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Bilal Dardai
12 January 2011 @ 02:12 am
It is during the walk home, appropriately, that I at last manage to articulate my complicated relationship with stillness.

Stillness and I stand at the edges of forests, at the entrances of museums, just off the elevator, just to the side of persuasion. I will say to stillness, let us go further, and see what lies beyond our vision. And stillness turns to me, rests a hummingbird-feather hand on my shoulder, and replies, I'm not done viewing what is in our vision now. We fight like streams and rocks, taking turns as either, until we have worn each other down, until at last I agree to stay for awhile, until at last stillness agrees to move on. We carry each other along on our separate adventures but neither of us is truly satisfied.

And yet there is love there for each other, an understanding that what we would lose of each other if we separated completely would be so much worse than the tension of remaining together. There is no animus in our relationship; there is but an understanding that stillness and I are both poorly matched and happily bound to one another.

The last recurring nightmare I can remember, which is to say it hasn't recurred for some time, is simply this: I am standing in a vast field, or a city, or some other generic landscape, and I am either a few seconds too fast or a few seconds too slow for everything happening around me. I spend the duration of the nightmare attempting to will my body into sync with the environment, and what I feel is not so much terror as it is dread. Of what, I'm not sure; dread that I will never be able to center myself on the pace of this particular clock-tick, perhaps.

It never seems to occur to me to ask the world to hold still for a moment.

This is not, I diagnose, because of an oversight on my part. It's because if the world stopped moving I wouldn't want to be part of it anymore. I suffocate on air that has stood there waiting for me. I need it to attempt escape. I need it to come charging at me. I do not function well in vacuums or in theory.

I do not interview well, I never seem to interview well, because my muscles tense, my bones go brittle and weather-beaten in these situations. I can't find any sense of balance in the natural sequence of Q-A-Q-A, of step one, hold, step two, hold. My rhythms tend to blend the brushstrokes of Q and A together, like tendrils at the ends of kanji, the letters reaching to each other with longing for connection. I sell myself poorly because I'm subconsciously shopping at the same time: surely you are also interesting and I wonder what your story is and bloody hell I'm supposed to be talking about me right now um um um I'm very responsible and have an excellent eye for detail um.

I am aware, through various unfortunate happenstances, of no fewer than three jobs I have possessed where I was not considered a strong candidate for the position, and only acquired it as an alternate when one of the people above me didn't work out. Re-assessments after the fact were much more favorable, after I'd spent time in the position. This is apparently my optimal state--I prove that I am a good fit for the work only after I have been allowed to do the work. It is an internal methodology that does me absolutely no fucking favors whatsoever but it's the one that makes the most sense to me, on a deeply intrinsic level.

I'm trying to accept it so I can figure out how to make it work for me. I'm trying to tell stillness that I need to go spend some time in the middle of a tornado by myself but I promise to write a letter a week. I'm trying, as one of my favorite folk singers, once wrote, to evolve:

It took me too long to realize
that I don't take good pictures
cuz I have the kind of beauty
that moves
.

My element is motion. This might be why I don't sleep very much.
 
 
Current Mood: awakeawake
Current Music: XTC, "This World Over"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
03 January 2011 @ 01:14 am
I'm trying something different with the word this year. Instead of using resolution as an expression of hard-charging intent, as is traditionally done, I'm using it in one of its more contemporary usages, as a description of image quality. These are not New Year's resolutions as expression of what I will I will I will change, they are expressions of what I currently see in myself, with crystal clarity, at the dawn of 2011.

The experiment is meant to acknowledge and defuse my overpowering fear of failure by removing failure from the equation. A statement of intent unmet by adequate action is failure, and leads to a number of questions about the failure, all of which inevitably lead to the cruelest of self-assessment questions: "What is wrong with you?" (This question, of course, is the basis of the New Year's tradition in the first place.)

The only question I will need to answer at the end of next year is the following: Are these statements still true?


1. I am carrying a bit more weight than is optimal for my age and height, and my cholesterol is a little high.
And many of us will say that, many of us have said that already and are saying it right now. Body image resolutions are the elevator music of self-improvement; you've heard the song before, hated it in its original form and can't believe it's somehow gotten worse as you're hearing it now.

2. I don't cook nearly enough.
Reference aforementioned fear of failure. Every home-cooked meal is a work of art and I get anxiety even over creating the art I know I'm capable of. But I didn't get capable of that art by remaining both anxious and paralyzed about it.

