i'm bored.
has anyone written anything new, poems? stories? essays?
a call for new stuff.
new stuff
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Tommy Martyn
- Mile High Club
- Posts: 887
- Joined: Mon May 19, 2003 8:01 am
- Location: a desk
It is my new years resolution to write a funny story. I failed with my last one. (I vowed to learn to do the splits. I was going great guns till I got a groin injury.)
I keep wanting to write a short story about a woman who attempts to procure a prostitute for her slightly retarded son because she doesn't want him to die a virgin. That wouldn't be a funny one though.
I keep wanting to write a short story about a woman who attempts to procure a prostitute for her slightly retarded son because she doesn't want him to die a virgin. That wouldn't be a funny one though.
please do write it. i'm going to give you the motivation right now -- the long version:
Bill Gates' Mom was a Teacher
(which explains a lot about the J - - and very little about anything else)
I'm going to explain my boredom, which will probably bore others, but at this point I feel the need to share.
The greatest recent discovery to me was not the discovery of hobbits, although that is a fabulous one. I mean the uses of that knowledge are far reaching in my classroom. Not really most of my students despise JR Tolkein and would rather choke me than read him. But the greatest recent discovery was that of the smiley in a word document J I have no idea why this makes me happy, but it does, and I am at that level of boredom.
I have no projects left. I think I've gone through everything already in my how to save the world this month emergency plans.
I think perhaps it has to do with the number of not smiley faces that I encounter tooling around the internet. Sometimes I think the internet is world's greatest downer. So I've become enthralled with the smiley J I can literally force a smile J on the internet.
I'm also bored because I have to read seventy papers on the same topic L, which just enabled to figure out how to make the not smiley face L in a word document.
Which is not only an example of how bored I am, but of how boring the subject of writing has become in our schools. Who wants to be forced to write about the prompt: You've been given the job of deciding who will be on the newest coin, who will you choose and why?
Possible interesting responses, “What's a coin? We all use credit and check cards.â€
“Effeminate Boy George on one side, masculine Boy George on the other.â€
I'm not seeing these responses though. I'm making them up to get through the various uninteresting responses I'm having to give: your pronoun and antecedent do not agree, sentence fragment, sentence fragment, run-on, please elaborate, no topic sentence, no supporting details, no continuity, no unity, and the all time worst: sp -1. This is really why teachers quit. They say it's the stress -- total lie, it's the mindlessness of comma splice, comma splice, where is your subject?
Plus while trying to teach children how to correct the enumerable spelling errors that inevitably occur in a language that has at least one exception for every rule (not to mention the combination of errors stemming from the damn schwa) ruins our spelling. People don't realize that this is the greatest sacrifice that teachers make. After reading in conclustion, in conclushion, in cunclusion, in concluesion, we eventually agree with Bill and are like where is the damn spell check, how the f**** is that bastard spelled?
In conclusion,
J
Bill Gates' Mom was a Teacher
(which explains a lot about the J - - and very little about anything else)
I'm going to explain my boredom, which will probably bore others, but at this point I feel the need to share.
The greatest recent discovery to me was not the discovery of hobbits, although that is a fabulous one. I mean the uses of that knowledge are far reaching in my classroom. Not really most of my students despise JR Tolkein and would rather choke me than read him. But the greatest recent discovery was that of the smiley in a word document J I have no idea why this makes me happy, but it does, and I am at that level of boredom.
I have no projects left. I think I've gone through everything already in my how to save the world this month emergency plans.
I think perhaps it has to do with the number of not smiley faces that I encounter tooling around the internet. Sometimes I think the internet is world's greatest downer. So I've become enthralled with the smiley J I can literally force a smile J on the internet.
I'm also bored because I have to read seventy papers on the same topic L, which just enabled to figure out how to make the not smiley face L in a word document.
Which is not only an example of how bored I am, but of how boring the subject of writing has become in our schools. Who wants to be forced to write about the prompt: You've been given the job of deciding who will be on the newest coin, who will you choose and why?
Possible interesting responses, “What's a coin? We all use credit and check cards.â€
“Effeminate Boy George on one side, masculine Boy George on the other.â€
I'm not seeing these responses though. I'm making them up to get through the various uninteresting responses I'm having to give: your pronoun and antecedent do not agree, sentence fragment, sentence fragment, run-on, please elaborate, no topic sentence, no supporting details, no continuity, no unity, and the all time worst: sp -1. This is really why teachers quit. They say it's the stress -- total lie, it's the mindlessness of comma splice, comma splice, where is your subject?
