Sketch Eleven

I am attempting another sketch to keep up with the game plan. Don't know if it will work or not. This is suppose to happen once a day. I don't have a computer up at the hospital, and was able to get home briefly today. Now I sit staring at the screen while also talking to a friend. With one hand I type this. No sketch tonight, just thoughts. Scared, worried, crying, laughing, so many emotions I cannot swear I know what each are. I took time away to look at the post my oldest daughter put up for and of Vincent on FB. Reading and seeing the pics have made me cry. Tears are stuck in the tired-creases below my eyes. Just when I think there are no tears, they come, and when I think I should be crying I have none. I don't know how much of an emotional rollercoaster I can ride. Well, not a sketch, but writing. I am going to attempt to work on the piece promised in a challenge, sketch out each section as I go to put it together.

Hope to be on tomorrow to keep this going on schedule instead of playing catch-up.

Tenth Sketch

Stun Gun

Students are filing into the classroom. I am obviously not looking well. Those students who are already in the classroom when I arrive look at me differently. I usually come in with a less serious tone, I know I do, because I come in bubbly and smiling. I spill out the words of the weekend, almost losing it twice. Their faces say it all. They are glad to have less work, but cannot believe what they are hearing. I can't believe what I am saying. Two words keep popping up: crazy, surreal. I have never heard my class so quiet or attentive. Tragedy is an attention getter. I do not like lightening the work load they have because they do need to work. The students look blank, mouths actually dropped open, hands over mouths in disbelief. I can believe it less than them, but it is true. One students, after the early dismissal, gives her comfort--I know what it is like, I know because . . . . She does know, she really knows, and she is standing here before me smiling. I will make it.

Please forgive the interruption

I will attempt to keep up this blog; however, a serious family manner has arisen; my son Vincent is in the hospital due to a tumor that was just found today after an ER run last night.

Ninth Sketch

The Moon of Man

The moon full on the night of equinox, clouds shadowing her fullness. The night of the wolf exists, I think to myself. The perfect moon, the moon to play hide 'n' seek, the moon to kiss under, to bite under, to tease the one you love. I feel the pull upon my heart and wonder who is my wolf tonight, will she allow me to have a wolf tonight. The clouds heighten the craters, which are just visible to the human eye. These clouds make the moon look rugged, like a man gone unshaven for a day or two. A little ruggedness isn't bad, in fact, some intimidation is needed at times, but not against the love, against those who would take the love. The moon loves Earth, loves man, without man, she would lose hope of being, her little control a delight of life. She gives the sign when birth is to come, when conception is possible; she guides the heart like no other at night, especially in her fullness. There are times, man should fear her, a woman should fear her, when all of Earth should fear her. She has more control then we want to believe. Time has not made her more than what she is, it is because she is and man cannot deny her. The equinox has only heightened this time, this night, emotion swelling without a place to let it go, without a source to give it to. She will not give me my wolf, not tonight, she knows it is not time.

Eighth Sketch

    What shall I sketch today? I don’t know. Maybe this sketch will just be a ramble of garbage because I still don’t feel good. I don’t. And I don’t care about doing any work. I will be going to bed early tonight; at least I plan. This isn’t a damn sketch, this about me; this is not to be about me, not me not me.
    He stand in the middle of a street, sunglasses on, his lips not in the position of a smile, and not quite a frown. The buildings ‘v’ behind him, like that of a movie where the artist has taken the time to enhance the background. The impression I get from this photograph is his want in being a model. The straight on look of his lips does not help this upcoming appearance. I want to move his lips, just a little to take out the straight lip tightens with the small wiggle visible at the left on the upper lip. Was he trying to give a snarl that just didn’t work out?
    I look deeper into the pictures, trying to determine if this man is Hispanic, Native American, or Oriental? The sunglasses hide the possible way to identify this man’s origins. It doesn’t matter. This picture is eye catching, the background is intriguing, the photographer has done well in bringing out the best in this man.

Seventh Sketch

Yes, I forgot yesterday! I thought about it. Wasn't feeling well, and just forgot. So here is yesterdays. Today's post will come a little later.

Being Lazy Sketch

Thursday, I awoke to a scratchy throat, to a headache, to eyes swollen from both lack of sleep and sinuses. I can smell a pool full of chlorine each time I breathe in. What is this? Why? Today I will not work, will not put in my 6 to 7 hours of students' work. I feel guilty, but do not care. My day will be about me, will be lazy. My kitchen is not clean; it calls to me. I do not care; besides, the person assigned the chore did not do the work on Monday. I clean what I need and am done. I am tired. I do not go back to sleep. I am bored. I will not read from the papers. Instead, I sit in front of the computer, look at post with pictures--I do not read, except the message with larger letters in messenger. I have a few good conversations. I know I must motivate myself. I will not. I do not run the sweeper, my granddaughter does, who has been dropped off after a doctors appointment. She cannot stand the dog hair and dandruff on the hardwood floor. She does an amazing job. I hug her. She puts in Mama Mia. Good. I cn taek this sound.

