Today’s Word: Flout
1. The commonality of their professions connected them, both physically and mentally.
2. She spoke of the wood, of its steamy solitude, and he shaped it, carving out the world hidden.
3. In her journal she wrote, "Today I met a beautiful man; strong of limb, heart, and chin."
4. Their association waxed strong; one finding the other at the oddest times, in the strangest places.
5. His models of nature formed on wood rose and swelled, taking on the shapes of prey birds and frothing stallions.
6. Her words rounded and flowed, bending proud prose to the soft susurration of ocean tides, flouting the restrictions of contemporary themes.
7. Art made them strong.
8. Love made them complete.
*NOTE: Whew, I'm done with my 4 weeks of language class and am back on the blog, I mean job.
Sunday, August 31, 2003
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Saturday, August 09, 2003
Today’s Word: Eschew
Marty was never one to eschew the more dishonest means of earning a living -- it was a choice expected in the lower burrows of Geo Tokyo -- but the day he decided to pick the pocket of a quiet, square-shouldered man passing through one of the eastern slums was the first time Marty had had any contact with the new sect of Zen Taoist Samurai Elitists now building a temple in the Matyoshi district.
The Samurai, after breaking Marty’s left arm (fingers still reaching into a coat pocket), dropped him on the ground and systematically broke his collar bone, three ribs, and four of Marty’s tea-stained teeth. When he was done, the Samurai turned quietly on his heels, and walked slowly away as if he’d had nothing to do with the disturbance. For his part, Marty slipped off into a pain-induced coma, only to awaken sixteen hours later to a new life of studying to become a Zen Taoist Samurai Elitist.
Marty was never one to eschew the more dishonest means of earning a living -- it was a choice expected in the lower burrows of Geo Tokyo -- but the day he decided to pick the pocket of a quiet, square-shouldered man passing through one of the eastern slums was the first time Marty had had any contact with the new sect of Zen Taoist Samurai Elitists now building a temple in the Matyoshi district.
The Samurai, after breaking Marty’s left arm (fingers still reaching into a coat pocket), dropped him on the ground and systematically broke his collar bone, three ribs, and four of Marty’s tea-stained teeth. When he was done, the Samurai turned quietly on his heels, and walked slowly away as if he’d had nothing to do with the disturbance. For his part, Marty slipped off into a pain-induced coma, only to awaken sixteen hours later to a new life of studying to become a Zen Taoist Samurai Elitist.
Friday, August 08, 2003
Today’s Word: Insipid
Kelly paced the highly polished floors, affecting the smug assurance of a true artist. Not one of the canvases he passed rose above the work of a high school senior, perhaps even freshmen. They were insipid scenes of dispassionate fruit, dimensionless blue skies, and absurd geometric patterns better suited to a child’s playroom than a house of art. Most of the unframed works he merely ignored, but several warranted a soft chuckle, some even an outright guffaw.
And then came the maiden.
It was a large canvas, three times that of any other in the exhibit. The plane of tight-woven fabric, large as it was, could but only contain the riot of color and beauty oiled upon its surface.
The maiden stood before Kelly, nude and shamed and resolute. Her eyes held the depth of knowledge, her breasts the breath of life. In one slender hand she clasped a yellow rose, wilting yet vital still, soft and undeniably fragrant. The maiden’s slightly turned heel denoted a gift for dance, and the curve of her full lips spoke of mirth. She was life. She was art. She was real.
Kelly turned about, searching the crowd that even now was gathering at the maiden’s feet until at last he found her; a twin to the canvas, standing apart from the rest, the same sweet smile tugging her soft lips upward.
She was beauty. She was love. She was ruin.
Kelly paced the highly polished floors, affecting the smug assurance of a true artist. Not one of the canvases he passed rose above the work of a high school senior, perhaps even freshmen. They were insipid scenes of dispassionate fruit, dimensionless blue skies, and absurd geometric patterns better suited to a child’s playroom than a house of art. Most of the unframed works he merely ignored, but several warranted a soft chuckle, some even an outright guffaw.
And then came the maiden.
It was a large canvas, three times that of any other in the exhibit. The plane of tight-woven fabric, large as it was, could but only contain the riot of color and beauty oiled upon its surface.
The maiden stood before Kelly, nude and shamed and resolute. Her eyes held the depth of knowledge, her breasts the breath of life. In one slender hand she clasped a yellow rose, wilting yet vital still, soft and undeniably fragrant. The maiden’s slightly turned heel denoted a gift for dance, and the curve of her full lips spoke of mirth. She was life. She was art. She was real.
