Twelvesies

How the Glowing Firefly Squid of Japan Produces Its Shine

Alright, we're back in business.

Soo, since I've been such a busy bee lately, I haven't gotten to post very much. However, I have been keeping up with the challenge, so I'll just be slowly transcribing what I've been writing and posting it in addition to new material. And, since I am currently and suddenly jobless, I'll be able to keep up more diligently moving forward. This is a dream for Day 12:

The McMahon women were cursed. They were vagrant women; the earth’s vastness echoed within them, thrumming a triumphant beat that beckoned and tore them from their lovers’ beds.  At least, that’s what Anita was beginning to think. She could feel it like she could feel her own heartbeat.

“This isn’t the last you’ve heard from me, Anita.” David's voice echoed shamelessly, desperate. But it was the last she would hear from him.

All she could say is that she wasn’t herself then. She was more than blinded by her rage; she was flailing and drowning in it.

When she finally did start sleeping again, it was a strange half-slumber where her reality was a vibrant as her unconsciousness. It is always the same: she is standing in navy galoshes with tiny white sailboats on the porch of the old apartment, except the concrete steps are crumbling and the wrought iron railings have begun to rust, making the light blue paint bubble up and peel away. A chilly breeze floats through the warm air, sending her sundress swaying at her knees. Her face is rounder and her eyes are bright, like she's just been smiling.

It's raining in violent, heaving sheets--so hard she almost laughs. It beats against the aluminum awning, drumming an imperceptible, infinite rhythm. It reverberates within her, sending her cells dancing, her insides frenetic and expectant.

The puddles in the street grow larger and deeper. Water pools at either side of the street, slowly swallowing the asphalt and teasing the curbs. The islands of lawn flood, anemic patches of grass stretching their blades toward the sky.

Trash from the street—a Styrofoam cup, a filthy hamburger box, a green plastic bag—float toward Western; the streets have become a circuitry of veins, pulsing and alive. A yield sign and a bicycle bob and float lazily by.

The water rises, and she watches it swallow the first step of the porch, then the second and third. This time she does laugh, surprised and delighted.

The water is flowing more quickly now, and she hears giggling and shrieks before three caramelly 

children using an overturned winter sled as a raft float by.  “Ven!” they say, their marbled palms stretching her. “Ven con nosotros!”

She steps down, the water pouring over the tops of her boots, and tilts her head back to the sky, the rain falling onto her face in stinging kisses. Her eyes flutter closed. The sky must have suffered a terrible loss to be weeping so savagely.

She opens her eyes and frowns now, not at the rising water but at a quiet sorrow nibbling at her temples, thought she can’t recall what about--like trying to remember the melody of a forgotten song.  Though the rain falls as hard as ever, the water has stopped rising. It laps at the toes of her boots. Looking out into the river of a street, she inhales sharply, and begins to descend the submerged steps. She gasps as icy water pours over the tops of her boots, flooding them. An impossible hand poised at his teeth, nibbling a sweet cuticle. Her belly clenches at the cold, her skin electric with goosebumps. The water is to her thighs now, the forlorn yellow fabric of her dress clinging to them.

To Be Continued...

Day Dos

I have a network of characters that I keep wanting to do something with keep re-entering my writing of their own, uninvited accord. Names, faces, relationships all stem from Penn State's University Park campus (that year must've done a number on my psyche), except no one wants to read about college so I'll have to pick them all up and place them somewhere else. The concept I'll hold onto, maybe. That being said, reworkage of a place with some oldie-but-goodie characters:

Lacy and John’s apartment is notorious for their wild bashes. If you go to the University Park campus, you know about Lacy and John’s, and if you run with a certain crowd, it’s where you spend your Saturday nights.

You probably met Lacy in class. Maybe in English 452: 19th Century Literature and Society, because she’s a Comparative Lit major and you are too. You sit next to her in class, and have developed a bit of a girl crush on her. She’s tall with short dark hair and skinny so she looks even taller. She always wears at least three shades of eye shadow, and does her makeup like you wish you could. She doesn’t say much until the class starts on Stoppard’s plays, and explains to you that any interpretation of “et in Arcadia ego” other than a momento mori is idealist and shouldn’t be taken seriously. You nod and agree with her despite that you really have no idea what she’s talking about, and she invites you over to borrow Goethe’s Elective Affinities.

The first thing to know before even entering their place is to take your shoes off. Lacy is a little obsessive compulsive, and while on Saturday nights the hardwood floor is covered with spilled beer, sticky shoe prints and puddles of stomach acid and mixed drinks in the corners, on any other night the floor is clean enough to eat off of.

