Fighting the KC Boredom

My 2 year anniversary.

2012-02-19T00:01:00.000-06:00

Two years ago I put up my first blog post, today I have business cards that declare me as "Author, Blogger, Editor". When I look at the cards I think of how much I wanted to throw up after I posted that first piece.

My first novel is taking shape. I'm happy to report the feedback I've gotten so far is people are curious, engaged, and most importantly want more. It's the first long project I've tackled, and as I get closer to the end I'm picking up momentum. For me, much of being a writer is learning my process. Now, I know on a long project I have to get an idea of where things are going. I've never worked from an outline in my life, but over the past year a spiral bound book slowly filled itself. Today it holds the key to the Color Eaters and an outline for where things could end up. Who knew? I certainly didn't.

Then there's those 5 writers who meet me in a coffee house every single week. Without WTF I know I would still be floundering aimlessly and Lena would have never gotten out of the damn jail cell. When I don't write they arch their eyebrows and listen to my excuses. The next week I come back with a few shoddy pages, and they read each one as if it is something of import. They encourage me when I can't possibly do this crazy thing called writing any more, and they celebrate with me for each tiny step of my stories. I'm so grateful they asked me to join, because without them I may have well given up long ago. (Check out their work by clicking on CRAZIE TOWN, Dawn Downey's Blog, Donna Louise, One Monkey Typing or WolfWeyr on my sidebar.)

I took over as managing editor of Kansas City Voices in December. It's only been three months, but I already have ideas on how to make things go even more smoothly for next year. A lot of what I've been focusing on is updating the way we do things. Introducing the board to how we can use technology to make production less cumbersome so we can really focus on finding excellent talent and getting their work out our readers.

Nobody gets anywhere alone though, and I'm lucky to have fallen in with such a smart, hard-working group of people. Sitting on the board of Whispering Prairie Press I have access to four people with loads of knowledge who continuously teach me things. I thought I was going to learn about being a writer when I joined the board. I didn't realize I would learn how to run a non-profit. I keep waiting for someone to call "Fraud! Impostor! She's nothing but a business person who pretends to be a writer." So far so good, don't tell them-okay?

I could keep going on forever, but I find talking about myself quite boring. Thank you for reading, thank you for seeing value in what I do. I hope you enjoy the stories I weave, because I'm ever so much happier since I started sharing them.

Thanks for reading.

Jess

The Color Eaters-Chapter 6-Day 1

2012-02-14T00:30:00.000-06:00

(If you need a refresher click on the Olena Burnwhite tag in the categories bar on the right. You can catch up on the first five chapters. Thanks for reading-Jess)

Dust particles dance through a sunbeam high above my head. They waft through air’s currents, aimless and frenzied. I watch them long enough the beam travels almost the entire span of my cell, but I find no reason to move from the pallet I woke up on. My tongue, clumsy and swollen makes my words come out thick as I ask my phantom father. “Did they throw me, or lay me down gently? Did you see?” No harm done if they threw me full force. The bruises from Mikelson’s beating will surface soon, covering me like a patchwork quilt.

All morning I focus on learning how to breathe in shallow short breaths, an attempt to minimize the pain of my ribs. When Merritt claws into my thoughts I force myself to breathe deeply, and let a wave of pain drown him out.

In between breathing lessons I study my stronghold. The builders cut a thin rectangular window where the ceiling meets the wall of my cell. Frosted louvered glass opens and closes on some sort of schedule I haven’t yet figured out. When the slats are open fresh air circulates, and the dust particles quickstep through the sun shafts.

Polished concrete floors match polished concrete walls, all a gray white that reflects the sunshine quite coldly. My pallet takes up a corner, and stretches along the wall under the window. There is no bed frame or furniture–nothing to stand on or boost me to the window. A sink and toilet stand in the corner diagonal from my bed. The room is surprisingly clean, no dirt or bugs to be seen. Actually, this may be the nicest place I’ve stayed in months.

A soft constant hum plays the bass line to the sounds of my breath and the click of the glass shutters. It takes me a while to decide the electric lights are the source. We never had any in our village. We always used oil lamps, or fires. Who knew the magistrate’s luxuries would be so noisy?

Metal scrapes against the rough cement floor, and a tray slices through the cut-out in the bottom of my cell’s door. The sudden addition to my room surprises me. I’ve been facing the back wall all morning, saving the front wall for this afternoon’s entertainment. Cautiously I raise myself to a seated position. The room spins, I brace myself. I focus on my breath and the spinning slows. I shift to the other end of the pallet.

A door of polished steel stands sentry to my cell. The slot at floor level is covered by a small sliding door. Silver pop rivets stud the door’s seams on my side, but hinges and a handle must hide on the other side of the door.

Laughter spills from me when I turn my attention to the contents of the tray. The pain in my ribs cuts the sound short, a sharp reminder of lessons learned this morning. The tray is divided into five sections each one containing a different item of color. In the upper left hand corner is a white handkerchief embroidered with burgundy, blue and gold thread. Moving clockwise I find a deep green stone, an orangy-red cheap plastic spinning top, a small hand-drawn picture of a house done in pastel colored pencils, and a tanned piece of hide from an unfamiliar animal. A tin mug holds water, and there is a small loaf of dark bread. I sip carefully, and swish the first mouthful of water around slowly, cautious of my swollen tongue. I rip small pieces from the loaf and force myself to chew them one by one. The metallic taste of blood tints each bite of my meal.

I pick up the top, snapping it between my thumb and finger. It spins furiously on the concrete, before it waivers, wobbling from side to side. “Looks like I’m not the only one looking to learn something.” The toy comes to rest, orange glaring against the gray floors. If the magistrate takes this color-eating thing literally I may not even last until trial.

Trial…

I should’ve asked Merritt when I had the chance. He would’ve known what the plan was––too late now.

The Magistrate will still want a public hearing, to put the rumors to rest. Bertram was right though, they can’t haul me into the court room looking like a punching bag. So they’ll put things off long enough for me to heal up to passable. If my face looks anything like how I feel, it’s going to be a good long while before they can cart me in front of a group of reporters.

I fish the Teardrop out of my sock, and rub the disc. Calm overtakes me, and the pain in my ribs lessens. I pick up the corner of my pallet and scratch a hash mark into the cement floor, before sliding the Teardrop into its hiding place. I lie down and close my eyes. The louvered glass clicks. Fresh air drifts into my cell.

Thanks Laura

2012-02-07T08:03:00.000-06:00

"ELEPHANT!"

"What?"

"How do you eat an elephant?"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"One bite at a time."

"Ooooohhh."

"Exactly. You can't keep fixating on the fact you're not done."

"It just seems impossible, and it feels like it's never going to be done."

"I know. I feel the same way sometimes. So when I start thinking like that I scream ELEPHANT to myself."

"You're pretty smart."

"Thank you, but it's not me, really."

"Yes it is. And every time I think of all those pages I'll scream ELEPHANT to myself and know you were right."

They call it obsession for a reason.

2012-01-30T22:57:00.000-06:00

"I think you need an intervention."

"What? You're crazy."

"I'm crazy? You've been putting tiny foil squares on cardboard for four days straight."

"No, I haven't. I just got them yesterday."

"No, you got them on Friday."

"Exactly."

"Today's Tuesday."

"Oh... Well I can stop any time I want to."

"No you can't."

"Yes. Yes I can."

"If you can stop at any time, than why didn't you go to the Johnny Depp double feature this weekend? You love him. He's your boyfriend."

"I just... Well I needed to finish this."

"Really? You needed to finish your stickers. Or what? What would happen."

"They... they wouldn't be done."

"Yeah, and then you could do them later. Hey, why are you holding your hand like that?"

"Like what?"

"Don't try to hide it from me... Your right hand. It's all balled up and claw like."

"No. It's just, I just got a little bit of sticker hand. That's all."

"Sticker hand? Seriously, you can't even open and close your fingers."

"I can too."

"That's it. Hand them over."

"No. Just one more!"

So this is why I write

2012-01-05T16:31:00.002-06:00

I opened my mailbox today and found a thick letter with a note from my post man "Postage Due - 20 cents". Curious I flipped the envelope over and noted the return address was from my mother. It was an unexpected delivery, but as I walked back to my condo I surmised it was notes on a manuscript of mine she had just finished reading. Safe in my living room I ripped through the glue and pulled out a note.

"Loved the manuscript. Cleaning out some files and found this. Wasn't sure if you had a copy. -- Love you, Mom."

Scrawled at the top of a blank white page in my Grandfather's handwriting were the words:

Keep this for Ever
Thanks Pat
Dad

My eyes started to water because cards from Grandpa had stopped when we buried him years ago. I hadn't seen his funny 1920s handwriting in so long, and until this moment I didn't know how much I'd missed the fancy T's and extra loop at the top of his D's.

I flipped the page to find a letter to my Grandmother, dated Easter Sunday, 1991.

For nine pages the world stopped and I was eleven years old again.

In this world we sat around the kitchen table playing cards and my Grandparents kept score in their funny grandparent hand-writing. Grandpa whistled warbly tunes, and Grandma let me help her in the kitchen. August would bring our birthdays (Mom, Grandpa, Grandma, and me) and we would celebrate over a tall frosted cake. If I wanted I could run to find Grandpa for a stick of Juicy Fruit. Or sit and talk to Grandma as she ate salted tomatoes, and washed them down with half a can of beer sipped from a highball glass.

The letter stopped too soon, and I was left standing in my bedroom in 2012.

But, in 2012, I knew just a few weeks after the letter was dated Grandma would die.

I sat on my bed, missing them and crying when I realized, that's why we do it.

That's why we write it down. Because when you do it correctly a moment lasts forever and you never lose anyone completely.

The Color Eaters-Chapter 5

2011-12-22T00:53:00.000-06:00

(Who knew running a magazine would take so much time? I'm behind on my word count, but I'm still shooting for a St. Pats finish date for my first draft. If you need to catch up on the opening of my novel go to the Olena Burnwhite tag on the right side of my screen and you can read the first 4 chapters in order. Thanks for reading & happy winter solstice.)

Chapter 5

Guards pounce into the camion’s cargo bay, their heavy footsteps reverberating in the metal hold. Pressed in the corner I cower in the shadows, temporarily out of reach of their harsh electric torchlight. My sanctuary buys me a few seconds of darkness to slide the teardrop into my mouth, and curl into a ball. I put my forehead on my knees, shrug my shoulders together, and interlace my fingers behind by neck–trying to make myself as small as possible.

White light illuminates me. The light barer barks “She’s loose?”

Silence hangs in the air long enough for the three guards to trade confused sidelong glances. I hold my breath awaiting their verdict.

A steel toed boot slams into my shins. “How the hell did you get loose?” Kicks gain power with each swing of his leg, and a fury of insults punctuate the sound of what I imagine must be my ribs breaking. The walls of the cam keep me in place. My assailant snatches the electric torch from one of his cohorts, and starts to beat me about my shoulders with it. I bite down on the teardrop to keep from crying out, and wonder how long this can last. Between the blows I catch glimpses of the three men, but only the one dares to touch me. The other two guards hold back, not adding to my assault, but doing nothing to dissuade my attacker.

“Mikelson, stand down.” A deep baritone voice fills the hold. The voice feels familiar, but I have no time to ponder because Mikelson ignores the order. Continuing to kick at me until he is ripped from my corner by the commanding officer. The officer hurls Mikelson against the wall of the camion, leaving an imprint of Mikelson’s head in the thin metal. He punctuates each of his words by slamming Mikelson’s head back into the wall as each syllable is uttered. “She’s not to be harmed.”

The officer spins to face the two immobile guards, as the subdued Mikelson rubs at his face. “And you two, standing by to watch as someone deliberately disobeys orders. Perhaps you can follow this order. Take Mikelson to the brig and then report to my office. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t move from my office until you hear from me. Personally.”

His fury is not missed by any of his men. The two guards jolt forward to collect Mikelson, and all three hasten out of the cam.

I try to catch my breath, and feel the officer crouch down beside me. He reaches for the torchlight rolling erratically about the floor of the camion, and presses a button to switch the harsh light off. We sit in the dark, the only sounds our labored breathing and the rush of blood in my ears. I spit the teardrop into my right hand, and secure it once again in my sock. Uncoiling timorously, I am relieved to find each of my appendages in working order. After a few minutes my eyes adjust to the dim light, and I see he is watching me.

The officer sits just out of reach, his back against the wall, knees bent, feet flat on the floor. I can’t make out his face. I study him for a moment, and a sigh escapes me when I realize I don’t need to. It would of been less painful to get beaten to death then say his name, but it slips from my lips, a stunned whisper. “Merritt.”

My acknowledgement hangs between us, a declaration of all that we used to be.

He reaches toward my face.

“Don’t.” I hiss, recoiling before he can touch me.

His shoulders slump, and he pulls his hand back. He tilts his head back to rest against the metal wall, and closes his eyes.

I breathe deeply, then try to stand. With the grace of a cat he is on his feet, his arms pulling me upward. Once I’m on my feet I brush his hands from me, and hobble toward the door. I’m just about to cross into the light beyond the cam when he speaks, “Lena, please.”

I hear him say my name and whirl to the shadows. Finding my last ounce of strength, my right-palm stings as it meets his face. “My name is Olena Burnwhite. You have no right to call me Lena.”

He winces, hurt tinges his voice “I understand.” He takes three long strides, and steps into the light before me.

He falls from my view, and the last thing I hear before passing out is his deep familiar voice. “Transport prisoner Burnwhite to her cell.”

So you know how I started working with that magazine.

2011-12-10T20:08:00.000-06:00

It was around a year ago right now.

We'll we're putting together our 10th anniversary edition, and we're looking for good writers and artists to share their work with us. If you know someone with a compulsion to create, if you'd direct them to the Kansas City Voices submissions page I'd be most grateful. All they need to do is click here. Submissions are open until March 15, 2012.

For those of you I don't get to catch up with on a daily basis, you may not have heard. I agreed to be Managing Editor of the magazine for the next year, and the board said "While you're at it, why don't you try being President of the press too?" So, I said yes. It makes me want to throw up a little bit, but only because I'm excited.

I also hit 100 pages on my novel this week. That feels pretty good too.

Hope everyone survives the holidays, and maybe even has time for a little bit of fun.

Thanks for reading.

Jess

I have mad baby skills

2011-12-04T13:34:00.000-06:00

"Hold this in front of her face, and hold her by her cheeks."

"Like this?"

"Yes, just sit her up a little more. Now you do this."

"You want me to hit your baby?"

"That sounds awful when you say it like that."

"I can't hit your baby."

"You aren't hitting her, you're patting her back. She has to burp."

"Like this?"

"A little harder."

"I can't, it's too scary. What if I break her?"

"You won't break her. You're doing fine."

"Was that a burp?"

"No... You'll know."

"Hitting babies is really weird."

"Quit saying it like that it sounds terrible."

"Um, is something supposed to happen?"

"Yes, it just takes a little bit."

Pat...pat...pat...

"How bout you do this part and I'll just hold her."

"Okay, give here here."

Burp

"Whoa, I didn't know a little baby could do that."

"Here you go."

My brother and sister-in-law had a new baby, Mackenzie Grace Conoley, one month ago today. They make real cute babies. I'm glad they're such good parents, because it's real fun being an aunt.

The Color Eaters-Chapter 4

2011-10-31T00:01:00.001-05:00

(A bit behind on my word count, but still plugging along. My goal is to be on time with 40,000 words for the 12/22 deadline. If you need a refresher on what's happening go to the Olena Burnwhite tag on the right side of my screen and you can read the first 4 chapters in order. Thanks for reading & have a safe Halloween.)

Waves of pain pull me to consciousness. A sliver of sunlight creeps under a crack at my feet. Wire cuts at my ankles and wrists, and I am too tired to try and sit up. The right side of my head is tender, and my right shoulder throbs under the weight of my body. I try to focus on my surroundings, but a steady purring rocks me back to sleep.

Clatter of rocks against metal rips me from sleep. My cell drops suddenly, and slams the right side of my head against the floor. I roll onto my stomach, and over to my left side. The weight shift causes me to shudder, but at least some of the pressure is relieved from my right shoulder. After log rolling two more times, I find myself once again with my back against a wall. The wall is thin metal, vibrating slightly. A methodic thump shakes the metal box every few seconds. I press my ear to the wall to try and make out voices of my guards, instead I hear the sounds of movement and an open road.

A camion–that’s what this must be. Dad always told me you had to be important to get a ride in one of those. Cams came through town once or twice a year when I was young. It didn’t matter if you were in school, walking down the street, or in a store, the only thing to do when a cam was coming was to run to the nearest window and gawk. Cams were driverless, horseless, and swift, and only the magistrate had access to them. I asked Dad how they worked, with no animals or coal to power them. He smiled weakly and changed the subject. They’re quieter then I thought, I’d always assumed they would be noisy.

Bringing my knees to my chest, I start to wriggle my arms behind me, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to slide my hand around my ass to the front of my body. After what seems to be an eternity, my hands are in front of me, and there is the slightest suggestion of comfort. Panting, I sit propped against the wall with my arms around my knees trying to stop the shaking that has overtaken my body.

“Never thought I’d be this important, did you Dad?” my words are whispered to him out of habit, but my tongue is clumsy in their utterance. My impromptu conversations with Dad had started after his disappearance, a comfort to me in the empty house we had shared. Even when he was home he never said much, so I would fill our rooms with chatter to keep his serious brooding at bay. When I realized he wasn’t coming back I just kept on talking to him. The habit had stayed with me for six years, if I was around anyone long enough for them to notice no one ever said anything. Dad would know what to do, at the very least he would have a way to get me out of these wires. I spit blood from my mouth, and wonder how long it will take for the swelling of my tongue to go down.

Dad had been a mason by day, and a sculptor by night. Masonry kept a roof over our head, but the sculpting gave him a sense of purpose. Because of the nature of his work he always had tools with him. Strong pieces of metal used to repurpose stone. There was an art to his work, I think it was more puzzle solving then manipulation. He could look at a pile of rocks, and see how they fit together. He would tell me it wasn’t a matter of shaping the stone into what you want, it was a matter of seeing the stone for what it is good for.

Pulling up my pant leg I start to fumble with my right sock. Secured in the sock just above my ankle I feel a flat teardrop shaped disc a little bigger then a cherry, I wrestle it from it’s hiding spot & feel calm flood my body. My thumb and pointer finger knead the disc, and I flip the stone over so my thumb fits into the hollowed print worn from years of gentle friction. The point of the teardrop is razor sharp.

I slide my knees forward so my legs are flat in front of me, and bend forward over my knees. With the point of the stone I start to saw at the wires holding my feet together. The first wire cuts after a few minutes. I take a break, before making it through the second wire. Pins and needles flood my feet, and the pain in my head and shoulders is momentarily forgotten due to the awful rush of life into my deadened feet. Tears slip down my cheeks, as I wait for the pain to pass. It’s too dark to risk setting the disk on the ground, or dropping it–I would never find it again. After much trial and error I realize I can hold the disc steady by sitting up straight, with my knees bent and my feet placed sole to sole against one another. I secure the disc between my heels, holding it steady with the point facing upward. Hoping we don’t hit another large bump and I end up slitting my wrists instead, I start to saw the wire against the point. After a few minutes the wire snaps, and I smile at my small victory.

The teardrop is secure in my hand, before I stretch my arms out to either direction. To my right I feel the second edge of the box, I slide myself into the corner. The thudding of the box moves to a slower tempo, before the vibrations stop all together. Voices ring around my cage, including a deep baritone voice–the same voice that called for my arrest in the square. Metal shrieks as the locks to the camion’s door are undone. My hands fly to cover my eyes against a flood of light.

I hope you can join me.

2011-10-20T15:08:00.000-05:00

Many of you know I got involved with a magazine last year and joined their executive & editorial boards. Well not only have I made a lot of friends, I've also learned a ton. As a matter of fact it's been so interesting next year I agreed to take over as Managing Editor and President.

If you'd like to see what I've been up to, Volume 9 of the magazine has finally come back from the printer and we're having two launch events. It would be great if you wanted to come to either of the events. The first event focuses more on our Art and the second on the Literary side of things.

The magazine will be on sale at both events and both events will have speakers (writers, poets, artists) sharing their work.

I hope to see you there & thanks for reading.

Jessica

Kansas City Voices Art Launch

Sunday, November 6, 2011

2 pm-4 pm

KCMO Public Library-Plaza Branch

4801 Main Street, Kansas City, MO

Kansas City Voices Literary Launch

Saturday, November 12, 2011

1 pm -3:30 pm

Johnson County KS Public Library-Main Branch

9875 W. 87th St, Overland Park, KS

http://www.kansascityvoices.com/

It didn't make any sense, but I had a really good time.

2011-10-15T16:35:00.000-05:00

He held out a white envelope, and told me I could have it, BUT only if I swore I'd use what was in it. I nodded my head, held out my hand, and accepted pandora's box. The flap slid open easily, revealing a purple ticket emblazoned with the word "TURANDOT".

So I kept my promise and stepped into a world far outside my own.

In this world the people of the far East speak Italian. A Princess is adored regardless of her penchant for chopping off heads. Three questions hold the keys to happiness, and true love can dull the death of a martyr.

