Day 51 of The Year Apart (And Sometimes Not)

Today’s Challenge:

Pick a photo from your phone that you took in the last week. Write a reflection in the style of your choice about it.

Here's Davis' submission:

IMG_1049.JPG.jpeg

Jurassic Poem

In my memory, there lived a fear of animatronic dinosaurs. Of course, in my memory, they were real. That time we went to Disney World, I rode some ride the parents had decided was fine for three young children, not realizing the lite trauma it would inflict. We’d spent the day spinning in benign teacups, wheeling to great heights, but nothing prepared up for the frights of giant metal dinosaurs.

You can, then, understand my hesitation as we entered the raft of the Jurassic Park River Adventure at Universal Studios Hollywood on Monday.

I was a kid when the film came out. I loved the way it felt to be so engrossed in and afraid of a movie, watching it on the thick television screen at my cousin Kevin’s house, still able to flick on a light, take a sip of water, or laugh with my brother; anything to pinch me awake from that jurassic dream.

There was mostly excitement when the ride began, but there was fear. The Flight of the Hippogriff, a Harry Potter-themed roller coaster admittedly for kids, had already freaked me out more than I was expecting and more than I wanted Leeann to know.

We were in the first boat to depart, in the front row. One if the many small joys of an amusement park on a Monday in spring, besides the weather, are the very short lines. As the boat clicked up the initial hill, my stomach sank, again unexpectedly, but immediately soothed by the sounds of jungle creatures, the smell of water, and a gentle, authoritative voiceover:

“Time.... the ever-flowing river.”

We entered the world of Jurassic Park, with ultrasaurs and stegosauruses, all enjoying their time in the river. We were assured that, despite their awesome size, they mean us no harm. I began to feel a smile creep across my face.

We passed surprises, mostly water-based, each with their own 90s charm. My favorite were two little rat-raptors fighting over a Jurassic Park branded popcorn box. 

Once we passed a wrecked raft heading in the direction we were “meant” to go down, I knew we were in for a terrifying treat. The raft careened off, very slowly, of course, to the left into an area clearly marked with signs of “caution,” “beware,” and, my favorite, “no admittance!”

What followed were dark corners and no-longer scary encounters with giant animatronic raptors and the like. I was beaming like the boy I rarely get to be, in awe of what it feels like to be in a world where something so nostalgic, something so simply fun that can unabashedly transport me right back to my child heart and child mind actually exists.

The climax couldn’t have been more perfect. A wall of water pours from some unknown source and we are heading straight for it. All goes quiet for a brief moment, and then out pops a massive tyrannosaurus rex’s head, roaring, shocking us fully before a great drop leaves our breaths behind us. We splash into a large pool for the amusement of onlookers, look into each other’s eyes, and beam and beam and beam.

We rode that ride 5 times, fear fully conquered, and with a photograph to prove it.

Weekend Challenge 9 of The Year Apart (And Sometimes Not)

We decided to write a short story back and forth, one sentence at a time, and then end it individually.

 

Here is Davis':

She’d never opened the box that once belonged to her father before, but she figured the anniversary of his death was as good a time as any. It was made of cedar, still smelled like ancient wood soaked in the musk of the attic in her childhood home. The front of the box had a latch and lock, with an old pink string tied around the end of a small key. She thought of her sister Dottie, of all that her father had wanted Dottie to be, of all the things Dottie tried so hard to become. 

Dottie, of course, would be in the guest room and, even though she hadn’t emerged for three days, would somehow sense her sister’s curiosity. It was as hot as it gets in Pine Bluff in August, the kind of heat and humidity that inspires a sort of madness that has led people to live madly, to love madly, and to lay naked for days with nothing but a book and General Electric brass blade fan. A bead of sweat dropped from her brow, pooling in a dust-drenched way, reminding Merilee how long ago her dad put those gifts for her and Dottie in there. 

Since they were young girls, he had told them to look after each other, that if their bond remained unbroken, God would take good care of them. 

“You two were born together for a reason I couldn’t possibly articulate; one you two will have to discover on your own,” he’d said when they were young.

There were many years when Merilee hated being a twin, hated that her sister was prettier than her, more loved, more talented, hated that Dottie didn’t care about any of that, hated that she did. It wasn’t easy being the one who had fewer friendships, fewer boyfriends, fewer opportunities, but over time she owned it, found herself a steady life, and eventually in the unique position to be Dottie’s primary caregiver, so to speak.