3. There are several theatre companies in this city whose work I have yet to experience.
I'll still be going to the theaters where I've come to expect quality work, but it's about time I made a point of checking out those other companies about whose work, for years, I've been hearing great things without once attending one of their productions. Red Twist, Theo Ubique, Oracle, Teatro Luna, Mammals, others...your names are working their way to my foreground.

4. This blog has been largely inactive for no good reason.
I currently post three entries a week for a company that provides a professional wine storage service but barely manage that for my own blog in a six-month span. I keep this space open but don't fill it with anything and none of the reasons I have for that have been satisfactory to me.

5. I don't often tell the people I love how much I love them.
Or maybe I do without those words, exactly. Or maybe they know anyway. Status quo isn't actually relevant for this one; there's no reason for me not to do it more often.

I spent the first few days of 2011 belting out rock songs, processing paperwork, watching movies, doing laundry, playing games about time travel, and getting a single 14-hour stretch of sleep. In Arkansas, thousands of birds fell from the sky, stone dead, for unknown reasons. I don't believe in omens and I don't believe that the first moments of any event, including a year of one's life, determine the shape all of the moments thereafter.

Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all year.
 
 
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: Pink Martini, "Autrefois"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
30 December 2010 @ 02:03 pm
I admit, I'm conflicted.

Last night I finally got around to seeing The Social Network, David Fincher's film of Aaron Sorkin's adapted screenplay of Ben Mezrich's book about the establishment of that well-known, rapidly metastasizing connectivity platform we all call Facebook. It's a brilliant film, one of the year's best, anchored by crackerjack scripting and fully inhabited performances from the entire cast. It is also a film that has played extremely--and unapologetically--fast and loose with the facts of a story that only occurred within the past decade, for the purposes of crafting its compelling narrative and indelible characters.

Mezrich is no stranger to this criticism. Not only is his original book The Accidental Billionaires considered just a few steps shy of outright libel by several of its subjects, the same sorts of objections were leveled at him after the release of his book Bringing Down The House, which took liberties with the story of MIT students who had concocted a highly effective card-counting system that defeated a number of large casinos throughout the United States (later turned into an even more fictionalized version of events in the film 21).

Bringing Down the House is a great narrative that was better before I knew how much of it was fabrication and "composite characters." The Social Network is a film that I suspected beforehand would not be completely factual or fair-minded, but it still works on the level that I most appreciate all stories: as character study. Mark Zuckerberg--or, as I must henceforth refer to him, "Mark Zuckerberg"--is a fascinating specimen. He is a deeply introverted but ferociously focused Dr. Jekyll unwilling to admit how much capacity he has to be Mr. Hyde. The film very pointedly notes the irony of a man with such flawed social skills becoming the mastermind of the next evolution of human connection, and I found myself haunted by "Mark Zuckerberg" not for his sheer insensitivity but for how profoundly unaware he was of himself. He is driven in all senses of the word. "Mark Zuckerberg" is a man whose intellect harnesses him for its own incredible activities.

But "Mark Zuckerberg" is not Mark Zuckerberg, strictly speaking, although at this point it will be near-impossible for most people to understand that.

I enjoy historical fiction, but I tend to view it in the same way as I view individual ownership of handguns. I am less opposed to its existence as I am to its often irresponsible utility. I believe that gun owners should take the time and effort to understand the mechanics of his or her weapon, and should spend the time and money to learn how to shoot it straight. I believe that historical fiction should be labeled as such up-front and that those who indulge in historical fiction should, afterwards, spend time doing their research to try and discern what was fact and what was embellishment.

Here's my conflict. It's become harder for me, in the past decade, to accept the work of writers like Mezrich, who insist on soft-pedaling their fictional trappings, and instead weasel their way through the publication process with phrases like "based on" or "untold" or "inspired by" when they don't simply come out and say "the true story of." And it's become harder for me to accept that because in the past decade we've allowed far too many people, people with much more power and much loftier agendas than Mezrich, to take facts and toss them away in place of more convenient or more marketable lies.

