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Get to Know Your Character(Popcorn Served)
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by
M
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May 05, 2012 06:08PM
You posted faster than I expected, while I was adding to my former message. I’m glad you’re resting.
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Aye, aye, Captain! Okay, barnacles, you’re headed for the bottom. Will somebody lower me a bottle of rum?
It’s my bedtime. I’ve scraped the barnacles and told them to give my regards to the strange fish that live in the deep. I hope you get plenty of rest and wake up tomorrow morning feeling fine!
If you have any interesting dreams, be sure and write them down. Dreams are the most wonderful material to make stories out of!
M, no plank walking, please! Al, this was great fun to read! (And being Canadian, this is not at all risqué.)
Have you thought of turning your writing into podcast radio plays? I think that they would work perfectly for something like that. They're easy to make, and would fit the serial nature of your writing. Which, btw, is excellent! Very, very entertaining. (My popcorn is still in nascent kernel stage, but reading yours here has made me fill creatively inspired - so much writing, so few hours. And just a touch guilty. Your output in terms of volume AND quality is astounding!)
And instead of writing I am about to work on my own podcast - I'm writing music to accompany my reading the 'Cotton for Comfort' poem. So much to do, so few hours! LoL. Yes, this WSS is good for the inspiration, tough on the day's hours.
Al I hope you beat the migraine out of you in short order.
She always mentions her version, but of course all we have to go by is the version that’s been posted.I thought I was the only one who picked up on the humor in Guy’s “Al (et al).”
Al, I enjoyed your episodes. Well, except for the censored scene. Hey, won't Buxton be mad at you, too??? I kinda thought you were his girlfriend...Sara: That's what I thought, too.
Kyra: Hey, Sara. You know, I had the weirdest dream. You and all the other book characters I've written came to life. And tried to burn down the school.
Sara: ...I can see that.
Kyra: And you and Nicky were in cahoots.
Sara: Less likely, but still. Better than, say, Khiet.
Kyra: Yeah... dunno why I even made that guy. (shudder) Well, Al, in summary, I thought everything but the censored scene was stupendous. And a podcast is like a short verbal script posted on the Internet or another media source, sometimes with pictures, used for educational purposes.
Sara: You sound like a dictionary.
Nikara: No, the dictionary definition of a podcast is "a multimedia digital file made available on the Internet for downloading to a portable media player, computer, etc."
Sara: Dang, that's creepy. Well, nice work, Al, and POST ANOTHER EPISODE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AL! Okay! You see/hear it when it's done. I've still some tweaking to do with it.As to 'writing music', let's just say I exaggerated and leave it at that. With the Apple app Garage Band, I can put together some music-like stuff with a mouse and keyboard. Not writing, but if I want to put a positive spin, then creating music-like noise would be a fair description.
Wow, what a busy day! Out to buy some garden supplies, then gardening; make lunch, bake buttermilk shortbread cakes with blueberries, mint sauce for the lamb roast, prep the lamb and beets for roasting, serious clean-up and now for shower! But hey, I'll be back, eventually.
A downloadable file often posted on the Internet. LOL, I loooove GarageBand, I use it all the time. And iMovie. I make all our family documentaries in the form of a commercial, cuz I can't keep myself from constantly messing around with the templates. XD I do commercials for "If my book were a movie," too, LOL.
Re: #874: I do not know if such a thing exists. But there is a web page that will do the same thing - and I think for free after sign-up, up to a certain level. It's called www.Soundcloud.com. Hey, I've linked it on my blog for Zoë Keating!Anyway, I've posted two of my poems that I put to music (not MY music but REAL music). I also made podcasts of them, but I haven't put them onto a podcast server.
If you'd like to hear my voice, reading, go to What Cannot Be Expressed and/or Quiet Histrionics at the Wall.
Re.: 875: Guy LOVES Feist. Okay, not LOVE, loves, but has her CDs and listens to her music. Wow, what a great cover! Thank you for sharing this.
What is it about your voice that you don’t like?
Excellent! Will your father read it or be your narrator? Now that would be fun. Or, get Hanz and him and you to read some of your popcorn, add music and sound effects and voila - podcast. LoL. Ah, so many creative outlets. Have fun!
Guy, I really like them!!! Excellent podcasts. LOL, Al. Please don't take offense, Cap'n, but I'm beginning to think your mind works works differently than the rest of ours. XD Don't worry, mine does too.
