tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18348758358734473992024-03-05T11:10:24.754-08:00Spencer Hamilton BorupAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-71586135596723007822016-05-15T10:45:00.001-07:002016-05-15T10:45:55.572-07:00"Do you feel alive?" he asked me.<span style="font-size: large;">Last night I went to a Rocket Summer concert. This post is not about that concert, but about a realization of mine that concert brought about.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You see, The Rocket Summer has been one of my all-time favorite artists for almost 13 years now--literally half of my life. So when I found out he (The Rocket Summer is basically just one dude, so "he" not "they") was performing just down the street from my apartment, on a Saturday when I would be all alone with nothing to do ... the obvious course of action would be to go, right? Buy tickets in advance, invite all your friends, and go rock all night at the front of the stage?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So why did I almost stay home? Why did I have to <i>force</i> myself to go?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I first fell in love with this band's music, I was what you would call an introvert with extrovert tendencies. You know those terms? Basically "introvert" = shy, antisocial; "extrovert" = outgoing, expressive. So in high school I was an introvert--maybe due to my insatiable love for books and my struggle with bullying--but when put in a social setting I became the life of the party. Like some weird shy-guy-turned-class-clown version of the Hulk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But certain life experiences exorcised my inner extrovert. Now, at 25, I find myself experiencing social anxiety for the first time. Even my closest friends know seeing me in public is like that blurry photo of Sasquatch. If it weren't for my wife, I'd probably grow an unruly beard, fear sunlight, and forget who's currently President.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've always contented myself with my current life choices by thinking that this is just what I prefer. I love books, I love writing, I love solitude, and if there's something crazy like traveling the world I've always wanted to do? Meh, I can do that later. Those are just "daydreams."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But then I forced myself to put on shoes and walk down the street to a seedy concert venue. I ordered a Jack and Coke, sat at the bar, and watched one of my musical heroes pour his heart out on the keyboard. I talked to a few drunk people and one geriatric gentleman that was there with his daughter. I helped one drunk lady keep her balance. I joined the crowd in a circle around Bryce Avery (aka The Rocket Summer) on the concert floor in one of the most intimate concert experiences I've been a part of.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And I realized. I had stepped out of my current comfort zone ... and I felt alive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not everything that night went as expected. Not all of it was great. But that was OK. I had put myself out there and was obtaining one of those "life experiences" I'd heard tell about.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Picture it: I'm at the bar, sipping my drink, watching this amazing performer--a guy who used the same producer, the same Santa Monica studio, as I did once; a guy performing on the same stage that I did once; a realization that spiked a <i>This-could-be-me</i> thought of brief arrogance. Suddenly, this guy dismisses his band from the stage and begins recording loops--drum kit, guitar, bass, keyboard, beatbox, gang vox--until an intricate accompaniment loop is washing over the crowd. Then, over the swell of music, he speaks to the crowd, but he's really speaking to me:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"My new album is called <i>Zoetic</i>, which means 'of or relating to life: living, vital.' And that's what we're doing here, together. We're living alive. We're coming alive."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Then he walks down from the stage and invites the crowd to surround him, and we all sing a simple chorus over and over, screaming at the top of our lungs:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Come alive, come alive, come alive!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And later on, during the encore, he asks the crowd, "Do you feel alive?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And I do. I decide I need this more. I promise the ice melting at the bottom of my drink that I'll come alive. I'm going to go back to that Kung Fu class I loved so much. I'll play music more. Go out with friends. See more concerts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Travel the world. First up: Scotland? India?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I realize I've spent the last 3 years stuck in the first act of <i>The Secret Life of Walter Mitty</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now, don't misinterpret my words and think that I'm saying it's <i>bad </i>to be an introvert, or that I'm going to try to become an extrovert. No. What I'm saying is, forget the terminology. There's so much out there. Even if you think you prefer curling up to a good book at home, or you <i>like </i>your small town ... Do you feel alive? Do you <i>want </i>to feel alive?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So do it. Come alive. Try something new. Something you secretly have always wondered about. Go eat squid, skydive, learn Japanese, <i>something</i>. Challenge yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Or don't. This post isn't meant to be preachy. It's meant to explain my small bit of existentialist freak-out from last night. To explain for myself, and if you get anything out of it, then that's beautiful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Find your definition of "zoetic." And live it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you feel alive?" he asked me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I do. Or I did. Or ... Let's just say that I've learned to look for the zoetic. And I fully intend to keep finding it and to come alive.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-81625536876690990262016-03-12T18:34:00.001-08:002016-03-13T16:21:54.538-07:00Step 10,000: Colla Voce<i><span style="font-size: small;">This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html" target="_blank">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Ten Thousand. <i>Colla Voce</i>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />The world had not been given back its color, was still the washed-out gray of neither day nor night. But she was herself the image of color. She embodied light. She embodied <i>Life</i>. She did not climb down from the wall, but instead spoke to him from atop it, smiling down at him with her radiance.<br /> Have you come to understand? she asked.<br /> He hesitated. He did not want to disappoint her. Had he missed something? He still did not know <i>what</i> he was supposed to come to understand.<br /> He told her so. He could not lie. Not to her.<br /> And, graciously almost, she did not seem upset over his answer.<br /> Perhaps, she said, you spent too much of your journey wondering what you were meant to understand, and not enough simply observing.<br /> He did not respond, hoping she would say more. He realized her humming, the distant singing he had heard when Time had first frozen, still floated on the air all around him, despite her vocal chords not currently vibrating with song. Perhaps she had sent the song into the sky and it flew about like a bird.<br /> Virgil tells me you did not linger at the party, she said.<br /> Virgil?<br /> She laughed. Your companion, she said.<br /> Something wet touched his foot, sandpaper-rough yet pleasant. He looked down to find the cat licking him, purring with affection.<br /> Virgil? he asked it.<br /> It paused from its rasping licks and blinked its large eyes at him. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Mew.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> He laughed.<br /> Virgil also tells me, she said as the cat resumed its lapping of his skin, that you found yourself among the giants’ worship, but you exited their valley with as much impunity as at the party.<br /> Was I meant to stay? he asked, thinking <i>impunity</i> was a curious choice of phrase.<br /> She laughed again. No, she said. Neither were you meant to entertain the beliefs of the conspirators. You were not meant to be caught up by one thing, but rather to view it all from an equal distance.<br /> What was this all for? he blurted out, frustrated that he still did not understand.<br /> Perhaps, she said, it is best that you see things from my perspective.<br /> And she reached down from her perch, proffering her hand for him to hold. He grasped her slender fingers, her smooth palm, and was elated by her creamy skin. She made to pull him up and he placed a foot against the abrasive wall, and in this way she helped him walk up the side of the wall to stand beside her.<br /> So this is the “edge of the world,” he said.<br /> She laughed a third time, and her laugh echoed around them, cutting off the humming sound of her singing disembodied voice once and for all. The world’s color burst through the gray like paint splattered on a canvas. <br /> Tears re-welled themselves on the brims of his eyelids.<br /> It’s... His voice faltered. He meant to say “beautiful,” but it did nothing to convey what lay before them.<br /> It’s called “the ocean,” she said.<br /> The ocean, he repeated, tasting the words on his tongue.<br /> Something suddenly occurred to him and he wished it hadn’t.<br /> You’ve kept this from them, he said. The conspirators. You’ve kept the ocean from them.<br /> She smiled sadly, shaking her head, never taking her eyes from the ocean’s horizon.<br /> Never, she said. They only see what they want to see.<br /> You mean, he said, that they’ve <i>seen</i> the ocean?<br /> Yes.<br /> I don’t understand, he said.<br /> Don’t you?<br /> Explain, he demanded. And then, in a softer voice: Please.<br /> She sighed. The conspirators, she said, are living a life of <i>mezzo forte</i>, though they claim that they are being denied <i>fortissimo</i>.<br /> He blinked at her, uncomprehending.<br /> These are musical terms, you must understand, she continued. An array of Italian words used to describe a musician’s <i>dynamics</i>. A musician’s dynamics are simply how loud or quiet they play a section of music. But dynamics are so much more powerful when next to one another.<br /> He stayed quiet, waiting for her to continue.<br /> Consider, she said, if a cellist bows a sonata <i>pianissimo</i>, from start to finish. This is the quietest of dynamics, meant to express tenderness and fragility, but if it is all the listener hears, how are they to gauge its true expression? When all is quiet, <i>nothing</i> is truly quiet. You must, in order to appreciate the delicacy of <i>pianissimo</i>, compare it to <i>fortissimo</i>. <i>Staccato</i> is peckish without <i>tenuto</i>, without the smooth melt of <i>legato</i>.<br /> She finally broke her gaze from the ocean and turned to look him in the eyes. He was surprised to find that she was crying... yet still smiling.<br /> <i>Sforzando</i>! she said abruptly, making him jump. <i>Molto diminuendo</i>!<br /> He had never seen this side of her. She seemed manic. She threw these words at him with an air of desperation. And so he did his best to understand. He turned back to the ocean.