Familia!

Dear Blog--

I'm sorry to have been so slovenly on my blogging. Finals Week just wound up and things have been a little crazy! I put together a website of my writing this last semester for my Creative Writing Final. If you'd like to view the site, send an email my way so I can issue an official "invitation."

In other news, Merry Christmas! Snow has visited my house, a first in a many, many years. It certainly brightens the Christmas spirit! But it won't really feel like Christmas until I am home from college with the family. There's just something about family. It isn't really Christmas without them!

Speaking of family, here are a few pictures from Thanksgiving break.

Quirky Confessions

A Few Really Odd Details About Val That You Probably Didn't Care To Know

Warning: This list is really peculiar and pretty embarrassing so if you'd rather not know such details about me, then don't read.

1. I like lists-- like this one.
2. I don't like the sound of alarms. It's not that I mind waking up to them, but I just don't like the sound. I prefer a phone with a loud vibrator to awake me. Unfortunately, my phone is too suave and quiet now for this to work.
3. On the lines of alarms-- I don't like waking up fives and zeros, like 6:30 or 6:35. I prefer times that end in twos, fours, sixes, and nines, like 6:32, 6:34, 6:36, and 6:39. Nines are rare. Eights are okay occasionally.
4. Speaking of nines, nine is my lucky number. I was born in the ninth month, on the 29th day, in the year 1989 at 9:03 am. Fate? I think so.
5. I passionately despise being cold. For example, my toes are cold right now and it's distracting me.
6. I don't like my feet.
7. My arms are hairy. And when I first wrote that I spelled hairy as "harry."
   
8. I buy dirt cheap clothes and then never wear them. Then I feel guilty for my frivolous spending and hang onto the said article of clothing forever. It's terrible.
9. Along the lines of clothes, I wear shirts, shoes, jeans, etc... that I don't like very much every once in a while so they have their "turn." Sometimes these offending pieces of clothing are those same pieces mentioned in number eight. I also listen to crappy CD's every so often for the same reason.
10. I am mildly obsessed with words and names. I am registered on pregnancy sites (okay only one) so I can explore the name databases and chat with expectant mothers. I supposedly had a baby girl in September. Must get pregnant again... And www.thesaurus.com and www.behindthename.com are two other favorite sites of mine. I have favorite words that are just comfortable to use.
    
11. Did I mention I really, really don't like being cold?
12. I have favorite spots, like a favorite position on the couch, seat at the kitchen table, desks in classes, and such. I am not overly bothered by upsets in my system, but it throws me off kilter for just a minute. The only favorite spot I am very particular about is my parking spots.
    
13. I love juice. I drink a lot of juice. Apple juice to be specific. Wal Mart apple juice is rather icky. Once in a rather stressful week I counted eight half empty cups of icky Wal Mart juice scattered throughout the kitchen. Bad Valerie.
    
14. I refer to people by their full names on frequent occasions. Like I said, I like names.
15. My roommates just reminded me I eat cereal very often. I'd like to give a brief shout out to all those who have first of all even heard of King Vitamin and second of all enjoy eating it.
16. I sleep in the same spot, in the same position every night. I am told I sleep like a corpse. Or a mummy. Take your pick. I have a horrible confession. My bed at home actually has a butt imprint of just where I sleep at night.
    
17. My roommates say I brush my teeth a lot. But I don't think so. I brush after I eat. Is that odd? Yesterday, the dental hygienist complimented me on my clean teeth and nice gums. It made my day.
18. Speaking of dentists, I feel horribly guilty when he tells me to floss more (even though I floss quite often), so guilty I get sick to my stomach.
    
19. Before going to the hairdresser, I always do my hair really cute and dress up. I don't want the hairdressers to think poorly of me.
    
20. I can be kind to a fault. And sometimes I store all this pent up meanness and just snap and that's not pretty.
21. I have a very hard time saying no. I can be too passive. Which is odd, because I am either too passive, or way too stubborn. Rarely in the middle.
    
22. I passionately love poetry. Poetry deserves to be read out loud. Unfortunately, there is little room for privacy in a house with five girls, so the other day I read poetry out loud on the bottom of the basement stairs. Parks and mountainous locations are also good for the reading of poetry.
23. This list makes me sound like I might be in serious need of professional mental help. I promise I'm okay.
    
