The CuisinArt

And the more he thought, the quicker he thought, and the quicker he thought, the sooner he became aware of himself, and the sooner he became aware, the more he thought about his bland outfit, and the more he thought of that, the faster he walked, until he came but a step from colliding into the counter and ball rack behind the lanes. In a sudden and swift move, graceful as his bowling stroke, he slid out of the way, narrowly avoiding the embarrassing scene of spilling water on himself and ruining this moment and his entire month hence.

Approaching the table in front of his lane, he stole one more glance and saw that her eyes remained facing his direction.

He set his cups down, inhaled deeply, but through his nose. He did not want her to see his skittish preparation. He faced her. His cell phone - which lay on the table - rang. He turned, saw his sister’s name on the display screen and nearly collapsed from sickness. He hit the silence key. Avoiding his sister was not a scenario he was unfamiliar with. When he looked up, the woman tilted her head bashfully, and manufactured a coy smile. He felt reinvigorated and set down the phone.

He took a step, only to hear the phone ring, yet again. This time, however, it was his work. And this time, he had to support himself on the table, because he truly thought he might collapse. He promptly silenced it, and without a moment’s hesitation, in a rare feat of spontaneity, walked over to her.

She took notice, and immediately sat at attention, rapidly deciding how she would react to the upcoming exchange. Computing dozens of greeting scenarios and the appropriate response to each at computer-like speed, and each one unique, based on how he would prompt her.

When Eric finally did reach his new destination, he was unable to say anything. He’d thought so much about his phone and summoning the courage to just walk there, what he would do once he arrived eluded him. So he said, “Hi.” And she, shocked at his choice, merely returned with, “Hi.” Ken watched from the front desk, cautiously, unobtrusively, but intently.  Eric bounced lightly and fearfully on the balls of his feet, slid his hands into his pockets, lowered his head, and after a moment, the two could manage to produce little more than a mutually nervous laugh.

She was even more beautiful, to him, at such a short distance: Her modest, yet slender stature, the curve of her hips, the loose fitting knitted sweater, which hung over her nervously contorted fists, and her flowing hair made him weak. He’d forgotten about his parents, and his sister’s call, and his job, and all the choices he’d made, that up until this point, had led him down a most undesirable path. He’d also forgotten how to speak.

In the distance, Eric’s phone rang, yet again, and the echo of that electronic ringtone ran up his spine like a platoon of red ants. She glanced over his shoulder and asked if he should take that. Before he could warmly dismiss it, a pile of energetic youngsters plowed through the door of the alley. Eric and the woman shifted their attention to the unstoppable force heading their way.

They’d both wanted a distraction, but neither of the two they were presented with. “Hey Miss. Donaldson!” Yelled a small boy who led the pack towards the woman. “I should,” “-Right, so should I,” they said. They both knew the moment was gone. The difference? The woman thought it was just this moment, but Eric, he knew it was the only moment.

Back at his lane, he felt a cold sweat, and an uncontrollable shudder of his hands. He picked up the phone to see that in fact his sister had called again. The shudder took control of his entire body. Not externally visible, but internally debilitating. He placed the phone down, though he’d wanted to slam it. He picked up his ball. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was still his time; his time to escape, however short it was.

He balanced, approached, and like all the other times: Down, forward, slide, release, and pop up. His back leg kicked up, with the faintest bit of life and charisma as the ball rolled its way down the lane. And after a perfect path, followed by perfect contact, 60 feet away, stood one pin- the 10-pin- in the corner, alone amongst the black behind it.

But, being as rigidly stable and uncompromising in the release of his emotions as he was, he just spun slowly on the heels of his plain white sneakers, grimaced slightly and clenched his fist for no more than a moment before releasing. He repeated the process, and threw a ball, which shot down the lane harder than he normally threw it- the spin, less graceful.

The lane sensed this change, and reacted accordingly. The ball twisted at the last moment, and missed the pin. Missed the spare; missed his chance. His phone rang again. The ball returned; he had nine frames remaining and three games after those frames. He silenced his phone, picked up his ball and placed it in his bag. He wiped the oily grease from his fingers onto his jeans, grabbed his coat with the other hand, and walked out.

He made eye contact with no one as he left. Not Ken and not the children and certainly not the woman. He stepped outside, and was struck with a breath of cool, but piercing wind. He thought about the long hours, the never-ending days, and the years that had rolled by like a ball on it’s way to the pins, only to twist just a bit too much and strike nothing but the black tarp.