<br /> When you left me, he said to the ocean and to her, it felt as if all the color in the world left with you. With your dress. With your smile. This wall we’re standing upon, it stretched forever, just... dead stone. Gray. I hated it.<br /> He sensed her nod slowly by his side, and she took his hand again. His heart skipped a beat.<br /> And do you think, she said, that the wall would have seemed so unpleasant if you hadn’t had me to compare it with?<br /> He shook his head wordlessly, and the tears finally fell.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> And, therefore, on the opposite end of this vast spectrum, she said, the color of my dress and the brightness of my smile might not have left such an impression of happiness upon you without that of the wall to compare <i>them </i>with.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Yes, he whispered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> Some, she said, call this </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">“opposition in all things.” But I find that crass. Misleading. A tidy scripture of ignorance, more about all that Heaven-and-Hell, Jesus-and-Lucifer nonsense than about actual <i>Life</i>. But I cannot deny that they are on to something. Let us, instead, take a page from Tchaikovsky and call it <i>dynamics</i>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> He considered her words for a moment and said, So these ten thousand steps. You knew they would take me to places unpleasant. To the partiers, to your statue, to the conspirators. And... did you know of the giants?<br /> I did, she whispered.<br /> What exactly were they? he asked.<br /> Giants.<br /> He waited for more, but that was all she had to say about the beasts that were born from the earth. He supposed not all things came wrapped in tidy bows of explanation.<br /> So all this was meant to help me understand... the ocean?<br /> Not exactly, she responded. Think of the ocean as a metaphor. You and I, we can leave right now. You see that sailboat down by the shore?<br /> Yes...<br /> It’s meant for us. And Virgil, if Virgil so chooses.<br /> His laughter was hesitant this time.<br /> But I had to be sure, she said. If you and I choose to leave this land, together, forever, there’s no coming back. And the <i>dynamics</i> of our relationship, the dynamics we may sing to one another, one-on-one at sea, might seem like a lot. But I needed you to understand that there are bigger things.<br /> Like giants? he asked.<br /> Like love, she said.<br /> She rested her head upon his shoulder, her fingers still knitted with his, and he could smell her hair, tainted by the salty breeze.<br /> I wish you had told me, he finally said.<br /> He felt her stiffen. How was I to explain something such as this?<br /> With your words, he said. But this way... those ten thousand steps, Virgil, the giants, the partiers... Somehow I find it hard not to view it all as some sort of... <i>test</i>.<br /> She lifted her head from his shoulder, looked at him.<br /> No, she said. Please try to understand—<br /> You’ve said that already, he interrupted.<br /> And are you? Trying?<br /> Yes, he said.<br /> She paused, holding his eyes in her own, holding his hand in her own.<br /> I will be at the sailboat, she whispered. Please try—<br /> To understand? he said, unable to hide the desultory tone of his voice.<br /> Without warning she stepped into him, and he found himself embracing her, something he had dreamt of for far too long. She was as warm as the custard of her dress.<br /> Please, she whispered once more. Please know that I was not trying to hurt you. I was trying to... to...</span><span style="font-size: large;"> I have seen people fall apart for things that seem so trivial to me after living this life for so long—a hundred hundred lives, ten thousand—and I could not bring myself to see the same happen to us. I needed you to—<br /> To understand, he said, and this time it was not a question.<br /> Yes, she said.<br /> You needed me to understand... dynamics?<br /> Yes, she said, laughing softly, sadly. Yes. In a way.<br /> After some time, she pulled away and left him on the wall. He sat on its rough lip and watched the ocean, watched her, in her yellow dress, pick her steps down to the shore and to a sailboat with white sails furled.<br /> He thought of it all, in dynamics. Crescendos, decrescendos. The sun, the night, the fog, the clouds. The giants, the conspirators, their bandages, the discarded hills. The partiers, the <i>pop!</i> and <i>hisss!</i> of beer, the <i>crunch!</i> of a broken nose. The humming melody flitting about like a lark, the soft and insistent <i>Mew!</i><br /> He sat listening to the music, and <i>poco a poco</i> he began to understand.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The End.</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>~~~~~~~</i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">THE COMPLETE STORY:</span></i></span></span></span><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 2. A Companion.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 5. Her Graven Image.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</span></i></span></span></span></a><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step 10,000. </span></i><span style="font-size: x-large;">Colla Voce<i>.</i></span><i><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span> </i> </span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-17873388844114309142016-03-12T17:46:00.000-08:002016-03-12T20:00:25.538-08:00Step 7: Back to the Beginning<i><span style="font-size: small;">This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html" target="_blank">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>.</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;">Today's prompt is: <b>BACKWARDS!</b></span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Seven. Back to the Beginning.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Time crashed to a standstill.<br /> The very air seemed to solidify, and his body was trapped as if inside some intangible glacier.<br /> The conspirators froze. Their limbs stiffened against him.<br /> The cat became a statue, a quaint portrait of a cobalt-gray kitty sitting on a grass-green lawn.<br /> The greens washed away. The sky blanched. The sun dimmed. All color seeped into oblivion—everything down to the cobalt in the cat’s suddenly-lackluster coat.<br /> The world was Time in a bottle, stoppered. He couldn’t move. Even the perspiration glistening down his brow had stopped in its tracks.<br /> He did not know how long this nothingness prevailed. Seconds and hours passed in tandem. His mind had not escaped reality’s molasses effect. He could no longer process his own thoughts. All that stood out against the vast blankness of his faculties was a number, stripped of all meaning: TEN THOUSAND. He stared out across the still landscape and all he could do was think that number, over and over.<br /> TEN THOUSAND TEN THOUSAND TEN THOUSAND—<br /> The first change in this frozen tableau was a sound. It came to him from the abyss imperceptibly—one moment, silence; the next, this sound. It was...<br /> A voice.<br /> <i>Her</i> voice.<br /> She sang, and it was the most beautiful melody he had ever heard. Her voice hummed wordlessly, and for some reason he intuited that she was singing the world into motion once more.<br /> Time trickled back with treacly viscosity, one grain of sand at a time. He felt his left foot push off the grass, felt his head rock forward, felt it connect with the bridge of a nose...<br /> Wait. Something was wrong.<br /> Something is wrong, he said. At least, he tried to say Something is wrong. But the words fell out of his lips in foreign vowels and clipped consonants. They weren’t right.<br /> What was happening?<br /> The cat was getting further away, and yet it did not move from where it sat—the conspirators had reversed their direction, pulling him backward. Time sped up, the cat receded faster, and limbs pulled at his body, words screamed themselves from his lips—alien sounds, not words—and from the lips of the conspirators.<br /> <i>Woo-yeem</i>, said the cat.<br /> “Woo-yeem”? he thought. What the hell was “Woo-yeem”?<br /> And suddenly it clicked.<br /> He was being pulled backward—away from <i>the pits</i>, thankfully; he was reliving things he had already lived. He had head-butted the woman’s nose again, but her nose hadn’t spurted crimson; it had, in fact, absorbed the blood like a sponge, and now her nose was perfectly whole, as if nothing had ever happened. Because, in a way, it never had. It had been undone, like threads in a cross-stitch of Time.<br /> And “Woo-yeem,” of course, was <i>Mew</i> in reverse, as if the cat’s meow was one of those vinyls with hidden meanings if spun the other way.<br /> This was the work of that humming melody—of <i>her</i> humming melody.<br /> She was singing Time in reverse.<br /> Time was flowing backward.<br /> He had no control over his body. He had read as a child that time-travel, if ever made possible, would be pointless—it was impossible to change the course of events, for if you did, the change would have already <i>happened</i>, and you would have already felt its effects in the present; Time, therefore, was a <i>Homo sapien</i> construct used as a measurement of something over which we hold no actual control. And that was how this felt, this rewinding of Time. He felt helpless against whatever it was that controlled it all—her voice, humming, he supposed—and resigned himself to relive recent events in reverse chronological order with an all-consuming sense of impotency.<br /> Counterclockwise, he moved.<br /> The conspirators were back to their huddle, once again ignorant of the man walking toward them who had seen <i>her</i> just beyond the “world’s edge”—only now he walked away, not toward, his legs backpedaling strangely; and now he observed something new about the conspirators. Had he simply not noticed before, or were their bandages soaked through even more now than when he first met them? It looked to him, before his backward-walking put them out of sight behind the hills, as if the white gauze wraps were practically rotting off their bodies, too slick with blood and puss to cling to the wounds.<br /> Now he retraced his steps through the endless expanse of hills, rolling, rolling, <i>rolling</i>.<br /> Now he looked over his shoulder at the back of her statue, and now he walked in reverse once more into the valley, and now her gargantuan statue stood before him, and—<br /> He gasped—or, at least, he tried to; even his lungs weren’t free of Time’s grasp. All he could do was stare at the giants surrounding her monument. The giants weren’t praising her stone any longer. They lay prostrate, their bodies intertwined with one another due to their sheer numbers, and he could see that they were dead. The giants’ corpses were rotted away as if they had simply stood at her monolithic feet for days, weeks, months, wasting away, and then Time had had its way with their bodies for years after that. Thick rib bones poked from chest cavities, eyes sagged in sockets, and these once-bulky, barrel-chested monsters now resembled matchstick marionettes whose strings Time severed.<br /> This isn’t a true reversal of Time, he realized. His body flowed retrograde, true, but the things around him... they were in the <i>future</i>. He was seeing what would become of them.<br /> This revelation was followed by another: the cat was nowhere to be seen.<br /> By now he had left the valley, and his body was mimicking a desperate sprint—like the sprinting he’d done to escape the stampeding giants, except in an awkward backward galumph that defied natural physics. But now he ran alone, for the giants that had originally precipitated this frantic sprint were currently decomposing on the valley floor.