24. I tend to be overly apologetic.
    
25. I sometimes forget to feed myself.
    
26. I love grocery shopping. Really, I love it.
27. I also love book stores, particularly used book stores. When I'm having a bad day, I like going to book stores and just letting the pages upon pages of print absorb my stress.
    
28. When I forget to do something important, I feel excessively guilty and can't stop thinking about it until it's done, even if there is nothing I can do about it for quite some time. Sometimes writing the item up in a list helps.
29. My feet have warmed up, but now my hands are cold.
    

Okay now that I have exposed myself in a scandalous fashion, it's your turn. To which of my quirks can you relate? And any of your own quirks you'd like to confess? It's oddly therapeutic to get that all out there in a nice tidy list. I recommend it thoroughly. I like lists.

Click

A couple weeks ago, on Halloween actually, I had an unexpected afternoon to myself. Armed with a camera and a book of poetry, I went on a photographic exploration of my neighborhood and the college campus. My camera batteries eventually died-- probably for the best --and I sat on a grassy hill and read poetry until rain and the coming darkness chased me home. I have claimed this as a blog of creative writings and such. I suppose this falls under the such category. But there is something so poetic about autumn and art! These are a few of the better shots taken that wonderful afternoon of freedom.



PHOTOGRAPHY BY VALERIE OWENS

Blue

What a strange morning. I ran to the gym this morning in a thick fog. From the windows of the gym, I watched as the rising sun bled into the misty gray dawn, melting away the shadowy sky. Within an hour, the sky was June blue-- exquisite-- with the exception of a few dusty clouds lingering at the horizon. Now, not an hour later, the fog has returned, thicker than before. It is hard to imagine that somewhere beneath the heavy grayness there is a blue sky, waiting quietly to return.

In other news, it is a Tuesday. It is also Veterans Day. I am so thrilled to be an American! Last week was my first time voting. What a thrill that was! I am grateful to those men who fight to protect my freedom, so I can do things like vote-- and enjoy November fog. The pictures below are of war memorials in the DC area.

Photography by Valerie Owens

Like Unto a Photograph

Poetry is much like unto photography. The desire and end goal is the same-- to capture the power of emotion and beauty of vision into one pivotal snapshot, to say much with little, to use a moment to relate to a lifetime... Out of a hundred clicks of the camera, only one photo worthy of note might be produced. The same is true with poetry. The poet continually pumps out poem after poem with hopes that one, just one, will rise above the mediocrity of the ninety-nine others.

I have now missed lunch due to poetic attempts. Dang.

Poem 3

The topic of poem three is clothes, hence the title, "Clothes." Really, it's there for lack of a better title.

Clothes
Valerie Owens

Poets, dreamers, and rebels sing the same song,
the melancholy tune of November's chilled winds.
I wrap myself up in a swanky sweater
and pretend to be all three.

I'd like to weave the words
of life and love and longing.
I'd weave the finest robe there ever was
and flaunt it proudly the streets.
I beckon those who'd dreamed the dreams of poetry
to garb themselves in words
and dance through life with me.

Poem 4

Pretend
Valerie Owens

So one Friday night
We shared laughs and chip dip
Over a game of truth or dare
At a party
Where we were both strangers
And you wore that hat
And I said I like it
Don’t pretend that you know me

So we wound up as roommates
Sharing dishes
And gossip
And chatter
So you’ve known me
A season-- no more
Don’t pretend that you know me

So you were a teacher of mine
I sat in the front row
And listened contently
You graded my papers
And answered my queries
So once I was in your class
Don’t pretend that you know me

So we were lovers
Or so we believed
We shared kisses
And dinners
For a little while.
And once you said you loved me.
But.
Don’t pretend that you know me.

Details and moments
This is what you know-- not me.
Details and moments-- not me.

Then what am I, if not these?

Please, my friend
Take a seat.
And please, my friend
Listen
Won’t you try to get to know me?