It's a funny world, this Turandot. My analytical brain had a million questions about the events unfolding before me. But then I listened to the lady crying quietly in the seat next to me and remembered. This is the world of opera of course the story isn't going to make sense.

So I stopped thinking and started feeling. The orchestra raised a silver moon, and I let tears creep over my lashes as poor sweet Liu impaled herself. I quit hating the decapitator and actually smiled when she kissed her Prince. I let Puccini's music fill every ounce of the room and beat back all of my disbelief.

It was fun. It was wierd. And yeah, I'd probably do it again.

"You take the girl, or I'm taking your frogs."

2011-10-04T23:14:00.000-05:00

"You take the girl, or I'm taking your frogs."

"What are you going to do with ten frogs?"

"What are you going to do with one girl?"

"I can think of quite a few things, but it hardly seems a fair trade."

"That's for me to decide. You're not really in a position to barter."

"That's true... Do I get to keep her or is this a time share agreement?"

"We'll begin with time share. Depending on how it goes you may be able to keep her. She'll give us a full report tomorrow."

"Okay."

"If anything happens to her the frogs are ours."

"You drive a hard bargain. I'll see what I can do."

"Deal?"

"Deal."

I died a little bit today.

2011-09-27T22:12:00.001-05:00

Today, my work in-box held a white envelope. Inside was a card that I knew would say "Congratulations on X years with the company." I didn't open the card right away, because I didn't want to know how many years of my life I'd let slip by into the cubed world of corporate America. I'm smart enough to appreciate the job that pays my mortgage and gives me health insurance. I'm lazy enough to know a five minute commute is the sweetest deal ever. I'm lucky enough to have a boss who lets me work four days a week. But none of that stopped me from dying (just a little bit) when I saw the number 7.

7.

7 sounds like a really lot of years.

But then Andy said "You only work part time, so it's really like 6.35 or something. And Votta said "But you work for the magazine." And Tiff said "But you're a writer." (And LAS said "drink, drink, drink" but that's what one says when you work in our industry for too long.)

I think I'll like it better when it's my 7 year anniversary as a writer. Because it seems really nice to be able to look back and say "I did that." and be proud because it's a true reflection of who you are.

But I'll keep pretending in the corporate cube world, because a girl's got to eat-- and I really like being able to buy new tights whenever I want.

Soldiers break my heart, and I never even met this one.

2011-09-21T00:18:00.003-05:00

He’s just a boy half way around the world, sitting in frontof a map in a khaki t-shirt and camo pants. His dishwater blonde hair spikes ever so slightly, and hisvoice rings with the slow cadence of Alabama. Clutched in his hand is his cell phone, and tonight he willcall home to tell his father he is gay.

I press play on the you-tube video. Tears blur the screen and I’veforgotten to breathe before we’re even one minute into the video.

I swallow against the lump in my throat when Dad says“Hello”, and wonder if I can bear to watch until the end. The words are said. I want to throw up and cry all at thesame time as we wait to hear Dad’s response.

It’s not even my life, but I know the words that are spokennext will shape the rest of so many peoples lives forever.

I can’t keep from crying, because maybe the Dad doesn’t knowthe right words to say. Maybe he will hang up without responding, and this isthe last time the boy will ever hear his father’s voice. Or maybe he will pretend theconversation never happened and spend his life trying to change his son intosomething he is not. Or maybe… ormaybe… or maybe…

But today, when this Dad finally speaks we hear the rightwords. Our soldier is one of the lucky one’s whose family sees his confessionnot as a flaw but just as a piece of who he is.

And now we know that moment when a father first holds hisson in his arms, counts ten fingers and ten toes, marveling in the perfection ofthe life before him really can last a lifetime. We know a parent’s love really can be infinite,unconditional, and all encompassing. And we hope the parents keep finding the right words to say.

"D is for Dangerous."

2011-09-13T22:05:00.003-05:00

"D is for Dangerous."

"I thought it was for Dirty."

"Eeeew, that makes it sound all diseasy."

"Well, I thought it was weird, but I wasn't going to say anything... Why are we dangerous?"

"Because we capture men with our charms, and then they go mad from loving us."

"Oh. Isn't there some STD that makes you go crazy. Like the syph or something? That makes the D for Dirty again."

"It means DANGEROUS!"

"Fine. Dangerous... They don't really fall in love with us, right? Because I'm real busy right now."

"It doesn't matter if they really do or don't fall in love, the whole point is the power over them."

"Well, it's just I've got that whole 2nd job thing going on, and when a guys in love with you they always want to talk, and hang out, and..."

"They're NOT really falling in love, they're just at your command."

"Like if I need something off a tall shelf, they'll get it."

"Yes. But you're not thinking big enough. They have to do what ever you want."

"Like bringing me a basket full of kittens with little bow ties on so I can play with them?"

"DANGEROUS. You have the power to ruin them."

"Well if you ruin them then you just have to fix them, and then you're back to how they started in the first place."

"That's it. I give up."

"Lets have another drink."

Grandpas carry magic of their own light.

2011-09-06T23:59:00.000-05:00

I had a Grandpa that whistled warbled tunes. He could make a stranger a friend with a smile and nod. He stood tall as the sun and caught catfish with nothing more then a hot dog. He knew the cat liked ice cream just as much as the dog, and served us our scoops in wooden bowls. When the lines of reality started to blur, he kept his wit and made the nurses blush. Through his stories I learned to be me.

I have a Grandpa that speaks in hushed tones. He squirrels glasses in hidey-holes, and wears three pairs at a time. When I was small, he would catch me as I ran to him. Throw me in the air and yell “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!” He asks about the road we took to get there, because he knows the journey is the exciting part. He ages with Grace and the dignity only attainable after decades of hard work. Through his stories I learned to me.

We lost a Grandpa this week. One who carved the world with steady, nimble hands. A Grandpa who knew how to welcome you home when everything felt lost, and taught you to stand on your own because you are worth it. Each story a lesson and each lesson a tool, because you were his little girl and he knew you were worth it. Through his stories you learned to be you.

Grandpas always worry that they have never given us enough. But they make us who we are. I hope they understand how much that means.

In honor of Conrad Ernest Stanley.

22 Lessons learned or confirmed on my Birthday Vacation.

2011-09-02T23:43:00.001-05:00

You can create an entirely purple dinner menu without utilizing cabbage.
Blueberry chutney served over pork gives the meat a distinctly cadaver-ish quality.
Biker gang members in KCK do not earn their street names by killing people.
Eating at Lydia's for lunch and Strouds for dinner on the same day is a very bad idea.
Almost five year old little girls are very good at putting stickers on cards, they are not so good at remembering to enclose gifts in said cards.
One should not plan on going to a winery the day after going to dive bars.
Yas, Lola and I all wear the same size shoes.
Danse (from Jem and the Holograms) is the whiniest and least coordinated dancer ever.
My Mom doesn't mind going shopping, when we are shopping for my Birthday dress.
Willowwacks is my new favorite word. (Okay, it can't ever replace egg, but it's really, really good.)
How to play whist.
In Serenity the scene on the hand held viewer has River smelling Inara's bed.
My body still automatically resets to the morning is evil sleeping schedule.
I love having a nook. Even though I was worried I wouldn't like it, and would miss the feel of paper and the sound of turning pages.
Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog is one of the few tolerable musicals on the planet.
What happens at the slumber party stays at the slumber party.
Waking up in the sunshine, to the sound of kitty foot prints is one of the best ways to wake up.
11 days of vacation is still not quite enough.
I prefer the blue highways method of cooking.
Pinball + Radiohead + Boys is an unstoppable combination.
Reading books isn't always good for writing books.
Reading books is the best way to learn how to write a book.

Thank you to everyone for all my Birthday wishes and fun. I had a really good time.

Jess

The Color Eaters-Chapter 3

2011-08-22T09:54:00.000-05:00

(Maybe I should have set the goal of 20,000 words by the end of Birthday vacation instead of by my Birthday. Lots and lots of fun this week, but it left me a few words shy of my 20,000 word deadline. I'm confident I can have the 20k done by the time I have to go back to work though, so I've fudged and put up Chapter 3. Consider it my Birthday present to you. Thanks for reading and if you need to catch up on back chapters, click on: Olena Burnwhite in the categories section to the right.)

Chapter 3

The staccato click of the guards’ boots echoes fiercely against the cobblestones of the square, the frenzied rhythm bleeding into Bertram’s words, “Lena, you can’t. Do you know what they’ll do to you?”

Specialists drop from the roof, surrounding our table with synchronized efficiency. Bertram hasn’t missed their entrance, but his terror is focused on me alone.

Springing from my chair, I back toward the window of the café. “No, but I guess we’re about to find out.”

From the barrage of soldiers, a deep baritone voice decrees “Olena Burnwhite you are wanted by the magistrate on counts of evasion, conspiracy, and conduct unbecoming a citizen.” The voice must belong to one of the charcoal clad guards standing a few feet behind my assailants. I don’t have time to make out his face as the formation tightens into a half circle, shrinking toward our table, forcing me up against the café window.

Bertram rises from his seat, dignified, deliberate. His voice is cool and authoritative, in no way does he resemble the man I just shared lunch with. “I order you to desist at once. I am Ambassador Merrigold of the outlands. This woman is not to be harmed. She is part of my envoy.”

All movement stops.

The specialists stand, a half circle of statues, weapons drawn. I now know the order is I’m not to be harmed, because the silver telescoping batons in their grasp are held parallel to their forearms–the wrong angle for them to point the electrical charge in my direction.

A tall, emaciated man, in charcoal gray breaks into the circle. Gold glitters at his shoulders and wrists, four red slashes confirm he is the highest-ranking official on the premises. Brittle gray hair, slicked to one-side, falls in a straight sheet to his shoulders ending with a meticulous upward curl. “Respectfully, Ambassador, we must decline your request. There is no history of you bringing an envoy into the providence. The magistrate was informed you were traveling on private holiday, not government business, which would nullify your claims to her immunity.” Sallow skin stretches over his protruding cheekbones leaving cavernous hollows where one’s cheeks should be. His tiny yellow eyes scan the circle, and a sneer pulls at his upper lip when he sees me trapped against the building. His voice is tremulous, lilting, a stark contrast to whom ever called for my arrest. “As you and I both know the statute you are referring to only applies to your envoy when you are working for or on behalf of your territory in a professional capacity, furthermore…”

“Furthermore, you’ve spent six years chasing me, and couldn’t let me get away now could you Hedrick?”

Three swift steps bring him inches from my face. “It’s Commander Thornwhistle, girl, I suggest you remember who I am.”

Hot breath steams against my neck. I fight the urge to shrug away from him. Pressing my hands against the window behind me, their trembling stops momentarily–the glass cool against my damp palms. “Oh, I don’t have a problem remembering who you are.” My voice holds firm, and I feel the slightest hint of a grin slip over my lips. “But, maybe you couldn’t remember me. Is that why it took you so long?”

His baton catches me behind my knees, and I slam against the cobblestones with such force my teeth pierce my tongue. Blood trickles from the edge of my mouth as I try to rise to one knee. Cold steel presses beneath my chin, Thornwhistle’s weapon wrenching my head upward to meet his malevolent stare.

Bertram edges towards us, his voice slow and calm. “Thornwhistle. Do you really want to march Olena Burnwhite into trial with bruises all over her face?”

The pressure against my neck eases slightly.

“The press may dispute it’s her if they can’t recognize her.”

Bertram’s words ring true. The commander snaps away from me, barking to his guard “Get this trash off the street.”

Just because I can Doesn't Mean I should

2011-08-08T23:40:00.001-05:00

I initiated a writing experiment last week. It was modeled after the methods of many of my fellow writers. They have this ability to punch out massive amounts of words week after week, while I lag behind with my dainty 500-1000 words.

"How do you do it?" I asked.

"We write, and don't look back. Don't stop, just keep going. The story will take a life of it's own. You'll see."

For one week I tried. In thirty minutes I could crank out 1,000 words. The story kept going, the page count mounted, my characters moved forward.

But all the while anxiety flooded my body. Every writing session, after thirty minutes, the story disappeared and all that was left were words of futility begging to know why this wasn't working. My neck tensed, my brain screamed, tonight I wanted to cry.

It's the same feeling I get when I'm dating the wrong person. It would be so much easier if things would work out. But deep down, underneath it all I know I'm forcing myself into something that I am not. It's funny how often I have to relearn this lesson.

Maybe for my friends the speedy way is best. For me it is not. Now I know. I don't walk fast and I don't write fast.

It's not an experiment failed, it's an experiment completed. So tomorrow I go back to the Jessica method. I started writing because I love it. It would be so foolish for me to kill the fun just to fit into a word count.

Jess

Public shame is an effective tool.

2011-07-29T20:06:00.002-05:00

I figured I should put it to use.

Many of you are intrigued by my Color Eaters project, which is very encouraging. So I'm putting forth a time table for you to receive the next chapters. If the chapters don't go up on time you have the right to chastise me, but tar & feathering is not allowed.

The plan remains for every 10,000 words completed you get another Chapter. Here's the wretched accountability calendar:

My Birthday (August 22)-20,000 words
Halloween-30,000 Words
Winter Solstice (December 22)-40,000 words
VD a/k/a Crotch Rot Date (February 14)-50,000 words
St Patrick's Day-It's done.

Thanks for reading, and have a good weekend.

Jess

By the Lamplight

2011-07-23T22:07:00.001-05:00

Molly’s forehead presses against the worn wooden tabletop; tears soaking into the wood. Between clumps of fine, blond-hair, there is a glimpse of her blood-crusted mouth. She moves with a slight moan; the protective curtain of gold shifting, revealing the place where swollen flesh encases her left eye. The impression of a man’s ring shows below a deep rip in her cheek.

“Honey, let me have a look at you. See what we can do about this.” Goldie places a bowl of cool water and a washcloth on the kitchen table before settling in the chair next to her friend. As Goldie dabs at the young bride’s wounds, blood dissipates revealing translucent skin, undertones of purple beginning to rise to the surface. “Honey, he’ll just keep going.” Molly’s haunted gaze jerks to Goldie, her green eye vivid against the red of the burst blood vessel in her right eye. “Molly. You’ve got to let him know you’ve got it in you to kill him. That’s the only way he’s ever going to stop.”

In the sunlight, he sees shades of green fading to yellow at the edges of Molly’s eye, but by the lamplight in their bedroom, he can see no evidence of his former ire. “Mol, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” he declares, before leaning over to kiss her good night. Molly is motionless in response to his praise, her eyes closed, waiting for the click of the light bulb confirming this day too has passed. White sheets ripple to the rhythm of his breath, slowing and deepening as the minutes pass. Once the waves settle into a steady lull she creeps from under the covers, and quietly grabs the red lamp from its bedside table. Wiggling the cord from the socket, she holds her breath until the light is free of its electric leash. With great speed, she lifts the lamp overhead, summoning her fury, fear, hope, and love-before hurling the weight down toward him. Her first attempt falls short of her intended mark. His eyelids fly open to the site of Molly raising the lamp over her head for another try. “NO!” he screams.

Her wedding band twists so the diamond is slightly off center as Molly finishes dusting the room. The arthritic, knotted fingers of her right hand center the diamond out of fifty years of habit. She surveys the red lamp, with its prominent crack down the center, for tell tale signs of missed dirt.

“I’m almost finished up in here.” her voice stretches through the walls of the apartment.

She hears the shuffling tread of his walk as he makes his way into the living room, coming close behind her. He stretches his arms around her waist, whispering into her ear. “Let me take you to dinner? We only get a fiftieth wedding anniversary once, and tonight is the night.”

Smiling, she turns to him “Let me turn out the lights, and then we can go.”

The Color Eaters-Chapter 2

2011-07-12T22:49:00.000-05:00

10,000 words done. As promised here is chapter 2 of a larger project I am working on. If you missed chapter 1 you can catch up by reading the March 28th post. Thank you for reading-Jess

Chapter 2

Figs stuffed with goat cheese, dipped in a dark purple glaze are set before us by a flat-faced Lelsh. My hunger overpowers civility, and I cram one of the figs into my mouth before the servant has left the patio. Murmurs of contentment slip past my lips, as the gritty flesh of the fig melts into the smooth tangy cheese.

Bertram takes the smallest fruit on the plate, then waits for me to devour the rest of our first course before breaking our silence. “I didn’t expect to see any Lelsh in a village this small.”

On the other side of the large plate-glass, our server stands facing the pass-through to the kitchen. He is turned away from us, but the look on his face will be benign, his eyes focused on nothing and everything at once. This Lelsh appears to be strong, well made for hard labor. It’s an unlikely fit, his serving our lunch, perhaps he was won in a card game, or traded in exchange for something of great value. I always want to ask how they ended up in their state, but I know the only answer I will get is a catatonic stare. Lelsh are mute, obedient, and pliable, hence their charm to people in power.

A shadow of movement in the window’s reflection confirms the apothecary shop’s search is complete. As the guards move onto the bakery, gold bars decorating their charcoal gray sleeves flicker in the sun. Before I can discern their rank the authorities disappear into the bowels of the stone building. If they are as thorough at the bakery as they were at the apothecary shop, Bertram and I can get through a few more courses before they finally make it to our side of the square.

“Lena?” Bertram’s hand is outstretched, offering me a deep burgundy cloth, “You have a bit of glaze at the edge of your lip.”

“Oh, thank you.” My tongue searches for the wayward sauce, as I accept the linen. “So, I guess you know what they say about me?”

He leans back in his chair, as if to get a better look at me. When he responds his tone is gentle. “You mean that you steal the souls of children with a single touch.”

Breath catches in my chest.

“That you consort with shadows.”

A flush rises over my face.

“A look directly in your eyes can make a sane man mad.”

My stomach clenches.

“The earth will obey your commands.”

I crush the handkerchief in my right hand.

“The magistrate has an entire department devoted to hunting you, and you are the product of black arts and evil incarnate… Shall I continue?”

Heat pricks at the back of my eyes. I keep tears from falling over my lashes, and throw his handkerchief on the table. “I don’t know if I’ve ever heard it back to back like that before. Normally, I’m only treated to one of my devilments at a time.”

The door to the patio swings open, two steaming bowls of madrogan and a large loaf of hard crusted bread are set on the table before us.

Bertram waits for the lelsh to shuffle back inside before speaking. “So it’s true then?”

My hair swings against my chin as I shake my head. “No, not any of it. Who would think I would steal the soul of a child?”

“Not those rumors, Lena.” He holds up his handkerchief for me to see. Against the deep burgundy of the cloth, my handprint stands out stark white. The color leeched from the fabric, a negative image where there had been nothing moments before.

“Put that thing away before you get both of us killed.” I hiss, scanning the café to see if anyone noticed us. Across the square a man is standing at the door to the bakery, blood running from a gash in his forehead. The guards glower behind him as his arms flail, pointing toward the café.

The handkerchief is gone in an instant, and Bertram stretches across the table. His face is inches from mine, he smells faintly of leather and pine. His gray cloudy eyes examine me contemplatively, before he declares, “You are the last living color eater.”

“I don’t know that I’m the last living anything. Certainly not a color eater.” I shovel a spoonful of madrogan into my mouth, “See I’m a food eater. Just plain old madrogan eating Lena on this side of the table.”

He laughs. “Of course, and I’m just a man on holiday from the outland.” His spoon hovers half way to his mouth. “We had a color eater in my village when I was young.”

“Did you know them?”

“Her. I knew her. Our color eater was an old woman. She lived on a farm at the edge of town. In seasons when no one else’s crops could survive, she always had a bountiful harvest. Every year she asked our help harvesting her fields, and she split the bounty equally between us. There are some seasons we wouldn’t have survived if it hadn’t been for her.”

I scrape the bottom of my bowl with a piece of bread, trying to ensure none of the savory flavor goes to waste. “What happened to her?”

“One day she disappeared.”

“Everywhere I go that story ends the same. One day they were just gone.”

The guards are moving from the bakery, bypassing the neighboring shops. A look in the café glass confirms the shadows on the roof moving into an attack formation.

“You’re not gone Lena.”

“No, I’m not gone. But I’m not really here either.”

“How so?”

“Running from the magistrate is hardly a life. Ninety percent of the time you’re pretending to be anyone but yourself. There are fleeting moments when I can remember what it felt like to be her.” I stab my spoon at my picture on the front page of his paper, “But, it’s getting harder and harder to remember. That’s why I’ve decided to get my life back.”

Fear creeps into Bertram’s voice for the first time since we’ve met, “And how to you plan to do that?”

“It’s quite simple really. I’m going to turn myself in.”

What a difference a good graphic designer makes.

2011-07-08T00:18:00.003-05:00

Thank you to the extraordinarily talented Caleb Harman for the visual revamp of my blog.

When you tell someone "You know, just make it cooler. And make it feel more like me." it's hard to know what to expect. Luckily Caleb is highly skilled and knows me well. I'm thrilled with the results, and hope you find the new design easy to read as well as aesthetically pleasing.

Be sure to check out Caleb's work at http://www.csharman.com/

Jess

ps The one drawback is I changed my domain name, so anyone who was previously subscribed to my blog has been lost in the move.

To those of you who would like to get email updates when I post please subscribe (or resubscribe) in the "Follow by email" box to the right. I apologize about the inconvenience–but I swear I'm not moving the site again.

