What happens when a bus driver doesn't enunciate

The bus driver stopped the bus and said, or rather, mumbled, "This bus is stopping for two minutes out of remembrance."

"Bloody hell," a little girl said.

 "I've got to do my shopping," said a woman.

"Is it for an ambulance?" asked another.

The little girl's mom, who'd been whoo'ing like an owl doing voice training ever since we got on at Crouch End Broadway, sang, "Why do we have to wait so long?  Why doooo we have to wait so loooong?"

The shopping woman got off the bus.

So much for remembrance.

Dialogue and what makes a good story

My thoughts on what makes a good story -- at Scriggler.com

Pastel portrait of my mom

I am a Lady

When I got on the elevator, there was a little girl with her parents. The little girl stared at me, then whispered, "Mommy, there's a lady."  The mother didn't respond.  I kept staring at the doors.  The little girl, thinking her mother especially stupid, whispered again, "Mommy.  There's a lady in the elevator with us."   Silence.  "Mommy! There's a ...." 

"Yes, dear. That's a lady." 

Floor 3.  Floor 2.

"Thank you for calling me a lady!"  Her parents laughed, but the little girl looked as shocked as if I were a pangolin telling David Attenborough, "You're dang right I'm a mammal!"

Girl at the Beach

Here's my pastel portrait of a friend's daughter on the beach.  I used soft pastels on pastel card.  40 cm by 30 cm.

Final version of another little white dog

Pastel 30 cm by 40 cm

Another little white dog

Here's a pastel of a friend's dog -- in progress, but I think almost done except for the background.

Draft version of little dog

I'm not sure I'll finish this drawing, as I ran out of room for this dog's back paws - darn it.  I'll start anew tomorrow.  But, anyway, it's of a dog I saw in Christiania that belonged to a begging guy.

Devon Pub Dog

This is a pastel I did of a dog in a pub in Lympstone, Devon.   It's available to buy at my
Saatchi Online site.

You can see my other artwork at www.kellascat.com.

Teenage Letter to Jack Vance #3

July 31

Dear Mr. Vance,

My best friend, Julia, visited during the last days of the school year.  She had been let out from her school-year early, actually kicked out.  Because of too many absences.  She had to take a public bus to school and claims she always missed it.  Her mother works nights and couldn't drive her.  Her sister was kicked out with her.  That was her first year in Omaha.  I guess she succumbed to the lures of the Big City.    She wore the strangest clothes in the name of fashion.  She thinks that Omaha is the centre of what is chic, and that this is a hick town where everyone is five years behind schedule.  One of the outfits she wore to school was a pair of her dad's old boxer shorts, decorated with the stars and stripes, underneath which was a pair of ripped long-johns.  Then a top which was carefully chosen not to match, although I don't think anything could match the underwear.  And she wore a band around her head that was so tight that it gave her a headache, but still she refused to take it off.  We plan on going to college together, if we can get into one.  

Oh dear.  My dad is making me get off the computer so that he can work.  I will continue this tomorrow.

Here I am again.  Do I sound like I have matured in the past 12 hours?  

I called the school today to see if I could switch around my schedule, but I can't until registration.  I tried that last year, and it's impossible.  They shove you through a line, handing you all sorts of little papers, and there's no chance to even speak.  I wanted to take Art instead of Graphics.  I don't know why I signed up for that, as I don't want to get ink on my hands.  I'm not taking math this year.  I took two years' worth last year, and Doug told me I would belly-flop in Analysis.  I can picture myself getting up on my desk during a test, saying, "This is too much for me!" and then doing a belly-flop onto the floor.  That would be dramatic.  But I get physically ill when I see a math book.  I know I need to take it for college, though.  I can already see my life crumbling in two years.  I have to take science for the rest of my life in school.  I decided to take Physics A (which is easier than Physics AA.  My brother said I would belly-flop in that class, too).  I don't know a thing about physics, but I always thought for some reason that it would be interesting.  I think if I talk about school anymore, this paper will crinkle and disappear in a poof.

Thank you for all the nice things you said about me.  Could you tell my mom that what she calls sarcasm is really wit?  Actually, I haven't been witty in a long time.  That must be because I am maturing.

Joyous day!  My mom told me to make an appointment with the orthodontist and said I could drive down myself for it.  But now that she has made me totally unconfident about driving, I'm not sure if I'm brave enough.  Soon I'll be an old lady trapped in my house, afraid to go out, and I'll peer through the curtains when someone comes up the walk, then pretend I'm not home.  If I get my brother's car, and I'm not sure I will, I will need a big phone book plus the pillow I use for the Volvo to sit on.  That's what you get for being born short.  And for inheriting a 1973 Dodge Coronet.

I am crocheting such a nice afghan.  I chose tasteful colours; some people use every colour on the earth so that it will go with anything.  It is my first afghan.  Before I would crochet and keep on going until I had a long piece of nothing.  

