author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

From the Department of Putting Folk Wisdom and Traditional Aphorisms to Real World Tests, March has officially come in like a lamb. Saturday the 1st was short-sleeves warm; I got sunburned biking home from work. (I had to work. Long story. Emergency involving a Juliet Brailler and a bunch of pie charts.) Most of able-bodied Boulder were out wearing Spandex and clogging the bike paths. Or clinging to mountainsides; I had the rock climbing gym practically all to myself due to all the real climbers being out climbing real rocks. It was a beautiful day.

And Sunday it snowed. That's Colorado for you. John and I looked out the window around 8:00 at all the frozen precipitation, and he said, "It's opaque outside."

So it's March. You'll notice the whole "Thing-a-Day" thing sort of trailed off around here mid-February. I was in the middle of another couple of last-minute deadline cycles--only, due to some extreme suckiness on my part, the cycle consisted of my saying "I'll have it finished in a couple of days," spending the next couple days beating myself up over about 2,500 per day, and then saying "but I'll have it finished the next couple of days for sure." Thus the eleventh hour mentality stretched itself out over most of the month. Most of my meals included a side of stomach lining with adrenaline dressing.

I do not recommend spending one's February this way.

So, partially because I'm swearing never to do that to myself again (and I really mean it this time) but mostly because my editor has said that the next project really truly does have to be turned in on time, I've logged said next project in the database. I can't say much about it, since my contract includes a confidentiality agreement, but I can say I've got a project and am up to this many words. 25,000 of them are due on March 15. It's like NaNoWriMo, but with research. And instead of saying vague things like "Oh, it's coming along" when anyone asks, I can point here and say, "X amount of words! With X days left to go!"

I'm slightly behind because of not really starting the writing part until March 1 and then taking yesterday off. But yesterday was sort of full of weekend things. (Long story involving a lot of friends, several Torchwood episodes, Vietnamese take-out, and a game of "Munchkin.") Now it is Monday, and Mondays are for working.

Meanwhile, you might be asking, what about fiction and poetry and stuff? What about the writing with actual soul? What about the writing I meant when I was seven years old and said "I want to be a writer when I grow up?" (You mean you weren't asking? Huh. Shows how much you care. I was asking.) Well, this great thing happens when I only owe my paying, deadlined project some 2,000 words a day. I have time to spare. And it's not all going to be spend on Puzzle Pirates. Promise!

As I might have mentioned, I'm going to the World Horror Convention at the end of this month. (John's coming with! Yay!) So are a significant handful of my fellow '06 Borderlands Boot Camp alumni. I can't bear the thought of showing up in front of them and not being able to tell them that I've finally sent off a beautifully rewritten "Seeds of Our Future" (ne… "Putting Down Roots") as one of our instructors notoriously told me I ought to do. That's my fiction project this month. And you can hold me to it, too.

Yay! Back to using this blog as a public flogging place! Just like old times!

Because I'm tired. And I'm still not done. With the stuff I've been doing all freakin' day.

(Look! I made a nothing! Whoo! ...that trick'll only work once.)

Coming up tomorrow: Something that's somewhat less whiny. Or else maybe the second verse. Dunno.

It's gone midnight
Clock's still ticking
Pour me another cup of tea

You'd think, wouldn't you
Time would just stop--
Sure seems fair to me

Five past midnight
World keeps turning
Half-moon's going down

Ten past midnight
Sleep's just a stranger
And friends don't seem to come round

CHORUS:
Miles to go
(i got) Miles to go
Take 'em slow
(got) Miles to go

When I was much younger and I read Madeline L'Engle's A Wrinkle In Time for the very first time, several points in the novel stuck with me hard. One of them was the period of time during which the main character, Meg, convalesced in the care of an alien species who were blind. They had long delicate fingers, they talked to the stars and each other via telepathy, and they had no eyes. At one point, Meg complained of the darkness on the planet--I think it must have been too far from the sun to have a proper day, although how it stayed warm enough for life I forget. (Note to self: Reread the Time Trilogy sometime soon.) Anyway, she complained that it was dark.