Plus while trying to teach children how to correct the enumerable spelling errors that inevitably occur in a language that has at least one exception for every rule (not to mention the combination of errors stemming from the damn schwa) ruins our spelling. People don't realize that this is the greatest sacrifice that teachers make. After reading in conclustion, in conclushion, in cunclusion, in concluesion, we eventually agree with Bill and are like where is the damn spell check, how the f**** is that bastard spelled?
In conclusion,
J
i would agree except for the: voice, style, content, point, and ofcourse 90% of the rest of that said novel. Pages 20-40 (ish?) i'd somewhat pass as 'maybe'.
Knowing more about developement, teachers of the young dont inspire much in the way of depth of her surroundings. May as well talk about an avian vet.
Though it skews a bit more of Garp, a teacher of mentally retarded. It's been done before, but therefore making it interesting would be the challenge of voice, style, and content.
Rather than a son/daughter being retarded, hve the teacher's father/mother have contracted a degrenerative mental disease or severe trauma where they regress.
Regression is the start of Garp however, in an odd sense. It's a good spin maybe.
Teacher/Student is 10000x done. Watch 'Wonder Boys', good film. Or whats the newer indy film... _____& the Whale... Damn.
Im trying to molest your parts. You should too maybe, it's not a sin.
Knowing more about developement, teachers of the young dont inspire much in the way of depth of her surroundings. May as well talk about an avian vet.
Though it skews a bit more of Garp, a teacher of mentally retarded. It's been done before, but therefore making it interesting would be the challenge of voice, style, and content.
Rather than a son/daughter being retarded, hve the teacher's father/mother have contracted a degrenerative mental disease or severe trauma where they regress.
Regression is the start of Garp however, in an odd sense. It's a good spin maybe.
Teacher/Student is 10000x done. Watch 'Wonder Boys', good film. Or whats the newer indy film... _____& the Whale... Damn.
Im trying to molest your parts. You should too maybe, it's not a sin.
-
Tommy Martyn
- Mile High Club
- Posts: 887
- Joined: Mon May 19, 2003 8:01 am
- Location: a desk
know what you mean Brett. The thing is, I know the people in my story.
As kids we used to go and sit on the walls surrounding the giant mental hospital. There in the long grass on warm evenings we were treated to the sights and sounds of the inmates shagging themselves senseless. Man the screaming and moaning would put any porno to shame. And that's the thing, there was no shame there.
Half of my family (I'm talking aunties and uncles) were employed there. I've got a million and one stories about, "the menck." Short for mental hospital. Hopefully none of them contain a bloke called Garp.
As kids we used to go and sit on the walls surrounding the giant mental hospital. There in the long grass on warm evenings we were treated to the sights and sounds of the inmates shagging themselves senseless. Man the screaming and moaning would put any porno to shame. And that's the thing, there was no shame there.
Half of my family (I'm talking aunties and uncles) were employed there. I've got a million and one stories about, "the menck." Short for mental hospital. Hopefully none of them contain a bloke called Garp.
you should write it. I think the scene with the patients "shagging themselves senseless" is one of those moments that is at the same time funny, but kind of sad, as well as havingthe potential to be a commentary on the uptight nature of "normal" society.
Must be a good story. It's got people thinking and talking already, and it's not even written. Go for it!
Must be a good story. It's got people thinking and talking already, and it's not even written. Go for it!
in praise of the designated driver
tommy yes! write it.
come on, what are you waiting for? i understand, i'm impatient, but this place used to be fun -- do it do it.
while we wait, here's another essay.
In Praise of the Designated Driver
The designated driver has an underrated soul. I realized this recently when mine took me out for the evening. I was drinking my beer, and he was trying to talk to me. I became irritated that he did not understand the opportunity that he was wasting as I really, really wanted to be getting drunk to the tune of “All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down.â€
I wanted to bond with the song because it expressed exactly how I was feeling; it was my soul mate tonight, not him.
He was sober though and really trying to tell me about Russ Potts who he'd seen on the news the night before discussing what's wrong with bipartisan politics.
My response, and he forgave me for some reason, but my response was, “Did you vote for Russ Potts? No. I did. I told you this months ago. I'm trying to listen to:
All my rowdy friends have settled down and it seems to be more in the laid back songs.
Nobody wants to get drunk and get loud. Everybody just wants to go back home.
