I've been slaving away the past few weeks on my final paper for my Masters. As a result, I have absolutely nothing of interest to say aside from (the possible re-) statement that, come November when this whole thing is completed. I shall be referred to as Master Ninny, or any other of my names with the title "Master" set in front. Be prepared to swoon at the mention.
Now then, back to work bitch!
Monday, July 24, 2006
Friday, July 14, 2006
Building of a dream house
Like any other red blooded American (or in my case, Burnt-Sienna blooded), I spend a fair amount of time dreaming of a better life. Now, for those of you who don't know, I am a 26 year old unemployed college student, so dreaming of a better life tends to include grandiose ideas such as living on my own again, and being able to pay bills. As of late however, I've been getting especially dreamy. i've been gettting these wild ideas about someday buying a car, or maybe (GASP!) a little shoe box to live in and call my own. These thoughts tend to lead to the lottery since, lets face it, I'm going to be a school teacher. I'll be driving Fantasia (the beautiful white '98 skateboard-I mean Dodge Neon I inherited recently) and living in a one bedroom apartment with friends. Such is the life of the hard working public educator (gotta love philanthropy).
But I digress. I was speaking of lottery dreams. As I have so much time on my hands, I have, of course, figured out exactly what I would build had I millions of dollars to build with. These plans change often but they have, in their transitory way, led me to a wonderous discovery.
My father has handed me an odd legacy (Bare with me, this is related). He has dreamed for years of building a small home for he and my mother to retire to. Some place lovely and secluded. As a result we've had countless books pass through the house that are filled with home plans. If you are not familiar with this sort of publication, they are page after page of sample house floor plans, complete with lovely little drawings of what the finished home would look like. If the book is current you can, for a nominal fee, order the actual blue prints for the home you like and have it built. I find these books endlessly entertaining as they represent the plethora of options there are for those wealthy enough to build a house from the ground up. I'm also fascinated by how stupid people must be to willingly build one of these homes, as all of them are frighteningly cliché and belong more in a vomitous Thomas Kinkade painting than in the real world.
In one of my recent fits of lottery grandeur I went to my local public library in search of books depicting modern architecture. You see I have a growing obsession with modernism. I subscribe to Dwell Magazine and avidly await the arrival of the next issue so that I can see what those more successful than myself (i.e. the bag boy at the local grocery) have done to create a living environment worth, well, living in. Unfortunately, aside from the requisite Frank Loyd Wright books, my local branch library is completely void of all mention of anything remotely modern in terms of architecture (I could of course order books from the Main branch, but, as I said, I'm an American and expect immediate gratification without extending any real effort). What my piddly little local branch did have though, which is almost as good, was two (count them 2!) books of glorious home plans from the remarkeable "Home Planners Inc." Produced in the late '80s, these pages are packed with "Modern Ranch Houses" and "Trendy homes for the '80s and beyond!"
It was quite obvious that several of the plans were developed in the '50s and '60s based on the illustrations of Buffy and Biff sipping Maitais pool side at this swank Ranch pad with Hot Rod convertibles parked in the "Auto court."
As I flip through the pages I wonder how much my taste has been effected by the neighborhood I've grown up in (my area of residence was developed in the mid '40s to the early '60s). I know I've seen homes that are near replicas of plan T25...whatever on nearby blocks. Then I look back at the multitudinous depictions I've made of my "dream" home and see many striking similarities. It is with a heavy heart that I admit that I suffer not only from being an American, but of actually having the traditional American dream. My Burnt-Sienna blood pumps pure. I too would love the open floor space and broad horizontal lines of the "Modern Ranch" home, even if "Modern" means 30 to 50 years ago. Instead I'll have a hovel in the hood. I wonder if they make books for those.
But I digress. I was speaking of lottery dreams. As I have so much time on my hands, I have, of course, figured out exactly what I would build had I millions of dollars to build with. These plans change often but they have, in their transitory way, led me to a wonderous discovery.
My father has handed me an odd legacy (Bare with me, this is related). He has dreamed for years of building a small home for he and my mother to retire to. Some place lovely and secluded. As a result we've had countless books pass through the house that are filled with home plans. If you are not familiar with this sort of publication, they are page after page of sample house floor plans, complete with lovely little drawings of what the finished home would look like. If the book is current you can, for a nominal fee, order the actual blue prints for the home you like and have it built. I find these books endlessly entertaining as they represent the plethora of options there are for those wealthy enough to build a house from the ground up. I'm also fascinated by how stupid people must be to willingly build one of these homes, as all of them are frighteningly cliché and belong more in a vomitous Thomas Kinkade painting than in the real world.
