Wit Fit Prompt - 10/2/14

Wit Fit Writer's Prompt for October 2nd, 2014.

Word Prompt: Scourge
Scenario: Relive the past or see into the future?

The rolling "r" sound always tripped her up. It had for as long as she could remember. Her tongue couldn't say it right, and she didn't feel like it was her tongue's fault. Her brain thought it was made one way, but when it came out she knew it wasn't right. It wasn't just the "r", really. It had to have a shrill sound right before it, or a grunting guttural vowel, for her mouth to really make mush of it.

Girl became "gourrel".

Squirrel became "skorwel".

Scourge became "skerage".

And each time her tongue tried to form the word she would blush pink, reliving the embarrassment of elementary school years that came with a brain that was able to handle the six syllable words and a tongue that couldn't even pronounce "word" without making it sound too long and soft.

Years later, teaching college level courses and presenting nerdy academic papers, she would find herself avoiding simple words. Her fear that her mouth would fail her and make a fool of her in front of a class of fifty was intense, given her confidence with the concepts and material that were the real trick of each talk.

Each mispronounced word bringing her back to pigtails and people so confused about why she was speaking of sea gulls, when all she wanted to say was "girl".

Wit Fit Prompt - 10/1/14

Wit Fit Writer's Prompt for October 1st, 2014.

Words: Porter, portray, portico.

She didn't always use her world to the best of her ability. It was a flaw she could feel, this inability to functionally organize all of the energy and passion and strength she always had rattling in her skull. She felt like a bull in a china shop, but instead of shards of china she left the overwhelming unimportant chunks of her chaotic life in her wake. Too many pairs of shoes for the back of a car to reasonably hold. Cereal bowls with remnants of oatmeal sitting for days while her brain pursued more exciting bits of the universe.

Her front porch was proof of this. Plants, and two metal sitting chairs from the fifties, sat on the covered space. The portico was screened to keep the insects out. It should have been warm and inviting, but instead it always seemed to be her home's first line of defense against her. The shoes that made it in from her trunk but failed to make it all the way to the rack. The jacket then wet and now dry. Still sitting from an unexpected downpour. A stack of recycling that had not made it all the way out to the curb. Gardening tools that still lived where they had been set after a sweaty afternoon weeks before, crusty muddy gloves still keeping them company.

A shame, she thought. Each time she pulled up to the house. A shame. Such a charming space, her side street protecting it from the chaos of the world, perfect for sitting and drinking a cold porter beer or iced coffee. Maybe cider, to match the cooling nights and warming fall colors. But instead it only worked to portray her personal chaos to the world. To show them the nastiest shreds of her daily failures. It reminded her of walking past the neighbors trash when that mean old gray tomcat had gotten into it. Their shameful sugary treat wrappers, too many beer cans, their bathroom trash, all over the sidewalk for the whole world to see.

She wished she could leave an annotated note on the space. "Please Pardon, my excited brain has too many other things to consider..." But even to herself the explanations rang with the tense high pitch of an excuse. So instead she just walked inside quickly, keeping her eyes down like a small guilty child. Avoiding eye contact with the clutter that spoke to her clumsy bull nature.

The Riot Grrrl Collection: Edited by Lisa Darms

Angry pissed off Riot Grrrl punk was the anthem of a particularly mundane “color in the lines” period of my life. When I was in grad school I would sit alone in a little lab room, entering data or running stats, and Bikini Kill and Calamity Jane would blast through the shitty speakers. One wall of the room was bright orange, for some unknown reason, and I managed to write thousands of words in APA style while Riot Grrrl angst bounced around the bright tiny room. 

Now, years later, my mind is building creativity. I have abandoned that world of data entry for one of nerdy writing and slam poetry and mail art. Yet the universe keeps building infinity loops. Round and round. And so, the Riot Grrl movement has come back again. This time, in the form of The Riot Grrrl Collection, an archival collection of zines and writings and goodies edited by Lisa Darms. I noticed this collection on the ever exciting new materials shelf at my local library and had to take a look. 

The book is a carefully curated collection of zines, pamplets, letters, and lyrics from the Riot Grrl movement. It comes from the personal papers of women like Kathleen Hanna and Johanna Fateman and is an excellent example of the archivists value at documenting the less tangible moments of a historical movement, in the thick. 

