Brief, but I might not have time tomorrow, so I need to get this posted.

The Disappearance of a Knife

My breath came in blood
and blood came out
and redness was everywhere
As the sky blurred into shadow
A face appeared.

The tan skin and scars
and squinted eyes
made me flinch
Face in profile
and then eyes again
growing closer
until the sky was his eyes

My leg moved
instead of my entire body
the thrash I had planned
manifested in a twitching
of quadricep, and a curled big toe

A flicker in the eyes
diverted attention
a tug at my belt
and the eyes rose away
faded to red


Poem:
I had a note written that I wanted to write a poem about a dying war victim having his knife taken by someone who didn't even care enough to kill him as he lay on the battlefield. This is a poor attempt. I can do better. I like the bit about the attempted violent thrashing only resulting in a toe curling. But I want to get a bit more character into it. I don't really think it has anything going for it as far as emotion is concerned.

Observation:
There's something that's been bothering me since I moved in to this apartment two years ago. It's my light fixture. The one in my bedroom. It's not unattractive, actually. It's just a sort of section of a sphere. I guess the term is a sconce. It's a sconce. A round wall sconce. And it sucks. It's a sucky round wall sconce. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't OPAQUE. I don't know who's idea this was, but someone should have told them that opaque things are bad at letting light into the room. Or maybe it's the fact that they put it less than eight inches from the ceiling. Here's a picture:

So all of the light appears on my ceiling, which is really not the place I want it. I can't see well enough to even find things on the floor in my room. I need a flashlight to locate the clothes I want in my closet. It's ridiculous. None of the other rooms are lit this poorly. I guess I'm just confused as much as anything.

Exercise:
Write a dialog in which two people are discussing something very ordinary--what movie to see, who is going to win the championship-- but underlying the quotidian discussion is some serious conflict between them. Show what is going on under the surface.

"So what do you want to eat, then?" he asked, sticking to the plan they had formulated earlier that day.
"What?" She paused on the stairs, looking down at him, confused. "You want to make food still?"
"Well, I need to eat before I leave, so I was wondering what you wanted." He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and sure enough, he could hear her feet on the stairs as she followed hesitantly. "Mexican food okay?"
"You don't want to talk?" She stood just outside the kitchen, not wanting to crowd him while he was busy.
"I don't have time right now. I need to get going again." He looked outside at the twilight, a bit of purple still bouncing off the clouds. He checked the clock. "I have forty-five minutes. Do you feel like Mexican food or not?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"We can talk later if you still want. What would you like for vegetables today? I think we still have some mushrooms and peppers left." He opened the fridge a bit too suddenly and looked a bit too intently at its contents. The attention he devoted to the milk carton would have gone unnoticed to anyone else.
"I don't care, really. Whatever you're making will be fine." She hesitated. "Do you want me to leave?"
"You can do whatever you want. Obviously, you can do whatever you want." He started the oven. No eye contact. He heard her breath start to catch, but he just didn't have time right now.

Me:
My legs are tired. I'm struggling with how to interpret this. It could be that I'm training hard, or it could be that I'm just out of shape. I wish I could just train by biking across the country again. That was fun. And surprisingly effective. But I think a major component of its effectiveness was the fact that there are mountains, so going out around here for an equivalent amount of time wouldn't be an adequate substitute. And apparently mountains are far away from Ames, Iowa.