trading shades of red
two shy book lovers converse
between the pages

their cups were empty
he came not for coffee but
the cute reporter

the cutest couple
sat across from drunken Joe
on their second date

countdown to midnight:
should he kiss her on New Year’s?
she thinks that he should

My method: I prompt them to start them talking, then I let them continue on with their stories, going from tangent to tangent, as stories often do.

I’m not in the videos. I don’t even talk in them, though I am monitoring the camera. I don’t want the videos to seem like one-on-one interviews. I want the focus to be my grandparents’ memories.

I record them using the Flip UltraHD video camera I got for Christmas. I edit the video using Windows Movie Maker. Then I upload the videos onto my YouTube channel.

Click here to watch the videos: http://www.youtube.com/user/salpicatura/videos

You didn’t know it, of course — but that’s what I did. I watched you walk away from me, as I stood there waiting for the streetlights to change.

The metaphor of it all struck me.

There I was, not ready yet to say goodbye. You were headed in one direction, me in another. It was dark.

You started walking and never once looked back. Not once. I watched and waited, willing you to pause and ponder and turn — but you didn’t. Of course you didn’t.

When the lights finally changed, I left the curb and crossed over to what seemed to be more than just the other side of the street. The distance between us seemed like more than just a few blocks.

I left. I didn’t do it because I wanted to — I did it because I had to, because it was time.

You had walked away from me — again — and for the last time.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…

Baby I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor (you know)
I used to live alone before I knew you
And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
and love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…

there was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…

Maybe there’s a God above
all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah…
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah

You make me feel like this song inside.

My dad wants me to be the next J.K. Rowling. I think of Harry Potter, of Albus Dumbledore, of Lord Voldemort and of Hogwarts and I don’t know where to start.

I do want to write a book. I want to write my autobiography. I’ve wanted to write my autobiography ever since I read “Bird by Bird” by Anne Lamott in COM 467 Feature Writing, a journalism course at the University of Washington.

In the book, which is a national bestseller, she offers wannabe writers some instructions on writing and life.

She says: If you don’t know where to start, start with your childhood. Flannery O’Connor said that anyone who survived childhood had enough material to write for the rest of his or her life.

If you feel overwhelmed, give yourself small assignments. You might start with all you can remember about kindergarten, then move on to first grade, second grade, third grade.

When her brother was 10 years old, he was trying to get a report on birds written that he’d had three months to write, which was due the next day. He was at the kitchen table, close to tears, surrounded by papers and pencils and unopened books about birds.

He was immobilized by his task. Then, their father, a writer, sat down next to him, put his arm around him and said, “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.”

I’m going to write my autobiography, bird by bird.

I announced my plans to a stranger once. She had asked me if I’ve ever thought of writing a book. I answered, yes, maybe an autobiography. She scoffed at me, then. Actually scoffed at me!

She said, “Usually when people write an autobiography, it’s because they’ve done something worth writing about.” She must have realized how rude she sounded because then she said, “Well, maybe you have done something.”

I said, “Yes, maybe I have.”

I write for the newspaper, I write blogs, I write fiction (that I start and never finish) and I write poems. I wrote a song once.

I tweet a lot. Amazingly, a lot of my thoughts are only 140 characters or less!

My career is my hobby is my therapy. I write professionally and also not so professionally. The “unprofessional” writing ends up here. I like to think of it as my art. Or I’m just venting.

Maybe it’s because I’m a journalist, but I carry a pen and notebook with me wherever I go. (I also carry playing cards.) I’ll write down my thoughts, feelings, OH quotes from the everyday. I’ll write down my memories too. Because if don’t write it down, maybe it didn’t happen.

A lot of that ends up here too.

Next to my bed is a notebook just for possible song lyrics. Here is a sample:

Call me yours, I’ll call you mine. Trace your fingers down my spine.

Called you late last night. Needed to hear your voice but got only the recording. It’ll tide me over until the morning.

I share this because I’ll be writing a song with a co-worker of mine soon. (Why limit my self-expression to just one medium?) I’m excited! He plays the bass in the band History for Sale, and also occasionally writes and records his own songs.

He said writing songs is all about emotion. Check. I have a way with words; he has a way with chords. Check and check.

I want to go to New Zealand, Egypt, Thailand, Hong Kong, Japan, Greece, Italy, France, Spain, Germany, Ireland and to Africa for a safari.

South America is on the list too: Maybe Brazil, maybe Peru, maybe Chile and maybe Venezula.

My passport (yes, I finally got it!) is still stampless. There isn’t even a stamp from Canada, that weekend vacation that never happened.

If not now, when? Let’s go. Just you and me.

Will you love me when I have 11 scars?

Will you love me when I have 12 scars?

Will you love me when I have an artificial knee?