The painting on my bedroom ceiling is a Chagall.  My mom did it beautifully.  There is a white border, then a pale grey, and then a border of stenciled leaves.  She's painted what looks like the rising sun in grey above my windows.  Now they look like they are arched, and it is very pretty.  She's thinking about painting the cheap panelling in our family room grey.  Then she might paint the sky on the ceiling along with window panes, so that it looks like one big window.  We want Mom to go into decorating, but she says no one in DeKalb could appreciate what she does, and that's probably true.  She also had landscaped our lawn beautifully.  When we moved here, there were no trees to speak of.  Now there are sloping mounds covered with flowers and bushes, and lots of trees. My mom used to be an artist, but then she had us.

Sincerely,

Kellas

A letter I wrote Jack Vance when I was 16 #1

Dear Mr. Vance,

A lot of exciting things have happened in the past few weeks.  Last night, I found out the teachers are going to strike April 15th, and...there must be something else.  I guess you’ll have to be satisfied with happenings on a lower plane of thrill.

I’m on the New Pennies staff here.  Not too exciting, since anyone who signs up for Creative Writing II is on the staff, but it’s nice.  I have three stories and four poems in it, the most out of anyone.  One girl submitted all these poems that were very strange.  We accepted one of them, and it turned out later that Doug* (my brother), who had arranged all the submissions anonymously, had separated the poem into two different parts by mistake, so we accepted the latter half, and turned down the first half.  So now we have to print the whole thing.  One of the lines is like, “My feet feel like dead fish on sand afraid of blue water I am too.”  

We are also printing an epic poem.  A real, true to life epic poem.  It was 25 pages, but the author cut it until it will only take ten pages of our 64 page magazine.  It rhymes and everything.  It's about George Nathaniel Hall who didn't want to fight at all.  It gets into God and cosmic issues.  We accepted it, and then it turned out that hardly anyone had finished reading it.  But it is marvelously good. 

My mom just came down here with a scarf over her head.  I don’t have contacts in and it looked like she had bleached her hair blonde.  Minor shock.

You know, if I had known way back last summer that you were a Hugo award winning author and all that, I would have been too awed to write you.  It’s sorta weird seeing your name in print and knowing you’re a real person.

I called the bookstore here and asked when your book would be in, and the guy asked me how I knew what it was called.  I said you had told me, and the guy didn’t say anything for awhile, and then said, “Who?  Jack Vance?”  

I said, “Yes.”   

He made some skeptical noises and said it would be out in April.  He called later with some info and talked to my brother, who backed me up.  

Have you ever heard the word shlump?  My parents are calling each other shlumps at this very moment.

We’re trying to sell the house now.  Have been for the past year.  I wish I could get out of this accursed place in the cornfields.

My mom kept telling me about these worms who invade people’s brains and eyes.  And of course, I immediately started rubbing my eyes and got a head-ache.

I’m sixteen now.  Thrill.  My birthday was March 5th.  I say that in case your birthday is March 5th.  I doubt it, though.  But would be neat if it was.  Being 16 is not total excitement, mainly because everyone else is sixteen, too.

Sincerely,

Kellas

*Fake name in case he doesn't want to be identified in this blog post.

Another of my teenage letters to Jack Vance #2

June 11

Dear Mr. Vance,

Hooray!  Hooray!  Hooray!

I am almost blissfully happy, as you may have guessed from the above.  SCHOOL IS OUT.  It would be sacrilegious to write that in little letters.  That one reason has a lot of sub-reasons, too, like no more having to worry about the homework I won't do.  I am tan (which I will regret later when I get all wrinkled.  Actually, I've already got wrinkles by my eyes and on my forehead.  Probably from squinting.  My mom is rude and says she can't see them, but I KNOW they are there). 

Doug graduated.  Isn't that exciting?  I went to the ceremony.  There were six valedictorians.  Of course Doug was one.  A-- S---, a friend, was one, too.  He wore shorts underneath his robe and dirty sneakers without socks.  And he had on sunglasses.  I laughed.  But whenever I tell people about it they go, "Yeah?"  So I shouldn't have bothered mentioning it to you.  

My dad took all these pictures with his good camera, and I took some with my camera.  Turned out my dad had stuffed his film in wrong, so my pictures will be the only ones of this turning point in my brother's life.  So my dad's yelling at Doug's friends to smile as they were marching by was a waste.  

I can draw now.  Suddenly, I picked up a pencil, and I DREW a face.  Yes, it was a living, breathing face.  Then I did another one, and another one, until now I have about twenty faces.  Today I started on bodies.  My mom was a commercial artist so I guess I get it from her.

My dad went to China.  Among other things, he brought back a smiling buddha.  It's so jolly, I laugh every time I see it.  The buddha is fat and has all these kids crawling on him.  I always thought Buddhas were very solemn.  I should start meditating in front of it.  I tried that a few days ago.  I sat in my room with no light, and I hummed.  But I kept thinking that I wasn't thinking, so I really couldn't elevate myself as high into the air as I would have liked.  I just had a vision of myself floating through the hallway, cross-legged and humming, and all my brothers' friends staring at me in amazement.