"What is dark?" said her caretaker.

"It's when there's no light."

"What is light?"

"Well, it's what allows you to see."

"But what do you mean, see?"

Meg couldn't answer. How do you explain vision, light, color, to someone without eyes? I wonder whether there is a similar disconnect between most of us humans who can see and those who are blind from birth--only, humans who have never experienced vision do nevertheless live among people who do, and speak languages with many vision-based metaphors ("Let me see" for let me think about it; "Look it up" for research it; "True colors" for true nature; "Vamos a ver"/"We'll see" for vamos a descubrir/we'll find out; etc). They have at least been vicariously exposed to the experience. Without even those metaphors surrounding them in daily speech, how can a species of sightless sentient beings comprehend what vision is like to a human? Are there any words we could use that would convey the concept?

How would another sort of animal with seven senses explain to us six-sensed humans their additional mode of perceiving the world? How would they describe an eighth color?

it is how those without voice speak to you
it's how you know they're there

now believe me when I tell you
that there are different degrees of thereness
we call them colors

how do you imagine a tree?

when you touch the bark
it snags on your skin
it leaves tears of sap
(how the pine-blood smells? we call that amber)

when it is in full leaf
it causes a cool place beneath its
well-clad branches
(that coolness is known as green)

it is so tall, its topmost branches
you can never touch
and when the wind hasn't yet arrived
you cannot hear the leaves whisper
and when the winter's overstayed its welcome
the branches give no shade

you ask me how I know they are there
their thereness is thin
and gray

I have neither the time nor the energy for a proper thing tonight, so I will give you an improper thing.

THIS IS JUST TO SAY

that i have failed
to make time
for a thing of much substance
and have instead made you this poem

which isn't much of a poem really
just another William Carlos Williams pastiche
you've probably seen about a hundred of those already

i'm sorry
it was just that i already wrote 5,500 words
in other projects today, so there

and now i'm tired

Apparently Writer's Digest don't actually post a prompt a day anymore. They must have run out the bank or something. Now they only post one a week.

Here's the prompt that caused me such disgust the other day:

It's garbage day and you put your trash on the curb, but when you return home from work, it's still there (though everyone else's garbage has been taken away). The next week, it happens again--and again the following week. Why is the trash collector snubbing you? Write a scene explaining why he's skipping your garbage and how you figured it out.

I don't know exactly what it is about that prompt that just kills inspiration dead at my feet. Maybe it's the sixth grade English teacher style: Now, class, here's your assignment. Something about the way it's worded puts me back at four and a half feet off the ground looking up at a middle-aged man or woman (it doesn't matter which) with a blackboard behind their heads and a half-patronizing, half-eager smile on their face. Isn't that exciting, kids? Doesn't it just rev up the old idea juicer? And maybe it's the way the prompt closes off all the possibilities except the least interesting ones. They've already decided for you why the garbage collecter isn't taking your trash: He's snubbing you.

I'm just not interested in the story behind that social drama.

I told some friends about the ghastly badness of this prompt, and we started brainstorming how the prompt could have been made interesting by being left more open-ended or simply being worded differently. Most of our ideas centered around having one's garbage indeed taken--except for a single item left behind. "You and the garbage collector are vying for the love of the same woman; the items the g. c. leaves behind are to throw you off the track." "You and the garbage collector are spies in a vast network. The g. c. leaves items of your trash behind in order to convey coded messages which you will then pass along to the only other member of the network you know of." "Yes, but your spy network trades only in the most mundane of data. 'Mrs. Murphy is planning a Mac & Cheese dinner tonight.'" "The messages the g. c. leaves you are entirely about food. Is he trying to ask you out on a date?"

The spy network was my idea. I liked it, so I ran with it.

I retrieved the garbage can lid from where it had been left. As usual, the garbage collectors had tossed it on the ground, projecting it in the natural trajectory caused by letting go of the lid the moment it could be said to have been removed from the can. There'd been a bit of wind around lunchtime, too, so it had gone down the block a ways. I picked it up off Mrs. Murphy's lawn, sighed, and trudged back to my own driveway.

