Week 595: Who’s On Your Wall and a New Feature

I went to high school with a girl named Michelle “Mick” Kleinschmidt. Mick looked as far removed from Kleinschmidtiness as you can imagine. Her father was an American of German ancestry and her mother (whom Mick strongly resembled) was a Filipina. Mick’s parents met and were married in Manila. He was in the Navy and brought Mrs. K to live in the United States. Bremerton, Washington is a Navy town, and after Mick’s father was honorably discharged he landed a job at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard. This is very common in this part of the world and continues to happen to this very day. (For the first time ever, while I worked on base, I met a female Ensign who brought her Filipino husband home to America.)

Although Mick greatly favored her pretty mother in looks she was (and I assume still is) as American as the Veg-O-Matic. Although we weren’t super close, we hung out a lot during high school. She was gregarious, high energy and funny. She’s the only seventeen year-old I have ever met who wore a glasses lanyard and had enough personality to get away with it without taking shit from the other kids. I liked her a lot, everyone did, and I’m sure she is doing well wherever she is. And although I haven’t seen Mick since we were in our twenties, she still has one everlasting effect on me, by name, The Poetry Wall.

I grew up as a child of renters, to which I remain to this day. Mick grew up in one house, which her parents (her Mom took a job as a CNA when Mick entered high school–I liked her folks too, even though he lived under the impression that my name was Eileen) paid off early. And being an only child Mick had her own room–all hers from birth until she left for college (Mr and Mrs K sold out and retired to Arizona some time before 9-11). People who live in rentals are not allowed to do the things Mick did to her room, although her actions were in no way damaging.

Mick wasn’t spoiled, her mother saw to that, but she was allowed freedom to express herself via interior decorating (up to a point–and as long as it did not find its way into the rest of the house). Mick did the usual teen stuff–for instance, wide purple and orange stripes with thin, alternating black then yellow lines between them was her wall color (she told me her mom said no when pink on black was brought into conversation at the dinner table–it was one of those to a point things). Like me, Mick worked at McDonald’s, and (unlike me) she invested heavily on her room.

Mick was big on color collisions involving orange, and she bought a deep pile shag orange rug for the floor. It was the mid 1970s and I’ve always been convinced that the increased presence of color TV from the mid-sixties on had a hand in those gaudy, retina scorching times. Never before or since (not even in the dayglo 80’s) have I seen so much color in homes.

Anyway, It was a good sized room that had a four-post queen bed (another maternal NO greeted the topic of a water bed) and a vast chocolate brown bean bag chair, which I made myself at home on many occasions. But the main attraction, for me, was her Poetry Wall. Mick only painted three walls and proceeded to cover the wall farthest from her bed with handwritten poetry and song lyrics. As far as the arts went, Mick played the coronet in the school band (she rejoiced when she finally made the first chair) and loved to paint and sketch, and her dad taught her calligraphy at a very early age. Mick was the soul of sticktoitiveness, she excelled in those activities and did stuff like create sets for school plays. But I never knew her to write, she read plenty, especially Piers Anthony–in fact I’d often help her “jazz up” her well written yet remarkably dull essays; therefore the poems and lyrics on the walls were written by “famous people.” Still, Mick was choosy about what went up on her wall. And it was definitely a labor of love because performing calligraphy on a step ladder at a ninety degree angle can not be an easy task.

The project began when she was in her early teens and ended when she left for college, so I figure five years went into the enterprise. Although only about eighty-percent complete, the words extended from six inches above the floor on up to the crown molding–she was the only kid I have ever known who had crown molding in her room. The low stuff featured things like Leave Me Alone by Helen Reddy and Chapin’s Cats in the Cradle. Up high were the entire lyrics from Sgt. Pepper, all of Shakespeare’s sonnets and the entire scene from the Merchant of Venice that included the merciful rain part. All of it in India Ink, all of it in the same sized letters, and all of it without spacing. It looked like one thing but up close you could make out the differences. I only saw her work on it once. We were going to a movie, but we had plenty of time and she needed to finish something for the wall. I watched her climb a fancy step ladder, like they use in grocery stores. It had a platform, which had a box attached and in the box she placed the ink and a bunch of pens. I clearly recall her talk-talking ten-thousand miles a minute, as was her habit. My job was to feed her lines if she forgot any–told me it was a drag when she forgot, but that for once I might be handy. Hee Haw. For the life of me I cannot remember what she was adding to the wall that day, but I’m sure it was a song. Something pop-country, maybe Glen Campbell…Witchita Lineman or Galveston, something like that. Regardless, the Poetry Wall was an amazing thing–perfectly straight lines, no dribbles that I could detect.

