Amanda #7

Author’s Note — This will be the last Amanda post for awhile.   Enjoy!


The days before Jim and Amanda were quiet, almost too quiet.   Richard and Dahlia, two young lovebirds, cruising around in a convertible, listening to the sound of wind crash into their eardrums.   At sunset, they’d find a spot off the California freeway, set up camp and start a fire.  After a canned dinner, Richard would pluck his guitar while Dahlia dreamed of a warm place with wall-to-wall carpeting.   Kids would roam the house, books in either hand, a smile planted upon their faces.   After a hard day’s work, Richard would come home, leap upon the trampoline with the kids, then once the rest of the house had settled in, the couple would slow dance to either classical music or jazz.   The next morning, the entire family all dressed in pajamas seated around the breakfast table with an array of smoked salmon, cereals, pastries and tea.   Unfortunately for Dahlia, this family never existed…trouble from the get-go.

Jim possessed the most irritating brilliance to Dahlia.  He seemed to know the answers to rather complicated matters long before her.   It would just blurt right out him.   Dahlia, of course, as his mother, refused to accept that perhaps he was onto something.  Kids, she’d rationalize, what could he, they, any of them know?   Yet a fortnight later and many dollars tossed into the pockets of too many strangers, there arrived the answer.  The same one Jim had blurted out.  He’s a smart one, Dahlia surmised.   Then a week a later, a new problem would arrive and the whole cycle would start over again.

When the problem of Amanda arrived (otherwise known as her birth, according to Jim), neither parent knew what to do.   Even Jim was perplexed.   After many attempts at getting to know and care for his baby sister, five-year-old little Jim suggested drowning “that bitch”.  This would lead to “Jimmy, where’d you hear that word from” but Dahlia knew; from the mouth of a man on the other end of the sliding glass door smoking a cigarette out on the decaying deck.  A hundred and fifty therapists in, not a single one knew how to tend to her raucous daughter.

After one wild lovemaking session, Richard proposed, “It’s time we accept Amanda for who she is.”

“Richard,” moaned Dahlia, “who the fuck is she?  I mean, I don’t know what to say to her half the time.  She freaks me out.  Doesn’t she freak you out?”

Richard groaned, “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes! Sometimes?   She’s impossible.   Maybe Jim was right.  Maybe we should drown her.”

“Are you fucking loony?   Dahlia, seriously…you really think we should drown our own daughter?”

Roaring in laughter, “It would make life easier on us.”  Tears coated Dahlia’s face, “I don’t know how to deal with this, Richard.  It feels like I’m in a madhouse every day.  This isn’t the life I dreamed of.  You know that!”

Lost for words, Richard ran his finger up and down Dahlia’s spine.

Versatile Blogger Award


Nearly two months up and this blog receives an award.   Thank you so much Rohan7Things.  You are a truly inspiring and talented blogger.

I’d like to change something up.   Initially, it states that the “rules” to receiving the award are the following:

  • Display the award certificate on your website.
  • Announce your win with a post and include a link to whoever presented your award.
  • Present up to 15 awards to deserving bloggers.
  • Create a post linking to them and drop them a comment to tip them off.
  • Post 7 interesting facts about yourself.

Let’s make them recommended guidelines.   Should you be nominated do as you see fit.  Okay so here we go.

The deserving blogger nominees go to:

  1. The Struggling Writer
  2. Writers In The Storm
  3. Live To Write – Write To Live
  4. Irscriptwriter
  5. Alex’s Space
  6. Cristian Mihai
  7. Final Responsibility
  8. Bucket List Publications
  9. Five Writers
  10. Greenhorn Photos
  11. Gabriel Napoleon
  12. Ophelia’s Fiction Blog

Writing out the seven interesting facts about me will probably take thirty minutes:

  1. I’ve been practicing something called Right Use of Will since 1997.
  2. The majority of my friends, for some odd reason, tend to be at least twelve years younger than me.
  3. During my freshman year in college I would consistently stay up till five in the morning.   All the other years, prior to and thereafter, I tend/tended to be asleep by midnight and awaken at sunrise.
  4. For the most part, I’ve been journaling since 1993.
  5. I acted in my first homemade movie when I was ten.   That movie went unedited.  God only knows where the footage went.
  6. Although I’m a filmmaker, I only own one movie.   That is Harmony Korine’s Trash Humpers.
  7. My last real intimate relationship was back in 2002.