This poem is still in the rough draft stage. I can't get the flow to come out just right, but nonetheless, here it is. The topic of Poem 4 is not liking something. Pretty broad. So that's that. What sort of things do you not like? Or, what sort of people pretend to know you so well when all they know are details about you? Does that make any sort of sense?

Photograph by Valerie Owens

And the picture has nothing to do with anything, but blogs with pictures tend to be more interesting. I suppose I could make some deep philosophical claim about how we are all stained glass windows and the distortion makes it hard to see the true view. But that would be foolish, so I won't.

Poem 2

STEPWIFE
Valerie Owens

I am not the dark eyed beauty he married
and lost.
I am not the woman he met on shores of Spanish sand--
the woman who spoke three languages,
bore him four sons
and made him a five course meal
for a tenth wedding anniversary.
I am not the Ivy League graduate,
wearer of pearls,
and PTA president.
I am not her.
Yet, our passion is pregnant
with thoughts of her.
She lies entangled in our midnight sheets
and taints the tenderness our kisses.
She twists her slender fingers
in and out of our arguments,
taunting our struggles
and mocking my tears.
He holds me loose in his arms
I feel as though I am suffocating him
with all that I am not.

Emerging

I have emerged from a rather deep writer's pit and have thus begun my fictional short story. After a few misfired attempts, I have begun the story of Stevie. Stevie, at five feet even and 96 pounds, is convinced he may very well never have a girlfriend. Realizing he will probably wind up a loser, he sets out to change his life with three goals: 1) Become the nicest guy ever. 2) Become the most honest guy ever. 3) Bulk up. The story begins as sort of the humorous ways Stevie's life changes because of these three goals. In the midst of being the nicest guy ever, he winds up befriending the new girl. The new girl struggles with anorexia, and I think she just might die in the end.

The questions left swirling around in my strange little mind are such: What is the climax? How is the friendship between Stevie and the anorexic developed? What strain does anorexia have on a friendship? Can being the most honest guy ever be a bad thing? What is the anorexic girl's name? How does the story end? Is there a relationship of more than friendship between Stevie and the anorexic? What is the general point of it? And can I tell this story adequately as a "short story?"

So, it still needs work, but I am just excited by how Stevie's voice came out and how the writing is flowing. And I find the beginnings to be mildly humorous (it will be left to find out if anyone else agrees).

Fiction...

Dear little blog,
I wish I had something to say to you. I'm working on a fiction piece now. We always hear about single teenage moms, but what about a single teenage dad? I'm sort of working off of that idea. Any suggestions?

Courtship, One Week

Ice Cream, Salsa Dancing, A Haunted House, and Monty Python on a Thursday
The random nature of the date seems to characterize the boy himself. He is charming, in a goofy sort of way. He throws his hands about when he talks and he smiles a great deal-- a very handsome smile indeed. Bubble gum ice cream is his preferred flavor and it suits him. He is quite horribly inept at salsa dancing, but his determination to conquer despite his lack of natural talent is humorously endearing. He is not particularly tall, but such a detail can be forgiven due to his strong build. There is something wonderfully sweet about the role of protector he assumes in the course of an excursion through a haunted house. And, later, he laughs deeply at the humor of Monty Python. Much can be said about a person who appreciates such humor.

To The Theater, Monday Night
How shall we describe him? He wears glasses and parts his hair like a middle aged businessman. His wardrobe contains of a plethora of sweaters and sensible shoes. He is not the sort of boy you'd call by a pet name, or even an abbreviated version of his given name. There is something very proper and sagacious about him. You could safely trust him to be duly responsible. It must also be said of him that he treated her like a lady, he had a good sense of humor, and he made an excellent companion to the theater. It must also be noted that the occasion of the theater was not an explicitly stated date, though the boy most nearly asked for a proper date at the end of the evening. And she most nearly flirted with him.

The Date That Has Not Yet Occurred That She Hopes Someday Will
She does not ask for perfection, just a good man with a nice smile. He finds her funny and he can easily draw a laugh from her. She trusts him to be an honest and sincere man, one with unquestioned and confident standards. He opens doors for her and treats her like a lady. His looks are flawed, for whose isn't, but she finds him handsome nonetheless. The conversation flows easily between them, not necessarily because the wealth of common interests but more so because of the common interest in one another. The date goes very well indeed. She hopes he will ask for another. And he does.

