tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51279019917242591452024-02-07T09:55:22.044-08:00Crunknuts PublishingRamblings and rumblings of a hungry mind.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-92198232216044099042018-04-18T17:32:00.001-07:002018-04-18T17:32:35.804-07:00Before You GoA question of import before you go<br />
if you do judge yourself up to the task:<br />
are things all right? Sometimes the answer's no.<br />
<br />
There's those that tell me pain can help you grow<br />
but in the moment I dare barely ask<br />
a question of import before you go.<br />
<br />
What reason have you? Surely you must know<br />
my melancholy mood in which I bask.<br />
Are things all right? Sometimes the answer's no.<br />
<br />
You must have muffled it, stowed it below<br />
stairs, in your cellar, hidden in the cask<br />
a question of import before you go.<br />
<br />
Why so afraid? Release truth, let it show<br />
its face and hide no more behind a mask.<br />
Are things all right? Sometimes the answer's no.<br />
<br />
We cannot right some wrongs by willing so<br />
and so reflect, gulped from life's bitter flask,<br />
a question of import before you go:<br />
are things all right? Sometimes the answer's no.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-85874728390947092452018-04-09T16:21:00.001-07:002018-04-09T16:21:41.768-07:00You TooI'm not all men, just this man<br />
standing in front of a woman<br />
asking for a date or a dance<br />
c'mon it's late, gimme a chance.<br />
You can't say no once I turn on my charm<br />
now wait! Don't go - what's the possible harm<br />
in talking? So let's talk. Is it warm<br />
here or is it just me? Hey come to my dorm<br />
ugh, why you gotta be such a<br />
girl, I'm trying my best, much of which<br />
is better than most of the other guys here.<br />
Sure, they may be stronger or look better on the beach but I have something<br />
they'll never have because I'm nice, do you hear me? I do things right -<br />
I treat my woman right - do not walk away<br />
I'M TALKING. So let's talk. Is it hot here today<br />
or is it just you?Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-86965703686555766962017-10-03T20:13:00.000-07:002017-10-03T20:13:09.813-07:00armedI wonder how the moment<br />
what it felt like at the start<br />
as finger to the trigger<br />
he pulled life itself apart.<br />
<br />
I wonder if it thrilled him<br />
(we agree it was a he, right?)<br />
if he shivered at the sight<br />
not from cold but flames within<br />
<br />
or maybe was his heart stilled<br />
mouth a-twist in mixed emotion<br />
holding destruction distillation<br />
forever splitting killers and the killed?<br />
<br />
There was not yet any context, no perceptions to reverse.<br />
No Tarantino movies, Columbines, or Call of Duties.<br />
Just a single man and his gun, only one, the very first<br />
and I wonder if he thought he'd made a gift<br />
or made a curse.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-79830304969696529092017-07-04T21:55:00.000-07:002017-07-04T21:55:13.685-07:00Culture FitWhat's the secret sauce in the family recipe?<br />
I wake up angry like the Hulk but Chinese<br />
These fists are forged from Chan and Lee<br />
kung fu movies I was too young to see<br />
<br />
Time to rise up, can't throw away my shot<br />
America! United! Where I'm white until I'm not<br />
but cut me there's yellow bubbling at the seam<br />
What are we but a generation accused of being coddled?<br />
Part of a minority on which others are modeled?<br />
Don't complain because I'm living the Asian American dream<br />
<br />
This home of the brave, this land of the free<br />
The freedom to hear "go back home!" shouted at me<br />
Erasing the accent helps me pass on the phone<br />
No mystery on my history - I'm a "good one"<br />
followed the rules, came in the front door<br />
no desperate fool washed up on the shores.<br />
So it's cool, I'm cool, we're cool til we're not<br />
The mood is high but no solid offer<br />
I can stand my ground but I can't take my slants off<br />
like you can take your pants off (Rimshot. Laughter.)<br />
<br />
<Exit, pursued by an eagle.>Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-88756106414413795132017-07-04T08:32:00.000-07:002017-07-04T08:32:47.821-07:00All-AmericanSo,<br />
says my dad the way he does.<br />
So,<br />
how do you get to the fair?<br />
"Practice, practice, practice," I joke<br />
like he did, when as a child I asked,<br />
How do you get ahead?<br />
I think you take 680<br />
or 580<br />
or both<br />
to which he responds,<br />
There are too many 80s around here.<br />
<br />
The plan is to have an All-American day<br />
with my alt-American dad<br />
wearing my Captain America hat<br />
him in an old shirt with The Clash<br />
(I'm not sure he's ever heard The Clash)<br />
wearing this season's Immigrant Hipster<br />
hoping we pass for patriotic.<br />
<br />
This is summer - for me, at least.<br />
Fairs and farmyards<br />
piglets and pickles filled with bacon and Nutella<br />
but for my father I wonder<br />
if farmwork reminds him of revolution<br />
of working with his hands<br />
of Work Visas and sponsors<br />
of a family separated by a sea.<br />
<br />
Now here we are, a moment away<br />
from monster truck racing<br />
as the speakers tell us to stand and stay<br />
standing for America and America<br />
and America.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-73476401802839584152017-03-12T22:40:00.000-07:002017-03-12T22:40:41.289-07:00Dear MarkFor here we gather on this solemn day<br />
in dapper shades of black we cloak our tears<br />
'gainst grief or quick relief we ache, we pray<br />
hands off the handlebars as Jesus steers.<br />
In life, you seized the chance to get hands-on<br />
with everything those magic hands could reach<br />
and hands to hearts to steering wheels and gone<br />
beyond the moon with so much more to teach.<br />
What lies out there? Be sure to let us know.<br />
As you were such a single soul who could<br />
construct a line from heaven to below,<br />
your expertise with wires, will, and wood.<br />
Some say you've passed but I think it untrue<br />
for in my childrens' eyes, I'll e'er see you.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-62036745446385640032017-03-09T15:14:00.002-08:002017-03-09T15:14:42.365-08:00Guess WhoIt's just <i>knock-knock</i><br />
a quick two taps then silence.<br />
My feet pause on the landing, count<br />
<i>one, two, three</i><br />
under my breath<br />
my solicitor buffer<br />
before my hand's on the doorknob<br />
and the door is open<br />
and regret floods in.<br />
<br />
<i>It's a delivery</i>, I thought<br />
Amazon Prime<br />
Blue Apron<br />
some problematic company<br />
I mean have you listened to the podcasts<br />
read the exposés<br />
the working conditions<br />
the freezing warehouses<br />
but we still buy<br />
because what else are we going to do<br />
<br />
except it's not a delivery.<br />
No, it's Grief, standing on our porch<br />
cocksure grin<br />
knowing eyes<br />
and he's brought his damn acoustic<br />
brought his friend Tragedy too.<br />
<br />
I invite him in<br />
before I know what I'm doing<br />
(or maybe I know exactly what I'm doing)<br />
because he's so handsome, just so put together<br />
like an American Justin Trudeau.<br />