Choose Your Adventure: Space Cats Question 3

2011-07-04T22:36:00.002-05:00

You extend your right hand, and gingerly shake the gigantic cat's paw. (Grandma always taught you to maintain your manners, even in the most unexpected circumstances.) "Nice to meet you Landor, won't you please come in."

"Thank you. You're so kind to ask."

You lead Landor to the living room, and move a pile of newspapers off the couch. "Please make yourself comfortable. I apologize about the mess, I wasn't expecting company today."

Landor settles onto the couch. He blinks his huge emerald eyes.

You try not to stare, but you can't help but notice his second set of sideways eyelids. "So what brings you to the neighborhood?"

Landor's tail slinks about before curling quietly around him. "We had an engine malfunction and crash landed just outside of your neighborhood. I was sent to scout ahead. Try to find a place we could do some repairs."

"Oh, I see. We don't get many, um, cats around here... Especially not ones familiar with mechanics."

"I don't imagine you do. But I'm not the mechanic, that's Sully, and he's no cat. So I couldn't help but notice, is that your garage out back?"

The garage is yours, but you are a bit hesitant to reveal the information to Landor for fear of what may happen next.

Do you tell him?

"Nope, not sure who owns that. May be one of the new neighbors?"

or

"Sure is. I'd be glad to let you use it."

Vote by answering the poll question in the upper right hand corner of my blog. Last day to vote is 7/16/11.

Choose Your Adventure: Space Cats Question 2

2011-06-20T21:57:00.002-05:00

You open the door and set your bowl on the floor. The cat tiptoes forward and sniffs at the milk. It looks up at you with huge emerald eyes.

“Go ahead. You’ll like it.” You try to make your voice soothing. You’ve never seen a stray in your neighborhood. People around here are the types to microchip their pets, and would never let a cat just wander about like this.

The cat pokes out his pink tongue, and tests the milk. After the first few licks he drinks until the bowl is empty. The cat sits back on his haunches, and studies you.

At first you think it is your imagination, as his legs lengthen, and his head expands. But when he stands eye to eye with you, you can’t deny this cat has grown to roughly the same size as an adult human.

The cat stands on his hind legs, and reaches out his right front paw. “I’m Landor. Thank you for breakfast.”

Startled you take a deep breath before responding.

“You’re welcome. Please come in.”

or

You slam the door in his face.

Vote by answering my pole question in the upper right hand corner of my blog. Voting closes 7/1/11.

My Website address is changing

2011-06-06T23:34:00.001-05:00

To those of you that saved me as a favorite, I appreciate it greatly. I'm going to be doing some updates over the next couple of weeks––the first being to change my domain name. So starting Thurs 6/8/11 you can find my blog at fightingthekcboredom.blogspot.com.

Thanks for reading.

Jess

Choose Your Adventure: Fiery Space Cats

2011-06-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

You race toward the door, and through the heavy wool curtain. Cool air from the stairwell engulfs you. Half way up the stairs Teddy’s soot covered face flashes through your mind. “Damn it” escapes your lips as you do an about face to head back into the inferno. Ripping the heavy curtain from its rod you dash into the room.

Flames encompass Teddy and the Bartender, they stand back to back beating at the fire.

The rafters overhead begin to groan. Your scream is cut short as the fiery beam snaps. You hear Teddy scream your name as you get pinned to the floor. Pressing heat overwhelms you before you take your final breath–– and die.

THE END

Invasion of the Space Cats––Choose your adventure Question 1

Morning sun streams across the breakfast table as you eat this morning’s bowl of Grape Nuts. A soft noise from outside makes you pause your crunching. After careful listening you determine it is nothing and go back to reading the morning paper. Two spoonfuls later you hear it again, a soft yowly noise. Deciding further investigation is warranted, you pick up your bowl and pad toward the front door. In the front hall the noise becomes clear.

Meow.

You open the front door and find a black cat with bright green eyes staring at you.

Do you:

Open the door and give the cat your milk from your cereal?

Or

Throw the cat off your porch?

Vote by answering the poll question in the upper right hand corner of my blog.

Choose Your Adventure: Question 2

2011-05-09T23:51:00.000-05:00

Your fist lands squarely on Teddy’s jaw, his head snaps to the right. Teddy stumbles, knocked off balance by your ambush. His arms flail a half second, before he catches himself on the edge of one of the tables. He pushes himself upright toppling the lit candle onto the rough wood. Flames lick across the tabletop.

Teddy spins towards the bar, rubbing his jaw where you’ve connected. “What the hell was that?”

"A punch. Just like you taught me. Remember?” Your fist throbs. You pick up your gin and place the back of your hand against the ice-cold glass.

A couple seated in the corner gather their coats and slip out of the room. The bartender scrambles from behind the bar with a heavy towel in hand, and beats at the small fire.

Teddy’s voice fills the room, exasperated and resigned. “I taught you to defend yourself. Not to haul off and punch somebody for no good reason…”

The bartender’s expletives drown out Teddy’s next words. A second couple follows the first couple’s example, and hightails it through the curtain. The bartender’s liquor soaked rag flares, causing the chairs near the table to blaze. Flames spread to an adjacent table. The bartender races behind the bar to grab bottles of seltzer water. Smoke envelopes the room.

“That’s all I’m trying to do Teddy, defend myself. I just never thought I’d have to defend myself from you.” Your eyes water, your lungs burn with each inhalation.

Teddy runs behind the bar to look for something to aid in fighting the fire. He coughs, pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and covers his nose and mouth. “You’ve got to get out of here, now.”

Do you:
1) Leave
2) Stay and try to put out the fire.

(vote by clicking on comments below, or if we are facebook friends you can answer the question posted on facebook)

Choose Your Adventure: Question 1

2011-04-25T18:33:00.007-05:00

A Tuesday night–1926.

Perched on a stool at the end of a long dim hall, a girl in her late teens flips through a magazine. When you are three feet from her she raises her right hand and points to a stairwell, she never bothered to look up to see who you are.

Wool scratches your chin, as you unknot your scarf releasing a small snowdrift that settled on your coat collar. The tiny avalanche crashes into bare skin at the back of your neck as you start the descent. A dingy curtain serves as a door at the bottom of the stairs.

When you step through the curtain the air is close. Flickering candles top half a dozen tables, lighting the cramped room. Only two of the tables are occupied. Crammed against the back wall is a rough length of board– serving as the bar.

The bartender nods at a stool at the end of the plank. “ All we’ve got tonight is gin.”

You shrug out of your coat before taking the suggested seat. “With tonic, please.”

The first sip melts winter’s final sting, and you savor the warmth as much as the sharp scent of juniper. “You seen Teddy tonight?”

The bartender shakes his head. “Nah, he’ll probably be in later though.”

A drink and a half later, the curtain flies to one side of the door frame, revealing a slight man with dark hair. A scar pulls at the edge of his mouth, running up the right side of his face– almost to his ear. The imperfection leaves the impression he’s grinning at a secret. He walks with his shoulders hunched forward, the weight of his body on the balls of his feet. His suit is high end, tailored to fit his narrow shoulders and slim waist. Gold cuff links flash against the candlelight.

The bartender looks up, then drops his gaze immediately. He mumbles “Hey Teddy,” before shuffling from behind the bar to check on one of the tables.

You jump from the bar stool, and

1. Give him a kiss

or

2. Punch him in the face?

(vote by clicking on comments below, or if we are facebook friends you can answer the question posted on facebook)

5/7/11 voting's done for his chapter. next part should be up late Mon 5/9

The Game Begins One Week from Today

2011-04-18T18:24:00.006-05:00

Next Monday I'll start the Choose Your Adventure Blog Experiment.

The premise is based upon the "choose your own adventure books" of our childhood. In my experiment I will post the beginning 350 words of a story. You will then vote to decide what happens next. After 10 days I will continue the story based upon the decision with the most votes.

I'll post a facebook question to allow you to vote, or you can comment on my blog at the end of the post.

I'm interested to see if it works, and curious about what will happen to the story. Have a good week.

Jess

p.s. For those of you not familiar with the books, the concept is fairly simple. You read the opening to the story, and then come to a point when the character is faced with a dilemma. The reader is given two options, and makes a choice. If they choose option (a) they are instructed to page 24, or they can choose option (b) and go to page 37. The story unfolds based upon the choices the reader makes along the way.

Do you want to play?

2011-04-14T21:08:00.002-05:00

The game is choose your own adventure, and we will all play a part.
Evil facebook will connect us, and that is how we’ll start.

I’ll write the story, and get you to a cave.
You’ll vote on questions, to choose if we are brave.

So if you want to join me, say you’ll be my friend.
For this is the beginning, who knows how it will end?

The Color Eaters-Chapter 1

2011-03-28T21:16:00.006-05:00

Chapter 1

“Wanna go to a witch trial?” my voice comes out jagged, cut by heavy breath, as I collapse into the chair across from a stranger reading his newspaper. An errant beam of sunlight cuts through thick gray clouds, illuminating his café table. My eyes squint as I catch the glare from the white porcelain saucer his coffee cup sets on. The rough movement of my arrival jostles his café table, rattles his coffee cup against the saucer.

Paper crinkles as he lowers the news a few inches to meet my gaze. He seems non-plussed by me crashing his al fresco lunch, as if strange girls half his age often take a seat across from him uninvited. Against the shrill alarms of guard whistles, the stranger’s clipped outlander accent sounds faint as he responds, “Whose?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch two guards entering the square. Just outside the café’s wrought-iron fence, I watch the population of the square evaporate. A boy, dressed in drab broad cloth, lollops across the gutter, taking to an alley headed out of the square. Street vendors steer their carts out of the flow of main traffic, to avoid the impending interrogations.

Leaning forward, I tap the front of his paper, pointing to a large photo above the fold. They’ve been running the same photo for at least four years: a girl in her late teens with an angular jaw and large cat shaped eyes stares at the readers, her long dark hair frames skin that has never seen the sun. Bold typeface screams wanted above her head, under her photo her height is noted at 5’ 7”. They quit posting the particulars of “her last known where abouts” a year and a half ago, but they still make room for the bit about her being an imminent threat and a citizen’s obligation to report any sightings of her immediately.

My gesture catches him off guard, but the only indication I can find of surprise on his craggy face is where his left eyebrow hovers a bit higher then his right. Worry sets in for a few fleeting seconds, when he chokes on his coffee. We both breathe easier when he manages to sputter, “Olena Burnwhite is going to trial?”

“Yes, but she pronounces it Oh-LEEN-ah, not Uhl-in-ah.”

Lines at the edges of his eyes pull close together at my latest revelation. He is older then I thought, closer to my father’s age then mine¬. Black hair grays slightly over the tops of his ears, and the spectacles he wears do little to mask the film forming over his dark eyes. “Now, how would you know that? I am certain the ministry pronounces it the latter. I’ve only ever heard her referred to as Olena.”

The two guards head into the apothecary shop at the northwest corner of the square. It is the start of a sweep. My answer is automatic, but it comes out flippant, “Well obviously you’ve never spoken with anyone who actually knows her then.”

“And you have?” His tone confirms my new acquaintance has moved beyond incredulous into the realm of amusement.

“Actually yes. Everyone I’ve ever spoken to knows her, but I guess maybe they just didn’t realize it.” The glass of the café’s storefront is on my right and allows me a ghost’s view of part of the square’s rooftops. Shadows of four specialists settle into position.

He folds his paper, setting it on the table next to his coffee cup as he replies, “That’s impossible.”

I casually turn my head to the left, trying to get a view of the other side of the square. I feel his gaze settle on me, and wait a few seconds to confirm I have his undivided attention. My chin snaps to center, and I stare straight into his cloudy gray eyes. “Not for her.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes. His filmy gray eyes lock on to my face. I give him time to erase the dark circles from under my emerald eyes, revise my hair to the close cropped bob framing my jaw, clean the film of dirt coating my pale skin, flesh out my frame with an extra ten pounds. I see his mind process my transformation when his lips go white and his eyelids pull back. His chest starts to rise and fall quickly.

His accent fades when he whispers, “It’s you.”

My voice drops as I extend my hand across the table, “I’m Lena.”

My hand hovers unmet for six long breaths, before the gentleman reaches across the table to gingerly grasp my fingers.

“Bertram Merrigold. It’s an honor to meet you.”

It’s clear my new friend is going to need a minute, so I take a second to assess the situation. Two guards performing door-to-door sweeps of the shops, four specialists camped out on the roofs for a bird’s eye view, I know I’m probably missing at least another pair of guards. The Commander wouldn’t just leave a team to bring me in, so there will be a bit of time for them to verify my identity and then the man himself will have to make it here from whatever secret lair he’s stashed himself in. So, I’ve maybe got an hour until they make their move.

I am startled from my calculations when I realize Bertram is no longer shaking my hand, but bending over it and moving it toward his lips.

“No Bertram, it’s me who is honored. If it’s not too much of an inconvenience, perhaps I could join you for lunch?”

“Did you know this café has the best madrogan in the city?”

“No, I didn’t. And quite honestly, I can’t even remember the last time I had madrogan.” The shadows on the roof shift slightly, the beginning of a formation.

“Well today we shall have it, and one of anything else you would like. By the looks of you it appears you could use more then just one meal.”

A devious grin slips over my lips, “That’s true. And, I think this is one meal I am sure not to forget. Do you have a menu?”

(by Jessica Conoley)

Fear holds me hostage, so I guess I'll kick it in the face.

2011-03-27T22:58:00.003-05:00

I've had an idea, and it scares me to death–so I think I'm supposed to do it.

For years I have had a story in my head. It's a story that has come to me in snippets and pieces, flashes of images, slivers of sound. It's rooted in my fears, and maybe when it is through it will help me find my strengths. I started to put the tale to paper in January, and have shared chapters of it with both of the writing groups I am in. My writer friends' feedback gave me hope the tale will have merit if I see it through to the end.

I realize my blog posts have been lacking, with my attention divided between two writing groups, the magazine, and now a six week writing class. So, tomorrow I will post the first chapter of this adventure. (Bear in mind, these are first draft-rough cuts.) I am posting it as proof I am still working. I am also posting it in hopes, if you are intrigued, you will forward it to a friend, post it on your facebook page, or pass it along in one way or another.

I am curious to see if there is an interest. If it turns out there is, for every 10,000 words I get done, I will choose another chapter to post.

Thank you for reading.

jess

Calico Kitten

2011-03-10T21:18:00.004-06:00

It is clear I do not learn things the first time around.

If I did, I would have done an about face and left the building when Andy & I got to the theater Saturday night and there was a sign that said "NO INTERMISSION". (Check out my 4/22/10 “I didn’t see the signs” post if you didn’t catch it the first time around.) But, I was naively optimistic as we headed to the bar to grab a couple of drinks to take into the play.

Twenty minutes into the production the lights dim for a scene change, and I lean over to Andy to inform him, "I wish I was wasted." My theory being if I were wasted then I may not be so bored, OR I would have been able to fall asleep and Andy (or the lady in the fur coat on my other side) could wake me when it was over.

A tiny plastic cup of vodka was not going to get me to the required level of wasted, so I tried to keep my seat squirming to a minimum as the show went on.

It doesn’t matter what the play was called or what it was about. Just imagine driving through a neighborhood where all the houses are beige and look alike. Then imagine beige mini vans in the driveway, and mom’s and dad’s wearing beige pants taking their beige clad children to schools via the beige mini vans. When the beige clad children are dropped off at school the school has no windows. That’s what the play was like.

Then two thirds of the way through one of the characters says “calico kitten”, and I smile. Because, (Yes, I do love kitties, but that’s not why I smiled.) for the first time in the whole production there was one spot of color in the whole land of beige and it was in the sound of those two words: calico kitten.

I’m not a poet, but sometimes I hang out with them. And if poets teach you one thing it’s to pay attention to how words sound. With those two words my brain was pulled out of the boredom and listlessness because it had a sound to grab onto. The hard sounds of the c’s mirrored by the t’s, the staccato rhythm of the two words bouncing into one another.

The play is now blissfully forgotten, but I don’t think I’ll ever get that calico kitten out of my head.

I want winter to lose, because it is hard to see anything but failure in her stark reality.

2011-02-27T19:59:00.005-06:00

Glass rattles in it's frame, panes shaking with the first thunder of the year.

Lightening illuminates renegade patches of snow; winter clinging to rooftops, hiding in gutters.

Rain pelts silver drips against the black of night, and for the first time in months I feel hope.

Winter may win if the temperature crashes. The roads will be paved with ice yet again–but summer has laid her first claim and I am relieved at her announcement.

I long for the hot thunder storms of summer, when raindrops evaporate as they hiss against hot pavement.

When Kansas air holds so much humidity your body swims with every step, until mercifully the clouds grant reprieve and drop oceans of water upon you.

Staccato beats against metal flashing lull you to sleep as summer cries her welcome.

It's my one year anniversary!

2011-02-18T22:48:00.006-06:00

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of my first blog post.

It was my first public admission that I wanted to be a writer.

A year ago I was terrified of hitting the publish post button, when I did I seriously thought I was going to throw up. I sent the link to a dozen people, and waited for the responses. I thought people may humor me, say nice things, placate me on my latest scheme. I didn't realize people would support me with an unfailing confidence in my ability. My step mom texted me "you have writer's blood", my boss told me writing should be my real job. No one laughed, or told me I was crazy.

I've come further in a year then I could of ever dreamed.

In March the Kansas City Writer's Group welcomed me with open arms. It's a group that has been around for over forty years, and the writer's in the group range from seasoned veterans with multiple books on the market to fledgling writer's terrified of what may come next. It's a critique group, so your work is read out loud and then people comment. I sat in the back row of the room, shaking in fear the first time my work was read. When it was over there were long seconds of silence as I waited to hear their response. The comments started and I braced myself for the worst. But, the worst was I could improve–and they knew how to help me do it.

From the poets I've learned the right word is worth ten of the wrong ones, from the fiction writers that point of view can make or break you, from the non-fiction writers even the facts can be interesting. Every Thursday morning I learn to be a better writer.

Through KCWG I was introduced to the Walsh's writing class, and through the Walsh's I found the courage to make my first submission. By October I had my first story accepted, and just recently a second. Now I get to say "I'm paid to write", and that's much more fun then saying I work for an insurance company.

December led me to a board meeting for Whispering Prairie Press and Kansas City Voices. I thought they may need somebody to stuff envelopes or something, it never occurred to me they would let me on the Board. Now I'm the secretary and get to see a little of how everything works. It's a first class education, and all it takes is a little bit of time.

It's been a good year.

I like being Jessica the writer. I like my new writer friends. I like devouring books in an afternoon and not feeling guilty for wasting my time. Now I understand that, for me, reading and writing is the most valuable way I can spend my time.

Thank you for reading & I hope you are doing well.

jess

ps On Sunday February 27 Kansas City Voices is having a reading from 2-4 pm. If you're in town and would like to join us please do. We'll be at the Writer's Place (3607 Pennsylvania Avenue, KC MO 64111). I hear the building looks like a castle, and I also heard there is going to be cookies.

I didn't think I had anything to say

2011-02-09T21:06:00.004-06:00

This evening I found out I've sold another essay–a nice surprise. (And small victory against evil winter.)

The funny thing about selling essays is somehow it gave me valid street cred. It somehow legitimized this idea of me being a "writer". Now, people don't look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them I'm cutting back on corporate America so I can write. Often times people look at me like they're envious.

If there's one thing I've learned since I took those tests last January, it's the biggest limitations I've ever had were self imposed. It applies in my writing as well. I'm still working on figuring it all out, but now it just seems like a really big puzzle. And, while it's daunting, it's also really fun.

Thank you for reading, and stay warm.

jess

We all start somewhere

2011-01-10T12:18:00.003-06:00

Today I ran across some of my original work. Written circa 1990 for Mr. Long's 5th grade class. It's fine work, if I do say so myself–so I thought I would post it for you to all marvel at my 10 year old brilliance. I left grammar & spelling alone, so what you see is how it is-minus my penciled in hand writing. There is no title & the grade at the top is 92%. Looking back on it now I think I stole the content from Wayne's World & a Babysitters Club book.
********

One day Fred was walking to school when he saw her Fredina the girl of his dreams. What was brewing in his head is that love scene they have in movies you know the one.. The stupid scene where two drooling idiots run to each other. Stop and supposedly kiss and hug and all that barf.

On Fredina’s half though she was thinking there’s the idiot who worships my gorgeous body. But I wish he was a giant bon-bon just about ready to be dipped. Then I would be the one to push him in and then eat him. Yes eat him. He would be the best bon-bon ever, or should it be bubble gum?

Why she was puzzling over that problem the school bell rang. (Yes Fred finally got there.) Why Mrs. Marcus (the teacher known for getting a strawberry stuck up her nose) was talking about algebraic equations. Fred thought about the time his math teacher got a strawberry stuck up her nose. Here’s how it all happened. Mrs. Marcus was eating the school’s unususal assortments lunch berry surprise, of berrys on a plate.– Se was dared by his principal to try and fit a couple of berrys up her nose. The math teacher could not refuse a dare. So of course she tried. She got 3 berries up her nose and started taking them out but one got stuck in her nose. She walked around the school a week. Then finally got it surgically removed.