I myself have seen my wilder days and I have seen my name at the top of the page,
but I need to find a friend just to run around. But no one wants to get high on the town
and all my rowdy friends have settled down.
And I think I know what my father meant when he sang about a lost highway and old George Jones I'm glad to see he's finally getting straight,
and Waylon staying home and loving Jesse more these days,
and nobody wants to get drunk and get loud and all my rowdy friends have settled down.
and the hang overs hurt more then they used to and corn bread and ice tea took the place of pills and ninety-proof,
and it seems like none of us do things quite like we used to do
and nobody wants to get high on the town and all my rowdy friends have settled down.
Yeah I think I know what my father meant when he sang about his lost highway and Johnny Cash don't act like he did back in '68
and Kriss he is a movie star and he's moved off to L.A.
and nobody wants to get drunk and get loud and all my rowdy friends have settled down
yeah me and my rowdy friends have rowdied on down.â€
I did try to sing this to him. Although, like Hank Williams, Junior, I've found that it does help to be sober when trying to perform before an audience, even if it's just an audience of one.
So for whatever reason, and I think I know it, my designated driver put up with me.
Which brings me to all the designated drivers who've put up with me over the years, and why I love them.
The first great designated driver in my life was a guy named Ben Royal. Ben Royal is actually such a cool name that I'm not making it up. It's his real name, Ben Royal.
Ben Royal was a linebacker in high school. He looked like a linebacker, dressed like a linebacker, and acted like a linebacker. Until I got to know him, and then I thought, I know absolutely nothing about linebackers.
The first issue with Ben Royal that gave me pause was his obsession with The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
One would think that a linebacker would have no interest in a movie about a transvestite, but Ben Royal did, he was so interested that in high school, when the rest of us were talking about A Clockwork Orange, he was going to the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
The second issue with Ben Royal that gave me pause was his obsession with my friend Shannon. Shannon was obnoxious. All of my brother's friends hated her. She was always so hell bent on having fun that she over-anticipated it and nothing ever quite ranked up.
But Ben Royal loved her and because of this love for Shannon, Ben Royal would take us all out in his car every weekend, and in the summer, every night. He actually missed several Rocky Horror Picture Shows just to take care of us.
Most would assume an eighteen year old line backer with three or four drunken fourteen year olds in his car would try to take advantage of them, but one would be wrong. Ben Royal, in fact, tried to take care of us.
The third issue with Ben Royal that destroyed any image of the linebacker that I ever had was something he said to us in the park one night. He and his friend Brian were playing tennis. We were smoking and watching them, and he came over to take the cigarette out of my mouth and smoke it. Standing beside me in a red sweat-stained tee shirt, smelling a bit sour because he didn't live with his mom-- and no man really knows how to do the laundry like a woman -- so standing beside me smoking and stinking in a man - boy kind of way, Ben Royal said, “I worry about you girls.â€
Which made me crinkle up my nose and go, “What?â€
He said, “I know you don't hang out with Connie, but she is my sister and she is your age. And I just think you are trying to do too much too soon. You're going to have done it all by the time you're twenty-two.â€
Then he walked off, still smoking, to finish his match.
Which brings me to designated driver number two. Randy, this guy from Kentucky I met the next summer. He was twenty-one and I was fifteen. He drove across three states to drive me around, and he never got any. I'll never forget agonizing, after dating him for six months, over how I was going to tell him that I was not eighteen, but fifteen. That was a long night. Needless to say, he did buy me beer and come see me when I was in college. And he was a good looking guy.
Now I just spent the evening with designated driver number I can't count that high, and I've realized after all these years, designated drivers aren't just good guys, they're great men.
come on, what are you waiting for? i understand, i'm impatient, but this place used to be fun -- do it do it.
while we wait, here's another essay.
In Praise of the Designated Driver
The designated driver has an underrated soul. I realized this recently when mine took me out for the evening. I was drinking my beer, and he was trying to talk to me. I became irritated that he did not understand the opportunity that he was wasting as I really, really wanted to be getting drunk to the tune of “All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down.â€
I wanted to bond with the song because it expressed exactly how I was feeling; it was my soul mate tonight, not him.
He was sober though and really trying to tell me about Russ Potts who he'd seen on the news the night before discussing what's wrong with bipartisan politics.
My response, and he forgave me for some reason, but my response was, “Did you vote for Russ Potts? No. I did. I told you this months ago. I'm trying to listen to:
All my rowdy friends have settled down and it seems to be more in the laid back songs.