Don’t mind me, I’m just sweeping the floor.
And now, a small blast from the past, from Alex’s post #73:Me: *mouth drops open*
Putnam: Haha. There's a thought! If this mental institution thing does not work out I can become a priest! Think of all the people I can scam!
Me: *headdesk* Oh.God.Help us all.
Putnam: *grins evily and puts hands together* And Buxton can be my evil monk sidekick!
M wrote: "Don’t mind me, I’m just sweeping the floor."Now that was funny.
Kyra, so glad you enjoyed them! They were fun to create. I'm finding the one I'm working on now to be a challenge.
Al, I thought that was a funny line too. And I don't know why.
Funny that you like my voice, because in truth I find it bland. I won't say I dislike it, because barring some kind of weird surgery or something, I am stuck with it.
With Garage Band creating a reading with different people in different cities is not that hard.
Now I'm feeling guilty! I'm barely keeping up with this as it is. But I am working on it. Still living vicariously through yours and M's for now. My wife has dragged me out onto the balcony for some quality time, and so nothing productive is getting done.
Okay, Al, it took me a second, but I did eventually groan my 'got it.' Sheesh. Wow, do you write these things fast. Now I'm feeling really guilty, guiltier even than laugher at my iPad while sharing quality time with my wife. Oh! I actually saw a swan, for the first time, fly past us over the river. It was awesome! Okay, that was random.
So now that Dobbs is out of the wardrobe, will he covet Frank or Putnam? I'm putting my money on Frank.
Now, I haven't read all of the popcorn, but I've got the clear feeling that when you call Frank Frank, he is different than when you call him Putnam. Is he a split personality?
And there is nothing stopping a ghost from finding someone attractive.
Laughing out loud. My wife is wondering what I'm laughing at. So, you tell me, how do I explain it? Hmmmm. How?!
LoL! My wife would just shake her head and say, 'What is it with you and women? Don't you ever talk to men?' Most of the time she is fine with what is mostly an accurate observation, but once and a while she gets jealous.She doesn't even know about what goes on here in the WSS other than a vague 'I'm writing' cover letter.
Hey! Its almost 1am your time. You've been suffering with migraines, so maybe it's time to kip?
Yikes, Al, that was harsh! You are absolutely NOT a nobody! Now, I won't contest the crazy part, but you are most certainly a two footed on this planet somebody.I think I'll perversely or not take my being a bad influence as a good thing. Kind of like the slightly undesirable uncle that the family whispers about behind his back, but who was the one that had you experience life more fully, thoroughly, widely. (Ok, ok, I am now guilty of self-aggrandizement. Blame it on my being up past my bed time.)
Anyway, the time has come for me to kip. That 5am alarm for work comes awfully early. A lot earlier than 5am it, it feels like most of the time. Night!
The computer was awake, but you were in hibernate mode.
Poor Captain Pike. I shouldn’t have let him have it with that dose of Cosmic Corndog Smoke.
Buxton: Why is Al censoring things?M: Because somebody’s father is reading these threads.
Mossers: And a certain pirate whose name we won’t mention--
Erica: But who is somewhere between L and N . . .
Squirrel: Is a bad influence.
(There is a sound of squirrel laughter as he rolls around, flicking his tail. They all nod knowingly.)
Buxton: A bad influence, all right.
Captain Pike: (Looking out of a 16mm frame, his eyes red, his face black with smoke.) I’ll get even!
That last line, of Buxton’s, will keep me chuckling all the way through lunch!
Good question. I vote he does one right now. Anyone else?Oh, and Al.... LOL!!!!!!!!!!!
These are some of my favorite lines by Alex from early in the thread:Putnam: God, woman! Chew with your mouth closed and don't talk with it full! Didn't your mother teach you manners?
Putnam: I was going to ask if you wanted to see a flying pig.
Me: Sure you were.
Me: Your shoe is untied.
Buxton: *looks down at feet* No they're not.
Me: I know. But they will be and then you will trip in the hallway and Nurse Kingsburry will laugh at you and call you a picklepuss.
Putnam: I hate everyone....
Me: You're such a fruit cake.
Putnam: So are you.
Me: Shut up. I have to go to church. I'll be back later.
Me: You know what? I'm going to stop bugging people about their language and just go with it. As long as you all don't say anything worse than "hell", "damn" and "pickles". *cackles*
Putnam: Pickles?
Me: Yes.