While you’re here, check out the bathroom. Most people’s bathrooms serve a utilitarian purpose; pooping, peeing, showering, the brushing of teeth and the washing of faces are pretty much all that goes on in most normal bathrooms. But in addition to all those things, Lacy’s bathroom also experiences copious amounts of puking, fucking, crying, breaking, laughing, groping, yelling and cowering. But the thing is that it just looks like a normal bathroom, except for the fact that it’s unusually clean and even a little cozy. Lacy devotes her Thursday and Sunday nights to cleaning the bathroom and kitchen, so you won’t find any clumps of sticky lint and hair, or a stray pube when you lift the toilet seat.

When you walk into this bathroom, you will first notice that it’s pink. The walls above the tile are a pale powder, and the fluffy rugs in front of the toilet and the bathtub are fuchsia, and the shower curtain is baby pink with coral polka dots. The sink is to your immediate left, and when you look into the mirror, Marilyn Monroe is gazing down upon you with a coy smile; her photo is mounted in a black frame on the wall behind you.

Know that when you pop a squat in this bathroom, you’re taking a shit in a little piece of history.

If Lauren gets a hold of Malibu rum by 9 o’clock, you will find her kneeling at the toilet and puking up the bottle’s worth by 10:30. A friend in rotation will be in there to hold her hair back, and to unbutton her jeans so she doesn’t piss herself.

Once, too drunk to even sit on the toilet by herself, she fell into the bathtub with her pants and blue sailboat panties around her ankles, smashed her face on the soap holder and broke her orbital. At the hospital, she told everyone her boyfriend hit her with the teddy-bears-in-love snow globe paperweight she keeps on her desk. Despite numerous eyewitness accounts, and the fact that her boyfriend was actually tonguing some Tri Delt at the ol' sorority house at the time, he is currently under review by the University's Office of Judicial Affairs.

Fin.

Numero Uno

It's the last few minutes of today, and I have been challenged to 30+ Days of Poetry and Prose by a fellow gypsy writer. I will not be taking part in the poetry part, as I'm way too verbose to write that shit, but you, dear reader, can look forward to at least 500 daily words of hot, hard, original fiction straight from my fingertips. 

Day 1:

As the words fell from he mouth, he knew he had made a bad decision. They fell like brittle bricks onto the worn carpet, their edges crumbling to ruddy powder. But her dress was so low-cut, and she was so sexy when she cried. 

He could recount with unsettling detail every time he had seen her shed those glorious tears. The first time was in college while she was collapsed on a bathroom floor, reeking of tequila and her head in the toilet. “Why doesn’t he love me?” she moaned between heaves. “He’s an asshole, sugar,” her fat friend, Bethany, cooed. She glared at him before slamming the bathroom door in his face.

The last time--before this time, of course--was at the mouth of the Chicago Blue Line stop and he was across the street.  She was yelling into her phone, eyes darting wildly and seeing only rage. The tears had forced themselves from her then, squeezing themselves from her ducts only to be furiously torn away by the back of an unmerciful hand. He wished that she would walk into oncoming traffic, so distraught and distracted, only to have him rush into the street and knock her away from the 6:13 Milwaukee bus speeding toward her. (Instead of the road, the bus driver was busy looking in the rearview mirror at the thighs of a girl in a sundress.) 

His favorite time was when he went over to the apartment she and Brad shared to buy weed. Brad opened the door and she was on the couch watching the scene in The Notebook where the old versions of Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams die in the hospital bed together. Their living room was dark and the television cast a blue glow onto her, and she got up and mumbled a hello with a face wet and swollen with tears, before wiping her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve and disappearing into the bathroom. He wondered if Brad had been holding her on the couch before he knocked at the door.

Now, Brad was a pile of ashes in a jar at the front of the room, and those leaky grey eyes stared at him, her mouth twisted in a tight frown.

“What?” she said.

She had heard him the first time. Why would she ask him to repeat it? He caught his reflection in the mirror about the table that held the memorial book; he looked like he just rolled out of bed. The cuffs of his rumpled shirt were unbuttoned and his facial hair toed the nearly transparent line between fashionably scruffy and down-and-out. Either way, it was unacceptable for a funeral.

They--he didn't know who--always said deaths come in threes, and they were right. He thought, perhaps foolishly, that fate was kind and the trio would mostly be the old, sick, or mean. He never expected them to be his friends. The first was Sophia in March, whose heart gave out after she spent 10 years refusing to keep food down. Then Javier, who mixed too many unremarkable chemicals for a tragically remarkable result.

Brad was hit by a car crossing an intersection on his bike. Witnesses say he flew into the air and landed on the hood of the car before getting up, dusting off his bike and walking away. His will was stronger than his guts, though, and he bled on the inside until he died.

"What?" she said again. He suddenly wished he were the crumpled tissue clutched in her hand.

