The exercise:
Write about: the quarrel.
Had a quiet day, which was for the best as all three of us were quite tired after yesterday's activities. Max taking a three hour nap this afternoon helped a lot.
Hoping to go for a short hike tomorrow morning with the family. Will try to take a few pictures. And then actually remember to get them onto the laptop in a reasonably timely manner.
Mine:
It began innocently enough. A phone call missed, a message left. Nothing urgent. No dire news, no wondrous celebratory happenings. Just checking in.
The message, however, never received a response. Ignored, or so it appeared.
Appearances can be deceiving. The reality was a chaotic mixture of too many meetings, sick kids, and unexpected trips to the mechanic.
Rather than investigate, offense was taken. Shoulders turned frosty. Requested favours were turned down with no or, much worse, ridiculous explanations offered.
Bitterness spread to both sides of the friendship. Mutual friends bore the brunt of gossip and spiteful rumours. The bond deteriorated quickly and then hostilities escalated even faster.
Now a Molotov cocktail is soaring toward a living room window and a loaded shotgun stands ready to issue an immediate response.
If only the first message had received an equally speedy reply.
Saturday August 30th, 2014
The exercise:
Write a four line poem about: echoes.
Well, that was a busy market. We sold out of corn and berries (as expected), nectarines (as hoped), and apples (bit of a surprise). Our main seller were the peaches, though, as we brought 17 crates with us and only came home with about one and a half.
That, I can say with complete confidence, was not the least bit expected.
This evening, after a short rest after we got home from the market, we went up to Oliver for a potluck dinner. It was a lot of fun, with lots of kids for Max to play with and parents for Kat and I to relate to. We weren't too sure if we'd be up to going, and we were certainly quite tired, but I'm glad we made the effort.
Mine:
I am not alone here,
The voices keep me company.
They are my dearest friends,
Even if it's only me...
Write a four line poem about: echoes.
Well, that was a busy market. We sold out of corn and berries (as expected), nectarines (as hoped), and apples (bit of a surprise). Our main seller were the peaches, though, as we brought 17 crates with us and only came home with about one and a half.
That, I can say with complete confidence, was not the least bit expected.
This evening, after a short rest after we got home from the market, we went up to Oliver for a potluck dinner. It was a lot of fun, with lots of kids for Max to play with and parents for Kat and I to relate to. We weren't too sure if we'd be up to going, and we were certainly quite tired, but I'm glad we made the effort.
Mine:
I am not alone here,
The voices keep me company.
They are my dearest friends,
Even if it's only me...
Friday August 29th, 2014
The exercise:
Write four lines of prose about: the slide.
Jeez, August is almost over already? That seems a little fast.
Ready to roll for another market tomorrow morning. The berries are starting to slow down, but the fruit is kicking into high gear. It's a long weekend, so hopefully everybody comes out for their local fruit fix.
Going with Kat and Max again, but at least we'll be in our usual spot, with lots of park space directly behind us for him to run around on. Fingers crossed everybody has a decent sleep tonight, as that always helps everything.
Mine:
Steep metal steps lead me up and up, slowly but surely. The staircase is narrow and there are others following close behind; turning back is not an option. Not unless I want to be showered with shame, never able to return to this playground again.
So up I go, continuing on until the inevitable, gut-wrenching, scaring-for-life slide back down to earth.
Write four lines of prose about: the slide.
Jeez, August is almost over already? That seems a little fast.
Ready to roll for another market tomorrow morning. The berries are starting to slow down, but the fruit is kicking into high gear. It's a long weekend, so hopefully everybody comes out for their local fruit fix.
Going with Kat and Max again, but at least we'll be in our usual spot, with lots of park space directly behind us for him to run around on. Fingers crossed everybody has a decent sleep tonight, as that always helps everything.
Mine:
Steep metal steps lead me up and up, slowly but surely. The staircase is narrow and there are others following close behind; turning back is not an option. Not unless I want to be showered with shame, never able to return to this playground again.
So up I go, continuing on until the inevitable, gut-wrenching, scaring-for-life slide back down to earth.
Thursday August 28th, 2014
The exercise:
Write about: the password.
More weed eating this morning. I could hardly forget, since my hands are still vibrating.
Taking a break from the machinery tomorrow as it's time once again to harvest for the market. It's going to be mostly berries this week on our end, with lots of fruit (apples, pears, peaches, nectarines) coming from Kat's parents.
We don't have any helpers though, so I should probably get to bed and rest up for what promises to be a long day. A long couple of days, if I include the market itself.
Mine:
Early one Sunday morning (well, it was nearly noon, but that was early for him) in October, Glen Bishop sat down at his computer desk and thumbed on the power. While he waited for the mysterious start up process to complete he began to notice a few things about his immediate surroundings.
And what he saw worried him.
Two empty beer bottles lay next to his mouse pad, almost touching but not quite. Just like how he and Kelly used to lay in bed together at night. On the floor at his feet three more empties clinked together as he rotated in his seat, trying to see into the kitchen down the hall. There, he found the most damning evidence of all.
A half empty bottle of whiskey.
"Not good," he muttered as the computer finished booting and presented him with the logon screen. By this point he knew it was pointless, but he tried his password anyway.
The error message was so expected that he barely bothered to read it.
Clearly he had decided to change his password at the height of one of his infamous benders. It could be anything. Likely misspelled, it was safe to say.
"Well," he said as he got up and headed for the bottle in the kitchen, "there's only way one of solving this little conundrum..."
Write about: the password.
More weed eating this morning. I could hardly forget, since my hands are still vibrating.
Taking a break from the machinery tomorrow as it's time once again to harvest for the market. It's going to be mostly berries this week on our end, with lots of fruit (apples, pears, peaches, nectarines) coming from Kat's parents.
