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creamcitywriter · 7 days

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Planted three rows of sugar snap peas and four or five of carrots. Two rows of snaps on the west end, one on the east and carrots in between and yesterday the snap peas began to sprout!

This is only my second year gardening and last year I just took care of what the previous tenant had in the little bed, which was mostly sunflowers, kale, and some rhubarb. But this year I wanted to try taking care of a garden from scratch and sowing only plants that can have a full growth cycle outside in Wisconsin. I took out the sunflowers, the kale, the rhubarb, and whatever other plants and weeds were making a home and did a few proper plows and tills of the garden and then planted.

I'm not even a big fan of snap peas or carrots, but my girlfriend loves peas and I'll give a lotta my carrots to the neighbors.

#garden #urban gardening #gardening

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creamcitywriter · 7 days

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Driving at dusk down Humboldt

Riverwest sunset

Trees guard the colors of the sun

All I get, a steel blue sky

The radio is both too loud and too quiet,

The drives too short and too long.

I do not cultivate my garden. I do not tend to my daily tasks.

I try to cry but I don't think I'm there just yet.

The lights are all green. I want to wait at a red.

I am empty,

violently hoping for a pouring out of grace

I have not prepared for.

#creative writing #writeblr #spilled ink #spilled words #poetry #poets on tumblr #original poem #writers on tumblr #my writing #poem #writers and poets

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creamcitywriter · 11 days

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Winter Landscape, Photo by Eliot Porter, 1958

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creamcitywriter · 15 days

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Max, I am sorry for ever being nervous for you. You're him.

Max Holloway KOs Justin Gaethje at 4:59 mark of 5th round - UFC 300

A moment so cold the UFC posted it to Twitter themselves

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creamcitywriter · 15 days

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This is some bamf shit for real.

Jamahal throws a leg kick that hits Alex in the nuts and the ref goes to pause the fight because of the foul. Alex just pushes him back like "Nah. I'm bout to end this dude." and puts him to sleep.

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creamcitywriter · 18 days

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All drafts of White Stone:

Draft one, sometime in February or March 2017:

I don’t know where I’m from

or where I’ll go.

I see myself in the popul vuh

forever on the road.

I see myself at Christ’s resurrection,

Lincoln’s assassination.

There’s a million flowers on this road

and I’ll smell every one.

Draft two, written spring of 2023:

Had been reading old journal entries around this time and had written down phrases and imagery I liked from the Book of Revelations. That's where the phrase White Stone comes from.

White Stone white stone

a name not my own

flowers along every road

lead me to the grave stone

white stone I’ll smell every one, white stone

my names in the Popol Vuh. White stone,

white stone I laid my palm branch at his feet and left town white stone

I left town, white stone, I know not what I’d do

White stone, flowers along the roads,

I’ll smell every one white stone.

Final Draft, written late summer/early fall of 2023:

Flowers on every road

For Christmas of 2022, my girlfriend and I were gifted an old wooden box my parents had used for camping. Sky blue and a little beaten, it stored the white and red checkered table cloth and table clamps and other miscellaneous kitchen items. It was the only thing from their camping gear they hadn't sold, forgetting about it in a move. And I hadn't known this before we were gifted it, but my grandpa had made the box when him and grandma got married. That's where the "blue box, my heirloom" comes from. It was strange. Felt honored but a little unworthy. Or rather scared I wouldn't be worthy of it. It's old, and I have a horrible tendency to be careless and let things fall apart, thinking everything is fine until it's unfixable. In both physical objects and other things.

lead me to my grave stones

There's a blue box, my heirloom.

A white stone white stone

A name not my own

I'll smell every one,

I'll find my name in the Popol Vuh.

White stone white stone

Bearing your maiden name

Palm branches laid on Monday

Skipped town Friday,

what I would do I do not know.

White stone white stone

My father's name is put on me

Names I do not know.

