meeting Benny

Benny belongs to Andrea who has been my writing partner off and on
for years. She wrote when her husband was dying, when she sold her
home in Idaho and bought a new one, when she signed up for a poetry
class taught by Ellen Bass. Yesterday we met for the second time ever
in Stonestown and I finally got to meet Benny too. Andrea was on
her way to Stinson Beach and we had coffee at Peet's and talked of
many things. Round Robin writing encourages us to dig deeper and
uncover joys and sorrows in a safe environment. Andrea and I know
each other very well despite only meeting in person twice in life.
(Benny is half corgi and half Jack Russel and wanted to kill every
bird in and around Stonestown.)

mice, according to Eric

The prompt: Etiology
My writing partner this week: Eric (aka Spotty West)
The result: too wonderful

It was once thought that mice were spontaneously generated by old rags.

Now we think we have a pretty good idea about where mice come from. 

(It’s strange that people thought mice might be generated from old rags 

but that they knew where human babies came from. Why wouldn’t they 

extrapolate that mice came from their mothers?)

     You see, I’m not a good person to go around etiologizing. I tend to 

jump to conclusions too easily. Someone like me is probably who decided 

that mice came from old rags. 

     “Every time you see baby mice they are in a bunch of old rags, so it 

is obvious—any fool could see that that is where they come from. What 

is the matter with you people. Don’t you have eyes. Mice come from rags.”

when Robins write

Suzy Parker is doing a fabulous job running the Robin program this time.
She asked me to be a substitute and here is my contribution for today:

INSTANTLY (the prompt)

It's 5:50 am and the breakfast prep is finished, the coffee extra good and
strong. I feel powerful and capable and I have a full work shift today. The
classical music radio station is on here, next to my dictionary, Thesaurus
and recharging iPhone. I'm looking forward to my Round Robin writing
for the first time since last October's class when I was also a substitute.

Now I start crying again. I have cried every morning since Jane died last
Friday. I have always written for Jane. I want to make her smile, I need
her to send a reply. Yes, I want her approval and I always have. Friends
have always liked my writing, but when I met Jane everything changed.
She became the writing teacher put on this earth just to admire my talent.
I became a writer in 2001, when I first met Jane.

Two years or so ago she hosted a gathering of some her students at the
Progressive Cafe on Bryant Street. The topic was Food and she selected 
three of my old robin food-related pieces for me to read.

"Sure," I said. "Let me clean these up, edit and perfect them and I'll be there."

"No," Jane responded. "I like your writing just the way it is. Do not change
one word, your voice is so unique and clear when you do your ten minute
writes."

You're the boss, Jane. I'll always write to you and for you. Often with tears.
Always with gratitude.

what would YOU say?

Here is the prompt for today's Round Robin ten minute writing exercise.
Teacher (and friend) Jane has a great eye and living in SF provides her
with a lot of interesting subject matter with her camera. But I have not a
clue what I will write about.

cats, dogs, robins

I have been subbing as a Round Robin this week. Today my partner is
Linda and just knowing that I'm writing to her frees me to reflect a bit
more honestly than sometimes. Here is today's piece:

MY PET (the prompt)

I have a fictional cat named Salmon. A big orange guy who helps my
narrator (Ellen) as she tries to find out who killed her husband, Seth.
Yesterday at the SPCA I saw a Salmon-like fellow, round and profound.
He locked eyes with me and told me that he would be oh so happy
here in Bernal Heights. He said that he would never jump on the
kitchen sink or any table and that he would abide by all of our house rules.

We have had five cats and one dog here in our real house. My husband
never bonded with any of the cats, except for Uncle Junior who was
orange and very special. We thought we would be paid $5,000 to bring him
home and neither of us liked him very much at first. But, oh did he grow
on us. I can't describe exactly why he was so likable, but even Bill
warmed up to him. That special combination of independent and lovable.
Surprise, we never got one penny for rescuing him, but in the end we
were the fortunate ones. His death was a blow to both of us.

Our dog was a big Irish Setter and who could not adore him? Life is
so much easier without pets - the house stays clean(er) and there
are no huge vet bills to worry about. And yet, and yet...
 

a prompt by any name

I'm a Round Robin sub this week again - here is what we are supposed to
write about for 10 or 12 minutes today. I'm guessing it's one of Jane's
photos, seen through some sort of dirty window or special lens. I find these
vague arty things exceedingly difficult to write to or about, but every once
in awhile my head and fingers produce something not too bad. But today,
I don't think so...

my little sleep aid

LISTENING TO THE RADIO (the prompt)

I call it Insomnia Radio and I perfected it these past few years. I used to
listen to the little transistor under my two thin feather pillows, but now
I have the earplug which I occasionally forget to take out when I hop
up in the middle of the night to go for a pee. Ooooops and loud clatter
disturbs the husband, so sorry.