Errors And Twisted Writing

Nothing bothers me more than errors in a finely combed document.   Does this ever happen to you?  You write something, put it away, then return to it a day or so later.  Edit the hell out of it, read it six thousand times only to determine it’s ready to go.   Published (or sent if it’s an email), you read it one more time and bam, there’s an error.  It’s so tiny yet it drives you insane.   You question your professionalism.

Yesterday, while in the city I met an incredibly intelligent recent college graduate at Barnes and Noble.  We spoke of arts, economy, films, TV and writing.   Before parting ways, he asked if I have anyone to read my work, that is before it’s published or sent off via email/mail courier.   At this point, no, I told him.  I’d like to see this become manifest.   This might be a good tactic for all. Someone who gives a balanced approach to the work.  Shares what works and what doesn’t. Someone who won’t take it personally if the advice isn’t taken.

Beyond the irritating errors, there’s also the twisted writing.  A great example is my previous post. Mid-writing that, a most triggering email came in.   Why I even look at my email while writing is beyond me.   But I did.   I do.   Taken over by rage, my writing fell apart.   It was as if I took a huge dump on everything.

Writing is an ongoing lesson.   You try different things.  If it doesn’t quite fit, you try something else.

Been awhile

Readers, it’s been way too long.   In these 24-hour blocks there are only so many things that can be accomplished.   Posting this one entry seems like a feat unto itself.

What have I been doing, you might ask.   Working on the Amanda piece.  At first, I thought, I’d publish the Amanda stories without discussing it.   Now, I realize it’s becoming a novel.   The next segment to be posted is the end of Chapter One.  This I’ll give you. Anything after that, you might have to wait till it comes out in hardcover.

Yesterday, I started an essay detailing the most bizarre four years of my life working at a traumatic brain injury facility.   January 30th marks the one-year anniversary since I last stepped foot into that building.   Once written, maybe I’ll shit in a cup, celebrate with a jar of pennies, who the fuck knows.

My moments away from the writing pad/computer are focused on reading and searching for paid work.  The latter proves to be such a nightmare.   Ugh, just thinking about this triggers me.

Amanda #6

“There’s a place men go when they pass out.   In this realm, everything feels like fur.   The temperature though can burn your skin off.   This is why, my beautiful mother, oh lovey dovey you, I will take this bucket of ice cold water and pour it directly over father’s body.   The freezing cold water will shock him out of that ugly hot realm and then all four of us can resume our get-together.   You can get back to the kitchen.  Zack, Father and I can resume our business meeting.   So, step out of the way,” Amanda struggled with the bucket of ice water.    “How de heck did dis get so heavy,” she thought.   “I brought da damn ting in hee-ya.”

Dahlia stepped out of the way, shaking her head, “What if this doesn’t work?”

Bucket three inches off the ground, “Then…call…the…ambulance.”   Water and ice soaked Richard along with the brown shag carpet surrounding him.   Richards sprang up from off the floor, gasping for air.

“Damn it, Amanda.   Holy fuck!  What…” In the far corner he noticed Zack, both eyeballs swirling about in a mad race.  Which eyeball will take in the most information?  Richard wiped ice cubes off his chest, “Dearest me!  What a trip that was.  It was like getting lost in a golden retriever…from hell.   Hope that didn’t disturb you too badly, Zack boy.”

“Nope.  Glad you returned, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Same here,” Richard cracked his knuckles and then climbed atop the seat from where he fell.  “Please, Zack, I urge you to call me Richard.”


“No!”  Richard interrupted.  “Everyone calls me Richard.   You can call me Dick.  Seriously call me Dick.”

“But you said…”

“Bah!  Earlier.   Didn’t know you like I know you now.   Amanda, dear, why don’t you leave me to chat with Zack?  Your mother might need help in the kitchen.  Isn’t that so, dear?”

Dahlia nodded, “It is a mess in there.”

Amanda rushed over to Zack, massaged the back of his neck, insisting in baby talk, “Just as wong as you don’t hoo-at my pwecious Zacky.”

“Zack’s safe with me, baby doll.  Go help your mother.”

Amanda walked backwards observing Zack’s every move, assuring that not a single gesture was missed.  Once in the kitchen, Amanda grabbed a steak knife, jabbed into her mother’s side, “Aiight biatch, here’s how it’s gonna go.   You gonna clean.  I gonna cook.”

Dahlia yelped a round of laughter.  “You silly girl, what happened to that beautifully speaking person?   You only talk that way around Zack?”

The knife dug deeper into Dahlia’, “Listen biatch, gonna stick you if you fuck around any longa.  Clean dis fuckin’ shithole.”