Names that came before

etched on a blue box,

my heirloom for storage

White stone white stone

My father's name has grown on me

I visit the old creek;

It trickles as before,

When my dog brought back a deer antler

And I fell in through the ice

White stone white stone

My father's sins my own

No names underwater,

No names beneath the ice

I breathe the cold water,

I reach the river's mouth

There with all from before,

Soon with all yet to be.

No white stone no white stone,

I know all the names,

The blue box is full and passed down again

No white stone, oh white stone,

I know this name,

Oh white stone oh white stone

It is my own, it is my own, it is my own

#creative writing #poetry #writers and poets #original poem #writeblr #writers on tumblr #my writing #poem #poets on tumblr #free verse

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creamcitywriter · 21 days

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Excerpt, from finished short story The Watch, The Watched.

Brief: The Watch, The Watched, follows a nondescript person looking for a sense of identity by breaking into peoples homes and observing them as they go about their daily lives. They are a hundred different aspects of a hundred people and none of them are authentic or organic.

T begins to sweat. It’s not good, it’s not enough. The mimicked body language is pulled primarily from a four minute observation waiting in line. When T watched the house, there was no studying of body language and movement. It was watching the cars leave and who drove what. There was no glint at intimacy and hidden traits.

T needs to be able to see them, and so they spend the rest of the day in the garage going through tool boxes. Nothing taken, just seeing what’s there and writing it down before making one last lap of the home, putting back anything that was moved, grabbing a yogurt and four granola bars, and returning to the attic.

They sit in the corner above the entrance from the garage, wait until 4:17 when the husband comes home, and draw a circle. Listening to him navigate the home, mapping out high traffic areas. Above the bedrooms, the bathroom, and the shower. The kitchen and living room. All of it. The wife comes home at 4:57 and they order takeout. T pays no attention to them for the rest of the night and struggles to fall asleep. If only T knew how the husband slept, in what position and how rigid his limbs laid, sleep and comfort would be found, but in these new plastic molded pre-fab developments no hidden rooms or passageways exist. Nothing that would allow them to observe the residents in full yet remain unseen like there are in older parts of the city. Everything built in the exurbs can only be seen as it allows itself to be seen, and to demand that there is more is an unthinkable perversion.

It is a big risk, drilling tiny holes to peer through, but necessary. How can T understand and embody this man without seeing him? All the white shavings from the drywall on the ceiling are vacuumed up and the vacuum is put away precisely where it was found, with the cord dangling precisely in the same manner it was found. T grabs a cheese stick, granola bar, and a handful of snap peas before returning to their lair and peering through.

T squared the drawn circles and put a hole in each corner and center, five separate vantage points. They sit in the corner above the garage entrance. When the husband returns T lays on their stomach and shoves an eye to the hole, positioning the head just right until they can make out the shoulder and head of the husband's high-vis sweatshirt. Rotating their awkward body 90 degrees to the hole to their left and peering and T makes out the front of the husband’s body.

From each of these pov’s T sees a fraction of a body, never the whole man at once. But still T adds the individual to the whole; the right shoulder moves and rests like this no matter what the left shoulder and arm are doing, and vice versa.

The Wife comes home and T does the same. Gleaning the essence of this man and woman from drawn and quartered movements.

#creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #short story #lit fic #suburban gothic #my writing #excerpts #excerpt #writerscommunity #writers and poets

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creamcitywriter · 24 days

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Andrew Wyeth; Wind From the Sea 1947

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creamcitywriter · 25 days

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This night was insane. Just moved out and my roommate and buddy had invited people over, I had paid zero attention to any of the build up, knew nothing substantial about Khabib, Conor or MMA in general.

The Pettis and Ferguson fight, Lewis' post fight interview, walking to the fridge for a beer after the tap and rushing back to see the brawl. Shit was so good.

The legendary line "Let's Talk Now"

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creamcitywriter · 25 days

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Rain down the water that created us both

My old man's soul in this old dog's coat

A soul is a soul is a soul is a soul

#dog #corgi #Spotify

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creamcitywriter · 26 days

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Jamie Reid

Nature Still Draws A Crowd

1975

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creamcitywriter · 27 days