He gets to work, goes to work<br />
chatting up my girl<br />
while Tragedy offers me a beer<br />
(from where? Did he bring those?)<br />
tells me a story.<br />
<br />
The story is sad and surprising<br />
filled with twists and terror<br />
overflowing with pathos and panic<br />
and I'm nodding nodding<br />
wanting more, more, more.<br />
Behind me, the strings are out<br />
and Grief is singing Wonderwall.<br />
<br />
I want to hate him<br />
for the intrusion<br />
for the stupid song<br />
for his fucking flawless hair<br />
but I can't<br />
his voice is golden<br />
like an American Michael Bublé.<br />
<br />
And before I know it<br />
we're asking if they can stay<br />
share our spinach & mozzarella gnocchi<br />
because our Blue Apron serves four<br />
and what else are we going to do.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-64752608941289637222017-02-15T18:50:00.002-08:002017-02-15T18:50:49.405-08:00MartiansIf we were on Mars<br />
I would take your hand,<br />
layers of space-age polymers in between<br />
so I wouldn't really have your hand in mine<br />
more like just the idea of your hand<br />
because if we actually held hands<br />
we would die.<br />
<br />
We would go to Mars<br />
to make love,<br />
to be the first people<br />
to make love<br />
on Mars.<br />
<br />
Why else? To do science?<br />
No<br />
just do me instead.<br />
Let's do it on Mars<br />
even if we would die.<br />
<br />
We would die together<br />
entwined<br />
two bodies in space<br />
attracted<br />
collapsing<br />
into one.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-67236071883903212582017-02-09T18:56:00.001-08:002017-02-09T18:56:13.658-08:00Little LizzyLook out boys! It's little Lizzy<br />
who thinks her thoughts and speaks them freely<br />
which throws them all into a tizzy,<br />
her manner calm and resolve steely.<br />
"Go back inside and stay silent!"<br />
the boys all shouted, near insisted<br />
their faces strained, voices almost violent.<br />
Nevertheless, she persisted.<br />
<br />
"Perhaps you'd enjoy another major<br />
outside of strict math and science."<br />
Her professor's eyes tried to gauge her<br />
response, which could be seen as defiance.<br />
Lizzy sighed, inwardly knew<br />
it'd all be easier if she desisted,<br />
that they squirmed as her knowledge grew.<br />
Nevertheless, she persisted.<br />
<br />
Now time's have changed (but really, have they?)<br />
and Lizzy's no longer quite so small.<br />
Yet even now when she wants her say<br />
there are those who'd rather put up a wall.<br />
But for today, tomorrow, and forever<br />
against each foe, a Lizzy resisted.<br />
When can she be done? The answer is never.<br />
Nevertheless, she persisted.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-82889277171022977522017-01-28T10:44:00.000-08:002017-01-28T10:45:43.230-08:00LibertyGive me your tired, your poor,<br />
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,<br />
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.<br />
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,<br />
I lift my lamp --<br />
but it cuts off there, the rest illegible<br />
rusted over or scratched away.<br />
It's hard to tell what's natural anymore.<br />
<br />
The plaque feels heavy in my arms<br />
the corners ragged as clearly it belonged<br />
to something bigger than itself once.<br />
Not for a long time since some looter<br />
or criminal or hooligan or Freedom Fighter<br />
popped it off with some makeshift crowbar.<br />
<br />
There are noises - or maybe there aren't -<br />
but enough to stir me to flight.<br />
I squeeze the tablet tight. An edge<br />
cuts into my hand and I fight<br />
the urge to shout or sigh<br />
or lie down and wait.<br />
<br />
Later in the semi-darkness<br />
and half-safety of Home<br />
I stare at the words, try to imagine a world<br />
where they meant what they meant<br />
where humans were free.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-80106146022553856152017-01-20T09:58:00.000-08:002017-01-20T09:58:03.875-08:00January 20, 2017Stop<br />
and try to hear it<br />
on the outskirts<br />
in the crossroads<br />
intersections where we crash and collide<br />
the drip dripping of an American Melt.<br />
<br />
And to be near it<br />
is dangerous sure<br />
watch for the spatters and explosions<br />
from the blood, sweat, and tears<br />
that drip from the patty of pregnant expectation.<br />
<br />
And the way to sear it<br />
properly is to be watchful<br />
and to flip it over and over<br />
and over again, constantly in fact<br />
but in a rush sometimes<br />
the melt just gets pushed down<br />
down until it drips.<br />
<br />
And to be clear, it's<br />
personal/historical/contextual -<br />
the way you like your melt<br />
is not quite how I like mine.<br />
I know it's hard to walk in my shoes,<br />
they don't fit you and they're<br />
made in China.<br />
But sooner or later<br />
getting squeezed<br />
and flattened<br />
to cheers<br />
means you start to believe it<br />
<br />
and to fear it.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-7789650029293249332016-11-27T12:47:00.001-08:002016-11-27T12:47:13.021-08:00Possible Final 4 Words from The Gilmore Girls If It Was a Different Kind of Show Entirely<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL5r26euFMhXmfr8xXxmg6ugd7DHrjjkzBqwJvdrOZ127KkGuhVs6-uI8nQpZW81F1rHR3E4s6d4Bp0iXLPdKAQH9zR3PHPOhnOYXj0q6bF-XOvlq-sJ_UmfcygBTSIJ9M7obFkPnpyj1N/s1600/roryfencing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL5r26euFMhXmfr8xXxmg6ugd7DHrjjkzBqwJvdrOZ127KkGuhVs6-uI8nQpZW81F1rHR3E4s6d4Bp0iXLPdKAQH9zR3PHPOhnOYXj0q6bF-XOvlq-sJ_UmfcygBTSIJ9M7obFkPnpyj1N/s320/roryfencing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
[Rory]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The rest is silence.</div>
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<i>She dies, Paris cradling her head. Paris is in shock and shattered, but holds it together because someone must. The gazebo is scattered with bodies. A car screeches to a halt, doors opening to reveal Chilton headmaster Charleston. He surveys the carnage and shares an anguished look with Paris.</i></div>
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[Morey]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now, do you believe?</div>
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<i>Lorelai looks searchingly at Morey, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on. The world seems to ripple, if only for a moment. Lorelai looks over at Luke's, then back at Morey, but he isn't there anymore. Morey has turned into Kirk. As Lorelai looks around, all of the residents of Stars Hollow are turning into Kirk. All the Kirks begin running at Lorelai, who looks down at the coffee cup she is holding, which explodes into a cloud of unintelligible words (though we potentially see the word "poodles" in the mixture). The camera pulls skyward and we're looking down at Lorelai with all the Kirks about to engulf her. She bends her knees and takes off, flying right past the camera, her trendy parka flapping by and wiping to a blackout.</i><br />
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[Taylor Doose]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
