Lightning Across Lake Harriet

I Am Not On a Team

I have been so stressful lately, putting my life into boxes.

I am no longer a NE homie. I have moved to my mother's house by Lake Harriet. So now I get to take my life out of boxes and into a beautiful new house by a beautiful lake.

Transition.

Nina's Cafe. In St. Paul. I'm drinking Chai. It is too nutty. I keep seeing postcards for BASSGASM 2. Are Nina's regulars Dubstep fans? Maybe I should get a sandwich. I won't though. I'll just think about it. My Chai is too nutty.

Transition.

I love Dr. McNinja. I used to think it was the most badass thing on the internets.

I was wrong.

I mean, he's a doctor, AND A NINJA! What's more BA than that?
Answer: AXECOP

I can only dream of the day when something I write is this awesome. And/or when I'm on an awesome crime-fighting team.

Transition.

Nina's Cafe. In St. Paul. What's left of my Chai is cold. I don't really care. It was too nutty anyway. There is a woman with lots of tattoos. There is a man listening to music and reading Shonen Jump. There is a woman wearing a t-shirt that says "St. Paul is the new Minneapolis". I don't know how I feel about that statement, but she is beautiful. Hey old man reading the New York Times. How are you doing? I like your beard. It makes you look like a grizzled sailor.

13 Words: Taarradhin

So, I wrote this ten minutes ago, then got a snack, played two rounds of Robot Unicorn Attack, and went to the bathroom. Upon my return I have no idea what is going on, or how it applies to the word. But it's kinda neat and I dunno what I would write for this word besides. Something about chess maybe? Regardless, ten minutes ago I thought this was meaningful. I think it's me having a conversation with my younger self. The Taarradhin seems to be "There are children in the moon" so make of that what you will.

Taarradhin (Arabic): a way of resolving a problem without anyone losing face

A tugging on my sleeve. I look down to see wide eyes (teary) asking me about the stars. They ask me about Martians, about clouds, about the man in the moon.


These eyes want to see the whole world as a blue dot.


I can’t show them that world. I can show them oceans, I can show them skies, I can show them earth- not the entire little planet.


But would you look at the moon? There are children in the moon.


But would you look into space? There are galaxies in space.


Don’t tell me there is no center. There are children in the moon.

13 Words: Ilunga

I saw Inception again. Sooooo good. Like Teen Girl Squad.

Anywho, don't tell Sheryl Crow what I'm about to do.

Ilunga (Tshiluba, Congo): a person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time

Lights up on a small coffee table in SISTER’S kitchen. SISTER and BROTHER sit on either side drinking coffee. She is drinking coffee, he is drinking tea. BROTHER is on his cell phone, ending a call. He hangs up and puts the phone on the table. He is distressed, but trying to hide it. He takes a sip of tea and acts nonchalant. SISTER isn’t having it.

SISTER: What’s up?

BROTHER: Nothing. She… No. Nothing.

He puts his tea back on the table and spits out a sigh

BROTHER: Her dog died.

SISTER: What?

BROTHER: Her dog, the fucking- Her dog died. It’s been sick, apparently. God damn it.

SISTER: God damn it…

BROTHER: God damn it! Every fucking time.

SISTER: Hey…

She reaches across the table and grasps his hand, giving it a loving squeeze

SISTER: That sucks. What-

BROTHER: What am I supposed to do? “Oh yeah, that sucks but I don’t want to talk to you”… She doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, what am I supposed to do? Dumb.

SISTER: Hey, you’re a good man.

BROTHER: Whatever. I’m working up some good fucking karma is all I’m saying.

SISTER: You’re a good man.

BROTHER: What am I supposed to do? Every time. “Oh, talk to me I just had sex with my boyfriend and feel bad about. Oh feel bad for me this guy is getting kicked out of his house love me. Oh my dog died I need your shoulder.” I’ve had it. I’ve fucking had it with her shit.

SISTER: You can’t let her get to you.

BROTHER: Come on, you know it’s not that easy. Christ. We’re gonna be eighty years old she’s gonna call me all like, “Oh, I can’t sleep because of life talk to me”

SISTER: You’re going to have to put your foot down eventually. She can’t have this power over you. She just calls you- You hear her voice and just shut down. That’s not okay. You are your own person, you have your own life, you can’t deal with hers every time she has a little breakdown.

BROTHER: It’s not even a breakdown… It’s… I don’t know. God damn it.

SISTER: God damn it.