I liked the concept and meant to make my own wall, but being far lazier and much less talented with my hands than Mick, I chose to put together various Art Walls of high quality stuff but in a low quality, lazy renter sort of way. That means the works were typed (95% poetry–Mick was fifty-fifty) then taped to the wall. Technology, via my nifty Canon and its HP predecessors, have been tremendous boons. Posters of various works of art and films take up most of the space (I mentioned my laziness, right?), but poetry and lyrics that are truly poems in their own right continue to have their say on my rent-a-walls. My living room looks like the lobby of an old movies’ theatre. I counted twenty-six two-by-three movie posters on the walls; “my office” is a hodge-podge of art posters and the aforementioned words. The posters take up much more space, but I believe there are more poems than images.

In my office I have the Great Wave of Kanagan by Katshuska Hoskusai; Birth Machine by Giger; Van Gogh’s Burning Cigarette; The Old Guitarist by Pablo (hi, DWB!); Night Hawks by Hopper; Dali’s first rate Swans Reflecting Elephants; more Vinny including Starry Night; Will Shakespeare (whose eyes, I swear, follow), and a few movie posters there was no room for in the front room.

The poems are everywhere, including Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech (which I consider poetry), Dover Beach, Oxymandias, a bunch of Dorothy Parker, lyrics by the Beatles, Dylan, Dead Kennedys, X, Cohen (a new inclusion, Everybody Knows), Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody and Calling Occupant by Klaatu–that last one is there for an ongoing project. Also got We Will Go No More A Rovin’ that I consult when I’ve had a few and say–”Oh no, not yet, pal, not yet.” Although most of the stuff has been up for ages, it is an ongoing thing that has me casting an eye at the ceiling.

They are up on the wall because I like the way they make me feel. There’s something about glancing at Dogs Playing Poker when you have just stepped in a cold hairball that improves the moment. Now, some may think this is affected, hell it might be, but honestly, I just like it that way. And there is a purpose in it. Recently I’ve been gathering all the old ads from 1966-1972 that I can find in stuff like The National Geographic (which I buy for a dollar a copy at St. Vincent de Paul). I do not cut up old magazines, but I can make awesome copies on my Canon (a first rate printer–always try to buy the best you can afford) and fix them to the wall (the reason why the ceiling is being seriously considered). This is to aid my “Endless Project” begun in 2007 and up well over a million words. Call it method writing.

And that’s a good thing, I think. Maybe it is important to make sure you have a comfortable chair and music you like listening to when you are at work. I find that a sense of structure can help a person switch to “writing mode.” It works for me and I certainly would like to hear what works for you.

In that regard, I close this oddly cynicism-free (well mostly) with my thanks to Michelle Mick Kleinschmidt, the founder of the Poetry Wall, and always a bit of a smart ass to boot.

Before we get into the week’s Week That Was Part, I plead to you (except Dale, Geraint and Mick Bloor who have been consistent and remain so–which of course is the soul of consistency–remaining so). Please consider the Sunday shooting turnips (let the Fish alone) in a barrel publishing credit that cobbling up a rerun or writing a little book review will gain you. We also publish “oddities” but since they are odd those are impossible to describe. Anyway there’s the tug at the sleeve or hem. Please do not make me kick you in the bal–, um, shins.

The Week That Was

Once again six souls did something more productive than trudge up the gallows to a necktie party. I was the first of the six with my Sunday statement about Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh. It’s a hell of a good book that spawned one very good and one okay film. If you want to read more about it, please trace back to last Sunday; if you do so, beware of all, especially the one called “Begbee.”

Monday shone Blue Light by Huina Zheng. This writer shows what persistence and tireless editing will get you. Huina was able to transfer the concepts of one culture to the Western way of looking at things and came up a winner. We really are the same, which should give everyone a cause for worry. But as long as there are good writers like Huina around, we need not be hopeless–even though I admit the last sentence there sounded awfully tacked on and not much use against despair. Still, Huina, with her determination and professionalism won the day and I advise confused people to learn from her example.

S.J.Butler returned Tuesday with Forever Bench. This is a tremendous bit of whimsy and emotion. S.J. found an idea and did not lean into it too hard. That happens a lot, writers often mishandle Big Ideas because Big Ideas do not know when a writer is ready to convey them. This is a case in which the Big Idea (regardless of the brief length) and the writer are well met.

