Explanation...

I have had several people ask me about the title of the below blog, as there are several theories on the paradox of the unstoppable force and the immovable object. I understand that one theory states that it is impossible for those two forces to exist in the same universe because they, for lack of a more scientific description, cancel each other out—you cannot have a force that cannot be resisted and an object that cannot be moved by any force. For those of you that think this way (and if this were my thought process), I agree that the title would not make much sense, as the purpose of the story was to discuss the couple finding one another each night in a beautiful collision of sorts.

I chose to look at the concept of unstoppable force vs. immovable object in the following way: in taking an unstoppable force and pairing it with an immovable object, the result would be ultimate power. You have two forces that are the best in their divisions, if you will. They would be the extreme tag team. And, in researching this hypothetical phenomenon, I found the phrase “infinite potential” and fell in love with it. If these two forces existed and were to collide, the product of that collision would be called “infinite potential”. Isn’t that an exciting idea? By these two forces coming together, anything would be possible because they both hold ultimate strength and would be, in fact, omnipotent.

With that being said, the man (the immovable object) and the woman (the unstoppable force) in the short short story differ vastly in their daily patterns, etc. Some may even deem this couple incompatible or mismatched, but when they find each other in the night and they are once again together, their potential is infinite.

I do not want readers to overthink short shorts, as they are meant to be taken at face value. That’s the beauty of writing—it may mean one thing to you and something entirely different to someone else. You may hate it. Someone else may love it. Therein lies the gray area that I appreciate so much in literature. And to over-explicate writing robs it of its certain je ne sais quoi—and that’s just a crime (albeit one I am now guilty of).

She was the unstoppable force to his immovable object...

It was all about compromise—as are most things in life. She liked attending parties on New Year's Eve. He liked staying in—watching the ball drop. She was constantly going, going. And he would rather sink into his spot on the couch with a good book. She always had a plan, places to be. But as long as he could reach out in the night and find her body warm with sleep, leaning over to kiss the corner where her lips meet, none of these differences mattered.

In her brain it is chaos and sparks...

Sparks that ignite a fire, sweeping the mindscape, an unstoppable force. No one can pin the source, so there is no one to blame, catch red-handed. Her thoughts commit arson, triggered by a switch she has never seen. A spiral-down blur to desolate ground. Everything gone, buried underneath soot and rubble. But she will rebuild what is lost. A phoenix rising from the ashes once again, triumphant.

For B.

When she closes her eyes she can hear the waves...

She has this reoccurring dream where she is sitting on the coastline. The cold water greets her feet, touching her big toe and retreating. The crisp night wind blows hair across her face. She brushes it away, looking for the spot where the moonlight hits the water. Finding it in the distance, she wonders if the fish can see it from underneath—if they think it is some sort of signal calling them to the surface. In the dark, someone sits down beside her. Legs stretching out next to hers. White sand caked on skin. And as she turns to speak, she wakes up. She knows the person in the dream is him, even though she cannot see his face.

Not even a little bit country...

Lives in Texas and wonders how it's possible to go a lifetime without owning boots.

One Art...

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Thao with the Get Down Stay Down...

I am still smiling from this concert, so I thought maybe if I posted several videos I took—along with a photograph—you might smile too.

If you like what you hear, check her out her website at www.thaomusic.com and pick up her album "We Brave Bee Stings and All". It's incredible.


Thao Nguyen at Club Dada


Beat (Health, Life and Fire)


Bag of Hammers
Features beatboxing.

Feet Asleep


Moped (Clip)
And yes, she is playing with a toothbrush.

Heavy in the air…

It all began with a shrouded whisper. Traveling person by person—spreading through crowded rooms like an airborne virus. And, as with most gossip, once it was spoken into the air it was carried with the heat of breaths and became stronger—speculation turning into fact. He heard them speaking and began to believe their words. They spoke with such conviction, as if they had witnessed the scene with their own eyes. However, as a pragmatist he could never believe without seeing the evidence laid out in front of him, and no one he asked could place their hands on anything concrete. He knew the truth and so did the masses huddled in their cliques. If they searched themselves, they would surely feel it. In the same way lies don’t settle right on an honest stomach. But, it gave them something to whisper about—and people like to whisper. They like the way it tickles their mouths.

Words she longs to hear...

The more she reads Austen and watches Italian films with subtitles, the ones with handsome men who move as smoothly as they talk, the more she wants to hear those words spoken to her. Words that are only heard in movies or read in 19th century literature. She wants to be "incandescently" happy in someone’s arms. She wants to be called "exquisite". But she fears no one uses such words anymore, and the ones who do are trapped behind her television screen or in the pages of the novels she keeps on her nightstand.