THIS. IS. STARS. HOLLOW!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>His scream echoes across the green expanse of the town square. The warm breath of the Stars Hollow reenactment crew is seen in the chilly dusk, muskets at the ready. The boys are scared. The men are too, but have put on a warrior's face to mask their insecurities. A beat of silence, the calm before the storm. Then, the army of orcs rushes forward and war cries from both sides fill the air. The clash is inevitable and only moments away. Suddenly, a lone man rushes forward to meet them - Luke Danes.</i></div>
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[Dean]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was a pleasure.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>He pulls Rory close and the two stare at each other. They both want to kiss, but can't. This moment is too important. They settle on a deep hug. Rory walks over to the other terminal, key in hand. They both insert their keys, take a deep breath, and share one last smoldering look at each other. Dean nods, almost imperceptibly. The camera zooms out, past the bunker walls, past the facade of the destroyed diner, past the black helicopters circling Stars Hollow and holds as we hear the sound of keys turning and a growing high-pitched noise.</i></div>
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FADE TO WHITE<br />
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[Luke]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There's no more coffee.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Luke's voice trembles ever so slightly, but Lorelai hears it. She looks up from the half-filled cup into Luke's terrified face. Behind her, outside, a car crashes into another immediately causing a giant fireball. Word has gotten out. Everyone knows. Lorelai leaps over the counter, grabs Luke, and the two of them huddle together out of sight. There's the sound of breaking glass, screams, and an unseen body slumps above the two of them. Blood runs down the counter. The two kiss desperately.</i></div>
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[Miss Patty]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They all did it.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>The assembled culprits try to protest, but Patty shushes them. The camera pans and lingers a bit over each member of the gang, as they exchange a glance with Patty. Luke is angry but proud. Lorelai is in shock. Michel is disgusted, but mostly with himself for getting caught. Sookie smiles, trying to make the best of things. Jess laughs and nods, giving credit to Miss Patty where it's due. The back of the police van closes on them and Miss Patty walks to her car. She gets in, starts it, and hits the open road. As she pulls onto the freeway, we see a sign telling us that she's leaving Stars Hollow. She pulls up a secret compartment between the seats in her car and a bag is seen, overflowing with diamonds. Miss Patty laughs to herself.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FADE TO BLACK<br />
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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[Emily]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Time to go back.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>She taps the screen, entering coordinates. A planet flickers up on the screen and though there's less landmass than normal, it is recognizable as Earth. A query blinks on the screen: CONFIRM? Emily looks around at her family. Lorelai rolls her eyes, as if to say, all right already. Rory giddily claps. Richard can't be bothered to look up from his paper. Emily sighs contentedly and hits the large button. We hear the sounds of the FTL engines spinning up. The camera zooms out from the control room, out through the door of Al's Pancake World, into the biodome above Stars Hollow, out into a wide shot of the exploratory fleet, just in time to catch each ship blinking out as its drive activates.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
FADE TO BLACK<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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[Paris]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's always been you.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Rory looks at her, sudden understanding in her eyes. She is flooded with emotion. We see quick flashes of many interactions that Paris and Rory have had over the past decade with this new lens. Paris is standing there, stuck, vulnerable, once again on the verge of being rejected. Rory shifts her feet, unsure, deciding. She looks up. She's decided. She steps forward, embraces Paris, and kisses her deeply. There's the sound of shutters as we see a photos from a photo album: a celebratory wedding, Lorelai and Sookie crying; Rory and Paris looking frazzled near a bassinet; an adorable toddler on Paris's shoulders as Rory jokingly offers the little one a coffee cup.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i></div>
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FADE TO BLACK<br />
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[Kirk]</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was always me.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i>He takes off the robe, the mask, and stands there, unmasked. It's Kirk. Of course it is, it's always been Kirk. His face is twisted in hatred and anger. He advances on the Gilmore girls with his machete, as they back away from him through the hallways of the mansion. Rory stumbles over Emily's body, and Lorelai grabs her, flings her backwards into the corner of the living room. Kirk is upon them, his machete in Lorelai's neck. She gurgles, then falls. A close-up on Rory, cowering in the corner, hands in front of her face. We see Kirk's legs as he steps into the frame, and the machete drops into view, still bloody. A droplet of blood falls onto the pristine white carpet.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
CUT TO BLACK</div>
</div>
Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-8577686627521178552016-11-26T10:53:00.000-08:002016-11-26T10:53:56.820-08:00Assorted Poems from the Past Few Months<b>Fall of a Sparrow</b><br />
<br />
When I did chance to happen on this crew,<br />
a team composed of stars pluck’d from the sky,<br />
within my blood did fiery hope renew<br />
to stake our fortune ere we all must die.<br />
<br />
How noble was our work – how true, how swift!<br />
Our sprints did show our speed from week to week<br />
that all as one our many hands did lift<br />
a motley matching mound to mountain peak.<br />
<br />
But fickle fate did cleft our hearts in twain,<br />
The ending sprawled before us that we see,<br />
and no amount of hearts and hearts in chain<br />
can realign to corp’rate strategy.<br />
<br />
And yet our time, our team, the work begot<br />
cannot be quick erased or soon forgot.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>3 Limericks</b><br />
<br />
We are living in times that seem dire,<br />
like we're stuck in a great dumpster fire.<br />
But when darkness takes hold,<br />
inner light makes us bold.<br />
May we all be Frodo of the Shire.<br />
<br />
There once was a girl they called Ruby<br />
who solved mysteries like that dog Scooby.<br />
The hardest one she had<br />
was the Dane who seemed sad.<br />
She told him the answer was: to be!<br />
<br />
There was once a young boy who did roar<br />
when he was at the grocery store.<br />