I understand what Sorkin says when he defends his screenplay, asking that we not let facts get in the way of a powerful human drama, but Sorkin's job was as storyteller, not journalist or historian. And right now, the airwaves are positively clogged with so-called journalists and historians who not only have no command of the facts, but have an open disdain for them. Why is it fair for me to accept "Mark Zuckerberg" but not the ridiculous cartoon versions of "Barack Obama"--socialist, radical, incognito terrorist reparations Svengali--that are vomited into the public discourse day after day? And the flipside, then: what stops people from continuing to craft and profit from their vicious, over-the-top slanders if our collective response to "Mark Zuckerberg" is to shrug and say, "it's just entertainment"?

This is where we've arrived as a culture: our sense of entertainment has engorged itself into a laughing, gluttonous mass, glossy with fat, covered with stain and crust, while our sense of education has been handed a bag of liquid proteins and an unsterilized IV needle and told that it's on its own now. I'm not saying anything new. We would much rather be amused than informed, would much rather feel our decisions than think them through. We invaded the nation of Iraq on the basis of one administration's endorphin chase, built on a foundation of discredited garbage, and we did this, we allowed this, ultimately, because toppling a medal-adorned dictator with his palaces and uniformed guards and underground volcano lairs of ICBMs was more interesting than the fact that the enemy has always been an exponentially smaller group of ugly, unlaundered thugs and zealots.

There are elementary school history textbooks being rewritten, right now, to edit out the philosophies of Thomas Jefferson and to claim that the Confederacy was a legitimate enterprise of freedom and personal responsibility and oh sure maybe there were slaves but that's not why the South seceded. There remains a significant push to teach the Biblical story of creation as a hard science despite its lacking even the most basic components of hard science. The incoming Congress grants environmental legislation powers to men who claim that God's promises to Noah are enough reason to dismiss all the empirical data suggesting dramatic climate change.

I wish I could simply enjoy The Social Network's fictions for what they are. I wish I could just accept "Mark Zuckerberg" and move on with my life. I'm not really mad at Ben Mezrich and Aaron Sorkin for fictionalizing the journalism. I'm mad at the idea that it's okay to fictionalize everything in this manner.
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Current Mood: predatorypredatory
Current Music: Nine Inch Nails, "The Only Time"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
18 December 2010 @ 01:41 am
Redeemers closes Sunday evening, the second-to-last thing I'll have written this year to appear onstage in front of audience. (The last will be a 7-minute piece based on the word "GIVE," going up against a 7-minute piece based on the word "RECEIVE", at next Tuesday's Write Club). Counting the short pieces I wrote for Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind, there were nearly 40 separate projects this year, of varying form and length, with my name somewhere upon them, placed somewhere that people could experience them.

The declaration still remains lodged in my throat, hesitant and uncertain. Ruh-ruh-Writer. I grasp authority on the subject with tenuous, fish-oiled fingers, comfortable in my skin only when I avoid mirrors. Somewhere over my shoulder I expect the laughter of those who know better, the bitter lashes of the word fraud striping my skin.

I hold myself back. I speak less than I should and with less confidence than I have at my disposal. I gamble professionally with my own identity, laying down small stakes for years and then using the small stakes to keep the tent planted firmly in one place. Outside the tent are ice bridges and avalanches, oh my, oh dear, oh no. You may continue on up to the peak if you wish. I'm fine right here.

But then again:Why come to the mountain at all, if one was only planning to stay at the Base Camp?

I am slow to perceive my own change. Existing as I do, as most do, in perfect synchronicity with self, I often fail to comprehend my own evolution. When I look at myself, I only see Now. I understand that Me Now is not the same as Me Then but I find it hard to articulate exactly how that is. I know that I have learned things but these things I have learned have woven themselves into the fabric, have become muscle memory and autonomous function. When I try to teach others the things I have learned I find my body tensing as it tries to impart the knowledge through some form of primal dance, and my heart flutters in slight disappointment as I realize I must instead attempt the inadequacy of language.

I am excavating myself, kicking and screaming. I am bringing to the surface that part of myself that willingly admits who I am. I will rip it from its shelter and pull it up to the edge of the atmosphere. I will show that part of myself the sunlight and make it understand that the treachery of the climb was worth the majesty of the summit. And then it, and then he, and then I, will meld into one thing, will be absorbed by the face of the rock.

I will forget that I was ever a thing unable to be myself. I will shed Then and be Now. The things I've had to learn will be the things I simply know.

And when I descend from the cold, thin air, when I pack up the supplies, I will bring the mountain down with me.
 
