Happy Blue Moon

Happy New Year's eve, happy new decade. Tonight is also a blue moon, which means it's the second time this month that there'll be a full moon. But it reminds me of blue moon ice cream, which is largely a midwest thing. I've been trying to figure out exactly how to describe the flavor of this ice-cream (below) and have settled on mint-blueberry. Some people say Froot Loops. In any case, it's a treat.

Blue moon image above: Kostian Iftica, explorethecosmos.com

Merry Christmas

Following directions

So I'm applying for various writing fellowships around the country. They're fussy, you know, and each one wants something different. One of them wants eight copies of the first 35 pages of my manuscript. Stapled. Your average Swingline won't do the trick. But luckily, I've got my dad, who in terms of handiness falls somewhere between Bob Vila and Red Green.

I bring him the eight copies. He gets out his roofing stapler. My literary masterpieces are now fastened to a scrap piece of wood in the basement. He pries them off with a spackle-covered putty knife. Uses a hammer and a weird-shaped tool to tap the heavy staples into place.

The fellowship committee has got to appreciate that my manuscript can withstand hurricane-force winds.

The talkies

Enjoyed "The Blind Side" with my parents this afternoon. Mostly. To all of you out there who think it's acceptable to narrate, discuss the finer points of, or otherwise comment on a film in progress, two words:

Shut. Up.

Self-critical

In a search for binder clips I came across these in Office Depot. Not sure why these are useful. If the document is crap, shouldn't it just be recycled? Why save it? But perhaps these are popular among literary agents. TV execs. Advertising companies. Law offices.

Today

Dreamcatcher

Here's another short for 3WW. The words are fondle, kick and sumptuous.


Bits and pieces of dream lingered like morsels of forgotten feasts. An unknown beast. Doorways.

Awakening was like standing on a dock at dawn, the dream boxed in an underwater crate attached to a thick rope, the kind she could never climb. Whenever she managed to retrieve the crate and break it open its contents flooded her like a treasure from the otherworld.

Fondling strange ears. Wariness and fascination. The hairless tiger chased her and shot pieces of claw like throwing stars that glowed when they struck locked doors that kicked open to endless stairways and empty rooms. The tiger broke apart into doves that filled the air in sumptuous flurry. A snowstorm on a mountaintop.

A secret gift.