Nobody wants to get drunk and get loud. Everybody just wants to go back home.
I myself have seen my wilder days and I have seen my name at the top of the page,
but I need to find a friend just to run around. But no one wants to get high on the town
and all my rowdy friends have settled down.
And I think I know what my father meant when he sang about a lost highway and old George Jones I'm glad to see he's finally getting straight,
and Waylon staying home and loving Jesse more these days,
and nobody wants to get drunk and get loud and all my rowdy friends have settled down.
and the hang overs hurt more then they used to and corn bread and ice tea took the place of pills and ninety-proof,
and it seems like none of us do things quite like we used to do
and nobody wants to get high on the town and all my rowdy friends have settled down.
Yeah I think I know what my father meant when he sang about his lost highway and Johnny Cash don't act like he did back in '68
and Kriss he is a movie star and he's moved off to L.A.
and nobody wants to get drunk and get loud and all my rowdy friends have settled down
yeah me and my rowdy friends have rowdied on down.â€
I did try to sing this to him. Although, like Hank Williams, Junior, I've found that it does help to be sober when trying to perform before an audience, even if it's just an audience of one.
So for whatever reason, and I think I know it, my designated driver put up with me.
Which brings me to all the designated drivers who've put up with me over the years, and why I love them.
The first great designated driver in my life was a guy named Ben Royal. Ben Royal is actually such a cool name that I'm not making it up. It's his real name, Ben Royal.
Ben Royal was a linebacker in high school. He looked like a linebacker, dressed like a linebacker, and acted like a linebacker. Until I got to know him, and then I thought, I know absolutely nothing about linebackers.
The first issue with Ben Royal that gave me pause was his obsession with The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
One would think that a linebacker would have no interest in a movie about a transvestite, but Ben Royal did, he was so interested that in high school, when the rest of us were talking about A Clockwork Orange, he was going to the Rocky Horror Picture Show.
The second issue with Ben Royal that gave me pause was his obsession with my friend Shannon. Shannon was obnoxious. All of my brother's friends hated her. She was always so hell bent on having fun that she over-anticipated it and nothing ever quite ranked up.
But Ben Royal loved her and because of this love for Shannon, Ben Royal would take us all out in his car every weekend, and in the summer, every night. He actually missed several Rocky Horror Picture Shows just to take care of us.
Most would assume an eighteen year old line backer with three or four drunken fourteen year olds in his car would try to take advantage of them, but one would be wrong. Ben Royal, in fact, tried to take care of us.
The third issue with Ben Royal that destroyed any image of the linebacker that I ever had was something he said to us in the park one night. He and his friend Brian were playing tennis. We were smoking and watching them, and he came over to take the cigarette out of my mouth and smoke it. Standing beside me in a red sweat-stained tee shirt, smelling a bit sour because he didn't live with his mom-- and no man really knows how to do the laundry like a woman -- so standing beside me smoking and stinking in a man - boy kind of way, Ben Royal said, “I worry about you girls.â€
Which made me crinkle up my nose and go, “What?â€
He said, “I know you don't hang out with Connie, but she is my sister and she is your age. And I just think you are trying to do too much too soon. You're going to have done it all by the time you're twenty-two.â€
Then he walked off, still smoking, to finish his match.
Which brings me to designated driver number two. Randy, this guy from Kentucky I met the next summer. He was twenty-one and I was fifteen. He drove across three states to drive me around, and he never got any. I'll never forget agonizing, after dating him for six months, over how I was going to tell him that I was not eighteen, but fifteen. That was a long night. Needless to say, he did buy me beer and come see me when I was in college. And he was a good looking guy.
Now I just spent the evening with designated driver number I can't count that high, and I've realized after all these years, designated drivers aren't just good guys, they're great men.
tease
tommy, that's it.
you're lit tease!
where's the story?
you're lit tease!
where's the story?
I keep wanting to write a short story about a woman who attempts to procure a prostitute for her slightly retarded son because she doesn't want him to die a virgin. That wouldn't be a funny one though.
This sounds like such a jolly good idea it stops me in my tracks from properly reading the rest of this thread, which I shall have to do later. I need a break from the computer now. Where's that Style Council CD?
This sounds like such a jolly good idea it stops me in my tracks from properly reading the rest of this thread, which I shall have to do later. I need a break from the computer now. Where's that Style Council CD?
tommy, you can get right on that story any day now. . .
here's part two of being snowed in with the flu.