He thought about the strikes, the spares, the splits, and the gutters. All those frames, all these games, all this time without memories- where had they gone? But he would remember today. He stood outside the alley, alone in the wind, in his horribly bland and self-loathing outfit: a royal blue collared shirt tucked into a black denim pair of jeans over white sneakers. And back in the alley, in the furthest corner of the furthest lane, stood the 10th pin.

It was 4:45, and Eric had skipped out of work a few minutes early. This wasn’t a problem anymore. He’d spent 10 years in the same office, learning the same people’s tendencies. He knew Susan always had a cigarette at 4:35, and stayed outside, pretending to talk on the phone till 4:50, at which point she would return and start packing her things. He knew all of their vices. He did nothing with them, but use them as a means to avoid them. Ducking out was no longer more difficult than slipping in 10 minutes late from his lunch break. He could probably stretch it to an hour.

He despised the outfit he’d chosen to wear today: a royal blue collared shirt tucked into a black denim pair of jeans over white sneakers. It was such a bland and self-loathing outfit. He despised attention being brought on him. It didn’t even match.

He’d arrived a time in his life where pleasures were a dying breed. Natural selection was taking over, and in the form of banalities and inconveniences. Almost everything was at this point- an inconvenience. There was his sister. He could hardly stomach the bemoaning scene - where she pried for money and support - that was lunch on Wednesdays. He watched the History channel, although he wasn’t particularly interested in it. But he didn’t want to be included. News, sports, celebrity scandal- he wanted nothing to do with it.

He stopped trying to meet women, or more accurately avoided them, as well- turned off to the whole concept of marriage after spending his childhood absorbing the noise of his bickering parents, and most of his young adulthood trying not to hear the shouts from what was once a marriage, turned adversarial co-habitation.

Standing alone, the only sounds in the alley were the gears churning on the ball return. The ball travels down the lane, up the return ramp and back to his hands- Time and time again; too repetitive to remember. Just an image. He lined up his shot, balanced his weight and approached with a smooth, upbeat stride reminiscent of a dance step. Down, forward, slide, release, pop up. His back leg kicked up behind, with the faintest bit of life and charisma, as the ball rolled its way down the lane. It was poetry in motion, but he never thought of it that way. The sport had become his escapist pleasure, but he hardly allowed it to be even that.

The ball glided along the second arrow from the right, rotating forward and diagonally on its axis toward the front pin, just off center and it followed the exact path he’d aimed for. The ball struck the pins just as he had planned, and evaporating in front of the ball was each pin, with the exception of one. He’d thrown a perfect ball and received imperfect results. He stared at the 10th pin, alone in the far corner of the lane. It should have fallen with the others; it should have been a strike.

But, being as rigidly stable and uncompromising in the release of his emotions as he was, he just spun slowly on the heels of his plain white sneakers, grimaced slightly - certainly not enough for anyone who wasn’t watching to take notice of - and waited for the ball to spit itself back out the return and into his hands. The result was almost as he expected. Of course he wouldn’t get the strike. He couldn’t get a break in any other moment of the last 10 years of his life, he thought, why would he get one in bowling? And had he gotten a strike, it was but a mere confirmation of what he knew should of happened. There was no pleasure, either way. If he couldn’t win, he’d at least be satisfying with predicting that he would fail, unfairly. Feeling justified, he picked up the spare and waited for the next frame. He’d already forgotten the last one.

After the game, he approached Ken, the establishment’s owner and only employee. A rigid business man; willing to purchase or spend capital on what the old fashioned and lifeless alley needed: snack machines, electronic dart boards, an updated food stand, but intransigent on spending a cent more than necessary. Before attending to Eric, Ken ordered a woman, who just entered the building that she’d have to throw her bottle of soda out. “We have soda machines, if you’re thirsty.” Eric gazed at the door, knowing kids were to follow this woman, and his own private lane amongst the beautifully desolate alley was moments away from being intruded upon in the crudest of fashions.

Ken turned to Eric, knowing why he was at the desk, and went straight to the bar. He’d always purchased a pitcher of water, for one dollar, as well. The days were getting longer. Each minute dragged. The weeks felt like they would never end, but conversely Eric also felt that so many years had escaped him, and faster than the pins fall upon contact. Eric hadn’t had any contact in some time.

