Brand exercise

I've hired myself to be my copywriter. I am the brand, and I am the copywriter. 

Me: What's your brand about?

Me: Documenting the world and finding the stories that move people to do and be. 

Me: What do you do?

Me: Research, write, edit, draw

Me: Who are you?

Me: Laura. A highly self motivated and intense person who demands excellence of herself. Simultaneously a steady, stable, calm, super friendly, deeply caring and sensitive shabambang. 

Me: What do you do, part two?

Me: I walk the walk.

Me: Part three?

Me: I make people rich. With culture, knowledge, hope, and general good juju. 

Me: Anything else to add?

Me: What is added will be subtracted, and what's subtracted will be added, for all is one. 

Me: I get it now. I'll have your copy by tomorrow. 

Q&A Exercise

Q. Why is The Master and Margarita Daniel Radcliffe's favorite novel (as of 2011)?

A. Per a 2011 CNN article, "It's now my favorite novel -- it's just the greatest explosion of imagination, craziness, satire, humor, and heart."

Q. What is an autonomous vehicle?

A1. Per Wikipedia, "a vehicle that is capable of sensing its environment and navigating without human input." And further: "Autonomous cars use a variety of techniques to detect their surroundings, such as radar, laser light, GPS, odometry and computer vision. Advanced control systems interpret sensory information to identify appropriate navigation paths, as well as obstacles and relevant signage.[3][4] Autonomous cars must have control systems that are capable of analyzing sensory data to distinguish between different cars on the road."

A2. Per, they may be "splendid news for parking," per research out of the University of Toronto. Making space for about 62% more cars in a given lot might be ideal. 

A3. Per Techopedia, "An autonomous car is a vehicle that can guide itself without human conduction."

Q. What is Regulus Cyber?

A. A newly-launched Israeli security technology company focused on preventing hacking of autonomous vehicles.

Q. Tesla?

A. Aims to have a shared autonomous fleet by 2019.

Q. What's a shared autonomous fleet?

A. Self-driving cars that can be hailed by anyone in the general public for use while the owner (if there's an owner) isn't using it.

Q. What is camote?

A. Sweet potato. In Spanish. Dos Hermanos Bakery in Portland makes pastries with a camote filling.

Q. Are you scared of a world of self-driving cars. 

A. No. But yes. So no.


Red leaf plum tree

Green leaf something tree

Yasso chocolate frozen yogurt bar

Blue sky, white clouds, to grey clouds, to horizon

One tall tangerine plant in a clay pot, one short

A forefinger, scrolling down the Fangraphs page and pausing now and then

Paintbrushes, dry. Watercolors, closed. Paintings, drying. 

In utero kick

Airplane outside, quiet in. Wind outside, still in. Typing outside, thinking in. 

Toy cars. Ikea alarm clock. Mini ceramic bowls. Three marbles. A running watch in a wood bowl. A broken timer. On the window ledge, blocking the view. 

Clayton Kershaw is not doing super well. This article is talking about how he can't locate his his fastball. This is one of the comments 'is this what it looks like when beauty abandons the world?'

A longitudinal study: How long will it take a man who loves writing and baseball to write about baseball? 

A conjunction, turned to a preposition. Let's try it in another example. I make art and people. I make art about people. I make art in people. I make art for people. A conjunction, turned to a preposition. 

Now the toaster oven is ticking. Like this, ticktickticktickticktick. Faster than the clock ticks. Faster than I tick sometimes. How do you tick?

At 4:11 pm, a 2.5 year old sleeps in the bedroom, two twenty-nine year olds sit awake in the living room and kitchen. One just got out his guitar while he waits for his bread to toast so he can put Trader Joe's queso on it. The other is at her computer. It is late April of 2018. Tonight they will go to her sister's house. The queso toast "isn't bad." Now the one eating queso toast has his head by the one typing. He reads over her shoulders, and she loses track for a moment, becomes self-conscious. Now he's sitting to play guitar. 

Fabriano notebook, black. Stabilo pen, dark green. Hair tie, black, with some wear. Miir vaccuum insulated 23 oz water bottle, white. Wood coasters, natural. Iphone 7, black. Tea cup, green and white, empty. Strathmore watercolor pad, tan. Painters tape, blue. Table, white. Outside, color. 

4:18 on 4/28. 


Born of a mile

I was born of a mile.
My daddy says I was just shy, but Mama corrects him quick.
"She was just right, you mean. Not a moment late or early or in between."
I'm never sure what to think of it all, but it's really nice tucked in the middle of the two of them talking like that. I snuggle under the blanket even though it's near 90 degrees outside and I'm this close to sweating. There's something I like about the drama of it. 
When I tell Mama this, she nods like she knows what I mean and says "of course Bubba, you should."
Mama doesn't call me any sort of normal nickname like honey or sugar or something. It's either Bubba or my given name, which always rolls off her tongue like a Johnny Cash song. And that's why I love Mama. I think it might be why Daddy loves her too. 
I believe it was a Wednesday when we realized it. Mama hadn't felt alright for a few weeks now. We'd stopped thinking it was a plain old cold what felt like ages ago, but no one had a better name for it. 
Well on Wednesday she lost all her color, like it escaped from her and ran off with a sailor into the sunset. 
Mama never lost her color, and I cried into her chest so hard that neither of us could breathe. Nobody could do a thing about it though. Not a damn thing. 
We all knew it, we did. So we got under the blankets and I snuggled up in the middle of them, and Mama said "now don't you forget Bubba, you're just right, not a moment late or early or in between."
And since I was sweating I hardly knew if the salt came from there or the tears. 
"You're just right" she said again. 
And just like that, it was the end. 

A short story

On a Tuesday afternoon, she was lonely.

On a Wednesday she was light.

On Thursday she got married,

And Friday felt alright. 

In the car she was a frenzy.

In the plane she coughed too much.

In the way she moved her body

It had a gentle touch. 

Off the beaten path she strayed

Though roaming's not her style, 

With burdened arms and heavy legs

She walked a country mile.

Up a hill and to a stump,

She sat for fear of falling

How she wondered why it was

She'd ever left off crawling.

Saturday she had this thought

Sunday showed her rain.

Monday passed without a sound

So Tuesday came again.