Then he went back to his stupid dream about Fredina and day-dreamed about her & him in the land of oz. With all the little munchkins the rest of the day.
And Fredina was still puzzeling over bon-bons & bubble-gum.

THE END

Thank you to my computer ninja

2011-01-06T09:49:00.002-06:00

I have a friend named Mary. She is very pretty, which is nice to look at; but behind her big eyes she hides the skills of a computer ninja. Sometimes for me, technology is too hard-- but for Mary it is a challenge to be conquered. She kindly set me up with the e-mail subscription technology on the right side of the page. Mary, thank you for your time & making it work.

So, if you would prefer to get an email when I update my blog (as opposed to checking to see if I've posted something), just enter your information into the box on the right side of the screen. You should only be getting emails from my blog site by signing up.

Thank you for reading & have a good day.

Jessica

My octogenarian dream

2011-01-05T22:46:00.004-06:00

I creep into the restaurant, five minutes late for dinner. Across the dining room my friends are being seated, and I note my date has not yet arrived. The hostess asks if she can take my coat, and I automatically respond "thank you" while shrugging out of the deep green cloak my Dad purchased me for Christmas. Bottles stand, polished and inviting, behind the bar, I flash a smile at the bartender before I cross the floor of Room 39. To my right, I notice a table of four women my Grandmother's age, their heads angled toward one another–telling tales on this winter evening.

I sit down, saying hello–before laughing and commenting on our fellow diners. "Do you think it's past their bed time?" I ask, waiving toward the four octogenarians. We briefly marvel at their magnificence; the carefully coifed silver hair & meticulous attire, before I tell the waitress I would like a sidecar.

By the third course I look over, and am suprised to catch the women still at their table. We got here at seven, and our dinner is liesurely to say the least. I expected them to be gone by now. Have they been here two courses longer? I let the conversation fall into the hands of those around me and take a few minutes to watch the women before me.

I see forks and knives fall with elegance, as wine glasses are slowly drained. Each woman taking her turn at the center of attention, familiarity pouring over the table. These are women who know each others children, and the children's children beyond that. They have sat by through the death of the first husband, and the courtship of the second. They remember one another as ingenues, corporate powerhouses, and proud mothers–but, maybe they know each other best as they are here and now. Four friends at dinner, enjoying a glass of wine.

The manager comes over, to check on our table. "How is everything?" he asks. We are generous in our praise.

I wait a few minutes before declaring "I want to be them when I grow up!", as I gesture across the dining room.

He laughs at me. "You'll have to learn to hold your liquor better. They're well preserved, and a force to be reckoned with."

We all laugh, but behind it is admiration. We know in one person at their table is more life then all of us combined. So I raise my glass in a silent salute–and the hopes that in my old age I will be blessed with friends who know my story as well as I know theirs.

Happy New Year

2011-01-01T16:08:00.004-06:00

Whenever I think I may be on the right track it seems life kicks me in the face, and it takes a minute to recover. So while December was rough in regards to my day job, a battle with the flu, and unexpected visits from my past– I am excited about January and ready to get back to writing.

I am happy to announce I am officially a paid writer, as the check from my essay has cleared the bank. In December I joined the Board of Directors for Whispering Prairie Press which puts out Kansas City Voices magazine. So this year I get to learn a bit about how magazines are put together. And, after one of my co-workers gets back from maternity leave (maybe May?) I get to go part time at my day job. I will be working 4 days a week instead of 5. If I am smart (and not lazy) it will be an extra day for writing & give me time to work on one of the many projects rolling around in my brain.

I'm excited, and scared–but, that's kind of the point. Isn't it?

Happy New Years!

Jess

The Christmas Anarchist

2010-12-14T13:23:00.002-06:00

“What’s your favorite Christmas movie?”

“Die Hard.”

“That’s not a Christmas movie, it’s a crappy 80s Bruce Willis action film.”

“Um, it’s an awesome 80s Bruce Willis action film ¬– and it’s a Christmas movie.”

“No, I’m talking about Christmas movies, like: A Christmas Story, or Miracle on 34th Street, The Charlie Brown Christmas Special.”

“I know what you’re talking about, but I never saw that Christmas story movie. I just know a kid gets his tongue stuck to a pole, and that completely grosses me out. Miracle on 34th Street just seems like a bad trip¬–little girls hearing angel bells, Jimmy Stewart on a really bad trip.”

“That’s so sad.”

“Sad? Which part?"

“The Die Hard part.”

“Have you seen it? It’s totally set on Christmas.”

“Just because a movie is set on Christmas doesn’t make it a Christmas movie.”

“There’s Christmas music, Christmas lights, I’m pretty sure I remember seeing a tree. There are definitely bad sweaters. Christmas is all about bad sweaters.”

“No it’s not! It’s about family, and snow flakes. Christmas trees, and baby Jesus.”

“You’re telling me no one wears bad sweaters at your house on Christmas?”

“NO! Well, yes... But that’s not the point. The point is the Christmas
movie. The one’s that make you think of your family, and count your blessings.”

“Die Hard always makes me most appreciative I’m not being held hostage. And really glad I have good shoes. It also makes me feel blessed I’m not at a company Christmas party. That’s how the whole thing starts– they’re at a company Christmas party. Only now they’d call it a Holiday party, but in the 80s I think they were still Christmas parties.”

“Seriously!”

“Yeah, seriously. And, Bruce Willis could totally kick Santa’s ass.”

“No one is supposed to kick Santa’s ass!”

“Yeah well no one’s supposed to break into your house and eat your cookies, but you don’t seem too concerned about that.”

In the back of a van

2010-12-08T22:51:00.002-06:00

In the recesses of my mind, I’ve parked a faded drab green passenger van. The van must be a late 70’s model; it has a bed in the back, and a large side door that sticks sometimes when you try to close it. Maybe it has shag carpet interior¬, and captain’s chairs in the middle of the van– I’m not certain if that’s right, maybe I added those details when I grew older. In the van Willie Nelson’s voice crackles through the speakers teaching me mamas don’t let their babies grow up to be cowboys; the white plastic cased eight-track juts out from the overhead center console.

Here in this rusted out van is the only place my parents coexist. It’s an odd memory, the two of them together. Not good. Not bad. Just out of place, like the moon over the lunch hour. This van is always parked at the drive-in, for a showing of “Conan the Barbarian”. I feel my brother buried in the sleeping bags on the van’s mattress; he isn’t talking or where I can see him, but Jeremy is always with me so, I know he is here. The movie is flashes of the future governor of California in a loincloth, with a plot my four-year-old brain still doesn’t grasp.

Out of the glove box, (or a purse, or center console) Mom & Dad pull a package of tiny candy bars. Hershey’s, Mr. Goodbars, Krackels. Tiny bars, in tiny wrappers. They give me one, and I am awed by what I see. I hold the chocolate in my hand, and look at it carefully. It is just the right size, filling my palm when I close my tiny fingers around the candy. I am Goldilocks and this is just right. As I unwrap the foiled paper, I marvel at my Mom and Dad. How did they know I needed a little candy bar? How did they make it? I am giddy, because to have someone make you your very own tiny candy bar you must be very special. You must be very important. You must be very loved. I know it is a secret though, because something this important you can’t share with everyone. So I locked the secret candy-bars in the van, and buried them in the back of my mind

But sometimes, like tonight, at the sound of Mr. Nelson’s song the van leaps into gear and drives to the forefront of my mind. A rusted out sanctuary of my childhood, where I am safe, awed, loved and so very, very special.

I felt an explanation and an update were in order

2010-11-04T21:50:00.003-05:00

I didn't win the competition or even earn an honorable mention in the flash fiction contest I mentioned a few posts ago. I'm not losing any sleep over it, so you shouldn't either– but I know some of you were curious about what happened.

It may appear I have been lazy these past couple of months, but I want to assure you I am learning more about writing, faster then I ever could have imagined.

One of the main reasons for fewer posts is my new, limited, knowledge regarding publishing rights. Many places won't take work if it has been published elsewhere, and they consider blog posts a form of published. Therefore, while my body of work is slowly growing, my blog posts are diminishing.

From a psychological stand point I have learned there has to be a very real perspective shift in how I view my day job vs. writing. I am working out the finer points regarding this idea, but honestly I think this could be the hardest part about learning to write in a professional capacity. Corporate culture needs you to think of your self in a very specific limited manner; writing is forcing me to reevaluate how I see myself. It's good, but it's not easy.

Today I was offered a unique opportunity to sit on a board for a local arts magazine. I will learn more in mid December, and I hope I get to do it. I realize I would learn multitudes of things about writing and publishing. My only concern is the amount of time it would take. A month ago I put in a request to go to four 8 hour days at work. The state manager told me I should know by the end of December if they'll let me go part time or not.

So, I'll keep my fingers crossed that things keep going as well as they have been. Next time I'll try to put up a good story.

Hope you're doing well, and thanks for reading.

-jess

My first official success "How long til the sun goes down?"

2010-10-21T22:31:00.005-05:00

Today I came home from work & opened my email, I was greeted by this:

"Dear Jessica,

This is a really beautiful essay and I’m pleased to accept it for The Best Times. I can’t tell you when it will run, but we’ll send extra copies to you when it does."

It's my first official acceptance letter in writing. The Best Times is a senior magazine in Johnson County, and they are actually going to pay me for my work.

The essay is below. I wrote it as part of my homework in one of the classes I took this September/October.

Thanks to everyone for all the support, I think you guys are just as excited as I am.

************************

“How long til the sun goes down?”
by Jessica Conoley

“How long do you think until the sun goes down?” my voice warms with the golds and reds of tonight’s impending sunset.

Thoughtful silence fills the front porch, before Grandpa announces, “Fifteen minutes.” I reach to his left arm, taking his large hand in my slender fingers. My other hand works to liberate his metal watch. Removing the watch requires careful attention so I don’t catch his papery skin in the elasticized metal band. I slide the timepiece over his wrist and around his arthritic fingers; he holds out both hands letting me place it secure in his grip.

Flat Kansas horizon stretches the rest of eternity before us. Purples and pinks join where blue used to reside. We watch the sun slide under the split rail fence, and start to fall to the horizon. I hear his steady breath mingle with the buzz of summer insects and the occasional clang of gravel against the bottom of a passing vehicle. My bare toes wiggle in the dry dirt at the bottom of the porch, the dust refreshing after a day of work, high heels, and corporate America.

His raspy voice stretches across the front porch, finding me on the cement steps where I sit. “Honey, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just going crazy.”

“I know Grandpa.” I stifle a laugh as I turn over my shoulder, looking to his face. In less then half a second I know my real Grandpa is here. His ash blue eyes register my mom’s front porch; slot me into the appropriate part of his brain as his granddaughter. There is only clarity. I smile; it has been so long since he has seen me.

“I got a new car.” I tell him, “It’s the same color Grandma’s Oldsmobile was.”

“What kind did you get?”

“A mini cooper. BMW makes them.”

“They used to make jet engines, for the war. That’s how they got started.”

“The speedometer says it’ll go 130. I got it up to 117 in California. Don’t tell Mom.” I turn back to the horizon, not wanting to miss the last hot sliver of today fade unrecognized.

Sadness creeps into his voice, “You don’t need to worry about me telling anyone, honey.”

I catch my breath trying to decide what to say next, there are a million memories I need to hear again, to make sure I know the stories right. Ninety years of stories, and he’s the only one left who knows them.

“Where’s the red dog?” he asks.

“Back yard. He went swimming in the pond today. Smells awful… During the war, when you were on the planes did you guys have BMW engines?”

“No, ours were being made over here.”

“What’d Grandma do, while you were flying?”

“Who?”

I spoke up, slower this time, “GRANDMA. GOLDIE.”

“Who?”

“Goldie. Your wife.”

“Goldie…” his voice trails off, as he tries to place the name.

We sit and wait. Him clutching his watch in both hands, observing the round gold face as the minutes pass. Me clutching his memories, in charge of reminding him of tonight’s chosen time for dusk. When the sun finally sets we will compare the clock to the world, and that will be the end of our game. The only prize the memory of our last shared summer sunset.

A first

2010-09-27T21:39:00.001-05:00

Today I officially submitted my first story to a competition. So keep your fingers crossed, but even if I don't win-it's still a step.

-jess

An Update

2010-09-06T23:32:00.002-05:00

I haven't forgotten about my blog, but I have decided it is time for me to start focusing more intently on a larger project I am working on. Writing about plays and sandwiches is good for summer, but now it is fall-- and fall is a time for serious work. So most likely my next several months entries will be excerpts of a biography I am working on. I hope you enjoy what you read, and I am very receptive to feed back. If you have any suggestions feel free to comment or email me. Hopefully I will have something up by the end of the week.

I hope everyone had a nice holiday.

jess

It Explodes (forgive me your honor)

2010-08-24T23:39:00.002-05:00

Scratching at the pimple forming on his chin, Marvin Dye checks the paper once again. “413 Elmwood.” Three gold numbers over the garage confirm the squat, neatly kept house before him is the correct place. The oily index finger on his right hand reaches toward the doorbell, as his left hand clasps the oxygen tank tight.

His first day on the job; and he already knows more about medicine then his entire family put together. Wait until he got home to tell his mom. The glass room they box people in; poking and prodding them through the electric safety of the microphone. “Only 15 more minutes, keep moving.” The people walled inside turning purple under the labor of their exercises. Nurses and doctors gathering like cows at the watering hole on a hot day. “Will you look at this?” arched eyebrows and clinical words ticking each minute of the subject’s life away. Numbers on screens printed to reels, unrolled by doctors, then charted by nurses, all revealing the stark reality of the pounding heart trapped behind that glass wall. Oh, the wonder of it!

The yap of a dog just inside the door snaps Marvin’s attention back to the task at hand. The Doctor had warned him the patient might be “a bit reluctant.” Floor boards creak as he hears a man growl “I’ve got it-keep the dog in there!” A woman’s voice answers almost inaudible-as the dead bolt turns.

“Mr. Thornhaven?” Marvin eagerly asks.

A bear of a man stands in the doorframe looking at the twig speaking to him, his gaze follows the stick figure’s arm down to the oxygen tank.

“Can I help you?” he rumbles.

“Dr. Ramrod told me to bring you this.” Marvin gestures like one of the girls on “The Price is Right” as he wheels the explosive gas forward.

“What would he do that for?”

Sounds catch where Marvin’s voice should be, first a half uttered word, followed by a gasp of air, before falling upon perplexed silence. Hadn’t Mr. Thornhaven been in the box just that morning? Hadn’t he witnessed the miraculous machines, measuring, judging, improving his life- didn’t he see?

The bear doesn’t fill up the silence, just stands; staring, waiting for the tongue-tied fool to answer him.

Marvin shifts his weight to the other foot as he mumbles “Hesaidyouneededit.”

The bear’s head rattles ferociously back and forth, as he roars “LIKE HELL HE DID!”

The door rushes towards Marvin’s face with astounding speed. A dead bolt flips furiously on the other side as Marvin trembles in his sneakers.

With each step back to the car, the wheels on the oxygen tank squeak ever so slightly. Marvin loads the tank into his battered Mercury Sable and wonders what work will be like tomorrow.

In honor of my birthday week-a confession

2010-08-18T22:50:00.001-05:00

I spent years hiding from myself, pretending I was someone who wasn’t interested in “those things”. Then last August I turned thirty, and something seemed to shift. I realized I could keep running forever, or stop and admit, “Yes, this is part of who I really am.”

So, at Halloween my Mom and I spent hours in a fabric store, looking for the perfect material, before we stumble across two roles of florescent orange duct tape. Duct tape strategically placed over a corporate polo t-shirt, excess cotton fabric sheared away to create a harness. Upon the harnesses completion I don my gold latex leggings, a white t-shirt, and spray my hair orange for the evening. For the night, I am Leeloo from “The 5th Element”. For the rest of my life it is my first public admission that: yes, I am a girl who was raised on science fiction-and as much as I may mock, tease, be shamed by, or love it-science fiction is a part of who I am.

I didn’t have a chance really, being born in the late 70’s. Idolizing my older brother was my favorite past time. He had Buck Rogers shoes, and mountains of space legos. He meant to name our cat Moffett after the robot dog in Battlestar Galactica, but messed it up so we ended up with Muffy. If my Dad controlled the remote, an hour in front of the television could lead to weird British Dr. Who disappearing into a phone booth, or a voyage on the Enterprise. Then there was my never-ending struggle with Star Wars. It was the only game my brother wanted to play for years. Participation my only option. As the little sister I stupidly liked the ewoks, they were cute; like teddy bears with funny dialect. But, I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive all the times I had to be Princess Leah-you see she was a brunette and I was a blond- obviously there was some tragic flaw in our casting.

So here I am, thirty years later; the science fiction engrained in me rising to the surface once again. It’s a bit like running into a boyfriend you haven’t seen in years. You remember how he looks and moves, but now we both have a new perspective and appreciation for who the other has become.

Glitter is the most effective prop

2010-08-14T13:53:00.003-05:00

Captain Kirk’s cumbersome belly spills over his waistband, stretching his gold captain’s shirt taut. He steps forward into a white cone of light, pausing to pose for his audience. Music swells as Spock and Bones take their places on either side of the Captain, for a few brief seconds the audience sits in suspense before the trio belts out the opening lines of the song “Science Fiction Movies.” Their doo-wop choreography is spot on, their delivery wholehearted. We haven’t even made it to the chorus, and I think the guy next to me may pass out from laughter.

Tonight we find ourselves seated in the Off Center Theatre, for a Fringe Fest sponsored production of “Khaaaaan! the Musical.” When we bought our tickets I was eager to see how the show would capture the essence of Star Trek, by the end of the opening number I am giddy at the low class perfection set before me. The SS Enterprise is framed of PVC pipe, transporters are brought to life through cascades of glitter, Khaaaaaan rocks a mullet. I love every second of it.

If you are looking for brilliant singing, exceptional harmonies, or a riveting score you should probably keep looking. The cast does an admirable job with the tunes, but it is clear singing is not many of our actor’s forte. What they lack in tone, they make up for in delivery. Jay Coombes embraces Kirk’s narcissistic flair, giving sidelong glances crowned by an arching eyebrow. Steven Eubank proves he is a man not faint of heart, as he dons skin-tight leggings for his role as Khaaaaaan. The female lead (Amy Hurrelbrink) speaks valley girl like a pro, but I am particularly enamored with her work in the un-credited roles of spaceship and Uhura.

The show was cheesy campy fun. For the evening we were able to suspend all seriousness. Too bad it's not still going on or else I would have made you all go.

Flash

2010-07-28T21:11:00.003-05:00

I was introduced to flash fiction when the term came up in my writing group on a few separate occasions. Last week an email was sent out about a flash fiction contest. It caught my interest, and I think I'm going to give it a try. The premise is an entire story in a very short word count. Think of a paper back book, and putting the entire story on the face of two opposing pages. So if on my blog you see anything linked under the category flash, flash fiction is what I am referring to. Hopefully I'll have a story for you shortly.

“If this were a boy, I would totally make out with it.”

2010-07-23T22:05:00.004-05:00

Amber liquid glows in a clear glass, uncomplicated by ice, water, or mixers. The first sip is shock; nostrils filled by the distinctive bourbon scent, brain overwhelmed with mind clearing fumes. You inhale deeply as your body registers the strength of this drink; it is now understood tonight is about taking time, becoming familiar with overwhelming experiences that are out of your everyday scope of reality. Strangers become acquaintances as you introduce yourself to one another. Everyone is here for the love of food, so this is often where the conversation begins. While smiling and listening to recommendations on delicious restaurants you learn how to let the Makers Mark slide slowly into your mouth, rolling the liquid to the outside edges of your tongue, before it seems to melt with warm heat into your body.

Tumbler secure in hand you walk about the space, the familiar shape of the glass a constant in a place that still feels unfamiliar. Brick walls encase a large black room, polished concrete floors stained a marbled gold. In the center of the room is one long table topped with place settings for thirty. Silver chargers adorn white table linens; light radiating from votive candles brings the faces of your co-diners into flattering focus-illuminating our glasses to sparkling burnished shades. Tonight Jenny Vergara has led us to Black on Burlington for a Test Kitchen KC adventure. We find our seats on either side of the long table. After settling in and introducing ourselves to our soon to be friends we eagerly read Chef Chris Wofford’s menu. Tonight is all about Southern Comfort, and the Makers Mark is just the beginning.

Each course will be accompanied by different Bourbon. Our bartender is enlightening; informing me many of the following Bourbons are from the Jim Beam family. He relays the fact Mr. Beam names his bourbons after family members. As a girl with roots from Tennessee, I am jealous of Booker and Basil, for I know no distillery will ever christen a bottle Jessica. I ease my dismay by finishing my glass of Makers Mark.

Act One.

A plate is set before me filled with a small tower of flavor. The chef explains his menu is based upon local game, and he started preparing for our event six days before. Rabbit confit sits on a bed of wild mushroom. Nestled between the two is a flattened encrusted disc of sharp cheddar Johnnycake. We lift the forks to our mouths, and momentary silence fills the room. The textures play well together; I look across at Andy and see he has found slightly salty bliss in his first bite. I enjoy trying each ingredient separately, and then taking a sip of the Bulleit Bourbon that now fills our glasses. The sharp cheddar enhanced by the oak and spice of the bourbon.