 
Current Mood: mellowmellow
Current Music: Garbage, "When I Grow Up"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
14 October 2010 @ 03:49 am
It's past 3:00 am on a weeknight as I write this, the first thing I've written in this space since the end of May. It's time for an inventory, of sorts, as I've been of late fielding the question "What have you been doing?" with a mixture of clinical detachment and disbelief, a hint of embarrassment, a dash of thousand-yard stare. I have to be up again in four hours, at work in six, but I'm alert now and I've been treating my day job with a type of spite. "You get me for eight hours of your well-paying nonsense. If I have to be awake at 3:00 am to be who I really am, then you'll just have to accept that."

What have you been doing?

A bit. A lot. Possibly too much. Definitely too much. There is only one minute in the entirety of the continuum and it stretches out, a sustained note riding the last exhale of its long-dead singer, coasting on the thermals, skimming the surface of the ocean. That's the minute where I exist. In that minute the following is occurring and has occurred, and it is becoming something of a strain to keep the contents rattling about in my skull along with autonomic processes and bio-electrics. This is a purge, or perhaps the closest thing I have to a Pensieve. So: What have I been doing?

I work five days a week, from 9-5, as a Content Developer for Cognitive Arts, which creates training modules for other companies, the sorts of scenario-driven courses in which you watch somebody royally screw something up and then answer a multiple-choice question about what exactly Goofus did wrong. I write Goofus. I write the questions about Goofus.

I am also a Content Writer for Marshall Creative, a multimedia agency that works to help other clients maximize their exposure via web gadgets or other 21st Century tech. I currently produce all of the blog content for Strongbox Wine Cellar and also write a number of articles for the PERL Mortgage Company website. I now know more than I ever did before about both wine and real estate, and should probably do what I can to become a wealthy liberal elite as soon as possible.

I spent the majority of the summer writing and performing with The Neo-Futurists in Too Much Light, as is status quo, and co-curating the ninth annual Film Fest, which this year included performing in the staged reading of the 1970s social-conscience hapkido thriller Billy Jack. I've continued to function as the Neos' Booking Coordinator, negotiating and organizing a number of gigs or tours, and also as a Marketing Communications Writer, which is a fancy title for what might be better described as a Social Media Coordinator, which really just means I keep our blog and Facebook and Twitter accounts active and interactive. Earlier this fall I helped organize a super-special Neo-Futurist video project that I can't otherwise tell you about yet.

I wrote and performed a handful of times at Christopher Piatt's weekly art salon The Paper Machete; you can read the three pieces I created here. I appeared on a panel at the Chicago Fringe Festival as an occasional contributor to the Twitter-based theatre discussions of 2AM Theatre.

My short plays The Final Night of the First Intention and The Opening were produced, respectively, by the Pend Oreille Players in Washington state and The Eclectic Company Theatre in North Hollywood, CA. The latter, which was receiving its world premiere production as part of the annual Hurricane Season Short Play Competition, swept all audience awards for its block, including actors, director, production, and script, and also pulled in the top prize from the official judging panel.

I'm currently revising the script for my play Redeemers, which will open in November at Rocco Ranalli's under the auspices of my talented colleagues at New Leaf Theatre. Later this month, they will also be hosting a one-night "anniversary" reading of my adaptation, The Man Who Was Thursday at Chief O'Neill's Pub. Early next month, you can also catch my ten-minute play The Short Straw at LiveWire Chicago Theatre's VisionFest 3.

In the midst of that, I am deep into rehearsals for Backstage Theatre Company's Chicago premiere of the challenging Jonathan Lichtenstein play Memory, opening mid-November...an opportunity I couldn't pass up, as intrigued as I was by the script and the prospect of working with a handful of actors who I find downright intimidating. The same weekend that show opens I will be back in Too Much Light, performing Memory at 7:30 and then high-tailing it over to the Neo-Futurarium to make the call for the late night show.

In the meantime, I have utterly neglected to produce a promised blog entry for the League of Chicago Theatres website and failed, despite my best intentions and fierce desire, to complete a draft of a new adaptation assigned to me by the supernaturally patient artistic director of GreyZelda Theatre Group.

I bike about 18 miles a day, from home to Evanston, from Evanston to rehearsal in Logan Square, from Logan Square back home.

It is 3:35 am. I'm not sure why I'm not slumped at my desk with exhaustion, except that I'm being just as spiteful with my own physical limitations as I am with my day job.