This collection speaks to the feminist movement, and the creation of a space where women feel safe. It is easy to look at the times around us and label our times as progressive. The Riot Grrrl movement shows that the current progress is built on the marginalized foundation of the women who came before. 

Awareness of street harassment through websites like ihollaback.org has been growing, but lyric drafts from The Riot Grrl Collection show that punk rock icons like Kathleen Hanna were ruminating on street harassment twenty-five years ago. 

hair on your face and glasses that hid your eyes 

you slow down at the stop light 

you start to stare at me 

and this happens, a thousand times 

and this happens, a thousand times 

why is your favorite pasttime 

making me feel like i’m pinned to wax 

why is your favorite hobby 

reminding me that i’m being watched 

your eyes  

and your half smile 

look like 

they will eat me 

your eyes 

and your half smile  

look like 

they will eat me

- Draft Lyrics, [Hair on your face and glasses that hid your eyes}, Kathleen Hanna, circa 1989. The Kathleen Hanna Papers 

I would like to believe that we have made progress when it comes to domestic and relationship violence, yet reading the accounts in the Riot Grrrl Collection, I feel like they could be written by my friends today. Relationships often find themselves built on a skeleton of power structure and violence. On page 55/56 there is a story titled “The Tribulation” about a woman’s struggle with a boyfriend beating and forcing her to participate in sexual acts with one of her friends. Similarly, a story on page 89 documents a woman’s slow infatuation on her waitress and the eventual witnessing of a man acting abusive towards her crush. 

The discussion of the sexualized nature of power struggles comes up again and again. Sometimes it speaks to the larger conversation, outside of the confines of our individual relationships. 

Do I shut my own mouth, or is there a cock down my throat? And do i simultaneously have my cock down someone else’s throat? Do i? Do you?

-Zine, Girl Germs no. 3, Molly Neuman and Allison Wolfe, circa 1992. The Molly Neuman Riot Grrrl Collection.  

In BIKINIKILL #2 a clip discusses revolution. 

A belief in instant revolution is just what THE POWERS THT BE want. That way we won’t realize that WE ARE THE REVOLUTION. It’ll look so hard and instant and far off, someday, someday, that we won’t even try to enact it right now.  

-Zine, excerpt, Thorne no. 2, Kelly Marie Martin, 1992. The Kelly Marie Martin Riot Grrrl Collection. 

The Riot Grrrl Collection reminds me that the revolution is gradual. That it is building. That change is building and that what is now mainstream (catcalling = street harassment, domestic violence as a topic of conversation) was mainly the fodder for the absurd angry feminist zines twenty-five years ago. Reading through the zines and pamplets and letters of this movement allowed me to better understand the gradual errosion path that progress takes. It is not instantaneous, one song or one poem or one zine will NOT change the world. But it is setting the foundation for the next generation of thinkers and doers. It is the drop that someday will become the roaring river. 

It also influenced my perception of zine creation and compilation. Lisa Darms did a beautiful job editing the collection. It is inspiring. 

Overall, I encourage any angry feminist, be you young and spiteful or old and saggy, to read through this collection. 

Skull Mail Art

I am...

I am this.

I am a shirtless paperback,
thumb thickness of well thumbed pages,
no title, no smiling author.
Just smoked stained shimmers,
and slivers,
of stranger's lives.
I am the glued binding showing it's teeth,
capitalistic illegitimacy,
whose words read the same.

I am a 200 calorie cliff bar,
snagged at 12:47 pm,
swallowed quickly,
not quite a meal,
but enough to settle stomach lining shudders.
I am never enough to sit satiated,
Harlequinn happy tryptophan.
But enough to tide a hungry man over.

I am the four shots in my five chamber 38 special.
Steady swagger chin up,
unsure enough in this concrete maze,
to leave trigger tug,
of noncommittal shrug.
I am bullets in the gun,
but gun tucked out of sight.
Smiling politely,
shoulders back,
while hands shake in hoodie pockets.

I am this.
Inverse educated idiot.
Knowledge without a publishers mark.
A feast without five stars.
Four fifths committed to tomorrow.
I am never all in, but always in.
Naked fractured commitment.
I am this.