National Geographic #45

Based upon the work of James P. Blair's 1987 photograph of the Albert Schweitzer Clinic in Deschappelles, Central Haiti.

Albert Schweitzer Clinic, Deschappelles, Central Haiti
Valerie Owens

She is seated in the corner,
in a wooden chair,
with a purse strap hung over the back,
facing a faded white wall.
There are posters
tacked against the peeling paint.
I wonder
if the images of mothers
and healthy babies
and good feeding
mean anything to her.
I look at the baby on her own lap,
brown and chubby,
but quiet-- too quiet.
Her yellow dress,
trimmed in black,
is clean,
as is her broad rimmed straw hat,
trimmed in red.
Her body is seated towards the wall,
but her face,
solemn and brown,
is turned away.
She is looking off to where no one else can see
I feel hopelessly inadequate
for I don't think
there is a camera in all the world
to capture
the pleading,
the longing,
the weariness,
in those dark, dark eyes.

National Geographic #25

A few days ago in Creative Writing, we perused an art exhibit, National Geographic's In Focus. It was my third or fourth time wandering through the exhibit. The photographs of sharp eyes and curious expressions of people long past draw me in. I am filled with an unsatisfiable curiosity for these people, immortalized in a moment.

I would like to write about photograph #25, Esther Bubley's 1943, Waiting Room, Greyhound Bus Terminal, New York City. The picture depicts a weary mother waiting for the bus on a wooden pew. There is a slumbering baby on her lap and a toddler at her side. The toddler is clutching her mother's purse and looking upward.

What is this mother waiting for? I should like to tell the story of the first trip she took, five years earlier. The first time she was proud, defiant, and young. She was going home to tell her parents she was determined to marry a man she loved, despite their objections. The first time, harsh words were said and she was sent away told never to come back as long as she loved the man. She married the man and never did return. Now, five years later, she is wiser and wearier. The man has left her. Her parents were right after all. There is no money. She needs to feed her children. There is no work, either. This is the 1940's, and she, a black, single mother, is in the most unfortunate of situations. Today she must swallow her pride and admit she was wrong. Today she is going home to beg for help from her parents. She has dressed her children-- and herself-- in their best clothes. She has practiced the scene a thousand times over in the mirror and still has no idea what to say. The bus is late, and so they wait. Her mind is heavy with thoughts of what is to come.

Torn

They bulldozed House #19 yesterday. I watched it all happen; the steely claws of the bulldozer tearing away at the walls, the brick chimney crumbling to the ground, the dust flying up from the wreckage. The place was dilapidated wreck, an eyesore, a hazard. And yet, I was sorry to see it tumble. Such mystery and wonder the abandoned little house held for me.

I close my eyes and try to imagine it in better days. Years ago, when the paint was fresh and the lawn was green, someone must have called it home. I picture a family. I see an aproned mother at the porch, a father-- tie loosened after a long day of work-- playing with his boys on the lawn. There is a dog in the picture, like Lassie of course. Neighbors walk by, waving as they pass. I wonder where they have all gone and how many years has it been.

Who has let the house fall away with the years? Is there anyone shedding quiet tears over old memories at the sight of the wreckage? I should have liked to have wandered through the home and listen to the quiet echos of the past and imagine what purpose and memory each room held. So much I would have liked to have known... But, the home is gone and with it a great deal of curious mystery. I must say, I was sorry to see it go.

Photography by Valerie Owens

Humbled

I apologize to any artists whose work I posted without permission. I have since edited the blog and hope no offense was caused. Thank you for the feedback. Unless noted otherwise, all photographic work posted will be that of my own.

Tired

Tired. Very, very tired. I intended to post the plans for a story based upon the National Geographic portrait, Ester Bubley 1943, Waiting Room, Greyhound Bus Terminal, New York City. Gorgeous portrait. Goggle it. Other news. House #19 across the street was torn down today. I'd like to post pictures of that and try to express in words why exactly an event so unrelated to my life would trouble me so, even if I'm not sure why it did. I also went to my first poetry reading tonight and it put me in the mood to write poetry. There are a great deal many poems within that are begging to be written. And a trip to the library today where I picked up books I won't have the time to read. It has been quite the day things to be read, written, heard, and seen. So much I'd like to say, but oh I'm so very, very tired. Soon.

