Single Frame Story … Humility

High Fashion Humility

This one is deeply personal.  Someone very close went through this, just last year.  Then, the fight with cancer began with a lumpectomy that disfigured.  The second set of surgeons who gave a second opinion called the remains of the breast a “defect.”  No matter how much they tried to withhold their emotion, their disdain for the “skills” of the first surgeon spilled out each time they gave their evaluation.

The good news is the battle has been won.  And while all the cells are healthy ones now with no more rogue cells, the truth remains that the recovery unfolds gradually on so many levels…probably the same levels as the fight itself was waged:  physical, psychological, emotional, cultural, probably much more. 

My entry for this week’s Single Frame Story “humility” prompt is entitled “High Fashion Humility.”  The inspiration for it comes from participating in whatever way I best could in this walk…which included researching as much as I could on the topic.  It was then that I came across a Breast Cancer resource book with a cover image of an impossibly beautiful (horribly ironic given this context) and fully intact woman.  I was struck by the disconnect between the idealized beauty on the book’s cover and the incredibly hard truth of this battle.  No doubt the image was probably meant to provide something to hold onto, to hope to morph into at the end of an incredibly challenging journey.  Still.  The profound beauty of the Warrior must never be denied, no matter how awful the scars or how much deviation there is from the conventional concepts of beauty.

I wish my photoshop skills (such as they are) were much stronger.  If they were, I would have done a much better job of showing respect to and honoring the poignant beauty and strength in all of those who have battled or are battling cancer, and all of their loved ones who are right there in the thick of it with them.  God bless you all.

Single Frame Story … Shot in the Dark

It’s that time.  When the moon is in the 7th house and Jupiter aligns with Mars and the Earth is as one that every major appliance in the house decides to go on the fritz.  Just to be contrarian, no doubt.  Included in that is my trusty desktop tower of – what – 6 years or 7 years now? 

I managed this photo (below) before the dreaded blue screen of death seized the machine.  Due to the circumstances around the arrival of this image, I’ve entitled it:  Twilight of Machine Life.  Ironically, it has a bit of a vampire feel to it.  (I hope the image quality reads well…it looked odd on my machine before my machine crashed.)  Ah well.  If anyone has suggestions for tower specs or make or model, please leave a comment with them.  Would be so grateful for your ideas.  Meanwhile, I’ll finish this post and get back to my day job duties.

“Twilight of Machine Life” for the Single Frame Story prompt “Shot in the Dark”

Twilight of a Machine Life

Waking the Sleeping Integer … 18

18 … The Suckage of Spin

Miranda was a social media wizard by day and an insomniac by night.  Why should this night be any different.  At 1:14 a.m. and her blue eyes wide open it shouldn’t be.  And so Miranda was up. 

She was known to park her keester at the keyboard on her side table when the whirling of the bedroom ceiling fan bleeted on into the early hours.  This generally annoyed the fuck out of her.  The bleeting, that is; not the side table, or her keester for that matter.  But it really wasn’t the ceiling fan that bleeted on ad naseum.  It was Miranda who did.  Why just blog when you can blog and tweet.  Bleet!  Synchronicity!  Of course she’d much rather have her boyfriend rub his penis on the outside of her vagina (another definition of “bleet” per the urban dictionary), but these days he masqueraded as an aggressive travelling accountant.  Which meant it was just Miranda and her trusty tablet rustling up the bed sheets.  And rustle the sheets she did, wrestling with a mind that wouldn’t quiet against hours that seemed to be held hostage by the tortured repetition of minutes.  Lack of sleep brought out the worst in people, making Miranda just as much an aggressive non-sleeper as her boyfriend was an aggressive travelling accountant during tax season.

She signed and pulled the tablet out from under the pillow.  She logged into her social platforms.  Unleashed her deployment tools.  Analyzed her analytics.   Surveyed her Klout.  Set up audience-focused messaging workflow that had all the spin sucked out of it.  And she knew it did because she messaged that it did, ha!  Strategically chose her words with a mind toward search optimization.  Hashtagged and generally tagged her way into the infinity weaving across the fiber optics.  Bent an ear to the screen to listen, listen very very closely *very closely* while she bleeted.  Wiz, bang, boom, post, retweet, direct message, yeowsa!  Heard nothing on the other end — nothing in this internet sea of billions and billions and gazillions of peoples —  nothing but her keyboard clacking away.  Marvelled still to this very day in this very second even after all this years of posting as she felt her fingers pick up grease lightening speed now.  Going to the Next Level, woo!  Whatever the hell the Next Level is…but who cares!  Woo!  Cuz I’m there!  And in the midst of all of this, Miranda realized suddenly with no small amount of panic and no small amount of rudeness that an ephinany like this one brings to bear that despite all the commotion of her tablet and in her social accounts and kittehs on the internet and cats in her head that Miranda…well…she…she had…

absolutely nothing of value to say.  Absolutely nothing.  She couldn’t find a trace of meaningful.  This, despite the fact that not one buzz word ever crossed her keyboard.  This, despite the fact that she crammed as much street speak into her messages as possible, because you know Miranda’s big into being Balls Out authentic and all.

And yet. 

She found nothing of value in what she was messaging.

Because…she was *messaging*………*deploying*…..and messaging…..

who the hell says things like that????

It was then that Miranda saw her reflection in the tablet.  Don’t think…feel…just make it real, she whispered to no one in particular.

She deactivated the tablet and pushed it under the bed, probably nearly onto the other side under the bed.  Miranda didn’t care.  She lay back and stared into the darkness.  She listened hard.  Very very closely beyond the bleeting of the ceiling fan.  In search of real.

nanowrimo10:  600 total word count this post, for a 44,600 total word count to date.  It may take two years, but I’ll finish it.