The Magical Mystery Banana

I just discovered this banana carcass on the carpeted floor of our family room upon inspecting the work of my husband Dennis, whom I'd successfully cajoled into vacuuming up a sludge pile of spilled Joe's O's aka Cheerios®.

We used to refer to our family room as "the white room" due to the proliferation of white shelving units therein. But seeing as how the room hasn't actually been white in a very long time, in the manner of my soul, my teeth, and the parts of my eyes circling the green rings, we now simply call it the family room.

Firstly, wasn't it clever of me to tell my husband that the big vacuum "doesn't work for me"?

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Me: It just doesn't work for me. I don't know why.

Dennis: What do you mean? It works perfectly. I just used it yesterday.

Me: There's something wrong with it. I can't get it to work. I don't know what the problem is. Every time I try to vacuum I end up going over the same spot again and again and again and why don't we just get rid of this thing and get one of those units with the wand and the....

Dennis: Taking off down the hallway, hands over ears, one hand stretched pleadingly towards the closet that houses our perfectly functional vacuum cleaner.

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Secondly, and I love men, I really do, and I respect them as a species of person, and hate those awful "little husband brain" ads that put them in the same category as intellectually-challenged gerbils, but leave it to a man to vacuum a room to a state of fuzzy perfection, yet allow a violated banana to remain on the floor.

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Dennis: You said to get the Cheerios, you didn't say anything about a banana. It's fine. Just leave it there.

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Thirdly, does anybody have any clue why there are dots and a small cross pressed into the banana? I'm at a loss.

Fourthly, I think I read somewhere that ants are repelled by bananas and all manner of sugary things. Going forward into summer/satanic ant season, I think it would be prudent to place a quarter of a banana in each corner of each room in our house. Under our bed. On Dennis' pillow.

I think I'll do it today.

The Daily Irritation

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Mimes doing a quirky little dance.

Don't send me your hate letters. I didn't make them do that.

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The purpose of "The Daily Irritation" is to distract you from more pressing and unavoidable daily irritants.

The Death of my Brain

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I've finally done it. I've gone and killed my brain.

For real this time.

Because I've been feeling and looking like over-sized dog balls in sweats since the exact moment my husband's sperm first connected with one of my ova about four years ago, and the weather's finally starting to come around, I'm doing my best to stay off of the computer and outside performing healthy activities with my kiddos.

I've been feeling human again, with a hint of a spring in my step. My kids are happier. The sun has touched my arms and face more this last two weeks than it has the last year.

Or three.

But, as is the way of things, for everything we gain, something has to go. And what I've lost, it seems, is any chance I had at becoming a writer.

I sat down a short while ago and performed a one word mind map as a writing exercise. I couldn't think of a good word, so I Googled around and found a website that spits out random words upon command. The first word was uninspiring. The second, ludicrous. (Not literally.) The third was so dull it just made me angry.

I took the fourth because I didn't want to be angry no mo. That word was "hole".

Okay, "hole", here we go. Branches:

dismal
dark
see through it
the band
ruin
donuts
in a sock
poke

Alright. What to do with my little mind map. Hmm. Perhaps I'll try my hand at a poem.

Hole

When I think of dismal
I think of your hole
I can see through it,
Courtney Love is a fool
I want to eat donuts
in your hole
And poke a sock
through your hole
and
:-\
WTF?!?

Okay, I've tried this mind mapping business before and was able to eke out better stuff. Not good stuff, mind you. Just better stuff. Keeping in mind, of course, that I am not a poet, never have been a poet, and have no mind to ever be one. I just attempt it every third jumping-frog moon because I am compelled by a dark force, the same dark force that compels me to wear lime green velour pants and like it.

I mind mapped "afraid" on 10/22/09 and came up with this:

fear
water
clowns
cold earth
pill bugs
branches

Which led to...