What have I been doing? I've been saying "Yes." I will say "Yes" again. I will say "Yes" until it becomes impossible for me to speak and then I will nod my head until the bones in my neck are calcified, arthritic, and then I will blink once, deliberately, until the point I can no longer lift my eyelids again.

That's what.

I don't know when I'll write in here again. I couldn't guess when I'd have the time. I'm not complaining.
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Current Mood: awakeawake
Current Music: The Cardigans, "Iron Man"
 
 
 
Bilal Dardai
26 May 2010 @ 12:28 am
the evening is at its best
a feral child
at rest
breathing in flutters
and flocks of swallows,
jasmine
lilac
long tomorrows
thoughts you kill and resurrect
the wisp of wind upon your neck
the joy you feel
the crystal laugh
when vicious swelter
snaps in half...


Not sure where it came from but that was running laps in my head for a few hours.

It was so nice tonight that I biked home at inches per hour. If the rest of the upcoming summer could be like this, that would be great.

This has been a brief stopover on the longer journey. I expect I'll be back here again someday.
 
 
Current Mood: amusedwisftul
Current Music: Imogen Heap "Only Got One"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
09 April 2010 @ 01:51 am
It's been three weeks, I know. Two Fridays ago I explained in detail the sheer volume of activity that had kept me from finishing my assignment, which was less about asking for forgiveness from the audience as it was about allowing me to forgive myself.

Last Friday I had just returned from a weeklong vacation to New York City, and despite my wishful thinking that I might get some writing done while in that city where so many writers had been inspired before, the fact is that whatever plans you make for any day in New York City will by necessity be pared down as the day goes on. It is a city of opportunities and options, is New York, and the only way you get anything done at all is through the brutal edit of your own desires.

This week I vowed to finish the overdue story, despite my continuing 8-5 day job, the additional work of testing and retooling CRISIS as we get closer to opening, and my taking on a freelance copywriting position with Marshall Creative Services that often sees me up until 1 in the morning writing articles on the real estate market. Next week I also hop back into Too Much Light for the first time since the beginning of January, I'll begin the process of helping curate this year's It Came From The Neo-Futurarium! "film festival," continue to maintain the theater's social media presence, manage gigs and tours, and sit on two strategic planning committees for the theater, one of which I just agreed to chair to take some of the pressure off of our development director. I'm revising a play of mine called Redeemers. I'm still going back to and making small inroads on the draft of Storming Heaven, Book Two. I'm writing a pair of ten-minute plays for my wife's elementary school-age performance students.

All of this is to say--part of the reason I began this exercise was that I had too much time and too little stimulation, and that the act of keeping my brain so occupied was the best way to fight off the despair of joblessness. I still want to continue on with it but I have to be realistic. There may be just enough hours in a day but there certainly aren't enough minutes in the hours.

The words I received three weeks past were hook, catamite, ruthless, velocipede, and pimpin'. Not all of the words were used but they all informed some aspect of the tale, as per my revised rules.

I'm not sure I like the story all that much, I should say, I find it a goofy execution of a high-concept idea, but a very prolific author whose work I greatly admire once told me and a room full of fans that one of the most important things a good writer ever does is finish. So I did.

I'll take the first five words suggested to me, but at this point the most I can promise is one story a month, and I hesitate to use the word "promise." Thanks to everybody who followed the effort this far.

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Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
Current Music: PM Dawn, "Comatose"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
27 March 2010 @ 05:55 pm
It's World Theatre Day, and my cohorts from across the globe are over at the WTD Tumblr blog talking about why they love theatre, and making lists of their 15 most noteworthy theatrical experiences.

I created a similar list last August, so today, instead, I'm going to post about the second earliest theatrical experience that I can recall.

The earliest was first grade, when I played the troll in a five-minute version of The Three Billy Goats Gruff. It was the first of many times I've played a villain and the first of many times that I've been killed onstage. I'm sure my therapist, when I get around to retaining one, will have much to say about this.

The second earliest experience was the first time I can remember sitting in a theater and watching a show. That was a second-grade class field trip to view a professional production of Rumpelstiltzkin. I don't actually remember much of the production; I am fairly sure it was a straightforward retelling of the classic tale; or at least, the sanitized version of the tale that centuries of parental protectiveness would allow our fragile minds to encounter.

