Waiting for Ian

This is a photo I took waiting for Ian. Ian and I meet sometimes for lunch around the corner from where I work. I just stand there and keep a watch out for his bicycle. Ian's a nice guy with an interesting blog called "Letters Home to You" featuring solid and well-written viewpoints right on the pulse of the times. A guest post of mine is up at his site, called "North American Expat Germany survival guide: the pancake edition." If you're hungry, I invite you to stop by.

P.S. This is a repost of a guest post at Sar's, whose blog is sadly no longer with us.

In anthropological journals you will find occasional mention of the "Hooded Ladies of Lanslund" -- In footnotes, implicit innuendos, little more than hearsay, vague tales quoted from legends. Direct information, however, remains sparse. Most accounts are little more than flowered renderings of the footnoted statements, statements which themselves do nothing more than hint at existence of the ladies. Whether this existence is tangible or fancy is left to speculation or even to faith. Are the hooded ladies a race of arctic Amazons, muscular and stern in their interactions with the hard environs of the Lanslund region? Are they tender like melting snow warming on Spring blossoms? Do they like to kiss?

If I could answer these questions I would be assured a doctorate. I jetted to Scandinavia, took a train to Kolari, as far north as Finnish rails were lain. From there I trudged the tundra, ever further, north by northwest, camping under the Aurora Borealis, long nights of exhausted sleep - and days of relentless treks through uneven land.

Finally I reached the lake country, an uncharted region with no official name, but in the mind one knew it could only be Lanslund. It was nearly dusk, and the Northern Lights began to flare. I stood before the threshold of Lanslund as one of the hooded ladies appeared out of the glowing shadows and stared at me. She did not blink. She stared in a self-assurance that needed not a word.

"Lady of Lanslund," I answered her Nordic silence, "I want to know you. I want to know all about you."

She did not speak, though she moved her head slightly in acknowledgement of my request. She extended a hand towards me, a universal expression of "join with me." My hand was in hers as she drew me into the timber surrounding the lake, then deeper still, past sleeping trees, into her abode, a tent of animal skins, warmed inside by the heat of our breaths.

In her tent she taught me. Gazed into me without a sound, pasting complex sentences into my mind, that I could never speak in words. I became dazed, I felt numb and saw only her, soon like a dream, where faces loom the size of novas. It is all I remember.

My next recollection is walking back with her the way we came. She led me to the Lanslundan frontier. I turned to look at her, encountered again that unyielding gaze, as immobile and inviting as the slabs of Stonehenge. I turned and traversed the tundra back to Kolari, to the train, the airport and ultimately back to the desk where I performed my studies. Still the same person, but different. Now I knew. I knew how to write footnotes.

Story #425

Anyone stopping by is invited to post his/her spontaneous story and/or impressions given by the photograph above...

Lips looking ladylike she smiled like always, then pouted, the rapid metamorphosis wrenching my reason from a grasp already unsure. We worked together, side-by-side for months. Businesslike. Official behavior, the way that colleagues do. I stalked her secretly, saw the URL she visited once, and noted it, repeating the address intensely to myself until I could write it away: an online beauty contest she'd won: "Loveliest Lips on a Lady" contest. Thousands of males lustful and lusting came voting for that facial detail of hers, some sharing comments imaginative in ways to make lipstick blush. She read every one. But I could enjoy her lips anytime I wanted to, at least the view of them. She was much too involved with her work to notice my rapt appraisal of that lower hemisphere of the face. There were moments, though, that she suspected. The sight of her then sent me spinning away. I'd blurt out words I knew could make no sense. Lorelei lips. Slashdotted lips. Anything but subliminal. And then it all went black. Then suddenly light, as she pressed my reboot button to call me back. This was the finest moment. As she waited, and I booted, those lips formed words at me: "Damned Vista!"

Story #424

Since I kept you all waiting so long, I think the least I can do is post the next story right away with the photo. I check my logs occasionally and see some of you stopping by from time to time, hoping maybe to find a new post. Thanks for the compliment.

Anyone who feels like it is more than welcome to post their own story to the above photo as a comment, but don't feel obligated. I guess I owe you all a few for the long wait.

Important message: Greenbeardmag.com is back! New format, new stories. Check it out!

Six Word Memoir

"I rarely smile - I'm so serious."

