Lilac Colored Glasses

You probably notice I haven’t been blogging much lately.
And I haven’t, aside from the {W}rite-Of-Passage prompts. Now that site has gone on hiatus for March as Mrs. Flinger, the creator, is moving.

I’ve tried writing posts a few times but I barely manage to tick out a full sentence before losing steam and puttering off to play here or here. It doesn’t mean I’m not writing at all though. I am currently creating characters, often while on my way to work or during my break. Which means all my writing is ending up in my notebook, napkins and the backs of the pastry sleeves. It also means I’ve started rethinking the constantly mocking, never quite inspiring idea of writing a book.
Yes, I know all bloggers seem to be writing their memoirs these days, but I’ve actually been toying with the book idea since I was…oh… seven years old or so.
Obviously I excel in the field of procrastination.

The one time I did actually sit and write a chapter or two in earnest, the only two people who read it (Scooter and Bub, who is now finishing his MFA in creative writing…if you knew us back when we dated, you’d be struck dumb by the irony in this) really liked it and wanted me to continue. Sadly, that was also the year I had my little breakdown and the chapters were lost somewhere during some drunken, depressed rage or another. I’ve started bookmarking pages in order to re-research the main character, but that’s about all it has come to. Now, however, physical descriptions, character traits, plotlines have all been throwing themselves at me and I’ve begun to jot them down, catagorize, develop.

It’s a new idea, a fresher idea and oddly enough looks like it’s going in a fantasy fiction direction.

Cause I guess my real life just isn’t dramatic enough anymore.
Which brings me back around to the title of this post. I’ve always written my best while in the throws of anxiety attacks, depression, anger, desperation. Poetry in particular was my outlet for all of these negative emotions. But the poetry well dried up a long time ago and the emo-blogg elegance seems to have slowly crept away now too. My nice, settled real life with its steady job, fun coworkers, loving fiancé, two cats and supportive family has rendered me silent.

I’m really not sure what to do about this. I’m thinking maybe the people who still read this may have things they want to hear about. Stories I promised to tell but never did, specific questions about living in a foreign country that I’ve never addressed. If you do, please speak up. Otherwise I’ll try to find some things to write about outside of the prompts given by {W}rite-Of-Passage.

This is my response to {W}rite-Of-Passage Challenge #11: What is is that you believe in your core? Values, morals, etc. Write in a way that is fair and balanced but real and honest.

I believe there are no absolutes. This one, I think, is self explanatory.

I believe in karma. I’m a real believer in “what goes around comes around” and I try to live by that belief the best I can every day. If I see and old woman struggling with a heavy bag, I try to help. If I see a child trip and fall, I offer to pick them up. I try to nod and say hello to neighborhood people when I walk by. I do my best to be good to people who seem to need it. And I can only hope that when I need it, my karma will pay me a visit.

I believe in love. I believe that there is true love and if it is the real thing, it can overcome pretty much everything short of death.

I believe that the majority of people in the world are born inherently “good.” As I said above, I do not believe in absolutes, so I do not believe that every human born is inherently good, but I sincerely believe that most people, in essence, are good people.

I believe it is possible to be a spiritual person without believing in god(s).

I believe life isn’t truly lived until it is lived outside of your comfort zone. If you never leave your hometown, or your first job, or your first love, you never experience all of the things in life that are available to experience. If you don’t take chances with your life, you pass up all of the opportunities to enrich it.

I believe in capital punishment, and in such cases I believe in “an eye for an eye.” Some people may feel this is brutal but I honestly believe that in some cases, society is better off without some individuals in it. I also believe that a person who inflicts intentional, cruel suffering on others, to the point where they knowingly and intentionally end the person’s life, should experience that same suffering and cruelty.

I believe that people are responsible for their own choices and actions. I believe that each of us must own what we do in life. the choices we make and the actions we take are conscious and (hopefully) educated decisions. They may be right, they may be wrong, but they are ours and we must be responsible for them.

