so a week or so ago, i was checking out a cool communication blog (shout out to corporate hallucinations! what-what!) and there was a posting asking for corporate communicators to send in haikus about work. it had sprung from just haikus complaining about IT, but steve broadened to any corporate department.
so i had a couple minutes to spare, and i know my way around a haiku (thanks to my fourth grade teacher), so i put together three of what i thought were pretty solid haikus. naturally, there were IT issues with my post actually getting transmitted/received/whatever, and i never made the post. which sucks because each haiku gave you a chance to win 7 free drinks at a conference. i hate losing booze.
so, here are my non-winning due to non-posting haikus. enjoy, and if you really like them, i'd still accept the 7 drinks.
1) a haiku to graphic designers
snobby designer
thinks copy's superfluous
but he can't spell cat.
2) haiku for change-resistant administration
stodgy old execs
closed off to my suggestions
think email's a fad
3) a haiku for IT procedures
can't move my printer
three inches across my desk
sans IT clearance.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
a limerick in honor of st. patrick's day
i'll admit, i'm at work, but i promised kay dub i would post an irish limerick today. here's the inspiration she gave me: leprechaun, elbow grease, shepherd's pie.
there once was a fair lad named seamus,
who thought his name was quite henious,
he met a leprechaun,
who said, "call ye'self, sean",
and the rest was a tale most mundane-ous.
ok, that didn't really fit the bill...i'll count it as a warm-up. here's comes the curveball.
a leprechaun walked by and by,
and accidentally opened the sty,
he chased down a pig,
with elbow grease and a fig,
and made a nice shepherd's pie.
enjoy, and from an of the legitimately irish folk, erin go bragh!
there once was a fair lad named seamus,
who thought his name was quite henious,
he met a leprechaun,
who said, "call ye'self, sean",
and the rest was a tale most mundane-ous.
ok, that didn't really fit the bill...i'll count it as a warm-up. here's comes the curveball.
a leprechaun walked by and by,
and accidentally opened the sty,
he chased down a pig,
with elbow grease and a fig,
and made a nice shepherd's pie.
enjoy, and from an of the legitimately irish folk, erin go bragh!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
a short story by request...
so i'm getting ready to watch the kansas v. texas a&m game (rock chalk), and i have 16 minutes to do some writing. being mr. supportive, patrick has asked me to use this brief window to write a short story about an eskimo, the moon and an igloo. let's see how this goes. (and he better read this, i mean, especially if he wants to really look supportive instead of just flapping his gums.)
TO SHARE THE NIGHT
it was cold. the kind of cold that would make most ordinary people hole away in the warm cozy crannies of overstuffed sofas in overheated rooms. but it was nothing to Akiak, who tucked a handwritten book of ancient Eskimo verse under his arm and ventured outside the comfort of home and central heating. the book had been a gift from his grandmother on the day he was born 20 years ago.
"keep this for him until he grows enough to hold it dear himself," the perpetually wise grandmother had instructed Akiak's mother. it wasn't long; a 3-year-old Akiak took to toting the book up the old attic stairs and spending hours poring over the rough pages of hand-inked lines. Akiak would get lost in the stories and proverbs and teachings of his grandmother's traditional Eskimo life, and when his modern life made him feel lost, the book was there to guide him.
looking up into the crisp black sky, Akiak pulled his hood up and trudged through week-old snow toward the apex of the largest hill on the horizon. the moon as his guide, the walk charged his blood, fortifying his spirit for the work ahead.
the phone had rang early that evening, news from the small village where grandmother insisted to remain long after the family had headed south to electricity and highways and public schools. grandmother was gone. she had walked out into the northern night, refusing a guide, a doctor or a word to argue the subject. she knew what was coming, and she chose her way to meet death. and now Akiak, guided by the voices of the tattered, now dusty, book, chose grandmother's ways to honor her.
reaching the hilltop, he glanced at the moon again. the sphere hung ripe and full above him, looming so large, Akiak felt he could touch it if he desired. he lifted his hood, pulled off his stocking cap, and set it at his feet. he gingerly lay the book on top, open to a diagram of pages. working with the small hand tools tucked inside his down coat, he followed the book's guide to build a small but intricately accurate igloo.
