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794. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 9:42:28 PM I’m half Italian. My dad was born there. I am not fluent, though I can read and write it passably. I can speak it well enough with relatives. And I am fine, these days, mostly. 795. Jenerator - 1/24/2008 9:44:05 PM We're all at home today because the little man is sick. So I cleaned out my closet and found all sorts of artifacts; at least I did something productive.
I wish I had the literary talent that you and Webfeet possess; I could have written an award-winner this month.
I will spare you the details - suffice it to say it's been one of the most emotionally weird starts to a new year. 796. alistairConnor - 1/24/2008 9:44:41 PM ah... shadows under the eyes... too many late nights drinking Dr Peppers?
And WHAT has that boy been eating... 797. NuPlanetOne - 1/24/2008 9:50:46 PM Beautiful kids Jen. Keepers both. I will say that having talent to write does little by way of making it at all easy. But you did hit on the correct notion, that is, having the time, any free time to attempt it. Bad emotional times? Sorry to hear that. I hope it clears out soon 798. webfeet - 2/14/2008 1:28:10 AM Bienvenue de la France... I am on a cold stone mountain in the alps, inside belle-mere's lair. (we're amies, at the moment). I scored a lot of pts tonight with an apple crumble..the key is crude brown sugar, or sucre roux. Maybe I can bake my way into the family's affections..
IN order of posts, Judith, if you knew how much work and obsessive re-writing I do, a casual remark such as your own, is enough to send me raking through the drawrs to find the key to the rifle cabinet. At the moment, I'm only hunting rabbits now..and other game from my perch in the attic.
Jen, I was delighted to hear from you. It seems like--yesterday that we trucked through 'Black Swan Green.' ANd, thank you. It was very nice to read that, now, as I am having a really blue day concerning my work. It's funny how kind words have a way of popping up when you need them.
To read someone who is a genuine literary talent, however, pick up "A Charmed Life: Growing up in Macbeth's Castle" by Liza Campbell, the daughter of the 25th Thane of Cawdor. It's an astonishing work, not just because the writing is brilliant, but the nature of the story, of a childhood that is far from a fairy tale, is so sad and yet so compelling to read.
It's not about a thirteen year old boy with a speech impediment.
And I love your bravado in posting photos of children (adorable ones) drinking from soda cans with lips smacking of bad-for-you blue food. I would be exiled in my neighborhood. Mothers would shun me. Actually, I love it because one of my characters does this very thing. She gives her daughter yoohoo and fritos at playgroup while the other moms unwrap organic super foods and the like in a competition for healthiest mom/tot lifestyle duo. New York mothers are hyper-conscious about snack. Snack is a snapshot of your life. What is disturbing is how mothers, at least the ones I know, prefer a snack that is air tight, sealed and factory made, (even in an organic, peanut free one) over a homemade cookie. There's this anxiety over food in general, with snack as the most obvious example of how people with too much in life can find so much to be miserable about.
Nuplanet, baths and babies, and yeasty laundry sacks take up a lot of time when you're trying to write and be creative. And, yet it's funny what we think of as 'inspiring' moments. Take now. I have a snow-peaked mountain outside my window. When I open my eyes in the morning, I have this glorious Kodak Gallery montage to wake up to. Is it inspiring? Not really. It's like looking at a picture of Keira Knightley. It's perfection. But then, so what? It's actually deadly boring. There's probably some kind of book written by Mitch Alboun like "More Pearls of Wisdom From Maurrie" that offers these little gems, like finding inspiration in small things, that says the same thing with bon bon simplicity, but it is true. 799. wonkers2 - 2/14/2008 2:01:14 AM Jen, beautiful children! 800. NuPlanetOne - 2/14/2008 2:53:08 AM Web,
This much I am certain of, waking up *with* Keira is a thought I find inspiring. I would forgo views of all sorts, perhaps windows altogether. Yet, I am a lover of mountain scenery and morning mist, so I envy you that. But yes, inspiration, however small or truly simple, is difficult to contrive or concoct. I remember being inspired once by a bug on a box whilst sitting next to a dumpster outside a kitchen door. I scrambled to find a scrap of paper to jot down a few lines. I remember thinking at the time how that one little rush or glimpse stimulated a series of days when words and images flowed freely. It would be sweet if such a nudge were to coincide with a panoramic view, coincidently, as it were.
801. alistairconnor - 2/14/2008 11:33:01 AM Knightley? I think not.
But three times a week, for example... 802. alistairconnor - 2/14/2008 2:12:57 PM I have reached the conclusion that the Beast with Two Backs is actually the highest form of human spiritual experience.