Written in response to {W}rite-Of-Passage Challenge 10: Today you will look outside of yourself and write from another point of view on a moment in your time, right now, this moment.

I’m not sure when or how it happened. So many of us go in so many different ways. The sharp, winged ones drop down upon us from the sky. The furry prowling ones hunt us with savage claws. The large, loud naked ones deceive us with magical food that burns away in our bellies until we shiver and then lie still for eternity.

But however, whenever it happened, I cannot say for sure. One moment we were all scurrying in the low scrub as the last light of day faded and gave way to the dark time; the safer time. She was right by my side for a while, but we became separated in our hurry for the choicest scraps and richest morsels. With a nest as full as ours, we have to try to collect as much as we can.

When I noticed her absence, I was frantic. I began searching everywhere, keeping to the edges of the bushes. The large naked ones, especially the females, let out an awful, shrieking noise when they see us, and there were many of them milling around, so I tried to stay out of sight. Just as I was about to give up hope, I saw her, lying in the middle of a clear area, on her back and still.

Two of the large female creatures were walking towards her and the smaller of the two was just about to bring her foot down on the body of my mate. The larger one said something, and then repeated it loudly and grabbed the smaller one, who let out that awful noise and stopped her foot. The pair stopped for a second and then moved on.

When the path was clear I was finally able to reach her still body, already beginning to stiffen in the cold.

I’m not sure when or how it happened, and I don’t know when my heart will stop aching, but I am thankful that her body wasn’t crushed by the large ones. I was able to feel her fur, inhale her fading scent and tuck it away in my memory, before returning to the safety of my nest.

She slides her change across the metal counter carelessly, the coins skittering out past the cashier’s waiting hand. She misses the sour look the cashier gives while gathering up the change…

It’s been a long day filled with deadlines, memos, an angry e-mail from one of the higher ups berating her department for sluggish sales. She longs for a muffin or maybe a brownie but she’d still like to lose 5 pounds before her cousin’s wedding this spring. She’ll stick with the latte, she decides, just as the cashier slides the cup into her hand…

She turns with an artificial smile and walks swiftly through the tunnel just as her train is announced and mounts the stairs to her platform. The evening air still has an edge to it, reminding her that spring is still a few months off. Probably could’ve had that brownie after all. But now she can see the train’s single headlight approaching the station, so she readjusts her satchel strap, takes a sip of dark espresso and cloudy foam and settles into her seat, thinking wistfully about the vacation that had planned for this July: two weeks in the south of Spain, nothing but salty sea breezes and sand; a blessed release from the cloudy summers and constant rain here. But none of that would happen now…

The trains screeches and clanks to a halt at her tiny station. she descends the small metal stairs and picks her way through the frosty grass, cringing as the damp penetrates her stockings and pinpricks her ankles. She fumbles for her keys and pushes the button on the fob, searching the parking lot for the flashing headlights of her Citröen. She climbs into the drivers side, turns the ignition and cranks up the heat, impatiently pulling out of the lot before the windows are completely defrosted. All she wants to do is go home and climb into bed, but the day isn’t quite over yet…

Several minutes and calming deep breaths later, she puts the Citröen in park, grabs her satchel and walks through another parking lot, larger and more sprawling than the gravel lot at the train station. She doesn’t notice how her pace slows as she draws closer to the large white brick building and the swooshing sliding glass doors. She doesn’t notice the blood draining from her cheeks as she greets the check in nurse at the front desk with a wave and a smile. She doesn’t notice the weary set at the corners of her mouth as she receives her nightly report from the head nurse of the pediatric oncology unit.
What she does notice is the darkening circles under her small son’s eyes when she walks into his room to read him his bed time story. She notices the waxy feeling of his feverish fingers as they lay loosely grasped in her own cool palm. She notices how hard it is becoming to hold back her tears as she holds him close and asks him to tell her about his day.
But he grins at her with his dry lips and pearly teeth and eagerly begins to speak…

And back at the beginning, the cashier opens the front door of her row house. She climbs the two steep sets of stairs leading to the living area and steps inside. Her fiancé turns to her and smiles.
“How was your day?” he asks.
“Fine,” she sighs, stretching her sore back, “but this one lady totally threw her change at me, even though I was holding my hand out for it. I swear, it’s like her only goal was to ruin my day.”