Kelly turned about, searching the crowd that even now was gathering at the maiden’s feet until at last he found her; a twin to the canvas, standing apart from the rest, the same sweet smile tugging her soft lips upward.
She was beauty. She was love. She was ruin.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Today’s Word: Soporific
The number of kilometers between Mandy and the singularity were enough to swallow several solar systems. And yet that small hole in reality shone forth, limned in the curving photons of starlight flattening as they neared the end of the rainbow.
At seven years of age, quantum theory had been soporific -- a snooze-arama -- but now Mandy found it dominating her life, bending her waking thoughts like light through a prism.
“Pretty, in a galaxy-gorging sort of way, isn’t it?” said Michael, as he moved to join Mandy by the observation windows.
“It will be my proof,” said Mandy, still gazing at her black hole.
“Will you finally tell me what you plan to prove? I’ve come all this way, don’t I deserve to know if no one else?”
She smiled, and looked him in the eyes.
“Our universe is small. Smaller than the next closest one at least. Matter is moving from our little universe into that larger one, the way air passes out of a balloon; it seeks the widest possible area to fill.”
Mike was quiet for a moment, then said, “So you’re saying our universe is like a balloon that’s raspberrying all its matter into the next, flitting around like a crazed bird?”
“Exactly. Our universe is inside the next, dumping everything. And yes, probably flitting round like a rubber ball in zero g.”
“Creepy.”
“Yeah.”
The number of kilometers between Mandy and the singularity were enough to swallow several solar systems. And yet that small hole in reality shone forth, limned in the curving photons of starlight flattening as they neared the end of the rainbow.
At seven years of age, quantum theory had been soporific -- a snooze-arama -- but now Mandy found it dominating her life, bending her waking thoughts like light through a prism.
“Pretty, in a galaxy-gorging sort of way, isn’t it?” said Michael, as he moved to join Mandy by the observation windows.
“It will be my proof,” said Mandy, still gazing at her black hole.
“Will you finally tell me what you plan to prove? I’ve come all this way, don’t I deserve to know if no one else?”
She smiled, and looked him in the eyes.
“Our universe is small. Smaller than the next closest one at least. Matter is moving from our little universe into that larger one, the way air passes out of a balloon; it seeks the widest possible area to fill.”
Mike was quiet for a moment, then said, “So you’re saying our universe is like a balloon that’s raspberrying all its matter into the next, flitting around like a crazed bird?”
“Exactly. Our universe is inside the next, dumping everything. And yes, probably flitting round like a rubber ball in zero g.”
“Creepy.”
“Yeah.”
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
** Two stories (this seems more a poem to me) today, since I was forced to skip a day**
Today’s Word: Morganatic
He married her for her dance.
She had come to him in her seventeenth year, dressed in amorphous silks that shifted in undulating patterns -- red, green, and white -- flowing over her lithe body like quicksilver. In her bare feet she came, her Moorish eyes dark and darting above her scarf. When she moved the court moved with her, swaying with the rhythm of her hips, circling with her spine, swimming with her slim arms. She was allure, indulgence, and innocence wrapped in Baghdadi silk.
Years came and went as they do, so seldom crashing, yet moving with the steady pulse of the stars, sure of a race they shall win. The harem grew and then divided and grew again. Only the First had claim to his stores -- his sons. But the years came and gifted the First with white hairs and wrinkles, and he wanted her no more. And the day came that his silken one danced again, for joy of a union no longer morganatic.
Today’s Word: Morganatic
He married her for her dance.
She had come to him in her seventeenth year, dressed in amorphous silks that shifted in undulating patterns -- red, green, and white -- flowing over her lithe body like quicksilver. In her bare feet she came, her Moorish eyes dark and darting above her scarf. When she moved the court moved with her, swaying with the rhythm of her hips, circling with her spine, swimming with her slim arms. She was allure, indulgence, and innocence wrapped in Baghdadi silk.
Years came and went as they do, so seldom crashing, yet moving with the steady pulse of the stars, sure of a race they shall win. The harem grew and then divided and grew again. Only the First had claim to his stores -- his sons. But the years came and gifted the First with white hairs and wrinkles, and he wanted her no more. And the day came that his silken one danced again, for joy of a union no longer morganatic.