Act Two.

A long rectangular plate, with gently waving edges, frames a brown nest of shredded fried wanton wrappers. The nest spills wilted greens over spicy peanut vinaigrette. Sitting atop the nest is a bird; his life sacrificed for our palate’s enjoyment. I laugh at Chef Wofford’s amusing presentation for his roasted breast of pheasant, before taking a sip of Bakers bourbon. Silky liquid with hints of nuttiness adds a new layer of flavor to the bite sized portions of meat.

Act Three.

This is my favorite part. Red deer flank steak, accompanied by venison sausage, hoppin’ john and raspberry BBQ sauce. After getting a little of each ingredient on my fork, and generously dipping it in the tangy raspberry sauce, I take my first bite. Contentment floods my body as I eagerly look across the table to Andy, “If this were a boy, I would totally make out with it.” Our new friends on either side of us laugh when they hear my declaration. The sweet fullness of Knob Creek plays on the tangy raspberry flavors. I devour my dish, trying to pace myself. It is so disappointing when the last morsel is gone.

Act Four.

This is where I meet Basil, if I remember correctly he was Jim Beam’s grandnephew. Basil Hayden Bourbon is the whole name. Andy took a drink, shivered, and gasped-Basil is a bit strong for his liking. I lift my glass to my nose, taking in the spicy, peppery, honey scent before bringing the glass to my lips. (I think it may be love, but we’ll have to wait and see how our next meeting goes. He does come in a very distinguished bottle.) Basil accompanies the rack of wild boar, three peppercorn hominy grits, and a blackberry molasses gastrique. I try to steal Andy’s gastrique; he fends me off with his fork.

Act Five.

For our after-dinner drink and smoke, Jenny and Chris have thought this through on many levels. Jenny has introduced us all to a custom cigar maker, who has been skillfully rolling cigars near the bar all night. He is an expert at his craft, we are impressed by his ability to turn a tobacco leaf into the familiar shape of the cigar. Chef Wofford chooses Bookers bourbon for our last course, and provides us with an ashtray.

An ashtray has never looked so delicious. The chef’s sense of humor is highlighted once again as chocolate ashtrays, filled with a strawberry mousse are set before us. Propped on the edge of the ashtray is a pecan and chocolate cigar. The exterior of the cigar is a papery thin wafer, the interior a moist and chewy chocolate sensation. One of my new friend’s generously offers his leftover strawberry mousse when I disappointingly run out of mine.

The night ends, I look down at our half empty tumblers illuminated by candlelight. Andy has mercifully agreed to drive this evening, so I am left with one final decision. What is the last flavor I choose for the evening? I choose the glass in the center, inhale deeply as I bring the cup to my mouth, and smile. Basil Hayden reminds me what true “Southern Comfort” is.

the good part about my job

2010-07-08T00:17:00.006-05:00

I have a day job, the one that pays my bills. When people ask me, “Where do you work?”

I reply, “Overland Park.”

Most people leave it at that, even though I know full well they want the name of the company and an occupation. I try not to talk about my job, because to me it is the means to an end.

It does offer one truly spectacular benefit though: occasional access to the delicious sandwich store.

As you may have guessed, the delicious sandwich store makes delicious sandwiches.

(They are actually better known as a bakery, and go by the street name of Wheatfields. But as the sandwich consumes my every thought of the place it is only referred to in my mind as the delicious sandwich store.)

The delicious sandwich store is in Lawrence. Some days, like today, my work needs me to commandeer a work vehicle to meet with a customer far from the cries of Johnson County and its pre-fabricated restaurants. After years of experience I have become quite adept at arranging my meetings around the lunch hour, in anticipation of my unsatiated desire for the sandwich. I gather my lap top, field bag, and the Ford’s car keys before heading out the iron clad door of corporate America. Key’s spark the ignition, bringing the Escape’s engine to life. Immediately I roll all of the windows down, as I turn the radio up as loud as the corporate volume regulated stereo will allow. For the next forty minutes all I have is the freedom of driving and the anticipation of my sandwich. When life goes awry it can be months between sandwiches. Today as I drove it had been three long months since my last sandwich.

Other sandwiches are nice, but they are poor second-class substitutes for what I really want between two slices of bread. Some mornings, I wake up dreaming of it; my mouth watering for the crusty bread and tangy flavors. The #9 sandwich is bliss; I am sure it has a name but on the board it is #9 so that is how I order it. After ordering at the counter I secure myself a glass of water, and a seat in the always slightly crowded café. Moments after I settle in, rest my bag on the ground next to me, shrug my coat off my shoulders-it arrives at my table on a thick white porcelain plate. There is no un-necessary fluff or garnish on the plate, just a pickle I disdainfully discard. I am angry at the pickle for contaminating the holy surface of my sandwich’s plate-but it will be ok.

The bread I request is country French, a crusty porous white bread with just enough portals through the slice to allow a glimpse of the flavors beneath. Some days you will catch the cranberry sauce peaking through, a sweet tangy burgundy paste coating the alternate side of the bread. Some days your sandwich will be placed on the plate the opposite direction allowing for glimpses of the creamy house made mayonnaise slathering the second slice. At the heart of the sandwich is layer after layer of fine white turkey meat, and a crisp fresh green piece of some magical lettuce. I would like to tell you I could take my time to appreciate the aesthetics of the sandwich before carnivorously devouring it-but that would be fabrication. The pure truth is it is mere seconds before I lift the sandwich to my mouth. Teeth cut through the crusty bread, descending upon the hearty turkey layer, stimulated by the crunch of the lettuce. Each layer of taste hits me in a joyous moment as I start to chew. It is only the first bite, and there is still almost the whole sandwich to go. This is a happy time, full of promise of all the future bites to come.

As the first half of the sandwich disappears my pace slows. It is important to take your time with a sandwich of this caliber. If you eat it too quickly you will only be filled with regret. Today there is no regret for me. I look down to see two bites remaining. I carefully dissect the remnants, deliberating over which flavor I want to have the final impression upon my taste buds. Today I settle on the final crust of bread coated with cranberries. It is chewy and sweet, with a little bit of kick.

I am sad the delicious sandwich is gone, but thrilled it has found it's final resting place in my belly. I clear my table before fleeing the haven of the delicious sandwich store.

When you're looking for a little escape

2010-06-29T23:25:00.003-05:00

The wail of a Queen in pain floods the theatre, bouncing off walls, accosting our ears; flooding our hearts with terror. I find myself cornered, cloth-covered walls to my right and rear, row after row of seats ahead of me, to my left an endless line of bodies, blocking the exit. I realize my error too late. Now I know escape is not an option. When I reach down to my cup holder, looking for solace in my glass, the true tragedy becomes evident. Our path to the bar is obstructed, there will be no refills of my drink tonight. Faye Dunaway fills the movie screen ahead, her visage greeted by twitters of applause, and screams of mocking laughter. Tonight we find ourselves at “Mommie Dearest”, brought to us at the newest Screenland location.

Screenland is a theatre group like none other in Kansas City. They offer us independent films, and a variety of entertainment experiences. When things just seem a little too dull we know if we wait a week or two something will pop up on the Screenland website to help us fight our doldrums.

Screenland-The Crossroads is where I saw “The Sound of Music” for the first time. Perhaps two years ago, Andy ecstatically informed me he had purchased us tickets to the Sound of Music Sing Along. I found myself in the midst of a sold out crowd. Nuns, mingling with lieder-ho sen clad wenches. Grown men radiating bliss as they belt out “The Hills are Aaaah-llivvve with the sound of Muuuuu-sic.” I remember being seated next to a rather pungent, large man; with a deep baritone serenading me about the time he was 16 going on 17.

The Screenland's projector guided Andy down the highway to the danger zone for the first time in his life.

(“What?” You say. I know! How can you have lived through the 80’s without seeing “Top Gun”? But he had never seen it all the way through until a few months ago.)

At the Screenland we were not only allowed to watch "Top Gun" on the big screen; we were guided through all of its dog fights and testosterone by the comics from Counter Clockwise Comedy. Once a month the comics set up shop in the front row, prepared with microphones and scathing wit. Beloved movies are brought to new light through their eyes. For instance, in this viewing I learned Tom Cruise really does have one tooth bigger then the other. (They show no mercy roasting everything from "ET", to "Jaws", "Karate Kid", "Flashdance", the list goes on... Next month is "Ghost" if anyone is interested.)

Another alluring part of the theater is the full bar. It never hurts to have access to alcohol, be it a painful first date, or a long day at work. The Screenland works it to their full benefit by running drink specials to match their events. Last year maraschino adorned Manhattan's ruled the evening at the season premiere party for "Mad Men". After drinking enough of them I was convinced I would run into my very own Don Draper at the bar.

I could tell you how each year they show the animated shorts up for Oscar nods, or about the new 3rd Thursday night series the Crown Center location is starting, or paint you pictures of their beautiful theater up North. Probably the best thing for you to do is just check it out, and if you want someone to go with you there's a good chance I'm in.

mom you may not like the images in this one

2010-06-18T00:17:00.005-05:00

Jesus takes the stage with Mary Lou Retton serving as his back up singer, and I think, “My Mom’s not going to like this.” Manicured trees painted onto panels of canvas frame the back of the stage, lights manipulating their colors-serving us a kaleidoscopic version of nature. Six additional musicians find their places on stage as the mob writhes in excitement. Inching forward the mass screams, cat-calls, stamps, applauds; begging for the show to begin. I look to my left trying to process all that is going on; everything is almost familiar but it is clear tonight I am slightly out of my element.

Jesus wears a white leisure suit, with no shirt under his jacket, a shard of crimson fabric drapes about his neck- the afterthought of his ensemble. It is already hot, and he has thought ahead-pulling the majority of his shoulder length brown wavy hair into a bun on top of his head. He takes the mic offering some clarification to his identity “I am Edward Sharpe, and this is the Magnificent Zeroes." A tambourine cuts over the audience’s noise, the drums kick in-the crowd roars in response. Sharpe smiles over his flock, he opens his mouth and his voice pours over us as the band sets the pace.

Here’s the funny part; after the opening it all runs together. Three songs stand out above the rest, but sometimes at a rock show there is too much going on in the audience for you to remember the show. The Edward Sharpe show is one of those shows for me. I am familiar with one album by the band, but don’t consider myself a fanatic regarding their music. Tonight’s show is at the Beaumont, a venue I hadn’t been to in years. There is a large stage up front, with a lowered floor directly before the band. Stage right, running parallel to the floor, is a raised platform where you can catch the show from a different angle. We secured a standing spot about three-quarters of the way back on the floor-finding ourselves integrated into one of the most eclectic crowds I have ever encountered. There are hippies and frat boys, gray haired middle aged women and twelve year old boys, the indie kids put in a good showing, and creepy old guys are out in force as well. It is an extremely enthusiastic supporting mix; it just so happens we may have found ourselves standing next to one of Edward Sharpe’s super fans.

The super fan is in her early twenties, if she is not twenty-one, she has at least secured herself a fake ID because she is drinking. By the time the show starts it is clear she has likely been drinking for hours, she has now entered the realm of full blown wasted. She is short, she is round, she has straight blond chin length hair. Square framed glasses are secured to her face-it is good they are firmly placed; because she is a volatile force. Three minutes of observation and I have confirmed:

SHE IS A DRUNK WEEBLE WOBBLE.

I was first introduced to a weeble-wobble as a child. He was plastic, about four inches tall, had a weighted sphere for a body with a funny little head perched on top. You could knock him down a million times and he would always pop back to center, his painted smile smugly mocking you. It wasn’t until I was full grown that I realized weeble-wobbles were modeled after real people. Weeble-wobbles are precarious sober; a drunk weeble-wobble is its very own life force. A dancing, lesbian, handsy, weeble-wobble, well this is the first one I ever encountered; and she stole the show.

She starts with a sway, her arms about her girlfriend, pulling her close with reckless movement. Left, right, left, right. We instinctively step a few inches to our right to give her more room. The band plays on, the drinks pour down her throat. The sway moves into a rock; back, forth, back, forth-her movement only interrupted for amorous displays of her affection with her girlfriend. We instinctively step a few inches back to give her more room. The band plays on, the drinks pour down her throat. Her feet no longer offer any stability, they are merely a center point as her weight tilts erratically from one direction to another. My friend’s and I look to one another, helpless. There is a silent agreement amongst us-it’s OK to not catch the weeble-wobble if she falls to the floor. No need for one of us to get pinned beneath her flailing body. The band plays on, the drinks pour down her throat. At some point the crowd swallows her, and I don’t see her again until the last song.

For the last song Edward Sharpe says “I’m going to take a seat. Why don’t you?” He sits on the floor six feet from the stage, and the people around him follow his example. Like ripples on a pond’s water the crowd settles to the ground in a wave radiating from him at the center. (Mob mentality is overwhelming, why else would you sit on a beer soaked floor in a bar in Westport? I wouldn’t really recommend it.) He sings his song, and I see her. The weeble-wobble is wedged against the floor, her girlfriend in her lap. The song ends, the crowd goes wild. Before rising to our feet once again. I look to the hole where the weeble-wobble was last spotted, and see she had not sprung up. Like a tortoise flipped on his back she will not be joining the exodus from the stage until some one lends a hand and helps her back to her feet.

KCPT doesn't believe in dance floors.

2010-06-09T23:57:00.005-05:00

A man with white-blonde hair and square glasses settles himself onto the piano bench. He is Dennis the Mennis, finally realizing his potential and grown into a man, these days he goes by Thomas M. Lauderdale-he is now the ringleader of the Pink Martini circus. His right hand snaps high, before descending on the downbeat, relaying the show's beginning to his band mates. Applause fills the Midland as the opening number floods the crowd. Pink Martini asserts their dominance.

Eleven musicians fold into one cohesive sound, before the 12th lends her voice to the show. China Forber's voice is clear and strong. She paints a melody over the bass line, her lyrics dancing through the countermelodies fighting for our attention. The men on stage are in suits and ties, unassuming in their elegance. The only other female on stage is the cellist, clad in a v neck black silk dress, mostly hidden behind her mahogany instrument. China offers the only promise of color, her navy chiffon gown accented by a whimsical cape. Black curls frame her oval shaped face, falling to her chin, drawing our eyes to her crimson painted lips which serve as the gateway to her talent.

Pink Martini is a little big band, made up of the: cello, violin, guitar, string bass, trombone, trumpet, piano, China on vocals, and four percussionists. Their songs move around the world from a Czech love song, to a Japanese ballad, a French poem set to their own melody, to the half Russian-Italian China met at a party. Each song tells a story, each story has an influence. We are moved from Schubert to Cuba all in the same tune, one side of the story will be told in swing the other side by a rumba.

There is a brief intermission after their first set. The band takes the stage once again. We note China's costume change, as her counter parts settle into their seats. She is now adorned in a flowing black one shouldered gown, her hair pinned up in an elegant twist. As the applause dies down we wait to see what is next.

Theater lights fade, concentrating all of the energy into one central beam. White-hot light catches silver flecks of dust as they fall from the vaulted ceilings, directing our gaze to the heart of tonight’s show. He is slender, all arms and legs; a closely cut suit hugging his frame, his neck trimmed with a slim tie. Until now he has remained anonymous; nonchalant as he moves from one set of percussion instruments to the next- unassuming as he melds into the beats of a dozen different genres in just a many songs. The other 11 musicians scatter about the stage, fading into the black velvet of the theatre, giving recognition to their driving force. Each of his limbs start to move independent in time from one another, slow syncopations building into complex combinations; the pace incrementally increases making each heart beat faster in time with him. Forcing our toes to tap, our breath to race, our ears to strain-every sense eager in anticipation of what he may do next. His eyes are cool, his frame relaxed, he doesn’t even strain when he finally lets loose. Our jaws drop, as our breath is pulled from our body. All night we have felt him moving the show forward.

Now all else is stripped away.

He is a steam engine driving at you full force, there is no choice left but to marvel at his power and wait to see where the ride will take you next. It is brilliant, exhilarating, and a little bit terrifying; the ultimate artist working us into a frenzy before fading into the black yet again. His name is Brian Davis, and tonight he serves as the pulse for Pink Martini.

The show continues through the second set, and we are treated to a brief encore before the curtain finally falls.

We had a memorable evening; my only small complaint was the lack of a dance floor. With rhythms like that it seems almost criminal to deprive your audience of the opportunity to dance.

I need another word for THE

2010-06-04T23:31:00.007-05:00

After 11 days of weeping, gray clouds retreat leaving a gaping ring of sunshine. Sunbeams fragment about a hospital-green water tower, spilling their warmth over puddles, evaporating the memory of recent storms. People emerge from their homes, standing in small clusters at the street’s edges, looking toward an old train depot. “CITY HALL” stands in large block letters on the face of the building, claiming the space where train schedules once resided. A small tent stands on a gravel drive obstructing the former path of the Q line. Today is a celebration, and the inhabitants of Qulin have come forth to take part.

A lone fiddle player stands in the sun; for a few seconds he holds his bow sanctimoniously above the bridge. There is a slight drop to his wrist as he leans into the opening notes of his song. The small crowd half listens as they pass gossip from one neighbor to the next. A melody starts low and sonorous, before picking up speed moving to the high clear registers of the fiddle. Two tunes resolve before a gospel combo makes their way to the patch of grass where the PA equipment is hooked up. The singer finds his way to the microphone as the keyboardist and drummer settle into their seats. The fiddler fades back quietly, disappearing before the guitar kicks in.

A new Mayor says his thanks; the band starts to pack up. The crowd moves toward the shade at the edge of the gravel yard. Railroad ties set the grass apart from the rocks; perched on a splintered tie the fiddle player has found a better home. His back to is to the white-hot gravel, his legs stretch toward the shady grass. A couple asks if he knows their song. A gentle snap of the fiddle case’s clasp is his response, followed by a tilt of his chin as the fiddle finds its way home. With the long stride of his bow they are transported to 1940 and the memories of cheek to cheek dances in their living room.

Requests are interrupted by the crunch of small feet in the gravel. The boy is no older then five; his eyes bright with the excitement of free hot dogs, people, and music. Tripping toward the music the young prodigy makes his way to the railroad tie, interrupting as the fiddler finishes the refrain, “I wanna do that.”

Bow caught mid saw, the fiddler replies, “You’re going to have to hang on a second.” And goes on to finish the refrain.

Our small friend doesn’t notice all eyes are now on him. He climbs over the tie, settling in next to his new found teacher. The fiddle player is patient, unconcerned about the recklessness of youthful movements.

“Give me your hand.” A small palm is given in response. The bow is placed between clumsy fingers.

“Now hold it here like this, don’t let it go.” The horsehair wand wavers uneasily as the beloved instrument is situated under his tiny chin.

“Now make some noise.”

Screeching whines erupt from the strings, the boy’s eyes widening in surprise at the sound. How is it his music sounded so different then that of the man next to him?

“It’s ok, all you’re trying to do is make some noise. Go on.” A tongue peaks out the corner of the boy’s mouth, before his arm saws furiously once again. This time the noise is stronger, more sure in it’s chaos.

For a few minutes the old couples laugh, the mothers smile, the fiddle player teaches.

Upon relinquishing the instrument the boy turns to his father a grin stretching his teeth into view. The words “I did it.”, intermingle with the opening notes of Amazing Grace, as the boy and his father get up to go home.

In honor of a sad week

2010-05-26T22:02:00.002-05:00

December had been kind- melting the majority of the snow, so the hill was not too slippery. Five young men, and one slightly older man, grabbed the handles on the casket. A man from the funeral home guided their deliberate journey up the hill to a red velvet covered tent. In the distance four soldiers stood at attention, the sun sinking in front of their eyes.

The few remaining mourners made their way up the hill, looking at the hole where he would be put to rest. His sister sobbed, as his daughters took their seats on either side of their Aunt. His grand-daughter, in her red coat, came next, followed by a Bear of a man worn and exhausted by the blow of his passing.

A Chaplin stood under the tent addressing the close group of mourners. He spoke of God, and souls passing- people being in better places. The young woman in a red coat laid her head on the Bear’s arm. Not for herself, she didn’t really feel like she needed comforting. But the Bear was shattered, and perhaps he needed to feel someone there.

The color guard marched forward. Three men and a woman, all young. The grand-daughter thought of the foolish precision of the soldiers before her. All right angles, snapping their steps, folding, creasing, taking an eternity. The futility of it crossed her mind.

But then she remembered standing in his front yard. A little girl of 5 or 6, and Grandpa saying you take this end. Him showing her the proper way to honor the flag & remembering his patience as her clumsy fingers followed his instructions. The guard finished, presenting the flag to their Captain, a resilient woman of 25 or so. She adjusted the final folds, took the flag, then snapped around. She walked past his youngest daughter, past his sister, past his oldest daughter, past his grand-daughter, and stopped at the Bear. The Bear shook a bit, as the Captain leaned forward. “Your country presents you with this flag on behalf of your loved one. . .” His grand-daughter leaned closer as she felt the Bear sob, his huge voice breaking as he tried to say thank you.

The grand-daughter got up, walking from under the tent. Turning to the east she saw a man standing alone at the back of the small crowd. A young man, dressed precisely in black, he was one of the 6 to carry the honor up the hill. She saw him shaking, tears in his eyes; she walked away from the sun and into his arms.