Miss Pansi tagged me with this meme in which you write six words about yourself. I think Miss Pansi will like this picture because I am wearing a designer jogging jacket. We visited an outlet mall during vacation. But somehow it feels strange to have someone else's name on my chest. Maybe that's why the jackets were so cheap.

I get to tag five new victims:

1. Aral Peppermint Patty Pez (who also hasn't posted in a while, so I hope she will do so now!)
2. Cooper (because we know so much about her already, and every little bit is gold.)
3. Jamie (who is too young to write a memoir, and if she weren't, it would be more than six words!)
4. Ian (because I know he hates these things *snicker*)
5. La Delirante (because she's cool, and blogs from Malta)

Here are the rules of the meme:

1. Write your own six word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3. Link to the person who tagged you in your post.
4. Tag five more blogs with links.
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Greenbeard

Those of you who haven't yet heard, there's a new literary e-zine on the scene, called Greenbeard, featuring an illustrious anthology of poetry, short stories, reviews and artworks. One of the main contributors is Angela Meyer with several reviews and a story in the best tradition of Virginia Woolf's Orlando. There are film reviews by Batul Mukhtiar, who herself is a filmmaker, and one by Greenbeard's editor Mariana Sabino. Mari reviewed "Sedmikrasky", which is one of my favorite films - and thanks to her I finally understand it! You'll also find pieces by The Observer, Sherriff and The Sylphidine. The only way I can list all the highlights is to copy and paste the table of contents. One of my pieces is in there too, and I feel quite honored about that, seeing the quality of the other contributions.

I will begin posting here again soon - I have just been lazy, enjoying life as if the Internet didn't exist. I do apologize to all of you who keep stopping by here. It was a great vacation, and we just missed a second snowstorm on the way back. Really. A few hours after we flew out of Chicago they cancelled around 500 flights because of a snowstorm.

Indeterminacy #423

I am away for a two week vacation in the gentle, snowstorm-covered plains of Ohio. Until I'm back (around March 25th), I leave you with this wonderful work of art by Mayuko Fujino entitled "Dia de los Muertos Georama" which I playfully combined with a song from the 1930's. You are all invited to contribute your stories and impressions to this image, and when I'm back in two weeks or so, I will post my own story. In the meantime, you're also invited to enter and enjoy Mayuko's fascinating world of art spanning paper cutouts to shadow plays. Here are her sites you can visit:

Homepage: cohac.com/m
Myspace (videos): myspace.com/georama
Photo Galery: flickr.com/photos/mayuk

Note: The song I used is "My Unfaithful Cowgirl" by the Swift Jewel Cowboys (found at westernswing78).

Here is a static version of the image:

My tip: Load this photo in your full screen, play the song, and look at the picture. It's so much fun!

----
Another Note: A warm thank you to Cooper for featuring Indeterminacy at Shouldbefamous.net. With your help, Cooper, I really might be famous someday.

It wasn't like a deluge, with buckets of rain descending as if poured from above. It happened so fast we didn't even have time to get wet. Wetness only exists in the presence of that barren realm of empty air which is hardly better than a vacuum. But that was gone, replaced. The ocean was simply there that morning when we woke up, all-encompassing, a rich, briny substance for us to move through. Surprisingly, no one drowned. It wasn't so bad breathing the aquatic thickness into our bodies, only a slight irritation of the saltwater as each inhalation reached it's maximum of expanded lungs. But you got used to it quickly. "Ocean? Ok, ocean," everyone thought, then went about their routine as if it were just another day. And actually, it was. The stock markets opened. The buses ran. Everyone could go to work, school and other planned elsewheres, all as if nothing had happened.

Not that I loved my everyday rut - it had gnawed at my being just like everybody else goes through with their personal routines. But how can you escape that lobster's claw of responsibility that in the end demands movements that even a zombie could fulfill, mindlessly, monotonously, like waves moving back and forth? Sure, I wanted out. That thought skirted my mind like a floating balloon that never soars, just hangs there at waist level, lolling back and forth, a kind of a taunt, because you have to keep on walking past it, but never forgetting that it is still there hugging into your personal space, and always will be.