Afraid

The smell of fear
is in the water
Somebody's spiked
the punch bowl
and that clown doesn't care
that I'm Somebody's daughter
Cougar's breath's on
the neck of the foal

So I burrow farther
into the cold, wet earth
With her pill bugs and roots
and no light, and no air
For safety
and control

© Heather Kephart

It's not great, but more satisfying than what I was able to produce today, after three or so weeks of avoidance of my blog.

My family and my health is my top priority at this point & I've really been working to get things on track. But I also want to be a writer. So I'm going to try to get my butt in here at least once a week and put my nose to the grindstone.

I apologize to those in my social networking circle. I'm not going to spend a fraction of the time going forward that I used to spend online reading and commenting on my favorite blogs, nor am I going to do a ton of blog promotion. Please do not feel obligated to comment here. I will probably not be able to return the favor, and that just ain't raht.

I do wish everyone the best. Please know that my attempts to peel myself away from the web are not meant to be attempts at peeling myself away from you. It's simply the best thing right now for home and heart. I need to lose a gazillion pounds and get healthy and learn how to be a fun playground Mom. Folks, we can rebuild her!

I have no clue what the future holds, outside of green tea. But I know it's good. For all of us. Huggles and puggles to all y'all web people.

The Muse has a Sick Sense of Humor

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I was so inspired by yesterday's guest post by Justin Germino that I plunked my ample behind in a comfy chair and had another go at poetry writing.

Like most, I have a teen journal filled with earnest but wanting attempts and it breaks my heart to read them. A bad poem is like a sloppy kiss. I want my poetry to be like uvula-rattling historical fiction sex—the kind where the hero has you backwards on a horse and you both climax as you leap from a cliff to the top of his castle, or I don't want it to exist at all.

Granted, this demand for perfection of expression is most likely going to keep my feet glued to the springboard unless I beat it into submission with insolent, mediocre little practice poems.

So I gave it a go, and it wasn't long before I started to remember that if you're me it sucks to write poetry. It's fun—an absolute blast in fact, but it sucks. I can usually cough up a good line or two, but, as with ball sports, the difference between a zero and a hero rests in the follow-through—and I ain't got none o' that.

I attempted a poem about rain and somehow ended up with the start of a Country Western song:

The last time Georgia danced slow
was at a honky tonk in Barstow
The rain was hard
and the wind whipped cruel
but his body was safe and warm

Maybe someday I'll finish it. Or maybe not. 8O

Then out of nowhere this popped into my head:

His gentle white ivories nourished
the keys and the
song sprang up
to greet
him

Then nothing. It was like a door slammed shut in my brain. I chased after the next door and the next until the scenario played out in my brain in the manner of the opening sequence of Get Smart. As always, the sophomore stanza is devastated by some ludicrous, infantile rhyme that my consciousness rightfully (and thankfully!) dives ten neural feet to head-butt into oblivion.

I blame you, Dr. Seuss. It’s become apparent that I’ve fatally internalized you and Theo LeSeig, and am doomed to emulate and derate your legacy. Case in point:

The man went to the country bar
Far, far to the country bar
And his boots
Went root toot
And his spurs and belt buckle
went whir and tootschmukel
In the most particularly schmuckulous way
you might say...

I am ruined!

Never again!

Maybe I'll try again tomorrow.

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All ridiculousness © Heather Kephart

Justin Germino Introduction: My World of Poetry

This is my introductory post here on Happymaking and instead of talking about blogging tips and technology, I decided to make this my guest spot for creative writing and poetry.  My name is Justin Germino and I have been writing amateur poetry since I was eleven years old.  My first poems I read that I can recall were Tiger by William Blake and The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe and ever since reading these works and many others poetry was something that called out to me.

For me it is just merely a hobby, I write when I am inspired or as a way to vent my emotions whether they be joy, anger, pain or sorrow.  I often will put emotion and feeling into my work, but because I am also extremely analytical and technical minded I also write poems that some would consider very analytical.  I construct poems mostly to try and fit as much meaning into as few words as possible.