BROTHER: God damn it.

The scene continues. It doesn’t matter too much what happens next, the two characters are just projections of my thoughts, helping me to sort through ideas that are keeping me from sleeping and they’ve done their job. The audience becomes slightly uncomfortable with the public catharsis that has just taken place, but hopefully find solace in the fact that they see something in the situation that can apply to their own life. Suddenly the character’s conflict (as well as mine) takes a back seat as the question is raised:

BROTHER: If I write a story that is just for me, and don’t let anyone else read it, does it make it less legitimate?

SISTER: I don’t follow you.

BROTHER: If I make art just for me as a form of catharsis, is it selfish if I don’t let anyone else see it?

SISTER: No. That’s ridiculous.

BROTHER: But if I share it... It becomes something more. It means more.

SISTER: I don’t think so. I see no difference, besides public catharsis running the risk of offending someone close to you.

BROTHER: But if I don’t share it, it’s just a journal. A diary, my own private whatever. The second another pair of eyes sees the piece it becomes art.

SISTER: Huh. I see what you’re saying, I will respectfully disagree, but I see what you’re saying.

BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.

SISTER: What?

BROTHER: Nothing.

SISTER: No, I didn’t hear you, what did you say?

BROTHER: Don’t worry about it.

SISTER: God damn it. I hate when you do that.

BROTHER: Do what?

SISTER: Mumble something I can’t hear and then be like, “Don’t worry about it” It’s obnoxious, I want to hear what you have to say.

BROTHER: I said, Emily Dickenson.

SISTER: What?

BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.

SISTER: No, I heard you this time. I don’t understand.

BROTHER: See? I told you. Nothing.

SISTER: I want to hear what you have to say, but it doesn’t matter if I don’t understand the context in which you’re saying it. Then it’s just your own thoughts kind of randomly falling out.

BROTHER: I think it’s interesting.

SISTER: I don’t.

BROTHER: It’s art.

SISTER: No, I’m just watching you process thoughts. It doesn’t apply to me. I don’t have context.

BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.

SISTER crosses her arms and glares at BROTHER. BROTHER sips his tea and stares back

BROTHER: What’s up?

SISTER: God damn it.

Tell Me What You Know About Dreams, Dreams

I'm sitting in a coffee shop by Hamline, (Ginko) drinking my hot Chai and people watching (creepin). It's a little too sweet than I usually like, but it's better than the Chai at Caribou. My favorite is the one from Dunn Brothers, but I can never find a Dunn Brothers when I need one. When I set out to find one I always get lost or can't find it or whatever. I can only get to one as an afterthought, like "I'm gonna go to a coffee shop" then a Dunn Brothers just appears magically, like out of the mystical coffee mists. Is this something that other people have trouble with, or is that just me?

Anywho, Inception is the greatest thing that ever happened to the world. I'm just gonna go ahead and say that right now.

Tell me what you know about night terrors

Nothin.

13 Words: Waldeinsamkeit

I stumbled upon this.

As I am struggles with stories recently any prompt is welcome. I thought, wouldn't it be fun to write on each of these? Let's play.

Waldeinsamkeit (German): The feeling of being alone in the woods

The girl looked bored. The lethargic rhythm of her stroll gave the impression of someone resigned to a less than ordinary life and when she smiled at the small child tugging at his mother’s hair, her face was lit by a longing usually reserved for newborn birds staring at the sky. The child yelped and buried his face in the mother’s neck, embarrassed and flirtatious the way only two year olds can manage. The girl lowered her gaze, the mole on her upper lip twitching and pulling her good-natured smile into a sassy smirk into a somber curl. She continued walking and shuffling her feet against the ground. Grey Chuck Taylors tattooed with pen doodles touched the floor as sleepy brushstrokes. From across the room I could just make out the word, “ABIDE”, scribbled on her heel.

I imagine myself talking to her, teasing out giggles and joy from her stoic gaze with snap crackle pop wit. Wooing her is easy when I speak as well as I can dream. Through coffee dates and walks through art museums, picnics and electric hand holding, I could turn her ache for flight to mischievous grins of a woman with a satisfying life.

But who am I to dictate fate? After all, my fantasy is not to ease her loneliness but to sooth my sensitive ears.

The symphony of falling trees becomes deafening. The shock of fingertips would be a welcome respite.

Consider My Thoughts Provoked

Read these:

lose/lose

Prince of Persia

Who wants to be a Game designer now?
*raises hand*

BAM.