Tag Archives: behavior

“If you must use your cellphone, kindly use conversive tones.”

Day Two of The MayDayChallenge finds us visiting the baristas at The Raindrop Cafe, who got something to tell us:

  • fair trade, shade grown
  • fair trade shade grown
    roasted 3 blocks from your home
    shipped in sacks from africa
    hispanic lands and sumatra
    each cup is crafted expertly
    all our milk is hormone free
    or if you dont take to dairy
    we also offer milk from beans
  • fair trade, shade grown
    & for your dog a biscuit bone
    our flavored syrups ultra pure
    evaporated cane sugar
    and if you’d like a pastry
    we buy ours from french bakeries
    except for these delicious pies
    they’re made by this one bearded guy
  • fair trade, shade grown
    our cafe, your second home
    and if you must use your cell phone
    kindly use conversive tones
    we offer high speed internet
    (don’t use it for your bit torrent)
    yes we compost & recycle
    as marked on these receptacles
  • fair trade, shade grown
    succulent, velvety foam
    we’ll top your late with a heart
    of if you like some abstract art
    we’re here before the sun is up
    especially to fill your cup
    and if you’d prefer the decaf
    we promise you we will not laugh…

This is a part of my Over The Top Non-Stop Stop Action Non-Toxic Sock Poppet Rock Opera.

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Writing from the Heart

Last year’s novel was concerned with Memory and Mistake, and it’s greatest fault—and the reason it’s sitting in the vault, aging for a spell before I go back over it—is that it is largely written from a state of removal. From the first page, the “writer” states that he is writing about his writing more than he is writing about the life that his writing sprang from. And by the time the denouement starts to form, like a storm accumulated from the dust and wind and moisture of the traversed landscape, the Blackbird Variations, 3 retreats into a fractalling demurement of self reference, interpretation and critique that is so freaking dense and uncalled for that I’m sure anyone who made it that far would end up chucking it across the room, shouting: “What the hell is your problem, Benjamin? Why is it so hard to just tell a damn story?”

I let my mind guide my prose, and while some people can pull this off, I’m not one of them. My wheels spin so tight and quick that all too soon they spend the grist they’re fed, and begin to masticate their self-same mechanism.

Probably the greatest complement I’ve ever received, as an artist, was voiced 10 years ago by a four year old girl. She said to her mom, while describing the stories I would make up for her class while they ate lunch: “Benjamin tells stories from his heart.” And yet every time I tell a story to a blank page, my head steps all over the heart and tries to get the blood portioned out into a 42 fluid ounces, labeled and tested and siphoned of hemoglobin.

There has to be a way to cheat this.