Christopher J. Ananias has one of the most vivid imaginations to ever appear on the site. I like to call him CJA, and Fire Eating is CJA at his most vivid. He has a knack for bringing his fantastic imagination into the darkest parts of the real world, by doing so he creates works of art that are singularly his own. But if I had to compare him to anyone I guess Raymond Carver wouldn’t be too off, yet, like Carver, CJA has a voice all his own.

Prolific site friend Matias Travesio-Diaz returned on Thursday with The Akelarre. He too has his own voice that confidently connects the mythic to the mundane, which creates a third new item that shines brightly. For those of you unfamiliar with Matias, we encourage you to have a look at his posts with us (same goes for our other writers). A look will show you how great a range this writer has.

The closer for this Week That Was, Ana in the Negative, by R.W. Owen is a great example of strong writing saving a too common idea. Just about anything can make a good story, but there often come ideas that, well, come too often. Once such is the ghostly apparition in the camera. Not sure if the Cottingly Fairies were the first, but there have been many since. Regardless, R.W. made this a fresh and human story well worth reading several times.

Thus we close another Week That Was. Our thanks to everyone and our constant invitation is always extended.

NEW FEATURE: WORDS I MEAN TO STOP MISSPELLING

This bi-week I introduce my new resolve to stop misspelling words. To date I have corrected my contact errors (“contact error” my newest phrase) with refrigerator, restaurant and, well, misspell . I have done terrible things to them, and I apologize to them and their fans. But I have realized when I concentrate on a word and “fix” it in my mind, the fix takes. The new word I am going to fix in my mind is:

Bureau

I have mangled that one for ages. For some reason I felt that the eau part began the thing, which resulted in embarrassing messes like “Beaureau.” No more I tell you, no more.

This will be an ongoing feature, because I got a whole bunch of them to put the fix on.

The List of the Bi-Week

The List of the Bi-Week Comes From My Idea Pantry, and I admit that the title is a touch on the clunky side: Dubious Ideas/Titles In Leila’s Title/Idea Pantry. These are things that popped into my head enough to be remembered but not to the point that I have done anything with them. Still this shelf in the pantry occasionally provides manna–such as a list to close this week with (and I believe I’ve been to it at least twice before).

• Xenemorph Colostomy Bag (Long ago a Chef on Food Network dared people to name stuff that smells worse than a Durian–that was my thought)
• And the Lord Sayeth Unto Thee “Thou Hast a Purty Mouth“
• The Alcoholic Poodle Skirt Lifting Madness of Bobby Rydell (Thought up upon learning that the former Teen Idol was a raging booze hound)
• George Jettison: Projectile Vomiting in the 23rd Century (I have no idea)
• Ghost Pimp Gets His (Revenge Tale involving the MC having a well deserved bad eternity)
• Kramer vs Kramer: The Steel Cage Match (Meryl would win because she has more Oscars to club Dustin to death with. Inspired by Celebrity Deathmatch)
• God and Satan: The Love Theme (Imagine God and Satan played by George Jones and Tammy Wynette. God George gets busted driving drunk on the riding mower and is sentenced to community service. Serving in a soup kitchen he sees the horror he had inflicted on innocent souls, and he feels sadder than an ol’ Blue Hound sleeping by master’s grave. But then he sobers up and smites the bunch of them for making him feel human. Tammy Satan stands by her man laughing her ass off)
• Bang! Zoom! Off to the Moon! (Involves Ralph Kramden finally following through on his empty threat. But not on Alice. Instead he power punches unpopular people like Putin, any Ayatollah, Le Grande Orange, any Kardashian to–well, you probably guess where to by now–I keep seeing a set like in the Young Ones, feet vanishing through the ceiling upon the punch and it makes me laugh)
• Blackadder Gets Madder (Edmund and the boys somehow survive their forced march into the firing Huns, and with the aid of a suddenly soul changed Lord Flashheart, they come back, gather the thoughtless generals, and at gunpoint they say “Your turn.”)
• All suggestions are desperately encouraged

Leila

Word of the Bi-Week: Spizzerictum (n): Determination, chutzpah

Today’s clip honors Kate Bush, whose 68th birthday happened on 30 July (coincidentally, and perhaps it is karma, she has the same birthday as Emily Bronte). The song is a favorite of Hugh’s