Midday, my spirits are lifted. I attempt to read. I cannot focus. I don't want to. I don't care. Is it right? I don't care. I stay in pajamas until three, four. I talk to Sam while he talks to Gin, we have some good laughs and some serious discussions: all good. Music is great. I don't care about getting anything done!

Sixth Sketch

I know, I know, I know. I need another sketch! I've been pondering this all day. I thought I knew the sketch I wanted to do, but now find that I don't want to share it. Why you ask? Some of it is a little more than I want to have explored on this blog site.

In front of me sits a Spanish / English, English / Spanish Dictionary that is often useless. The orange block on top of the yellow block holds two different languages. The orange block holds black lettering in English, as I have given the title. The yellow block has red lettering in Spanish: El New World, Diccionario, Espanol / Ingles Ingles / Espanol. The thickness is the old fashion standard of a novel. And with that thickness comes a lack of knowledge, missing verb tenses because supposedly a person should know the root word. Many mornings, as a ritual, I sit at this same computer, in front of the screen, preparing a statement in Spanish to a friend who speaks it fluently. This is my way to learn Spanish, which is made difficult by the lacking dictionary. Sam is kind, he does not laugh at me, and shares his knowledge. How could learning another language be made more simple? I ask the dictionary every morning when I look upon its pages, "Why do you not have all the forms listed under each form, allowing me to look up all the tenses with explanation. Even explanations are missing. Dictionaries that are of two languages need to have explanations, to explain. Yes, the book would be that much thicker, but do I care as a person learning a new language? NO.

Almost a worthless sketch, but at least I put something down. Something is better than nothing.

Sketch Five

Applebee’s

    The day starts early in the morning, the bed not yet slept in for either gal who had walked into the restaurant. Applebee’s salad dishes sit upon a table, empty, while two gals await the desert of three scoops of ice cream upon a large chocolate-chip cookie, whip cream piled in swirls around the stack, each pile decorated with crushed Oreos, the whole dish crisscrossed and swirled with chocolate syrup. Little is said between the two. It doesn’t matter if any words are said, the night hasn’t ended and they are meeting the new day in style. The desert comes. If it was true that eyes could pop out of your head, theirs would. Together “Oh my” escapes, and the older adds, “We won't be able to eat this all.” They dip a spoon each into the fluff first, smiling, moaning as women sexually charged. Each scoop is savored until a serving is left. Each have eaten a serving and a half each. They can go no further. They are filled, delighted, perked for the long morning before their heads hit the pillow.

Fourth Sketch

Waiting Outside a CVS/pharmacy

    Night sounds at a CVS/pharmacy are unseen. A voice that cannot be seen echoes against the wall I am staring at. A rattle, like a skateboarder, sounds, but no skateboarder. A shout out of Camel Menthol enters the opening door to be shut off quickly at its closing. A motorcycle chitty chitty bang bangs by, a putting image of one light riding across my review mirror. Thirty-five minutes to wait on medicine drowns the eyes to sleep. It isn’t late late, but late enough; 9:25 feels like midnight on five hours of sleep. Two headlights cause as much noise as the engines coming on or the car driving by at 35 mph--supposedly. The doors to CVS open and close with medical emergency, like the cart being wheels through sliding emergency doors. My ears hurt as much as my eyes; my ears wish to sleep as badly as my eyes. Don’t talk so loudly I think, even though I can hear to words. Only five minutes have passed; there’s another fifteen to go.

If you have not already . . .

please add my blog, which is more than sketch work, lukiaskywritingtobefree.blogspot.com.

Much appreciated!

Third Sketch

Sketch of a Woman

    A third day of writing a sketch. I have no idea what to write. I know this can be done. I will put into practice what I tell my students for their freewrite journals: “Write anything, don’t care what it is, write, even if it is the Goober for two lines, just write.” So, here I am writing. I thought about a sketch of me, and then sketching out a grandchild, but it hasn’t inspired me. Well, a sketch of the tattoo that is on the mythical me for my upcoming story. Yes, that shall be done. (I know this is going up late, very late; had to run to the ER at 8:30, didn't get back until after midnight--too tired to care about posting at that time; and all is well, nothing serious.)