Putnam: Dearest, that isn't a bad word.
Me: You have no idea.
Putnam: *looks at Al* You have those day dreamy look in your eyes again.
Me: Yeah.....I like flowers. Roses, sunflowers, lillies-
Putnam: Pansies.
Buxton: I hate pansies. This is why I hate you.
Me: If it involves needles, seditives, chains and the shock shop, I'm not going.
Buxton: She could be a blonde in real life.
Amelia: Something's wrong. Al's loosing it.
Erica: Ah well, when she does, she'll be like the rest of us.
M, these are indeed some great lines. Huge smile to help my work day move along smoothly.
(Squirrel looks out across the Misty Dell. The slanting rays of the sun light the tops of the high grass. Hand in hand, Spades and Penelope start to walk back to the cottage. The sea air brings a whiff of something unpleasant to Squirrel’s nostrils. Ursula trots up. Squirrel shrieks and dashes to the high grass atop the dune, the sand flying behind him.)Penelope: Well, hi, there, girl! (She puts her hand out to pet the bear, then pulls it away and turns her head in disgust.) Oh, where have you been?
(In the shadows of the dunes, a paunchy, middle-aged man approaches. He is wearing a brown suit and a hat and is carrying a dark-brown bag.)
Man: Hi, there! I’m looking for Nel Parsons.
Spades: (Warily.) Who are you?
Man: (Takes off his hat.) Ambrose Ferguson, at your service.
Penelope: (Gaping. Then she screams. Her arms out, she runs to him and hugs him.) Ambrose! (She laughs. Stepping back, she looks him over in wonderment.) The last time I saw you, you were an alligator.
Ambrose: The last time I saw you, you were a phosphorescence hovering over rotting logs. (His eyes wide.) You certainly are pretty!
Spades: Are you another refugee from “Lost in the Swamp”?
Ambrose: (A sour look on his face.) I’ve about had it with that alligator business. I can deal with a diet of uncooked fish and turtles and an occasional duck, but those brats who live in the upscale neighborhood on the east end of the swamp are about to drive me crazy.
Penelope: (Astonished.) How did you get here?
Ambrose: (Scratches his head.) I don’t know. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream about you, and the next thing I knew, I was in that marsh over there. (He points.) I had turned back into (he looks down at himself), well, me. (He tilts his head to indicate Ursula, who is munching the wild berries growing on the dune.) A friendly bear found me--like to scared me to death at first. She showed me the way to the little fishing village, where some nice people helped me get cleaned up. I’ve got a room at Mrs. Greer’s.
Penelope: Ambrose, this is Spades.
Spades: (Shaking hands with him.) Glad to meet you.
Ambrose: (Brightly.) Any friend of Nel’s is a friend of mine. (He looks around.) What is this place? I still haven’t figured out where I am.
Spades: (Tiredly.) I’m not sure I know, either.
Penelope: Have you had breakfast, Ambrose?
Ambrose: (With a big smile.) You certainly know what to ask, Nel! Mrs. Greer fed me this morning, but that was a couple of hours ago.
Penelope: (Laughing.) You’re almost just as pictured you, Ambrose!Ambrose: (Looks a little disappointed.) Really?
Penelope: I didn’t expect you to be clean shaven, though. (She looks him over.) You look very neat, right down to your wingtip shoes.
Ambrose: (Shrugs.) In sales, if you don’t make a good impression, you don’t eat.
Spades: What did you sell?
Ambrose: Pens, pencils, stationary, desks. I started out as a salesman for the American Pencil Sharpener Company, then I went to work for a big office supply house and stationer in Chicago.
Spades: How did you wind up in up the swamp?
Ambrose: (Scratches his head.) It started when I fell out of an eighth-story window. You know, the fall isn’t so bad. It’s the sudden stop.
(In the cottage, bacon is frying, and there’s a tall stack of pancakes on the table. Tavy is very pale. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, and she dabs at them with the apron when she hears voices outside. She resists an almost overpowering temptation to turn into a cat and hide. The door opens. Penelope comes in, followed by the others. Ambrose takes off his hat.)
Penelope: Tavy, this is Ambrose Ferguson. He was an alligator in the swamp where I used to live.
Ambrose: (Stepping up.) Nice to meet you, Tavy. (He puts out his hand.)
Tavy: (Shyly.) Nice to meet you. (Putting down the spatula, she shakes hands with him.)