Amanda #5

What to do when one’s daughter transforms into a medieval princess?  Not so much in appearance.  God that could take years!  But each gesture carefully calculated.  Her sentences flowing together like two perfect streams, clear and rich with life.

Amanda bowing and waving her hand, ordered her parents to set the dining room table, which for years stored junk mail and gifts waiting to be returned.  “At once,” she snapped.   “Our guest here has come with a proposal, one that needs your greatest attention.  Get to it!”

Bemused by Amanda’s sudden metamorphoses, Richard and Dahlia restored the dining room to its original appearance; a masterpiece of a room fitted for elegant guests, something that had not occurred since the Jenkins first moved in.  Real estate brokers and bankers toasted expensive champagne.   The Jenkins pushed to the back, peering through the crowd of suited men and women, like strangers in their own new abode.   Once the guests left, Richard bolted the door shut demanding “this shit’s never gonna happen again.  Not in my home.”

Twenty-five plus years later, there Richard was dressing the room, vacuuming the dust off the table, taking on the role of butler as his daughter, regal as ever, led Zack Blueman to a chair,

“You’ll sit here.  Next to me, darling.”  Once seated, squeezing his inner thigh, “Tell me, how can my father be of assistance to you?”

Zack squirmed, wondering whether it would be polite to ask his young hostess to remove her hand from his junk.   His junk?  Yes it slowly rode up his inner thigh.   She practically could masturbate him.  He stammered, “Eye eye eye’m not sho sho shore.”

“You must have something in mind,” her hand raised but then planted itself onto Zack’s biceps.  Squeezing and squeezing…had he become a plastic toy?  “Father, sit down.  Let’s be reasonable here.”

Richard bowed and then took the seat closest to the kitchen.  In case she needs anything, Richard pondered.   Anything she needs, a fruit bowl, fondue, bowl of soup, ham sandwich.  Anything he needs!  A quick polish on his leather coat.  A tune-up on his motorcycle…wait he can probably do that himself.   What can I do for this young man?   What does he want from our family?  What is he doing here?   Hush, Mr. Jenkins, should you return to your old mean self, your daughter might turn to trash.   White trash.  That’s the direction she was heading.  Fucking skunks and eating directly from a dumpster.   So listen, maybe this man is a Prince from a foreign land.  Maybe this is why his weird behaviors inside the walk-in closet, how long ago was that, twenty minutes ago, that sounds right, but maybe that’s why things were so strange.   How does a man tell another man that he’s from a foreign land?   Not just foreign but from another time period all together…and to possess magical powers such as transforming his beast of a daughter into this sophisticated young woman.    Oh the Prince is opening his mouth about to say something. I shall listen.

“The deal is this,” Zack slurred.  Amanda’s incessant squeezing induced a drunken state.  “You and me, me and you can team up.   How large is your fleet?”


“Construction vehicles.  How large is the fleet?”

“Oh that,” Richard burst into hysterical laughter.

This hysteria proved alarming to Dahlia.   Covered in flour and chocolate sauce, she rushed in, dropping to her knees, “Richard, what’s with you?”  His face beet-red, lacking oxygen, Richard smacked his kneecaps.  “Can you breathe?”   Richard fell forward, knocking Dahlia to the floor.    Once pulling herself out from underneath her husband, Dahlia assessed Richard’s health.  In a matter of seconds, her face went pallid.

“Mother, what is it?”

“Where’s your cell phone?”

“What cell phone?”  Amanda had never possessed a cell phone.  She judged the technology to be a soul sucker and a device exclusively for boys.

Zack withdrew a miniature square device from within his leather coat.   “I got one.”

“Interesting shape,” Amanda yanked it out of Zack’s hand, flipping it around on its sides.

“Don’t break it!”

“I won’t.  Where’d you get it?”

“The store.”

“There are so many stores.  Which one?”

Lost in terror, Dahlia screamed, “Amanda, I don’t give a shit what store he got the cell phone from.  Just use it to dial up an ambulance.  Your father’s not well!”

Amanda #4

In a neighborhood of aluminum siding, it can be difficult to differentiate one house from another.   Compact that atop camouflaged numbers that truly can be inscribed anywhere, inside the mailbox, beneath one of the shingles, upon the insert of the homeowner’s wallet, it can lead to a disastrous route for any visitor.   This was not the case for Zack Blueman.  Despite his roving eyeballs, the man was born with a knack for accurately guessing house numbers.