Today

Today has been a day of:

soaking up hot showers, my bones are still not use to this cold.

frying up bacon with brussel sprouts. Dash of minced garlic, and I am in heaven.

fixing couscous. Specifically whole wheat couscous with pomegranate and shrimp. My supper tonight, both our lunches tomorrow. (His with pretzels on the side, mine with more brussel sprouts, because bacon is delicious.)

drinking a jelly jar of white zin. Again, my bones are still not use to this cold.

anticipating a mailbox full of goodness. 

contemplating good things to come. I am just around the bend from great big changes. The sort of changes that require lots of before and after pictures, and lots of hours of peeling and painting and scrubbing.

I hope all your worlds are as gloriously delicious as mine, but with a few degrees tacked on the thermometer.

Frosty Mornings...

The chickens are tractored right out near the brassicas right now. When I went out to feed the ladies this morning I realized that there was a real solid frost last night. Beautiful, but a little scary.

Luckily, it looks like they survived this round. Plus, as a bonus the cold killed some of the cabbage-pillers. Hopefully we will have broccoli and brussel sprouts, if they can survive just a little longer. 

Farmers Market of the Ozarks

Farmer's Market of the Ozarks meets every Saturday out on the southeast corner of town. They have delicious goodies year round. They are also pet friendly, so I often take Baggins when the work schedule allows. It is amazing how affordable local healthy produce is when you take out the middle-grocer.

This week's haul:

Kabocha - 2.00 - Echigo Farm

Brussel Sprouts - 2.50

Smoked Gouda - Springhill Dairy

Pork Cutlets - 7.00 - Real Farm Foods

Overall, great additions to my table this week. The brussel sprouts have already made it onto two plates, and the cheese is going to disappear in no time.

Even Baggins managed to get himself a treat, a big ol' smoked cow ribcage from Real Farm Foods. Happy doggy.

Can't wait to see what we get next week.

Martinmas

Today is Martinmas, a traditional harvest festival that has traditionally occurred across Europe.

You can read up on Wikipedia about all the details, the short version is that it is a Catholic holiday that combines a harvest feast with a Saints Day.

The main features of the celebration are massive harvests and slaughters as well as walks where small children go door to door seeking treats while carrying lanterns. (Picture is Wikipedia Commons
Bild 194-0273-38.)

I love the lantern projects you can find. Frontier Dreams has a precious tutorial for a bright paper lantern they made this year.

I have a soft spot for harvest festivals, yet Thanksgiving in the United States feels tainted by the sins of my forefathers. Martinmas is a holiday that I will keep in mind as years pass and traditions need created.

Autumn Hand Pies

Lately I have been taking Sam lunches at the glass shop and at the flower shop where he works, so I am always on the lookout for easy meals that aren't too messy. Hand pies are such an basic meal that won't drip everywhere, and fit nicely in a lunch bag.

I tend to make hand pies with whatever goodies I have on hand. All the summer veggies are gone, but lots of yummy autumn crops still exist, and meat never goes out of season.

Autumn Hand Pies - Makes Two Servings

Ingredients:

1 Cup - Chopped cabbage. (I got this particular head from Echigo Farm.)
1/4 Cup - Cranberries. Fresh.
1/2 Cup - Ham, precooked and chopped up into small pieces. I freeze up small batches of ham in advance for this sort of project.
1 1/2 Tbs - Butter.
1 Pie Crust, uncooked. You can make your own, use one you froze in advance, or  use a store bought roll out one.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Melt the butter in a skillet over medium heat. Toss in the cranberries, wait a couple minutes and then throw in the cabbage and chopped ham. Wait until the cabbage is cooked down and the cranberries have popped.

Set out the pie crust and cut it in half. Each half becomes one pie, aka one serving.

Place half of the cabbage-cranberry-ham goodness on half of each pie crust piece.

Fold the crust over, and use a fork to press the two pieces together.

Bake in an oven until the top is toasty and brown. Usually about 12 - 15 minutes. I would show you a picture of the finished product, but it was just too delicious and got gobbled down.

Three Minute Poems

The messy results of a timed writing prompt response circle. The basic idea is that you are given both a title and a series of words that you are forced to incorporate. The words that I know I was forced to include are highlighted here. For your giggles and enjoyment.

[A dream about] [my work life] 

The wet morning whispers,
good morning!
Serene mist.
Pull on devoted muck boots in the mudroom,
and slip out into the air.

Love for those inside,
but also energetic motivation for the girls,
in the warm clucking coop,
and the putrid yet productive goat pin.
Love and scraps for the bunnies,
and last night's leftovers,
for the ground turning pigs.