Penelope: Have a seat, Ambrose.
Ambrose: (Looking around.) Nice little place you’ve got here! (He pulls out a chair at the big cutting board.)
Penelope: This is Tavy’s father’s place. (She seems momentarily at a loss for words.) There’s so much to tell you, Ambrose, I hardly know where to begin. (She shakes her head.) A lot has happened since I left the swamp.
(Tavy brings a plate of bacon to the table, glancing nervously at Spades, who pulls out a chair.)
Spades: Ursula’s back.
Tavy: (Brightening.) She is?
Penelope: She stinks.
Tavy: (She sets the plate down, then takes off her apron and hangs it on a peg in the kitchen.) I was getting worried about her.
Penelope: You’re not going to eat?
Tavy: Oh, no. I’m not hungry.
(Spades looks up at her, clearly unsettled by that but at a loss for anything to say.)
Tavy: (Heading toward the door, she turns to Ambrose.) It’s been very nice to meet you.
(Ambrose starts to get up.)
Tavy: Don’t get up. I’m just on my way out. (She smiles wanly.) I need to go shampoo a bear.
Penelope: (Looks at her with concern.) Thank you for making breakfast.
(Tavy goes out the door. Moments later they hear her voice calling, “Ursula . . .”)
Penelope: Dig in, Ambrose.
(Ambrose skewers several pancakes with his fork and moves them from the pile to his plate. Spades, eating a piece of bacon, glances around the room. Squirrel is making a breakfast of some of the walnuts that are kept in wooden bowl on the hearth.)
Ambrose: (Cutting slices from the stick of butter, then pouring syrup on his pancakes.) A couple of days ago, some woman in a business suit came out to the swamp and give me a talking to, said she was an editor and didn’t appreciate my attitude. (He hands her the syrup.)
Penelope: (Smiling.) Ambrose, what had you done?
Ambrose: I gave that kid, Hunter, and his sister a good scare. (He snorts.) Kids can’t seem to get enough of that “Lost in the Swamp” series.
Penelope: (Incredulous.) Their insipid writer has cranked out another story?
Ambrose: (Nods.) As usual, the brat wouldn’t behave. He poked me with a paddle, so I smacked their little boat with my tail. (He chuckles, cutting a bite of pancake.) I guess I don’t know my own strength.
Penelope: (Her eyes wide.) Did anyone get hurt?
Ambrose: I don’t think so, but I’m pretty sure they had to empty out their britches when they got home.
(Spades eats in preoccupied silence for a while. On the heart, Squirrel is breaking a walnut shell with his teeth.)
Spades: I haven’t been to the fishing village yet. What’s your impression of it?
Ambrose: There’s not much to it, a few houses, a tavern, a mercantile. There are traders who come in occasionally from other parts to sell liquor and dry goods, but the little town is pretty much cut off from the outside world-- (he raises his eyebrows) whatever the outside world may be. (He stuffs a wad of pancake in his mouth.)
Penelope: What kinds of things have you heard?
Ambrose: Mrs. Greer says the port used to be down the shore a ways, a long time ago, but that it was abandoned after an epidemic.
Spades: (Interested.) I wonder where.
Ambrose: I think she said it was in a cove.
Penelope: (Looking at Spades with a half smile.) You know, you smell almost as bad as that bear.
(Finishing his pancakes, putting down his fork, Spades gets up. He takes his plate to the sink and rinses it under the pump.)
Penelope: See? I’ve got him trained.
(Ambrose raises his eyebrows.)
Spades: I’m not going to dignify that with a response. If you wouldn’t consider it too unmannerly of me, I think I’ll step out for a few minutes. There’s a warm-water lagoon around here somewhere, and it’s about time I found it. (He picks up the bottle of shampoo and the bar of soap Tavy had set down.)
Penelope: There’s a spare washcloth and towel-- (she glances toward the fireplace) Uhm, just take the ones Tavy set down there. She won’t mind.
(Spades reluctantly picks up the wet washcloth and Tavy’s plush, almond-colored towel.
Penelope: (Laughing.) It’s for a good cause.
Spades: Nice to meet you Ambrose. (He shakes hands with Ambrose, who has courteously stood up.) Don’t believe anything she tells you about me.
(Her eyes narrowed, Penelope puts her hands on her hips.)
(As Spades goes out, he hears catches a snatch of their conversation.)
Ambrose: So you have no idea where we are?
