12.30

[I stink at this "daily" thing. I have done pretty good for the first 20 odd days of each month but then I completely lose momentum. Ah, well.]

I want to yell at someone. Not just because I'm angry, because though I am angry, it would lose its potency. No, I want to yell at someone because it would work. Convincing them logically doesn't. Coaxing them sweetly doesn't. Bribing, whining, and coercing are all out. My last recourse is violence.

I just wish they would shut up and work on the project, or the boss will fire us all.

12.27

Eggs make very depressing side dishes.

Eating an egg always makes me think of the future--what happened? Where did that particular egg go wrong?

At what point is a chicken not a chick--when does it become breakfast?

12.20

Chapter 2 (arbitrarily decided by the author)

Holmes schwooped to look at the big, shiny thing. It was ridiculous-looking, like a starfish which had been flattened. Watson trundled about, stirring up more silt. Holmes sighed.

"Watson! Hypothesis: this object was used as a means of moving through the water."

"Sherri! Conclusion: ridiculous. How do you figure?"

"Based on well-known principles, anything large and flat can move a large amount of water. This is both large and flat, and, owing to its rigidity (here Sherlock rapped the surface and the whole object rang dully) it could move water quite well."

"But Sherri, it has flat surfaces all the way around. No mater how you wave it, the other side will just counteract your movement."

"Ah, yes Watson, quite astute. But you see, if the object is twirled around its center, each surface would push on the water in quite a different way than you would expect."

"How might it do that, Sherri?"

"Well, do you remember when we had to chase the octopus for the Case of the Running Octopus?"

"Like it was yesterday."

"Well, yesterday when it was happening, you noted that the octopus took sharp corners by spinning. This is what has given me the idea for this object."

"But it still doesn't make any sense. It looks more like bone than like a flipper."
"It has to make sense, Watson. Eliminate every other possibility (plant, rock, clam) and the only remaining option has to be what it is, no matter how preposterous."

12.19c

Driving off a cliff is never as easy as it sounds. There are guard-rails. Those are designed to not admit cars. There's a shoulder, to give an extra second of reaction time. There's an angle to be overcome; the car can't just slide along and hope to burst through. Once conditions are perfect, the car might not even go sailing over the edge. Once the speed and angle are perfect and the brake is forgotten in favor of the gas, the shards of metal railing might slow your descent enough that your car merely scrapes slowly over the edge so that it can roll violently down the cliff, instead of sailing through the air--perfect, weightless, slow-motion--until it crushes itself against the bottom with extra-violent force.

Once you've driven over, though, you just have to enjoy that you've done something fairly difficult and you've done it so well. Sit back and enjoy the spectacle. Hope that nothing particularly painful happens at the bottom. Hope that perhaps, if you're very lucky, your car will survive and you can race up the mountain and through the hole you just punched in the guard-rail.

12.19b

October 16, 2005

Today, Molly turned 14.

That leaves me. I have to wait until March 4 to be normal, to be accepted, to be considered a part of the group. Until then, I am a freak and an outcast, too young for my grade.

I guess I'll deal with it by ignoring it.

12.19

I lent him my camera three months ago. He just gave it back; I hadn't noticed it was missing. I turn it on and flip idly through the pictures.

Her smile jars me out of my complacency.

I am against the burning of books, the shredding of poems, the destruction of memories. I believe that everything anyone makes should be preserved as well as possible, to contribute to the collective identity of our race. When society ends and the world burns, we will at least have memories.

And yet--the desire to delete her sweeps over me. I didn't know I had taken her picture. I didn't know I hadn't moved her to my hard drive. I didn't know I still had memories to unearth.

I remember when I took the picture. We were sitting on a bench, happy, avoiding mosquitoes. But it was strained happiness. She was thinking about classwork. I was thinking about her. When two people try to have a conversation about different things, the words usually tend to end. So we smiled a bit more and she said that she had better get to class, and I said I had better let her go, and I took a picture and kissed her goodbye.

And now her bittersweet smile rips through my pretenses and leaves me angry at my dichotomy:

destroy the memory

or

remember the pain?

in der Nacht 1

So dreams aren't really "creative" writing because my brain does them while I'm asleep, but I think it's worth it to just go ahead and blog them anyway so here is one but I am not putting it with the normal stuff.