Guest

Last night, I slept at home, in my old bedroom, for the first time since I went away to college. It was much unchanged. Porcelain dolls and music boxes of childhood still decorated the shelves. The piles of my books and CD's were just as I left them. From the coat hook hung dried corsages from formals long ago and leis from graduation and even a few childish medals from elementary school days. The same pictures I'd selected were still upon the walls. And yet, the room was oddly sparse and devoid of so much of what made it mine, even though I couldn't pinpoint just what that was. In my own bed that night, the dark outlines of the room were well known to me. The hum of the fan was the same. Even the gentle creaks and groans of the house were not unfamilar. And yet... It was as though I was a guest. Who was the child whose stuffed animals lay haphazardly in the closet and whose dolls sat upon the shelf? Who was this girl who loved soft blues and pinks and chose the billowy blue curtains? Who was it who loved all those books and listened to all that music? Who was the young woman who wore the corsages that hung on the coat hook and prom dresses in the closet? Who was she? Was she still me? I hadn't realized just how long I'd been away.

Autumn Sunrise

There were joggers out this morning. I could see them slipping up and down the winding campus paths, autumn's leaves crunching beneath their feet. The sunrise glowed soft and pink above them. There were joggers out this morning. I could see them through the gym window, where I sat upon an exercise bike; the hamster at the wheel. It was my first time in gym. Normally, I'd be one of the runners, out there in the dawn, cool October air against their faces. Today, however, I sat, legs pumping fruitlessly. I watched the other gym members, faces sweaty and focused. They didn't seem bothered by what we are missing. Why am I? I paid twenty dollars to be a gym member, and I get a sports channel on mute. They run for free, and they get the autumn sunrise.Photograph by Valerie Owens

Thus it continues

Well, the story of Frankie is still a work in progress. I'm not sure where it is taking me. More of the story, picking up from the last post.

And there he was at Homecoming. He stood the side, alone. Frankie had on a pinstriped suit, a good looking suit, but it was just a size too big and hung askew on his thin shoulders. He wore a Fedora, like one the Rat Pack might have worn. It was a classy hat, that be sure. In his hand he clutched a gorgeous red rose, a perfect, gorgeous red rose.

“Frankie! Looking sharp!” I said by way of greeting.

He gave his peculiar grin, a thin lipped half smile.

“Whose the rose for?” my date asked him.

“She’s on her way,” said Frankie, the smile widening just a little.

“Well cool!” was my response.

We exchanged a few more words and my date and I headed out to the dance floor leaving Frankie alone on the side.

*

I had two classes with Frankie. I was a peer tutor for another student in the same Special Ed class as Frankie, and he sat in front of me in Choir. I would like to say I knew him better than the others. We had had a few conversations and I always had a smile for him in the halls. But, the truth of the matter is I knew nothing about him. Looking back now, I am filled with a strange curiosity for his life; his passions, dreams, pet peeves, hobbies, and habits, all of which I don’t know now because I never asked then.

I think back to the faces I passed every day in the halls of my high school. The faces and the routines of the faces were familiar. Every day, I knew whom I’d see with whom, and where they’d be. The drama nerds, the band geeks, the emos, the cowboys, the jocks, the well liked, the disliked, the popular, and the outcasts, all were familiar to me. And yet, how little I knew. I had my cliques, they had theirs. We stuck to our own kind. Sad and strange as the years fall away how much we are alone.

Frankie ate lunch on a table with the Special Ed class. It was the table closest to the lunch line and closest to the library. Jokes, conversation, and food were shared at their table, the same as any other. What, I wonder, was often the topic of conversation?

