dousing
hail
toy boat
skies
get better
uncover
island
vessel
balls
We needed a vessel for all the balls we had. We went outside because we thought it was raining. We did not get doused because, really, it wasn't raining. It was hailing. The sputterer went on and on about how he hates that hail is always the size of something. Walnut-sized. Fist-sized. Baseball-sized. Marble-sized. He went on and on. He grew moustaches on the side of his head.
She made a toy boat for herself. Then she made another one. Then she took the one sky and multiplied it until there were hundreds of them. Smoked dope behind a Dumpster. This is when she uncovered her doll's breast, only to reveal a compartment with balls in it. The doll was a vessel for balls. I went to an island for a medical vacation. I could have had the operation in the States, but, for the same price, I learned I could go to an island--get my operation from someone who was almost a doctor--and get a vacation in the bargain. In the days leading up to my surgery, I would be able to lounge. I would be able to get sand in my crevices. I would be able to backfloat on the ocean and wait for any of my three children to swim up to me. They would want to know if I wanted to come back in. And how long until we get to fly the kites?
Monday, February 9, 2009
cheeks
visible
flushed
underthings
skilled
red hair
pronouns
sacrifice
which
She might have been unskilled and had red hair. And had red hair. Her shoulders flushed. The chest between her breasts flushed. She saw some mound rising on the horizon. At first, the mound looked to me smaller than a house--but soon it was many stories. She had a hydraulic wood-splitter she could use to chop her wood. She poured a concrete slab and thumbed quarters into it. Those quarters. She sacrificed her lunch for a better dinner. When she looked to one side, she saw a mound. When she looked to another side, she saw a frame with people hanging inside. The largest frame built and people hanging in it. It was my job to say what the structure was and whether or not the story was cliched. My advise was to do a freewrite. Some research. To surprise. To put dough over your eyes and hope something sets in. For some reason, I put a photo of a horse with a long mane in her mailbox. That morning, I saw her coming out of a house. She stepped on a lawn, and, right away, I wished that lawn were aflame and that she was rolling on it. Later, I went to a Red Sox game. Got inebrio on Alize. The point of it was that I read fifty pages and didn't get to a point or a theme. These pieces of writing are small.
You're to find a fucking topic. Melville found a fucking great topic in the whaling industry. You are to write about a topic because--look at you--you have so much torment and turmoil in your life. Look at all the deep pain in your family. Look at how they hit each other with larger and larger branches for generations. Why is it that all your write is so short? It is because you do not have a topic that's as good as the whaling industry or the killing fields or desertification.
visible
flushed
underthings
skilled
red hair
pronouns
sacrifice
which
She might have been unskilled and had red hair. And had red hair. Her shoulders flushed. The chest between her breasts flushed. She saw some mound rising on the horizon. At first, the mound looked to me smaller than a house--but soon it was many stories. She had a hydraulic wood-splitter she could use to chop her wood. She poured a concrete slab and thumbed quarters into it. Those quarters. She sacrificed her lunch for a better dinner. When she looked to one side, she saw a mound. When she looked to another side, she saw a frame with people hanging inside. The largest frame built and people hanging in it. It was my job to say what the structure was and whether or not the story was cliched. My advise was to do a freewrite. Some research. To surprise. To put dough over your eyes and hope something sets in. For some reason, I put a photo of a horse with a long mane in her mailbox. That morning, I saw her coming out of a house. She stepped on a lawn, and, right away, I wished that lawn were aflame and that she was rolling on it. Later, I went to a Red Sox game. Got inebrio on Alize. The point of it was that I read fifty pages and didn't get to a point or a theme. These pieces of writing are small.
You're to find a fucking topic. Melville found a fucking great topic in the whaling industry. You are to write about a topic because--look at you--you have so much torment and turmoil in your life. Look at all the deep pain in your family. Look at how they hit each other with larger and larger branches for generations. Why is it that all your write is so short? It is because you do not have a topic that's as good as the whaling industry or the killing fields or desertification.
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