Akiak took a brief rest, but a gaze to the moon slipping down the hill got him to his feet once more. he pulled a small white candle and a single wooden match from his pocket. he placed the candle in the igloo and after striking the match on the coat zipper, lit the flame.
with a sigh of honor, relief, love, devotion, tradition, he lifted the book, replaced his hat and headed back down the hill. he only looked back once, at the foot of the hill. the moon seemed to rest just above the glowing igloo, as to let Akiak know he had done his grandmother well. they had shared the night, all for her.
TO SHARE THE NIGHT
it was cold. the kind of cold that would make most ordinary people hole away in the warm cozy crannies of overstuffed sofas in overheated rooms. but it was nothing to Akiak, who tucked a handwritten book of ancient Eskimo verse under his arm and ventured outside the comfort of home and central heating. the book had been a gift from his grandmother on the day he was born 20 years ago.
"keep this for him until he grows enough to hold it dear himself," the perpetually wise grandmother had instructed Akiak's mother. it wasn't long; a 3-year-old Akiak took to toting the book up the old attic stairs and spending hours poring over the rough pages of hand-inked lines. Akiak would get lost in the stories and proverbs and teachings of his grandmother's traditional Eskimo life, and when his modern life made him feel lost, the book was there to guide him.
looking up into the crisp black sky, Akiak pulled his hood up and trudged through week-old snow toward the apex of the largest hill on the horizon. the moon as his guide, the walk charged his blood, fortifying his spirit for the work ahead.
the phone had rang early that evening, news from the small village where grandmother insisted to remain long after the family had headed south to electricity and highways and public schools. grandmother was gone. she had walked out into the northern night, refusing a guide, a doctor or a word to argue the subject. she knew what was coming, and she chose her way to meet death. and now Akiak, guided by the voices of the tattered, now dusty, book, chose grandmother's ways to honor her.
reaching the hilltop, he glanced at the moon again. the sphere hung ripe and full above him, looming so large, Akiak felt he could touch it if he desired. he lifted his hood, pulled off his stocking cap, and set it at his feet. he gingerly lay the book on top, open to a diagram of pages. working with the small hand tools tucked inside his down coat, he followed the book's guide to build a small but intricately accurate igloo.
Akiak took a brief rest, but a gaze to the moon slipping down the hill got him to his feet once more. he pulled a small white candle and a single wooden match from his pocket. he placed the candle in the igloo and after striking the match on the coat zipper, lit the flame.
with a sigh of honor, relief, love, devotion, tradition, he lifted the book, replaced his hat and headed back down the hill. he only looked back once, at the foot of the hill. the moon seemed to rest just above the glowing igloo, as to let Akiak know he had done his grandmother well. they had shared the night, all for her.
Monday, March 3, 2008
like mike
here's an essay/narrative/profile piece inspired by my grandma. like everything i put up here, capitalization is forgotten, spell check is abandoned and it hasn't been proofed or read before. so forgive any typos.
peace, love and free antibiotics...enjoy.
like mike
my grandmother is like mike tyson. i realized this over eggs and toast this Sunday at my mother's house. my grandmother was in town for a family birthday, and we had gathered for a last meal before she headed back across state lines in a cadillac the size of a living room. we caught up on the details of life as she nursed a bloody mary and i longed for some hair of the russian dog.
she used to be quite a knockout actually, born and built for the style of the 60s. years hadn't been unkind, but she had aged as we all do or will. she wore the uniform of her generation as i someday would. her in appliqued sweatshirts while i'd see my golden years in flip-flips and tattoos. her hair had transitioned from lustrous auburn of a purty little thing to the coiffed hive of a mother of four to an artificially colored and permed rendition of what used to be. gracefully and realistically, she had embraced her silvering and wore it like a crown. it wasn't regal or pretentious, but the headdress of those who've lived hard, loved hard and found peace.