When a loud shriek emitted from somewhere inside the house he had intended to visit, Zack feared this was a bad time.   Seems to be his life story.   Always arriving when unwanted.   Jumping out of his mother’s womb in the midst of a formal gala.   Ruined her thousand-dollar dress.   Little six-year-old Zack awoke to a urine-soaked bed.   He sauntered through the dark hallway into the living room where his naked parents and another couple, also naked, groped one another.

Had it not been for someone screaming his name after the loud shriek, Zack would have left.   He stumbled down the blue stone pathway.   He stopped and peered through the broken window where on the other end, a man and woman, both in their early fifties, sat on the floor, playing with glass.

“I’m Zack Blueman.”

Richard, taken out of a reverie, replied with a shrug.   “So?  I’m Richard Jenkins.”

Zack climbed through the broken window, hand extended, “Perfect, you’re just the man I’m looking for.”


Dahlia coughed, “Uh…my hand.”   Zack had stepped on the woman’s hand.

“So sorry,” Zack lifted Dahlia’s hand.  Kissed it several times.  Richard cleared his throat but was muted by a storm evolving upstairs.

“That’s our daughter.”  Dahlia wiped the glass off her lap and stood up.  “I’ll go check on her while you two…” What did this Zack character have in mind with her husband?   Kill him?  Eat his limbs?   Dahlia feared she’d been overtaken by madness, left the two men, her sentence still incomplete.

“Forgive my wife.  She’s a bit awkward with new people.”

Zack’s attention was fixed on a plastic rocking horse that both Amanda and Jim used as toddlers.   He squatted and in that crouched position walked over to the plastic rocking horse.  “How cute,” Zack pet its mane.   “What’s his name?  His?”

“Yeah,” Richard shrugged.  “Don’t think it was named.  Probably “horsey”.   What can I do for you?”

The volume of the storm upstairs intensified.   Zack extricated himself from the horse and leaned into Richard.   “Can we go somewhere private?  This is a little…”Zack pointed at the broken window.

“Right, right.  Come with me.”  Richard led Zack into a large walk-in closet directly beneath the staircase.   A clip-on light illuminated blue.    “This private enough?”

Zack closed the accordion door and nodded.  The man moved his lips but not a sound emitted.

“What?  Why are you here,” Richard grew impatient.

“May I call you Dick?”

“No.  Nobody calls me Dick.  Not even my own mother.”

“That’s fine, that’s fine.  Listen, I know what you do and well, I think we can cut a deal.”

“A deal?  What kind of deal?   Quit speaking nonsense,” Richard grabbed the handle to the accordion door.

“Wait,” Zack placed his hand atop Richard’s.   “Construction’s your trade, isn’t it?”

Richard, unmoved by Zack’s enthusiasm, “Yeah, why?”

“I fix motors!”  Above them, thunder rolled down the stairs.


“No!  Don’t you see?  We can cut a deal!”

Has the boy before him gone totally insane?   What kind of deal could possibly be cut between a construction foreman and a lunatic who fixes motors?   His eyes darting around, capturing fractals of blue light.  Fearing a seizure might take over, Richard blurted, “We’re done.”


“Get out of my house?”

The accordion door, without warning, swung open, the two men flying forward into Amanda, wearing blue spandex pants and a white t-shirt a bit too tight on her, “Fuck you, Dad!   Zack’s not to leave evah!   Evah!   Now, how can my foddah help you, Zack?”  Her voice squealed when saying his name.

Amanda #3

In the twenty-three years of living, Amanda could only count six full days where her parents went without arguing.   In those six consecutive (yes, consecutive) days, her father suffered laryngitis.   Dahlia, her mother, did everything possible to restore her husband’s brooding coarse voice.  How she loved fighting!   Had Dahlia been born male, she either would have pursued boxing or studied criminal law (not that a female couldn’t become a boxer or a criminal lawyer.  Just a little bit of insight into the strange mind of Dahlia Jenkins).  Instead, she became a florist.   Most of Dahlia’s arguments with her husband revolved around money that had gone or was planning to go into her business.    Richard argued, “Enough is enough, Dahlia!  How much fucking money you want to put into this damned business?   Each year your business profits.  Each fucking year I have to delay putting a new deck in the backyard.”

Richard, a simple construction foreman, had a point.  The Jenkins deck emitted a croaking sound anytime someone stood three feet from it.   In that state, one expected to fall right through while standing directly upon it.   This deck was where Richard would take his daily cigarette, one hour after dinner.  It would settle his mood.  Give him enough juice to argue the rest of the night with Dahlia about one thing or another.    Then once the kids were snoring away, Dahlia and Richard would go at it, pouring love juice upon one another.  It was as if their arguing was nothing more than a mask for their sweet tenderness underneath.   Richard would have to take his smokes leaning against his car.  Sometimes he’d take a stroll to the neighborhood park where jocks wrestled one another, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.    “Faggots,” Richard would moan but for one reason or another, even after the deck was repaired, would return to these wrestling boxer-brief wearing jocks.