Pretty banal, I know. But at least I worked it out for myself. And it only took me three decades or so.
I used to Believe in Fusional Love, the permanent full-featured model. I conceived of myself as an utter failure because of my manifest incapacity to get anywhere near that ideal.
I will not bore you with the story of my life as an emotional toddler. Let's just say that I came to terms with the fact that the fusional thing is not only impossible, but philosophically inept and fundamentally undesirable. 24/7 controlled fusion is just impractical : even the nuclear scientists acknowledge that it's still at least 40 years away.
So having learned to live with the exhilarating freedom and sidereal loneliness that derive from this conclusion, I decided that three times a week was about right. And, let's be perfectly clear about one thing : I wasn't getting any.
Enough philosophy. Cut to the chase :
At the age of forty-seven. I realised I'd never been through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in my hair.
And I thought : Why the hell not? Fighting back the tight-arsed Calvinist maternal grandfather who, according to my womens' magazine notions of pop psychology, was angrily dictating my moral consciousness, I decided it was time to Have Some Fun.
After all. People told me I was well-preserved. In a sort of, low mileage, only ever used by a little old lady on Sundays, never classy or sporty and now downright quaint, but not bad looking, cheap to run and look at the price, an incredible bargain sort of a way.
Figuratively, I was in good shape. Literally? ... well ... That is where the gym idea came in.
I'd never done anything resembling a regular sporting activity. I often run, but that's because I'm always late. Don't get me wrong - I'm capable of hard physical effort, if there's really no way to get around it. But the idea of doing it gratuitously in one's spare time has always struck me as grotesque.
And so it proved to be. I signed up at the new gym just around the corner from my office. Luckily they were offering a cheap starting rate (my inner maternal grandfather is tight-fisted as well as tight-arsed).
I saw it as a strictly utilitarian thing : get into shape, despite the suffering. But it also crossed my mind that, if I chose my hours carefully, it might be an interesting place to mingle with the local population of Desperate Housewives, or cultural equivalent. 803. judithathome - 2/15/2008 1:02:15 AM I'm finding it very difficult to read anything in this thread...will be back when whatever is causing the margins to be oversized moves off the page. 804. alistairconnor - 2/15/2008 10:46:48 AM Nah don't blame Jen's kids... I think it's because I'm posting gibberish. 805. NuPlanetOne - 2/15/2008 5:08:09 PM Judith, cut and paste. It’s quick and easy.
alistair, gibberish? But very interesting. Sounds like material that might lead into something needing only a plot.
806. NuPlanetOne - 2/15/2008 5:08:58 PM O.K. I’ve toned down the graphic element in my sex scene, which was hard with all these visions of the afore imaginings of the lovely Keira K. She must portray Sofina in the movie production!
“What is more important right now is where Tony’s focus is this evening. He is part of my business tonight and I need him to follow the script, even if I’m still writing it. Your boy Ollie is fine with me. Your word that the kid is O.K., is plenty. Because you are O.K.” Her eyes followed the speech with a slight blink at the mention of Tony but locked on to my stare concerning Ollie and herself. It was like an agreement with contracts to follow. She unscrunched her shoulders and put her left hand on my wrist.
“Are you hungry?” She asked like she was really concerned about it. I put my other hand on top of her hand. Her eyes went up to mine immediately then back down to the hands, then up again. As soon as our pupils locked on each other I felt the twinge. I knew nothing else mattered at that moment in time. And the twinge was a kind of adrenalin drenched fear and exhilaration. I have never been able to understand why it only happened with certain women, why I couldn't conjure or force it when I needed it or thought I was in love or felt an attraction. And I could count on one hand and a thumb how many times in my life I had felt it. One time it cost me my marriage, another time it cost me my best friend, and once it nearly cost me my life. And all these things buzzing around the glass bubble of this sudden enchantment, rapping on the glass, unable to shake my focus from even considering the consequences. For as her fingers moved just slightly up my arm every pore and follicle and strand of hair in their path exited a pleasure and wanton anticipation like she lit each one and anything literate or consequential belonged to another reality.
"Sure, let's eat," I half whispered. Our eyes ebbed and flowed as in the same tidal surge obeying the moon.
"Wait," she said while the waves settled to foam to bubbles knowing the next crash is coming. She slid out of her chair and came around and went by me keeping hold of my hand. Her other hand hit a wall switch and the naked hard edged fluorescence was gone. A soft night light off in a corner, the mild glare of a microwave, the red glow of an exit sign and a splash of light from the hall turned the room into a place that matched the lure and circumstances, at least, in the bubble I was in. Then she stepped into the bubble. And it was warm.