(Although, and I've discussed this extensively before, Rumpelstiltzkin is an odd duck of a fairy tale, being one in which there are not any characters with whom one can truly sympathize. Who do you root for? The greedy, lying father? The implacable gnome? The deceptive, deal-breaking daughter? The sociopath she marries?)

What I do remember, or rather who I remember, was the character of Clarence.

You may not recall the character of Clarence from your storybooks. As far as I know, he was largely a creation of the adapter, whose name I couldn't tell you with a gun to my head. He was some sort of messenger, or pageboy, or jester...a clownish oaf of the royal court whose sole purpose in the script was to provide the dire proceedings ("He's going to steal my baaaaaaaaby!") with some levity. He may or may not have been the one who accidentally overhears the gnome drunkenly revealing his name at the 11th hour of the story.

I remember him being energetic and hilarious, deeply committed to the audience in the room with him. When we went back to school after the performance, our teachers asked us to write letters to somebody in the show. I don't know how many people wrote to the gnome, or the prince, or the daughter. I wrote to Clarence. I remember being especially proud of the fact that, during a chaotic chase sequence in which the actors were running up and down the aisles and rows of the theater, he'd jumped right over my head, and I remember mentioning that incident in my letter.

I'm trying to get at something crucial here.

Every part of the production is important. Every person in the production is important. This often goes without saying, or it goes with such a matter-of-fact declaration that it fails to impart the full meaning of its truth. We say "there are no small parts, only small actors," as an admonishment to ego or an oblivious declaration of same.

I can't see the complete setup of my dominoes; what brought me to where I am now. But Clarence, actor who played Clarence, whoever you were, you're a part of that. Every positive reaction I've ever collected from an audience, every time I've bought a ticket to a show instead of staying home with The Biggest Loser, you, Clarence, were a part of that.

Value everybody you work with. Somebody else, I can guarantee you, does so as well.
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Current Music: PM Dawn, "Downtown Venus"
 
 
Bilal Dardai
25 March 2010 @ 09:39 pm
I'm posting this both by way of apology and by way of being kinder to myself.

This past week has been the first full week of the full-time content writing job I have until the beginning of June. I'm helping craft online training scenarios for the managers of a large American business, using the principles of a popular modern business philosophy book. In other words, I'm being paid to adapt, interview, and write short plays for forty hours a week. I am being paid more per hour for this job than I have been paid for any full-time job I have ever had in my life.

This past week I've also been hammering out as much writing as I possibly could for the upcoming CRISIS (The Musical Game Show), the next Neo-Futurist prime-time production. I've been working on this show for months now, as a member of the "Think Tank" team, which develops the questions and challenges that contestants will be facing in their quest for a real cash prize every evening. I'm deeply excited about this show and the work I've already put into it...I think the show is fun, smart, and at times deeply edgy...all the things I love about the work the Neo-Futurists produce.

This past week I have also been coordinating and determining the viability of a handful of gigs and upcoming tours, as per my job as the Neos' Booking Coordinator, and maintaining the Neos' social media sites as per my other job as a Marketing Communications Writer. I've attended a long and occasionally contentious business meeting and I've assembled two film projects to represent the Neos for this Saturday's World Theatre Day festivities. (You can catch those on the WTD Tumblelog on Saturday.

This past week has also seen me as sick as I've been in about a year--what has been, knock wood, my yearly average. It's as if my body requires me to get sick once a year just to remind me to slow down, that I'm no less mortal than anybody else, just perhaps more fortunate than some.

(And to those some: welcome to the new health care paradigm. I hope it treats you well.)

In the midst of all that, I started this week's Fiction Friday story and it's been completely built in my head, if not transcribed to paper with exactly the words I'd choose.

And I'm not writing it tonight.

I would. I was planning to. It's killing me not to. But this week has been killing me enough on its own already.

Rain delay, folks. We will resume our regularly scheduled program as soon as possible. Thanks for watching.
 
 
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Bilal Dardai
18 March 2010 @ 09:51 pm
This week's story posted a few hours early because I've managed to pick up, at almost exactly the same time, an 8 to 5 day job and a nasty little cold. So I should go to bed early tonight, for both professional and medical reasons.

This week's words were defenestrated, arc, myopic, aquamarine, and gibbet. The story that came out of those five words is long and it's wackiness. Enjoy.

As before, for next week I'll take the first five words I receive, one per customer.

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