<br /> He was suddenly very afraid of what he would see when he reached the partiers’ bonfire, remembering what the cat had said: <i>I’ve seen where they’re headed, and they’ll regret tonight for years. I don’t envy them their morning.</i><br /> And here they were. The first thing that caught his attention was not the carnage but the fire, still roaring at an impressive height, its strange colorless flames dancing beneath a sky that was no longer day or night.<br /> Then he saw the bodies, and he wanted to cry out but could not.<br /> They weren’t dead, which was perhaps the worst part. The partiers lay scattered about the remnants of their night of reckless abandon, screaming and moaning and sobbing.<br /> He could imagine perfectly what had happened after the party of the previous night—for yes, he was seeing their immediate future, not the distant future of the withered-giant graveyard—and his theory was only confirmed by the clods of broken earth surrounding them. The giants had burst from their earthen hillock wombs all across the land, and here, at the partiers’ bonfire, was no exception. He could almost see the stampede of giants trample through the party like a herd of elephants, could almost hear the drunken revelers’ nonsensical shouts of horror.<br /> He wished they hadn’t survived. That would have been a small mercy.<br /> The partiers had woken the following morning with wounds much more serious than their usual hangovers. The ginger-bearded man, for example, was now moaning and hiccoughing over his own legs, which had both been thoroughly trampled and had discarded their contents like a tube of toothpaste. The man’s tent-sized jersey dripped with blood and gore.<br /> He could not bring himself to hone in on the details of the other partiers. He attempted to close his eyes against the atrocities before him, found he could not, and instead resigned himself to Time’s insistence that he walk away in reverse.<br /> His revulsion over the things he had seen, the least of which was not the aftermath of the party, obscured his memory of his own timeline. He did not realize that he was approaching the wall until his body finally turned around, his arm reached out, and he was touching it. The wall’s skin, just barely brushing the skin of his fingertips, felt awfully rough. Abrasive. His arm dropped back to his side.<br /> The stone wall filled most of his sight, its gray a perfect description of the dull monochrome Time imposed on the world in this backward adventure.<br /> His eyelids squeezed shut, and a salty wetness climbed his cheeks. Tears forced themselves back into his tear ducts. His eyes opened, then closed again, then opened again, in a rapid blink against the wind rushing from his face.<br /> A swatch of yellow. Bright yet soft, warm. Like custard.<br /> And suddenly Time released its prisoner, and he could breathe in his own circulatory fashion, could blink by himself, could move his own limbs.<br /> He looked up and he saw a woman.<br /> <i>Her.</i><br /> You kept your promise, she said.<br /> Always, he whispered.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>To be concluded...</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>~~~~~~~</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br /></span></span></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-5266326206372808842016-03-08T13:49:00.004-08:002016-03-12T19:40:48.162-08:00Step 6: The Earth, Flattened<div class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html" target="_blank">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Today's prompt is: <b>CONSPIRACY THEORIES.</b></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span> </b></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Six. The Earth, Flattened.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It was on step nine thousand exactly that he joined the cat on the other side of the giants’ valley.<br /> He looked back. Even from behind, her statue was so lifelike he wanted to stop and call out to her. Beautiful, he muttered, more to himself than to the cat.<br /> <i>I suppose</i>, replied the cat with a hint of boredom in its voice. <i>But you do not want to join the giants. Wasting their lives fawning over the image of a woman... They are no better off than the partiers whose bonfire we passed.</i><br /> He looked away from her statue and down to the cat, which had already padded off. He had given up trying to decipher all the enigmas this feline spoke.<br /> He stepped away from the valley, away from her.<br /> Nine thousand, one. Nine thousand, two. Nine thousand, three...<br /> The clouds were but a memory, chased away, perhaps, by the giants; now the sun, bright and brazen, was unforgiving. It rose to its place in the sky impossibly fast, so it was no longer in his eyes—but it was oppressing all the same.<br /> Nine thousand, five hundred, twenty-seven. Nine thousand, five hundred, twenty-eight.<br /> Time followed the sun’s swift trajectory and passed like water through a sieve. The numbers, the steps, they all blurred together and sped up and skipped around and—<br /> Nine thousand, five hundred, twenty-seven. Nine thousand, five hundred, twenty-eight—<br /> Was his mind playing tricks on him? Or had he miscounted?<br /> He did not care.<br /> The rolling hills on this side of the valley were still intact, obscuring what lay ahead, and he wondered if these also contained hibernating giants. If he placed his hand on one’s grassy surface, would he feel it breathing? Would he feel its heartbeat?<br /> As he followed the cat around a bend in the path, he saw something on the other side. He squinted in the harsh sunlight. A crowd of people, no larger than the group of partiers, but this one seemed subdued—and none of them looked intoxicated, thankfully. They huddled together, their heads bowed and practically knocking into each other, like they were swapping gossip and paranoid of eavesdroppers. Which he supposed he was.<br /> As he and the cat approached them, their whispering floated to him on the still air; it was as heated and harsh as the sun, more hisses than whispers. One of the group noticed him and pointedly shushed the group. They turned to him as one.<br /> The one who had spotted him, a weaselly man with ferrety eyes, looked him up and down with suspicion and said, “Where’d you come from?” and again before he could answer, “How much did you hear?”<br /> The entire group shared a similar slightness in build, almost malnourished, sickly, and they all wore the same strange white cloth wrapped around their bodies like gauze. He noticed blotches of red seeping through bits of the fabric; maybe they were bandages. The entire group stared at him, sniffed at him, shifty and distrustful.<br /> I came from the wall, he said.<br /> “The wall?” repeated the weaselly man with ferrety eyes. He seemed to be their spokesman. “You came from the wall?”<br /> Yes, he nodded.<br /> At this, the weaselly man must have believed him, for his eyes opened from their constant squinting, in amazement, and utter shock was writ on his face. “Then...” he sputtered, glancing conspiratorially at his companions, “then you must have seen it!”<br /> The wall? he asked, wondering where the cat had gone off to.<br /> The group snickered amongst themselves, a bit too patronizing for his taste. The weaselly man said, “No, no, not the bloody wall! You’ve seen <i>it</i>.” The man looked about theatrically. “The edge of the world.”<br /> Excuse me? said he.<br /> “The edge of the world, the edge of the world, the world’s edge,” the group chanted excitedly amongst themselves. The weaselly man skittered over to him and nudged him over to the rest, inviting him into their huddle; he flinched, not wanting to be touched by someone whose skin weeped from countless wounds, not caring that they were bandaged. “The edge of the world,” the man said, grinning madly, “is just beyond that wall, son.”<br /> He stared around in disbelief for a moment, wondering if he’d rather be accosted by the partiers than by <i>this</i> crowd. Then, taking in their eager yet earnest faces, his judgments fell away. Who was he to say they were wrong? All he’d seen from the opposite side of the wall was the flick of her yellow dress, and hadn’t he believed giants were a myth only hours before? Anything, he supposed, no matter how absurd, could be possible. Couldn’t it?<br /> He smiled kindly at the people surrounding him, and they beamed back.<br /> “Did you see it, son?” the weaselly man asked him.<br /> I’m not sure, he responded.<br /> This did not arrest their enthusiasm. “Tell us,” the man said—practically <i>sang</i> it—“tell us exactly what you saw beyond the wall.”<br /> Well, he began. He wondered again where the cat had gone off to, and if he should follow it, if he was wasting precious time. I saw, he said, just above the wall... I saw her go over the wall. Yes, I saw her climb the wall and I saw her dress disappear over it.<br /> He smiled at them, expecting excitement, but their faces fell.<br /> “Her?” asked the man, echoed by many of his companions: “Her?” “Her?” “<i>Her?</i>”<br /> Yes, <i>her</i>, he said. You know, the woman whose statue—<br /> “You... know... <i>her?</i>” the man seethed, his cheeks caving in and blowing out like bellows. The man was furious, and he saw that the man’s companions were as well.<br /> He backed up. Yes, he said, almost defiantly. What’s wrong with—<br /> “<i>She</i> keeps the truth from the world, boy!” said the man, advancing on him. “<i>She</i> doesn’t want us to know what’s really out there! <i>She</i> is our enemy—and so are <i>you!</i>”<br /> As he backed further away, he heard a distant <i>Mew!</i> from behind the conspirators and knew that was his cue to run.<br /> “Get him!” screamed the mob.<br /> He ran. And he counted.<br /> He yelled, Nine thousand, nine hundred, ninety-one! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine!—<br /> He cycled his feet in the air, desperate to make contact with the ground, to scream out: Ten thousand! But the conspirators had caught him, had lifted him by the arms, and he was pumping his legs in futility. He saw the cat sitting on its haunches just ten yards away, watching as if they were performing some avant-garde ballet. He called out, Help, cat! and for the first time realized he did not know its name, did not even know its sex.<br /> <i> Mew</i>, it replied, and that was all. He would find no help from his feline companion.<br /> “To the pits!” bellowed the weaselly man with ferrety eyes, and the others chanted their approval.<br /> <i>The pits</i> did not sound like a place he wanted to go.<br /> He fought his captors with renewed vigor, rocking his body against their grip until he swung like an awkward pendulum. He kicked out, not at the ground this time, but at the shins of the nearest conspirators. His exertions were rewarded with shouts of pain.<br /> Let me go! he screamed. LET ME FREE!<br /> He did not let up his struggling. Relentless he was, kicking and punching and swinging and screaming. His vision burst into stars when he managed to connect his head with a woman’s nose with a satisfying <i>crunch!</i><br /> And finally he was free. He felt his left side, the side on which the woman whose nose he broke stood, slip through the conspirators’ clutches—just barely, mere <i>inches</i>, but it was enough. He kicked his left foot down and it slapped audibly onto the springy grass.<br /> TEN THOUSAND!<br /> No sooner had the words parted his lips than his entire world ground to a halt.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<i><span style="font-size: large;">To be continued...