Yesterday I said I would write a more substantive post today, but I had an unexpected opportunity for a free (and what turned out to be lovely) dinner tonight, and as lovely dinners so often do, it went very long.
Instead of any updates on the rapidly expanding world of the UPFE or other stories, I've decided to open a book I received for Christmas and answer a few of the questions. It's at the outer bounds of what this blog is for, but I believe that thinking in new directions counts as creativity. The book is called "If... (Questions for the Game of Life)."
If you could become famous for doing something that you don't currently do, what would it be?
Finish full-length novels? That was a joke. Work in the field I'm studying for? Another joke. This is proving challenging! I suppose I would like to be famous as someone in the Obama administration of twenty years in the future, but in a relatively minor role. I'd still get my name in the papers, and I'd be smeared in political blogs of the future, so that must count for famous.
If you could choose the very last thing you see before death, what would it be?
This question cuts a little closer to home than is completely comfortable, but I'll go with it. The softly smiling face of my beloved is the most obvious answer. But if I don't have a beloved then, maybe my giant collection of penguins. If I could be cuddling one of them, that would be nice. What a morbid fancy.
If you could solve one unsolved crime, what would it be?
I'm afraid I'm not up on my crime history. It would be fun to solve one that occurred here in NYC - I'm sure there are millions of them. The closer to home the better, for the sake of the historical curiosity, but not TOO close to home.
if you had to have your mate get a part of their body pierced, exactly where would you want it to be?
I wonder if this question is aimed at my future theoretical spouse or just anybody I happen to be romantically involved with at the moment. Either way, I think men look dashing with a tiny sparkly stone stud in one ear. I don't care which one.
If you could eliminate one thing you do each day in the bathroom so that you never had to do it again, what would it be?
How funny. My mind immediately went to brushing my teeth because I generally have to drag myself to the bathroom to do it, morning and night. I suppose I could eliminate, ah, eliminating, but it would be weird to be the person who never eliminates.
Good enough for today. Tomorrow night I have plans, so I might not make a substantive post then, but I should be back with something worthwhile (for me, at least), this weekend.
This was fun. Until next time!
Showing posts with label game. Show all posts
Showing posts with label game. Show all posts
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Game - Free Association
I've been thinking about this blog off and on all day long. While I can't imagine my enthusiasm waxing for much longer, this must be a good sign. I thought of and scrapped about a dozen ideas for things to post about today; I'll be wishing for this good fortune again in a week when the tumbleweeds are rolling through my barren brain.
I finally settled on a fun game: free association! Two minutes of typing with eyes (mostly) closed, then I will construct a little story out of my lists.
Blue:
Sea, salt, water, blue, blue, neon, yellow, sign, flickering, alley, shadow, dumpster, garbage, cardboard, rats, tail, twitching, waiting, breathing, whoosh, air, breath, breeze, sun and clouds, yellow, buttercup, daisy, meadow, green, waving grass, shhhh, sleep, cottony, downy, comforter, warm, heavy, hot, red, stifle, can't breathe.
Wisp:
cloud, cold, ice, crystals, clear, shiny, melt, droplet, tiny, splash, circles, pond, mirror, reeds, toads, croak, night, warm, scented, humid, sticky, mosquito, candles, yellow, flicker, wax, sizzle, cooking, garlic, savory, green, rich, savory, warm, aroma, cinnamon, cardamom, chai tea, milk, honey, clouds
Bread:
wheat, yeast, fluff, oven, rise, steam, cut open, slice, serrated, glint, silver, blade, gleam, blood, shine, run, drop, pool, sticky, hot, garnet, reflection, shadows, ruffle, wave, tide, crash, foam, retreat, sand
The broad themes I can see here are: ocean, kitchen, danger, springtime. My spur of the moment, rough little story follows.
Her knife sliced through an onion, creating a disorganized pile of pale half-moons on the chipped chopping board. With every slick slice, the aroma of the onion drifted up toward her. Water pricked at her eyes, and she blinked hurriedly. Across the kitchen, in the little living room, a window admitted a brisk, salty breeze off the ocean, and it was to this window that she strode, hoping that the fresh air would soothe the affliction.
The air tasted heavy and wet in her mouth and delivered a tang of ozone to clear the savory, raw smell of the onion. She sniffed, once to refresh her nose and again to explore the familiar aroma of an oncoming storm. With her free hand, slightly sticky from the pungent juices the onion and garlic, she pushed the window further open and leaned her head outside. In the west, shrouding what should have been a brilliant sunset, dark clouds gathered. They hung low in the sky, indistinguishable from the shadow they cast across the beach.
As she gazed out the window, thinking about someone who should have been returning from that direction any moment now, she caught a whiff of onion. She frowned down at her hand and left the window in search of the sink and soap. On her way, she pressed a button on the long, low radio that hunched in one corner of the countertop. Static crashed out of the speakers for a moment before the signal established itself.
She continued chopping as the disk jockey suspended the play of light jazz she was trying to grow to like. He informed his listeners that the National Weather Service had issued watches and warnings for the area, and she tried to remember which was the worse one. The voice coming through the speakers sounded so serious.
The aroma of onions lingered as she finished chopping and scraped the piles on the board into a pan, slick with hot oil. A pleasant hiss briefly filled her ears, and in spite of her growing concern for the man who should have been arriving for his dinner, she smiled, just a little. The radio repeated the watches and warnings – and now sightings, as the food cooked and the aroma in the kitchen softened. Sightings sounded worst of all.