    She stands in a candlelit dance studio, lightening dancing through the sky. She is only in her skin colored, low-heeled dance shoes. The butterfly wings were completed but two hours ago, butterfly wings that have taken a little more than a year to complete. She has made herself madam butterfly. The wings begin at her ankles: the curl of the wing wraps around the ankle bone and rolls to the back of the leg, flaring slowly out with small jagged, caressing, edges. Those edges smoothly jet to the sides, but never completely around the leg, the outline of the design just visible to a person who may stand directly in front of her. At the back of the knee, the wing widens more, little do the jagged edges appear as the wing caresses into the curve of her inner and outer thigh, but never reaching the front of the leg. Upon reaching the buttocks, the division of the wings begin to meet between the each individual cheek, the coloring of the wings are a marbled-lining of deep blue hinted with silver, a light turquoise, and the deep blue of a lavender flower to this point. The colors become more defined upon the cheeks of the buttocks, as well as blending into each other more precisely into a pattern of chaos, of memorizing tranquility. Only if she leans over can a person witness the separation of the wings. At the bottom of the buttocks the wing wraps toward the front as it does from the top of the buttocks, taking in the entire hip, narrowing as the lower wing travels to just below the navel. The colors once again take on the pattern of marbling. The wing loops below the navel into the opposite lower wing, an intricate gathering that makes a low lined “V.” The upper wing begins above the navel.
    Just as the lower wings connect, the upper do as well, the “V” turned opening down. A diamond, laying on its side, encases the navel. Each wing pulls back in its elegant, intricate entanglement. Just a small area of the lower wing is hidden as the upper wing begins to widen. The top of the wing reaches the first two lower ribs before wrapping around the side to the back. The colors continue as they did before and after the buttocks, reaching around to the back, slowly edging up the shoulder, becoming jagged in areas as parts dart out, but not too far, never reaching around to the front again, the pattern hovering at the very edge of where arms lay at rest along the side. Not quite under the arm, heading towards the shoulders, the wing begins to narrow, the division of the wings in the center of the back visible again about three-fourths up from the waist. From this division a wing begins its movement up and over the shoulder—covering the curve of the shoulder and just hugging the neckline—where a wing plunges inward, slightly, narrowing greatly, until an inch from the areola to go around the darkened flesh but never entering the teat area. The wing ends with a small balled-hoop, just as the wings had connected above and below the navel.

Second Sketch

Native at Johnny Appleseed

    In a tent, aligned with many other tents, at the Johnny Appleseed Festival, an older gentleman is dressed in Native American skins. The small popped-out-belly dangles little over the clothe that hangs from his hip. He stands, first without being noticed, and then, his bare legs lead to stares as he turns to reach into a kettle that sits to the left of his seat, where he had been sitting behind a small table decorated with Native American items to sell. The clothe moves, little in its draped position, this mind worrying if he may mistakenly flip the lightly flapping clothe up. He is now with his buttocks to the passing people, as if this is an everyday occurrence, as if he was in a chip and dale show. Surprisingly, his legs are not flabby, the muscles moving as they should with the proper ripple as he moves some item unseen to the passer-byers. I stop to think about the woman who sits in the tent across the way, wondering, how long did it take for her to get use to this, does she think it is disgusting, has she finally tired of staring at the partial naked body and wondering when his junk will become visible? I am thankful there is no wind.

First Sketch

Hello, my name is Dawn Cunningham Luebke. As a writer, I must keep writing. I often find myself going days without writing even a few lines of poetry. Two nights ago, I promised myself to write one sketch every day for a year. I plan on sticking to this promise. I must stick to this promise. I hope you find this post to be interesting as I continue my effort from day to day. I just hope I am not fouled up by life--life in general, such as a grandson grabbing my hand while typing, pulling my chair away from the computer as I compose, to dance with him to Happy Feet. This post is one hour eighteen minutes late for Friday.

Must Be Rain

    For two weeks, the shower had been broken. Baths had become a cuss word.
    On a Tuesday, the eldest son, Bud, bought all the replacement parts. By evening, the shower head was working, the hand held shower piece flowing.
    The first to step in was Auntie.
    In the living room stood Bubby, Bud’s son, only son, listening closely, head cocked, a curious look coming over his face as his Mammaw walked out of the bathroom. One word exploded as his finger pointed, quickly stepping to the closing bathroom door: “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
    Mammaw scooped him up, saying, “Yes, shower. The shower is fixed.”
    The water sounded like the trickling rain just before the storm. Once Mammaw sat him onto the couch, he was up again pointing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” grabbing his Mammaw’s fingers, pulling her along to the bathroom door, where he pushed open the crack door.
    “Yes, Auntie is taking a shower,” but Buddy kept insisting, while climbing upon the toilet to stand on the lid, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
    “No, you can’t take a shower now; Auntie is in there.”
    The shower curtain was slowly pulled back a bit, a head appearing with wet dripping hair, “Do Buddy want a shower.”
    “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” he pointed. The words repeating.
    “You take a shower with Auntie.”
    Buddy quickly slid off the top of the toilet, dancing, “Shouw-er, shouw-er,” his feet bouncing in delight, “Shouw-er, shouw-er.”
    “Alright, let’s take off your diaper,” Mammaw reached down, realizing before it was too late, that he might be a little more than peed.
    He was moving for the tub, ready to climb in, Mammaw pulling him back, “Wait Buddy, we have to take care of that diaper.”
    Mammaw took the diaper off slowly, seeing the full diaper wasn’t as bad as she thought. “Okay, Buddy,” she lifted him into the tub as he pushed back the shower curtain, giggling with joy like a child that had found his long lost favorite toy from under the couch.