</span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">~~~~~~~</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<div class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i></span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-47853848801111264252016-03-07T14:56:00.000-08:002016-03-12T19:15:05.121-08:00Step 5: Her Graven Image<div class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html" target="_blank">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">Today's prompt is: <b>FAME.</b></span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Five. Her Graven Image.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">He ran.<br /> The cat had disappeared in the fog. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he couldn’t change course. He was caught within the rumbling walls of a stampede. The giants—he didn’t know how many; <i>innumerable</i>, it seemed—had been birthed from the very hills that had served as a landscape until now. Now the horizon stretched flat, loose folds of discarded earthy wombs strewn about as if the hills had simply deflated.<br /> So now he was trapped following a direction dictated by a stampede of countless skyscraping monsters. And even if the cat called to him with its signature <i>Mew!</i> it would be drowned out by the giants’ thundering footfalls.<br /> He did not know how long they ran. But it did not feel long before the sun began to rise. It peeked above the horizon without warning, spearing the giants’ eyes with its rays, and they let out a collective guttural moan. But they did not stop running, so he did not stop either.<br /> Soon it was clear that the giants ahead of him had come to a collective halt. He slowed down with the rest of them and suddenly found himself hemmed in to a gigantic flock of giants. Now, with the sun up and the giants stationary, he was able to get his first detailed glimpse of these rolling hills come to life.<br /> Each one stood seven stories tall, so that he barely reached their calves. Their craggy skin was caked in earth and clumps of grass like a recently-plowed lawn. They wore no clothes, but their uncleanliness obscured their sex, and they were packed so tightly together he could not discern their expressions. They stood hauntingly still, their stillness incongruous after their violent excursion from the hills, and he weaved through the stationary feet in order to see why they had stopped.<br /> Eventually, he came to the front of the herd. He stood at the lip of a deep valley that plunged about a mile into the earth. This was what the giants stared into, transfixed.<br /> The valley was plain, an empty expanse of mossy earth except for a stone figure standing in its center. A statue ten times larger than the giants, weathered and worn, but its identity was unmistakable to him. He felt as if the wind had been knocked from his chest.<br /> It was her.<br /> Before he could contemplate these new implications—Was this what she had meant? Had he reached ten thousand steps already?—the giants stepped forward together, into the valley. He was caught unawares and swept onto the broad foot of one giant; he grabbed fistfuls of tough grass—was that its body hair?—and hung on for dear life. Butterflies burst in his stomach with every swing forward and bones jarred together with every stomp to the ground.<br /> They reached her mammoth idol in this manner in mere minutes.<br /> He wished he’d stayed at the valley’s entrance. Now, literally at her feet, he could only see hewn boulders of stone that he guessed were her toes. He could not see her body, nor her beautiful face. But his view of her from the valley’s entrance was etched clearly in his mind. How could a lifeless gray rock seem to emanate so much color?<br /> A speck of gray detached itself from the stone above and landed on his lap, startling him.<br /> <i>Mew</i>, said the cat. Its claws protracted themselves into his legs and it purred, rubbing its face against his hand.<br /> It likes me, he realized.<br /> Why is this here? he asked the cat.<br /> Not pausing from its affections, it said, <i>You weren’t aware of her... infamy?</i><br /> Infamy? he repeated.<br /> <i>Wrong word, I suppose. Would</i> fame <i>be more to your liking?</i> God<i>-like?</i><br /> He did not respond.<br /> <i>I do not mean to offend, human. I’m only here to help.</i><br /> Help, how? Help me to understand? Help me to see her again?<br /> <i>Ah, that would be telling</i>, it purred.<br /> But what does this mean? These giants, this statue—<br /> <i>Don’t forget the party.</i><br /> Yes, the party, too. I don’t understand.<br /> The cat sighed. <i>I can see that. What’s the count?</i><br /> The count?<br /> <i>The</i> count, it repeated tetchily. <i>How many steps?</i><br /> Oh! he gasped. I’ve lost count.<br /> <i>You were chased by giants. That’s gotta be worth a few thousand, wouldn’t you think? And you hitchhiked your way down here, so we don’t have to count that, unless you want to be technical and say it took the giant a few dozen steps to get you here.</i><br /> So..., he said.<br /> The cat stared at him expectantly.<br /> So, he said, tallying numbers in his head, I’m somewhere around eight thousand?<br /> <i>Sounds good to me. Come on.</i><br /> And the cat was off. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>~~~~~~~</i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a></span><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i></span> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><b></b></span></i></span><br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></h3>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-62449484420296753702016-03-07T12:15:00.004-08:002016-03-12T19:13:33.178-08:00Step 4: The Hills Have Eyes<span style="font-size: small;"><i>This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>. <br /><br /> Today's prompt is: <b>MONSTERS.</b> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Four. The Hills Have Eyes.</span><i><b> </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: large;">The giants stirred from their slumber.<br /> What was that? he called.<br /> <i>A noise</i>, the cat called back without stopping.<br /> Yes, but of what? he called again, following.<br /> The cat halted a hundred steps ahead and stared at him. <i>What’s the difference? God, I thought I was the pussycat</i>, it mewed sardonically.<br /> He stopped too and matched the cat’s glare. They stood ninety-three steps apart now, between rows of rolling hills from which he was positive he had heard a rumbling noise. And this cat was <i>taunting</i> him. Why should he follow it?<br /> If she sent you, he called to the cat, then you must know. Why I’m here, where I’m going. How is this supposed to make me understand? She said I would understand with each step. I’m stepping. I’m counting. I’m keeping my promise. What am I supposed to understand?<br /> He fell silent, panting in the night air; he almost missed the warmth of the drunken partiers’ bonfire. The cat just watched him in silence.<br /> Then it said, <i>Are you finished?</i><br /> He sighed. Yes.<br /> <i>Good. Keep counting.</i> It turned back to its path, paused, and mewed over its shoulder, <i>Or don’t.</i><br /> He sighed again, stepped forward.<br /> Three thousand, nine hundred, ninety-nine. Four thousand.<br /> <i>Rumble.</i><br /> He paused. There it was again, the rumble. He could feel it in his feet. But the cat didn’t stop, so he carried on as well: Four thousand, one. Four thousand, two. Four thousand—<br /> <i>RUMBLE.</i><br /> He kept his eyes on the cat, less so he’d know where to go and more to see if it would finally react to the unmistakable noise. Because the noise was growing.<br /> <i>RUMMMMMMBBBLLE.</i><br /> Now he could see it along with feel it, hear it. The hills surrounding him were rolling, actually <i>rolling</i>. This couldn’t be normal. He ran to catch up with the cat, shouting out his steps as he went—Four thousand, seven! Four thousand, eight! Four thousand, nine!<br /> It was almost vindicating to see that the cat indeed couldn’t ignore the rumbling any longer, that it was in fact peering skittishly about the landscape, its pupils dilating further with every <i>RUMMMBLE</i>.<br /> Will you tell me what it is? he asked.<br /> The cat seemed to consider this for a moment before stating in measured monotone, <i>The hills have skin.</i><br /> The hills have—what?<br /> <i>Skin.</i><br /> You mean the hills are... alive?<br /> <i>I thought that was obvious.</i><br /> He didn’t know how to respond to this.<br /> <i>The hills</i>, the cat went on matter-of-factly, <i>must be restless. They’re rolling—</i><br /> <i>RUMMMMMBBBBBLLLLE.<br /> —a bit more than usual</i>, it finished.<br /> Just as the most recent rumbling grew beyond comprehension—He imagined this must be what entire continents sounded like when ripping from their moorings to secede from Pangaea—the air was rent with a tearing sound like none he had ever heard. An image rose unbidden to his mind of claws, much longer and sharper than his companion’s, tearing into flesh, sinew, tendon.<br /> The cat’s reaction was immediate. It shot forward like a cork from a bottle, hissing, <i>Run!</i><br /> He ran.<br /> The tearing and the ripping was ever present, pressing itself on his eardrums. The rumbling shook his world from stern to bow, like that of an earthquake. He could see things, towering things, <i>monstrous</i> things, rising in his peripherals, in the dark. They were bursting from the hills and from the fog hugging the grass, ripping the hills’ skin from their monstrous bodies like embryonic sacks.<br /> As the monsters rose from the fog, a realization rose from the fog of his mind:<br /> The hills. They weren’t hills at all. And they certainly weren’t “fallen giants.”<br /> They were sleeping giants.<br /> Sleeping giants that had now awoken.<br /> Five thousand. Five thousand, one.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>~~~~~~~ </i> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i></span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-35729331808302668732016-03-06T20:34:00.001-08:002016-03-12T19:07:34.003-08:00Step 3: A Drunken Detour<span style="font-size: small;"><i>This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html" target="_blank">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>. </i>