 [A vision for] [my family]

If his nerves can ever be settled, 

we can have our hands devotedly clasped, 

never glancing at his apprehensive "what ifs", 

instead resting our backs, 

trusting, 

against the gnarled surface of the trunk, 

of the old tree in our yard. 

Watching our happy children play, 

my daughter, or son, 

heling their sister climb up the branches, 

of the gnarled but peaceful family tree. 

 [Padlock] 

No fence, 

     no gate,

           no lock. 

My home is a safe, 

     a box. 

           locked tight. 

     locks.

            tightly checked. 

But my garden has no fence. 

No locks. 

Come eat from it. 

Consume handfuls of lettuce. 

Mouthfuls of scrambled eggs with fresh chard. 

He should kneel here. 

She should eat here. 

No war. A garden. 

No bounderies - no locks. 

We should eat here. 

This garden

[Eyeball] 

Look down upon the angsty, 

dilemma ridden mess, 

we have begat ourselves. 

Civilization. 

Do not rock me gentle across your cradle. 

This mess we stand in is appalling, 

choking our live, 

every future impossible. 

Shelters, 

the paranoid hopes of those able bodies watching this, 

mess, 

unfold from the shady sidelines. 

Daily oil-feasting grocery store trips from those,

unnoticing of the impending drama. 

[Cellphone]

A decade ago, 

I craved the phone. 

Electronic communication with cute boys, 

the whole internet lighting up an exciting world, 

into my daily moments, 

of livingroom. 

What now I crave, with anticipation, 

is dark silence. 

No screen. No blue glow. 

Just the world and a single cute boy, 

shivering in the water. 

Dancing on the dark ridge behind the tent,
escaping what,
static noise we can.

[A desire][for my future]

As fall winds blow,
desolate loneliness,
in with the season,
logical contentedness in the present,
is lost.

Wishes for the future,
press so deep into my daily moments,
terrified my fertility is flying by.
Making my own,
fears of abandonment,
the villan.

Sippin' and craftin'.

I have been craving some arts and crafts time lately. For a while I was working the desk shift at work, which involves a lot of sitting and waiting for people to decide to come in. There was a good deal of crochet happening, feeling good on my fingers. But recently I have been having another woman work that job, while I bop around being busy.

I am starting to notice little prompts in my environment, begging me to set up a studio space at my new house.

Today these sort of lame t-shirts caught my eye while I was out. They are clearly inspired by old linoleum block prints, and it made my fingers itch to carve into the soft medium.

But one project at a time. This evenings project involves a glass of Rex-Goliath merlot and a lot of slip knots.

I can't show you the big pictures of my newest project, since it is going to a friend that may read this. But I can tell you you that it involves  3, 300 slip knots. I am 1,977 knots in. Over half way there!

Rex-Goliath and slip knots, here I come.

Syn.

I am struggling with a heavy load of cognitive discomfort this evening.  I am seeking balance between what I believe is the best path for myself and what choices I believe other have to (and need) to make for themselves.

I live and work very near a pawn shop in Springfield that has begun selling "Syn". Syn is one the the K2-like synthetic cannabinoids that has popped up recently. They are legal, for periods of time, but their long-term impacts on the mind and body are unclear. Check out this article for a quick (mainstream media) view of what is going on with these drugs.

My main concern with Syn, compared to marijuana, is that it seems to attract a different group of people. I know pot heads, and the people smoking this drug look less like pot heads and more like junkies. I have also, in the context of my job, seen several people suffering from psychotic breaks or paranoid episodes who recently smoked Syn. Syn worries me, as it seems to bring out the worst in the shufflers of the city streets.

As soon as the neighborhood pawn shop started selling this drug the character of the neighborhood changed dramatically. Cars are lined up to purchase this drug before the shop even opens, and pedestrians loiter near the shop after it is closed. There are always five or ten different people outside the shop, openly smoking this drug (as you would weed, rolled up in cigars or papers) in their cars.

I am responsible for an older warehouse that is across the street from the pawn shop. I have asked dozens, if not hundreds, of people to move when they are parked in our parking spots. I have run off homeless people smoking Syn against our loading dock. I pick up dozens of pieces of trash (Syn wrappers, cigar wrappers, and food wrappers) each day. Our garage doors have been tampered with. The warehouse has been peed on, since the pawn shop does not have a public restroom.