*

Instant Wisdom

Well... let's just say my writing was "off" for this assignment, but I'll post what I can.
.
First of all, we needed to rewrite two proverbs:
.
The original: "A scalded dog fears cold water."
Mine: "We fear even the good when we truly have experienced the bad."
.
The original: "If everyone swept in front of his house, the whole world would be clean."
Mine: "We need only do a little to do enough if everyone does just that little."
.
Hmmm... lame. I'll admit.
Next, we had to write our own proverbs of sorts based on a word.
.
On bad drivers: "It's always the other guy."
On computers: "We spend more time fixing their problems than they do ours."
.
I have come to the conclusion I probably shouldn't quit my day job any time soon to take up writing proverbs, if I had a day job that is. Is anyone hiring?

Something more

Stories have a funny way of taking on a life of their own. There comes a point where the writer is captive to what needs to be written. The task is never easy and the writer is never satisfied. Such is the case with my creative nonfiction piece. I started pulling a thread and before I knew it, I was unraveling a sweater. The piece has become a little too large to post, I think, so we'll see what I decide to do with the finished work when it gets there, if it ever does. Tonight I'd like to post the first paragraphs, with an open invitation to constructive criticism.

The student government roped off Main Street for the Homecoming dance that year. They strung white lights from the saplings that lined the streets. And from the lights, they hung white Chinese lanterns. In the September evening, the lighting was a beautiful sight. The dance had been long anticipated, heightened by the gossip and drama that come with all high school dances. Practically everyone was going, myself included. I don’t know why then, I was surprised to see Frankie there too.

Frankie wasn’t his real name. How strange and sad I can’t recall his name. In my mind he was always Frankie. I had to correct this idea every time I had a conversation with him, which wasn’t often, and now I’ve forgotten entirely. I’ll likely never have another conversation with him again. He was just another student, another face in a class of over four hundred.

Frankie-- if it is alright that I refer to him as such-- was not like the rest of us. Everything about him was crooked: his stance was slanted, his smile lopsided, and his gaze cockeyed. The baggy clothes he wore hung awkwardly on his wiry body, never fitting just right. His mannerisms were peculiar, alienating him from the mainstream crowd. He didn’t say much-- or maybe I just wasn’t listening.

And there he was at Homecoming. He stood the side, alone. Frankie had on a pinstriped suit, a good looking suit, but it was just a size too big and hung askew on his thin shoulders. He wore a Fedora, like one the Rat Pack might have worn. It was a classy hat, that be sure. In his hand he clutched a gorgeous red rose, a perfect, gorgeous red rose.

Glandular Fever

This is merely a blog to plot what shall be written next...

What?
Prom. A handicapped kid, waiting with a rose for a girl who never arrives, and how cruelly insensitive this world can be...

Why?
I tried writing the same story in poetry and I couldn't find the words. I'd like to develop the story into something more, especially before the memory fades.

And random words to incorporate:

Glandule: A small gland. How do you use that? I felt as though I'd been hit with a bout of glandular fever. That sounds a like a personal problem to me.

Slant: Be, or set something at an angle. He had a slanted stance. Or... I'd never realized how slanted my view of things were.

Run of the mill: Ordinary, average. It was a run of the mill music lineup. Or... He wasn't your run of the mill kid.

Thunk

A practice in storytelling...

THUNK

Five batches of laundry, and thankfully she was now loading the last batch, towels, into the dryer. The phone rang, interrupting her half way through. Lousy telemarketers. After hanging up the phone, she returned to the laundry, hastily threw in the last towels, and started the dryer. Then, into the kitchen with the intention of finishing the stack of breakfast dishes. She had hardly reached the kitchen sink, when she heard the most peculiar noise coming from the laundry room, a heavy thunk, thunk, thunk, followed by the most bloodcurdling screech that had ever reached her ears. Then again; thunk, thunk, thunk, and that egregious noise again. It was the sort of sound that draws to the imagination thoughts of torture. Thunk, thunk, thunk, and the same ululation. What in the world could make such an horrific noise? She bolted into the laundry room, flung open the dryer, and, out jumped one very warm-- and very cantankerous --pet cat.

Dash!

For sometime now my writing has been in a rut. Everything I write sounds the same. My writing has seized to be a source of personal excitement. I thought it was word choice that was leaving my writing lifeless, or perhaps lack of creativity. I realized this was not necessarily the case. Currently, I am reading A Dash Of Style, by Noah Lukeman. In the midst of my reading, I have come to the revelation that it could be punctuation, misuse and lack thereof, that has left my writing bland. Punctuation, of all things! My work thus far is entirely devoid of punctuation marks such as the dash, the semicolon, and the colon. I rarely use the comma for that matter. I've always shied away from such marks for fear of using them incorrectly.