Penelope: The most we’ve been able to figure out is that it’s a sort of back lot in this peculiar world.
Ambrose: What world?
Penelope: For want of a better name, it’s the Al-iverse.
Thanks, Alex! I don’t have a clear feeling about what’s going to happen in the story. I have to write an installment to find out happens in it.
(As Spades steps down into the sand, the muffled sound of the surf in his ears, he turns right to take the path that leads to the lagoon, then changes his mind and heads toward the beach. The tattered grass on top of the dunes rustles with the sea breeze, and there is the smell of the all things the ocean has washed up, and of the salt air.(Not the warm lagoon, Spades thinks, but something cold and bracing, seems in order. When he emerges from the dunes, he sees figures out in the surf. Tavy is shampooing Ursula. Orchil, the mermaid, is watching. The sun is on the horizon. A full moon hangs in the sky. Throwing her head back, Orchil laughs, her long, red hair blowing in the wind. Then she notices Spades. Tavy looks toward the beach. Spades stops walking.
(In blue jeans and a shirt with long tails, Tavy is standing in waves up to her hips. She has left her moccasins on the beach. Her hand, which is holding a soapy washrag, stops moving. Ursula looks up at her.
(As though drawn by a force not of himself, Spades walks toward the surf, seeing only Tavy. He doesn’t understand what is happening to him, but he knows he isn’t under a spell. Pausing to leave the towel and shampoo and his Topsiders on the beach, he walks into the cold surf. He can think of nothing to say as he approaches Tavy. Orchil, a few yards away, watches with concerned interest, tendrils of her beautiful hair moving in the waves.
(Tavy looks at him hesitantly with her blue eyes, one hand holding a shampoo bottle, the other the washrag. At a loss for words, Spades stands there a moment, then puts his arms around her waist and kisses her, lost in the feeling of holding her, and the subtle smell of her. He doesn’t kiss her until night falls, for it never gets dark at Orchard Bay; but after he has tasted her for a long time, he takes the washrag from her and carefully scrubs behind Ursula’s ears. The bear raises her head and makes a contented sound and Tavy supplies more shampoo.)
Albert: This Frank character is sneaky... I like himMe: Of course you do.......
Albert: (crosses arms) You don't have to sound so exasperated. After all, I DID help you write that poem, didn't I?
Me: Yes and you also wouldn't stop talking while I was trying to shower (glares)
Albert: But I HAD to. You just don't understand how fun it is to torment you.
Me: (sighs)
Oh no. *hides from Al's fury behind a keyboard*
Albert: C'mon share with me!Me: NO! Get your blueberries away from me.
Albert: Why? They're delicious! (He fills his mouth with a large handful of blueberries.)
Me: No they're not. They taste like rancid... rancid... Well I don't know, but they taste like rancid SOMETHING.
Albert: What is it with you and the word rancid? Rancid yogurt, rancid milk, water at summer camp that tasted like rancid--
Me: OKAY! We get it. And rancid is . . . a very accurate word for many of the things I consume.
Albert: (Laughs.) Well don't mind me, I'm just going to finish that slice of pizza in the fridge. And smother it in ranch. And eat it cold.
Me: EWW!!!! That's--
Albert: What? Rancid?
Albert: (Snickers.)Me: (Lunges at him.) What are you doing with that?!
Albert: (Rolls off the bed and shoves the diary up his shirt.) What am I doing with what?
Me: Give me that!!
Albert: Why? It's not like I don't know everything that's written in here already. (Waves diary tauntingly)
Me: (face burning) Give. Me. That. Now. (starts chasing him)
Albert: (runs away while reading) Oooooooh what's this? A secret? Scribbled out? Don't you think you over did it? (holds up diary to show the page which is almost completely blotted out with ink)
Me: I swear I'm going to duck tape you to the underside of my bed and invite the household to bounce on it!
Albert: Ah, well I'm in your mind. You can't hurt me.
Me: You want to bet? (steps forward)
Albert: (pales and steps backward) Erm no, I have an appointment for..ermm...making my next appointment! BYE! (drops the diary and runs)
Me: You can't hide from me...
Alex, thank you for re-posting it! I love the idea of exploring Jung’s concepts in practical ways, but sometimes I don’t exercise much restraint. I think we’ve been a bad influence on Cheyenne. She’s getting to know her muse. (“Get your blueberries away from me.”)
