I want to say right up front that I'm heartily sorry that I weeded, mulched, and planted last Tuesday. I am no better so went to the chiropractor on my way to work, will again on Wednesday, and probably will on Friday. This sucks big hairy monkey balls.
August 2--Write about a time you were misunderstood--No one understands me here. If I order bread they bring me cheese. If I call a taxi they send a moving van. I understand them perfectly. I can read signs and menus, ride the buses and subway just fine. Shopping goes fine if I smile and point. It's when I try to communicate verbally that problems occur. When the frustration gets too great I write out a list and hand it to the clerk letting them think I can not speak. I can see the pitying "poor thing" in their eyes. I don't mind; I get what I want with minimal hassle.
August 3--Write about a bedroom--Gloria stood in the doorway of the room she called her guest bedroom. There was a bed in there--somewhere. She was sure of it. She had a vague memory of a nicely made up double bed, a nightstand with a cut crystal carafe and glass standing in front of an antique alabaster lamp with a pink silk shade with dangling bead fringe. But those furnishings were only visible in her memory, or maybe even her imagination. What was visible from her place just over the threshold were bags and bags of stuff. The truest definition of stuff too. Bags of paperback novels, boxes of outgrown and out of style clothing mixed with boxes of Christmas ornaments, some nearly one hundred years old, some never out of the box. There were plastic totes and ziptop bags of yarn, thin sock yarn, regular worsted weight for everyday knitting, and yarn so thick she couldn't imagine what she'd make with it. Sorting through all of it would be a huge job, even the thought of it was making her slightly nauseous but it had to be done.
There you have it. Such as it is. I like the world you created, Bob, in your piece about a tool. Nice.
--Barbara
No comments:
Post a Comment