I feel like a submissive child given a variety of paints and told to decorate the walls. The first question being, naturally; can I really? A few tentative and nervous strokes are made against the bright white expanse. The moves are slow and slight, in case the work must be undone later. Then, a nominally bolder stroke, and another, each stroke increasing in brazenness. The realization dawns: it really is okay. Conform no longer! With this liberated outlook, a brush is taken in both hands and the child really starts going at it. The only danger now is too much paint and no one to say stop. But, that is half the adventure.

So, I am dragging you along with me as I tinker with these newly discovered mechanisms. I cannot wait! There will be hiccups along the way to be sure. I apologize for such, but I hope you enjoy the ride.

Cold Waffles and # 19

As I write this, I am eating a cold three-day-old waffle of a formerly delicious nature. Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" is playing on shuffle, which, by the by, the original is better than any cover, though Tim McGraw's does come in a close second.

But neither weak waffles or wonderful music is the topic of this post.

Today's Topic: Creepy houses that should be avoided at all cost.


Across the street from my humble abode is a dilapidated dwelling of such deplorable conditions I shudder just thinking about it. The wooden house's white coat of paint is peeling, revealing the bare planks beneath. A brick chimney, likely once stately, is crumbling away one brick at a time. The whole house seems to sag, as though weary with time. The glass windows, that is those that remain intact, are thin, suggesting glass of a different era. Most of the windows, however, are cracked or shattered. Beside a broken window near the door, one can still clearly make out the house number, 19; a number ominous enough for any horror flick. There isn't really a lawn to speak of, just a weed patch in front of the house. To the weed's credit, they are fine weeds indeed. Two overgrown trees stand on each side of the house, casting an eerie shadow over the dwelling. The tar shingled roof is the only thing about the place with some respectability.

The basement is of most peculiar nature. A small hole has been dug in the dirt; a crude crawlspace of sorts, that leads directly into the basement. Perhaps someone was once locked out of the house one night and needed a way in... Or there could be a stash of booze lurking the corners, the hole dug by some bootlegging college kid. Whatever the original purpose it is odd indeed.

Behind the house, if you could call it that, sits a crazed sort of shed constructed of a patchwork of aluminum. It is the sort of shed one imagines serial killers sleep in at night, knife in hand, as the next murder is plotted. However, little can be said on the shed as I chose not to investigate it further. I shall instead allow the reader's imagination to run rampant, as I have full faith and confidence in my reader's phantasms.

So, as established, the exterior alone of the house makes it a worthy subject for blogging, but it is the quirky details that capture my attention. Cases of Campbell's Tomato Soup are stacked haphazardly near the open hole to the basement. If tomato isn't your preference, there are stacks of chicken noodle in the backyard. Peering in through the broken glass reveals a most puzzling interior. Food is stacked on the shelves, the labels faded and long outdated; yet why do they remain? I picture a nuclear bomb scare, early 1970's, frightening away the tenants, leaving no time to grab up the food. The house is perhaps a time capsule to an era gone by. Yet, the container of Raid in the corner looks brand new, and so does another can here, and a bottle here. Puzzling. Trash is strewn casually across the floor; maybe remnants of a recent kegger?

If I was brave enough, I'd walk right through the screen door that's hanging by one hinge, and I'd see what there was to see. If I survived the tour, perhaps then I'd have more concrete details to share, a factual account to give. But, I rather enjoy the mystery that now remains, giving ample room for my imagination to play freely. Fiction, I've found, is often more enjoyable than reality.

And, I should really stop eating this cold waffle.

Photograph by Valerie Owens

Welcome World!

What to say to begin a blog? It it a Wednesday, deliciously sunny outside, and I wish I was running beneath the cloudless sky instead of sitting in front a computer screen. But, nonetheless, here I am. This happy blog will be a place to post work for a creative writing class. This could be boring, but then again, maybe not! Isn't that the way everything in life is? So... hope you enjoy!