“He really liked you. He really needed you.” The man hugged her tightly, his ragged breath shaking her body with each exhale, the breath slowly calming after a few minutes.

He let her go. In return she held out a red rose, “It’s for you.”

“I wanted one of those.”

She smiled, “Now you have one.”

A mini vacation

2010-05-21T11:37:00.001-05:00

A few days out of town, but I should have a story next week. Thank you for your continued interest & support.

jess

How Power & Light does the movies

2010-05-11T23:48:00.005-05:00

“May I show you to your seat?”

“Yes, please.” I respond, as I hand my ticket to one of the four attentive ushers looking in my direction. We cross the threshold and I find myself in one of the most impressive movie theatres I have ever seen. Red seats stretch endlessly downward, each row a half person higher then the last. I follow the attendant down, down, down until we reach row D. “Here you are Miss.” I am relieved. A) He called me Miss, not Ma’am; sometimes I get worried people are starting to think I am old. B) My ticket stub said row D, being the 4th row from the front. I hate sitting too close to the screen. It is true row D is 4th from the front, but now I can quit worrying because 4th row in this theatre is not something that will ruin my viewing of Iron Man 2.

“Thank you.” I smile and start down the row. My friends had beaten me here, and are already settled into their rumble seats. I skirt pass Matt and Jacque before collapsing in the seat next to Rod.

After a few minutes of catching up, I careen my head around to take in the theatre. We had heard the hype about the AMC flagship theatre located at 1400 Main in the Power and Light district, but none of us had ever gone to the trouble to see a movie here until tonight. AMC thoughtfully provided every row with a foot rail to rest our feet on, I am curious if it has something to do with the rumble seats. “Have you ever seen a screen so big?”

Rod stares at the screen contemplatively before saying “It’s not as big as the Glenwood.”

I pause, looking at the massive expanse before me. “You’re right, that was the biggest screen… and best theatre, ever.”

The real Glenwood is gone. It was a freestanding theatre off Metcalf and 91st St. It is also the place our Dad took us to see Back to the Future, and countless other movies when they first came out. (Including Terminator 2-Dad, was I really old enough for that?) You walked into a massive circular lobby, with a circular concession stand at its center. Above the concession stand hung a magnificent, gargantuan chandelier, covered in crystal droplets adorned with shimmering bulbs. The concession stand was protected with strands of velvet rope arranged thoughtfully to keep the crowds in line as they waited for the privilege of purchasing popcorn and junior mints.

There were 3 smaller theatres, but the large theatre was the one you ALWAYS wanted to see your movie in. It felt as big as a football field, with gently sloping isles leading down to the screen. Hundreds perhaps thousands of yards of fabric swathed the screen in a massive, regal curtain. We were never forced to sit through asinine commercials about men’s body spray at the Glenwood. You would talk to your friends, family, or date building up anticipation until the curtain swung majestically open. Flickering images would engulf the screen as the music swelled before you were transported into the story coming to life before your very eyes.

On truly big events the big theatre would sell out. At least a thousand people would slide into their velour seats, a hum of excitement flooding the audience’s lips. I remember being 16, getting to the theatre minutes before “Independence Day” started, to find every seat taken-except for 4 up front. We shuffled across the miles of legs and settled into our chairs. I looked to my right and unexpectedly found my good friend, Natalie, at the show with her boyfriend. The screen was so close it seemed alien invaders were decimating the real Whitehouse. Our hearts pounded in fear, the audience bursting into applause and victory cries as Randy Quaid flew his fighter plane into the mother ship bringing the aliens down.

A revelation about the Glenwood, this one may be news to the men who frequented the theatre. Glenwood had the most glamorous bathrooms you have ever seen. I don’t know about the men’s room, but the ladies room was a site of beauty. There were the necessary stalls and sinks-but before you got to that part there was a large sitting room, with settees and row after row of mirrors. Every time I went in I felt like a 1940’s movie star. It made me want to live in a time when a trip to the talking picture show was a big deal. You would put on a dress, color your lips with red lipstick, just before the movie was set to begin you would pop into the powder room to make sure you were as flawless as the movie star soon to be on screen before you.

My seat began to shake; I am brought back to 2010. The previews are beginning, and now I understand what a rumble seat is. For the next two hours we sit spellbound as Iron Man saves the world. We cheer when the bad guy is down, laugh when Tony Stark charms Pepper Potts, groan in agony when our hero is down. It was an excellent evening. The AMC theatre is state of the art; something everyone in KC should experience. I’ll go back to see something blow up, while feeling my seat shake, and hearing the audience react. It’s a good theatre.

But it’s not a great theatre, not yet. We’ll have to wait and see. In 15 years if I look back, and feel like a movie star just for walking through the door-then it may be great. For now the Glenwood is paramount; the gold standard of my youth and what a movie theatre should be.

my favorite story of all time

2010-05-06T23:13:00.003-05:00

The double doors swing shut behind us, our steps slowing as we enter the theatre. Katherine Hepburn stands 10 feet tall on the silver screen; blinded by her shimmering presence it takes a few moments for our eyes adjust to the blackened theatre. I slide into the last row of seats, settling my purse at my feet. For once I am glad I didn’t sleep late-I didn’t want to miss this. There were no previews, so we missed the first ten minutes of the film; but since I have seen it too many times to count I jump into the story as I settle back in my chair.

“The Philadelphia Story” is a story I know better then my own life’s story. I cannot tell you about the first time I saw it, because I cannot remember. It finds it’s way onto my television screen at least three times a year; each time I am enchanted and surprised by something I missed before. Today the Tivoli is running the movie as part of its Leading Ladies of the Silver Screen series; I am ecstatic because I have never seen “The Philadelphia Story” on the big screen. To my surprise, watching it on the big screen does make a significant difference. The details that I have overlooked upon dozens of viewing now leap at me with clarity. My favorite scenes have new depth; every nuance of each actor’s expression translates to the back row. Dialogue crisp in the sound system, the audience laughing at each joke.

Originally screened in 1940, it is the story of a wealthy divorcee who, on the eve of her wedding, finds herself forced to entertain two strange houseguests and her ex husband. Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart form a triangle of wit and passion that leaves me entranced every time. Jimmy Stewart is Maccaulay “Mike” Connor, a writer forced to work for a tabloid magazine in order to make ends meet. He is ordered to infiltrate Tracy Lord’s (Katherine Hepburn) society wedding with the assistance of his photographer Liz. CK Dexter Haven (Cary Grant) is Tracy’s ex-husband and Mike’s way into the household.

I can’t pick a favorite scene, because I am enthralled by too many of them in this movie. There are several things that stood out upon this viewing that seem to have been lost on a smaller screen. Jimmy Stewart has an excellent moment with the stuffed and mounted head of an animal in CK Dexter Haven’s study. Liz Imbrie (Ruth Hussey) steals almost every scene she is in. Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn look ten million times more glamorous in the front seat of a convertible by moonlight then I could have imagined possible. The more I write about it the more I want to watch it again, so if anyone would like to join me for a viewing just let me know.

Our nametags said: I DON'T HAVE KIDS

2010-04-30T23:20:00.001-05:00

Jacque takes the knife pressing it through the crackly innards in one swift motion. Our mouths drop in horror, as she pulls Thomas’ face away from his body. We watch-mournful, appalled-how could she? She is nonchalant; as if cutting off one’s face is something we see every day. Without remorse she stretches her hand across the table, depositing the smiling face on a plate. I am relieved the face cannot process the future before him, because it is looking short lived and painful.

“I want cake!” the small boy cajoles. His dad grabs for the plate, placing Thomas’ decapitated head in front of his son. The four year old’s eyes light up, “For me!?” His sticky fist clutches Thomas with ferocity, while the tiny fingers on his other hand work to pluck out Thomas’ eyeball.

I look around in agony, wondering if anyone else sees the injustice before us.

Minutes ago Thomas stood before us, a deliberate construction of shaped and shaved rice crispy treats, covered with layers of colored fondant, accented with colored icing piped on for the details. If we had laid track on the table I am sure he would have taken off, straight toward the safety of Sodor. Alas, we forgot the track; there will be no safety for Thomas today.

A noble sacrifice, he goes with honor.

As the sugar finds it’s way through the children’s veins they scatter from the table, leaving the remnants of their celebration. We start to clear the wreckage, as I grab a plate I see him staring at me with his one eye, cannibalized face, smile still in tact.

I find Andy’s gaze, “I’m going to need a drink after this.”

I didn't see the signs

2010-04-22T21:44:00.005-05:00

The touring production of "A Chorus Line" was crap & rubbish; a colossal waste of time. It was so awful my stomach turns at having to relive it. I actually feel sorry for the person reading this because if I can convey the true boredom of the event, you too will be praying for these last two hours of your life back. I tried to care, I really did. I almost cared for half a monologue, but then I wondered if the man in front of us had quit breathing. With a shuttering snort I saw him catch his breath-& I was relieved. It would be a shame if someone died of boredom at the “revival” version of an adored musical. That’s the only reason I was here after all. Andy adores "A Chorus Line"- says it’s one of his favorite musicals. So I said “Sure, I’ll go.” I should have paid attention to the signs. There were plenty of signs.

Sign 1: It was at the Music Hall. The Music Hall sucks. The stage is tiny. When you sit in the balcony the actor’s faces seem like smudgy little blobs on stick legs. If you sit in the front the sound is uneven and the actor’s should be better looking, or scarier, or magickyer, or any thing they aren’t. Or choose the cavernous, lower level/under the balcony seating option that has an element of danger. The danger is from a constant fear the balcony will come crashing down-and you will die buried beneath the limbs and debris of season ticket holders.

Sign 2: We were on time. No problems with parking. No frenzied walk to the ticket lady. No apologizing to the people as we climb over their laps on the way to our seats. We found a parking space in the attached parking garage-no problem. We had time to walk s-l-o-w-l-y up the ten thousand steps to our seats. We had time to read the program, in its entirety, before the lights dimmed. That doesn’t happen to us-that never happens to us-that’s why they call it a SIGN.

Sign 3: It was a Sunday afternoon matinee. Imagine an audience that makes a crypt look lively. The majority of the crowd was alive when Madame Curie discovered the xray. There was a very real possibility that if the play was actually good, and people really got into it, someone would die of a heart attack or stroke.

Sign 4: We opened the program and so many small pieces of paper fell out I thought someone had put confetti in the programs. I was wrong. It was just all of the notes telling us the understudy of the understudy will be played in tonight’s performance by the understudy. Understudy is a very popular guy-like that Anonymous. That guy’s everywhere.

Sign 5: It’s a musical. I hate musicals. I try not to hate musicals. I will keep trying not to hate musicals, because there are people who LOVE musicals. It is highly probable those people eat paint chips, but they may know something I don’t. So I will keep trying.

We ignored the signs. We sat in the scary cavernous-hope people don’t fall on our heads part of the theater. The announcer came on “This production of A Chorus Line will be performed without intermission.” No big deal, do you really need an intermission? YES. Now we know. You always need an intermission.

Let me tell you the plot.

People are trying out to be in a chorus line.

I know. It’s overwhelming, complex, hard to wrap your brain around. That’s ok. I didn’t get it either. I just kept thinking "Oh, now maybe it’ll get cool." I am such a sucker.

Two performances stick out in my mind.

a) Girl in the purple leotard; her voice is shrill, abysmal-reminiscent of cows making love. In the first round of cuts I pray the director will put the girl in the purple leotard out of her misery. The director is not a kind man, she stays on for the entire rest of the play. I know she sings about something, but for the first time I think I know what men hear when women talk. It’s this kind of constant nonsense, you just brace yourself & hope it will be over soon. Poor girl in the purple leotard, she needs one of those friends-the one’s who tell you the truth or a mother who loved her and said “Sweetie, you were never supposed to sing anywhere but the shower.”

b) Cassie. Don’t worry it wasn’t the real Cassie. It was the understudy of the understudy Cassie. I know she was trying really hard. That’s why it was so painful to watch. I saw all the effort forced into her performance-I know her heart and soul went into each song, dance, and line of dialogue. I respect the work, and training she must have gone through for this role. But all I could do is watch in wide-eyed fascination, marveling at the fact I didn’t care one bit what happened to this character. (Andy was particularly appalled by her dancing; comparing it to a 4th grade dance recital.)

There was a highlight. I don’t know if it was a highlight because it was the end of the show, and I could tell it was the end of the show so I was excited about my impending freedom-or if it was a highlight because it was good. The cast comes out in sequined, rhinestoned tuxedoes and does a song a dance with top hats, and kicks. That part I liked. It was the one part where the production quit trying to be a play, and gave us a glimpse of a dance review.

Then it ended. The theater went black & we were set free.

I will give it credit, because I did appreciate my after dinner drink ever so much more then usual that night.

Warning. Andy & I have tickets to another musical May 1st. We'll see how that one goes.

Notes from the KC Underground

2010-04-14T23:01:00.004-05:00

“We got in.” My voice rang through the thin wall between Andy’s bedroom and mine.

I heard a pause in the video game’s explosions ringing from Andy’s computer, “What?”

“We got in-to that thing in the paper.”

“Oh… The what?”

Agitation may have crept into my voice as I prompt, “Remember? The thing in the paper, you said it sounded cool. So I signed us up and we got in.”

“What does it say?”

“It says give us $300 and we’ll send you a map on how to get there. Want to do it?”

“Yeah, ok.”

I click the link on the email and get forwarded to paypal. Two minutes later $300 has been charged to my credit card. Five minutes later I think-what the hell have I done? I just sent $300 to an organization I’m not even sure really exists.

The next day I check my email again. Now I find a congratulations email with a date, time, and location.

The day arrives. I have spent the night before throwing up with some sort of food poisoning meets allergies issue. I managed to make it through work, but the only appealing thought crossing my mind at five o’clock involves my bed and never leaving my house again. I get home, “We’re supposed to be there at 6.” I mumble at Andy as I pass his bedroom door. My face stares disappointingly exhausted out of my mirror, it’ll get dark eventually-I’ll look better then. We spend twenty minutes or so trying to figure out what to wear. We don’t really know where we are going, we don’t know anyone who is going to be there, they said it’s outside, but it’s September so it could get a little chilly. I settle on lots of layers, Andy ends up with a button up shirt-and a jacket just in case it gets cold. I volunteer to drive because the map looks like we’re headed down some country roads-the MINI prefers country roads.

Andy takes the directions and heads me down K-10, towards Desoto. The sky screams blue, while wind pours through the moon roof. It may be one of the last nice days before winter settles in. We head north from K-10, ending up on the windy country roads MINI prefers. Every car we pass forces us to speculate that they may be going too. Then they turn off, we are left alone on the road again. An s-curve takes us to a gravel road, and I slow from the 55 miles we have been traveling for the last 25 minutes. Andy points out the address, we pull up a slight hill, down a long gravel drive. The drive forks, we park at the end of a long string of cars. The smell of smoked wood and beef slow roasting is captured in the car as I close the moon roof & roll up the windows. We have arrived.

It’s an underground supper club. I surmise this must be the underground.

The sun sets bright on the grass as a pleasant blonde with a clipboard greets us. Our names prompt the greeting of “It’s your first time! Welcome, I hope you enjoy yourselves. The chef is over at the fire pit, and if you find your way to the back of the house you will find our hosts, The Crums, serving red beer with canapés.” The thought of putting something in my mouth makes my stomach shudder; but I thank her for her hospitality and we wonder across the drive.

The map has led us to a family farm with an address in Bonner Springs. There is a large farmhouse set squarely on a plot of sloping land. A main “garden” sets behind the house, the garden takes 20 minutes to walk half way to the back-to my city raised mind this is a farm. In front of the house is a softly sloping yard leading to a fire pit with a sensuous smell of roasting meat and… pears? Andy and I look at one another, curious and nervous-we’re amongst strangers; but at least now we know they didn’t just steal our $300.

A short walk leads us to the back yard and a make shift bar. We order two red beers, one made from yellow tomato juice-the other from red. I don’t drink beer- it’s a commonly known fact amongst my friends. But tonight is about new experiences so I hold my glass to Andy & we cheers. Dinner won’t start for another hour or so, the hosts have told us we are free to walk the property-so we start towards the south end of the garden in a slow and listless way.

I look at my glass and turn to Andy in astonishment “I kind of like this-and I actually think it’s helping with that whole I want to throw up thing.” We walk through row after row of plants, many of them are foreign to me-I never was one for my vegetables. Soon we tag along with another couple that has talked Mrs. Crum into giving a guided tour. She answers questions about the endless varieties of tomatoes on the property, identifies the colorful roots at our feet, encourages us to smell the flowering plants, and points to the bee hives at the crest of the hill. It’s an education and an escape simultaneously-I have forgotten the food poisoning of last night; work is a faint memory of someone I pretend to be.

We head back towards the house, settling ourselves onto a vibrant handmade quilt spread out across the grass. Leaves smile at us from fifty feet above, they have seen many happy picnics-ours is just one of many. Canapés are served with fresh blueberries and la quercia coppa- a sort of prosciutto; squash, brown butter, gioia ricotta, eggplant, pepper agrodulce-gentleman’s toast. We don’t know what most of it is, but each bite is delicious. We look about, as the crowd is finalizing-about 30 people total. Mostly middle age professionals is my guess-some familiar with the process-a few set apart like us- confirming it is their first event. The beer helps with the awkwardness-but no one is over indulgent. Beneath two enormous trees set two plain wood-topped tables surrounded by hay bales. Wine glasses frame the plates, candles and fresh vegetables adorning the center of the gigantic surfaces. Hay bales are covered in more colorful quilts-our make shift chairs for the evening. The blonde calls us to the table and we settle ourselves onto the bales as our servers pour the first glass of wine.

Dinner begins.

The sun starts to fade.

Six courses.

Six complimentary wines.

Six educational snippets provided by the chef, or sommelier, or brilliant orchestrator of the event.

Each bite makes you understand what passion means.

The first course focuses on the fine heirloom tomatoes found in Mrs. Crum’s garden. Her son, (Dave Crum the chef of the evening) stuffs them with estratto, herbs, juniper grove fromage blanc, topping them with olio verde. It’s the creamy goodness of a soft cheese, with the earthy tang of a fresh tomato. The tomatoes are striped, some green, some orange, some red, some yellow. They have names like zebra. I try not to eat too much-we don’t’ want to spoil our dinner.

Act two- the sun is starting to falter on the horizon. We see the beauty of grilled porcini with heirloom garlic & onion soffrito, topped with kennebec potato croquette. The croquette is crisp and fluffy-a testament to the brilliance and versatility of the potato

Act three- my favorite part. Normally I don’t care for salmon-but a smoked sitka coho salmon is placed in front of us with heirloom peppers, radish, and pickled beets. The fish is firm and citrus smoked-it lets me know everything fish is supposed to be. I am disappointed when my plate is empty.

Act four- the sun is now gone. We set in the starlight, our fellow dinner guests illuminated by candlelight. A dry aged piedmontese ribeye with a roasted vegetable "chimichurri" finds it way from our forks to our mouths. This is the smell we arrived to-the one captured in the MINI. He roasted it over the fire with the bone on since early this morning.

Act five- there’s a good possibility half of our dinner mates our drunk by now. Additional baskets of bread are placed on the table with cheeses selected by Giles Schnierle: cato corner hooligan, thistle hill tarentaise, vermont creamy, sexy blue. We sample every one. Of course they are delicious-but everything is better by moonlight.

Act six- our final plate is placed in front of us with half defeated moans. It’s a delicate blend of gluttonous pleasure and fear if one more thing goes in our mouth we will die. A small wind catches the smell of roasted fieldstone asian pear with cinnamon crema montada, and shortbread-and we all give in. Spoon full by fork full the pears make their way into our mouths. This is how food should be. Smoky, sweet, the gritty flesh of the pear combined with the sweet creaminess of the cinnamon whip. It’s complex, intelligent, comforting.

I hand Andy the last of my wine-I am driving after all. He falls asleep on the way home. I open the moon roof, and the stars smile upon me. The gravel road falls away as I find the black top. I shift into fourth gear-the wind rushes in. I smile and pause half a second before I shift into fifth. Turns out I really like the underground.

A bigger project I've undertaken-this is the very beginning.

2010-04-06T23:00:00.002-05:00

Feathers ripped from skin by the fist full, hovering in the humidity, as she let them fall between her legs onto the sheet spread below. Down matted to her flesh by August sweat, the slight smell of blood mingling with her scent as she methodically cleaned the bird. Years of practice let her hands complete the task automatically, leaving her time to squint across the horizon. A dust trail from the road started from the south, and continued east headed toward the property. The trail grew longer each second, with the cloud choking the air. Her head snapped to the front of the trail as her ears focused on the sound of gravel flung across the drive, kicking under the vehicle with a metallic clatter. Supper, lifeless and half plucked, hung limply in her right hand, as started across the wide porch. “You better hurry up Doc-looks like the Hall boy’s truck is headed this way.”

A faded Chevy shuttered as Hubert Hall cut the ignition, his door already open-before the truck slid to a stop. His work boots left deep prints behind him, as he charged to the porch. Lester Rudder jumped out the passenger side of the cab, shouting through the open truck door glass “We need to see the Doc!”