I've learned not to listen to real talk radio anymore, it pisses me off
too much. Oh, those right wing nutcases wriggle into my ear and I'm
wide awake and feeling very angry in a very short amount of time.

So now it's KNBR, sports and more sports. Of course I prefer the soothing
voices of our Giants baseball announcers, but even then if I knew we had
lost the game, I couldn't listen to the midnight rerun. Too distressing.
Currently it's mostly about football and soon basketball. I don't give a
damn about either of those sports, so the radio serves its purpose.

Since we are living in 2013, I do have my stash of Ambien, but I have
such an addictive nature that I'm afraid I'd get hooked. I save it for special
occasions when life punches me in the nose or when I go to my writers
group and drink a full cup of coffee while we laugh and cry and read
each others' work.

talk about temptation

THOSE VOICES  (a Round Robin prompt from 8/21)

Today's Word-of-the-Day is SIREN and the description centers around those
beautiful sea nymphs who lured sailors to their deaths in the rough seas.
They used their gorgeous looks and siren voices to cause destruction.

In my youth the male siren must have been those useless teenage boys
who hung around smoking cigarettes and looking poetically doleful. In
reality they probably couldn't string more than four words together, but
they were indeed cool and so seductive.

I just finished a disturbing article in the New Yorker about Steubenville,
Ohio and those football boys who raped a drunk teenage girl and
then took photos and videos. We read about this so often. The author, a
woman, talks about the "rape culture" and how some young men feel
that they can just take what they need or want. In many small towns
everyone lives for the high school football games so these guys were
heroes, until they weren't. The town was divided on this one.
Sad and sickening.

Boozing is one of the main problems. Big Liquor would fight it, but we
need to educate people that this alcohol siren can be deadly. So fun and
warming with the first few drinks, so horrific when young lives are ruined.

my "new Roget's Thesaurus"

TOO SHORT (today's Round Robin prompt)

Well, this piece will be short, but probably not too short for the reader. I'm in
a rush to get to work and then we have theater tonight, so no time. It's
Tuesday and I have a new partner (Kate) and I don't want her to think that
I'm a dolt. Mistress Jane already knows that I'm a dolt, so there.

I'm going to check my Thesaurus for a little dolt wordplay here:
    •    dimwit
    •    dullard
    •    dunce
    •    donkey
    •    ass
    •    booby

Booby? How old is this book? Ooooops, copyright 1959. Good God.
There isn't one hi tech(ish) word in here, maybe I should replace it.
And yet, and yet. I've had it since college and it really is my dear
old blue friend. We've been through so much together.

This reminds me of my friend who gave away her childhood dictionary.
In the back it listed Hitler as the President of Germany.

fish tails

sea perch

We have two exciting new Tiapos members: Linda and Randy! Photos will
appear one day soon, but of course you can read Linda's blog over there,
listed on the right. She is multi, multi-talented. It was a very special evening.

YOU CAUGHT IT (from a 2012 round robin prompt)

I used to like to fish as a child and I was even able to put wiggly bait on a
hook. I also removed the hook from the mouth of any fish that was slapping
its body around in a valiant effort to stay alive. It seemed okay then, even fun,
but now it just seems like killing another living thing, and that doesn't
appeal to me one bit.

We'd fish off the San Clemente pier every summer. My father, brother
and me . We'd rent the same home overlooking the ocean and it seems like
for one unbelievable month we'd all get along. Mother would fry the fresh
perch for us for dinner. She didn't like to eat fish and as I remember my father
would clean the catch and we would all say that it was the best, most
delicious fish in the world. When we weren't fishing my brother and I constantly
played in the surf and the only way they could get us out of the water was to
promise us ice cream cones on the way home. Magical summers.

Husbando and I went fishing too ~ the party salmon boats that go out here on the
San Francisco bay. It was fun then, getting up very early and being on a smelly
boat in the ocean and then actually catching the salmon. We'd go with friends
or Bill's children and a flask of brandy. The memories are good ones because
the thrill of catching big fish is amazing. But no more fishing for this woman,
I don't think I could look a fish in the eye.

partner perfection

For seven whole days I get to write to my friend Linda in the Round Robin
class. The Writing Salon Mistress and I go round-and-round about the
issue of partners, because some of them are flakes and duds and they (like)
write from their iPhones. Or they don't respond to my pieces and they
forget to send me anything and it's just so frustrating and it ruins my
Robin experience. Mistress Jane thinks it shouldn't matter and if I
commit to write for 10 minutes a day, I needn't worry about who I
partner with. There are special people that I LOVE writing to/for and
Linda is one of them. Of course today I have writer's block ~ ah,
the irony. What's the topic? A storm. The storm? Storm center? But
a good partner cures lack of inspiration, at least I hope so. We'll see...

a daily Round Robin write

CHOPPED (the prompt)

Sure, we watch the Food Network ~ all those pompous chefs judging each
other and using strange ingredients. But probably the best chef movie ever
was Ratatoulie because after seeing it my husband Bill started sharpening
our various knives before using them. He draws them over that round metal
thing several times, back and forth, just like the talented little French rat chef.