I am in a skyscraper with Niel Huffaker and others. Every floor is ground level. On top, there is an African hovel/mansion. All I ever saw of it were the kitchen and living room where Phil and I were staying. There was a group of researchers, including dad, who were studying flies. We trapped a fly the size of a housecat inside and "studied" it. Not sure. I had to drive away the housecat fly from the inside of the house with a stick. I then had to block an overalls-wearing turkey-buzzard combo with no feathers from coming inside. (Africa is weird.) It was then, standing at the door, that I saw Africa for the first time. It looked like Oklahoma.

The kitchen was filthy but was nice under the grime (it looked like painters worked there), and the living room was amazing (in the style of old people who started poor and got rich--poorness with a layer of sumptuousness right over top. It was lush and extravagant, but simple and honest. I hated the dichotomy of the living room right next to the kitchen, so I decided to clean. I had on my nice sweater though, so we discussed movies while I tried to think of a solution. People randomly entered and talked about . . . Sandra Bullock? The Blind Side was mentioned. I tapered off and woke up.

Most interesting fact: I woke up multiple times. Whenever I was waking up, my dream-self walked out a door of the building. Whenever I fell asleep, the first thing I could remember was an atrium or entry-way or the door to my back.

12.15c

I will finish Sherlock, I promise. You have my word. I just want to process today. I'm finally out of the woods and into some sunlight and I can sit, shaking on the grass and feel the dirt between my fingers. I can turn to the someone next to me and say "Yes, I was afraid in the woods. Every tree seemed a hiding place for a myriad manias. Every root sought to trip me up. The water called 'drink' but held poison. The only animal was a constant crow, floating overhead." I can dig my toes down into the loam and feel the richness of the soil soak up into me as if I were a tree.

I can close my eyes for the first time since I fell asleep.

12.15b

She stopped, the highlighter hovering lightly over the page. The she covered slowly, liquid spilling out of the felt and into the paper. Pause and indecision slowed her hand: cov- and stop. Certainly her career was important, for which she needed her studies, for which she needed this information. She started again -er should be taught, and tied down with something stopped her catgut from continuing to Unwind herself from a spool a three-quarters inch length of soul. The cover over her true intentions will function as a wall between her and the world, a barrier from hurt and pain, to stop seepage of emotions and blood from her hurt, broken past and her uncertain future.

She blinked twice.

The cover should be taught, and tied down with catgut.

Unwind from a spool a three-quarters inch length.

The cover will function as a barrier to stop seepage of blood.

She had to decide what was truly important. Only important things get highlighted. Only necessary things turn florescent yellow. Only things she needs to remember.

Slowly, her hand reached up and drew a long, thin line across her cheek in unstoppable, inconceivable brightness.

12.15

I torture myself. My eyes do, I mean.

If your right hand causes you to sin, chop it off.

If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out.

I look up into the points of the pins hovering above my pupils and see only selfishness and pain as motivation. If Oedipus isn't my example, who is?

For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. But a "yoke" is difficult, and a "burden" is heavy. Cast your cares upon the Lord, for he will deliver you in the time of bondage. But my arms are tied to my side; I can't throw anything anywhere.

I'm supposed to trust in God and he'll deus ex machina me to safety, right after I chop it out or pluck it off.

If you love me, you will obey my commandments, for by grace you are saved by faith, not works, lest any man should boast.

Sola fide.

Sola scriptura.

Sola difficult decisions and contradictions.

It's harder to have faith than to sin, because nobody's tempting you to believe.

12.10

brainblocked, i mourn my words as i sit and a vast nothing flows out in torrents of verbiage, spewing senslessness to the page

crushing defeat

stupidity or fear might be holding me back but I i aye can't tell which

perhaps my problem is that i am writing about ME me mi and not something more worthwile

but

i don't wanna

12.8

I reach out my hand but find nothing to hold. The realization strikes me then, as a brick settling to the dirt from a great height. The brick doesn't bounce but has a solid, thumping impact that will never move.

I reach for my phone to write a message about the funny thing I saw, but can't find the contact to add. The realization strikes me then, as subzero water freezing when shaken. The water is clear and liquid until a single crystal forms, and the whole is transformed into ice.

I take breath to share my inmost thoughts but the room is empty. The realization strikes me then, as being crushed. The body's first instinct is to hold its breath, but as the ribs bend around the lungs, everything is bruised.

I despair.

God is with me. The realization strikes me then, as an icicle drip down the back of my coat, which rolls down my spine. It tingles and freezes and then I forget. I keep walking, unhappy and warm.