The day Jim disappeared with a bag of dirty clothes, Richard and Dahlia returned home saying nothing to one another.   Amanda feared the glass shards had killed them.  Instead it mesmerized them.  The two sat on the floor like toddlers, picking up the glass, then released it back onto the carpet.   “Wild how gravity works, Richard.”

“Tell me about it, Dahlia.”

“What da…ya both stoned or what?”

The two proceeded as if their plump daughter wasn’t there.  Amanda thundered up the stairs cursing her “stupid, idiotic parents.  Who da hell do dey tink dey are?”   Once inside her unkempt bedroom, she ripped off the oversized shirt covering her tan frame.   Standing before the mirror, Amanda dreamed of a skinnier body, one that would overwhelm Zack Blueman.

“Oh Zack Blueman,” Amanda hissed while caressing her smooth hips.   “Take me away from dis wee-ahd place.”

As if God him or herself was hiding in Amanda’s closet, a motorcycle pulled up in the driveway.  The tremors from the vehicle shook the whole house, knocking a framed print of Michael Jackson off the wall in Amanda’s room.   Approaching the fallen picture, Amanda could see through the window, some muscular being removing a black helmet, lightning bolts on the side.   Once the cyclist’s face was revealed, Amanda let out a high-pitched shriek.

Amanda #2

Poor little girl, lost as ever.   Between her brother’s insidious ways and Zack’s wandering eye, Amanda paced to and fro in her bedroom.   She wondered whether it was chocolate or vanilla ice cream Zack had consumed with his apple pie.   Created some sort of rationalization that if it’s chocolate then perhaps he’s sexually charged.   In some woman’s magazine, perhaps Elle, Amanda read that men who consume chocolate on a regular basis have a high sex drive.   But chocolate ice cream and apple pie?   Yuck, thought Amanda.   Vanilla ice cream tends to combine better with apple pie.   Vanilla, according to this article, when consumed by a male, signifies low sperm count.    “Subconsciously,” Amanda read, “a man eats the vanilla thinking that it’s his own sperm.”   Although those words scattered across her brain, Amanda saw something else—

Zack in a midnight blue robe, its belt dangling at his sides.   He mouths the words, “Ready for it?”   Amanda licks her lips.  He extracts his forty-foot penis whereupon a laser beam of vanilla ice cream sprays her in the face.

Crash baloom!  Jim didn’t even bother knocking or hollering.   He just knew that Amanda would pull some maneuver.   Either that or he saw through the windows, dining room chairs pushed up against the doorknobs.  All of them.

Once inside, Jim dragged the dining room chairs under the table and stormed into his room whereupon he filled a plastic bag with dirty clothing.  Amanda watched him.

“Going somewhere, Jimmy?”

“Like you care!”

“You stick around here and yeah I care!  Doing laundry?”

Jim shoved his middle finger into Amanda’s nose and then marched out the house like a spoiled teenager.

A mad grin took over.    Amanda figured with Jim possibly gone she can invite Zack over.   There’s that beat-up MG in the garage.   He could come by, check under the hood and while he’s leaning into the dusty engine, she can grab his ass.  If only she knew his number.

“No Blueman a hundred miles from me.  Dat’s nuts!”

“Can I help you with anything else, madam?”


“No,” the operator laughed.  “I said ‘Madam’. M-A-D-A-M.”

“It’s spelled B-L-U-E-M-A-N.”

The operator hesitated, clearly doing everything in her power to contain her frustration, “Let me repeat, the nearest Blueman is one hundred miles from you.   Have a good day.”  Dial tone.

The Publish Button

There’s a deep inner need to publish…right away, that is.   It’s as if the idea already created in WordPress, saved, locked away from vultures, cannot remain in draft format.   Why not let the idea sit there, collect a little bit of digital dust?   Do I fear the idea, after a good night’s rest, will become nullified?  That my Scorpio stingers will emit a toxic ray into the piece, tear it down, leave the page empty again.  God forbid empty pages appear out of nowhere!  Do they all need to be filled?

Starting now, that little blue publish button on WordPress will be on lock-down.  I guarantee that the words before you will have sat overnight.  Call it slow cook publishing.  It gives my mind to catch up with my wild soul.  It is my soul that writes.  My mind that edits.