She came back with my hand and put it on her right thigh as her left leg slid past my chest and her butt rested on the table edge where a plate of food would belong. I faced the plate and slid my chair back a bit then pulled her slowly down onto my lap. Her back was rigid against the table and in a dense slow breathing moment our mouths found each other.
There is no way to describe, really, actually, how intense and carnal that first bolt of electricity can reverberate and override any logical thought or priority. It is like the life force that is pounding beneath the surface of all living things explodes into existence and moves the mind and body in a dance of greed and cooperation that each gender necessary to mix the primeval elixir submit and engage in the profound exchange of cells and fluids, so that the force might continue. Lust, however described or pronounced floods chemically from the most ancient spot on the Helix and washes away pain and suffering and fear and holds them in stasis so that the host may survive the moment and create, in the short blip of time allowed, one more life.
I have thought of these things, afterwards, of course, as now I was paralyzed by the smell and sounds and taste of the wonderful creature writhing in my arms. And the kiss, her tongue, her breasts squashed hard into my chest, her bottom grinding into my crotch; me, trying to force the motion of our heads, gain control, guide her to the table, sense her thoughts, prolong each second forever. Her, receptive, forceful, reluctant, pliable, recoiling, unrelenting, fraught with anticipation. Pushing her torso onto the table, her hands pulling my hands to her breasts, forcing her top up. Exposing her perfect nipples hard against my soft fingers, buttons that I flick and press and take into my mouth. Smothering and suffocating my head with wonderful arms holding me onto her chest while pushing down slightly, then pulling me, staring wildly, pushing me down, then up, as my hands, each one holding and molding a breast, now pushing against the pull as if love were nothing more than clutch, grab, and ecstasy. I heard through a heart pounding muffle, “No. Fuck me. Yes.” The rest of it was wonderfully unnecessary to depict. Then in a series of shudders and moans, it was over.
807. alistairConnor - 2/16/2008 1:58:55 AM The rest of it was wonderfully unnecessary to depict. But fun to read. I preferred the first version. I want Sofina in a pasta pot, alla vongole, as Webfeet so memorably said.
808. webfeet - 2/16/2008 2:10:20 AM ..and did you take a motrin? Or, did you padlock the doors and call the cops.
Sorry, I couldn't resist. You know, I'm not the best judge of sex scenes. But what I see you wrestling with is not Sofina's head, but a match between your overdeveloped brain and your carnal sense. Seems like the brain is winning out. 809. webfeet - 2/16/2008 2:10:52 AM Oh, not at the gym? 810. webfeet - 2/16/2008 2:13:14 AM We're on the same time zone now..I have jet lag as an excuse.
You were next on my list. I have a hard time picturing french women ona stairmaster. Enlighten us sometime. Do they actually hop on a treadmill? 811. webfeet - 2/16/2008 11:36:09 PM If you haven't already ensnared some hapless french woman unused to the flap on the treadmill, then I have a hottie for you.
C'est la maitresse-nageur at our municipal pool here in this little alpine town. If I were going to write a titillating BBC production of some Inspector Linley episode, I'd cast her as either the victim, (the sexy ones usually are) or the murderess. Set to the backdrop of the deadly boring alps in winter, she's come back from vacances, somewhere tropical. Or, maybe she still has a tan from all those afternoons in the sun watching other people's children en ete. She's not so young anymore, but she's definetely got a way to go before she looks like Johnny Hallyday. Manu, her babacool boyfriend, owns a husky breeding farm at the ski station, and takes British tourists for sleigh rides during the winter. Unfortunately, he's fallen in love with one of his clientes, a waifish British student, who decides to fulfill her dream of raising huskies with him in the alps forever. After breaking up with la maitresse-nageur, she goes out for a cigarette in the snow while behind her you can see the children inside the pool splashing through the window.
Thats when you come in with your sportscar. Park, strip and go in for a dip. Perfect, non? 812. NuPlanetOne - 2/17/2008 3:07:28 AM Actually, comparing both versions of the sex scene now, and mindful of plotting it all together, I’m inclined to leave the second version intact as a teaser for perhaps a more splendid encounter somewhere else with another partner or with Sofina within a different context.
My overdeveloped brain and my carnal sense. Oh…the big head and the little one. Ya, you might be right Web, and it is a rare victory indeed, when the big head wins.
813. Jenerator - 2/17/2008 8:13:19 PM Webfeet!!
I meant what I said upthread. I sincerely hope that when you are published, you will let us know. My fingers are already itching to buy your book! In the meantime, I will go and check out Liza Campbell's book. Thanks for the recommendation.
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