Today’s Word: Mordant
Chelsea wrote a story about cats -- upright walking, grandiose dressing, fluent English speaking cats. In Chelsea’s world, cats went on parade. They carried lace fringed umbrellas and wore gold monocles. They spoke with slightly British accents while smoking slim cigarettes and drinking sherry. They discussed politics, especially the goings-on with the Rat War and the Dog Skirmish. Cats ruled the world. Chelsea’s world.
Chelsea, cat lover extraordinaire, garnered her first letter from an editor with her cat story -- the first letter she had received that wasn’t mass produced, but written in long hand on a small sheet of paper. At first she was quite happy, at least until she read the words. For this was the most mordant, most acerbic three lines Chelsea had ever seen inked on a page.
Cats, it seemed, didn’t rule the world after all.
Chelsea wrote a story about cats -- upright walking, grandiose dressing, fluent English speaking cats. In Chelsea’s world, cats went on parade. They carried lace fringed umbrellas and wore gold monocles. They spoke with slightly British accents while smoking slim cigarettes and drinking sherry. They discussed politics, especially the goings-on with the Rat War and the Dog Skirmish. Cats ruled the world. Chelsea’s world.
Chelsea, cat lover extraordinaire, garnered her first letter from an editor with her cat story -- the first letter she had received that wasn’t mass produced, but written in long hand on a small sheet of paper. At first she was quite happy, at least until she read the words. For this was the most mordant, most acerbic three lines Chelsea had ever seen inked on a page.
Cats, it seemed, didn’t rule the world after all.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
Today’s Word: Loquat
The smell of loquat blooms filled the room, but could not cover the stench of sickness and sloth.
The door swung open and in walked Eloise Demmorskel.
“Betty, I know you’re ill darling, but I’m afraid I have news and it can’t wait.”
What news of the world mattered? The world was a bustling, pulsating thing; something outside these four quiet walls, something separate, something imagined. Betty turned onto her side.
“Tell the maid, I’ll ask her when I’m feeling better.”
“Betty, honey, Randolph, your Randolph, is dead.”
Betty rolled back to face Eloise.
“How?”
“Plane crash. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, the poor dear.”
A pleasant sigh of fragrance seemed to burst into the room’s still air, permeating the bed, the dresser, the window.
Betty rose and donned her bathrobe, cinching it tight about her middle.
“No need to get out of bed, hon. There’s nothing you can do. You should take your rest.”
“I’ve rested enough,” said Betty. “Now it’s time to live.”
END
The smell of loquat blooms filled the room, but could not cover the stench of sickness and sloth.
The door swung open and in walked Eloise Demmorskel.
“Betty, I know you’re ill darling, but I’m afraid I have news and it can’t wait.”
What news of the world mattered? The world was a bustling, pulsating thing; something outside these four quiet walls, something separate, something imagined. Betty turned onto her side.
“Tell the maid, I’ll ask her when I’m feeling better.”
“Betty, honey, Randolph, your Randolph, is dead.”
Betty rolled back to face Eloise.
“How?”
“Plane crash. I’m sure he didn’t suffer, the poor dear.”
A pleasant sigh of fragrance seemed to burst into the room’s still air, permeating the bed, the dresser, the window.
Betty rose and donned her bathrobe, cinching it tight about her middle.
“No need to get out of bed, hon. There’s nothing you can do. You should take your rest.”
“I’ve rested enough,” said Betty. “Now it’s time to live.”
END
Friday, August 01, 2003
Today's Word: Loathing
She closed her eyes and inclined her head, expecting his kiss, but he hugged her instead.
"Why can't you, Ray?"
"The war may take me."
"All the more reason -- don't deny what we both feel."
"I don't want our passion to be your last memory of me."
She couldn't understand. Wouldn't.
"Ray Jon," said Maddy, "if you walk out of here like this I'll curse your name everyday till I die."
He took her hands and gave them a squeeze, then turned and walked away.
She stared after him, loathing him -- loving him.
She closed her eyes and inclined her head, expecting his kiss, but he hugged her instead.
"Why can't you, Ray?"
"The war may take me."
"All the more reason -- don't deny what we both feel."
"I don't want our passion to be your last memory of me."
She couldn't understand. Wouldn't.
"Ray Jon," said Maddy, "if you walk out of here like this I'll curse your name everyday till I die."
He took her hands and gave them a squeeze, then turned and walked away.
She stared after him, loathing him -- loving him.
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