The strangers would all stare,<br />
but they were unaware<br />
he's a secret velociraptor.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-75225693142436165142016-09-09T21:46:00.000-07:002016-09-09T21:46:25.520-07:00What I'm Thinking When You're Eating DinnerLeaning forward over the purple plastic plate -<br />
It's like pink! It's close in the rainbow<br />
and you buy it, you own it, you now ask for<br />
sister colors where one can serve<br />
as the other when your brother<br />
demands the pink or moves too quickly<br />
like the prince of cats<br />
snatches, dashes, grins, guilty.<br />
<br />
Leaning forward to scoop with your purple spoon -<br />
It has to match! Of course it does<br />
how can we even think of eating<br />
if the spoon differs in shade<br />
from the plate<br />
what a catastrophe<br />
a disaster, a meltdown<br />
you can't imagine anything worse.<br />
I can, of course, I do, but you<br />
don't have to and if this is it<br />
well, that's cool.<br />
<br />
Leaning forward, the edges of your hair slip past your ears -<br />
Oh no! My hair! And there's ketchup on the ends now<br />
red drops clinging to the edge of you<br />
and you scowl and point and yowl<br />
for a paper towel.<br />
How can we even think of eating<br />
when there's ketchup in your hair<br />
and it's a fair point.<br />
Wiped off, you smile, I smile<br />
you raise your spoon above your head.<br />
<br />
Leaning forward, I stand because I cannot stand -<br />
Avocado! What? I cannot stand how perfect you are,<br />
how I sometimes want to squeeze you Steinbeck-style<br />
a bunny, an innocent, a funny little girl<br />
who calls me out when the hug's too long,<br />
the kiss too strong.<br />
How how how how from such meat<br />
such imperfection such imitation as myself<br />
were you made?<br />
<br />
Leaning back, lips smacking contentment -<br />
I'm full! And maybe you are and maybe you're not<br />
and maybe I am and maybe.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-77906936257621393582016-08-27T01:20:00.001-07:002016-08-27T01:20:22.668-07:00Brothers (Part 1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://67.media.tumblr.com/bb94d5b8aa9083e9ae5f227cf16ce2b1/tumblr_ocak8kTppA1vdtyuto1_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://67.media.tumblr.com/bb94d5b8aa9083e9ae5f227cf16ce2b1/tumblr_ocak8kTppA1vdtyuto1_1280.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Recode Casper’s turbocycle flew down the 660, weaving in and out of the normal mess of hovercabs. His helmet blared an incessant alarm and he could feel the pain in his leg spreading. His brother was dying.<br />
<br />
The cycle hit the maximum safe velocity for the 660 and the automatic speed control kicked in, disabling the accelerator. Recode swore as a jolt of pain shot up his left side, causing him to inadvertently swerve towards the sidewalk. The cycle corrected itself, though not before a mechanical voice admonished him for potentially dangerous driving practices.<br />
<br />
The hospital building rose over the horizon - a towering spiral of calming curves - and Recode guessed that it was still a good 20 minutes away, at least at cruising speed. That would be too long; he could feel it. Cody would be dead by then, if the numbness in his thigh was any indication.<br />
<br />
He could have left earlier, of course. He could have stopped surfing the metastream as soon as he felt that heaviness in his leg. He could have called his parents to see if anything was wrong. He could have hurried to his turbocycle with purpose and haste instead of standing outside his door with his helmet on, tracking his vitals, pausing, waiting. For what? To see if this was another drill, another test?<br />
<br />
The message had flashed across his helmet as he stood next to his cycle, staring at the numbers that told him how alive he was: "HOSPITAL ASAP. -C" It was the kind of message that declared its sincerity with its brevity; this was no drill, and yet Recode found himself glued to the sidewalk outside his apartment. He hadn't gotten onto the road until the first spasms of pain had started to radiate out from his foot.<br />
<br />
"Fine," Recode muttered under his breath. He reached down, pried open a panel on the side of the cycle, and pulled out the network card. He stuck the card into a pocket in his jacket as several warning lights lit up on his dashboard. The cycle was slowing down.<br />
<br />
From another pocket, he retrieved a similar looking card, jammed it into the slot, and replaced the panel cover. He was glad he had kept his unlicensed card from his street racing days. It meant that he could get to the hospital almost twice as fast, though he couldn't count on the collision avoidance system anymore. The system was designed for the government-mandated safe speeds with maybe an extra 10% leeway. Recode hit the accelerator until his speedometer hit the maximum value and then rolled over to simply show all zeroes.<br />
<br />
He arrived at the hospital exhilarated and exhausted. He hadn't been on the roads at those speeds for years - his parents had made him pay for a new cycle when he'd gotten his confiscated after a run-in with the police, and it had literally taken him years to pay it off. During that time, the rest of the family had kept a wary eye on him.<br />
<br />
Recode's left side of his body, however, was by this point almost completely without feeling. He stumbled into the hospital, sometimes dragging his leg behind him and making every effort to stay on his feet.<br />
<br />
He approached the front desk and a sweet looking young man gestured for him to step up to the scanner. Recode placed his forehead on the scanner, which lightly beeped as it registered his presence. There was a quick flash over his eyes. The orderly glanced at his screen.<br />
<br />
"All right. Casper - room 6. Oh, are you the clone?"<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
"What wrong, mom?" His parents were wearing such serious expressions; even Cody was sitting nervously on the couch. Recode's father patted the seat in between him and Cody.<br />
<br />
"Come sit with us, Reco," he said with a voice that began calmly but cracked right at the end of the sentence. Recode found his way over to the couch and planted himself between Cody and his dad.<br />
<br />
His mother continued to stand in front of the three of them, taking small steps this way and that. The two adults began to speak in spurts, each attempting to pick up the conversation when the other dropped it.<br />
<br />
"We know you've started to have health class at school," began his dad.<br />
His mom took a turn. "That you've been learning about-"<br />
"About babies. And men and women and -"<br />
"Sex and pregnancy and how babies grow-"<br />
<br />
Recode felt ill. He glanced over at Cody who had averted his gaze from the rest of the family and decided to focus on a bookcase on the other side of the room. His dad barreled on.<br />
<br />
"But there's something you should know, Reco, about how you grew up-"<br />
"You didn't grow in my belly like most babies. You're different. I mean, sort of-"<br />
"What your mom means is that you and Cody didn't exactly - well, your mom and I didn't-"<br />
"We couldn't have another baby. But the hospital referred us to a nearby lab that said-"<br />