</span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Today's prompt is: <b>A FRIDAY NIGHT GONE BAD.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Three. A Drunken Detour.</span><i><b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span> </b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: large;">The cat was fast, already far ahead, a ball of gray hovering in the gloom, bouncing between the fallen giants. He was panting under his breath—Two thousand, seven hundred, one. Two thousand, seven hundred, two.—and it was all he could do not to trip on the slick tufts of grass, which were becoming unruly. Back where they met the wall they stood short and manicured; now they were long and tangled, with dead patches every so often.<br /> And it had become dark.<br /> Not long after the sun went down—at his back, mercifully—the grass had become slick with dew and the cat had become almost impossible to spot. If it weren’t for the occasional <i>Mew!</i> in the distance, he would have been lost two hundred steps previous.<br /> But just then—that wasn’t a <i>Mew</i>. That was a new sound coming from ahead. What was that? It sounded like...<br /> Two thousand, seven hundred, thirty-three. Two thousand, seven hundred...<br /> It sounded like voices, like... cheering.<br /> Hoping he wasn’t veering too far off the cat’s apparently predetermined path, he threw caution to the wind—for there was a wind tonight, and it began to make him shiver—and followed the new noise. Cheering. Jeering? The crackle of a fire—and there was the tell-tale glow, dancing on the backside of the fallen giant he now circled. Shouts. Catcalls.<br /> The noise broke over him like a wave, explosive in the silence of the surrounding hills, and he found himself in the middle of a party.<br /> “Hey, motherfucker! You bring the hookers an’ blow?”<br /> He didn’t reply, couldn’t, he was so stunned that someone was addressing him in such a way. The speaker was a robust man, almost a giant himself, in a jersey that hung over his large frame like a circus tent. The man leaned into his personal space before he could react and suddenly he was smelling strong spirits, still glistening in sloppy strands of the man’s ginger beard.<br /> “Ahhhhhhhh, I’m jus’ fuckin’ with ya.” The man slung one arm around his shoulders and yelled to the crowd, “Get this fucker a beer an’ a blowjob, in that order! Haaaaaa!”<br /> The rest of the crowd cheered and laughed with the man, calling out similarly profane streams of nonsense.<br /> He had walked right into a party, and the cat was nowhere to be seen. Where had these people come from? They were all equally inebriated, knocking into each other like bowling pins around what appeared to be a bonfire. Its flames licked the night twelve feet high, cracking and snapping and popping in derision at its drunken revelers.<br /> A <i>pop!</i> and a carbonated <i>hisss!</i> announced another partygoer opening a beer can. On their way to him they spilled most of the beer on the grass, but he didn’t mind. He had no intention of drinking.<br /> Have you seen a cat? he asked his beer-giver. Just now?<br /> “A cat?” said the partygoer, this one a petite female with cropped blue hair shining in the firelight like chrome.<br /> Yes, I was just looking for my cat, he said, not sure why he referred to the cat as <i>his</i>.<br /> The female leered at him in a knowing way, as if they were sharing some privileged information, and said, “A cat?”<br /> Yes, he said again.<br /> The blue-haired female lunged around and slung her arm around his shoulders, a feat much more difficult for her than for her gigantic ginger-bearded companion, and called out to the party, “This guy’s lookin’ for some pussy!”<br /> After he had disentangled from the female and ducked away from the partiers’ raucous calls of “Fuck yeah, motherfucker!” and “Titties!” he heard it very distinctly in the distance: <i>Mew.</i><br /> There it was, just outside the ebbing waves of fiery light, sitting on its haunches and licking its paw. <i>What took you so long?</i><br /> Sorry, he said. I couldn’t get away from... He glanced pointedly back at the fire, his voice trailing away in embarrassment.<br /> <i>We can stay if you’d like</i>, the cat said, still not glancing up from its grooming.<br /> No, please, he said. Let’s continue.<br /> The cat raised its head to look at him with its almond eyes, glinting in the firelight, and he was surprised to feel vibrations in the grass at his feet. It was purring, as if it approved of his answer.<br /> <i>Yes, well, that’s probably for the best. I’ve seen where they’re headed, and they’ll regret tonight for years. I don’t envy them their morning.</i><br /> Having fulfilled its enigmatic duty, it turned, flicked its tail, and picked up the trail once more.<br /> Shaking his head, not daring to look back at the partiers he and the cat were leaving in their wake, he followed. And he counted.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>To be continued...</i><br />
<br />
<i>~~~~~~~</i><br />
</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a></span><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i></span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-37810618840003299822016-03-06T20:21:00.002-08:002016-03-12T19:11:17.711-08:00Step 2: A Companion<span style="font-size: small;"><i>This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html" target="_blank">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>. </i></span><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Today's prompt is: <b>OUR CRAZY CAT.</b></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step Two. A Companion.</span> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">Four hundred, thirty-nine.<br /> He waded his left foot forward, through the fatigue, and onto the springy grass. And he counted.<br /> Four hundred, forty.<br /> The light had been the sun, just as he thought, peeking out behind spools of stormy cloud. At first, he was relieved, imagining he would soak up the sun’s light like a thirsty sponge; then, the sun was stabbing his vision, and he sweat. But it had been swallowed by the clouds again, and he was grateful.<br /> Four hundred, fifty. Four hundred, fifty-one.<br /> He stepped. He counted.<br /> Four hundred, fifty-three. Four hundred, fifty-f—<br /> <i>Mew.</i><br /> He stopped. Stared about him. All was dark. The rolling hills surrounded him like sleeping giants, except their heaving bosoms weren’t heaving. They lay still. So he supposed the hills surrounded him like <i>dead</i> giants.<br /> What number had he been on?<br /> <i>Mew.</i><br /> There it was again. From ahead. He resumed his steps, unworried about the exact number—for what were a few missed steps among ten thousand?<br /> Four hundred, sixty. Four hundred, sixty-one.<br /> By “four hundred, seventy-two,” he still hadn’t spotted the source of—<br /> <i>Mew.</i><br /> He almost toppled over. There it was, sitting at his feet. “Four hundred, seventy-three” would have crushed it. A cat. Tiny among the rolling expanse of hills, yet colossal as the only living, breathing thing for miles around.<br /> It looked up at him. <i>Mew.</i><br /> He bent down on his haunches and pet the cat behind its ear. It purred. Hello there, he said. Was it you who slew these fallen giants?<br /> <i>Mew. Oh, no—she said you might be delusional. But “giants”?</i><br /> He blinked, fell back on his butt with a soft <i>thump</i>. The cat talked. It opened its mouth, a fuzzy white dewdrop amid its cobalt-gray, and mocked him.<br /> You can talk, he said.<br /> It sighed and began a luxurious stretch, arching its back in a slope that ended in a big wispy tail like the clouds that hid the sun. <i>You don’t have to tell me</i>, it said. <i>I’m perfectly aware of what I can do, as I am doing it.</i> The stretch ended in a thunderous vibration that he felt through the grass beneath him. <i>Now. Shall we go?</i><br /> But something else suddenly occurred to him. He squinted down at the cat in the gloom and said, You said <i>she</i>. You said, <i>She said you might be delusional.</i> What did you mean by that?<br /> The cat stared at him for a moment, then turned to saunter off. <i>I’m born knowing to shit in a box, but you can’t guess who I mean by </i>she<i>?</i><br /> Wait!<br /> <i>You better hurry. Mew.</i><br /> Fully awakened from his fatigue, he sprang up and resumed counting his steps. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>To be continued...</i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>~~~~~~~</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<i>Step 2. A Companion.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i></span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-31543262593562323822016-03-06T20:12:00.004-08:002016-03-12T19:03:58.981-08:00Step 1: Ten Thousand Steps<i><span style="font-size: small;">This is a serialized writing prompt, explained here: <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/7-easy-steps-for-lonely-writer.html">7 Steps for the Lonely Writer</a>. <br /><br /> Today's prompt is: <b>FIND THE GOOD IN "GOODBYE."</b> </span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span> </span></i><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Step One. Ten Thousand Steps. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">His eyes watered in protest, but he refused to blink before the last edge of her dress was gone, flicked up and over the stone wall. The wind surged into his face; her custard-colored fabric disappeared; he blinked, but it wasn’t enough; he squeezed his eyes shut, knocking tears from their perch.<br /> Ten thousand till I see you again, he thought.<br /> The stone wall filled most of his sight. Its gray was in stark contrast to the brightness of her dress, of her smile. He felt as if all the color in the world had been bleached away, leaving that gray stone wall. He reached out, his fingers just able to brush it. The wall’s skin felt awfully rough. Abrasive. He was already forgetting the smooth cream of her skin.<br /> He turned his back to the wall and took a step.<br /> One, he thought. Two. Three. Four.<br /> He took a fifth step, and a sixth, and it was no relief to have the wall to his back and out of sight. The hills that rolled before him, the clouds that churned above him, seemed just as gray. She had been the color, and now the color was gone.<br /> Nine. Ten. Eleven.<br /> Why must he live like this? Who would call this living?<br /> Fifteen. Sixteen.<br /> She made him promise. Promise me, she said, that you will count.<br /> Twenty. Twenty-one.<br /> Promise me, she said. I promise, he said.<br /> Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.<br /> You will understand, she said, not at first, but with each step you will get closer. So you must promise me that you will count to ten thousand. Ten thousand steps. And then you will understand.<br /> And I will see you again? he asked.<br /> Promise me, she said again.<br /> Forty-six. Forty-seven.<br /> He could not see how counting his steps could bring understanding, or bring her back, or bring anything but fatigue. He had already been so tired when she left. But he promised. He looked up as he stepped his careful steps and saw a light. The sun, hiding behind the clouds? Maybe.<br /> For now, he counted.<br /> Seventy-two. Seventy-three. Seventy-four. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>To be continued...</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>~~~~~~~</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a></span><br />