“Uuunnnngggghhhh,” Dottie moaned from the next room, and Marilee shuttered, staring at the box.

“Be right there!” Merilee replied, after too much time, holding the key loosely in her fingers.

She was always too caring, too quick to fix the problem, to solve the issue, and had once again spoken out of fear of not caring for her sister enough. 

The box began to vibrate in her hand — or was it her imagination? The house was hot and she hadn’t moved in some time, and the space around her began to darken the way it does when one’s gazed is fixed for long enough. The eagle that had been carved into the center of the box’s top began to flap it wings slightly enough to spook her and yet to soothe her, as if this odd movement were familiar and exactly what the wooden creature was meant to do. She felt as though her hand was being guided, like some other force was compelling it to gently twist the key. The lock and latch popped open with a croak, and Merilee hesitated, caressing the pink string affectionately and studying the now-animate eagle curiously. With a deep meaningful breath, she pushed away all stories, doubts, hesitations and gently opened the box, revealing a golden silk handkerchief with Japanese stitch-work that smelled of old geranium.

A tick, tick, ticking sound came from inside the golden scarf. Merliee held it up to her ear to be clear of the sound she now knew to be quite familiar. It had a hypnotic feel to it and, as if the eagle and the ticking sound were compelling her to do so, she unfolded the handkerchief like one might draw the sheet back from the face of a cadaver.

Resting inside the kerchief was, on the left, an old hourglass filled with green sand. In the middle, a copper pocket watch — the cause of the ticking. And on the right, a 1987 Casio DBC-63 Telememo 50 Databank Calculator Watch. She wondered if it were the very watch her father had worn when he passed and if it was, how it had gotten in there.

Mesmerized by the time pieces, Merilee was barely able to hear her sister enter the room, dragging her blanket behind her, red and hurting.

The watch ticked and ticked and, in a continuation of the dream state that led her to open the box, she lifted the pocket watch and flipped it over, letting the copper chain droop lazily on the handkerchief. Her grandfather’s initials.

Her eyes refocused to where the pocket watch once was and saw a note obscured.

She picked up the note written in cursive on old parchment burnt on the sides to seem ancient — or was it actually ancient — and read it.

“Every wish, in time.”

She held it like the artifact it was.

“What do you think it means,” Dottie asked between coughs.

“I don’t know,” Merilee replied, her gaze fixed.

“Look under the handkerchief.” Dottie suggested.

Merilee grabbed the handkerchief and lifted it gently. Underneath were scraps of paper of all sizes and from different times. Acting on instinct, she grabbed one from the middle. The note on the scrap was written in pen, poorly and read. “I wish I could dance like mom and dad.”

“Is that…? Is that dad’s handwriting?”

“I don’t know. If it is, he must have been a kid.”

“The man could glide,” Dottie remembered.

“Every one of them is a wish,” Merilee said mostly to herself as she dug through each scrap, almost hearing her .

“What should we put in there?” Dottie asked.

Merilee, for the first time, semi-breaking the spell, looked at her sister, cold and sweaty, cheek bones sitting almost proud of her face, thin as thin can be, in pain and hopeful.

“Grab me a pen and paper, D” Merilee demanded before returning her eyes to the box.

She looked at the hourglass, dated 1903, and inspected it, trying to imagine the age when time couldn’t be tamed so easily.

Dottie returned in her own time with an almost finished pen and a piece of ripped paper towel.

“Perfect” Merilee said.

She thought for a second, thinking of everything in the world she might want: a trip to Europe, a house by the lake, a new set of sheets, a working dishwasher, her husband to come home…. Then she looked at her sister, the beginnings of a tear swelling in her eye.

“I love you. “Merilee said.

She wrote something on the paper towel, placed it under the handkerchief, put the note back, the timepieces, folded it delicately, closed the box gently, locked it, and broke the spell.

As the two of them stared at it for a bit longer, the darkness of dusk covered the room, the box remained still, the eagle at rest.

Merilee handed the box to her sister, a tear in her eye, too. “Now it’s your turn. Goodnight, D,” she said as she walked out of the room and to her own, where she fell like a plank onto the bed and fast asleep.

“I love you, too,” Dottie said to the doorway her sister had just walked through. She looked at the box once more, smiled, took it to her room, placed it on her dresser, and wept.