Seventeen months ago I developed something called the Random Twitter Poetry game on twitter where fans send me a random word and I take all random words submitted and craft a unique and random poem including all random words played.  I find a common theme with all the words and then start writing my sentences around the words until I get something that "Fits".  I am rapidly approaching my 300th random twitter poem, and you can see all of my works on Wanderer Thoughts Poetry if you are interested.

Here I will share one of my earliest posts I wrote in my teenage years called Serentacity, it is a word with no meaning, and yet has many meanings.

Serentacity

When hope glistens like dew on the leaves at dawn,
When the future seems bright and warm with decision,
You are at your peak when you have too many choices,
Each one more fulfilling than the last.

When you have dozens of roads that have never been paved,
When you have so many colors in so many shades,
You are at your peak when there is so much to think about,
Each thought more enjoyable than the last.

In all of these options and in all of these thoughts,
There is but one word that sums it all up, but has no meaning,
Serentacity.

-Justin Germino

Feel free to follow me on twitter, my handle is "DragonBlogger" I do my random twitter poetry game almost every weekday and I look forward to the new unique words and challenges presented.

Fiction or Bust

Image by nicolasnova via Flickr

I've been avoiding my blog, plain and simple. Afraid of it, really. It can, you see, be a time-sucker, magic-buster and dasher of dreams.

I now have a goal of writing a novel and am determined to stay focused. But when I discuss my goals they have a way of rolling down a snowy hilltop towards lower elevations until they end up in a puddle next to some stupid Joshua tree, breathing life into a scorpion or some other heartless desert dweller.

Over the next few months, I'll be posting less and reading more. My friend Holly Jahangiri was kindly cruel enough, in the most gently pragmatic manner possible, to nudge me towards full realization of the importance of having an actual product (book, script, article) under one's arm while in the pursuit of a career in writing. Ain't no agent in the world going to look at my blog and proclaim me an artistic genius in the rough and sign me, then beg me to write the next great novel, and offer to put me and my family up at her nanny-filled resort in Antarctica for the time being to assure peace, quiet and uninterrupted writing time.

My short-term goal is to finish reading a few fiction-writing books I've left simmering on the back burner while I oh, I don't know, thrust myself further away from my goal on a daily basis by spending my time doing things that don't support it.

Then, once I've finished the books, I'm going to fire up yWriter and lay down my first complete novel. I realize I may need to spend a year or so editing and re-writing it, but I'm okay with that. Writing is, after all, re-writing.

And once that bad sucker is as good as I can get it, I'm going to wrap it in a pretty little bow and send it off to unsuspecting agents and publishers, being careful to adhere to their submission guidelines, while I take the next  six months to recover from the complete brain and soul-wrenching I just served up for myself get started on my next novel.

I'm well aware that I may be doing this for eight to ten years before I get good enough to produce a publishable work, and I'm fine with that. Okay, I'm not fine with that. That's was a fib. But I've accepted it.

What I'm struggling with at present, while reading storytelling books, is the compulsion to plot. How does one hold back long enough to learn before plodding forward like the "Hey Kool-Aid!" guy and splattering one's sugarless mental grape juice on all manner of expensive, resentful journals?

I'm always teetering between YA Fiction and Romantic Comedy. Which to focus on? TELL ME! Sigh. I realize now that nobody else can tell me that. Only the story can make it plain. And so I read and jot down ideas and just know that it will happen, because I'm finally ready to get out of my own way and allow it to happen.

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By the way, I created a second twitter account for following other budding writers like myself, and those in the field - @HeatherKephart. (I only follow writers, editors, etc., on that account, my blogging/general twitter account is @Happymaker.) I have found in the past that I am unable to reach goals unless I surround myself with like-minded people. Otherwise, I get too distracted. Here's to our dreams!