In one of my recent fits of lottery grandeur I went to my local public library in search of books depicting modern architecture. You see I have a growing obsession with modernism. I subscribe to Dwell Magazine and avidly await the arrival of the next issue so that I can see what those more successful than myself (i.e. the bag boy at the local grocery) have done to create a living environment worth, well, living in. Unfortunately, aside from the requisite Frank Loyd Wright books, my local branch library is completely void of all mention of anything remotely modern in terms of architecture (I could of course order books from the Main branch, but, as I said, I'm an American and expect immediate gratification without extending any real effort). What my piddly little local branch did have though, which is almost as good, was two (count them 2!) books of glorious home plans from the remarkeable "Home Planners Inc." Produced in the late '80s, these pages are packed with "Modern Ranch Houses" and "Trendy homes for the '80s and beyond!"
It was quite obvious that several of the plans were developed in the '50s and '60s based on the illustrations of Buffy and Biff sipping Maitais pool side at this swank Ranch pad with Hot Rod convertibles parked in the "Auto court."
As I flip through the pages I wonder how much my taste has been effected by the neighborhood I've grown up in (my area of residence was developed in the mid '40s to the early '60s). I know I've seen homes that are near replicas of plan T25...whatever on nearby blocks. Then I look back at the multitudinous depictions I've made of my "dream" home and see many striking similarities. It is with a heavy heart that I admit that I suffer not only from being an American, but of actually having the traditional American dream. My Burnt-Sienna blood pumps pure. I too would love the open floor space and broad horizontal lines of the "Modern Ranch" home, even if "Modern" means 30 to 50 years ago. Instead I'll have a hovel in the hood. I wonder if they make books for those.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Bené on my mind
With the stalls in my pursuit of a career in place still, my mind seems to be grappling for alternative focusses. One would hope that this would mean a stronger focus on the paper I'm supposed to be working on to wrap up my masters degree. But no. Instead I'm drawn to work on my story. It's odd that I'm actually focussing on this project, seeing as I'm not a writer. I have no idea what I'm doing as I go, but the challenge is comforting in a strange way. I just wish I knew more about the process I'm pursuing, not to mention some of the technicalities that come into play with the plot. None the less, I've completed the next chapter, or scene, or whatever they are. However, I'm not going to bore those of you who actually read this with the whole thing. As per the suggestion of my sister and a few others, I'm not going to post my entire story here. On the slim chance that I actually finish this book and attempt to publish it, I shall refrain from revealing everything for copyright purposes. Instead I'll continue with posting teasers as the chapters go by. This chapter is tentatively entitled "Bené," (all of the chapter titles are purely tentative).
Ana's body had been taken to another small exam room. Luckily there were no cute posters in this one. The same formica cabinets and floursecent light were there, but in place of the perilous pussy hung bronzed hard bodied men clutching each other with a message about safe sex and HIV. Jeremy's eyes flickered with the spluttering light and landed on his wife's body. She lay on a gurney. Her limp swollen form sprawled out on the blue canvas, thinly veiled in a white sheet. The contrast between her palour and the stiff cotton of her cover was slight. The absence of blood flowing through her had left her pase as though frozen. Thin frayed lines at her throat revealed where the glass had punctured her body and Jeremy's life.
Jeremy's eyes traveled down her body. Damp blotches marked the peaks of her breasts still leaking milk from the morning. He imganined a line similar to that on her throat dividing the swollen breasts, marking where the glass had taken her.
The swell of her stomach is what caught Jeremy. Somehow he imagined that once the baby was out it would deflate. Shrink back to the tight form he'd known. But the rounded mound of flesh he'd begrudged still lingered in her lifeless body. Imgages of the sleeping child still in the ward down the hall, cradeled in the arms of the cotton eared nurse flashed through him and he flinched.
He was alone. Alone with this child. Ana was gone. The torrent of words that followed this realization errupted before he knew it was there.
Ana's body had been taken to another small exam room. Luckily there were no cute posters in this one. The same formica cabinets and floursecent light were there, but in place of the perilous pussy hung bronzed hard bodied men clutching each other with a message about safe sex and HIV. Jeremy's eyes flickered with the spluttering light and landed on his wife's body. She lay on a gurney. Her limp swollen form sprawled out on the blue canvas, thinly veiled in a white sheet. The contrast between her palour and the stiff cotton of her cover was slight. The absence of blood flowing through her had left her pase as though frozen. Thin frayed lines at her throat revealed where the glass had punctured her body and Jeremy's life.
Jeremy's eyes traveled down her body. Damp blotches marked the peaks of her breasts still leaking milk from the morning. He imganined a line similar to that on her throat dividing the swollen breasts, marking where the glass had taken her.