We don't have any helpers though, so I should probably get to bed and rest up for what promises to be a long day. A long couple of days, if I include the market itself.
Mine:
Early one Sunday morning (well, it was nearly noon, but that was early for him) in October, Glen Bishop sat down at his computer desk and thumbed on the power. While he waited for the mysterious start up process to complete he began to notice a few things about his immediate surroundings.
And what he saw worried him.
Two empty beer bottles lay next to his mouse pad, almost touching but not quite. Just like how he and Kelly used to lay in bed together at night. On the floor at his feet three more empties clinked together as he rotated in his seat, trying to see into the kitchen down the hall. There, he found the most damning evidence of all.
A half empty bottle of whiskey.
"Not good," he muttered as the computer finished booting and presented him with the logon screen. By this point he knew it was pointless, but he tried his password anyway.
The error message was so expected that he barely bothered to read it.
Clearly he had decided to change his password at the height of one of his infamous benders. It could be anything. Likely misspelled, it was safe to say.
"Well," he said as he got up and headed for the bottle in the kitchen, "there's only way one of solving this little conundrum..."
Wednesday August 27th, 2014
The exercise:
Write about: the strike.
This morning was spent harvesting (mostly berries) for the bakery, this afternoon featured delivery of said harvest, along with stops at the bank (deposit), liquor store (returning empties), and grocery store, and tonight was all about using the weed eater on the sprinkler rows.
And so now, rather unsurprisingly in my opinion, I am tired and ready for bed.
Mine:
He had stopped reading the papers several days ago, having realized that they had no more knowledge of the situation than he did. Baseless rumours and unfounded predictions were of no use to him. There was, sadly, nothing to do but wait.
Or, he supposed, to start walking.
As ridiculous as the idea was, he had given it some serious thought on more than one occasion. With no end to the train strike in sight it was even possible that he might arrive before the next train did.
Just as momentum began to build and he started to plot his route, he'd remember his bags. And how seriously, depressingly heavy they were.
He didn't have the strength for that undertaking.
So instead of carrying them through the woods, over hills, and alongside meandering rivers, he sat on them. Tried to make himself comfortable. Ignored all of the other restless and muttering passengers on the platform.
And waited.
Write about: the strike.
This morning was spent harvesting (mostly berries) for the bakery, this afternoon featured delivery of said harvest, along with stops at the bank (deposit), liquor store (returning empties), and grocery store, and tonight was all about using the weed eater on the sprinkler rows.
And so now, rather unsurprisingly in my opinion, I am tired and ready for bed.
Mine:
He had stopped reading the papers several days ago, having realized that they had no more knowledge of the situation than he did. Baseless rumours and unfounded predictions were of no use to him. There was, sadly, nothing to do but wait.
Or, he supposed, to start walking.
As ridiculous as the idea was, he had given it some serious thought on more than one occasion. With no end to the train strike in sight it was even possible that he might arrive before the next train did.
Just as momentum began to build and he started to plot his route, he'd remember his bags. And how seriously, depressingly heavy they were.
He didn't have the strength for that undertaking.
So instead of carrying them through the woods, over hills, and alongside meandering rivers, he sat on them. Tried to make himself comfortable. Ignored all of the other restless and muttering passengers on the platform.
And waited.
Tuesday August 26th, 2014
The exercise:
Write two haiku about: the tycoon.
Boxes went quite smoothly today, thanks in part to Kat's mom being able to hang out with Max for the second half of the morning.
I had him for the first half before joining Kat in the garden, and we ran a couple errands in town before going for coffee/snack time. While we were there we ran into our friend from the bakery and his son, so we even slipped in some nice social time.
And to top it all off, nobody arrived early to pick up their box! Miracles, it would seem, do indeed happen.
Mine:
I could find my life
savings in his couch, yet the
bastard won't tip me
* * *
I count my money,
then lose my place - that's at least
a month's work wasted.
Write two haiku about: the tycoon.
Boxes went quite smoothly today, thanks in part to Kat's mom being able to hang out with Max for the second half of the morning.
I had him for the first half before joining Kat in the garden, and we ran a couple errands in town before going for coffee/snack time. While we were there we ran into our friend from the bakery and his son, so we even slipped in some nice social time.
And to top it all off, nobody arrived early to pick up their box! Miracles, it would seem, do indeed happen.
Mine:
I could find my life
savings in his couch, yet the
bastard won't tip me
* * *
I count my money,
then lose my place - that's at least
a month's work wasted.
Monday August 25th, 2014
The exercise:
Write about: droplets.
Max has an amazing excess of energy these days. You'd think he'd grown used to running around in circles and chasing after people for hours at a time or something.
We took him to the park after running some errands in town this morning and... yeah. We might want to reverse that order next time.
The most time consuming items to harvest for box day were collected this evening, so hopefully that will make for a quicker morning tomorrow. Fingers crossed, anyway.
Mine:
There is a droplet dangling
From your fingertip, my dear.
It seems to be frozen there,
As though in fear.
Is it rain, perspiration,
A single lonesome tear?
No, none of those, none of those...
It is simply your blood, my dear.
Write about: droplets.
Max has an amazing excess of energy these days. You'd think he'd grown used to running around in circles and chasing after people for hours at a time or something.
We took him to the park after running some errands in town this morning and... yeah. We might want to reverse that order next time.
The most time consuming items to harvest for box day were collected this evening, so hopefully that will make for a quicker morning tomorrow. Fingers crossed, anyway.
Mine:
There is a droplet dangling
From your fingertip, my dear.
It seems to be frozen there,
As though in fear.
Is it rain, perspiration,
A single lonesome tear?
No, none of those, none of those...
It is simply your blood, my dear.
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