Flatlanders, Hawks and Chickens

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I've long held the opinion that people, upon moving, should immerse themselves in the culture of their locale, rather than alter it to suit themselves with regard to their own familiarities.

When my family moved to Pollock Pines, California back in the early 1980's, I noticed that people displayed "Stomp Out Flatlanders" bumper stickers on their trucks. This, of course, begged the question: Exactly what is a Flatlander? Is a Flatlander a sub-species of homo sapiens with distinct, categorizable quirks and patterns? Or is a Flatlander somebody unfamiliar that you can't get a beat on, who therefore poses an unspoken threat?

I believe the definition is closer to the former. Flatlanderhood isn't comprised of any set number of qualities, but if one should possess certain qualities, one is most definitely a Flatlander.

Qualities that put one in the Flatlander category back in in 1981:

Metrosexual - We didn't have a word for it back then, but we knew it when we saw it.
Inappropriate Garb - Keds in a snowstorm, rather than moon boots.
Weird Car - And by weird I mean anything other than Ford or Chevy.
Classical Music - Are you kiddin'? If it don't got a fiddle they're gonna kick ya in the hey diddle diddle.
Keeping to Yourself - You think you're too good for us?
Excessive Friendliness - What do you want from us? Go away!
Overt Displays of Happiness - Get a real job! Get your hands dirty!
Sugarloaf - Thinking it is a Little Debbie product rather than a camp for kids.
Paying for a Cord of Wood - Git yer a*s out there and chop you some, sissy!

I could go on. But I won't. Because I'm starting to recognize myself.

I AM NOW THE FLATLANDER.

I'm new to the Dallas, Texas area and painfully out of the loop. I don't know how people here spend their weekends. I don't understand why there is a dance studio on every block, or why these people are so into donuts. They sell Mai Tai mix and Margarita salt in the aisle next to the milk, but you have to drive to a different county to procure a bottle of liquor.

Most homes don't have driveways in the front, but alleys in the back where you can access your garage. I do not understand the protocol associated with these alleyways. What do you do if you meet another car? Drive backwards for half a block? And why do you have to do it? Why don't they do it? What if you both do it at the same time, then stop and drive forward at the same time until you end up right back where you started?

Contrary to the general and uninformed opinion most native Californians have of Texans, these folks have really nice hair. Straight hair. Shiny hair. They're very well groomed - better groomed, in fact, than yours truly. Maybe a little too well-groomed. Appearances are important here, just as important as they are in most of California.

In Plano, people don't wear pajamas to Blockbuster the way they did in Yucca Valley, CA. They wear full makeup and nice boots. They're polite. If you reach for the same movie, they say things like, "Oh no, please - you take it!", but their smiles don't always meet their eyes.

Costco is a popular meeting place around lunch time. As in California, Texans linger around the free sample area. There are two apparent varieties - hawks and chickens. The hawks wait until the free sample hostess is involved in a conversation with somebody else, then swoop by with their cart, snag the little cup with the steak chili, eyes widening with the thrill of it, then soar on out of there, never stopping, never having missed a beat.

Chickens approach slowly and make an attempt to determine their appropriate place in line, then fill it. They smile at the people around them, and rub their hands together in anticipation. They'll tell you what their huband or wife thinks of this brand of chili because, as luck would have it, they've been purchasing it regularly for the last six months.

They'll smile at your baby girl and try to make you feel better by admitting that their daughter didn't have much hair at that age either, and that her lack of hair is probably an indication of future curliness. It just gets stuck, you see, until it grows strong enough to corkscrew its way out. They'll act it out for you.

You don't know if they're wearing a wig or if that's their real hair. This holds true no matter the age or gender of the chicken. You try not to stare at the hair and fail, but the chicken doesn't seem to mind. They pat you on the arm and smile and wink at you.

Chickens don't care that you're different. A chicken will take you in even if you are a stinkin' ole Flatlander.

Someday, I want to be a chicken too.