Lemonspouting: A Writer's Blog

The joy of writing is that once it truly starts, it rolls and picks up like a powerful bowling ball. I watch it form a living, ever growing ghost of light. My ideas form intricate paths that weave like fine silk and soon my head fills with so many meanings and worlds my fingers are itching to write. I was thinking that our English expression, 'He has cobwebs in his head,' does not relate to silent mad confusion at all. I think it instead involves being in a state of having too many stories to tell, combined with the inability to spit it out. Perhaps it also involves living in a society that is more isolated, where we don't listen to each other's truths as often, or hang out to tell stories of our daily lives.  I love chatting to people about themselves as I go about my week. I meet amazing people everyday. I'd love to write a book of lives, of every individual life born, their thoughts and visions. Without an outlet like the written word, it seems to me that unhap...

I sleep in a Queen sized bed. It sits there like that sentence, useless really when you are single. I mean, I’m not complaining, it’s a great bed. Fabulously comfortable, a Princely bed even though it’s a Queen. The frame is a lovely wood, even though it’s from IKEA.  My Queen bed feels like it’s taking up prime real estate in my 465 square foot apartment, which is neither Princely, Queenly and never Kingly in its prime. Jokerly is what my apartment is. Or maybe it’s more like a Voodoo-doll in terms of its disrepair, and I walk the plank. All I know is I pay a Queen’s sum and soon a King's ransom to live where I do. Jump, jump! Off with her head! The reason I bring up my bed, is that before Y2K, you remember, WHEN THE WORLD WAS GOING TO END BECAUSE THE COMPUTERS WERE GOING TO CRASH BECAUSE THEY COULDN’T RECOGNIZE THE YEAR 2000, I had a live-in boyfriend. I shared my bed with him for several years and he body-checked me into the future. To this day, I am glued to sleeping on t...

Last night, I parked unevenly in my covered parking stall at my new apartment. I wasn’t in the habit of making this ruthless mistake. I’d only lived in my new high-rise for four months and had never parked over either yellow line: left or right, nor too close to either line.   This is where the lemonspouting came in: Number 84, as she called herself, decided to leave a napkin note on my windshield the next morning. Number 84, referred to her stall.  When I saw my mistake, I felt bad for my error. I wanted to apologize, but I was given no opportunity. The napkin note I’d received from Number 84 suggested an undercurrent of rage. Polite script with wolf’s teeth. Lemonspouting with acid dripping off the lips. Sure, she wasn't spitting lemon drops at me, but she wanted to bite. In the current climate of environmental protectionism, I understand SUV owners are really under the gun. Number 84, SUV owner, took my crooked parking as a sign of disrespect toward her larger ...