God is with me. The realization strikes me then, as a cramp in the arch of my foot. I stretch it out and it goes away.

God is with me. The realization strikes me then, as a train bearing down on me, which terrifies me, but is sidestepped and forgotten.

God is with me. The realization strikes me, but it doesn't do anything.

thanks (issue number 10)

1. time alone

2. time with friends

3. time being productive

4. time doing nothing

5. time to hate

6. time to forgive

7. time in happiness

8. time in sorrow

9. time

10. 
    

thanks (issue number 9)

1. Stephen Barry

2. Ok Go

3. Hush Sound

4. A Fine Frenzy

5. Daft Punk

6. Muse

7. Gnarls Barkley

8. the Beatles

9. Vienna Teng

10. Music

12.7

"This is my first, and greatest case." Sherlock drew himself up to his fullest extension and gesticulated grandly with his bubble pipe. "This," Sherlock paused a bit too long for dramatic effect "is my finest hour."

"My, Sherri, that's grand. Did you make that up on your own?"

"I'm afraid so, Watson. I don't have the time to come up with witticisms right now. The case is afoot!"

"Sherri . . ."

"Name, Watson."

". . . you always say that. But I have literally no idea what it means."

"Watson, I didn't take you for an uneducated fool. How can you not know what it means?"

"Well it doesn't make much sense if you think about it. "Afoot?" What's afoot? Are there afoots?"

"Such is the case with most idioms, Watson. Try to not think about it too much, ok?" Sherlock lowered himself by taking on more water in his swim bladder. He floated mere inches above the now looming bulk of the shiny lump. The lump had four limbs. Each limb was large and flat and perfectly identical to the last. One limb was reaching up towards the sky, but each of the others lay flat. It looked like a four-legged starfish which had been flattened by a rock and was reaching up to placate the be-rocked attacker.
Watson scuttled up to Sherlock. "You've been silent for four hours now, Sherri."

"Twelve minutes, forty two seconds and perhaps . . . " Sherlock straightened and inhaled. "a half. But you couldn't be expected to know."

A long, pregnant pause passed between the two of them.

"WATSON!" Sherlock shouted, quite loudly.

"SHERRI!" Watson returned.

"Well, it was worth a shot. I thought perhaps if you were frightened, you might return to using my real name."

"If you were so lucky."

thanks (issue number 8)

1. collarbones

2. noses

3. fingers

4. glasses

5. curls

6. calves

7. ears through hair

8. ripples

9. eyebrows

10. striate cortex

thanks (issue number 7)

1. Khepri

2. Ulysses

3. And the Eyebrow Twitched

4. All He Wanted was for Her to Hurt Less

5. The Definition of Love

6. imagination

7. creativity

8. concision

9. words

10. audience

thanks (issue number 6)

1. waterfalls

2. valleys

3. treehouses

4. forts

5. creeks

6. brambles

7. tree swings

8. swimming holes

9. imagination

10. childhood

thanks (issue number 5)

1. John Mark

2. John the Apostle

3. Paul (re:Saul)

4. CSLewis

5. JRRTolkien

6. Frank Herbert

7. Orson Scott Card

8. Jonathan Safran Foer

9. Robert Heinlein

10. William Golding

12.2

It was then that Sherlock said the three most frightening words that Watson had ever heard.

"I don't know."

"But Sherri . . ."

"Again, my name . . ."

". . . you always know. I have never come across a case in which you did not immediately know the answer. Remember a Study in Scarlet? It turned out to be blood. Remember the Case of the Five Pips? Turned out to be five pips. Remember the Sign of the Four? Turned out to be a four-legged starfish."

"Watson, there's something I have to tell you." Sherlock sighed a bit and the bubbles ruffled his hair wildly. "All those cases . . ."

"All those wonderful cases . . ."

"Yes those. Those were not mysteries. Those were you, running to me, trying to figure out something you couldn't understand."

"But the evidence? The deduction? The wonderful mystery of it all?"
"Is fine. But it is all for you, not for me. This is my first, and greatest case." Sherlock drew himself up to his fullest extension and gesticulated grandly with his bubble pipe. "This," Sherlock paused a bit too long for dramatic effect "is my finest hour."

"My, Sherri, that's grand. Did you make that up on your own?"

thanks (issue number 4)

1. my video games

2. my t-shirts

3. my ties

4. my cslewis books

5. my sci-fi books

6. my pennies

7. my car

8. my music

9. my ipod

10. mr grunderson