 

Here is Charles'

She’d never opened the box that once belonged to her father before, but she figured the anniversary of his death was as good a time as any. It was made of cedar, still smelled like ancient wood soaked in the musk of the attic in her childhood home. The front of the box had a latch and lock, with an old pink string tied around the end of a small key. She thought of her sister Dottie, of all that her father had wanted Dottie to be, of all the things Dottie tried so hard to become. 

Dottie, of course, would be in the guest room and, even though she hadn’t emerged for three days, would somehow sense her sister’s curiosity. It was as hot as it gets in Pine Bluff in August, the kind of heat and humidity that inspires a sort of madness that has led people to live madly, to love madly, and to lay naked for days with nothing but a book and General Electric brass blade fan. A bead of sweat dropped from her brow, pooling in a dust-drenched way, reminding Merilee how long ago her dad put those gifts for her and Dottie in there. 

Since they were young girls, he had told them to look after each other, that if their bond remained unbroken, God would take good care of them. 

“You two were born together for a reason I couldn’t possibly articulate; one you two will have to discover on your own,” he’d said when they were young.

There were many years when Merilee hated being a twin, hated that her sister was prettier than her, more loved, more talented, hated that Dottie didn’t care about any of that, hated that she did. It wasn’t easy being the one who had fewer friendships, fewer boyfriends, fewer opportunities, but over time she owned it, found herself a steady life, and eventually in the unique position to be Dottie’s primary caregiver, so to speak.

“Uuunnnngggghhhh,” Dottie moaned from the next room, and Marilee shuttered, staring at the box.

“Be right there!” Merilee replied, after too much time, holding the key loosely in her fingers.

She was always too caring, too quick to fix the problem, to solve the issue, and had once again spoken out of fear of not caring for her sister enough. 

The box began to vibrate in her hand — or was it her imagination? The house was hot and she hadn’t moved in some time, and the space around her began to darken the way it does when one’s gazed is fixed for long enough. The eagle that had been carved into the center of the box’s top began to flap it wings slightly enough to spook her and yet to soothe her, as if this odd movement were familiar and exactly what the wooden creature was meant to do. She felt as though he hand was being guided, like some other force was compelling it to gently twist the key. The lock and latch popped open with a croak, and Merilee hesitated, caressing the pink string affectionately and studying the now-animate eagle curiously. With a deep meaningful breath, she pushed away all stories, doubts, hesitations and gently opened the box, revealing a golden silk handkerchief with Japanese stitch-work that smelled of old geranium.

Merilee gasped. Before she could think, she grasped the handkerchief and rubbed it gently between her thumb and the side of her index finger, exhibiting a tenderness she hadn’t known in years. She brought the silken kerchief into both hands and slowly guided it to her face and inhaled deeply, eyes closed. As if her breath could open the skies, her exhale brought with it a stream of tears. Merilee’s body began to vibrate, her extremities falling asleep as she rubbed the kerchief, breathed in the smell of old geranium, and wiped her tears. As this emotional wave grew in intensity, her nose began to run, her mouth producing saliva, and from deep in her gut she began to sob. Full, awkward sobs.

She knew that she’d get what was coming to her. She could almost predict when someone was going to come up to her and say “you know, honey, it’s ok to grieve.” It was almost constant for a while there. At her father’s wake. In the lobby of the hospital where Dottie was in Intensive Care. Two different ladies said that to her at the veterinarian’s office the week prior as she was putting Gonzo down. She hated it. But she knew it was true. She hadn’t let herself cry. She was afraid if she did, she’d never stop. Now the floodgates were open, and she was doing the work of the immense grief that lived inside of her. She wept it all.

Without a moment’s notice, the emotional tides swung, shifted, changed and suddenly she was in rage. She began to scream, croak, caw. These visceral animalistic sounds were doing the work of channeling the rage she had been hiding so much inside. Rage that began when her mother left her and sister in the care of their father while she went chasing visions of undiscovered islands in Micronesia. Rage that built when they didn’t find her body. Rage that seethed beneath the surface every time she found her father passed out on the floor in the living room. Rage every time life just clicked in place for Dottie. Rage every time it didn’t click in place for her. Rage for all the pain buried in each hopeless relationship with each hopeless man that gave her love for a month. Rage when Dottie got married to man that was loyal, honest, and perfect for her. Rage when that same man shot her in the neck and took his own life on a Wednesday in March, leaving Dottie paralyzed and nearly brain dead. Rage that she was now 47 years old and living alone in a house with her sister, her only surviving family member, with no way out of her pain and misery.

