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Writer's Block: Tossing and Turning

My weirdest dream is one I've tried to write about (failingly) for years.

It involved a man named Kevin Toliver, who I only met once as a customer when I was working as a cashier at a used car dealership. 
In my dream Kevin Toliver was God (with a big G).
He lead me out of my dorm room (this is a very, very old dream), and into living room of my childhood home where the damned were circled around our old Sony TV. Someone was flipping through the channels rhythmically, snatches of sentences and flickers of images would start and stop.
He said, "They're fine" as we stepped over and through them on the way to the stairs and my bedroom.
He sat on my pink comforter and patted the bed beside him, so I sat down.
God, as Kevin Toliver, then proceeded to tell me something very important. His last words to me were "Don't forget. Don't ever forget."

And when I woke, I couldn't remember any of what was said in that conversation. I know it was important. I know it was instructions of some sort, or an answer to something...but I couldn't remember word one when awoke onto the top bunk of my rickety dorm bed. I do remember trying so hard to remember that I wound up in tears. 

The reason I remember the dream is that it was the most realistic dream I've ever had. I remember every vivid detail (even 20 years later), except what was said...the one motherfucking thing I was asked NOT to forget. 

Tell us your weirdest dream.

Writer's Block: Occupied

I did. I do. Sometimes people have to step up and say...PAY ATTENTION WORLD!
Have you participated in Occupy Wall Street? Why or why not?

The following skullbuggery is the result of me nabbing the first sentence of every post. It makes very little sense. But, I can see some of the important things I am obsessed with. 

January: How am I a Sam when I am clearly a Dean?
February: Every Tuesday night at the Pizza Joint and we've made it a semi-ritual for the English department.
March: As the room full of dignified members of the South Carolina Author's Academy ate asparagus quiche and fresh berry trifle at this morning's induction club at the exclusive Green Boundary club in Aiken, and listened to my "award winning" poetry, they may not have been aware of the extent of my drag/shapshifting abilities.
April: You know how every once in a while there's a day in which a series of connected events sticks out like a pattern, or a puzzle, but offers no means to interpret or solve said puzzle?
May: It's listing time!
June: First, WHEEEEE!
July: In a dumbass move related to Tristam Shandy*...I forgot to be born until I was about 2 years old.
August: First, why can't I say no to a job offer?
September: Because I am obsessed with the following things: cars, roads, maps, I decided to use my handy-dandy trucker map and a wet-erase to chart all the roads I have been down physically, rather than metaphorically.
October: Dear World, If you are lucky enough to be allowed (by me) to call me by my nickname, then please spell it correctly--with an "i" and an "e," like so: Mandie.
November: Okay, kiddults and kiddidles, it's time for me to vent to the empty room that is livejournal about my sleepy, sleepy obligations and bizzare need to work myself into a early grave (which will most likely be shallow and located somewhere in the woods behind a serial killer's love shack...I'm thinking optimistically today).
December: The Lover is perhaps one of the saddest films I've ever seen.

In retrospect: I am CLEARLY a Dean. 

Writer's Block: Tearjerkers

Which movie always makes you cry?

The Lover is perhaps one of the saddest films I've ever seen. I break down at the end of it each time I watch it.
Despite what my husband and best-friend might say, I am not a cryer. I cry pretty much ONLY in front of them when I've had waaay too much of the world. Otherwise, I my motto is "suck it up." The intensity of this film does not allow me to do that. Even having seen it about 20-25 times, even KNOWING what's coming and when, I cannot keep from crying when the main character breaks down at the end of the film. Killer stuff...emotional sabotage even for the most stoic of us.

Writer's Block: Fear factor

What are you afraid of?

There is only ONE thing to be afraid of, and that thing is clowns.

Writer's Block: Black Friday

What's the last thing you bought?

Your mom.


Writer's Block: Background players

What is your computer wallpaper right now?

An installation piece by poet/artist Robert Montgomery, part of his "Recycled Sunlight" series.

Extremely (suspiciously) like the Academy of American Poets poster for 2011, by Stephen Doyle:

Montgomery did it first.

Writer's Block: It’s the end of the world

If you knew today was your last day on Earth, how would you spend it, and why?

I'd load up the car and drive until the road gave out, or I gave out.
A bag of twizzlers, good radio, a gas station diet coke with ice and the windows down.
Come on empire without end!