Art Center
The room was large, white, and open. On the walls hung student art. Most were generic still-life works, an apple, three oranges, a Warhol-inspired picture of chromatically graded fruit. These could easily be the walls of a trendy kitchen from Metropolitan Home.
I didn't spend a great deal of time on them. Instead I noted the length of the line and tried to figure out where it ended. The faces in the line weren't incredibly remarkable. Some were framed by long hair, some short messy hair, some by no-hair. Some were smiling faces, some bored. And some faces were bringing a plastic cup of something that probably ended in the word ale closer to them. Those were the faces that held my attention. I turned to Tim who was walking behind me to point out that there had to be a beer stand in here somewhere, but he was nodding at the bathrooms to our right. I smiled, “Good idea.“
After exiting the bathrooms, we resumed our search for the end of the line. It seemed the thing to do. We walked past a dance studio where couples were learning to samba. I told Tim that my parents were learning to do the hustle.
“What? I thought they were Baptists. Isn't dancing illegal?â€
“No, it's just immoral,†I said rolling my eyes. “It's good to see your education in theology didn't end with Footloose.â€
He gave me a sheepish grin. We went through an opening that led to a storage room. The line curled like the tail of cat, and we gave the people around us questioning glances. Finally, I said, “Does anyone know where the line ends?â€
Several people shrugged, so we just stopped near them and surveyed our surroundings. There was a half-finished sea mural on the walls. The rainbow-row colors looked out of place against the gray unfinished wall. A poorly formed mermaid swam through lime green sea-weed, her smile a bit crooked. Her asymmetrical eyes were flat and stared nowhere. In front of her were industrial-style shelves marked with index card that stated: Kelly's class. Lumps of clay sat wrapped in cellophane underneath. It didn't look like Kelly's class had learned much of anything other than how to write their names in permanent marker on a plastic bag of sculpting clay.
“I feel like we've entered Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell.â€
“You're being melodramatic.â€
“No really, it's like a frozen lake down here.â€
“It is a bit cold.†I dug in my pocket and pulled out a worn twenty. “Now that we've found our spot, do your manly duty and go get us a beer.â€
Tim muttered something about check cards, and I said, “Take the cash just in case.â€
He came back several minutes later, handed me my beer, and started pawing at my jacket. I gave him what-the-hell look. “I'm trying to find your pocket,†he said defensively and then added, “For your change.â€
I grinned, “It's in my pants.â€
“Oh,†he said and handed me the crumpled wad.
We stood talking about the non-art in the art storage room for a while. I proposed that we take a photograph of it, call it progressive works, and sell it for a lot of money. He said that although it was a decent idea, he didn't think anyone would want a picture of an art center's storage closet, especially not one that had a mural as bad as the one in here.
I then proposed that we should be doing something like making out.
“We are drinking in an art center's storage closet, we should at least be kissing. That would be exciting.“
“I doubt anyone else would find our make-out session exciting. They'd probably be a bit uncomfortable and disturbedâ€
“But who could argue with that really? I mean it'll be performance art, which is often disturbing to the audience.“
The line began to move. “Looks like we're out of time,†he said.
“I think we should sneak back here,†I whispered.
He shook his head.
We walked past two women who were the art center's equivalent of Walmart's Welcome personnel. In fact I think they'd been taking lessons from them. They nodded to us and smiled, “Welcome to the hall,†they said with stilted smiles. I couldn't tell if they were making a joke about the very short hallway we'd just spent twenty-minutes walking out of, or The Hall as in the large white room, we were now re-entering.
“Yes, it's a lovely hall,†I said, “We've enjoyed getting familiar with it.â€
Tim took me gently by the elbow and walked me out of the line. He walked me around the other side of a grand piano that sat in the middle of the room and began laughing. “You know,†he said, “I think we weren't supposed to form a line. I think we were supposed to be milling around in here.â€
I stared at the people still standing in line, and then I began laughing too. “Someone should have told us.â€
“I guess they weren't going to force us to stay outside the lines.â€
Tim went outside to smoke, and I stayed in The Hall to look more closely at the pictures that I'd first ignored. Some portraits of laughing, real faces caught my eye. They were some of the best portraits I'd ever seen; the color scheme reminded me of some prints that I'd picked up in the French Quarter years ago, but the focus was entirely on creating a real face instead of a typical scene. I had liked them, but I liked these more, so I wrote the name of the artist down. I'd keep him in my list of things good things to come.
here's part two of being snowed in with the flu.
