The Catalyst

A Writing Teacher Writes (plus some writing prompts and recipes)

Everybody Loves Raymond (Except Me) February 19, 2016

The prompt this time was the five-word free write. For a description of this prompt, click here.

The five words, and what I wrote in response, are below.

Honeybees   image

Mushrooms

Magenta

Thunder

Crashing

_____________

As if having my Dad in rehab wasn’t bad enough, Steven’s cousin, Raymond, decided to show up on that rainy day, asking to crash on the couch.

“Steven’s in Vancouver on business,” I told him, knowing it wouldn’t deter him. He was calling from a pay phone at the train station. I didn’t even know pay phones existed anymore, but Raymond didn’t believe in cell phones.

“That shit gives you cancer,” he used to say so eloquently.

“Steven will be back on Monday,” I said, hopefully, but Raymond wasn’t deterred.

“Well, I’ll be heading to LA on Sunday night. I can just crash with you for a couple of days, can’t I?”

“LA?” I aked. “I thought you were living in Vietnam now.”

“I am. My flight back there leaves from LA.”

I had grown used to Raymond living across the ocean in another country. I liked having him far away. The farther the better. Mongolia would have been nice, or the South Pole.

I didn’t want to be alone in the apartment with him. I didn’t trust him (or myself) after what happened the last time. But he was the closest thing Steven had to a brother—they even looked alike—and Steven had always been loving and loyal to Raymond. In other words, I didn’t really have a choice.

“You still have keys?” I asked. I figured I could conveniently be out for the night when he arrived.

“Jimmy,” he said—he was the only one who called me that, other than Steven—”I don’t know where the hell those went.”

When he arrived, I was baking a spelt and sesame loaf. Everyone knows that means I was anxious. I always bake bread when I’m anxious. It calms me down.

“God, that smells great!” he exclaimed, dropping his duffel near the door and grabbing me. Raymond is about seven inches taller than I am; he’s burly and furry, a bit like the lumberjack on the Brawny paper towel packages. He looks like the straighter version of a Tom of Finland drawing, though Raymond would be the first to tell you that his sexuality is “fluid,” something he feels proud of.

“You look great, man,” he said, holding me out in front of him and looking so deeply into my eyes I blushed and had to look away. “Been doing a lot of yoga?”

“Yeah, and also running a bit.”

“Right on.”

Cally, our seven-year-old Calico, came running right up to him, rubbing on his legs and purring loudly. She hates everyone, but she can never get enough of Raymond.

“Hey, baby,” he said, leaning down to pet her. I could see the curve of his deltoids through his shirt and I felt myself rush with arousal. “Are you going to sleep with me tonight?” He was talking to Cally, but I knew the invitation was open to me as well.

It was going to be a very long weekend.

 

 

The Imperfect Teacher February 5, 2016

Filed under: Humor,Teaching,Vignettes — Christopher DeLorenzo @ 11:30 am
Tags: , , , ,

The prompt this time was an excerpt from a long poem by Ron Padgett, “How to be Perfect.”

That prompt, and what I wrote in response, is below.


How to be Perfect

Get some sleep.

Eat an orange every morning.         ING_19043_06216-paper-pile-funny-guy-big-glasses-1024x678

Be friendly. It will help make you happy.

Hope for everything. Expect nothing.

Take care of things close to home first. Straighten up your room
before you save the world. Then save the world.
Be nice to people before they have a chance to behave badly.

Don’t stay angry about anything for more than a week, but don’t
forget what made you angry. Hold your anger out at arm’s length
and look at it, as if it were a glass ball. Then add it to your glass
ball collection.

Wear comfortable shoes.

Do not spend too much time with large groups of people.

Plan your day so you never have to rush.

Show your appreciation to people who do things for you, even if
you have paid them, even if they do favors you don’t want.

After dinner, wash the dishes.

Calm down.

Don’t expect your children to love you, so they can, if they want
to.

Don’t be too self-critical or too self-congratulatory.

Don’t think that progress exists. It doesn’t.

Imagine what you would like to see happen, and then don’t do
anything to make it impossible.

Forgive your country every once in a while. If that is not
possible, go to another one.

If you feel tired, rest.

Don’t be depressed about growing older. It will make you feel
even older. Which is depressing.

Do one thing at a time.

If you burn your finger, put ice on it immediately. If you bang
your finger with a hammer, hold your hand in the air for 20
minutes. You will be surprised by the curative powers of ice and
gravity.

Do not inhale smoke.

Take a deep breath.

Do not smart off to a policeman.

Be good.

Be honest with yourself, diplomatic with others.

Do not go crazy a lot. It’s a waste of time.

Drink plenty of water. When asked what you would like to
drink, say, “Water, please.”

Take out the trash.

Love life.

Use exact change.

When there’s shooting in the street, don’t go near the window.

____________________________________________

Let the piles of essays sit. Make excuses. Say, “I need two weeks to grade these.” Then take three weeks.

Make them feel guilty when they ask. Say, “I was sick,” or snap at them, saying, “I haven’t finished grading all of the essays yet!” Don’t say you’re sorry. Later, apologize in an email.

Organize the essays into two piles. Make a schedule: seven hours of grading. Two hours on Tuesday night, three hours on Wednesday night, then finish on Thursday. When Friday comes, and they still aren’t graded, get stoned and watch Orange is the New Black. Revise grading schedule, then spend the weekend grading essays with resentment.

Realize you shouldn’t grade essays while you’re angry. Several studies have shown this. So take a walk. Give yourself a pep talk. Say, “I make the rules; I’m the teacher.” Feel guilty and drink coffee at the local Starbucks. Charge your phone on their magic tabletop. Stare at the married man and lust over his hairy forearms. Then feel like a perve. Think of him naked and on top of you. Then leave, saving the image for later.

Arrive home and stare at the two piles of essays. Apologize to the essays. Say, “I’m sorry I’m neglecting you.” Then eat lunch.

Feel guilty.

Masturbate.

Then sit down, sigh a big sigh, and begin.