For all of that rage she screamed. She screamed it all into the golden silk handkerchief with Japanese stitch-work that smelled of old geranium. She screamed until her throat was scratchy and she could barely breathe. She screamed until all that was left was a half-hearted whimper.

And Merilee looked down at the handkerchief, this mysterious piece of cloth in this old wooden box her father had given her. This beautiful relic of another time and another place that is so delicate by nature, but which now plays host to the soup of sweat, salt, snot and saliva that comes from a woman who has finally let it all go. And in studying this scene, herself lying on the floor of her dad’s old upstairs closet clutching this small sodden cloth which was the only witness to what was undoubtedly the Great Breakdown of Her Life, she began to laugh. Slowly, softly at first, and then all at once, like an avalanche of giggles. She was laughing at the fact that she didn’t know where the hell this handkerchief had come from or what the hell it meant. What was her dad trying to say? Who did this thing belong to? Why had the feeling and smell of it elicited such an intense and instantaneous reaction from her? And she just laughed. She wondered if somehow Dottie knew. And she laughed. She thought of herself helplessly melting into an emotional oblivion in her dad’s closet and nobody would ever know if she didn’t tell them. And she laughed. She just laughed and laughed and laughed. She laughed until she was left with just a couple of short chuckles, like the last couple of kernels popping on the stove. And she just laid there on the floor, looking at the ceiling, clutching this handkerchief, her spirit totem, her sanctuary, her 8x8 inch hand-stitched therapist. She exhaled with a smile.

Day 48 of They Year Apart (And Sometimes Not)

Today's Challenge:

1. Write 3 drafts of a mission statement for The Haines Sisters.

2. Brainstorm a list of 20-30 words that capture the essence of our work as The Haines Sister.

 

Davis' submission:

Haines Sisters Mission Statements:

1. It is the Haines Sisters mission to spread joy, open hearts, and inspire art in all people through collaborative creation.

2. The Haines Sisters believe that the seed of joy is planted in the fertile soil of creativity and collaboration, and aim to grow a community of creators out of the garden of artists.

3. The Haines Sisters take the ubiquity of mundanity and infuse it with creativity and possibility to combat negativity, depression, and strife with positivity, expression, and life.

 

Brainstorm Words for THS:

garden

positivity

creation

art

heart

inspiration

collaboration

expression

variety

community

possibility

improvisation

family

twinship

growth

practice

devotion

God

vaudeville

joy

life

love

 

Charles' submission:

Haines Sisters Mission Statement

The Haines Sisters aspire to inspire the child inside of all people through entertaining, educational and enlightening works of performance, comedic, and musical art and media.

The Haines Sisters and company are a creative team of eccentric and inspired individuals whose goal is to create bridges between hearts and spirits through comedy, music, interaction and improvisation.

The Haines Sisters are a performing arts duo on a mission to bring smiles and connections between both privileged and disadvantaged people through workshops in comedy, music and improvisation.

20-30 Words:

Comedy

Discovery

Improvisation

Twinship

Brotherhood

Authenticity

Connection

Silliness

Accessibility

Cross-cultural

Meaningful

Unlimited

Live

Spontaneous

Vaudevillian 

Educational

Cinematic

Parody

Parity

Parrot Tea

Formless

Spirited

Real

Refreshing

Workshop 

Visionary

Day 44 of The Year Apart (And Sometimes Not)

Today's Challenge:

Compose a sonnet involving showers.

 

Here is Davis' Shower Sonnet:

 

I believe there’s nothing like a rinse

To clear the mind and wash away the past

With powers that can ease my muscles’ tense

Or jolt my soul alive, awake, and fast

 

And nothing quite like dancing in the rain—

Our Mother’s favorite way to start anew—

It shifts not just the spirit, but the brain

This cleanliness and Godliness and you

 

Whene’er my body sheds its tears and sweat

I’m blessed with blasts of drink to wash away

The dirt and dust of life on me beset;

The shower’s where that dust remains today.

 

And yet despite the glory I invoke,

A shower’s great, but I would rather soak

 

Here is Charles':

Shower Wise (a sonnet)

Shower ever after

 

To find the temperature that befits the current mood

To turn the knobs to find the balance of hot and frigid

Is to gather the nutrients for the skinsoul’s food

To coddle and coax with warmth what once was rigid

 

Upon one’s breast a pearl of streams befall 

And pitter of patterns in a hydroponic barrage

So seemingly at the utter beckon call

Does this everflow so willing offer its massage

 

And in this womb of wise and wonderful wet

A wealth of prime ideas henceforth do come 

The origins and magic of which we may ne’er truly get

But one can trust in faith there’s always some

 

And so we take our leave from this bath of mind’s true eye

And set forth to accomplish dreams as we smile and towel dry

Day 42 of The Year Apart (And Sometimes Not)

Today's Challenge:

Come up with 3 play titles. Write a 1-3 sentence synopsis of each play.