It would be more amusing if it hadn’t really happened. I have a new pair of glasses I’m probably going to donate to the Lion’s Club because I allowed my judgment to be influenced by a cute extrovert with a pair of glowing eyes. Fortunately, I had her order a set of new lenses for my old frames, which I really like.
Glasses are a pain! They do protect my eyes from ultraviolet, however; so I don’t have to wear sunglasses.
Sara: I believe you were about to call him a female dog?Nikara: What's all this about people not liking their muses?
Aaron: Where the heck is Nightshade?
Kyra: What's with all the questions?
Sara: No idea. Say, where IS Nightshade?
Aaron: She said something about a library.
Nikara: That sounds like Nightshade. Just leave her be for now.
Aaron: She also mentioned Bennu.
Sara: Not good. Which way did she go?
Kyra: The only library I've made so far is that way. (points to library)
Aaron: Hopefully she's only tried to convince him to read something for once.
Everyone: (looking very skeptical as they run off to library)
M wrote: "Alex, thank you for re-posting it! I love the idea of exploring Jung’s concepts in practical ways, but sometimes I don’t exercise much restraint. I think we’ve been a bad influence on Cheyenne. She..."A bad influence on me? Nahh. Albert is odd. He said hello to me in the shower and almost made me cut myself with my razor. And as for the blueberries... I HATE them. I think they're horrifically disgusting unless baked into a muffin or waffles.
Al, glasses are a pain. I need them for reading. If I don't wear them to read I get killer headaches. But they're not very convenient. A few months ago I had them in my backpack at school and leaned against a wall. They snapped in half like a twig.
And I AM getting to know him more. It seems he's spoken to me before I realized as well. Hmmm..For instance, I know that he's not all about tormenting me though he'd like to make you guys think that. If he only wanted to torment me, he wouldn't have suggested being called Albert. The name belongs to someone who was very important to me. Strangely, I think my muse was trying to comfort me when he selected the name.
Muse: (Her elbow on the table, her chin resting on her palm.) Cheyenne likes her muse.M: (Brows furrowed, he shakes his head.) Let’s not get into that.
Muse: (Looks down at the counter, her dark, reddish-brown hair falling into her face.) Yesterday afternoon, you asked me to come up with a poem, and didn’t I?
M: (With a resigned sigh.) You did. While I folded clothes, you came right up with it.
Muse: And now you’ll want me to come up with a story.
M: (Exasperated, rubbing sunscreen on his face and forearms.) What else in creation do you have to do?
Muse: (Tracing a pattern on the Formica with her finger.) Haunt your dreams, be all women--irksome or irresistable--in your fantasies, look at you unexpectedly from the eyes of women who sense only a sudden undercurrent they can’t name, stir your emotional weather. (She looks up with her pale eyes.) I have a full-time job.
M: (Picking up his hat.) I’ve got to mow.
Muse: (Smiles.) In that case, maybe I’d better slip into something more comfortable.
Like my muse? Hmmmm I suppose you could say I like him. He can be rather irritating but he's comforting
Muse: I see that Alex has gone back to her Linda Battista look.M: No one’s ever heard of that model. She’s probably in a old-folks home by now.
Muse: A posh one, I’m sure. $10,000 a hour to look beautiful in front of camera wasn’t starvation wages in the 1990’s.
M: You have no sense of passing time, do you?
Muse: (Shakes her head.) I’m not a part of time. (Her thoughts unreadable, she looks at M with her ice-blue eyes.)
M: What do you make of Alex’s muse?
Muse: He seems sophisticated. He’s becoming less a flat character and more like a real person, which means Alex’s masculine side, the aspect of her personality that reasons rather than feels, is differentiating, becoming more conscious.
M: Does that happen in most women?
Muse: Not necessarily. Some women never become conscious of their masculine side. Some women turn into animus hounds. (She raises her eyebrows.)
M: Let’s not talk about any of my relatives. You mean women who are know-it-alls. (He shudders.) They make me want to grind my teeth.
Muse: (Smiles.) Or who just have primitive, stereotypical tastes in men--the way most men do about women. Marilyn Monroe was a sex goddess because, more than any other woman on screen, she invited anima projection. Men who are more in touch with themselves aren’t as prey to that sort of thing.
M: Could we talk about something else? (He sighs.) I’ve been down that road.
Muse: (She tilts her head and gives him a Marilyn-Monroe look. Then she laughs.) Somebody’s thinking about fried eggs and hash browns.