What has not edited though is the last bit of the unfinished screenplay titled Descent, directly below.  I’ll go into an analysis on this script in a future post.   Right now, I’d like to thank the Gods, the Muses, the creative forces above, below and elsewhere for aiding the scriptwriting process.  Sure the concept is a bit immature but had it not been for this script, it’s likely there would be no blog.   I’m looking forward to hearing thoughts on where this script could go, if anywhere.   Are the characters interesting?  What confuses you?  What do you need more of?  Ahh!  Here it is…

              EXT. LOG CABIN - DAY

               Will lifts a floorboard off the porch.   Reaches his hand

               Nearby, a rifle is cocked.   Kate points the gun in Will's

                         Looking for this?

                         Oh God, Kate.  I was coming to look
                         for you.

                         With a rifle?

                         Well, that was just in case...

               Kate lowers the rifle.  Hands it to Will.

                         You see, Will, we are nothing
                         alike.  Knowing you, you'd show up
                         with a loaded rifle and then blow
                         my brains out.   Go ahead.  Shoot

               Will places the rifle underneath the porch.  Covers it with
               the loose floorboard.

                         No.  Damian will be here soon.   He
                         needs your help. 


                         His friend, Charlie, got injured. 
                         How's your aunt?

               Kate withdraws a cigarette.  Lights it.  Takes a few puffs.

                         Not well.

                         Can I see her?


                         We've become friends.

                         As friendly as you were with my

                         They're here!

               Damian pushes through the thicket.  Charlie, unconscious,
               draped over Damian's shoulder.

               Kate runs toward Damian.  The two lower Charlie to the

                         You should have left him where you
                         found him.

                         Did what I thought was right.

               Kate pushes Damian out of the way.

                         Leave me.  I'll be alright.

               INT/EXT. LOG CABIN - DAY

               Will cracks open a beer.

               Damian grabs the bottle of beer from the youth.

                         You crazy?   Kate's right outside.


               Damian peers out the window.  Observes Kate tending to the
               unconscious Charlie.

                         So, she's a stickler.  She sees you
                         with that beer and you'll be back
                         on the mainland in some sort of

                         I'll probably wind up there anyhow.


               Will reaches for the bottle of beer.

                         Give me a sip.

                         A sip.

               Damian clutches the bottle as Will takes a sip.

               Thirst quenched, Will takes a seat on the bed.

                         I need you to distract Kate.

                         C'mon!  What the hell you gonna do?

                         Pay a visit to Mrs. Argrove.

                         No.  Not while Kate is here.

                         You kissing Kate's ass.

                         I'm protecting you.

               Kate rushes through the front door.

                         This isn't looking good.   We need
                         to get him back to the mainland.

                         What's wrong with him?

                         I don't know.  But he needs a
                         doctor.  Badly!

The First on Reading

Ladies, Gentlemen and Ogres in Disguise:

This post on reading feels like the first of many.   As a human that longs to express myself in the deepest way possible via writing (and other forms…acting, filmmaking, music, etc.), I cannot imagine a life without reading.   Sure, a quick tour of People magazine might offer some insight.   The type of reading I suggest is one that challenges.  One that might lose you for a page or two.   One whose characters are so unlike you that you either wrinkle your nose in disgust or dive so deep into the book, it appears that you and the printed pages are conjoined twins.   Doesn’t matter the genre.   Could be a non-fiction book about a sweaty old genius who loves his ginger snap cookies but beats his kids.   Could be a novel about a ginger snap cookie that teases kids with its sweetness, taking them away from their sad lonely widower father.

In the anthology Writers on Writing, Saul Bellow wrote a short essay, “Hidden Within Technology’s Empire, a Republic of Letters”. Here, Bellow discusses how technology has, in so many ways, taken over our reading time.   Sure, we spend our time responding to texts (which, of course, must be read).   Words though are being shortened.   There’s the LOL’s, OMG’s and FML’s.  Are these acronyms here because we’ve forgotten how to spell the words properly? Or is it that we live such a rushed life, no time for writing, must get to the next text?  LOL.

In writing about technology and these new digital acronyms, I say there’s nothing wrong with any of this.   As this piece is written, my cell phone sits a foot and a half away.   Should it light up, my eyes gravitate toward it, taking my attention away from this.   Please, though, I urge you to take just a simple thirty minutes a day to read something meaningful, something that challenges you.  It could be read on the can, the subway, in a doctor’s waiting room.  Your life, I guarantee, will be enriched.