I've decided to start a new project on LJ, which I write to pretty much only for me. The few of you rattling like ghosts or wind-chimes on here don't have to pay me no nevermind.

Here's what I'm planning:

My Mamaw, Vada Irene McGue, died a few years ago at the age of "who the hell knows, ain't no one got no birth certificate," I could give you the exact date and time of when she died, but it only matters to me. After her death there wasn't a day that went by when I didn't think of her at least once. And maybe I don't do it as much anymore (which makes me a bit sad), but she is there, speaking out in the back of my brain, reminding me of things I've forgotten or (more often) things I should always remember. So I thought that I'd start a new project to put her in your brain as well by sharing with you, friends and lovers, the things I remember. This will be part lexicon (written in my voice, so excuse the sometimes odd spellings of things and sound it out with a little bit of a highlands twang), it will be part life-lessons (she taught me a lot over the years), and mostly homage. I love my Mamaw and as I get older I find myself becoming more and more like her in a lot of ways. So, welcome to Vada Sd.

Vada Sd.

I was sitting in my yard today, smoking, which I shouldn't be doing, fine, fine fine, ya'll. Shuddit. And someone said "Listen" and autofuckingmatically my brain said this:

Listen, listen,
Cat's been pissin.
Where, where?
In the chair.
Run, run, get the gun.
Oh, shit, s'already done.

This is not only a very nice poem about shooting a cat, it's also a very nice poem about shooting a cat which my Mamaw taught to me when I was three. It is the first poem I ever memorized. She taught it to me so that when my mom yelled "Listen!" I could recite it to her.

There are several lessons here:
1. Nothing is funnier than a three year old saying something like this.
2. It's hard to be mad at a three year old when they do say something like this.
3. It's even harder not to bust out laughing when a three year old says something like this to you when you are trying to scold them.
4. Mamaws find the frustrations of their children highly amusing.
5. Cats suck. Sorry, cat lovers, that's a fact. Init?
6. Teaching a child poetry early on, even bad poetry about shooting pissing cats, can lead, perhaps inadvertently, to that child growing up to get degrees in poetry.
7. Teaching a child to cuss early on can start that child on a fantastic skill in imaginative cussery. I am a Mozart of cussing...a fucking child prodigy.
8. If you can't stop something bad from happening you just have to roll with it...oh, shit, it's already done.

Share the wisdom, share the love.


Writer's Block: Tea for two

If you could spend a day with any fictional character, who would it be and what would the two of you do?

ANY? Oh...man.

We'll have to break this down list-wise:

1. Television: Dean Winchester. I would like him to sidle on up to me in a diner. We'd talk about pie for a while. He'd agree with my theory that pie is so good that cake wishes it were pie. We'd also talk about cars--big block, super sport, mopar cars with engines to make us weak in the knees. Then we'd go out and look under the hood of the Impala and I'd tell him that my parents had a car like this when I was a baby. My car-seat sat right in the back and we'd tool down back roads and ridge roads for hours. And that I'd love to be nothing but on the road forever, like a fucking modern day pirate...no home but the earth below and the sky above me. I'd tell him how I might have stolen my dad's metallic turquoise Chevelle SS once as a teenager, but that my dad should never have left the keys there. Maybe he'd take me for a ride, and I'd make him laugh. I'd tell him how I envy his life, good and bad, and there aren't enough heroes in the world, not real ones. We'd grab a six of PBR and lament our poor choices, while realizing we wouldn't change a god damn thing. That would be awesome.

2. Literature: Quentin Compson. I don't know that I couldn't kiss that poor boy silly. I'd try to save him from falling apart. And I'd tell him what he wanted to tell Caddy-- "If it could just be a hell beyond that: the clean flame the two of us more than dead. Then you will have only me then only me then the two of us amid the pointing and the horror beyond the clean flame" (2.252)." We'd lay in the grass and try not to be overcome by the odor of honeysuckle.

3. Film: Jim Stark (Rebel Without a Cause). Here's how it would go: I'd slide him a cigarette and then growl something like, "Hey, Sugar, ditch that square bitch and let's roll. I'll show you how big girls play." Then, we would.

4. Elsewhere: You know who you are. And we'd do everything we always said we already did only this time it would be a dirty lie. SWAK.


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