The swell of her stomach is what caught Jeremy. Somehow he imagined that once the baby was out it would deflate. Shrink back to the tight form he'd known. But the rounded mound of flesh he'd begrudged still lingered in her lifeless body. Imgages of the sleeping child still in the ward down the hall, cradeled in the arms of the cotton eared nurse flashed through him and he flinched.
He was alone. Alone with this child. Ana was gone. The torrent of words that followed this realization errupted before he knew it was there.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Bené Due: After
Consciousness came heavy to Jeremy. The dark tunnel receding slowly to reveal bleach scented linoleum warmed by his own breath. He gingerly rose to his knees and ventured a tentative hand to inspect the sharp throb at the back of his head. Flinching at the use of his bandaged palm he switched hands for the exploration. There was a matted knot on the right side of his head, the blood still slightly tacky to the touch but the hand came back clean. A quick assessment of the small exam room revealed little change. The table he had been seeking for shelter still stood in front of him. The cold revealing fluorescent light was on. The roll of white gauze still sat on the vinul exam bench. Being careful to move slowly, Jeremy drew himself up to a standing position, resting his good hand on the table to steady himself. He managed to stand without dizziness, and the nausea he now experienced stemmed not from his head injury but from the discovery of the poster of a precariously posed kitten on the wall behind the bench he had sat on earlier. He imagined his nurse hanging it with a saccharin grin saying something like “hang in their sugar,” or something equally cliché in that sweet rumbling baritone.
After one more quick self-assessment he decided he could venture out of this exam room and leave the kitten to dangle alone. The hallway outside was calm. An orderly was sweeping the glass outside the maternity ward in silence.
“Um, excuse me?” called out Jeremy, his good hand clutching the welt on the back of his head.
“Shhhhh! She’s sleeping!” the orderly horse whispered.
A rush of realization struck Jeremy. He rushed down the hall to the ward, goose stepping some of the glass and slipping through the door.
The room was nothing like it had been last he was there. All glass in the room seemed to have broken. Some furniture still lay toppled on the floor. The bd his wife had been on was now empty and had been moved to the far corner of the room. In the other corner, opposite the now empty bed, in a still wooden chair, sat the nurse he had followed out of the café that morning. Cotton balls had been taped to both of her ears. In her arms, sleeping soundly, was an infant. The serenity of this scene was awkward and surreal against the tableau of the ruined ward. Jeremy started to speak, then thought better of it and slipped back out into the hall.
“Where’s my wife?” he whispered to the orderly.
“Oh, um…you better talk to the Doctor, he’s down in the café with the rest of the staff.”
“Fine, but where’s my wife?” Weariness was giving way to irritation and his whisper was warming to an urgent mumble.
“Shhhh! Please, sir, you gotta talk to Dr. Serramin.”The orderly’s voice was imploring, his face showing signs of the days events.
Without another word Jeremy spun on his heels, pausing to steady himself against the yellow wall, and strode off towards the café.
Gene Serramin looked at the senior members of his staff. In their faces he was met with stern, albeit slightly haggard expressions. He took a long draw off his coffee and forced a swallow. “Wow.” He thought. “This really is crap, is it too much to ask that it at least be hot?” He steadied his thoughts and looked about the table again. A stark and alarming thought assaulted him. Where was the father?
“Christ! Where’s the father? Where’s Jeremy Due?” The inquiry blurted out as quickly as it came to him. The table of harried faces jolted and erupted in mutters and turning heads.
“Randel!” The strong voice of Mary Sneed, head RN for his ward rose abouve the voices. “Randel, weren’t you working on his hand?”
“Aw shit, you’re right, last I saw him we were coming out the exam room where I wrapped him.”
“Alright.” Gene took control of the table again. “Randel will you go back up there and search the area, and Jesus, do it quietly. Mary will you take the rest of the clinic, and Jess will you go check on Sarah and the child? She knows enough basic signing that you won’t need to use your voice.” Gene felt his senses coming back, and wondered if the coffee wasn’t so bad afterall.
Mary and Jess stood quickly to leave, Randel stalled in mid stanse.
“Randel?” Gene didn’t like the odd expression that now hovered on the large man’s face. Randel half stood for a second, his eyes focused somewhere behind Gene, then he jolted into action. He grabbed a wad of napkins off the table and the pitcher of water as he said, “No need to search Doc, here he comes now. Mary I think we may need some cleaner though, looks like he got his head with something.”