</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i></span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-85630856432394447302016-03-06T20:02:00.000-08:002016-03-12T20:53:35.492-08:007 Easy Steps for the Lonely Writer<span style="font-size: large;">All right, that title is a misnomer. Sorry if you found this somewhere in the vast oceans of the internet, hoping to find a list of seven easy steps to help writers who are lonely. But! Before you go away, please read on: This may give you ideas.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Writing prompts. They're great. Or they can be. They usually are. A good writing prompt serves multiple purposes, but the most obvious is, well, obvious: It gets you writing!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The story goes like this: My wife was going to be out of town for a week, and we're still relatively newly weds, so she knew I wasn't thrilled about being alone in the apartment for so long. To help while she's away, she created a folder on my computer: "Writing Prompts." I open it up and see one document for every day that she is gone, each with a new writing prompt she created in order to get my creative juices flowing in productivity, and to combat the fact that I'll be missing her like crazy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I took it one step further, on a whim, after completing the first writing prompt: Make each consecutive entry a new chapter in the same story, so that each writing prompt is like a scene and they all fit into one big narrative. This would be especially challenging, as I was only looking at the prompts one at a time, as I was writing them. No peeking ahead.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm on Day 5 now, and the experiment has been quite fun. I've fallen into a strange Divine Comedy-type, Christmas Carol-esque tale, and I thought I'd share!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">7 prompts, 7 days. I'll be posting these faster than one-a-day, though, since I've already written over half, but just know that they've been written one-a-day, I haven't cheated and looked ahead, and I haven't edited previous days to fit with current prompts.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Heeeeeeeeeeere we... go!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">~~~~~~~</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1834875835873447399" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1834875835873447399" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1834875835873447399" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1834875835873447399" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>THE COMPLETE STORY:</i><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-1-ten-thousand-steps.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 1. Ten Thousand Steps.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-2-companion.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 2. A Companion.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-3-drunken-detour.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 3. A Drunken Detour.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-4-hills-have-eyes.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 4. The Hills Have Eyes.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-5-her-graven-image.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 5. Her Graven Image.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-6-earth-flattened.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 6. The Earth, Flattened.</i></a><br />
<a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-7-back-to-beginning.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 7. Back to the Beginning.</i></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank"><i>Step 10,000. </i>Colla Voce</a><i><a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2016/03/step-10000-colla-voce.html" target="_blank">.</a> </i> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>THE PROMPTS SO FAR: </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 1: Find the good in "goodbye."</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/6c/1d/39/6c1d3900e1754b77edae826f73ed2374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/6c/1d/39/6c1d3900e1754b77edae826f73ed2374.jpg" title="" width="285" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 2: Our crazy cat.</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://littlefun.org/uploads/51c2f2a4c856112451000000_736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://littlefun.org/uploads/51c2f2a4c856112451000000_736.jpg" height="400" width="346" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 3: A Friday night gone bad.</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/aa/c3/74/aac37482b69328a75ebe66f3f04e9fa8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/aa/c3/74/aac37482b69328a75ebe66f3f04e9fa8.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 4: Monsters.</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://40.media.tumblr.com/7f86bf76befae4454f32c6535ebfaa1b/tumblr_npt0k3deJT1reicy1o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://40.media.tumblr.com/7f86bf76befae4454f32c6535ebfaa1b/tumblr_npt0k3deJT1reicy1o1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 5: Fame.</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://bossip.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/kim-kardashian-reminding-us-of-how-she-got-famous-meme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://bossip.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/kim-kardashian-reminding-us-of-how-she-got-famous-meme.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 6: Conspiracy theories.</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://loveforlife.com.au/files/Illuminati_create_min.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://loveforlife.com.au/files/Illuminati_create_min.jpg" height="400" width="302" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i>Day 7: Backwards! </i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/1b/fe/3c/1bfe3c56a8b6b38755532342e4d474fd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/1b/fe/3c/1bfe3c56a8b6b38755532342e4d474fd.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><br /></i></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-36402597928851694452015-11-22T00:34:00.001-08:002015-11-22T00:34:51.045-08:00Proof that I'm a Writer, or, "What Do You Do?"<span style="font-size: large;">You're at a party, whether casual or business, which means you're about to meet people. And when two strangers meet, the most common question after the obligatory hand-shake and name-exchange, is:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What do you do?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Because for some reason someone decided one day that our jobs are the one thing that defines us. <u>Which seems cruel.</u> What if a person has found themselves stuck in a job they hate? When you ask them, "What do you do?" and they answer, "Bank manager," or, "Human resources," or any job for that matter, you are using that information to form a picture of that person in your mind--and yet, at the same time, that person <i>secretly loathes</i> their job.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>That's horrible.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I've always lived on the other end of the spectrum. When I am faced with that odd question, "What do you do?" I can confidently say that I am a private piano instructor, knowing that <b>"musician"</b> and <b>"teacher"</b> are two descriptive titles that I am happy with.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But here's the thing<i>... </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I've always had this secret desire to be a writer.</i> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Why secret? Because, if you say, "What do you do?" and I say, "I'm a writer," then you will most likely follow that up with questions of what I've written and where I've been published and what literary accolades have I collected... and I, like most writers out there, am left feeling inadequate and a failure.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Now, I've read plenty on this topic. While most of the business world sees you as <b>A WRITER</b> only if you have made some form of a living off it, most writers who DO make a living off it disagree. They say, if you write, then declare yourself to be <b>A WRITER</b>, dammit!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And I think that's great. And I do, in my mind, consider myself to be a writer--excuse me, I mean, <b>A WRITER</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But still... that handshake-then-"What-do-you-do?" thing. The rest of the world considers this a load of bullshit, and only respects you as <b>A WRITER</b> if you've made a name for yourself, or, more accurately, if you've made boatloads of money. But if you're still in the process of finding your success, then they look down on you and scoff and see you as one of those creative types that will waste away in squalor for the rest of your life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But guess what? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Stephen King</b>, when he published his first novel--<b>CARRIE</b>, ever heard of it?--was living in a trailer with a wife and two kids and not-even-barely scraping by.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>J.K. Rowling</b> wrote part of <b>Harry Potter</b> on a napkin... or so the story goes; but it amounts to the same thing--she was dirt poor and desperate right before creating the thing that made her richer than the Queen of England.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The stories go on and on. And I would bet that at one point in their lives, household-name writers like <b>Stephen King</b> and <b>J.K. Rowling</b> and <b>James Patterson</b> all dreaded that moment when they had to shake someone's hand and answer someone's question with, "I'm a writer."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This has always been a niggling insecurity of mine, and so it felt important to write about it on the day I can officially shake all those hands and say: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm a writer--yes, <b>A WRITER</b>, here's where you can buy my stuff!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My first publication is of my short story, <b>"Shuffle,"</b> in the anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Its-About-Time-Angeles-Anthology/dp/0990767027/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1448138413&sr=8-1&keywords=it%27s+about+time+sara+mcbride" target="_blank"><b>IT'S ABOUT TIME</b></a>, edited by Sara McBride and published by Lemur Publishing in Los Angeles.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you haven't heard of <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank"><b>NaNoWriMo</b></a>, it's this crazy seat-of-the-pants challenge for writers all around the world to write an entire novel during the month of November. Last year was the first time I took up the challenge and <i>actually completed it</i>, and in mid-November I attended a <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/writeathon" target="_blank">writing marathon event</a> in San Francisco. There, I won a raffle with Lemur Publishing's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Believe-Me-Not-Unreliable-Anthology/dp/0990767000/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1448180801&sr=1-2" target="_blank">first anthology</a> as the prize, and Sara McBride invited me to submit a story to the next anthology. And the rest, as they say...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Its-About-Time-Angeles-Anthology/dp/0990767027/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1448180801&sr=1-1" target="_blank"><b>IT'S ABOUT TIME</b></a> is a collection of short stories from writers all across the globe that each tell a different tale about that strange man-made construct, time. And if you would like to read my story, or any of the others, get it <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Its-About-Time-Angeles-Anthology/dp/0990767027/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1448180801&sr=1-1" target="_blank">here</a>--the best part? You're supporting the <a href="http://ywp.nanowrimo.org/" target="_blank">Young Writers Program</a> (FOR THE CHILDREN!!!) and getting great fiction at the same time!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I will be posting updates on my writing more often from here on out, but until then, I want you to imagine you're shaking my hand and asking me that horrific question:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What do you do?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">I write. I create stories, coming-of-age and fantastic, stories that tip a book's pages up like a cup so you can drink them down to the dregs. I am part of that age-old tradition of storytelling that has been an integral part of every culture throughout history. I am... <b>A WRITER!