Each day at the alley was beginning to feel that way. The games were long and grueling, and by the end, it felt as if he’d never even started. Ken returned, not with a pitcher, but with two plastic cups of water, and charged Eric nothing. Eric nodded his head and returned to his lane, a cup in each hand. Ken is a rigid businessman.

As he walked, he turned his head toward the door again, which had yet to have rowdy children burst through. He couldn’t stand children. He couldn’t even remember what it was like when he was one. Was he ever one? Rotating his head back towards his destination, he and the woman, who now sat, embittered and thirsty, met stares. He tried to divert his gaze, casually, but something in his neck kept him from turning.

She wasn’t particularly beautiful, plain but pleasant. Her hair, however, was stunning. It was long, rich, and flowed down her neck, around her shoulders, and dangled delicately and deliberately off her back. In the midst of the inauspicious attempt to be inconspicuous, he noticed that she too, was not turning her head, aimlessly staring at the ceiling, or pretending to find something to occupy her attention until Eric had looked away. 

Decidedly more curious, he saw that she unmistakably smiled at him. What was this happening? Could this be one of those real moments that he’d only seen on screen or heard told time and time again by a burdensome colleague? When you avoid people, you rarely see their eyes, or their smiles, or their hair. You see faces, and fabric, all forgotten by the mind as quickly as it was processed and before you realize it, you haven’t seen a person in years. But this time, he saw a woman.

We have a couple new stories coming in the near future, so in the mean time, we’ll give your eyes a breather and present friend’s sites and work part 2.

This post will be dedicated to music.

“Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth. Truth is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is THE BEST…”

The Lonely Veterinarian - By Mingione and Proietto

Here are some more of Mingione’s solo works - The guy can Noodle.

Next we have: “With Soda” - The Quiet

For more catchy as a cold beats - visit “the quiet.” Kid is precocious.

And: Marla’s stop-motion animation project.

Vivo - Fobia - Music Video by Marla

Finally, Marla’s follow up: Siempre - by: La Ley

Recently, we published Shea’s time travel tale “Past and Present Knights.” Shea also submitted his story to a Literary Magazine “Flask and Pen” who holds an annual short story competition. We’re proud to announce that he received a 3rd Place Honorable Mention recognition.

Now, while honorable mention seems like a pedestrian accomplishment to some, allow me to elucidate the gravity of this feat Shea has attained.

1. There were over 1 Billion Entries in this contest.
2. Notable writers who submitted to this contest, and did not receive Honorable Mentions include:
*William Faulkner
*Norman Mailer
*Dan Brown
*Dante Alighieri
*Josh Schwartz
3. And 999,999,991 other Losers like them.

So - check out his story and revel in the quirky story of revenge and movies.

Congrats Shea.

Here is the link:
http://flaskandpen.com/

Hello,

I would like to talk briefly about the writing process…

The story,  scenery,  characters,  themes, and the tone are vital organs to the vast majority of stories in any medium. Anton Chekhov once said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Details, and evocative images, are what lifts a story off the ground and into our, imaginations. Having a great idea, with vivd characters, and an elusive plot are not the only components to great story telling. You unearth what it is you want to say, and then you must determine, how to say it.

And that’s the problem I’ve encountered recently; I”ve been coming to grips with the fact that I don’t have the command over the English language; and its rules, the way I would like two. Its so important to implement the proper punctuation in the proper places… The fluidity, at, which your writing will be read by someone, rests wholly-on your ability to annuncinate, and then punctunate your thoughts?

The beauty of this challenge, is that there is no 1 rule. Hemingway; used commas, infrequently, and wrote, very, terse prose. Nietzsche would write a whole page that was one sentence. An’d Cor-mac McCarthy’s writing’s, specifically/ “No Country For Old Men” hasn’t got nearly any apostrophe’s; semicolons’ at all!1

So, as I stated, I’ve encountered the problem, of: How should i 4matt my writings? I, recently! Bought THIS BOOK, and I think it has had a very positive affect, on, the way I convey my thoughts,

I definately want too recomennd, it, to all writer’s, who are searching- themselves, and try-ing to find they’re inside voice and there style(

Wheel all be benefactors as the residualult. So keap rite-ing!

