Storm
Lightening slices the fabric sky, blinding the child-like stars.
They dash, sightless, to hide behind the moon’s midnight skirts.
Watching the galloping stars, someone wishes for rain.
They dash, sightless, to hide behind the moon’s midnight skirts.
Watching the galloping stars, someone wishes for rain.
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