Oh, Appreciation!

Writing reminds me of what an indecisive little woman I am.
Why can't I decide that it's OK for my main character to be a little cliche. People should recognize this guy, right? And this couple, why are they so drawn to one another? Where were they going?
Arghh.
If only it was as easy as deciding that I really like "Dark Night of the Soul," by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse. My friend Shannon gave me a burned copy, but I'm anxious to get the album so I can admire the David Lynch photos. In the meantime, The Flaming Lips, Iggy Pop, Black Francis, that guy from the Strokes and that other person who is really cool appear on the album. It's been out for almost a year, but I've only heard the dark, gloomy gospel last weekend. Shannon played started the album while driving through Memphis after going to a fire show that had some sparky moments and some fucking boring moments. She dances with fire, so she naturally wanted to see other fire dancers. However, I've made the decision that Shannon dances just as well, if not better than the dancers who put on this show. My friend has passion, and and she doesn't wave goddamn glow sticks.
Two of the girls in the show danced well, but I don't think they've been practicing for more than a year. One girl had a baton that was lit on both ends, and she wasn't bad, but she kept twirling the baton the same way for about a minute too long at the end of her dance. Two other girls performed a fire and belly dance after the girl with her baton. The brunette danced far better than the blond. The blond was as stiff as Bristol Palin on Dancing with the Stars. The aforementioned dark haired lady was well-practiced, fluid and engaged the crowd more than anyone in her troupe. For that I will give her props. I'll refrain from comment about the rest. It wasn't a horrible show, but too much house music is too much house music.
Then Shannon and I listened to "Little Girl" on "Dark Night of the Soul" while we drove down Poplar away from the fire show. We went to the Hi-Tone, and I have no idea what band we heard, they played pretty run-of-the-mill, straightforward punk. I ate deep fried artichokes at the bar. Yum!


Now, I'm going to do some yoga. Then I have to think of a good reason to kill a couple of young lovers. In fiction, of course. My pal, David, gave me the plot, I'm just the storyteller.

29 (almost) down, 30 to go

It’s been quite a while since I posted anything here, but as I approach a landmark birthday, it’s only fitting, right?


In two weeks, I will turn thirty. 3-0. An age where, in addition to slowing metabolism, one should experience a boost in professional and sexual confidence. At thirty, self-doubt is supposed to fall away along with caring about other’s opinions and all those other little ticks that eat away at self-confidence. I certainly hope so.

While I am waiting, I want to work on my creative life. Since I went into newspaper writing, my drive to create dried up. “Dead in embryo,” could describe quite a few of the stories that I’ve tried to begin.

At this time, I’ve distanced myself from newspaper. Previously, I had a blog posted about why, but I took it down because I was teaching. The last thing I wanted was a student to come across it. It’s not that I was embarrassed about the whole ordeal, it was the curse words and spite. My kiddies were optimistic about writing and all, so I didn’t want to squash that because I worked for a horrible example of a newspaper editor.

Since it doesn’t hurt to dream, and I really want to reawaken creativity in myself and others, I want to begin (again) my zine, The Bohemian Rat. I have no artists, no writers, nothing that I can publish. So, maybe I can pull a rat out of my hat in the next two weeks.

It’s better than doing nothing. I doubt anyone reads this blog or remembers much about the zine. However, I don’t want to look 31 in the face with less under my hat than I have now.

So this means I have to retreat from my TV shows. Damn Netfix subscription! It wouldn’t kill me to devote an hour a day to writing. Who knows, maybe I can get something rolling soon.

I'll keep you posted.

The places you find yourself

Waking up at 8 a.m. doesn't bother some people.
One day, I hope to be one of those people. Since starting my job as a legal assistant during the day and a teacher in the afternoon, waking up at 6:45-7:12 a.m. just gives the day a surreal twist. A twist made sweeter by having a job in town that pays more. And I get weekends off. Woot!
Slowly, the house is starting to look like a real house instead of a candidate for that hoarding show. During the first few weeks of teaching this class, I had newspapers, grammar workbooks, folders, papers, etc., all over the living room tables. Of course my mess is piled on top of Chris' bass player magazines, my fashion magazines and Arkansas Reviews, our assorted tab sheets, last semester's worksheets and textbooks, unopened mail and Persian-Siamese fur balls.

This morning I sorted mail, organized tabs, stacked magazines and dusted. There are still fur balls. Zora can't help it.
She really looks like a big cat because she's a walking 'fro. She might weigh 4 pounds, while our stout little runt cat packs about 11 pounds.