-stockton

First off are a few graphs from an article from our fair, unbiased, and objective news source, The Huffington Post- with unfair and biased color commentary from me:

Former Vice President Dick Cheney warned that there is a “high probability” that terrorists will attempt a catastrophic nuclear or biological attack in coming years, and said he fears the Obama administration’s policies will make it more likely the attempt will succeed.

The Bushmen will soon have successfully
blamed everything that happened when they were
in office on Clinton and all the repercussions of those
problems on Obama. I did the same thing with my
brother and  sister throughout my childhood. It
worked like a charm and I was the only child to receive
care packages my freshman year in College.

Cheney unyieldingly defended the Bush administration’s support for the Guantanamo Bay prison and coercive interrogation of terrorism suspects.
Protecting the country’s security is “a tough, mean, dirty, nasty business,” he said. “These are evil people. And we’re not going to win this fight by turning the other cheek.”

Yes. We’re going to win it the same way we’ve won the wars
on drugs, abortion, corruption in business, and political scandal.
And we need your help.

Now, for a bedtime story…

Edgar had always been alone. His first memory was waking up from a midday nap, prying his shuddering and heavy eyes open, lifting his head from the pillow on his bed and seeing no one there to welcome him back from slumber. He rubbed his eyes with his palms, adjusted himself to the light and walked, precariously, through the house in search for his mother. Edgar never knew, nor would he ever know, that at that time, his mother was in the garage having extramarital intercourse in her station wagon.

Edgar was four years old at this time, and lived with constant separation anxiety. His mother, Evelyn, birthed Edgar unintentionally. While she had no plans to today, or any other day, 15 years from now she would, in a fit of anger, tell Edgar he was a mistake. Edgar, after admittedly only a moments search for his mother, began to cry. Evelyn could not hear his cries. After a painstaking hour of trying to get him to sleep, she felt vindicated in engaging in this act unfettered, and her moans were a manifestation of that, more than the pleasure she received from her male suitor.

Unsure of what to do, Edgar did what most children would do, he sat on the couch, clutched at a pillow and wept. First loudly and hysterically with the hope that salvation was a mere earshot away, and then weakly, as if the way an injured and helpless dog cries after breaking a bone. In the garage, Evelyn relished in the moment of having responsibilities for no one: not for her burdensome and austere husband and not for her sensitive and fragile son.

After some time, a crow perched itself on the branch of a naked tree, just outside the window from where Edgar sat. It was not the first time Edgar had seen this type of bird, with its gleaming black feathers and penetrating eyes, but he was always accustomed to them flying. And now here it was, sitting next to him, with but a partition of glass separating the two. Edgar stared hopefully at the bird.  He tapped on the window gently. The bird reacted and turned his head, with a subtle and curious tilt to see who or what it was making the noise.

Edgar, with tears dried to his crimson cheeks began to cool down. He waved at the bird and the bird nodded slightly yet unmistakably in return. He felt safe, almost instantly. The two sat for nearly fifteen minutes together before Edgar’s mother slipped in through the garage door. When he saw her, he didn’t feel the comfort he normally did, but fear that this was a woman who left him and may leave him again. Evelyn was mortified that Edgar sat that there, within earshot of her screams. She was worried about herself first, and in some capacity, Edgar new this: her hair in disarray, her button down blouse flung over her shoulder, and her shoes in one hand. The unknown scared Edgar and the prospect of the known scared Evelyn.

After adoring reassurance of her love and devotion, a pleasant movie put on and a surprise snack made for his enjoyment, Edgar felt a bit better, but in a way that was unnatural- It wasn’t the way he felt when the crow nodded and sat with him, in silence, and in company.

For the ensuing years, Edgar often encountered this crow in times of isolation. It would return, and perch outside the window, and the two would sit together as Edgar grew old enough to stay home alone, and as Evelyn felt comfortable leaving the house to pursue her interests. They sat while Edgar watched movies, while he read, and while he planned out his future. What was always constant, was the mutual recognition the two had and that the crow, in some capacity, knew he provided solace to Edgar, and perhaps Edgar to him.

And on the eve that he left for college, three months and seventeen days after Evelyn told Edgar that he was a mistake, he went outside in the yard and waited. He waited for an hour until the crow finally flew down. He didn’t perch on his shoulder, or come and eat off his hand, but he went back to the tree he’d always sat on, and stared at Edgar. Edgar knew, at that moment, that he would never return home again. And, content with that, he also knew that the crow would find him again, and sit outside his window.