It was when I went to put the lid back on the can that I saw it. And I remembered.

So many years... I'd almost forgotten. "Act natural," they'd said, "blend in," and I'd done such a good job. I'd found employment, found a social group, made friends. "Try to think like one of them." I'd even married one of them, had children with him, two children, Tom and Renee, sixteen and ten years old and so beautiful like their father.

Twenty years, and you almost believe you're one of them-- until the message comes that it's time to be one of you again. Looking down into the garbage can I felt the rest of me in the back of my mind, hidden away for so long but beginning to stretch and yawn after its long sleep. The temperature of my blood shifted two degrees to the cooler, and the subtle halos I'd learned to ignore stood out in my vision around everything with a pulse. A sparrow taking off from the curb: a glow of red and a haze of violet in the corner of my eye.

I had been told they would contact me, and that I would know it when I saw it. I knew it now.

My garbage can that should have been empty contained one thing: the shed skin of a snake. And to prove it was no accident, the fragile tube of dead matter had been threaded through a large bead made of no material found on earth. Ourlithk. I had to control myself from pouncing on it like a magpie. The metal was beyond price. You didn't buy it; you were only ever given it by the very powerful, and then you knew you belonged to them.

Of course I belonged to them. I was one of them.

And so, apparently, was one of the garbage collectors. At least.

I rolled the can back into my garage, carefully acting as though nothing had happened. Just in case a neighbor was watching. Once inside with the garage door closed, I reached in slowly and retrieved the ourlithk bead. The snake skin crumbled at my touch. It had been merely a symbol of what I was supposed to do. The bead I brought into the kitchen with me, strung on a piece of twine, and hung around my neck. I would not remove it again while I stood upon the earth.

The rest of the week loomed ahead of me, a desert of dread and anticipation. I would have to act normal. And then, next Monday morning, I would wait for the garbage truck, and for my contact.

Today's thing happened in the kitchen. John and I made spanakopita. Pictures! We have pictures! I really wish I'd taken some during the actual manufacture of the triangular pockets. That was... involved. I got too distracted with "Gods damned filo layers won't separate ARGH!" to remember to take pictures then. (Yes, this was our first time cooking with filo. Oh my Gods that sucks. But I would do it again, and probably will sometime soon; there's all sorts of leftover filo in the freezer.)

But meanwhile you get to see John sauteeing the fresh spinach (and wondering how it could possibly all fit in the pan) and, later, the cute little finished spanakopita triangles bubbling and crisping away in the oven.

They just came out of the oven. We need to let them cool down. They smell sooooo good... Good thing I've already stuffed myself on homemade turkey/andouille gumbo and I'm not starving or anything.

Hee hee.

I am a kitchen Goddess.

So I used "Planning a picky prompt thing" as my search phrase. That got me rather a grab-bag of topics, including two pages about planning weddings and one about smallmouth bass fishing.

And the words are...

1. movie
2. Florida
3. school
4. book
5. problem
6. success
7. New York
8. wedding
9. detail
10. chair

The Florida panhandle raced by like a movie, the kind of movie that maybe stars Geena Davis and, oh, I dunno, Linda Hamilton maybe, in a cute green convertible with money flying out of the back seat, hundreds of twenties hitting the breeze, 'cause they just robbed a bank and now they're trying to escape the state. That's how we went through Northwest Florida. Not like gorgeous actresses portraying bank robbers, though that would have been nice. Like the scenery whizzing by unnoticed while the camera focuses on the driver's impertinent bare feet kicking the side-view mirror. Foreground: fire-engine red on seashell toenails. Background: indefinite blur of green and concrete gray.

School was out, and we were headed to New York. By car. From Mississippi. I-10 to whatever went north when we were sick of I- 10 or ran into the Atlantic, I dunno, don't ask me, we never got there. We got about three small towns East of Tallahassee. That was the problem.