Aside from an organized living room, I updated my flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/monicabhooper/
There are photos from the ice storm, the cat's first outdoor adventure, Juli's photo workshop and the Hot Springs trip. I'm hoping that Chris and I can actually make it to St. Louis next month for the Modest Mouse show. I'd like to get some shots at the concert, but I can't waltz up there with my D40. I've been looking at some point and shoot cameras, but I'd like to use something a little different for the show though. Plus, I'm not sure I'll have $125 to shell out for the point and shoot that I'd want.
Either way, I want to get something in there. Stupidly, I took a disposable camera to the Dead Weather show at Minglewood Hall. Not a single shot came out, which isn't surprising. I was just hoping that a shot or two would work because I got so close to the stage.
Speaking of Dead Weather — it was a great show. Since Jack White is so notoriously popular, I thought he'd really steal the show. He had nada on Alison Mosshart. She is the best showman I've seen since Tom Waits. I was so impressed and ashamed that I didn't start listening to The Kills years ago.
The list of CDs on my to-buy list is ever expanding and will keep growing. This week I'm waiting for my Surfa Rosa poster.

Alien skin

You knew someone felt it too when the screeching head sprung out of that guy in Alien. But there was no warning until the siren. No heading advice on the ups and downs of an extraterrestrial breakout or how to treat broken skin, ribs.
How arrogant, or lazy, they don't tell you about the mornings after. Reenactments made out of dreams and air. The humming fan. Concentrate on the siren. No small shots, deep breath. No caffeine. They didn't warn you and even if they did you can't piece together the ripped organs, intestines.
Someone could have written a book. A self-help best-seller. Clues for stain removal. Stitches upkeep. No coffee before the tail is through. How to rehabilitate the empty space, panic in the bedroom window.

(Written by Monica Hooper, 10:48 a.m. Saturday, May 22, 2010)

Looking east, south

Chris and I are quickly approaching the end of the semester, but he's more than ready to skip a couple of planes over the ocean to an exotic new place where we don't speak the language.
Though I'm open to this situation, I'm terribly worried about our cats. We have two cats, one is very sickly, the other is quite mean — he's still a kitten and likes to play, hates affection that's not completely on his terms. How many people ship cats overseas and when we get there how do we get them back to the U.S.?
There's also a problem in getting over ... where?
I've researched teaching in Japan, and for the first time in my adult life, my master's actually makes a considerable difference in my placement. That would be remarkable news, but Chris doesn't have a masters or teaching experience, so pooh-pooh on that.
The other issues are based in the bickering between Chris and me over the move itself. He wants to move by the end of summer. My stance is that we can net better teaching opportunities if we finish this certification process than if we sign up with a company and move over without a certificate. Once again, I'm worried about what happens to the cats, where we will live, etc. Then once we get there, how do you get to a doctor if you need one, what happens if we get into a big fight and break-up?
Chris said it is an impulsive decision (this was well into hour 2 of the argument) which worries me because I have two impulsive moves under my belt, Memphis in 2001 and Conway in 2006, both saw me right back to Jonestown. Admittedly the latter move was for the best, and it also serves as a reason to move. I hated working in the news in Conway and it's no better in where I'm working these days. I'm starting to believe that Arkansans would be happier with their heads buried deep in the sand. They won't come out for air or water, just flashy graphics and barbecue.
I'm not going to deny that teaching again is appealing, especially since I'll never get another post at a school in this state. Since I don't have the money for a car, moving to a place where neither of us will need one sounds really good. And I do want to live in a foreign country.
Perhaps I'm just being paranoid. Maybe it's just Seasonal Affective Disorder (kicks in during long rainy seasons).
In the meantime, I want to start a photo blog based on disposable camera shots. That way I can't set my expensive camera on some fancy, schmancy setting in order to recover a great shot. Besides, my gritty, day-to-day reality would be better served on film at this point.
More later...

For Inez

Snow still lines the streets of this one horse town, but the warm sun promises spring. Yesterday's mourning procession fades in my memory as the "The Truth the Dead Knows" echoes in my memory.
"Why am I still here?" I ask myself. Park the car. Walk to the grey cube holding my daily intake of potential and note-taking.
Deep breath. Just a little more time till and you can cross "Living overseas" of the list. Then "writing a novel." Then "finding true inner peace."

So far, so so

Though I'm not a dedicated dieter, I've stuck to working out with my Your Shape for Wii.
I haven't noticed a drop in weight and my pants are as tight as ever, but the workouts themselves are getting a little more bearable. Still, I've cussed Jenny McCarthy's avatar so many times now.
The camera detects your movements, but not as close as they make you think. So you'll be doing heel jacks —which are like jumping jacks except with less movement — then stumble and you'll hear a ding and she'll say "Great job! You're really doing well!" or "That's the ticket," the nice canned aerobic instructor talk. On the other hand, you'll be performing a move to the best of your ability and she chides: "Opps! Let's watch those arms!" or  "See if you can follow my lead."
Thankfully the voice option can be nixed along with the horrific musical choices. I keep the voice on because the program has hundreds of exercises, which she explains the first few times they cycle through.
Hopefully my pants will be looser next month, until then....
Oh, I got a column picked up by www.wm3.org. I wrote a column criticizing the judge over seeing the West Memphis Three appeal. The defense team was into it. Go to the Web site to read it if you want. Otherwise, have a good one!