She left the stove to return to the window. The air was suddenly stifling, so still and wet and hot. She leaned outside and squinted into the distance, but when she saw jagged slashes of furious light in the distance, she slammed the window shut and hurried back to the kitchen. Her hands moved by their own accord, boiling water, shaking salt, twisting the pepper mill, as the slashes of light flickered behind her eyes.
She ate, but everything tasted dim. She lit candles, but they danced so strangely. Dishes piled up in the sink, leftover food cooled on the table, and still the slashes flickered. Her hip creaked as she let herself fall into a pillowy armchair. She did not want to see the bright, vicious forks of lightning, but she could not allow her eyes to close until he came through the door.
The rumbling, rolling, crackling, and cracking thunder should have kept her awake. But her body, exhausted by her day’s labors, and her eyes, still tender from the defenses of the onion, betrayed her as the lightning split the clouds above the sea. She slept, and the candles burned out, and the door was still.
And so - a story. I'm not sure it means anything, but the neurons that spark and spit out these things require exercise.
I'm having second thoughts about not sharing this blog. I would welcome other ideas of creative games and topics and posts, and I'm more likely to get them from people directed here than from people who somehow stumble upon this rambling. Perhaps, perhaps.
I finally settled on a fun game: free association! Two minutes of typing with eyes (mostly) closed, then I will construct a little story out of my lists.
Blue:
Sea, salt, water, blue, blue, neon, yellow, sign, flickering, alley, shadow, dumpster, garbage, cardboard, rats, tail, twitching, waiting, breathing, whoosh, air, breath, breeze, sun and clouds, yellow, buttercup, daisy, meadow, green, waving grass, shhhh, sleep, cottony, downy, comforter, warm, heavy, hot, red, stifle, can't breathe.
Wisp:
cloud, cold, ice, crystals, clear, shiny, melt, droplet, tiny, splash, circles, pond, mirror, reeds, toads, croak, night, warm, scented, humid, sticky, mosquito, candles, yellow, flicker, wax, sizzle, cooking, garlic, savory, green, rich, savory, warm, aroma, cinnamon, cardamom, chai tea, milk, honey, clouds
Bread:
wheat, yeast, fluff, oven, rise, steam, cut open, slice, serrated, glint, silver, blade, gleam, blood, shine, run, drop, pool, sticky, hot, garnet, reflection, shadows, ruffle, wave, tide, crash, foam, retreat, sand
The broad themes I can see here are: ocean, kitchen, danger, springtime. My spur of the moment, rough little story follows.
Her knife sliced through an onion, creating a disorganized pile of pale half-moons on the chipped chopping board. With every slick slice, the aroma of the onion drifted up toward her. Water pricked at her eyes, and she blinked hurriedly. Across the kitchen, in the little living room, a window admitted a brisk, salty breeze off the ocean, and it was to this window that she strode, hoping that the fresh air would soothe the affliction.
The air tasted heavy and wet in her mouth and delivered a tang of ozone to clear the savory, raw smell of the onion. She sniffed, once to refresh her nose and again to explore the familiar aroma of an oncoming storm. With her free hand, slightly sticky from the pungent juices the onion and garlic, she pushed the window further open and leaned her head outside. In the west, shrouding what should have been a brilliant sunset, dark clouds gathered. They hung low in the sky, indistinguishable from the shadow they cast across the beach.
As she gazed out the window, thinking about someone who should have been returning from that direction any moment now, she caught a whiff of onion. She frowned down at her hand and left the window in search of the sink and soap. On her way, she pressed a button on the long, low radio that hunched in one corner of the countertop. Static crashed out of the speakers for a moment before the signal established itself.
She continued chopping as the disk jockey suspended the play of light jazz she was trying to grow to like. He informed his listeners that the National Weather Service had issued watches and warnings for the area, and she tried to remember which was the worse one. The voice coming through the speakers sounded so serious.
The aroma of onions lingered as she finished chopping and scraped the piles on the board into a pan, slick with hot oil. A pleasant hiss briefly filled her ears, and in spite of her growing concern for the man who should have been arriving for his dinner, she smiled, just a little. The radio repeated the watches and warnings – and now sightings, as the food cooked and the aroma in the kitchen softened. Sightings sounded worst of all.
She left the stove to return to the window. The air was suddenly stifling, so still and wet and hot. She leaned outside and squinted into the distance, but when she saw jagged slashes of furious light in the distance, she slammed the window shut and hurried back to the kitchen. Her hands moved by their own accord, boiling water, shaking salt, twisting the pepper mill, as the slashes of light flickered behind her eyes.
She ate, but everything tasted dim. She lit candles, but they danced so strangely. Dishes piled up in the sink, leftover food cooled on the table, and still the slashes flickered. Her hip creaked as she let herself fall into a pillowy armchair. She did not want to see the bright, vicious forks of lightning, but she could not allow her eyes to close until he came through the door.
The rumbling, rolling, crackling, and cracking thunder should have kept her awake. But her body, exhausted by her day’s labors, and her eyes, still tender from the defenses of the onion, betrayed her as the lightning split the clouds above the sea. She slept, and the candles burned out, and the door was still.
And so - a story. I'm not sure it means anything, but the neurons that spark and spit out these things require exercise.
I'm having second thoughts about not sharing this blog. I would welcome other ideas of creative games and topics and posts, and I'm more likely to get them from people directed here than from people who somehow stumble upon this rambling. Perhaps, perhaps.
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