Echoes in a Hollow Space

A guy is sitting on a big hog of a motorcycle parked by the courthouse. A woman stops her car to ask him if he's going to be leaving the parking space.

He starts screaming at the top of his lungs: "You better move it along, lady! You better leave me the *bleep* alone! I'm a black man trapped in a white man's body!"


Wrong on so many levels, dude.

"See, he's saying 'hello,' " says the roommate.
"He is not. He's barking like that little yappy dog next door," says I.
"He's not! Listen. He's saying, 'her-ro.' "
"No, 'hrwow wow!' "

I suppose the wonder is not that the bird speaks plainly, but that he speaks at all.

Which subject line reminds me of the essay of the same name by Loren Eiseley from his book of essays, The Night Country (not to be confused with the novel of the same name by Stewart O'Nan). Highly recommended. Eiseley was a forerunner of scientists doing popular humanist essays, like Stephen Jay Gould. Much of Eiseley's work skirts the edge of poetry, and definitely reads like fiction. Eminently approachable and very human.

[broken picture link]

Writing business of the day:Completed the rewrite of my problematic chapter 17. It wasn't a hardcore rewrite, just the "softcore" ones I do before posting to the workshop. There's still plenty wrong and I'm not sure how I'll fix it, but that's for the rewrites. So I can officially forget about it now until the second draft. Except when it's being reviewed on OWW, that is. :-)

It's funny: I hadn't read this chapter since the end of March and thought it fairly competent. Rereading it I saw for the first time that it incorporated one of my least favorite plot devices since the history of plot devices. I couldn't believe it. Clearly, someone has snuck into my novel again and written bilge while my back was turned. I need to catch that little miscreant! So I cleaned that up some, but I'm still not happy with it.

Ouch of the day: Last night I went to a yoga class for the first time in years. I'm not saying I'm not hurting in places I didn't know I had, but overall I feel really good. I'm going back next week. I haven't been that relaxed in gobs of time and I slept straight through the night for once. That alone was worth the stretchy-stretchy, owie-owie. Besides, when I get aches and pains in conjunction with physical activity, I feel okay about it, like I earned my aches rather than just having them foisted on me.

And here's the funny part: I was absolutely terrified before I got there. Of what? I dunno. Scared they'd laugh at me or beat me with bamboo sticks or throw those star knives at me. Then I reassured myself that it probably wasn't a ninja yoga class and they don't usually beat people up. The thing is, showing up cold to a class is intimidating under the best of circumstances. Because it had been so long since I'd done anything like that and feeling like I was out of shape didn't help. But the teacher was really kind and generous and the minute I walked in and met her, I felt comfortable. I was able to keep up okay, though I had to modify my positions somewhat. But that was okay with the teacher, so it made the whole experience a very good one.

My terror at shaking myself out of my routine told me it was something I had to do or risk becoming calcified. That's always a big danger in life, refusing to ever move out of your comfort zone and turning to living stone. There's a lesson in there about art, too, but I think you can draw your own conclusions.

Vignette of the day: I'm at the car wash Sunday and a woman is complaining loudly to another woman that a cop had just stopped her on the street and implied that she was a hooker. "I guess a woman just can't wear shorts in this town!" she said in outrage.

She was wearing shorts—so short they were practically thongs, so short that both cheeks stuck out the leg holes. Accompanying these shorts, she wore high-heel, see-through slips on, the ultimate in CFM shoes; a skin tight sparkly lycra turquoise spaghetti-strap tank with a push up bra so her cheeks were not the only thing sticking out of her ensemble; her hair was streaked with every shade of blonde known to nature and unnature to go with the dark roots; and she was walking along a stretch of Lincoln Blvd. known to be a habitat for hookers.

Now, a woman has the right to dress anyway she wants and not get hassled for it. And some cops are on power trips. But. One can see how the misunderstanding might have occurred.