Neither of us have managed to master the fast chop-chop the way real chefs do.
We both cook and both take pride in our concoctions, but I guess we are
still amateurs. Now that I don't work five days a week I have been cooking
more. Usually I make the salads on days I don't work and Husbando makes
the main dish. We have dinner together (with the newscasters or baseball
games) and lunch is pretty much a catch as catch can affair.

Breakfast is very individual and we each devote ourselves to the Chronicle
and although we sit across from one another, we mostly push each others'
newspaper away so we can spread out and read all the local nonsense
and gossip. The SF Chronny is a poor excuse for a newspaper, but we
love it because it goes so well with blueberries, banana and yogurt.

our guest blogger

( I asked Dale Bentson if I could use his piece and he said, "yes." He
is one of my all-time favorite Round Robin writing partners and I
know you'll love this one. Thank you sincerely, Dale!)

Recently downloaded Big Brother & Holding Company - Live at the Carousel Ballroom

1968, from iTunes. Of course it's nostalgia music, music from my generation, something

I easily identify with, hard rock, acid rock, thumping in your head forever rock, the Baby

Boomer plugged-in reaction to Frank Sinatra ballads, and that half generation in between

of spineless Frankie Avalon, Muscle Beach Party tripe.

This is music that singes the psyche, burns behind the eyes, crawls around the cranium

and causes involuntary responses that are hard to characterize. Makes me want to get

drunk on cheap gin, crank up the stereo, and let that tragically wonderful, supremely

gravely, über soulful, voice of Janis Joplin fill me, flow around and through me, pull

on my heartstrings, nudge my soul, make my head want to explode - and release

me from my contemporary self, my expressionless ancient identity, my diffidence,

my sixty plus year old society that I have grown too weary of.

I need to roll on the floor and howl, pin up psychedelic Day-Glo posters of Jimi

and Janice, The Airplane and The Dead, and install black lights all over my living

room. I want to wallow in the world's present-day tragedies but pretend that

someday everything will be all right once we're in charge. We'll make love baby,

not war, count on it. I don't want to bathe or shave or get a haircut. I need to locate

my hip-huggin' bell bottoms and bundle of reefer papers.

But Janis, oh Janis, sweet catastrophic Janis, on a countdown with death, a date

with an early destiny. I hear it in your voice. You showed us too much, too soon,

and there were no alternatives left, painted yourself into a corner at age twenty-seven,

fragile misfit, insecure outcast, with the lungs and lifestyle of an anti-Christ.

Janis, your voice, your unmistakable, irrepressible, raspy, coarse as tumbleweed,

voice, you don't serenade the ear, you splash cold water in the face. Wake me up,

shake me up, make me come alive inside again. You make my organs dance, more

free-tumble than with ballroom pattern or precision – a plasmic, psychedelic,

intoxicating wobble. It's easy to fall into a hard stupor while you blitzkrieg the senses;

Napoleon and Caesar would have been Silly Putty in your hands. You're a fast-forward,

slow motion act, we freeze while you continue at light speed. But your speed ends in

wreckage. We didn't realize your irresistible force was on a collision course with the

grimmest Army of the Dark - that immoveable force of your own cloistered hell.

Take me on this starry ride with you, for a little while, at least. Let me hear the blaring

triumph of your voice, your blue collar victory over everything establishment, including

rock and roll itself. Defy the world, defy Nature, defy the gods themselves. They'll get

you in the end, but oh the beauty of Comet Janis, blazing across the sky, scorching

heaven and earth. Just take me with you.

-Dale Bentson

free floating thoughts

(today's Round Robin 10 minute write)

This morning I awoke thinking about the people in my life who are
no longer here. And yet they are here, maybe. I hope they float above me
like in this wonderful Billy Collins' poem:

The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass-bottom boats of
heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.

Parents, brother, friends and even my foes. Are they in one
large boat or do they have individual dinghies? I think Michael will
secure his own boat, just as he was able to have a single room when
he was in rehab. Just demand it in your gentle way, dear friend.

Are my parents with my brother and is he having yet another loud
fight with mother? Will my father be reading the newspaper, smoking and
pretending to ignore them? That kind of mutual mother-son anger could upset
a small boat and then what?

Bill's brothers ~ floating and rowing together or apart? They didn't have
too much in common, but I imagine they would like to be partners in a
little boat. Can we change boats when we want to? Hop on with a friend
for awhile, work things out with an enemy? Be alone for awhile so we
can slip over to France to see a niece or have a latte with a friend in
New York? Will our Kindles, iPhones and computers work in the
glass-bottom boats? Alas, I already know the answer to that one

I know it's not Sunday

(but here's an old daily write that I like...)

