Refracted Neurons

“You are lovely,” he said, “Like a just opened flower kissed with dew.” Regina stood on the threshold, the light from her lamp forming a pool around her feet.  She held it behind her skirts as if the light itself could become tainted by the scene in front of her. “The most lovely?” Eirwen leaned on her broom “The fairest one of all,” Horace leaned towards Eirwen, the firelight casting his face in sharp shadows.  He was aging, just as Regina was, the plump of his cheek indented by a hollow, the line of his smile marked with creases. Regina backed away from the room.  Horace’s words hurt, but Eirwen’s cut her heart straight from her chest.  Eirwen, who she had taken into her home.  Eirwen, who she had treated as a daughter. Pulling on her cloak, Regina unlatched the outer door.  Snow blew in drifts, so white that it seemed to glow even in the darkness.  “Fair,” she thought, “like Eirwen’s skin.”  Regina shivered as she stepped out into the snow, sinking thigh-deep into th

One of the things I love about living in the city is that there are always plenty of weirdos around. Or to quote Jane Jacobs, who says it much more eloquently: Yesterday I hadn’t even made it out of the bus tunnel before I was pondering the meaning of life. What is this world? This frantic energy? This thing that is neither harmonica nor keyboard? Thanks to the internet, I can at least answer one of those questions: If you cross a Casio keyboard with a harmonica, you get a Melodica. It’s not melodic, so I’m not sure why they didn’t go for “harmoboard,” which is at least accurate. Anyway, I almost turned around and went back in the bus tunnel to tip this person, but I couldn’t stop giggling. . . . . I’ve had a bit of a lull in writing lately, but I think I’m finally on the right track for a novella I’ve been trying to work on.

Admittedly, I have not had the best of luck lately. So I was more than a little surprised when I opened the cover of a book I had picked up at Goodwill and found signatures. At first, I thought it was the usual, “To So-and-so, thanks for all the good times on the lake,” or just a string of nonsense letters and numbers. That’s what’s usually in second-hand books. It’s pretty rare for people to write their own name in the flyleaf, which I always do if I plan to loan it out. Anyway, it took me a minute to realize that the book was signed, not by the author, but by the relatives of the woman in the book. Luck glanced at me from the corner of his eye and grinned. I’ve read The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks before, a friend loaned it to me. Since then, I always knew I’d pick up a copy if I ran into one. I’m crazy about non-fiction, especially medical non-fiction. One of the things I always wondered about was how Henrietta’s family felt about the book after it was published. The

“Ooooooh Veeeera, why are you still here?” Tracy walked by Vera’s cube, a white coffee mug in one hand. “I’m working on the report that you need on Monday,” Vera spun in her chair to face him, “You know, the one you didn’t ask for until it was 3:30 PM on the night before Thanksgiving.” Tracy lifted his mug as if he were about to toast her, “You can do it on Monday, as long as it’s on my desk by eight.” “I’m not coming in at six in the morning on a post-holiday Monday.  I’ll just get it done tonight,” Vera turned her back towards Tracy.  There was no point in arguing with him, he always won.  She continued working, setting up different fields and writing queries.  She was so immersed in her work, that a sudden movement off to her left startled her.  Caught off guard, Vera jerked, her hand connecting with a coffee mug. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, the flash of Tracy’s blonde curls, the tidal wave of coffee cresting the lip of the mug, and Tracy’s shriek, as shri

I am ill-starred, legs above the water, breath still held.  For me would you stand bareheaded, scattering wildflowers on the shore, or am I just driftwood in a sea of fragments of what was or could have been. My breath is still held for you, my bearings, my ballast, my scattered wildflowers on the shore, the star that I can point down to, the dial that seems to spin in its case, pointing always in the same direction, my bearings, my ballast, the sky I never grabbed two-handed, you, the star that I can point up to, the arch of waves that defines me, the bubbles, I can no longer hold, bursting with what could have been. The sky you grabbed, two-handed, standing unbevereaved, bareheaded, the arch of waves defining     you are ill-starred, legs above the deep. oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo I just finished reading Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania . This poem is rather heavily inspired by the end