“Doc’s gone fishing.” she countered-her attention suddenly drawn to the carcass in her hand.

Hubert barreled onto the front porch, heading to the front door “Like Hell he has! Truck’s still on the side of the house, and you aren’t cooking a whole bird for yourself.” The door clattered behind him as he yelled “Doc you in here?” Lester tipped his hat sheepishly at the Mrs. as he followed Hubert inside. He caught the shadow of Hubert headed out the back door through the kitchen, and rushed to keep up.

Out back, Doc stood next to his truck- a box of tackle in his left hand, and the fishing pole in his right. His head jerked toward the house as the back door slammed. For a brief second, his shoulder’s dropped, but he quickly recovered and turned to meet the Hall boy’s gaze. Hubert was fast approaching, his face getting redder by the second. Neither man was considered tall, and they now stood eye to eye. Years of dead chickens had left the Doctor’s middle decidedly dough-like, and Hubert took a half a second to wonder if the Doc’s mind had followed suit.

“We’ve been sending for you for two days, thing’s aren’t right since the baby came-and she needs to see you now!”

Doc turned his back to the man, shuffling his gear into the back of the truck, “I’ve sent word three times. I’ll be out tomorrow.”

Hubert’s voice shuttered with anger “I’ve sent word three times. Tomorrow isn’t good enough. Something’s not right, and she needs help now.” He took a few steps closer, moving with the grace of a man accustomed to hard labor.

Doc reached for the truck door, “You’ve seen enough babies to know it takes a couple of days for her to be up and around again.”

“I’ve seen enough babies to know when something’s not right. If your not going to help her at least get us the papers so we can get her to the hospital.”

Annoyance flushed over the Doctor’s face, as he pulled on the door handle. “You Hall boys never know when to stop. I’ll be out tomorrow.”

Hubert’s left hand smashed against the metal, holding the truck’s door shut. His right emerged from behind his back-a pistol in hand. “You’ll get us the papers today then.”

“We’ve got it Mama.” Hubert said softly as he entered the house. “Lester’s outside making up the truck, so we can move her.”

A slight look of relief crossed Estella Hall’s face for the first time in days-and her voice caught in her throat “I’ve got her all ready, you boys try and be gentle when you move her.”

Hubert passed his mother sitting in the rocking chair holding the newest addition to the family. He strode down the hallway, and knocked softly on the last door to the left. The door moved forward at his gentle touch “Mettie Ruth?”

Mettie Ruth lay on the bed, her red hair curled with the dampness of her sweat. She didn’t move at the sound of her eldest brother’s voice, her raspy breath the only indication of life in the room. Hubert picked the thin girl up as gently as he could, and held his breath as he heard her moan in pain. He started down the hall, praying silently “please let him get her there in time”.

Charles Alvin Sedrick sat in the corner, quiet as death, and stiff as stone.

“We laid her to rest two days ago.” Hubert explained. Charles nodded vaguely. “Opal’s been helping with Glen.”

“Glen?” Charles voice fell out of his mouth, “It wasn’t Glenda, like she wanted?”

“No.” Hubert half smiled,“Mettie Ruth was happy regardless though, Opal said Mettie lit up like the sun when he was in her arms.”

Charles’ face shut down, the thought of his young wife holding their son-and him missing it. Her time as a mother had been as quick as their romance. The quiet walks home from church, the gentle prodding of Mrs. Ledbetter-You know that Hall girl. . . It was only 10 months ago they got married, and now. . . Now he had a son. A 3-day-old son. No steady work. No wife to wake up next to, and no idea what to do next.

Estella’s voice cut through his thoughts “There will always be a home for Glen here, don’t worry about that.” It was August 14, 1939.

We took a trip to the Bus Stop

2010-04-02T21:25:00.007-05:00

Raindrops clung to my hair as a light layer of mist started to evaporate from my cheeks. We settled into our chairs, and the smell of damp wool floated to my nose. I rustled lightly in my chair, as I pulled my camel colored coat from my shoulders. I smiled at the diminutive woman next to me, her bright red fitted suit jacket a rush of color in the now darkening theater.

In front of us set a diner-the kind you still stumble across on road trips in small towns. A U-shaped lunch counter set to stage left, with a smattering of tables across the center of the stage. At the rear of the stage were large plate glass windows, looking out to a furiously snowing sky. Two long benches set against the windows-with a pot-bellied stove exuding warmth between them. A door set not too far from one of the benches, opened onto the street side of the diner. Another door opened to stage right, with a sign indicating the way to the lavatory. Today the Spencer theater was a “Bus Stop” and the KC Rep was introducing me to the playwright William Inge.

We went with no expectations. (I have found this is the best way to go anywhere.) We knew not if we were in for comedy, tragedy, or (hopefully not!) a musical. Turns out we were in for a bit of comedy, a bit of tragedy, and a tiny bit of a musical. Our proprietress, Grace, comes on stage in the buttoned up pink short dress worn by waitresses in the decades my mother was a child. Elma is the high school girl working for Grace, her outfit mirrors her boss-but she wears saddle shoes instead of heels-and her hair sets in calculated curls around her face. Elma eagerly awaits the impending bus-for with the storm outside it is sure to be a long visit. As they prepare for the riders, Will, the town sheriff, checks in, letting them know the highway is shutting down until the road crews can make some progress against the storm.

The bus comes to a halt, and the play takes off with a fury. Cherie, a glamorous blonde-terribly inappropriately dressed for the weather-comes through the diner door with a sense of urgency that kept us absolutely riveted. There’s a cowboy after her! And she needs somewhere to hide. She runs to the bathroom door, opens it, and finds an exit back to the miserable snow-for the washroom is out side. Cherie is followed shortly by Dr. Lyman a tweed clad professor well with a bottle of rye in case of just such an emergency, the bus driver-Will, and not long enough later the overly amorous cowboy Bo. Bo is accompanied by the voice of reason and experience in a weathered cowboy, Virgil.

For the next two hours Inge unfolds each of these character’s lives with witty dialogue, deep emotion, and enough humor to keep us from becoming doleful. The story lines are woven as gracefully as a spider web leaving us curious and excited about what may come next. Inge masterfully touches on love and jealousy, youth and innocence, sex and scandal. The highlight for me comes when Elma decides they should have a a talent show to pass the time. Dr. Lyman and Elma decide they will debut their reenactment of the Romeo & Juliet balcony scene. Blair Baker is the actress who perfected Elma’s 16 year old acting. I was in tears, doubled over in laughter as I witnessed Juliet’s over-exaggerated hand movements, and monotone rushed delivery. Laughter again roared through the crowd when Will calls attention to the reappearance of Carl & Grace, after being noticeably “preoccupied” all evening-mostly out of the audience’s eye.

The play was many things: a love story, a coming of age story, an ode to the Midwest, (the diner lies between Kansas City and Topeka-and the location is as central to the story as each of the characters.) While the cast did an excellent job, this time I was most impressed by the writing. Bus Stop reminded me of Mary Chase and her brilliance in the creation of “Harvey.” I left wanting to read every bit of Inge’s work I could get my hands on. A brief excerpt in the program told me Inge was born in Kansas, and graduated from KU. He went on to become a successful playwright, and some of his works were made into movies. The very play we were seeing was memorialized on screen, and the cast included Marilyn Monroe as Cherie. He died at the age of 60.

This weekend we’re having a screening of Bus Stop, the movie, at my place. I wonder if Hollywood lost the character of his work by making Cherie (Marilyn Monroe) from Arizona, and moving the Bus Stop farther west? I guess we’ll know after tomorrow. What I know tonight is I’m grateful for the introduction to his work, and can’t wait to read some more of it.

ps the movie is crap & rubbish. If I hadn't had a load of friends at my house, and multiple bottles of wine it would have been an entirely wasted evening. So if given the opportunity-see the play, skip the film.

A Vampire Weekday

2010-03-24T23:42:00.003-05:00

Four car doors slammed shut in quick syncopated succession as we settled ourselves into the gunmetal gray sedan. Snow on top of my shoe started to melt as we head north on the highway, by the time we reached downtown the cold water aggravatingly sunk into my sock. I turned to the window facing east to distract myself from the sock clinging to my frozen toes. Passing the new Art Center, I marvel at the twisted steel girders fighting to hold winter’s final gray sky at bay. They stand like the frame of an armadillo’s armor, sweeping half arcs with gigantic gaps waiting to be filled by the protective plating between massive ribs. The form holds such promise, but against winter’s final snow storm the steel stands cold and sparse-a half finished idea. The smell of coffee floods the car as the highway curves a bit to the east. Today, the city is ugly; blackened remnants of snow forcing frowns upon people’s faces as their cars pass us in the next lane. I am tired of this place today. Just north of Kearney I lay my head against the windowsill, and let myself give in. My eyes slip shut as we leave Kansas City behind.

A few hundred miles pass; sun warms the black leather interior of the car to a comfortable cocoon. I feel sun reflecting upon the planes of my face; cautiously, I open my eyes. Smiling, I look west; Eddie has steered us to a place where you can once again see the sky. In some places the land strangles the horizon; it forces the line of the earth much too soon. Here, the horizon sits in a different world, the blue of the sky uninterrupted save a few slashes of pristine white clouds. The sun is benevolent, warming your skin while a breeze slithers down the back of your neck when Jesse cracks the window. I feel the sun’s energy bringing me back to life. I manage to mumble a few sentences to my trip-mates.

Towards the end of Iowa we see the windmills I vaguely recall from this same trip years before. Deliberate silos set atop the farmland with three thin, industrial arms radiating from a center spool. There are precise rows as far as the eye can see; the mills set at slightly different angles to catch the wind from whatever direction it chooses to blow that day. I wonder if the propellers can turn clockwise or counter clockwise, I wonder what those arms power, I wonder why they chose white windmills when each once could stand it’s own color with it’s own personality, I wonder if Don Quixote were here how he would fight the masses. We stop to get food. I make Eddie wait a second so I can leave my heavy winter coat in the car. We no longer need our jackets; I am fine with my scarf and long sleeved t-shirt. Vacation is looking promising. We’re not even there yet.

The sun is setting low as I ask, “Is this the town where the bridge fell down?” “Yes.” is the reply as we navigate the massive amounts of construction. It is Sunday evening- traffic is light. We pull into downtown Minneapolis, and find our way to the hotel.

Twenty-four hours later, we are in a different world. Kansas is an eternity away. The hotel doors spill us onto the street; our eyes are forced upwards with buildings bowing pleasantly above us. Jesse and I set off, our long legs carrying us past the ancient Presbyterian Church, past a bus stop, past the pub we had beers at last night. A street light catches us, forcing us to halt our frenzied pace-I turn over my shoulder and spy Eddie and Danica half a block behind us. The light turns green as they catch up with us, Jesse and I set off once again. We have left our coats behind, a concession to the event that beckons-I dig a purple beret out of my purse securing the hat over my ears to keep the final memory of warmth with me. The bronze statute of Mary Tyler Moore tells us to turn left, a few blocks later Jesse says, “There it is.” We have arrived. It is so much closer then I pictured in my head.

Five garish chandeliers hang questionably above the stage. They are glaringly out of place in the venue. The staff has shaved heads, or Mohawks. The crowd favors plaid shirts and blue jeans. More then one person has a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in their grasp. I like this place. A black box with few distractions from the art set before the masses. It isn’t too large; the worst seat in the back still allows you to clearly make out the writing on the shirt of the person on stage. The crowd is tough on the opening band. I don’t even remember the band’s name just the fact they seem new to this whole experience-their set list incoherent with no flow, their lyrics detracting from the quality of their music. The crowd does not boo; they are not rude-but applause is not given freely as the band finishes their set. We wait for the sound crew to adjust for the headliner, and I bore Eddie with a story about work.

Opening chords are played and five chandeliers light simultaneously. A huge sheet covering a Vampire Weekend backdrop falls as the first chords are struck. I was curious about this show, that’s why I agreed to this trip. By the third song my curiosity is satisfied, and I am now eternally grateful to Eddie for getting me a ticket. The third song starts with the clear and insistent thump of the tom, followed by the crisp click of the high hat. The drums sound good, infectious. The crowd starts to move in time, every pulse moving to the same insistent beat. Songs shift seamlessly with the lead singer entertaining and engaging us at the same time. I admire these four guys on stage; they seem to know they have something worth sharing-they seem appreciative of the place they are. It’s not a typical rock show because it is clear these four are well-trained musicians, the music’s layers scream of counterpoint theory and Bach-but all you hear is rock and feel the need to dance. I stamp my feet in excitement,“This if my favorite part!” I shout in Eddie’s ear. The drums fade back, the guitar and bass dim, the keyboard falls into a melody belonging in a music box with a tiny ballerina turning en Pointe to the tune. I didn’t love the band before, but as the hour rolls past I give in. The band has converted me, and I can officially say I am a fan of Vampire Weekend.

This book has the baddest bad guy ever

2010-03-20T19:36:00.005-05:00

A girlfriend of mine said we should read “Last of the Mohicans” together then handed me a copy of the book written in 1826 by James Fenimore Cooper . (I vaguely remember “Last of the Mohicans” as a movie with Daniel Day Lewis. I believe I was in elementary school when it came out. I know I saw it-but couldn’t remember the plot to save my life. I know Daniel Day Lewis ran up mountains a lot, had a musket, and waterfalls were a prominent part of the background. I remember a blonde sister and a dark haired sister. I assumed Daniel Day Lewis was in love with the dark haired one because I felt like she was the more important of the two. I digress, back to the book.) I am pretty sure my girlfriend never opened her copy, but I opened mine. I am infinitely grateful to her for placing the book into my hands after all these years.

Cooper introduces us to the tumultuous world of baby America. The US isn’t even a baby yet, perhaps she’s in her zygote stage. The French and the British are firmly trying to establish who will be donating their culture as the precursor to ours. A basic comprehension of American history doesn’t hurt, but to break it down simply it is as follows. We have: the British-the kind of good guys, the Indians-the kind of bad guys, the French-the more bad then good guys-but they’re actually kind of ok if you look at them individually, and our Heroes-the guys caught in between. We also have two girls-the blonde and the brunette-more about them later.

The heroes are everything I want in a hero. They are fierce, intelligent (not only street smart, but wise), good looking, and they have a presence that commands great respect. All around they kick ass. Hawkeye is the white guy who’s lived here forever. He knows the ways of the Indian world, and can serve as a liaison with the white world. He has a best friend, a Mohican chief Chingachook; Chingachook has a son, Uncas. Hawkeye & Chingachook, are a few years older, in my head I make them my Dad’s age, but in reality I bet they are in their early 40’s. Unca’s is a young warrior chief just coming to the prime of his life, so that makes him about 20, and infinitely more aesthetically pleasing then his father and Hawkeye. Hawkeye has known Uncas since he was a boy, the 3 men live in the woods, making quite a reputation for themselves as excellent hunters, and formidable opponents. It just so happens that Uncas is the end of a dying breed of Indian-the Mohicans-a tribe of great esteem among the other locals.

The trouble starts when the girls’ father decides they need a change of scenery, so he is going to send them to a different fort. A small band dispatches with blonde girl (faintly, timid, Alice-she’s useless in a fight, and is always crying or passing out), and her sister-brunette girl (Cora-the true 17th century heroine-a perfect combination of uselessness and stoicism, but I like her more then the blonde). On the way they are misled by a crafty Indian, and run into Hawkeye & his friends. Hawkeye agrees to help get the girls to their drop off point. The adventure ensues. It’s mostly a chase novel, kind of like the Terminator with out gigantic space robots. First the bad guys are chasing the good guys, then the good guys are chasing the bad guys, then the bad guys get the girls, and the good guys have to save the girls. The novel’s pretty standard in that respect.

It is not standard in the elegance and poignancy Cooper leads us through the series of adventures. His description of the forest forces my bedroom walls away, I am seated on a mossy bank with the clear water of a small stream rushing in front of me. I no longer can hear the helicopter overhead, because the sound of Hawkeye making a birdcall is deafening my ears. Not so far off, I smell the smoke of the fires from the French cannons. All other worlds have fallen away.

His use of the language is commanding- and challenging. You stumble across a word and from the context you vaguely know what it means-upon finding that word's meaning in the Dictionary the scene laid out before you achieves a flawless image in your mind. His words flow like the waterfalls he so often references. It made me smile more then once as I stumbled over a phrase.

I enjoy, that almost always, the individual must be removed from society as a whole. Hawkeye cannot speak for all whites, as the evil Magua cannot stand to represent all Indians. No group is purely evil, or purely good. There are individuals who are purely evil, and individuals who are purely good, but Mr. Cooper does not attribute these shortcomings or advantages to an entire race. I find this to be refreshing, because so often if one person does something wrong we want to attribute it to their entire race. Cooper is more egalitarian then I expected, and I commend him for this.

I love the love story. The true love story is quiet. There is the love story of Alice-which is nauseating and typical to me. Then there is the quiet love story of Cora; my heart breaks to think of it. Cooper makes Cora’s story less glaringly obvious, perhaps not to alienate his audience. I don’t want to tell of it too much, because I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you; but any girl who says she doesn’t want a man to love her like Cora is loved is flat out lying. Strangely enough though it isn’t the love story in this book that brought me to tears.

I was coming to the saddest part of the book, the very end. (Sad because of the plot-but more sad because I knew I would never read this book for the first time again.) It is when Hawkeye turns to his friend Chingachook, and speaks his words of friendship that tears flooded over my lashes and down my face. Because the love story with the girls is nice, but the story of a true friendship that transcends race and circumstance is once every sole should be blessed to identify with. It is an excellent book.

The evenings conclusion

2010-03-11T22:04:00.005-06:00

My high heels echoed in a frantic staccato against the white stone floors. Andy and Mary were a few paces behind me, “We’re late. We’re late.” Said the white rabbit in my head. We had crossed the 15 blocks to the theatre quickly, and deposited Mary’s car in the bowels of the Power and Light district-but that didn’t change the fact it was 8:03 and the curtain was supposed to go up at 8. We rushed to the Copaken stage, hidden in the H&R Blocks headquarters downtown, to find the doors to the theatre still stood open. I sighed in relief. “We’re just about to start,” the usher said as she scanned our tickets. We headed towards the top of the room, and settled ourselves into the green folding seats as the curtain went up.

The Jackson Five flooded our ears as the lights came up on the set. We found ourselves staring into the living room of a house eerily similar to one in which I spent large parts of my childhood. A house was well cared for, but by no means extravagant. It was the picture of a family who made ends meet. Careful housekeeping was a sign of love, and luxuries some may take for granted were distinctly absent. The opening scenes introduce us to a family man, his lovely, expecting, wife; and the hope and adventure of a new baby on the way. We found ourselves focused on the center of a family, brought to life in the KC Rep’s production of “Broke-ology.”

The production consisted of a cast of four- two brothers, their father, and after the time shifts the ghost of their mother. Larry Powell plays Malcolm, a younger son, just home from earning his graduate degree; Postell Pringle portrays Ennis, the brother who has remained home confronting every day survival while Malcolm chased his education. At the center of their world is their father, William; a man faced with declining health but still living a vibrant life in his mind’s eye. The story centers around Malcolm trying to decide if he will remain in Kansas City to assist with his father’s growing needs for assistance, and the conflict and resentment this brings out in his relationship with Ennis.

Intermission approached and the three of us went out to peruse the building. We walked through the expansive lobby, through a hall of colored changing neon bands to find ourselves next to a group of fashionable looking banquets. The couches curved in precise half circles, looking very impressive. “I bet they’re totally not comfortable.” I said, as I bounced down upon one of them. My spine jammed into the base of my brain- I may as well have set on a piece of plywood. “Yes, totally not comfortable.” we laughed at the disparity between comfort and aesthetics. I rose to my feet so we could continue to walk while we discussed the play so far. Andy and Mary spoke highly of the banter between the brothers “It’s how people really talk, it feels like they’re really brothers.”

“I don’t like it. It seems forced… Fake.” I had actually contemplating asking them to leave during intermission-but it was clear this suggestion would be met with fierce opposition so I bit my tongue. Andy and Mary proceeded to tell me I was wrong it was good, and they were actually interested to see what happened in the second half. “Maybe I am being too harsh”, I thought, so we headed inside to learn what happened next.

Pleasantly the second act started with a bit of comedy centering on a duet between the senior William and a garden gnome. It was a brilliant bit of artistry, comedic and touching. It was during this scene I realized why the play wasn’t sitting so well with me. I remembered my Grandfather-the one who lived in the house eerily similar to this one-deliberately dropping an entire scoop of ice cream on the floor for our cat. The gnome and William were a perfect reflection of the real life comedic nuances of a man who no longer cares what people think, because he knows who he is. I realized it was not that the play wasn’t done well. It’s that it was done too well. I was flooded with a deluge of memories I hadn’t confronted in years, and I didn’t know what to do.

I spent the next thirty minutes trying to not break into hysterical sobs as the boys tried to figure out how best to care for their father. (I think it should be noted, I’m not a cry-er. I’ll own being an inappropriate laughter, but to my knowledge I have never been put in the category of the “crying” girls.) The play concluded with William taking the reigns as the patriarch of the family, and the crowd rising to their feet in applause. I clapped with them. I couldn’t deny it was art. It was well done-but I can’t say I liked it. I can’t say I was ready for that. I went in expecting escape from my life, and instead I found myself confronting situations I hadn’t thought about in years. It was phenomenal. It’s been over two weeks now, and I still can’t get it out of my head. Nathan Louis Jackson is the playwright behind it; he’s from Kansas City too.

