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Writer's Block: Gaming From Young to Old

What was your favorite game as a child? What's your favorite now?
There were three of us, myself and two brothers. Two of us would lay across the living room floor, feet meeting in the middle of the room. The third would attempt to jump over us as we thrashed our arms and legs wildly. It was a short and narrow room with a t.v. at one end and a glass curio cabinet at the other. We called the game "Danger".
Don't know what my favorite game is now; but it sure as hell ain't online chess.

Jun. 18th, 2008

Work in progress:

It's sunny out. Naked tree branches stand in stark relief against the pale blue January sky. The bank thermometer reads 33 degrees at 2 in the afternoon; coldest it's been all winter. I inhale deeply. The cold makes city smells stand out more. Tobacco, car exhaust, and the pleasant odors of a half dozen pizza places, coffee shops, and bakeries linger in the air. My feet fall and rise against a dirty sidewalk as I meander down the street. If tomorrow is pure potentiality and yesterday is already gone then today is... Ugh. I chide myself for thinking in quotes and chase the thought out of my mind.  Today is.  That's better; a good sentence too.  One noun one verb. Simple. Communication pared down to its most basic form; sans adjectives, prepositions, conjunctions and, um, all the other grammar.. bits. The thought dwindles back into the smokey haze. I look up at the people around me. Some stream past, determination on their faces; others stroll casually by. Two men loiter behind a wall, out of the wind. A scruffy looking kid in a new jacket asks if I can spare a dollar. I fish through my pockets and come up with an apologetic smile and an empty hand. The kid's not looking anymore.


I feel like a stranger here. The sun seems too bright, the colors too stark. I can feel the stare of strangers’ eyes as I pass them on the street. There is an old man ahead of me; his face sad and wrinkled, faded t-shirt covered belly drooping low over stained sweat pants. He searches my face for something, keeping his gaze steady as I hurry past. Ugliness makes me uncomfortable; especially now, in the cold, clear January afternoon. My head begins to swim; too much light and exhaust and strange eyes passing me expressionlessly. I light a cigarette and the smoke fills my mouth bringing me back to myself.


The sidewalk is bleeding. Raindrops ratta-tat-tat hammer into spilled merlot. It’s 10am and I’m drinking. Jimmy Buffett reminds me via my Myspace Music Playlist that it is, indeed, 5 o’clock somewhere. Mauritania, I think. I try to focus on my cup; red wine’s a far cry from margaritas, but it fits the chilly March morning. I imagine myself as a brooding, moody artist, figuring I should have some sort of reason for drinking this early. It doesn’t stick. I’m not the slightest bit depressed. The baby’s napping, Jimmy’s on the radio, and I am decidedly not mopping the kitchen floor. I chain-smoke while I can.

Neighbor-friend steps out to her patio for a smoke and lifts an eyebrow at the open bottle. I grin a goofy half-drunk grin, and invite her over. She laughs. Her youngest is just settled down for his nap and mine is waking up, so we head over there.


The sound of the rain mingles with a not-so-far-off tv and someone else vacuuming, and I am glad to be alive.


It’s hot out. Really hot. It’s late May and I’m in San Antonio for my grandfather’s funeral. The family has been fighting and silently hating each other for years, and things have come to somewhat of a head; but I don’t care. Cousin got up to eulogize and scold the aunts and uncles; but I don’t care. I try to remember my grandfather as he was when I was a kid: friendly, gregarious, ‘strict but fair’; but my mind keeps rewinding to his death image. He was laying in the hospital bed my mom and grandma had brought into make his last months more comfortable, his mouth hanging wide open. He looked so frail and tiny. In life my grandfather was a big man; six feet tall, wide shouldered, dark-haired, imposing as hell.


I watch as the casket is lowered into the ground.

May. 29th, 2008

I am a mess. A complete, from my head-to-my-toes, finances-to-health mess. I always have been, and probably always will be. Maybe some day I will somehow get all my debts cleared up (I gotta be optimistic); but some other form of chaos will undoubtedly take its place. And you know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.
My mind just doesn't work in an organized manner. Don't get me wrong; I try. Oh my god do I try, I try all the time for a new solu- whoops, slipping into song - sorry 'bout that. Where was I? Ah... I have a box for files, that I even put papers in! And once in a blue moon I actually file the papers into the proper folders (OMG - I know).
When I was in middle school we moved around a bunch, and with every fresh start I vowed (literally, I'd swear an oath with my fist raised to sky - I was a tad melodramatic at 12) to keep my TrapperKeeper organized, everything in its place, nothing falling out the sides. I think my record was 8 days.
Back further: When I was 6 or so, I knew a few things with absolute certainty.
1. Children under 7 did not go to Hell (7 being the age of reason and all).
2. Heaven was perfect.
3. Perfection meant cleanliness.
I was also terrified at the idea of dying in my sleep (stems from the prayer "now I lay me down to sleep..." awful thing to make a child repeat before bedtime). I'd wake up, survey my messy room, and take comfort in the knowledge that I must still be alive. Occasionally, however, my mom would tidy up my room while I was asleep. Those were bad mornings.
But I digress.
I hate it when people (well, a person, really) get on my case for being unorganized.



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