I thought that fleetingly, as always, and then her presence segued into the trailing thought. There she was, right across from me in the sea-filled bus. I glanced over quickly, catching her eye for a moment, noticing the silent acknowledgement, as always, but this time, not interrupting it. This time I did not turn away to glance at the ads or the other people. I held my eyes steady, beaconed tentatively with my hand. Somehow, magically, hers was in mine. With our two free hands, and the steady rhythm of our legs, we took off though a window of the bus, and swam upwards into the sunlight.

Story #422

A long time ago I promised Colored Clouds that I would use one of her photos for a story - but somehow I never got around to doing so. So I paged through her beautiful blog called Creations of Another Nature and found the photo I posted here. I hope it will be a pleasant surprise for her!

Bethy built a boy trap. Part of it was a metal frame stuck in the ground, two legs on each side (V's turned on end), and a connecting bar on top. From the top bar dangled two chains, ending at a black rectangular seat down by the ground. In fact, the construction looked exactly like a swing. And since it looked exactly like a swing, Bethy decided she didn't actually have to build that part herself but could borrow the swing at the playground on her way home from school. A boy trap is, of course more than just that. It's a complex merging of chemical, biological and psychological elements that are as easy to understand as why no sometimes means yes.

On Monday at 3 o'clock in the afternoon Bethy walked past her trap. The trap was empty. On Tuesday she walked by again. A boy lingered nearby, snapping twigs he'd torn from one of the bushes. On Wednesday as she passed the swing, there was the boy, caught!, hanging by his legs from the top bar, waiting for the girl to free him. Bethy walked towards the boy, to help him out of the trap and onto his feet again. The boy saw an inverted Bethy walking in close, smiling up at him, ready to turn his entire world upside down. This was the ineveitable result considering his belief that he had just caught Bethy with the girl trap he had built.

Story #421

This was the third in a series of sketches by Tabita. If you'd still like to contribute your own story, please feel welcome to. You can see more of Tabita's work at her Danish gallery - the series of self portraits especially caught my eye. Tabita and I plan on collaborating more in the future: stories to pictures and pictures to stories, like this very sweet surprise for Indeterminacy #205 (page down to see it).

Postscript: Tabita asked me to thank all of you on her behalf for your stories and comments. I'm happy she let me borrow her artwork for a set of stories. So thank you, too, Tabita!

Striped socks, checked socks, striped socks, checked socks
coursed Theta's thoughts, as she stood before the mirror.
The skin of her soles touched the floor – the planks of the wood were happy.
Checkers make the boys go blind, spinning cubes before their eyes.
Stripes might make them lose their mind, wondering what is hid behind.
Blind boys. Crazy boys. Blind boys. Crazy.
She dressed in stripes for today she was lazy.
Now she waited, staid in the park, wond'ring if crazy was what she'd want.

Story #420

This wonderful sketch appears by kind permission of Tabita.

Annique and Lila lay in the grass, a chessboard resting between them. They were as silent as the sun as they concentrated, eyes fixed on the board. "Checkmate!" called Annique, after moving the queen two squares away from the empty edge. Lila searched out her king. She found it prone in the grass, stoically tickled by the green blades. She placed it on the vacated square in direct line of the queen. The king was surrounded now by fatal fields that dared not be touched. In response Lila allowed one of her pawns to take a diagonal retreat. Annique added a bishop directly in that square, and Lila backed the pawn away a further space. This time Annique slid the queen a few squares down, with Lila placing a rook in the regal woman's wake. Back and forth, more and more pieces appearing. With each turn, the population on the board increased - the pawns, rooks, bishops and knights falling back into their original constellation, like an explosion seen in reverse. Finally the pieces rested on two opposite sides of the chessboard, in two solid rows each. "We won!" Annique and Lila exclaimed together. "Now let's play again!" Lila suggested in a delighted tone. "Yes, let's" Annique agreed, as she turned the board 180 degrees. "But this time," Lila continued, "I will be white, and you will be black."

Story #419

Thanks Tabita for sharing your drawing with us! And thanks everyone for contributing stories! Tabita is a new friend I made at Redbubble where I reposted some of my older stories. I saw some of her drawings in a style I really liked and asked her if she would post more. A few hours later she posted a new drawing, this one you see above, with the comment that she didn't have more, so she had to draw one first. There's an enchanting charm to Tabita's sketches that I can't help liking.