A good start to the evening...

2010-03-06T00:13:00.003-06:00

The evening started with me ecstatically casting my work clothes to the floor and staring contemplatively into my sock drawer. I decided on purple tights paired with a skirt with pockets. I was feeling better already, even though I hadn’t quite had time to completely banish work from my mind. Ten minutes later our friend Mary arrived; Andy and I found our coats then left the boredom of our apartment in search of a restaurant we had heard of, followed by a play we knew nothing about.

I guided Mary downtown and we set off in search of Lidia’s. Lidia’s is an Italian restaurant, and Lidia herself seems to be quite a big deal. I had been to the restaurant years before, on a non-memorable somewhat bad date. Perhaps because it had been a non-memorable somewhat bad date I could not remember exactly where the restaurant was. We got off in the crossroads, and just north of Union station we found it. We parked next to a gigantic rotating black & white sphere; then quickly headed inside. We were just a few minutes late for our 6 pm reservation. I gave my name to the official looking gentlemen at the door, and he led us to our table.

The building very well may have been a train depot in a previous life. Now it is a large open room with enormous glass blown chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Andy commented how the bulbous ornaments resembled the As Seen on TV “Aqua Globe” plant watering contraptions, while we settled ourselves into a cozy table against the wall. Before we had a chance to meet our waitress, Danica showed up from the dungeon where they keep her occupied at least 40 hours a week.

Danica is a newer friend of ours, but the more time I spend with her the more grateful I am she came across our path. She sat on the 4th chair at our table, in her white chef’s jacket & pink polka dotted headscarf. We listened in astonishment as she recounted last night’s adventures, then she vanished as quickly as she had appeared. Back to work for her. Decisions to make for us-for we were on a time budget. We had tickets to a play at 8 pm.

Liz was a charming server, engaging and helpful. She steered us through the wine list and menu with confidence, before she turned to the attention of the rest of her tables. Homemade bread with a delicious interpretation of hummus started the evening. We settled on a bottle of red wine to share between the three of us. Salads came out: classic Caesar for Andy, a garbanzo bean garnished house salad for Mary, and a goat cheese, orange, and beet salad for me. It was delicious. I am biased towards beets though because they tend to turn everything purple, and that amuses me to no end. The citrus with the goat cheese was a tangy pungent blend that I enjoyed immensely.

While waiting for our entrees, I was in the middle of a story about some super shady individuals when I noticed a gigantic baby staring at Mary. Not a real baby, a 10-foot tall picture of a baby, centered on the brick wall across the room. It was rather un-nerving. We were distracted from the baby’s gaze when a man showed up with a plate for Andy, and a steaming saucepan of pasta. Andy had ordered the special that consisted of three different kinds of pasta; three different people stopped by the table to fill his table with piping hot noodles. I remember ravioli, some sort of flat home made noodle-not quite spaghetti but similar, and then the pasta with a name that means “ears”. (It always weirds me out, who wants to eat something that is supposed to resemble ears?) A perfect pair of manicotti was placed in front of Mary, and in front of me sat the largest steak I have ever seen. I am very familiar with steak, in all shapes and sizes-the only steak I had ever seen that even remotely resembled the beef set in front of me was seen on Saturday mornings, on the table of Fred Flinstone, in a land called Bedrock. It was a rib eye large enough to feed four, with the bone still attached. The meat was flavorful, with a green unidentifiable sauce that enhanced the flavor. It was served with roasted tomatoes and fried potatoes. I tried not to eat too much though, because I was waiting for my favorite part of the meal… Dessert.

The night before, when I’d mentioned to Danica we had reservations at her restaurant she seemed excited, and said, “Don’t worry about dessert. I’ll take care of it.” Danica’s the pastry chef at Lidia’s, so I had full confidence we were in for an experience.

It took two severs.

It took two trays.

It was EVERY SINGLE DESSERT on the menu.

Followed by Danica with a satisfied grin.

She sat down as the trays were unloaded, and I stamped my feet in anticipation. She described each dessert in detail, to allow us to fully appreciate her ingenuity. A coconut concoction that allowed the coconut to rise to the surface, tiny lemon curd cookies with a lemon tangerine tiered creamy custard dish, tiramisu, a barley ice cream sundae, 3 flavors of ice cream-each with a complimentary flavor cookie. (I feel like there was more-but I didn’t take notes so I’m not quite sure what I left out. When there’s that much goodness in one place though it’s hard to keep track.) They were all wonderful. I could have eaten at least a dozen of the tiny lemon curd cookies. But the one thing I kept thinking about all the next day was the lemon-tea ice cream, served with a ginger cookie. It was refreshing, and interesting, and I would give my left leg if I could go to the freezer right now and gluttonously eat a pint by myself. We didn’t eat all the desserts in their entirety, but we made a good attempt. With a look at the clock we had to cut dinner short, we were supposed to be at the theatre in less then 15 minutes. Liz got us our check quickly and we flew out the door as quickly as we could. It wasn’t really so quickly though, you can’t really fly too quickly when you’ve just had a delicious dinner, with every single dessert on the menu.

A True Story-this one was before my time

2010-03-03T00:14:00.002-06:00

5 seconds less then a breath-

The band rested, and couples left the dance floor. Cotton summer dresses clung to women’s sweating backs- lines of perspiration starting to show under their breasts, small crescent moons forming under their arms. Men’s suit coats lay abandoned about the room; flat lifeless shapes holding memories of the men’s bodies. Fingers pulled at shirt collars; peeling damp fabric back in hopes of some small sense of relief. Huge circular fans blocked the doors, uselessly sucking heat from the outside in.

The dancers formed an exodus to the outdoors, but George Hall was fairly sure he would not be joining the crowds. He reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette, ash colored eyes searching through the dim light of the dance hall. Management killed the electric lights in another futile attempt to cool the room. Didn’t do a damn thing for the heat. Cut down on the bugs though- normally the background noise of the hall was punctuated by the suicidal buzz of insects beating their heads against the bulbs. His eyes swept the dance floor, and looked toward the tables around the edges and rear of the room.

A red eye winked in the corner of the hall as Mabel pulled on her cigarette. A long deep drag. His eyes sketched the lines of the window. Sashes rasied, curtains laying limply along side the window frame. He put the cigarette between his lips, struck a match, and pulled a breath. Silver light brought Mabel to view; his eyes adjusted and he could make out the rest of their crowd. Goldie seated next to Mabel. Tom, standing with his back against the wall. Jeanne opposite Goldie-rounding out the girl’s table. He knew the others would be close by. George flicked his wrist extinguishing the match’s flame, as he started across the room.

Mabel’s gravelly voice reached him first. “Why don’t you two go outside? Get some air. . .” Waving her cigarette toward Tom & Goldie. Tom tilted his head down toward Goldie, his eyebrows arched, a silent “Shall we?” A slight tilt of her chin, and Tom reached forward to help her out of her chair. She stood, her head barely coming up to her husband’s shoulder, and straightened her skirt. He took the lead across the floor, toward the doors where George had been standing. George and Tom traded a glance over Goldie’s head as they passed one another.

“Where ya been?” Mabel angled a chair in George’s direction.

“Dancing. What happened to you guys?” Mabel and Jeanne looked at one another as George folded his legs under the table, and settled back in the chair.

“We had a long day, don’t feel much like dancing I guess.”

“Long day? I don’t remember you saying you had any plans.”

“We were at Tom and Goldie’s most of they day. Started cleaning out Paul’s room.”

Silence fell over the table. Mabel stubbed her cigarette into the ashtray, and looked up at George. He looked toward the door, caught the sight of his brother’s blonde head ducking under the door frame, and knew Goldie was safely out of range
“How’d it go?”

Mabel took a deep breath, and fumbled for another cigarette, “They hadn’t touched a thing. The room’s been shut up ever since it happened, and his stuff was still sittin’ there-like he was gunna to walk in the door from school. The girls were around, so they were in the kitchen with Goldie most of the time, kept her busy- ya know. Clothes on the floor, messy how boys are, and- well we had a couple a boxes. Didn’t really know where to start. So I just started in one corner, Jeanne in the other. Not a lot of talkin’. Quiet work.”

George sat silent, waiting. The band was making its way back to the stage, and people were crowding back to the dance floor. Snippets of songs made their way to his ears, as the musicians tuned up for the next set. Dancers paired up on the floor, waiting for the next number to start; Mabel’s voice continued constant above the excitement.

“Jeanne ran across his clothes. The one’s he was wearin’ that day. Somebody had folded ‘em up, laid ‘em on his desk chair. Must a-been a neighbor-hell I don’t know. Jeanne was foldin’ his shirt, and she noticed-well. . . it was just the strangest thing. There was a rip, not real big, maybe the size of a quarter, but the weird thing was. . . it was right through his shirt pocket, all the way through the front of his shirt.”

George’s eyes leapt from the bandleader’s raised hands to Mabel’s mouth. “What’d you say?” The band let the first blast, and its opening chord hit the crowd.

“I said there was a hole.”

He leaned closer to her, straining to be heard over the band’s vigorous opener. “Where though?”

“In his shirt”

His voice picked up. “Where in his shirt?”

“His shirt pocket.”

The band was well into their first number now, couples twirling at a frantic pace. George was half up out of his chair, near shouting. “Through his shirt pocket! As in over his heart?”

She answered roughly, growing impatient with his questioning. “Yeah, I told you, a rip through his shirt pocket.” Stubbing her cigarette into the ashtray, she stood, held out her hand to her date, and stalked away.

George looked down at the table, and caught the glow of her still smoldering, half smoked cigarette. He reached down, fished it out with his right hand, while his left hand deftly searched for a light. He realized he had to tell Tom and Goldie, but what was there to tell them? “Did you see the hole in Paul’s shirt pocket?” It would just start the same conversation, the one they had been having for months.

The newspapers talked about it in blaring half truths: “ACCIDENT AT LOCAL PLANT LEAVES ONE DEAD” “YOUTH KILLED AT SAND PLANT” “TRUCK DRIVER BACKS OVER SON!” Few reporters had done enough research to write a full story, not one of them had even come close to the right story. Not one of them mentioned how the truck had never actually moved back. How there was no way the truck could have rolled over the boy. It had been stuck so far in the sand they couldn’t get the truck moved until 3 days later, when the rain had stopped, and needed the heavy equipment to pull it out. No one interviewed the coroner, looked at the autopsy report, noted the fact that there were no marks on the body, no broken bones, or crushed flesh.

George remembered getting flagged down by one of the guys. Running to where Tom had been working, seeing the truck, wheels sunk to the axle. Tom bent over Paul’s body at the rear of the dump truck. The boy, fifteen years old, laying on the ground, completely still. Everyone yelling, the smell of diesel, mud, panic. The ambulance, the rain, the cold, and. . . what was it? What was missing?

He searched his mind for a picture of the ground around the truck, sand, mud, puddles, and. . . there it was. A shovel. It lay discarded behind the truck, a couple of feet from the boy. Handle snapped in half, a jagged break through the center. A handle-about as big around as a quarter.

George’s breath caught in his chest, and he realized it had finally been answered. Months of wondering, and endless conversations could finally be put to rest, because that’s what had happened. Paul sat trying to dig the truck out from behind, as Tom was in the cab running it forward. The shovel caught under the wheel, and snapped. It was flung back into Paul’s chest at 3000 rpms. It went straight into his chest, a quick, sudden blow. Right over his heart. A hit like that would be enough to stop a heart. It’d do it in 5 seconds less then a breath.

********

The windows of the Oldsmobile were fogged; he cracked the window letting in an arctic stream. He was trying to clear the view- it would be nice if it could clear his thoughts as well. The heater was roaring, but he still shivered as air slithered down the back of his neck. The clock in the dash ticked resolutely as he felt for a Camel, lighting it absent-mindedly. A movement to his left caught his attention, he cranked the window a little farther in an attempt to get a better view. It was a woman, picking her way across the ice-covered parking lot, carefully avoiding the largest puddles, and gritty blackened remnants of snow. He rubbed at the windshield to secure a better view. It was Goldie. Her white coat, the collar pulled close around her neck, bag held in place by leather gloved hands-He checked the time, still 30 minutes until the appointment was supposed to be over. Why so early? He flicked the cigarette out the window, and reached over to unlock her door.

She skirted around the front of the car & opened the door. As she slid into the seat, winter air pushed into the car. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, and Tom looked over. Unfastening her top button, and shaking the snow out of her hair, she started: “I’m not going back to see that man any more.”

He was surprised; it was a tone he had heard once, maybe twice before-definitive, unwavering. Eyebrow arched, he chose his next words tentatively. “Now, you know things haven’t been getting better. If you could just try it a little bit longer.”

“He says I’m blaming you, for killing our son.” anger tinting her words, her body tense. “I am NOT blaming you. I won’t let him tell me, you’re the reason our son is dead. I’m not going back there.” She turned her head, and looked him squarely in his eyes. Her hand reached out, slid into his breast pocket- removing the pack of Camel’s. Tom put the car in gear, and they started to move forward.

Brevity

2010-02-24T19:52:00.002-06:00

The things I've posted so far were written prior to this blog experiment, so I apologize for the long winded nature shown so far. In the future, I expect the content will be better edited and a quicker read. Thank you for your interest, support & patience.

sincerely, jess

80 days in 2 hours

2010-02-24T19:40:00.005-06:00

Last night Andy & I braved the stupid crowds of Valentine’s Day weekend, and took a seat in the back row of the lower section at KC Rep’s Spencer Theatre. We had tickets to see “Around the World in 80 Days”, and my only hope was that it wouldn’t be a musical. I knew the play was based on the Jules Verne novel, but I have never read the novel. Really all I was sure of was the plot would consist of a man who would be trying to circle the globe in the time span of 80 days.

The lights dimmed, the crowd quieted, and the tick tock of a clock took us to the world of Phileas Fogg. A butler precisely went about his morning duties, and walked to the bedroom door of Mr. Fogg. He rapped three times at the door- the door was in the floor?! Mr. Fogg pops out precisely in time, and I found myself thinking “That’s kind of neat.” The clock runs full circle, Mr. Fogg goes into his room-and then it all began again-precisely as it was before. This time I found myself thinking, “Now, this could be interesting.” The third day the same exact manner, the same precise movement and time; this time it I mused “That’s pretty funny.” Then the story set fully in motion and for the next two hours I found myself immensely entertained, and more over impressed by the humor and cleverness set to life before my eyes.

The cast was versatile with Lance Baker as Phileas and Kevin Douglas as Passepartout anchoring the production. Every other member of the cast pulled double and triple duty in multiple roles throughout the adventure. The play opens at a gentleman’s club, with a wager made over the whist table. A group of gentlemen with ridiculous moustaches and a rumble of mumbles goads Phileas into pursuing an adventure encompassing the entire world. Phileas sets off with his versatile valet, Passepartout, immediately. Not far into his adventure he begins to be followed by a misguided Scotland yard employee named Inspector Fix (think the Pink Panther with a different accent); and the adventures become more misdirected due the bumbling inspector’s intervention.

I found myself enchanted by the ingenuity of the stage crew starting in India. The lights dim and a cable falls from the ceiling, with what appears to be a swing falling into a trap door in the stage. There is dialogue going on elsewhere, but it is clear something is about to happen of import on stage- then the lights come up. Before our very eyes stands an elephant, as large as life & ready for its cargo of five of the cast. There’s a romp through the mountains, including sword fights and the rescue of a beautiful maiden bound for a funeral pyre before the elephant is left behind.

(I enjoyed every continent we set foot on; but don’t have time to tell of them all. It is worth noting there was a very entertaining impasse in China involving poor unlucky Passportout and an opium den)

Intermission came. I found myself doing something I have never done at a play before. I called my father (not the type normally to frequent a play), and said "I’m at a play and I think you would love it." It was humorous, and intelligent-and wouldn’t offend his delicate sensibilities in the least. (It did cross my mind for an instant that I hope the second act lives up to the first-but I omitted that part on the phone call.)

Much to my relief, the play moved from good to great as the steamer set across the Pacific & landed on the shores of the United States. A train heist with a real gunfight leads into my & Andy’s favorite scene. The bitter cold of the open plains of the Midwest is brought to life, through a cross-country travel via sledge. The actors set forth onto a giant swinging platform in the middle of the stage as snow fell from above. A silver sail behind propels them east, across the countless miles of prairie as a tune of beauty and hope filters through the air. I was mesmerized and excited, feeling as if I too was racing against time to get Phileas home. It was in this scene we watch Phileas start to change from a man out to win a wager, to a man who is beginning to see the world.

The journey across the Atlantic was filled with peril and the ship came to life with the ingenuity I had come to appreciate so greatly of this production. The love story involved a real live kiss (much to the dismay of the 7 year old boy two rows up and slightly to the right- there was cowering in the seat combined with a covering of his eyes to protect himself from such a horrid spectacle.) The comic caper of Mr. Fix and Passepartout came to a great conclusion and then the curtain fell.

My only disappointment in the production is it closed the next day. Sorry Dad-maybe I’ll get to the show a little earlier in the run next time.

You did What? at the library?

2010-02-19T21:40:00.003-06:00

The car doors slammed shut behind us. Each breath pulled in through our mouths forced a bit of February’s bitterness into our lungs, replacing the excitement we had felt moments before in the warmth of the MINI. Winter was never going to end this year, and the gray sky pressed down against the buildings around us. My fingers fumbled through my gloves, and I set off at a fast clip to try and stay warm. We exited the parking garage and found ourselves at the corner of 10th & Baltimore.

“Where are we going?”

“Over there.” I nodded. Across the street sat a grand building of aged white stone with a row of columns across the front. Light glowed engagingly from its windows, and perhaps in there you would be safe from the horror of this winter. We crossed the street, and headed toward the front door. It was clear the city had grown around this building; that this building had known Kansas City long before my parent’s parents chose to settle here. Perhaps we would have an adventure after all-maybe we could lose February just for a few hours.

Once inside we checked the time and realized we had only a matter of minutes until things were to begin. Jesse asked the security guard if they knew where we were supposed to head; she directed us down the stairs behind us. The half flight twisted suddenly, and let us around a corner where we were met by an enormous door. It stood shining and grand, as if the largest clock face ever had been reappropriated to offer security. It was a vault of massive proportions constructed of copper and steel that had been polished until it shone. I only had a second to pause and marvel at the curiosity of the scene laid out before me, before I crossed the three-foot wide threshold and reached my hand out to feel the red velvet curtain blocking our entrance.

The lights were dim in the vault, but I could see the small room was almost full. There was the outline of gray haired women with precise curls, seated next to bald headed gentlemen with flat hats resting on their knees. I smiled and led our group to the back row where we quickly settled ourselves in. A screen at the far end of the room flickered with the black and white opening credits. My mind raced with the recognition that I was finally going to see a movie on the legendary sliver screen. Music came up, and February fell away. Here we would be safe. Here February could not get us. And all of the sudden the Kansas City Public Library was gone. I was at a movie house, and it was 1941.

It wasn’t the first Thin Man movie I had seen, be it 1941 or 2010; so I sat in anticipation until William Powell stepped on the screen in his role of Nick Charles. Nick is a brilliant and dashing detective who-no matter how hard he tries- just can’t stay in retirement. He likes his liquor, he adores his wife, and he has a habit of being shanghaied into solving mysteries on a very regular basis. While Nick is entertaining alone he is exponentially more entertaining when his wife is in the room. Myrna Loy is Nora Charles, or in 1940s speak Mrs. Nick Charles-and she doesn’t disappoint for a second. Despite having a new baby she is still flawless in her satin dressing gowns and magnificent fashions, she still finds it in her to be involved in each caper every step of the way, and she picks a pocket quite nicely which comes in handy when there is a lock on the liquor cabinet. Watching the two of them interact makes you long for a companion who can challenge and entertain you at the same time. It also tends to make me want to have a drink.

The Thin Man movies follow a precise formula to achieve the same enjoyable outcome each time. It consists of: witty dialogue, a cast heavy on the character actors, a plot that allows some time for Asta-the beloved dog, and ends with the opportunity to throw every character in the movie in the same room so Nick can work his magic and tell you who done it. It’s enjoyable on your TV set, but on a big silver screen Nick and Nora seem much more glamorous. So until winter is ready to lay itself to rest there is a good chance on Monday evenings you can find me in a converted bank vault, seated next to an elderly couple that remember seeing William Powell at the movie house when it only cost them 5 cents. I’ll just keep pretending it is 1941.

Check out http://www.kclibrary.org under the events section if you're interested.

2010-02-19T21:33:00.000-06:00

I took a test a couple of weeks ago, and it helped me change how I look at life. It also ended up with a scolding from a strange man who told me I needed to write & "that means you need to blog and tweet." Tweeting revolts me, and I'm a pretty private person so putting any of myself on the internet is a stretch. But maybe there are a few things I am willing to share, and if a strange man and a test tell you you have to. Who am I to argue. It's baby steps, so here we go-it's all so very foreign.