He sighed. She was going to make him say it again. "I'm totally in love with you."

Fin.

As Long as it's Talking with You, Talk of the Weather Will Do

Spring only means one thing to me. Via SlashFood

Happy First Day of Spring! (Although this particular tail-end of winter has felt more like June!) This freakish weather, albeit energizing and completely glorious, has me a little concerned. But first let me luxuriate is its awesomeness:

It’s lovely to see the crowds of commuters shrugging off their winter layers to expose bare arms and necks again. I’ve broken out the wedges and the sundresses the past couple days, and waking up to sweet-smelling summer air filling my bedroom is one of my favorite things in the world. There’s something about sitting in a patch of sunny grass or a bar patio with a sweaty can of beer and my favorite people that is spectacularly nurturing to the soul.

Now onto examining the weirdness: according to Tom Skilling, March hasn’t had a warm spell like this in 141 years of weather reporting, essentially when meteorology started. AKA in ever. His recent blogs over at ...are pretty much just waxing poetic over how many records this weather is breaking. Like I said, I’m loving every second--it makes me want SnoCones and lemonade (+gin), but then a looming, global warming-related fog seeps into my brain and makes me worry about our Earth and the environment, Catholic guilt-style.

 Unusual weather has such an impact on flora and fauna; just like late frosts can totally knock produce harvests out of whack, I’m left wondering what the effect of early-blooming plants and trees will be. And then the honeybees! What’ll be their deal in all of this? I’ve been scouring the internet trying to find some speculations from farmers, apiculturists or even other meteorologists on what gives with these warm temps, but my searches have come up tragically short. Maybe in the weeks ahead will reveal more as to what this weather is doing to plants and harvest. In the meantime, you can find me at the beach with a margarita.

So spring is supposed to signify this big cycle of rebirth, where we examine the patterns we’ve been stuck in, and unthaw our minds and bodies from the habits that no longer serve us. But with such a mild winter, have we experienced that seasonal “death” that allows for starting anew? Each passing year, I’m becoming more sensitive to the weather--Chicago winters are becoming harder and harder on my psyche--so this past winter was a welcome break from dismal, biting city-cold.

We are cyclical beings, with moods and hormones and biorhythms, and supremely sensitive to disturbances in the balance. So this spring, bringing things into balance will be a big theme of mine, just in case we've missed out on any digestion of the previous cycle's experiences. I'm already busy making lists, organizing my thoughts and decluttering my mind and environment while invigorating my current healthy habits and setting into motion the things I want to do. I feel a renewed creative energy the past couple weeks, and so many positive things have been manifested during that time simultaneously.

Anyway, this Spring/Summer will bring:

- More frequent blogging (yay!)
- Travels, even small ones
- Bees - Pottery class!
- Teaching yoga and other explosive creative collaborations
- New ink

Speaking of yoga and creativity, I have an amazing workshop in the works for my teacher training thesis. Details to come!

 Anyway, I'll leave you with a side-obsession most likely stemming from my fascination with fairy tales: hindu mythology for children. Pixar animator Sanjay Patel created The Little Book of Hindu Deities, along with The Big Poster Book of Hindu Deities, both of which I want so hard.

Wow. I was without a computer there for a hot minute. But I traded in my Acer for a Macbook Air and we're back in business.

This post will be short, since I have Theraputics homework to get done (a future post about that is brewing, promise). In the meantime, the Reader had a call for submissions regarding bad dates in under 500 words. Uh, if I had a drink for every one of those I've had, I'd be toe UP. Possibly dead.

Naturally, I submitted and got creative with some non-fiction. Literary liberties were taken, you can decide where. With that, I humbly present a bad date:

I was 19. My boyfriend had just cheated on me and the guy at the gas station on the corner had been asking me out for months. He was Middle Eastern and very good-looking, if a little Euro-trashy. He had developed a friendliness with my dad, who stopped in every morning to buy two Mountain Dews and a pack of Salem Lights. When I’d fill up my Ford Focus, the guy--Sean--would ask why I wouldn’t talk to him, and I’d laugh and he’d ask me out, and I’d laugh again. But he was tall, dark and handsome, and my boyfriend had just banged some other chick. This time, when Sean asked, I agreed, already knowing I’d put out.

Sean picked me up in a black Cadillac with a leather interior that smelled like grandpas and freshly-smoked weed. The backseat was cavernous and as he drove, a smattering of CD cases slid back and forth. The smalltalk was strained; he was 22 and had been working on his associate’s degree since graduating high school. We got to the movie and he ushered me though an Exit door as people were leaving. I guess I wouldn’t have wanted to pay for the holiday slasher Black Christmas, either.