"They said they would take a bit of Cody and give him a brother that was just like him-"<br />
"And we thought, well, of course! That sounds perfect. And you were - you were perfect."<br />
"But that's why you're so connected, why you look so much like each other but Cody's two years older."<br />
"The scientists said you might be able to feel what Cody is feeling, especially when he's hurting, and I think that's why recently you've been asking-"<br />
"Like when he broke his arm doing tricks on his cycle, why you thought you'd hurt your arm, too."<br />
<br />
Recode stared at his family. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of what to say. Cody shook his head. "I'm going to my room," he mumbled, then left.<br />
<br />
"We know it's a lot to take in," his mom said, trying to sound reassuring.<br />
"But we wanted you to know. We still love you. And you're not Cody." His dad paused, considering this statement. "I mean, you have a part of him in you, but that's what brothers are, right?"<br />
<br />
Recode wasn't so sure, but he nodded anyway.<br />
<br />
-<br />
<br />
He was used to it by now, of course. Clones were still fairly rare. Voluntary cloning had only gotten more expensive and the myriad of genetic risks that science had uncovered made Recode's relatively uneventful medical life the exception. Most people were aware that clones were among the general populace, but most had never known one - or at least, the ones they knew had never found cause to reveal the fact.<br />
<br />
So Recode was used to the orderly's eyes growing ever-so-slightly before he professionally assumed as neutral a gaze as possible. He had seen it before, in the woman's face who had helped him fill out his financial aid document, which required the same disclosure that had popped up in his medical info. He had seen it every time he traveled out of the country for work, in the eyebrows of the immigration agent that checked his passport upon return.<br />
<br />
He was used to it by now, but never quite escaped feeling like an animal in a zoo for that brief moment when the other person's eyes filled with surprise and curiosity and - sometimes - suspicion. He wordlessly took the nametag from the orderly, shuffled to room 6, and waited for the tag to beep and the door to open.<br />
<br />
His parents were on him immediately, all hugs and tears. Cody lay on the bed, attached to various medical apparatuses. He smiled weakly at Recode, before a spasm contorted his face - his body - and arched his back for a moment. Recode felt it and pulled away from his parents at the same moment, putting a hand on a nearby wall to steady himself.<br />
<br />
The three of them stepped outside on dad's suggestion, leaving a nurse with Cody.<br />
<br />
"Is he going to be OK?" Recode asked. It was an unnecessary question. He already knew the answer, but felt like it was the best opening salvo in what was sure to be a dismal conversation.<br />
<br />
"No," his dad said - almost shouted. "No," he said once again, more calmly. "Well, maybe. His heart is failing.The doctor's aren't sure why, but they are sure it'll give up some time in the next day or so."<br />
<br />
Recode turned to his mom, who was quietly sobbing. His dad continued, "Thanks for coming."<br />
<br />
"Of course," Recode replied. "We're a family."<br />
<br />
"Yes," his dad said, his eyes widening in much the same way the orderly's had when looking at Recode a few minutes ago. "About that. We'd like you to consider-" His dad trailed off, attempting to push the next few reluctant words out of his mouth.<br />
<br />
Recode's mother completed the thought for him. "Consider giving your brother your heart."Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-42031260713047651332016-07-04T23:41:00.000-07:002016-07-04T23:49:58.089-07:00Nacho RexTwo bites into the first fried nacho ball<br />
<div>
I know this is no mistake. It is a revelation,</div>
<div>
a flavor revolution, a texture portmanteau</div>
<div>
that ends with a cheese plasma core</div>
<div>
the dairy cherry on top of this county fair Benedict.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A bite into the second fried nacho ball</div>
<div>
I consider that I may have bitten off</div>
<div>
more than I can chew, but I can chew</div>
<div>
a lot so I forge onward - ever onward.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The third fried nacho ball sits alone,</div>
<div>
issues its bright orange challenge</div>
<div>
to my face, to my mouth, to my honor.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I accept, of course, because I am</div>
<div>
no coward. No, I am the hero</div>
<div>
devourer of worlds</div>
<div>
King of fried nachos.</div>
Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-18445667825579670752016-05-22T22:17:00.001-07:002016-05-22T22:17:31.006-07:00The Second DateWhen I was eight years old, I caught a leprechaun.<br />
<br />
He was taller than I thought he'd be - almost my height. I remember him looking like a child with a grown-up's face, dressed in loose clothing. He didn't wear green, except for a bright green feather in his cap. He said his name was Ril.<br />
<br />
Catching him was quite the task. I had made an entirely inappropriately sized trap that in hindsight would have only caught a dormouse. I was hiding behind my bed when Ril climbed into my window, and broke the trap with a single step. The pieces ended up slicing through the fabric of his shoe, and when he ventured into my closet to look for a replacement, I vaulted over my bed to slam the closet door and sit against it so the leprechaun couldn't escape.<br />
<br />
He was quite agitated at first, and thrashed around the closet for a clip, knocking down hangers and kicking shoes this way and that. Soon, he calmed down and - as the stories my teacher had read to me that week in class had taught me - offered me three wishes.<br />
<br />
I immediately wished that I didn't have a sister, which didn't make sense, because as I finished the sentence, I realized I didn't have a sister. I had never had one - I was an only child. The voice from the closet assured me that it was done, and that I had two more wishes, but I was furious at myself for having wasted a wish on a sister that had never existed.<br />
<br />
Instead of making another wish, I stood up and opened the door. The light hit the inside of the closet and the leprechaun blinked, looking into my eyes at amazement. In a flash, he was running past me, jumping onto my bed, bouncing higher than I had ever bounced, headed straight for the window.<br />
<br />
I shouted at him, wished that I had never opened that closet door, but he was gone. I ran to the window and looked around, but there was no sign of him. No green footsteps, no trail to follow. I sat down resigned on my bed, and that's when I heard it.<br />
<br />
A rustle from inside my closet. I looked over and noticed that the closet door was closed. And there! Was the handle turning? I slammed back against the door, heard another bump from inside - or perhaps it was my body against the door - and waited.<br />
<br />
After a few minutes, I spoke through the doorway, asking Ril if he was there. There was no response, but I knew he was. I knew that this wish had worked, and that I now had one more.<br />
<br />