OPEN THE BOX! (rr #7)

It's blue, a clear blue like your memories of Lake Tahoe the first time
you saw it. There is a sound inside - tweet/tweet. Birds are chirping
and that is the only noise. It has a gentle warm feel to it - like the
soft croissant that you just had for breakfast. You put enough sweet
butter on that to cause a heart attack, but it was almost worth it.

But back to this box. It's a Sunday, a rare Sunday you have off,
because usually it is your day to open the Borders store and be the
manager in charge that day. You have always liked to work on
Sundays, but holding this special blue box today, you understand why
so many people beg to have this day off. They say it is for "religious
reasons" and for once you don't scoff. For once you understand.

Sunday is so different than every other day, especially in this frantic
city. You have been up for hours, anticipating this special time. You
opened the back door even if there was still a slight chill. This
Sunday-in-a-Box is still unopened, but there are so many presents inside.
But you want to open this gift very slowly, enjoying the luxury of it all.

A Street Fair on Haight Street. Oh, perfect. Lots of people to watch
and a chance to walk in this glorious weather. Lunch outside, of
course, maybe the French toast at Pasta Pomodoro. A walk at
Crissy Field would be perfect. You've already started the Sunday
Chronicle and because you were able to read it over coffee on your
back deck, it seemed like the writing was better. Your husband and
you exchange mindless comments about a few articles you have read.

Everything is more poignant today. The past, the future, but especially
living in this perfect moment with the Sunday Box in front of you, that
you continue to open very slowly so you can savor every moment.

06/13/04
8:50 am Sunday vaca

my (sort of) writing life

The daily writing online Round Robin course ends tomorrow,
with a thud. I don't know what's going on with me, but every
morning it was a struggle. If I don't write in the morning it
is even worse, so I forced myself to type away and shoot it
via email to my partner and to Mistress Jane. We are supposed
to write for 10 to 12 minutes, but some days I was lucky to
get 5 minutes in.

On the other hand, I did it. I did not miss a day for nine
tedious weeks. I responded to every partner's piece and some
of those were horrid. After taking so many of these Robin
courses I've come to believe that the partner makes all the
difference. At one point I wrote Jane and begged her for a
GOOD partner: Linda, Will, Jennifer, Seth, Dale ~ some of
the writers I've grown to know and love. I'm so much more
comfortable with them and it's sort of like just sending a
warm little email. Relax, I'm among friends.

And yes, I'm going to skip the next session. I've already
decided to do yoga exercises every morning instead of
writing or trying to write. There, I put it down in the blog
and that means I have to do it. Eeeeeeeek, what have I done?

fifteen years

It all seems to be colliding, this time business. This morning's
prompt was 15 Years, so I dug out my calendar to see what
in the Hell was going on back then. I have 30 years of my
work/play calendars and I seldom look at them, but today
1996 is invaluable.

• we were going to the Symphony then and I would doze
• dinner at Le Trou with Vera and Curt ~ he died several years ago
  
• g.dot Lindsay born
• working at B&N Colma (one of the worst in my retail career)
• first year anniversary for Lee and Kristin
• saw "The Matchmaker" at ACT ~ no memory of that play
• lots of games at Candlestick and the Giants did not win often

Yes, I won't do anything rash and I agree that old letters
and emails need to be saved. It just seems more complicated
in the electronic age. Or maybe that's just me. Sign me,
Conflicted.

something borrowed

The prompt...

my partner's daily Round Robin write from yesterday:

HAIL, BRITANNIA!

The Queen smiles for the camera

on her wedding day.

If you look closely at the tiara,

you see the blood of miners.

And the double strand of pearls

the size of plump chickpeas:

the myriad fingers of the young divers

who pried them from the ocean floor.

And the women who tatted the lace:

a mob really, yet so silent, not to mention

the single Swiss artist, Josephine,

who canceled her trek through the Alps

to sew the trousseau and never

recovered full sight.

But the Queen smiles broadly,

and we feel the warmth, and none of us

thinks too hard about Imperialism as a policy

or wealth or the power behind the throne,

the legions in uniform, the generations

of strategy and intimidation and excessive profit.

They’re not her fault, and we are all

imperialists really, large or small,

running our scams of wealth and power

with less success but equal ambition.

And it’s wrong, probably, to spoil

the wedding day by thinking about it

or slowing down our intake of champagne,

or wandering for a moment through the door

marked Tomorrow, or touring the castle

after the gifts have been unwrapped

and dinner is growing cold and the royal couple

sits alone, taking shallow breaths

and blowing on their soup,

just like the rest of us.

Will Walker