“We used to think space was the final frontier.  We had no idea we were wrong,” the woman mumbled as the robot ran a brush through her thinning, white hair.  “I was young once, like you.  I’d like to think I was pretty.” The robot paused, a hand half raised, “I am not a biological organism.  I do not age.  I am here to care for your physical and mental wellbeing.” “Yes, yes, I’m not senile, you know.  I’m not some cyberspace junkie who can’t tell reality from virtual.  But I do like . . . oh, you wouldn’t tell on an old lady, would you?” “I am required to report any instance whereby threat or implication, there is the possibility of real or imagined harm to a person or persons as defined by the law,” the robot set the brush on a tray and picked up a comb. “Whatever that means,” the woman looked down at her swollen knuckles, “Sometimes I like to go into the backwash where no one knows I’m an eighty-year-old woman.  I suppose if you talk to me long enough, it becomes obvious

“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the man in the leather cape peered down at Tristan. “Yeah, you’re right,” Tristan met the stranger’s eyes, grinned, “Know of a good place to stay the night?” The man let his cape fall open and the light from the street lamp glinted off something metal.  Everything around Tristan suddenly seemed much clearer.  He could see every kink and whorl in the wood of the raised sidewalk, taste the warm bitter smoke from a nearby fire, and sense the curvature of the black sky.  The sky itself sealed over him, trapping him like an insect in an overturned water glass.  There was no way he was going to die in this backwash. Tristan’s mind reached for his revolver seconds after his hand had.  He stepped back, straightened his right arm, then stopped.  The stranger drew his cape back with a flourish.  He had an accordion.  Tristan blinked, then started to chuckle.  Of all instruments, it had to be an accordion.  He lowered his gun, smiled. The

I shake out my pockets for a currency, forgotten until this moment, when the mist settles on chimneys and the white sky trickles down to the tops of street lamps, and I can no longer breathe without puffing steam in a spiral, delight, liquid with the violence of living.  Please, another song. oooooooooooooooooooo I haven’t forgotten about y’all, I’ve just been working almost exclusively on a super-secret project that I’ll share with you soon. I’ve been so wrapped up in it that I feel like there’s nothing in my head except stardust. You know that feeling? No? Well, it must be a personal problem, but nothing that a good day of accounting won’t fix. The other day I went to Safeway and saw the most amazing thing. There was a man outside the store playing an accordion. I always think of accordions as being wheezy and brassy, but this was rich and nostalgic. Everyone kept throwing money at him and I was grinning like an i

There are certain children's books that I can't read without adding commentary.  One is the book Stop, Train, Stop!   It looked innocent enough when I picked it up from the thrift shop, but once I started reading, I realized this was one of those books that shoves sugar-coated conformity down the throats of unsuspecting parents.  I would say children too, but I honestly think that goes over their heads.  They're more interested in the objects flying around the train and the detailed illustrations.  So let's get cracking. Thomas wakes up one day and realizes that his whole life is going down the same track over and over again, stopping at the same stations, at the same speed, over and over.  Realizing this, he begins to ask himself, "What is the purpose of life?  Do I matter?  Can I change my destiny?" If this isn't the face of ennui, I don't know what is. It doesn't occur to him to go off track or even go backwards.  No, all Thomas want

I could see my shadow lapping against my feet, trailing behind me on a string, lifting up into the sky. I didn’t notice it rattle in the wind, coast up the side of a skyscraper, didn’t see it tangle in the web of wires. I only knew that the pavement was a stranger, and the outline of you vanished; and even though my chest trembled, I opened my arms, shaky, radiant, embracing a beauty found in incompleteness . . . oooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooo Just when I think I’ve got the hang of corporate culture, I go and do something that makes my boss laugh hysterically. Namely, using indexing tabs in the shape of bears. Me: Why is that so funny? Boss: They’re pink and blue bears. Me: I didn’t have purple ones, so I used blue. Boss: (Resumes laughing) I still don’t know why that was so funny, and this is a document that’s going all the way to the Principal, bears included. My other tabs are hedgehogs, but I’m not telling anyo

We were driving down the road in Portland when I saw it: " Pittock Mansion <-----" It took a bit of convincing, but before the day's end I was standing here: My husband always makes fun of me for taking pictures of odd things when playing tourist, and in that tradition, I present you with my series of telephones: Aren't they cute with their beady little eyes and beak-like mouths? The mansion itself was full of beautiful architecture, sweeping views of Portland, and most enjoyably, some slightly eerie decor. Sort of spooky.  I mean, I'm not scared, are you? Oh my God!  What is that under the puppet theater? Even better, check out this display: Tuberculosis! A hauntingly beautiful sleeping porch.