So, yes, Ruth, there is a very good reason why that dresser is in front of that door. And, yes, that's why I have full confidence when I say I can literally make any wish of yours come true. So, let's have it. What's your wish?Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-37086292812143407942016-05-01T02:31:00.000-07:002016-05-01T02:31:06.611-07:00Things That I Could Get Away with Saying If I Was a Victorian Gentleman Suitor1.<br />
You have pierced my heart, Miss Sparrow, and I fear that I cannot now - nor may ever be able to - remove you from that most vital organ without doing irreparable damage as a consequence. You are lodged there permanently, and it is my burden to carry you with me for all the remaining days.<br />
<br />
2.<br />
You are blameless, Jane. Does one urge the sun to stop shining because one perspires? Does one command a stream to stop its course so as to retrieve a bauble that floats away? No, and neither should any man need you to acquit your smiles or shield your eyes. The fault, dear Jane, lies in my weakness and not in your strength. You must shine and I must bear it accordingly.<br />
<br />
3.<br />
My fondness for you grows day upon day, and I have more than once put pen to paper in a foolhardy attempt to use the written word as my ally in lovemaking. And yet! The words I write are nonsense, as like a child trying on the suits he finds in his father's bureau when left alone. I feel as if I have climbed the beanstalk and know not how to act. Your opinion dwarfs all other opinions, your grace overshadows all else, and your face instills in me a sense of awe that strikes me dumb. Speak, Diana, and restore my words to me.<br />
<br />
4.<br />
I find it impossible to imagine you as my wife, little Rose, and I find it impossible to imagine you as anything else. I did not come to Rook House looking for romance, and yet romance has found me. You are strange and ineffable and quite insufferable and have bound up my soul inexcusably in my short time here. Had I but heeded my prayers and avoided stopping here, I should have saved both of us a mountain of troubles and also doomed us both to an unhappy life. The truth of it is, Rose, that there is only one fact that we can seem to agree on, and it is that a marriage between us is inevitable, and I have never been one to stand in the way of inevitability.<br />
<br />
5.<br />
I'm not dancing with her. She's a peasant and the color in her cheeks is no maiden's blush but more likely from the heat of a kitchen fire. Good God, man, don't be daft. I'm a Duke.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-81197603482910730212016-04-23T19:51:00.002-07:002021-02-17T16:20:20.461-08:00#Shakespeare400It's Shakespeare's 400th deathday! Here is a small collection of sonnets.<br />
<br />
I wrote the first one today.<br />
The second is from when our cat Daisy died.<br />
The third is one I wrote in college for a poetry class.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Words, Words, Words</b><br />
In days of youth when dreams were fledgling still<br />
and fortune smiled not on my face or hair,<br />
when those that dared to gaze would scowl until<br />
their judgement they pronounced: more plain than fair.<br />
Within that selfsame time when I did doubt<br />
that all my qualities would ever sum<br />
to any meat amount, I learned about<br />
how Shakespeare wrangled language, made it hum<br />
with sparks and passion ere I had not known.<br />
This man was not renowned for strength he showed<br />
or comely brow. No! From his pen had grown<br />
his peers' respect amid the words he sowed.<br />
From his example, I - dear reader - claim:<br />
if one can write, all else is but a game.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>Bicycle Built for Two</b><br />
You were my present back before it all<br />
became about string cheese and potty time,<br />
a furry mewing skittish scuttling ball.<br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">We welcomed you, feline partner in crime.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">And with the passage of the months, the years<br />
steadfast and so aloof you did remain<br />
in that November week when Princess fears<br />
ripped through the house, a cliche brake-less train.<br />
You cared not for human propriety<br />
and chose to poop and pee where you did want,<br />
raising a civil notoriety<br />
each rebel yell a kind of loving taunt.<br />
Each flower in the field can claim the prize,<br />
but other than our Daisy, all are lies.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>When half asleep</b> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When half asleep in sheep pajamas, late<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
at night or just before sunrise, you turn<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and toss my hand from off your breast, create<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
inside my head some inkling of concern.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I begin to ask myself what dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
are cooking in your subconscious stewpot,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my own bubbles over with panicked screams<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of woe, anguish, and others I’ve forgot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then you push your body back against<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mine, like two twins together again at<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
last. From your mouth
a whisper of nonsense<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
about Jell-O kittens and that is that.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize, as I drift off to slumber</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that two and one can be the same number.<o:p></o:p></div>
Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-14215517090691821382016-03-26T20:22:00.000-07:002016-03-26T20:22:00.650-07:00It's Hard to Say No When Jesus Wants to Hang Out"Do not be afraid," Jesus says as he plops himself<br />
down on the couch, an exhausted sigh floating up<br />
toward heaven but catching itself on the stucco ceiling,<br />
"for I bring you multiple bags of Bugles."<br />
He tosses them, one two three four -<br />
probably two bags more than necessary<br />
but who am I to tell Jesus how many<br />
bags of Bugles are too many -<br />
onto the coffee table.<br />
He reaches for the remote, pushes a few buttons<br />
ineffectively, realizes his mistake and picks up<br />
the PS4 controller, muttering his annoyance.<br />
"I'm going to put on an episode of Jessica Jones,<br />
OK?" he asks then starts the episode<br />
without waiting for my response.<br />
It's fine, of course.<br />
<br />
"It's Easter tomorrow," I say<br />
making small talk<br />
making any talk I can<br />
but Jesus just grunts, rolls his eyes<br />
like he's heard it all before.<br />
"I don't believe in you," I say<br />
and I regret it or maybe I don't but it's too late.<br />
I want to leap forward and catch my words but they're gone.<br />
"I don't need you here," I say<br />
"I don't want you here," I say<br />
and things are getting real<br />
because Jesus pauses Jessica Jones<br />
and I shout - when did I start shouting -<br />
"why did you buy so many bags of Bugles?"<br />
<br />
He touches my shoulder and I'm suddenly<br />
aware of how much sadness he contains,<br />