Finally:

Here is a great video on crows that you may find can be a great answer to some of the problems facing US Foreign Relations/National Security.

-stockton

The following message is from supporters of the cuisinart blog:

I realized that I may not have been as clear as I could have been, with regards to submitting material. The best way for you to submit your stuff, would be via email. Mine is Snrswaz@gmail.com.

“I’m Stockton Borealis, and I support this message.”

“Now the business we have, heretofore, you can speak with my aforementioned attorney.”

This is a quote from a movie I like. Can you guess it (sans Internet search)? This can be a regular function of the blog, if you don’t cheat.

First:

Since this is intended to be collaborative, I’d like to plug a few sites run by some friends.

*Marla’s Photo Blog. “She’s Very Good”

*Pete Berg’s Power Hour Site, and Six Word Stories

*Wikipedia (I think this one could really change the world once an English version is released.)

*Ari’s rant blog

Secondofly:

Ever notice that right before someone says something terrible to you, or about you, they preface it with “No offense, but…”?

Also:

Tibet has been freed! So put your signs away, cuz you’re 50 years late anyway. They’re liberated and the 50th Anniversary is less than a month away. Take this opportunity to pick out something to wear. Thank your local Chinese official, as well. It’s a celebration!
I’m glad that this burden has been lifted off of the Tibetan citizens. And this is not the only Anniversary, Darfurians will be celebrating their twenty years of deliverance under the benevolent Omar al-Bashir. For the occasion, he’s giving everyone the day off.

Next (possibly last):

I was in a Verizon store recently and I noticed there are no longer employees greeting you at the door. There is now an electronic sign-in. I think Wal-Mart should adopt the same system and give those seniors a break. Upon looking at all the different phones, I started thinking about how much machines are a part of our lives. They do quite a bit, and more and more, humans are doing less.
Our phones have text, picture, and video messages. Games, ring tones, and touch screens. Youtube, myspace. They even have GPS. Most cars don’t have that. These elegant devices keep us connected and are nearly limitless in their potential. But why is it that when I go to the counter to pay for the thing, that little electronic signature machine still looks like a retarded mutant fishfrog man signed it? I think we can do better, and frankly, I’m sick of feeling stupid at the end of transactions.
Moreover, if you actually purchase something that expensive, there should be an employee standing at the counter, whose sole responsibility is to open the High Security Prison Packaging the charger comes in. I think it should be the old Wal-Mart greeters. Long story longer, by the end this, I was so frustrated that I decided to return my cell, and purchase a land line. I’m not sure who uses these anymore, and it may have been a poor decision. But time will tell.

Apparently David Simon feels the same way I do about Verizon stores. Here is a video response he made to my blog entry (This is actually quite interesting, check it out).

-stockton

Note: For your guided entertainment, links are integrated into this blog and should thus be clicked with your mouse button as you read. Most of them don’t even take you away from the page, and the ones that do are super happy fun time links.

Hello Blogosphere, I’m ready for my closeup. There will be an important note at the end of this post. The third part of the first part of this endeavor will reveal two truths. The second part of the first part of this blog will be the dissemination of my fake identity. The first part of the first entry will, in part, explain why this blog was created…

This blog was created with one purpose: To solve each, every, and all of the world’s problems. Big ones, tall ones, baby gap small ones, and regular medium shape sized ones. I welcome them all ones.

My name is Stockton Borealis (no it’s not).

I’m not going to solve all of the world’s problems, mostly because of my remote location relative to at least a bushel of problems currently plaguing the worlds (hyperspace included).

More accurately, this will function as a creative food processor for friends and colleagues. It is like This Site, except it is for writers. There are no creative limitations, only that you accompany your submission with some form of narrative supplement.

Published here will include short stories, news articles, youtube videos, movie, book, tv reviews and recommendations, and THAT’S IT! THE LIST FUCKING ENDS THERE! Just kidding, again. I know it’s not best for relationships to start with lies, but I think we’ll make it anyway. In actualness, I encourage written submissions of all kinds, and I will publish many of them. But don’t forget, they have to CHANGE THE WORLD, in some form or another.

IMPORTANT NOTE: Blogosphere is NOT a recognized cosmological term.

-stockton