Written in response to Writing Challenge 9 at {W}rite-of-Passage

Once upon a time, in a land called Yerp, there two little boys named Frankie and Willy (actually, for this particular story, I guess I should call them Wouter and Jean-Pierre, but I’m the author and I’m American, so just go along with me, okay?).

Frankie and Willy were twin brothers, but they couldn’t be more different. Frankie was hard working and industrious. He worked long hours in the fields, took care of the crops and studied hard during lesson time. Willy was laid back and preferred traipsing about the wilderness, fishing and trapping muskrats to bring home for supper. He didn’t care too much for lessons, finding it much easier to laze about until the truancy officer eventually insisted he study a bit.

Frankie’s favorite color was gray, Willy’s was green.
Frankie’s favorite snack was pastry, Willy’s was sausage.
Frankie spoke a language spoken by few, Willy spoke a language spoken by many.
Frankie earned money by doing the daily chores, Willy nicked the money from Frankie’s piggy bank.

And the two were always fighting.

Frankie insisted that Willy should work harder around the homestead. He stomped his feet and told Willy that his language was important too, and that each brother should speak each other’s language.

Willy smirked and refused. Why should he work harder when he knew Frankie would just continue to do all the hard work himself? Why should he bother earning his own money when he knew Frankie would just continue to fill the piggy bank. And who wanted to speak Frankie’s language anyway? It was silly and little and hardly anyone else used it anyway.

The twins fought and fought, nearly coming to blows until their father, Russel (or Ruxelles, if this fairy tale isn’t already transparent enough), stepped in and negotiated a truce.
See, Russel was the head of a large pottery company called West Urn Yerp  and ever since he had been given his position, he had been under a lot of pressure from his boss to show that he could hold his company together. And how can a man be trusted to hold an entire company together if he can’t even control things in his own back yard?

So Russel, who was in the middle of his own identity crisis and was struggling with drinking problems and sinking ever deeper into a life of crime, decided to patch up the relationship between his sons in the easiest way possible.
He raised each of their allowances and promised them that, no matter what, they’d be treated equally, as long as they held hands and pretended to get along.

Willy, who was never one to ignore the insistent knocking of opportunity, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand as tight as he could and promised he’d try harder. He even learned a bit of Frankie’s language (Frankie had already mastered Willy’s language long before, since that was the only way Willy would bother speaking to him) although he rarely bothered to speak it, since he knew Frankie already understood him well enough.
Frankie grudgingly held onto Willy’s hand as well, knowing that without Russel, he’d have a much harder time finding enough chores to do to earn money for his piggy bank.

And so it went. Frankie continued to work hard to earn money and learn new things while Willy continued to wander around and pluck the coins from his brother’s piggy bank. If Frankie complained, Russel threatened to stop giving him chores to earn his allowance. If Willy demanded too much, Russel scolded him a bit before patting him roughly on the head and heading down to the bar to join some of his sleazier friends for a round of drinks.

And so it continues to this very day, far far away in the land of Yerp. Frankie and Willy are still forced to hold hands, despite their constant squabbling while Russel grins falsely and continues to hold onto the day to day management of West Urn Yerp, ignoring the troubles in his own back yard.

The tale doesn’t end here, of course, for there is always the matter of trying to clear the wild Turkeys out of Frankie’s garden, or the inexplicable flow of Morro Cans into Willy’s forrest.
But the hour grows late and those are tales for another time.