Randel reached Jeremy Due in the doorway tot he café. He looked like he was going to walk right through him, but walking around Randel finney was no easy task, so he stopped at the threshold, blocked by the nurse’s shear mass.
“Now what the hell’d you do to your head sugar?” Randel immediately took to inspecting the clotted lump on Jeremy’s head.
“Where is my wife?” demanded Jeremy.
“Honey, you need to sit down. Let us have a look at that nmole hill on your noggin and Dr. Serramin will tell you the situation.” In all his fluster Jeremy found himself irritated by the assurances of the baritone man, but reluctantly took the proffered chair when he entered the café.
Dr. Serramin approached his table as Mary Sneed slipped out in search of antiseptic. Randel began gingerly dabbing at the limp on Jeremy’s head as Dr. Serramin pulled up a chair opposite him.
“Mr. Due, I’m so glad to see you, we were just mounting a search party to find you. “ The doctor’s voice was steady, but Jeremy knew it was concealing something.
“How did you do this to your head Mr. Due?”
“Where is my wife Doctor?” The quiestion was a near yell this time, panic seeming to spread even deeper into him by the second.
Mary appeared beside the large man dabbinga t his skull and a new sting joined the pains that resided in Jeremy’s body.
“I’m guessing, that you this point, you realize that the birth of your daughter was a bit, well, tumultuous?” Dr. Seerramin asked.
“Wel, if by tumultuous you mean a fucking explosive earth quake, yeah. Where the hell is Ana?”
“Apparently your daughter has a truly remarkeable larynx, to put it lightly. Here crying is what caused all the damage you’ve undoubtedly witnessed.”
The doctor paused while Jeremy winced at the prodding taking place on his head.
“All of the glass you’ve seen about the maternity ward was broken by your child’s voice. Including the window that was over your wife’s head. It seems, from what we’ve been able to get from one of our nurses who was with your wife, that when the window exploded, some of the shards pierced her jugular from behind.”
Jeremy’s throat caught.
“As was her heart Mr. Due. Your wife is dead. Marron, the nurse that was with her is currently at the ER in County General being treated for multiple lacerations as well as ruptured eardrums. Your daughter was protected and silenced by your wife’s body. She’s being looked after by Sarah Learner, one of our maternity nurses.” Doctor Serramin stopped talking. His face had mutated into something between a frown and a blank slate. Jeremy stared into his eyes, looking for the rest but it never came.
Standing abruptly, Jeremy knocked the two nurses away from him. “Where is she? I want to see her.”
“Mr. Due please. Let us finish with your head, we really need to see how badly you’re injured.” The woman nurse’s voice was firm but imploring.
“It’s alright Mary, I’ll go with them. Let the man see his wife.” Randel’s voice cut through the room, leaving a sharp silence. “C’mon sugar let’s go see. Doc you comin?”
“Yeah, Randel, I’m coming.” Dr. Serramin’s voice held a sense of resignation as he stood to join Jeremy and Randel.
Randel put his arm around Jeremy saying, “Don’t worry sugar, I’m not getting fresh, I just don’t trust those spindly ass legs of yours.”
Dr. Serramin cast him a warning look, but let the aside go as the three men left the café.
After one more quick self-assessment he decided he could venture out of this exam room and leave the kitten to dangle alone. The hallway outside was calm. An orderly was sweeping the glass outside the maternity ward in silence.
“Um, excuse me?” called out Jeremy, his good hand clutching the welt on the back of his head.
“Shhhhh! She’s sleeping!” the orderly horse whispered.
A rush of realization struck Jeremy. He rushed down the hall to the ward, goose stepping some of the glass and slipping through the door.
The room was nothing like it had been last he was there. All glass in the room seemed to have broken. Some furniture still lay toppled on the floor. The bd his wife had been on was now empty and had been moved to the far corner of the room. In the other corner, opposite the now empty bed, in a still wooden chair, sat the nurse he had followed out of the café that morning. Cotton balls had been taped to both of her ears. In her arms, sleeping soundly, was an infant. The serenity of this scene was awkward and surreal against the tableau of the ruined ward. Jeremy started to speak, then thought better of it and slipped back out into the hall.
“Where’s my wife?” he whispered to the orderly.
“Oh, um…you better talk to the Doctor, he’s down in the café with the rest of the staff.”
“Fine, but where’s my wife?” Weariness was giving way to irritation and his whisper was warming to an urgent mumble.
“Shhhh! Please, sir, you gotta talk to Dr. Serramin.”The orderly’s voice was imploring, his face showing signs of the days events.
Without another word Jeremy spun on his heels, pausing to steady himself against the yellow wall, and strode off towards the café.