how his ocean so completely engulfs my thimble<br />
and I want to apologize but I can't<br />
because Jesus is talking.<br />
"Sometimes shitty things happen<br />
and the only thing I can do<br />
is show that I know you like Bugles.<br />
You don't need to understand.<br />
You don't want to understand.<br />
That's why I'm here."<br />
<br />
And Jesus is crying now<br />
so ugly and so beautiful<br />
and I kind of want to lick his face<br />
because what do his tears taste like?<br />
But that's creepy, that's super weird<br />
so I smile and nod and unpause Jessica Jones<br />
and open a bag of Bugles.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-20680353458547305882016-03-20T11:22:00.002-07:002016-03-20T11:22:57.191-07:00SoliloquyThe necessary training of our lives comes not from the teachers<div>
of our youth nor the extended speech of our fathers,</div>
<div>
noble in their causes yet ultimately forgotten.</div>
<div>
No! It comes oft too late or too slowly</div>
<div>
from the simple passage of time, that fickle friend.</div>
<div>
And so I find myself these few days as a man torn</div>
<div>
between heaven and hell, limbs attached to a collection</div>
<div>
of carriages, growing unintentionally taller each hour.</div>
<div>
I cannot deny that I am filled with a great melancholy</div>
<div>
that finds root in the inevitable losses humans bear,</div>
<div>
but never comprehend 'til faced with a mirror'd countenance</div>
<div>
so unlike our own that sadness's nature is revealed.</div>
<div>
And yet, am I not blessed with the love of angels</div>
<div>
in form not unlike my own?</div>
<div>
Do I not yet have my own health and fortune</div>
<div>
and the promise of the sun yet returning?</div>
<div>
For a man may wish his time astride this earth be easy,</div>
<div>
banishing every frowning rain cloud that dares appear.</div>
<div>
Is not such a life fraught with the peril of the first snowfall?</div>
<div>
Would not one stray flake undo such a man?</div>
<div>
'Tis better then to face our troubles and answer</div>
<div>
blow for blow when the winds of strife do come our way.</div>
Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-54858268694362735382011-03-07T09:14:00.000-08:002011-03-07T09:14:42.953-08:00Undone (Part 3)The squad car pulled into the station and the pair walked into the station. It had been a little over a month since Sebastian had been at the station, although life had continued there - as it had everywhere else - seemingly oblivious to his absence.<br />
<br />
As Sebastian headed toward the front doors of the station, his babysitter quickly corrected him. "Incorrect building, Detective Ford. We'll be meeting in the auxiliary office building." He directed Sebastian to the smaller structure with a quick point.<br />
<br />
Sebastian turned to head toward the auxiliary offices and wondered who he was meeting with. He had originally thought he'd be talking to the Captain, but Slater's offices were in the main building and there was little reason for him to ever leave it. The auxiliary offices were used for R&D, bureaucratic overflow, and...interrogations.<br />
<br />
"Wait," interjected Sebastian as he grabbed his companion's arm. "What kind of meeting is this, exactly?"<br />
<br />
"I'm uncertain what you mean, sir. It is a meeting in that you will be sitting down with a active member of the force and talking about the new assignment you've been given. It is the very definition of a meeting, but I cannot give you further details on the content of your assignment, if that is what you are looking to obtain."<br />
<br />
"No, of course not," responded Sebastian. "Let's just go in and find out what this is all about."<br />
<br />
The auxiliary offices were used for auxiliary purposes for a reason. As they stepped into the conference room of the building, Sebastian was reminded of how roomy and brightly lit the rooms in the other building were. No wonder they conducted interrogations here. One could get depressed being left alone in this room for too long, let alone working here day after day.<br />
<br />
A few minutes passed and Sebastian noticed that the messenger was still sitting beside him with a blank expression. Sebastian turned to him with a friendly smile. "You don't have to keep me company, you know. I'm sure you have other business you need to get to. I'm not going to run away."<br />
<br />
"No, there is no reason for you to run, Detective Ford. But my instructions were to be present at the meeting with you should you choose to accept the assignment." The man returned Sebastian's smile, ever so briefly. "For the time being, it appears, " he continued, "you are my business."<br />
<br />
Sebastian's brow crinkled. He was about to figure out exactly what that might mean when a thin pale man walked into the room.<br />
<br />
"Ah! Detective Ford! So glad to see you." The man took his place across the table, extending his hand. Sebastian shook it slowly, attempting to find that place in his brain where he had stored this man's identity. His face looked familiar and Sebastian was certain he had seen him around the station before.<br />
<br />
"I'm Andrew Sullivan, the chief scientific officer here. I'm sure we've seen each other around the station before but I didn't really know your name either before the suspension. No offense." Sullivan blurted out the last sentence as he realized how callous he had sounded.<br />
<br />
Sebastion shook his head dismissively. He was sure everyone at the station knew about his outburst and suspension. It was hardly news that it had even reached the ears of the lab geeks.<br />
<br />
Sullivan continued. "I'm glad you decided to come in. We have an exciting assignment for both you and our Messenger Unit here."<br />
<br />
Sebastian held up his hand. "Wait...Messenger Unit?"<br />
<br />
Sullivan gestured toward the man sitting beside Sebastian. "The man we sent to pick you up. He's a robot - one of the newest prototypes based on human appearance, behavior, and social patterns." The scientist smiled broadly. "Didn't you notice?"Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-78876369460787334212011-02-14T09:19:00.000-08:002011-02-14T09:19:18.197-08:00Sonnet for SimonWith Cheerios stuffed in your tiny mouth<br />
and shrieks that call your pterodactyl friends,<br />
your manner would on grown-ups be uncouth<br />
but that your face and smile make all amends.<br />
<br />
Can I believe that from my form came thee?<br />
A babe who knows nothing but smiles and screams<br />
now sits upon his throne and looks at me<br />
for all his needs, his hopes, his wildest dreams.<br />
<br />
Now when I hold you up, I hold myself<br />
in smaller size and younger look, it's true,<br />
yet somewhere deep we share that sense of self<br />
that bonds such that no power can undo.<br />
<br />
In time your perfection may fade a tad<br />
but 'til that time - and long beyond - love, dad.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-7183392334714451102011-02-11T08:22:00.000-08:002011-02-11T08:23:03.137-08:00Undone (Part 2)As the car pulled onto I-208, Sebastian sighed. The traffic was immense, as it was nearing the afternoon rush hour and everyone seemed to have decided to leave work a bit early today. The car crawled along the rightmost lane in silence.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Sebastian didn't feel like engaging in a conversation and the messenger simply sat there, watching the road. After what had been nearly a half hour, Sebastian swung the wheel of the car sharply to the right and roared it onto the shoulder. He hit the siren, floated past a few dozen cars, and took the next exit.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Suddenly, his passenger spoke up. "Sir, this isn't the exit for the main office."</div><div><a name='more'></a><br />