Earlier this summer, my four-year-old pulled a kid's graphic novel off the shelf of the library and said, "I want to check out this one."  Little did either of us realize that we would be checking out the additional two books in the series, backwards.  The series revolves around the titular Zita the Spacegirl , although honestly, from the first . . . er, last, I was always a huge fan of Piper. So last week we cracked open the first of the series, and bumped up against a picture of Piper playing his, well, what is that thing?  Recorder?  Irish Penny Whistle?  Regardless, music is swirling around him on scrolls and I realized: I just had to draw my version of Piper. After sketching, running it through Painstchainer , fighting with Paintschainer, and then cleaning it in in Drawing Desk , this is what I ended up with: I'm pretty sure Piper actually has blonde hair, but what do I know?  Paintschainer gave him pink hair, so pink hair it is.  It also gave hi

It was glimmering in the lean sky-topping shadows, like sunlight freckling the grass through the leaves of a tree, just waiting to be spoken. It was in the hiss of static traffic, and like the sound; in swept the tide, burning my soles with water. The city called your name, and the precipitation fell so slight, so unwonted, that I wondered if, perhaps, it was just me crying. ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo Laying on my back under an apple tree, I thought, "There has to be a poem in this somewhere." ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Anna still remembered the first time she saw it.  She was in the office picking up the dittos for fractions, her chin coming even with the attendance counter. “Yes?” Mrs. Munoz gazed down over the top of her readers, with a look that always terrified Anna. “I was sent by Miss Penta to get the dittos for fractions.  I have a hall pass,” Anna hastily slid it across the counter, her fingers sticking to the green slip of paper. Mrs. Munoz climbed off her stool and retreated into the depths of the office.  Something new sat in place of the spirit duplicator, and it hulked.  Gone were the long tables with their stacks of paper and wooden inboxes.  Gone was the ditto machine, cheerfully twirling its way through the school day.  In its place sat something impossibly rectangular, its off-white exterior rendering it invisible unless one looked directly at it.  Anna did exactly that, her mouth ajar, while Mrs. Munoz pulled the stack of copies from their new location, a tray somewhere in th

The interview didn’t go very well. Well, that was almost a misstatement of facts. The interview didn’t even happen. Alys sat for over an hour in a vacant cube, wondering if he had been forgotten. Certain that something was amiss, he again approached the front desk, “Excuse me, but-“ The front door opened with a bang, “I’m late,” gasped the woman in a skirt and matching blazer. She frantically glanced at her phone, then scurried down the hall. The receptionist watched the woman go, shaking her head in dismay, “I would reschedule you, but the same thing will happen.” “Was that Jessica White?” Alys followed her with his eyes. She had dark, fluffy hair and a strange little hopping jog to her step. He had but the merest impression of her face, anxiety etching it into rabbit-like nervousness. “Yes, and if you want to work here, you better follow her.” Alys felt sure that someone would stop and question him as he wound his way through the building, searching for Jessica’s

One of the books I finished recently was Exploding the Phone by Phil Lapsley . It’s a book about phone phreaks, a topic I got interested in when I was toodling around a website on defunct computers. I learned some things I didn’t know; like how a large number of phreaks were blind, and how the first switchboard operators were teenage boys. But the thing that surprised me the most was that it’s very likely I’ve never used an analogue phone. By the time I was old enough to remember talking on the phone, all the systems had been converted to digital. I know I’ve complained before, maybe even ranted, possibly even on this blog about how digital sound differs from voice. Sometimes I worry that society as a whole has forgotten what people actually sound like when they sing. It’s different, right? I’m not the only one who’s noticed this, yes? Listen to someone singing in a cathedral or what the heck, pull out your record player. My point is that the sound, the undigitized sound