Gene Serramin looked at the senior members of his staff. In their faces he was met with stern, albeit slightly haggard expressions. He took a long draw off his coffee and forced a swallow. “Wow.” He thought. “This really is crap, is it too much to ask that it at least be hot?” He steadied his thoughts and looked about the table again. A stark and alarming thought assaulted him. Where was the father?
“Christ! Where’s the father? Where’s Jeremy Due?” The inquiry blurted out as quickly as it came to him. The table of harried faces jolted and erupted in mutters and turning heads.
“Randel!” The strong voice of Mary Sneed, head RN for his ward rose abouve the voices. “Randel, weren’t you working on his hand?”
“Aw shit, you’re right, last I saw him we were coming out the exam room where I wrapped him.”
“Alright.” Gene took control of the table again. “Randel will you go back up there and search the area, and Jesus, do it quietly. Mary will you take the rest of the clinic, and Jess will you go check on Sarah and the child? She knows enough basic signing that you won’t need to use your voice.” Gene felt his senses coming back, and wondered if the coffee wasn’t so bad afterall.
Mary and Jess stood quickly to leave, Randel stalled in mid stanse.
“Randel?” Gene didn’t like the odd expression that now hovered on the large man’s face. Randel half stood for a second, his eyes focused somewhere behind Gene, then he jolted into action. He grabbed a wad of napkins off the table and the pitcher of water as he said, “No need to search Doc, here he comes now. Mary I think we may need some cleaner though, looks like he got his head with something.”
Randel reached Jeremy Due in the doorway tot he café. He looked like he was going to walk right through him, but walking around Randel finney was no easy task, so he stopped at the threshold, blocked by the nurse’s shear mass.
“Now what the hell’d you do to your head sugar?” Randel immediately took to inspecting the clotted lump on Jeremy’s head.
“Where is my wife?” demanded Jeremy.
“Honey, you need to sit down. Let us have a look at that nmole hill on your noggin and Dr. Serramin will tell you the situation.” In all his fluster Jeremy found himself irritated by the assurances of the baritone man, but reluctantly took the proffered chair when he entered the café.
Dr. Serramin approached his table as Mary Sneed slipped out in search of antiseptic. Randel began gingerly dabbing at the limp on Jeremy’s head as Dr. Serramin pulled up a chair opposite him.
“Mr. Due, I’m so glad to see you, we were just mounting a search party to find you. “ The doctor’s voice was steady, but Jeremy knew it was concealing something.
“How did you do this to your head Mr. Due?”
“Where is my wife Doctor?” The quiestion was a near yell this time, panic seeming to spread even deeper into him by the second.
Mary appeared beside the large man dabbinga t his skull and a new sting joined the pains that resided in Jeremy’s body.
“I’m guessing, that you this point, you realize that the birth of your daughter was a bit, well, tumultuous?” Dr. Seerramin asked.
“Wel, if by tumultuous you mean a fucking explosive earth quake, yeah. Where the hell is Ana?”
“Apparently your daughter has a truly remarkeable larynx, to put it lightly. Here crying is what caused all the damage you’ve undoubtedly witnessed.”
The doctor paused while Jeremy winced at the prodding taking place on his head.
“All of the glass you’ve seen about the maternity ward was broken by your child’s voice. Including the window that was over your wife’s head. It seems, from what we’ve been able to get from one of our nurses who was with your wife, that when the window exploded, some of the shards pierced her jugular from behind.”
Jeremy’s throat caught.
“As was her heart Mr. Due. Your wife is dead. Marron, the nurse that was with her is currently at the ER in County General being treated for multiple lacerations as well as ruptured eardrums. Your daughter was protected and silenced by your wife’s body. She’s being looked after by Sarah Learner, one of our maternity nurses.” Doctor Serramin stopped talking. His face had mutated into something between a frown and a blank slate. Jeremy stared into his eyes, looking for the rest but it never came.
Standing abruptly, Jeremy knocked the two nurses away from him. “Where is she? I want to see her.”
“Mr. Due please. Let us finish with your head, we really need to see how badly you’re injured.” The woman nurse’s voice was firm but imploring.
“It’s alright Mary, I’ll go with them. Let the man see his wife.” Randel’s voice cut through the room, leaving a sharp silence. “C’mon sugar let’s go see. Doc you comin?”
“Yeah, Randel, I’m coming.” Dr. Serramin’s voice held a sense of resignation as he stood to join Jeremy and Randel.
Randel put his arm around Jeremy saying, “Don’t worry sugar, I’m not getting fresh, I just don’t trust those spindly ass legs of yours.”
Dr. Serramin cast him a warning look, but let the aside go as the three men left the café.
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