it wasn't her hair or the felt kittens tumbing down her sweater that day that struck me. neither of these bore any resemblance to the lisped former heavyweight champion. it was something more obvious and yet artfully subtle. it was her new eyebrows.
on a face without a stitch of makeup, two perfect cinnamon crescents arched above each witty eye. as casually as telling me she bought a new iron, i found out they were tattooed on. my grandmother had face tattoos. it didn't really hurt, and it was as matter of fact as the keds on her feet.
i chewed this over along with the last of my eggs, the grease and protein settling well. my grandmother is like mike tyson. this 77-year-old tattooed her face with nerves of steel and a devil-may-care attitude, just like the former champ. and though the purpose and design of the ink was more conventional, i think she defeated iron mike in facial art realm for more. she didn't need the attention; she didn't want it. she had earned the right to do whatever the hell she pleased. and that makes her the baddest woman on the planet.
peace, love and free antibiotics...enjoy.
like mike
my grandmother is like mike tyson. i realized this over eggs and toast this Sunday at my mother's house. my grandmother was in town for a family birthday, and we had gathered for a last meal before she headed back across state lines in a cadillac the size of a living room. we caught up on the details of life as she nursed a bloody mary and i longed for some hair of the russian dog.
she used to be quite a knockout actually, born and built for the style of the 60s. years hadn't been unkind, but she had aged as we all do or will. she wore the uniform of her generation as i someday would. her in appliqued sweatshirts while i'd see my golden years in flip-flips and tattoos. her hair had transitioned from lustrous auburn of a purty little thing to the coiffed hive of a mother of four to an artificially colored and permed rendition of what used to be. gracefully and realistically, she had embraced her silvering and wore it like a crown. it wasn't regal or pretentious, but the headdress of those who've lived hard, loved hard and found peace.
it wasn't her hair or the felt kittens tumbing down her sweater that day that struck me. neither of these bore any resemblance to the lisped former heavyweight champion. it was something more obvious and yet artfully subtle. it was her new eyebrows.
on a face without a stitch of makeup, two perfect cinnamon crescents arched above each witty eye. as casually as telling me she bought a new iron, i found out they were tattooed on. my grandmother had face tattoos. it didn't really hurt, and it was as matter of fact as the keds on her feet.
i chewed this over along with the last of my eggs, the grease and protein settling well. my grandmother is like mike tyson. this 77-year-old tattooed her face with nerves of steel and a devil-may-care attitude, just like the former champ. and though the purpose and design of the ink was more conventional, i think she defeated iron mike in facial art realm for more. she didn't need the attention; she didn't want it. she had earned the right to do whatever the hell she pleased. and that makes her the baddest woman on the planet.
Friday, February 29, 2008
"oh yeah": a therapy for writer's block
my grand idea behind this new blog was to motivate and inspire myself to consistently work on my writing outside of any self- or work-enforced structures. so i spent a bit of time making the layout, thinking of the possibilities and wonders of self-expression. and now i can't write.
i refuse to turn this blog into a journal of any sort, but i cannot seem to get past the inability to write this first post. and i really can't continue with my writing regime until i write the first post. and that, my friends, is where we're at.
essentially, writer's block sucks all the time, but some times, i suppose i should just suck it up and power through it. so here i am, at work, imagining a kool-aid man version of myself breaking through a writer's block wall made of brick shaped pillows.
i hope that fixed it, because it sure wasn't very productive for the bottom line.
i refuse to turn this blog into a journal of any sort, but i cannot seem to get past the inability to write this first post. and i really can't continue with my writing regime until i write the first post. and that, my friends, is where we're at.
essentially, writer's block sucks all the time, but some times, i suppose i should just suck it up and power through it. so here i am, at work, imagining a kool-aid man version of myself breaking through a writer's block wall made of brick shaped pillows.
i hope that fixed it, because it sure wasn't very productive for the bottom line.
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