</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Don't believe me? <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/participants/thespencerborup/novels/aethernauts-the-fifth-element" target="_blank">Just watch.</a></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-43370568786249226722015-11-05T10:38:00.000-08:002015-11-05T10:38:06.978-08:00Some Fast Motivation (Self-Improvement=Torture, Day 5)<span style="font-size: x-large;">Quick words today! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>If you want something, what do you need to do in order to achieve?</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.allgifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/willing.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.allgifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/willing.gif" height="272" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Excuses are easy to make. I know.</i> We make them every day.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So instead, I'm here to <u>make motivation so you can hurdle those excuses.</u> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Because...</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://imgfave-chat-herokuapp-com.global.ssl.fastly.net/image_cache/1336247531386293_animate.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://imgfave-chat-herokuapp-com.global.ssl.fastly.net/image_cache/1336247531386293_animate.gif" height="425" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And if none of this does it for you, here's a motivational penguin:</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.allgifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/tumblr_mrmi90oEHD1srth6oo1_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.allgifs.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/tumblr_mrmi90oEHD1srth6oo1_400.gif" height="640" width="620" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">While <a href="http://nanowrimo.org/participants/thespencerborup/novels/aethernauts-the-fifth-element" target="_blank">writing my novel</a>, I've stumbled upon an ancient philosopher named <a href="http://www.britannica.com/biography/Paracelsus" target="_blank">Theophrastus Paracelsus</a> who said many wise and inspiring things some 500 years ago. Here's one for today:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thoughts are free and subject to no rule. On them rests the freedom of
man, and they tower above the light of nature...create a new heaven, a
new firmament, a new source of energy from which new arts flow.</span></blockquote>
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>So let's go out there and create our new firmaments!</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-37767626908291345962015-11-04T08:38:00.002-08:002015-11-04T08:40:34.407-08:00Self-Improvement=Torture, Day 3-4: Fugue StateThere's this part in the <b>outstanding</b> television drama <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0903747/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Breaking Bad</i></span></a> where chemistry professor-turned-cancer patient/methamphetamine retailer Walter White (played by the Man, the Myth, the Legend, <b>Bryan Cranston</b> himself) disappears for a few days to start his meth business, and he needs an excuse to tell his family.<br />
<br />
What does he do?<br />
<br />
He shows up in a grocery store in the next town over, <u>stark naked</u>, and claims he suffered from a "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fugue_state" target="_blank">fugue state</a>."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://i.imgur.com/NDMUrZB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.imgur.com/NDMUrZB.jpg" height="222" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I've never experienced this "fugue state," but I can tell you...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>...last night sure felt like I did.</b></span><br />
<br />
I mentioned in an <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2015/11/self-improvementtorture-day-2-adulting.html" target="_blank">earlier post</a> that I struggled with sleep, especially in my high school days. I believe my doctor called it an "insulin imbalance" issue. You see, insulin normally works this way: You inject yourself with a specific number of units calculated by your current blood sugar level, what carbohydrates you're about to consume, and what exercise you have recently done; insulin has an onset time, a half life, a peaking time, and its end life (for example, the particular brand of insulin I take for meals takes about 30 minutes to kick in and it works on my blood sugar for about 4 hours), so there's a lot of calculations (*<i>cough</i>* guess work *<i>cough</i>*) involved.<br />
<br />
But for some reason, no matter how excellent my blood sugar levels are before I go off to bed, and no matter what type of insulin I take, my blood sugar is always--<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><u>ALWAYS</u></i></b></span>--high the next morning. And usually, it's <b><i>REALLY</i></b> high.<br />
<br />
So, naturally, sometimes when I'm trying to counter this phenomenon, I take too much insulin at night, and here comes the fugue state: my blood sugar goes so low that it wakes me up, sending one signal to my brain and one signal only:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://media.thedailytouch.com/2014/02/yum.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://media.thedailytouch.com/2014/02/yum.gif" height="344" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I somehow bump my way through a dark house to the fridge, and then <b><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I begin to eat anything and everything.</span></b><br />
<br />
We're told that when dealing with low blood sugar, you must eat or drink something with carbs <b>AND THEN WAIT FIFTEEN MINUTES</b> for it to get into your system. But that's. Fucking. <i>Hard</i>. Especially when you're in some kind of trance. I usually don't remember what I ate in these nighttime attacks until the next morning, and even then it's like putting the clues together in a murder mystery.<br />
<br />
I swear, one time I actually ate a cold, uncooked hot dog out of the fridge. Which is ridiculous for three reasons.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">1) <i>Gross.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">2) <i>There aren't any carbohydrates</i> in wiener dogs.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">3) I had just eaten a <b>cupcake</b>. Talk about spoiling my dinner.</span><br />
<br />
So anyway, that's what happened last night. That's why I only got about 4 hours of sleep. <span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>But I'm here, I'll persevere, and I'm gonna make today a success.</b></span><br />
<br />
What kind of health challenges or sleeping challenges do you face? I'd love to hear about them.<br />
<br />
To end, let me just say that <i><b>NO</b></i>, this is not what it felt like: (It was more like a witch cursed me to eat forever until I burst.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://31.media.tumblr.com/3b77f017762193d1cb7249cb76c04bca/tumblr_inline_n3rwea2WOJ1speyuf.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/3b77f017762193d1cb7249cb76c04bca/tumblr_inline_n3rwea2WOJ1speyuf.gif" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-31440301205570442102015-11-02T08:48:00.000-08:002015-11-02T08:51:03.116-08:00Self-Improvement=Torture, Day 2: Adulting Is Hard<b>Okay</b>, <a href="http://spencerhamiltonborup.blogspot.com/2015/11/self-improvement-can-be-torture-day-1.html" target="_blank">yesterday</a> <i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">sucked</span></span></i>, and today I feel like seven layers of caked shit (you're welcome for the image), but I'm determined to be productive! Check this out:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Woke up at 6 a.m.</span> -- Why is this an accomplishment? Well, sleep and I have quite the abusive relationship. Not being able to fall asleep at night and then not being able to wake up in the morning was such a struggle 8-10 years ago, courtesy of my diabetes, that <i>it actually prevented me from graduating from high school</i> (and so I tested out my junior year, did a year of community college, and transferred to a university, but that's a different story). So waking up at this hour and actually <u>DOING THINGS</u> is a real struggle for me.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Rented a car</span> -- <i><b>WHAT?!? I'M OLD ENOUGH TO DO THAT NOW?</b></i> Weird. But yes. And it's one of those super nice cars where you press a button to start the engine and you speculate on whether the car factories have gone too far and created Artificial Intelligence.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Took car to mechanic</span> -- Okay, so I'm actually in the process of doing this right now... I'm making an appointment with an import shop in Rancho Cordova to repair the transmission in my Jetta, and then I'm having AAA <b><i>(O! Beautiful AAA!)</i></b> tow my car to the mechanic so they can let me know if it'll cost just a foot or the whole goddamn leg.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://gifsec.com/wp-content/uploads/GIF/2014/05/GIF-Car-breaks-down-on-the-highway.gif?gs=a" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://gifsec.com/wp-content/uploads/GIF/2014/05/GIF-Car-breaks-down-on-the-highway.gif?gs=a" height="210" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
All this before Old Spencer even woke up, usually. Which forces me to believe something, finally...<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><u><i><b>I'M AN ADULT.</b></i></u></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.reactiongifs.com/r/2013/06/ADULT.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.reactiongifs.com/r/2013/06/ADULT.gif" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Also today, before I go to work (during which one of my students will learn the <i>Super Mario Bros.</i> theme!), I will eat healthy things, try writing some of my novel, and go buy glucose test strips.<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><br /></span></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">"Glucose test strips? What are those?"</span></span></b> you may ask. Well... <i>check this out.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Glucose test strips</b> = tiny strips the size of (<i>*searches brain for comparison*</i>) a small paperclip, which can be inserted into a glucose meter, which will in turn tell you what your blood sugar levels are if you feed the test strip a drop of your own blood. Doctors tell diabetics you only need to use about 2 of these a day, but if you are unhealthy and don't have your diabetes under control, they tell you to use <u>about 4 to 6</u> of them. And if you're SICK, use one every 2 hours (so 12 a day).<br />
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Here's the catch: these tiny strips cost $1 each.<br />
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Let's do the math. I will need about 5 strips a day. $5 a day. Every. Day.<br />