</div><div>"I know," growled Sebastian, "but the traffic on the highway is ridiculous and this'll get us there faster."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Technically," the messenger replied, "this route will almost certainly be a longer distance and take on average five minutes more." He paused, as if he sensed that what he said next might be a mistake.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Sebastian heard the pause, heard how it sounded as if he hadn't fully completed his thought, and egged him on. "And...? What else were you going to say? Spit it out."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"And your use of the siren to avoid traffic is strictly frowned upon by protocol. Sirens are to be used in cases -"</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Aw, come on. You do understand traffic, don't you? They haven't left that out of your education? Or do you always arrive late?"</div><div><br />
</div><div>Sebastian waited for a response, then stole a look over as the car squeezed through smaller side roads in residential neighborhoods. His passenger was thinking, probably trying to form a response that fell within his guidelines of how to deal with bringing Sebastian into the station.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Yes," he began. "I understand your decision to leave the highway, based on your possible frustration level with the traffic and the psychological effect it may have had your conception of how prompt we would be. The siren, though technically not allowed in that situation, did not harm anyone. Your behavior, though it shows signs of recklessness, does not warrant a citation or report."</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Well, hallelujah!" Sebastian threw his hands into the air in celebration. This, he thought cynically, was certainly the high point of his career.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Sir - the wheel." His passenger said it with only the smallest hint of alarm, as he stared at Sebastian's hands and then down at the untouched wheel.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it." Sebastian returned his hands to the wheel as they drove the rest of the way to headquarters without incident or speech.</div>Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5127901991724259145.post-17557917837522507082011-02-01T09:45:00.000-08:002011-02-01T09:45:25.853-08:00RoarI didn't grow up with a true tiger mother. I was allowed to visit friend's houses and participate in theatre. I was allowed to choose which instrument to play and how much I wanted to practice. If you follow the news, or listen to NPR, or even read Entertainment Weekly, you've heard of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by now. Perhaps you've even read the Wall Street Journal excerpt that got such a polarizing response. To recap: it's a memoir about being a parent and about driving your kids to perfection through strict control and demanding routine.<br />
<br />
Reading the excerpt made me think about my childhood and about my role as a father to Simon. Like I said, I wasn't a child of super-strict parenting, though I believe that my parents, having had a Chinese upbringing themselves, were stricter than those of most of my schoolmates and friends.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
To be honest, I don't remember much of my childhood. I'm not sure if this is unique to my experiences, but a lot of my elementary and middle school years are a bit of a blur. While I remember certain teachers or moments in and out of school with my friends or particular vacations with my parents, I don't actually have a great grasp of what my life was like day-to-day during that time. I don't remember my parents being like dictators, but I also don't remember doing much outside of what they suggested either. Was I an unimaginative child with no aspirations beyond learning math? Were my parents good at silently guiding my expectations and desires of what a child should want to do with his free time?<br />
<br />
As I've grown, my relationship with my parents has always felt a bit strained. At the heart of it, for me, is the fact that I have felt that the independence I need to feel as my own person has always been too much for them to handle. There's a sentiment I get when talking to them that I'm still a child and need their rules and guidance - or who knows where I may end up.<br />
<br />
I don't think it was always this way. I know that my parents love me and respect me, and that has become only more certain as I've aged and matured. But certainly, when I was younger, before high school, I think that I was a more obedient child. Growing up in a household with a father-knows-best mentality means that you believe it from a young age. And that's not a bad thing. After all, if we let Simon do everything he wanted, he'd stick his fingers in electrical sockets and his entire diet would consist of strawberry puffs.<br />
<br />
The real trick is that hazy line when a child begins to turn into an adult; at some point, that person that you've had to care for his entire life and who has always looked to you as the voice of wisdom and reason will have to begin making his own decisions.<br />
<br />
In some ways, I wish my transition had gone more smoothly. I wish I could have expressed my need for independence without being as caustic, but hey - I was a teenager. And I wish my parents could have expressed their need to be a part of my life as mentors and guides without being as condescending, but hey - they're parents.<br />
<br />
Life for me, academically, has always been rather easy. And while I'd like to attribute part of that to my innate intelligence, I would be lying if I said that my parents had nothing to do with it as well. I heartily believe that my early years, when the value of hard work and practice and putting off "fun" activities was driven into me, helped me breeze through high school and college with stellar grades. Even now, as I write "stellar," I hesitated for a moment to consider the Bs that I received. I consider them missteps and that in itself should tell you enough.<br />
<br />
There is one line from the excerpt that sticks with me: "What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you're good at it." I really do agree with this and while I could never see myself calling Simon "garbage" or refusing him the right to be in a school play (things my parents never did as well), I do consider how to best get him to practice and stick with things he may not like yet, just because he isn't as good as he could be.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's not possible to do while still fostering a relationship that doesn't have underlying strains of resentment or a feeling of constantly disappointing your parents. Then again, maybe it is.Scott Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09172957514066363801noreply@blogger.com0