Amanda #1

Something tol’s me that he secretly wants me.   Seen dem wandering eyes as he fixes de ‘ngines.   So strong, I seen him bend things without a sweat drop going anywhere.    Maybe one sizzled on a rock beneath him once.  Been watching him for too long.   He’s five years older den me.    He may been in the same school as my older brother, Jim.

The first I seen him was playing basketball.   He wore no shirt.   Made me wanna jump over the bleachers, push him to the ground.    Dat was so long ago.    Now, he don’t play any ball games.   Just fixes cars and maybe reading dem books.

Musta been when I was in tenth grade, few weeks before dropping out, Jim saw some scribbling on a napkin – Amanda ‘N Zack foreva!   He laughed and laughed saying, “You think Zack wants you, Amanda?  A simple little girl.  Fahget it.  Just fahget it.   He goes for hot hot girls.   Get out of those sweats and maybe he’ll take you.”    Take me where?   To his bed?   To the zoo?   To the movies?    Jim just laughed.   Made me feel shitty.

We was at the diner, Jim and me, when I saw Zack came in.   Jim musta forgotten about the napkin scribbles.   My eyes only saw Zack.   He looked so skinny yet strong.   Wore a muscle shirt.    On his arm’s a tattoo of a baby dragon dancing on a building.  The artist was so good you can see far away fire burning.

“You okay,” Jim snapped.   His fingers snap when he gets mad.   I nodded but looked back at Zack.    Zack Blueman.   Amanda Blueman.  Sounds prettier than Amanda Jenkins.   Shit, do I got the name of a banker or what?   When I marry Zack Blueman, I gonna be his receptionist.   Gonna answer the phone, “Blueman Motors.  Dis is Amanda.  How can I help you?”

Those days will come soon, I tell ya.   He and me gonna get all naughty and stuff when we shut down for the night.  Do it on a broken BMW.   Screw till the sun comes out again.

Jim’s voice started rising in the diner.   People stared.  I don’t know what Jim be saying but boy did my cheeks get all red.  Even Zack looked over.   He was eating an apple pie with ice cream.   I tol’ Jim to be quiet but he just kept saying over and over again, “What are you looking at, girl?  Why’s you stupid all of a sudden?”   I got’s angry back saying, “Can’t I look at what I want?  All day and night I hear yur stupid voice.   Shut up for once, Jim, and eat yur food.”   Dat don’t settle Jim at all.  He just get all worked up.  Smacking the table.   Throws ketchup at me.   People surrounded the table thinking we gonna start a brawl.    We both apologized and stuff but when alone he whispered some mean stuff.   I so embarrassed I just left.   Took a glance over at Zack who be slurping some chocolate milk.   Damn, he look so good!

The heat burn my skin as I walk somewhere.  Anywhere.   Thought of a garden, a pretty one growing blueberries and ginger.   Nah!  Too far.   Thought of an ice cream shop that plays nice music.   I’s already eaten.  Home sounded nice.   Home where I can stick chairs under the doors so Jim don’t come in.   I’ll sit upstairs laughing at Jim’s hollering and banging as I touch myself thinking of Zack.

Diminishment of Bread

What a literary juggler I’ve become.  Every day, I must wrestle myself with what to write.   The new script?   Post a new entry?   Another secret admirer letter?   Oh shit, did I just admit to being the author of 7,213 secret admirer letters to 7,213 random people?

While lying in bed last night (no, I’m not going there, pervert), I decided to discuss the diminishment of bread in my diet, effective as of January 2nd.   Sad but true.   How I love my bread, my biscuits, my scones!   Bread and everything related to it negatively effects my performance at CrossFit.   Yesterday, while doing box jumps, I found myself jumping higher.   Something about the combination of my blood and bread that increases the force of gravity.    Since I know so well the taste of bread, biscuits and scones (yum yum yum and yum) and I don’t know what it’s like to jump really high, I’ve chosen the latter.   Once I’ve jumped four feet high, I’ll test to see if the chemistry in my body has changed by increasing my bread intake.

I was wrong.  This is the penultimate posting regarding the script entitled Descent.   Here ya go–

               EXT. LOG CABIN - DAY

               A small rubber handball bounces against the porch.   It lands
               in Will's hand.  He suddenly jumps off the porch and climbs
               up a tree.

               Footsteps land on the porch.  Damian reaches for the doorknob.

               Will pulls his arm back and shoots it directly into Damian's

               Damian spins around.  Searches for the pitcher.

               Roaring in hysterical laughter, Will falls out of the tree.

                         Jesus, Will.

               Damian rushes over to Will.  The boys continues on with his

                         You should have seen your face. 
                         You were so scared.