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I know it may not sound like much. BUT. That's just to test my blood sugar levels, before I inject myself with insulin. So that's without the cost of syringes (which are cheap) and insulin (which is <b>NOT</b> cheap). And then there's eating the right food.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Fun.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Guys... <i><b>ADULTING IS HARD.</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><i><b> </b></i></span> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-35344477454277231562015-11-01T14:57:00.000-08:002015-11-01T14:57:47.545-08:00Self-Improvement Can Be Torture, Day 1: A Promise<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VY6D4VHubHzfSxBNFnUu5Z63sC8zFALiF9rZk7OgMKe-aflph-xxkWZYmUlLgQsBp2B2WMaAUCCIWVeazXjhBK5ndVBoNhTMmjgjH0Xx4YiwIQ0COwczz1NFKBA2ipzevrW3LtPsqGU/s1600/20151031_235953.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VY6D4VHubHzfSxBNFnUu5Z63sC8zFALiF9rZk7OgMKe-aflph-xxkWZYmUlLgQsBp2B2WMaAUCCIWVeazXjhBK5ndVBoNhTMmjgjH0Xx4YiwIQ0COwczz1NFKBA2ipzevrW3LtPsqGU/s640/20151031_235953.jpg" width="360" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><b>This was me last night.</b></span><br />
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Okay, I'll admit: the photo was staged (thanks to the wonderful Chloe Faulk!). But sitting here typing this with a hangover, it sure feels real.<br />
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Tell me, have you ever found yourself deciding you <b>need a change</b>? Everyone has those moments where they decide they need to work harder at school or that new promotion at work or bringing down that cholesterol. Millions of people make New Year's Resolutions every freaking year, and the running joke is how terrible we are at actually DOING them. We laugh because, well, sadly, if we don't laugh then we'd either have to cry or stop making New Year's Resolutions.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>But we won't stop making goals for ourselves, or daydreaming about where our lives could be. Why? </b></i></span><br />
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BECAUSE IT'S <u>FUCKING HARD</u>.<br />
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I, like possibly maybe many of you (I'm not alone, right?), go in a cycle that looks like this:<br />
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<i>*wakes up*</i> <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">"IT'S A <b>NEW DAY!</b> I MAY BE ASHAMED AND FULL OF DISGUST FOR MY PRESENT SELF, BUT THAT CAN ALL BE IN THE PAST AND <b>THE FUTURE IS NOW!</b>"</span><br />
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<i>*writes goals*</i><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">"...AND I'M GONNA <b>GET THOSE SIX PACK ABS I'VE HEARD ABOUT</b> AND <b>LEARN SPANISH</b> AND <b>WRITE THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL</b> AND SAVE MONEY TO FINALLY <b>TRAVEL THE WORLD</b> AND..."</span><br />
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<i>*7 days later*</i> <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">"...and I'm doing really good and I've exercised every day this week, and sure I ate that cupcake but come on, that was a reward for <b>FINALLY DOING IT!</b>"</span><br />
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<i>*the next day*</i> <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">"Yes, I'd like a large bacon cheeseburger with curly fries, a chocolate shake, and..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u>FAIL.</u></span><br />
It's emotionally taxing on you and possibly those around you. I can't imagine what it's like for my wife to watch me go in these circles.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Everyone has their struggle.</b></span> Mine is Type 1 diabetes. I've had it for over 10 years now. The thing about diabetes that most people don't understand: <i>It isn't just about food.</i> Type 1 is hereditary. I didn't get it because I ate too much sugar. It is nothing like Type 2. Type 1 is very rare--in fact, only about 0.25% of Americans have it, which is a fraction of those with celiac disease. It affects every aspect of my life, and I mean <u>EVERY</u>. It is the leading cause of blindness, neuropathy, etc. blah blah blah<br />
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Here's a fun gif to lighten the mood:<br />
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Okay, let me cut to the chase: In order to stop myself from starting another cycle of <b>"taking my goals seriously"</b> and <b>"The New and Improved Spencer (Psyche!)"</b> I am using this blog to force myself to take accountability for my actions. I have started <u>TODAY, NOVEMBER 1st 2015</u>, and I will continue this for <u>90 days</u>, which is the amount of time it takes to instill good habits and witness results (or so I'm told; I've never actually reached that far).<br />
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<u><b>WHAT THIS MEANS:</b></u><br />
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I have cut all bad from my diet--my addiction to fast food--<br />
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<i>(Taco Bell, Jack in the Box, I'm lookin' at you)</i><br />
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--and donuts, and Rockstars--<br />
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<b><i>(NO NO NO OH GAWD WHAT WILL I DO WITHOUT MY ENERGY)</i></b><br />
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--and ice cream, and gigantic portions. All gone.<br />
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Instead, I have written up a meal plan full of delicious egg white omelets, chicken breasts on quinoa, and veggies veggies veggies. Oh, and water, TONS OF WATER (sorry, California...)! I won't bore you with a meal photo 3 times a day, but you will be seeing proof of my new diet, and you will be <span style="font-size: large;"><b>HOLDING ME TO IT!</b></span><br />
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Then, I will slowly bring back daily exercise. I have a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Achieving-Telos-Diet-Fitness-Lifestyle-Coaching-607555762619887/?fref=ts" target="_blank">personal trainer friend</a> who has graciously put together a weekly muscle-group weight training plan, complete with the dreaded cardio.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>WHAT ELSE?</b></span><br />
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Oh, this isn't just about eating and exercise! I'm starting there because my health, as I've said, informs literally every single aspect of my life. But then that's where the fun begins.<br />
<b> </b><br />
<b>This is... <span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">SELF-IMPROVEMENT CAN BE TORTURE.</span></b><br />
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I've written up goals. I won't put them here right now, but for now, I will tell you which areas I intend to improve first.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">1. DIET & EXERCISE</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">2. MY WRITING</span><br />
--I have always wanted to be a professional writer, and I even wrote my first novel last year, but for some reason I also happen to be a huge procrastinator. Not anymore. Starting today, I am setting aside AT LEAST 3 hours every single day to work on my writing. That begins with the novel I am writing for 2015's NaNoWriMo. Oh, also, I am being published this month! More details on that later.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">3. FINANCES AND ADULT STUFF</span><br />
--this includes expanding my business (I'm a private piano teacher!), and other much more boring stuff, but right at this moment this means fixing my car. It broke down (transmission failure) a couple days ago, and well I drive about 8 hours a week for my job, so I kind of need to fix the car ASAP.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">4. SPIRITUAL SELF-IMPROVEMENT</span><br />
--this kind of encompasses a lot. I may write an article on an issue that is important to me, like feminism or marriage equality or prejudices of today in general. I may read a book that has been deemed noteworthy (first off: Ernest Hemingway's <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2165.The_Old_Man_and_the_Sea" target="_blank"><i>The Old Man and the Sea</i></a>). Or I may take your suggestions and try a new activity to broaden my horizons (i.e. visit a church, volunteer at a soup kitchen, see nature and watch the sunrise). Anything is welcome, so <b>suggest away!</b><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>That's it, for now.</b></span><br />
If you've read this whole thing, I promise to make future Self-Improvement blogs shorter. I guess I have a lot to say.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><u><i><b>Aaaaaaaaaand I'm off!</b></i></u></span></span><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1834875835873447399.post-39497632243463587652015-10-24T13:52:00.000-07:002015-10-24T13:52:08.805-07:00What I'm About, or, Why I Think You Should Care What I Think or Say or WhateverI've never blogged before (except for <a href="https://www.reverbnation.com/page_object/page_object_blogs/artist_3238228?blog_id=8880087" target="_blank">this cool little thing</a> or that time 15-year-old-me blogged about my driving instructor at the DMV and now in retrospect it sounds a bit racist so hopefully it's lost in cyberspace forever), but I've got a few specific ideas, and you might be interested in some of them:<br />
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<b>"SELF-IMPROVEMENT CAN BE TORTURE"</b><br />
This will take up most of my time the next few months, and I will be releasing more information and asking for your involvement shortly. But the basic premise involves you getting to watch and laugh as I put myself through humiliating and/or potentially dangerous flammable hoops of self-improvement.<br />
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<b>BOOKS, MOVIES, MEDIA, OH MY!</b><br />
I've been writing informal reviews on <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/17899434-spencer-borup" target="_blank">my Goodreads page</a> for a while now, but here I will be writing more entertaining reviews, mainly on books and movies and books-turned-into-movies. Starting with a battle between the Andy Weir novel and Ridley Scott movie in: <i>The Martian</i> vs. <i>The Martian</i> (coming soon)! And followed by a run-down of horror in pop culture, in the vein of Stephen King's <i>Danse Macabre </i>(coming not-as-soon)!<br />
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Can you make suggestions for me to review? Absolutely! Will I listen? ...maybe?<br />
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<b>STRANGER THAN NON-FICTION</b><br />
I will be posting updates on my career as a storyteller (starting with my upcoming published short story, "Shuffle") and even releasing pieces of my fiction here.<br />
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<b>MISCELLANEOUS</b><br />
Perhaps my first blog (after this one, obviously) will be about a stain on the Code of Ethics held by journalists that I stumbled on yesterday, which brings me to my last category: basically, anything goes. If I want to write it, then <a href="https://www.reverbnation.com/page_object/page_object_blogs/artist_3238228?blog_id=8880087" target="_blank">I'm gonna write it, goddammit!</a> <--by the way, I swear. So, if you don't abide by a few "fuck"s every once in a while, this might not be the fuckin' blog for you.<br />
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Okay, there goes my first blog. Boring, but it had to be done. I will try to organize each post into some kind of order using the above categories. And if you have any suggestions of what I should write, please, let me know! I reserve the right to ignore whatever you say (but most likely I'll be flattered that you read what I have to say and totally agree to write what you suggest... I'm not a douche, I promise)!<br />
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SHBAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00675517217309755068noreply@blogger.com0