Our new principal is the biggest jerk in the world.  He looks exactly like Norman Bates.  These two seniors shot out the glass in his door, and put fifteen For Sale signs in his yard one night.  Now he's pressing charges and they might go to jail.  He said it was the fourth incident at his home in six weeks.  And he's saying how the teachers and administrators can't be harassed by the students.  If he was half-way intelligent, he'd notice that HE is the only one being harassed.  And on the last day of school someone threw a smoke bomb in the commons and then pulled the fire alarm.  The last school he was principal at burned down.

I might send a picture with this letter if I can find one that shows off my immortal beauty.  If I don't, you'll probably think I'm hiding something.  I'm not.  And I'm not fat at all.  Short people can't afford to be fat, or else they look like Pillsbury Dough Boys.  At school this wretchedly fat girl (who is also somewhat short) fell down the stairs.  She just rolled and rolled, and kept on rolling awhile even at the bottom.  And people were smirking!  I didn't smirk.  Of course, I didn't go and help her either.

Your ardent admirer*

Kellas

*I'm not sure what ardent means.  So don't take it literally if it means something other than what I think it means.  

On the way to the airport this morning

"If I don't look at your face, and just listen to your voice, you sound Chinese," the cab driver said, glancing at me in the rear view mirror.

"My sister-in-law is Taiwanese."

"Maybe you picked it up from her, then."

"Huh."

"Just from your voice, I picture a very different face."

"Oh dear.  What kind of face?"

"A nice face. "  He paused, perhaps reflecting upon this better face.  Then, "I would never have guessed American.  Maybe you have a cold?"

"No."

Now it was his turn to "huh."

"But, I think I have allergies."

"Yes, this is a bad time for allergies."  He waved at all the concrete around us.  And that settled that.

I hadn't thought up till now that I had allergies, but then, I never thought I sounded Chinese, either.

Arivaderci, Sicily!

Waiting for the ferry back to Naples. This has been such a great trip, except for the sick kitten. I threw some cat food down at the cats in the Roman ruins here in Catania, but I feel so bad about the kitten. Yoko and I went back to the restaurant last night to see how she was, but the guy who'd helped us wasn't there, and I think the guy who was there thought I was a bit crazy, as I kept meowing, hoping he'd understand. He finally came with us outside, and we thought it was to go find the kitten, but then it seemed he just wanted us out of the restaurant. He kept saying, "Restaurante!" And then I'd meow and pretend I was sick and point over to the alley. And then he'd yell, "Restaurante!"  And I'd meow again.

But apart from that, everyone here in Sicily has been wonderful and the bus driver even gave me a free ride today (not like in Agrigento, which was something else entirely).

And, I highly recommend the Liberty Hotel in Catania!

At a cafe overlooking the sea in Sorrento

Hmmm.  Where's the waiter?  I wonder if he thought I just wanted to sit here and enjoy the breeze?

Went up to the little glass-walled room/hut (hut does not give the right impression) where the waiters were congregating.  The lead waiter snapped to attention, "What can I do for you?"  And then he offered me a seat on the forbidden balcony -- the first waiter had said only hotel guests could sit there.  But, I know my place and went back to it.  I asked for a glass of wine, and as one of his sub-waiters went off to fetch it,  I specified, "Red."  He nodded and smiled, as in 'of course'.

He set it down: "Chianti."  And boy, it's delicious!   I usually don't like chianti, but maybe it's because I only ever drank it in places like the Cheesecake Factory and it had lots of fruit and stuff in it.

Oh yeah, so earlier today I sat down at an outdoor cafe (nowhere near the same category as this place) on the crowded little street near our hotel and ordered a latte macchiato (very careful to add the last word, after my glass of warm milk at the Hilton) -- when I added on the macchiato, I looked around to see if any Americans were around to witness my worldliness.   There are Americans all over here, but I rather like it, as they've regained their exotic status for me.

Except the one lady a few tables down, who is going on about how she's been on antibiotics since she was 25.

"Why?"  her friend asked in a rapturous sort of whisper.

"Acne."

"Acne?"

I didn't hear the rest of it.

Anyway, while waiting for my latte macchiato glass to cool off a bit, I decided the table and chair set-up was too uncomfortable, so yanked my chair a bit.  The table thumped down a couple inches and coffee spilled.  Everyone around me looked over.  I smiled and shrugged.   A few minutes later, I decided it'd be nicer to sit with my legs not crammed to one side, so I moved my chair again, and this time my whole glass tipped over and all the coffee spilled out onto the tablecloth (which I checked -- it was real cloth).  This time I bowed and said, "Thank you."  Again, everyone stared, but with no expression, like they were sheep that just happened to be looking over to see if I were some rambler they could advise the cows to trample.