By now my sister's probably had her wedding. It was perfect in every detail: a fine fall of snow for the flower girls to make angels in, sparkling icicles catching the camera eye but not quite outshining the diamond on her left ring finger, jazz music at the wedding reception, our father standing on a chair to make a speech. He'd be wearing the tie with the penguins on it. So will all the groomsmen; my sister is infatuated with penguins. She's probably got the album on the mantlepiece. She hopes that visitors will shyly ask to page through it. She hopes they'll notice something missing. They'll close the book (she hopes) and then they'll say, "But didn't you say you had a younger brother? Which one was he?" Knowing her, she'll have the speech ready to go.

And nowhere in the speech will she say, "He was supposed to get here in time to stop me marrying this bastard." She probably won't even admit he's a bastard--not that she won't have noticed it herself, that is. I mean, that was the one detail she neglected when she planned her wedding. Getting the husband right.

It should have been Ronnie. But Ronnie and I never had much success getting out of the south. This trip was no different. I had thought maybe we'd turn north at Jacksonville. We still might, one day, if we manage to get out of jail.

We're working on that.

Since writing yesterday's blog entry, I took a closer look at the write-up that came with the "2008 Beignet Waiter" collectible figurine that came with this year's King Cake. Apparently my little trip down memory lane was quite appropriate: Haydel's was, in fact, thinking of The Morning Call and not the Cafe Du Monde. (Here's Haydel's King Cake Collector Dolls web page. At the time of this writing, it hasn't quite caught up with the times. They're still showing the 2004 doll, which was a porcelain Pete Fountain. He's so cute!)

This tells me two things. First, that Metairie is not officially excluded from Mardi Gras history and nostalgia. That's a relief. I'm used to being a little defensive about my status as a Jefferson Parish native. (Welllll, I may yet have to be defensive. Calling it "Metairie's version of the Cafe Du Monde" is kinda wrong: its original location was on Decatur Street. It only moved to Metairie in 1974. That's pretty darn recent in terms of the establishment's 138-year history, but from my perspective, that's still before I was born. Plus the little slideshow on its web site's front page includes shots of the Metairie location's interior. So nyah.)

Second, since the write-up was in present tense, I'm gonna assume that The Morning Call is not as doomed as my last visit to the place made it seem. And hoo boy is that a relief.

Anyway. So much for that.

For today's thing, I'm reduced to writing prompts. That's right; I can't think of anything to write. So I went over to Writer's Digest's Daily Prompt site... and was immediately disgusted. I know, I know, I shouldn't be picky, the whole point of a prompt is to write stuff I wouldn't otherwise have written, but... I'm sorry, I can't bring myself to do it.

So instead, here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna do a search on Google, open up the first page of links (excluding paid advertisement) in tabs) and choose... let's say the 10th noun appearing on that page. That would be the main block of text, not the sidebar menu or whatnot.

Sounds like an appropriately anal retentive procedure. Only one problem:

What's my search phrase?

...I'll get back to you on that.

Happy Mardi Gras! We had friends over to help us eat up red beans & rice, andouille sausage, cornbread, and ... oh, I'd say about half the King Cake that Mom sent. (John got the baby.)

Mom always sends me at least one King Cake from Haydel's bakery every Mardi Gras. Not only is this because I'm a homesick New Orleanian and she knows it, but also because Haydel's in particular puts a little collectable porcelain figurine in the package. This year's figurine is a "Beignet Waiter." You can tell because of the paper hat.

MORNING CALLS

Here: Praise for the man in the paper cap
and the matched streams of milk and coffee:
hot, hot, piping hot
and swirling before my spoon
even touches it.

Here: An ode to the hour, that the night has a case of
the two-aye-ems
and I've no place else to go:
just here, amongst the mirrors,
amongst the cups of coffee
swirling with milk.

The world hasn't woken up yet
I haven't woken up yet
I'm dreaming these mirrors, the mirrors are dreams,
I'm dreaming this cup of coffee,
the milk, your paper hat.

I must have been sleepwalking
I'm awake now

Anyway. I want my Morning Call back. Dammit.

I'll check again in April when John and I come visit for the French Quarter Fest.