Steer Forth!

A wreck in Pallava Bay

James Steerforth — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 13:42:19 +0000

Just like a raven at the sight of a roadkill, Danujan instantly thought of the loot he might possibly get from the wreck. Try as he might, though, he could not enter without tools.

He had to act fast before this bubble of news burst, run back to the shed and grab what he needed before anyone else got wind of the wreck.

Even if nothing of value was in the cabin, he could still use some of the lumber.

Did he indeed not hear the screams from inside, or was the howling of the wind and breaking of the waves as strong as he later told Inspector Mane?

Written around possible from Sunday Scribblings and bubble, lumber and wreck from 3WW.

Not normal

James Steerforth — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 17:28:05 +0000

Haven’t had my rented tux
experience with pains due to
starchy collar and cummerbund
problems

In fact, I didn’t even
know what an effing cummerbund
is until just now when Wikipedia
informed me it was a wide sash

But that’s ok. Don’t feel the need
to get all poetic, nostalgic or what
not over that male initiation thing,
wide sash, romantic Cinerama
expectations, rusty keyhole
perspectives and all

Just let me be my normal angry
self, and to hell with all the
stereotype bonding exercise

One for Sunday Scribblings and normal.

So what did set off that one? It was poetry, in fact. A poem thus introduced by Ted Kooser: “Here’s an experience that I’d guess most of the men who read this column have had, getting into a rental tuxedo. Bill Trowbridge, a poet from Missouri, does a fine job of picturing that particular initiation rite.”

What to do with this pale pink mimosa

James Steerforth — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 19:55:40 +0000

Don’t flag her down –
she might just –
no, she certainly will! –
wilt and turn completely passive.

Written for 3WW using flag, might and passive, giving certain painfully sensitive people an Emily Dickinsonesque poetic treatment.

Rhyming rote

James Steerforth — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 16:18:45 +0000

Now if I had anything to quote
I’d give it an honest vote.

But on that very same note
I’d also tote its antidote

and jump from any boat
for air with the slightest mote.

Plain silly and given to nonsense. Triggered by ‘vote’ at Sunday Scribblings.

Apocalypse now

James Steerforth — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 13:08:46 +0000

Nucleic breach of love for mankind –
only embers left, not
even a tentative ray of hope.

Written around breach, ember and tentative from 3WW.

Two years and numerous emotions later

James Steerforth — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 08:52:10 +0000

An exercise in positive negativity

The scene is a dreary café in some London suburb, where these former lovers have met. One in hopes of making up, the other …

“So you insist I’ve left no impact on you – ever?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve simply ejected me from memory?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve never rendered you happy or anything?”
“Yes, never. You’ve never rendered anything.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
“Good bye.”

Written around eject, impact, render from 3WW.

At home in the clouds

James Steerforth — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 14:22:35 +0000

Why mumble to myself of all persons –
to the one that can take the truth first-hand?

I’ve been dragging on the pipe of self-indulgence,
taking great pains to penetrate shallow layers.

Written around drag, mumble, penetrate from 3WW.

A captivating sunset

James Steerforth — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 10:35:05 +0000

A captivating sunset for Sunday Scribblings.

Picture taken from Villa Rita on the island of Elba, Italy.

Oh what to do …

James Steerforth — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 14:46:56 +0000

“No, Tim is not a fag, dad. He makes me gag!”
“Uhuh. A fag, just like I thought. But I still wonder why he makes you vomit.”
“Dad! What I said was that I omitted a word in a flyer, and because it was an important word and the whole thing was published –”
“Damn right, that would make anyone vomit, son. But I still don’t get that mountain connection. What were you doing in the mountains after you got yourself fired?”
“Maintain! I didn’t say mountain. All I wanted to say is that it’s going to be difficult to maintain this big house now that Tim’s axed my bonus. He didn’t fire me.”
“And why do you think moving to the mountains would solve the problem?”
“MAINTAIN!” I shouted.
“Maintain?”
“Yes, maintain, AND I FIND IT DIFFICULT TO MAINTAIN COMPOSURE, DAD!”
He gave me a puzzled look, eventually shrugging his shoulders.
“I still don’t understand why Tom’s homosexuality makes you vomit, son, and why you find it difficult to maintain composure in the mountains. It all seems just a wee bit disconnected, if you ask me.”
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Your hearing aid? Where is it?”
“Oh that. Battery’s dead.”
I sighed and tickled the little bit of white fluff on his head.
A silly old song came to my mind: What do you do with a worn old shoe?
What to do with a stubborn old man like that?

Written around gag, maintain, omit from 3WW.

The significance of things and events

James Steerforth — Sun, 05 Jun 2011 17:56:27 +0000

“What else did you see in your dream?”
“A violin. Nicely flung, not one of those ugly duck-chested ones.”
“Uhuh.”
The patient crossed his feet on the couch.
“Let me repeat: You saw an angel in a nearly sheer white dress on a shore, with foamy waves rolling in that were the same shade of white as the dress, plus a violin.”
“The angel was quite sexy, with an extremely shapely set of buttocks.”
“But there was something insect-like about the angel’s wings, you said. Correct?”
“Yes. And now that I think about it, the bow of the violin looked like a butterfly.”
“Hmm. Can’t quite picture that.”
“So tell me, doc: what’s the significance of this dream?”
“You also said it looked like a storm was brewing, and that you were afraid the angel was going to get sucked into the storm.”
“But also that the angel’s stance was actually quite solid, as if she were perfectly prepared to face the weather.”
The doctor sucked on his cold, extinguished pipe.
“Was there any sound that you can recall? Music being played on the violin?”
“Oh yes, the butterfly bow was playing a thin butterfly song. Sounded Vietnamese, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“Oh you know, that kind of tinny oriental music.”
“Ah.”
“Tell me, doc: what does this dream mean?”
“The symbols I see in your dream according to Jungo-Freudo-Jandlian theory are: enigma (that is the angel), mystery (that is the violin), the future (the storm) and the past (the land). – In other words: you are twice riddled, your future is uncertain and the past is behind you.”
“Doc, this sounds more like Tarot than serious oniroanalysis.”
“If you insist, I will also be happy to read the cards for you.”
“But what about the butterfly component?”
“Perhaps you’ve killed a butterfly or moth lately. Or seen the opera Madame Butterfly.”
“I won’t let you get away so easily, doc! Remember, this is costing me 90 bucks an hour.”
The doctor sighed.
“What do you want? Practical advice based on your dreams? And even if the angel means you’ve got a problem with your own repressed sexuality, I’m not going to tell to you leave your wife, get liberated and start fiddling around with other women, butterflies, storms or oceans. The significance of things and events in reality is in general grossly overrated. Even more so in dreams. What we’ve got here is a scene with contradictory or even random elements. In essence, this is all about you since it was your dream. You’re attracted, fascinated, afraid but also repulsed. So what? Everyone else is as well.”
“Doctor, are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m trying to tell you that you are wasting my time and your 90 bucks an hour. And now please get off my couch, Salvador Dalí.”

Written upon inspiration by the following painting (week 22 prompt at Writer’s Island):

Painting by M. Maier.