Today the first piece of graffiti showed up on our building.

I painted over the graffiti as soon as it appeared, Broken Window Theory up in this bitch. 

Still, I am at my wits end with this parade of degradation. I have always preached tolerance and legalization, but lately I find myself wishing that the City of Springfield would just hurry up and criminalize this junk. 

No simple answers, no plans. Just an imbalance, an excess of cognitive dissonance. 

Bacon, Blue Cheese, and 'Bama.

Just coming off the mend of a crazy flu. What better to way to spend the evening than gulping down good ol' fashioned comfort food with your baby, and watching two potential Presidents duke it out on Youtube?

I made a blue cheese and bacon casserole. It was mainly potatoes, but tasted wicked good. Served up with green beans and an apple and poppy seed salad it was relatively healthy, too.

Okay, not *that* healthy.

The debates were, well, the debates. Heartlessly depressing because you know ONE of those two men are going to hold all the power of the free world in their claws for the next four years. Slightly reinforcing because Obama is clearly the better choice, and seemed to come out swinging this time around.

At least we had bacon.

I want a flock of meat birds...

I recently read a piece of philosophical musing on vegetarianism. It wasn't a great piece, so I am not linking it. However... It got me thinking about where the meat I am eating is coming from.

I really want a flock of meat birds. It would make me feel really good to have a giant freezer full of yummy chicken all winter, and to know they had a good life.

-a

Apples and chickens...

I am currently drooling, almost literally, over a chicken coop and flock set-up that is listed on Craigslist. If I had a chunk of land I would buy it in an instant, no question asked.

In other news, the house smells amazing. I have four racks of apples dehydrating, filling the whole house with that warm harvest season smell. Pumpkin pies last week, apples dehydrating this week. Must be autumn.

Chickens...

Last spring I bought six chickens. I gave two away to a friend and kept the other four. Her chickens began laying eggs today. This is very exciting because it means my chickens should begin laying soon as well. I came home today and made sure they had nice clean nesting boxes.

Fresh Eggs..... SO EXCITED.

As soon as let the chickens in their new home Pterry hopped up in her clean nesting box and started brooding. Usually they sleep perched, so the brooding seems like a good sign.

"And people in 'the summer' want ice water..."

I would like to make butter today. I am now the proud owner of a KitchenAid, and apparently you can use those to make butter.

I would like to get my back yard mowed today. Cut the grass down short, make the yard smell like summer.

I would like to curl up and finish reading Island by Huxley. And I sing the body electric by Bradbury. And Hocus Pocus by Vonnegut. And...

I would like to work with the chickens. Get their coop set up better. Get them a whole bunch of grass clippings, or let them run around the yard for a couple hours.

I am going to go hold office hours, teach about theories of self-justification, write on my thesis, drop of copies of tests for students to take, take a friend to lunch (that will actually be fun), go to a doctor's appointment, and then go write even more.

I would have made an excellent stay-at-home-wife, circa 1910.

Gratitude Post...

Today I am grateful for:

 - Fresh veggies straight from my garden. Cucumberscucumberscucumbers!

- Incredibly long and soft puppy ears. Attached to a puppy that can sleep through the night without needing out.

 - The first UU Church service in Fayetteville where I have felt a true sense of community.

 - Too many projects. I am so grateful to feel overwhelmed with work. I don't know what I would do otherwise.

 - Somehow managing to disentangle myself from some of the doubts and anxiety swirling around me.

 - A potential start-up is brewing in my head. Exciting!

- The simple and aesthetically pleasing use of stone in this area. Houses, walls, retaining walls, everything is made of rock.

Beautiful and Tragic.

There is a beautiful little stone house down the street from me. It has been occupied by the same couple for the last fifty years. It is on a huge lot. It is beautiful, in an ugly duckling sort of way.

It is being torn down. Well, it is for sale for 495,000. Which is only feasible if you consider it is a commercial lot. So, it is being torn down.

Let me introduce you to one manifestation of my dream home...

1.24 Acres.

It sits on four lots, minimum. It has an old gravel drive leading up to the house.

It is entirely made of hand placed stone. The front porch has a stone floor. The front step is a giant slab of stone. The individual windows are ledged with stone.

If I build a stone house it is going to be in the will that you cannot tear it down and sell it as a commercial property.