Art Center
The room was large, white, and open. On the walls hung student art. Most were generic still-life works, an apple, three oranges, a Warhol-inspired picture of chromatically graded fruit. These could easily be the walls of a trendy kitchen from Metropolitan Home.
I didn't spend a great deal of time on them. Instead I noted the length of the line and tried to figure out where it ended. The faces in the line weren't incredibly remarkable. Some were framed by long hair, some short messy hair, some by no-hair. Some were smiling faces, some bored. And some faces were bringing a plastic cup of something that probably ended in the word ale closer to them. Those were the faces that held my attention. I turned to Tim who was walking behind me to point out that there had to be a beer stand in here somewhere, but he was nodding at the bathrooms to our right. I smiled, “Good idea.“
After exiting the bathrooms, we resumed our search for the end of the line. It seemed the thing to do. We walked past a dance studio where couples were learning to samba. I told Tim that my parents were learning to do the hustle.
“What? I thought they were Baptists. Isn't dancing illegal?â€
“No, it's just immoral,†I said rolling my eyes. “It's good to see your education in theology didn't end with Footloose.â€
He gave me a sheepish grin. We went through an opening that led to a storage room. The line curled like the tail of cat, and we gave the people around us questioning glances. Finally, I said, “Does anyone know where the line ends?â€
Several people shrugged, so we just stopped near them and surveyed our surroundings. There was a half-finished sea mural on the walls. The rainbow-row colors looked out of place against the gray unfinished wall. A poorly formed mermaid swam through lime green sea-weed, her smile a bit crooked. Her asymmetrical eyes were flat and stared nowhere. In front of her were industrial-style shelves marked with index card that stated: Kelly's class. Lumps of clay sat wrapped in cellophane underneath. It didn't look like Kelly's class had learned much of anything other than how to write their names in permanent marker on a plastic bag of sculpting clay.
“I feel like we've entered Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell.â€
“You're being melodramatic.â€
“No really, it's like a frozen lake down here.â€
“It is a bit cold.†I dug in my pocket and pulled out a worn twenty. “Now that we've found our spot, do your manly duty and go get us a beer.â€
Tim muttered something about check cards, and I said, “Take the cash just in case.â€
He came back several minutes later, handed me my beer, and started pawing at my jacket. I gave him what-the-hell look. “I'm trying to find your pocket,†he said defensively and then added, “For your change.â€
I grinned, “It's in my pants.â€
“Oh,†he said and handed me the crumpled wad.
We stood talking about the non-art in the art storage room for a while. I proposed that we take a photograph of it, call it progressive works, and sell it for a lot of money. He said that although it was a decent idea, he didn't think anyone would want a picture of an art center's storage closet, especially not one that had a mural as bad as the one in here.
I then proposed that we should be doing something like making out.
“We are drinking in an art center's storage closet, we should at least be kissing. That would be exciting.“
“I doubt anyone else would find our make-out session exciting. They'd probably be a bit uncomfortable and disturbedâ€
“But who could argue with that really? I mean it'll be performance art, which is often disturbing to the audience.“
The line began to move. “Looks like we're out of time,†he said.
“I think we should sneak back here,†I whispered.
He shook his head.
We walked past two women who were the art center's equivalent of Walmart's Welcome personnel. In fact I think they'd been taking lessons from them. They nodded to us and smiled, “Welcome to the hall,†they said with stilted smiles. I couldn't tell if they were making a joke about the very short hallway we'd just spent twenty-minutes walking out of, or The Hall as in the large white room, we were now re-entering.
“Yes, it's a lovely hall,†I said, “We've enjoyed getting familiar with it.â€
Tim took me gently by the elbow and walked me out of the line. He walked me around the other side of a grand piano that sat in the middle of the room and began laughing. “You know,†he said, “I think we weren't supposed to form a line. I think we were supposed to be milling around in here.â€
I stared at the people still standing in line, and then I began laughing too. “Someone should have told us.â€
“I guess they weren't going to force us to stay outside the lines.â€
Tim went outside to smoke, and I stayed in The Hall to look more closely at the pictures that I'd first ignored. Some portraits of laughing, real faces caught my eye. They were some of the best portraits I'd ever seen; the color scheme reminded me of some prints that I'd picked up in the French Quarter years ago, but the focus was entirely on creating a real face instead of a typical scene. I had liked them, but I liked these more, so I wrote the name of the artist down. I'd keep him in my list of things good things to come.