               Damian thinks twice before handing Will the ball.

                         Hate when you do that shit.

                         I don't do it that often.

                         Once is enough.

                         Making nice-nice with Kate?

                         Her aunt, Mrs. Argrove, isn't well.

               Tears well up in Will's eyes.

                         How?  What's wrong with her?

                         Don't know.  She's a manic.   

               Will stands up.  Tosses the ball into the woods.

                         Damn!  What about Kate?  Will

                         She's focused exclusively on her

               Will starts to walk away.

                                   DAMIAN (CONT'D)
                         Will, wait!


                         Where's Charlie?

               A concerned expression washes over Will's face.

               EXT. WOODS - DAY

               Damian and Will walk side by side, tossing the rubber
               handball between them.

                         You think Charlie stalked you?

                         Well, Kate didn't send him.  She
                         only saw him once in the office.

                         And you believe her?

                         Why would Kate lie?

                         Cause she's a bitch.

                         You two have got to find common

                         I don't got to do anything.

               Damian sticks his arm out.  Prevents Will from going any

               Several yards away, Charlie lies unconscious.

               Damian rushes over to Charlie, feels the man's heartbeat
               against his neck.

                         Go get Kate.


                         Fine.  I'll get her.  You carry
                         Charlie to the cabin.


               Damian laughs as Charlie runs off.


There’s something about endorphins that induce a certain madness in me.   It’s a safe madness.   It forces me to rush to a computer or a pad of paper, write out something brutally honest.   This was the case on New Year’s Eve.  Many things can get my endorphins going.   Refraining from masturbation for days at a time, taking a hike in the woods or an intense workout at CrossFit.

It was late April when I started working out at CrossFit.   Six weeks earlier, I started a cleanse.   My goal before the cleanse was to become a raw vegan.   Mid-cleanse, something new came in.   I sensed a super intense workout was needed, one that wouldn’t get boring after a few months.   After much research, I happily stumbled upon CrossFit (it’s recommended that one consumes a paleolithic diet for the best results).   Here we are early January 2013 and I’m still participating in this great workout program.   It paid off as I’m now one of two members of the month.  Check out the write-up.

It saddens me to announce that this is the penultimate post whereupon the script will be posted.   The blog, of course, will continue.   Kudos to those who have commented on the script.  Please remember that the script is both incomplete and unedited.   There’s a chance that someday the piece will reach completion.   Another more pressing story has taken over.   As of Sunday, I’ll begin drafting this up.   I doubt this new script will make it to the blog.   The process of writing it will be mentioned extensively.


               Lying in bed, with skin as blue as the sky, Bella gasps for

               Kate hands Bella a steaming cup of tea.

                         Take this.

                         Thank you.

               Bella takes a sip of the tea.  Coughs up pink phlegm.

               Damian hands Kate a box of tissues.

               Kate wipes the pink phlegm off her chin.

                         Kate, can we talk?


               Kate pours boiling water into a cup.

                         Want a cup?

                         Sure.  Kate, is your aunt

               Kate's face turns beat red.

                         Excuse me?

                         Relax.  I'm asking out of concern.

                         It's been ages since I've seen her. 
                         You know that.

                         She claims Charlie's a woman.   A
                         demon woman, to boot.

               Kate hands Charlie a cup of tea.

                         Charlie?  Careful it's hot.

                         The man, or woman according to your
                         aunt, you sent here.

                         I wouldn't send my worst enemy
                         here.  Putting anyone, anything
                         near that rodent child, would be


                         I'm sorry.  That's an insult to

               A loud shriek emits from the bedroom.


               Kate and Damian rush in.

               Bella's seated on a rocking chair sewing.

                         Aunt Bella what are you doing out
                         of bed?


                         You're ill.   Get to bed!

               Kate grabs Bella's hand but the old woman pushes her niece
               out of the way.

                         Don't tell me what to do.  I'm
                         sewing now.  I'll go to bed when
                         I'm tired.

                         Why'd you shriek?

                         What did you say?

                         You shrieked?  What happened?

               Bella holds the sewing needles like a dagger.

                         I don't know who you think you are
                         but I'll tell you.  You are a sick
                         man doing sick things for evil
                         people.   I'd watch my tongue if I
                         were you. 

               Kate reaches for the sewing needle.

                         Aunt Bella...

                         Don't "Aunt Bella" me, young lady.
                         Both of you, leave me.  I've got a
                         blanket to sew.

               Bella's focus shifts directly onto the unfinished blanket barely
               covering her kneecaps.