 

Davis' Play Titles:

Benign Eccentricities

In a small town in Alabama, just outside of Birmingham, a young man puts on a dress and wears it to school. The town loves this kid — he’s the mayor’s son, after all — and though his behavior was unique and unlike any other, the embraced him. Until, of course, he falls in love with the sheriff’s daughter.

 

To Live is To Love and To Die

In the late 1960s, a young Midwestern man runs off to follow an Indian guru off the shores of Encinitas, CA, leaving his family behind. A decade later, after his father is diagnosed with lung cancer, he returns to his home, hoping to teach his family the ways of his guru, only to learn the lessons of his own family’s lineage and wisdom in its place.

 

Bloom

A young girl stops speaking at the age of 5 after witnessing the tragic death of her father. Her mother, distraught that her daughter no longer communicates verbally and also with her own inner storm of emotions, brings home a single flower to plant in the backyard. The girl, older now and drawn to the flower, begins to sing to it; her mother notices and, together, the two rebuild their lives in the garden.

 

Charles' Play Titles:

Cripple Creek

After their father’s sudden death, Trent and Josiah are going through his belongings in the home he left behind. Memories of listening to vinyl records of The Band, playing “cowboys,” and the smell of his menthol cigarettes cause them to reflect on a strong and colorful relationship with their father. But one solitary handwritten letter causes the boys to confront a mysterious and well-kept secret that will change the way they look at their father forever.

 

Rubber

Three strangers are on a Craigslist rideshare from Omaha, Nebraska to Flagstaff, Arizona and decide to share a room at a motel together to save money. Vijay is a 21-year-old first-generation Indian-American man; Darlene is a 43-year-old former postal employee, recently divorced and is the driver; Elmer looks to be at least 50 and hasn’t said much. None of them knew they wouldn’t sleep a wink.

 

Igbala

The four women of Igbala know they are participating in a controlled social experiment. Their task: to use role-playing as a method of constructing a society that reflects the values of a matriarchal system. But the process begins to unveil deep-seeded beliefs and principles that threaten to dismantle their efforts to achieve empowered liberated womanhood.

Day 35 of The Year Apart (and Sometimes Not)

in

The boys are back in action! Davis suggested a poem:

"Today's Challenge:

Write a six couplet poem about your day."

 

Davis wrote this piece:

"An Evening’s Couplets (March 12, 2018)"

 

I woke up to blowers of leaves and things, a bit peeved and blinking and dry

Took a shower so cold, it left me brazen and bold, facing forward determined and spry

 

A cortado “for here,” a quick glance at the news, to a meeting, I finally went

With some voice over guys (both warm, funny, and kind), that I hoped, for me, might represent

 

We drove up to Jasper, pretty much just right after, to see grandmama and grandpappy,

He teetered, she choked, but they laughed when they spoke, very old and yet still very happy

 

We stumbled through the lines and songs and try to stay on script

The writers come tomorrow and we are scared, but well-equipped

 

Rehearsal flies like time with wings, despite the songs of praise

The Spanish gospels sung off-key, an intoxicated craze

 

A day like this deserves reflection, so, at last, we do regroup

While Leeann cooks pasta around 11, and I sit and sip my soup

 

The bed calls out, and we pray to answer, if not now, then certainly soon

For our eyes are weary and we’ll sleep, in theory, quite well under crescent moon

 

 

Charles wrote this piece:

"March Couplets"

 

Roused reluctantly from a night’s sleep

Drove to work in the forest green Jeep

 

Worked the day with an unconscious dunce

And somehow failed to thank my lucky stars even once

 

Took deep breaths in the Hamakua wide open

Clipped ‘em in, zipped ‘em and stayed mostly soft-spoken

 

Took solace in the stories of a hillbilly named Vance

Recognized my L(if)e had begun with one hell of a chance

 

Went to the h(om)e of a family most endearing

laughed and loved over plenty of dear meet

 

Learned all the ways that we grow before birth

Took a deep breath, became on with the E(art)h