We stopped for milkshakes, then parked down a quiet side street. As we made out, my hands wandered under his t-shirt and I came across the sharpest stubble I would ever encounter in my life. Doing my best to ignore it, I unbuckled his pants.

He was large and well-formed--pretty, even--in the orangy glow of the street light. By the time he pulled me into the backseat, his shirt was gone and mine was undone, and the CD cases slid to the floor. He was on top of me, his razor-stubble torso grating my chest. Our pants came off, a condom came on and the magic began to happen. Except delicate flesh and dry latex don’t make magic.

“Stop,” I finally said, my hands pressed against his prickly chest. “This just hurts. A lot.”

“What? What’s wrong?”
Then he prodded me the way a hungry schoolboy would poke a Pop Tart in the toaster oven. His face fell. Not ready yet.

“I have some lube,” he said, reaching into the glove compartment. Of course he did. He slathered some on himself and then me. It was better, until a fiery burning began to emanate from my most tender bits. I pushed him off.

“What the hell was that?” I said, panicking.

“It’s warming.” Warming lube on my raw, hurty cupcake. His eyes were huge. He had no idea what he had done. I sighed, my head falling into my hands. “

Can you take me home?”

As I tenderly undressed to shower, I saw an angry red stubble-burn had spread across my chest and belly. With both hands, I gingerly cupped my poor ka-choo. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to her. “I’m so sorry.” The worst part was knowing he would see my dad in the morning. 

In other news, doesn't Ladytron kinda sound like Dolores O'Riordan?

Totally.

Caution: Dreamboat Crossing

What's Mr. Bates up to? Just sweeping you off your feet is all.

Figuratively, of course. Watch out, Baby Goose, you've got some competition for this girl's heart.

I Work Out.

Four weeks ago I started running.

I'll say it again: Four weeks ago I started running. Me. And no taco trucks have been involved. Yet.

Today marks the halfway point of 5k 101, a little running app I downloaded to get my ass to run (jog?) three point whatever miles without stopping, and I gotta tell ya, I'm. Fucking. Loving it.

It all started when K from the chocolate shop started talking about a beginning jogging program. She started doing intervals of walking and running, and then would lenghten the jogging times while shortening the walking times as the weeks progressed.

Now I'd been thinking about running for a while. That's what I do with things that take my interest: I think about it a whole lot, read about it, information-gather. Then I start preparing the accouterments, cause I gotta do it right. Then, finally, I might give it a go. This process ensued with running; figuring out which program I wanted to follow, downloading the app, acquiring some sweet kicks, a little moisture-wicking running shirt, some good earbuds. Only then did I take my first tentative steps.

The human body endlessly fascinates me. How magnificent, how adaptive and plastic. And soft and hard and scruffy and smooth. And the bones! The sweet, protruding hip and wrist and shoulder bones. (I mean, ASIS, ulnar styloid process and acromion.) Daren says that bones love to be touched--they're remarkable sensitive and don't get touched often (Really, how often do we touch our bones? Stifled laughter here.)--but he never mentions how lovely it is to touch bones.

I've seen yoga change bodies, and I've seen my own body transform through yoga; the whittling of my thighs and tummy, the development of my arms to allow me to hold a killer chaturanga, the muscles in my back form lovely, toned curves and valleys to make it my now-favorite part of my physical self.

Running has created similar changes, though not so visible. It came easier to me than it ever has before; I've rarely been out of breath--breathing hard, yes, but never panting or gasping for air. Around Week 2 I began running through the walk/rest intervals. Then in Week 3 I ran 20 minutes and it felt amazing!  I felt alive and empowered and indestructible, until my knees began to ache something craycray the next morning. I read that one of the mistakes beginning runners make is training too hard, too quickly. The respiratory adapts faster than the musculature of the body, so it's easy to push yourself too hard when you're gauging how you feel by how heavy you're breathing. As a yogi whose exercise was done barefoot on a mat for the past 3 years, my joints were not having the impact. So I took a week off, visited Fleet Feet to get some shoes that fit my stride (My name is Raquel, and I'm a moderate over-pronator.) and hit the pavement once more, stronger than ever.

Now for what it does for my mind: Running clears my head like yoga, and gives me that juicy, hard workout that my body craves. Now yoga can deliver a hard workout, no doubt. Gimmie five sun salutes and tell me otherwise, I dare you. But the simplicity--one foot in front of the other--the rhythm of my steps, my heartbeat, the music, it all creates something glorious and conducive to the moving meditation that I love so much about vinyasa flow. When you simultaniously lose yourself and connect with clarity. Ahhh, beautiful.

So that's how running is going: meow, unstoppable.

In other beautiful news, I just received a message containing these words:
"You seem like a supernova, so gorgeous and strong and amazing."
Sometimes we forget who we are until someone reminds us. I will remind someone of their true nature today.