things that are sad:
-popped balloons
-lost puppies
-the last sandwich on a party platter
assignment five:
take a few photos of things that sadden you for no particular reason. maybe you see a hat on a sidewalk without a person around to wear it. maybe a boat without any water. please post photos with accompanying captions.
http://www.time.com/time/specials/2007/article/0,28804,1809858_1809957_1811552,00.html
There's a reason no one ever reads the instruction manual. Ho. Hum. That's why I've always been slightly on the outside. I'm the instruction manual type, if there is such a thing. I read the deliciously thin yet complex pamphlets first word to last, and at times, twice, and, at other times, without even having the device about which I am reading. It isn't the curiosity to see how things work, no, not the vein quest for endless knowledge of all wired objects, no. It's just that when someone has something that needs fixing, I want to know a page number. It's a compulsion of sorts like the man washing his hands over and again. I need that page number. I need that marked in memory in tattoo ink. It keeps me up at night. The same way that you need to finish the crossword or get every smudge off your wine glass, I need to read sections A-1 through A-5 and then read them again.
As far as the reason that these manuals so often go unread, I tell you this: It is because of willful ignorance, skillfully and excitedly executed.
The box is torn. The device is plugged in. Check the plug. That's as far as you get.
ORDRUPGAARD
http://www.arcspace.com
The growth of Ordrupgaard presented an opportunity to explore new formal relationships between the components of the Ordrup and Gaard tribes of northernmost Greenland. To best elucidate the social dynamics of Ordrupgaard, it would be best to analyze the communities within their greater narrative.
Many years ago, before the discoveries of North Ordrup and West Gaardon, both communities lived in total isolation. But when Sir Mortimer Greensley of Worschestershireton docked his vessel at Ordrup Bay, he noticed two camps along the hills of the Gaardon Valley. He prepared a diplomatic venture, but was surprised to find that the two villages would not communicate, let alone sit at the same table. When pressed for the explanation behind their silence, the Ordrup chief confided in Sir Greensley "we don't talk to goat farmers because we are sheep farmers. Sheep, as you know, are a higher-quality beast, than the dirty, horny, dancey goat."
Sir Greensley was dismayed. Determined to leave the valley in peace, he gave it its new name: Ordrupgaard.
The next time you walk into work, the first computer you see, have the employee send you the link he/she is browsing, write down the first fifteen words which will then begin your next short short story. The title of the story is the link.
1.
poster found outside the Metropolitan bar:
1.
2. "For those here to see Felix: he is performing at Sugarland. There has been a change. Sorry for the mix-up. Sorry!"
3. SECRET MESSAGE:
-"There has been a sugar mix-up, sorry."
-"See the land change here!"
-"For those performing, Felix is sorry."
In March of each year, as iron-on t-shirt graphics of shamrocks appear and bros take a half-day off work to start drinking in the early afternoon, the Chicago River is dyed a kelly green so brilliant that people without disposables or digitals take low resolution photos with their cell phone cameras. Perhaps more brialliant, however, is the environmentally friendly vegetable dye that is used in lieu of the formally used oil-based dye that brought many of the river's fish floating to the top, side up. Jean Baptiste Pointe du Sable would have been worried to see his river turn bright green and then for the next week, fade to a puke. Being the first European settler to call Chicago home, du Sable set up his abode at the mouth of the Chicago River, the joint between it and Lake Michigan. Considered by many to be the father of Chicago, du Sable and his Native American counterparts would be confused by the current elaborate system of locks used to reverse the flow of the river, directing it away, instead of toward, Lake Michigan. At the turn of the 20th century, industrial revolutionaries devised a way to reverse the flow of the then known-as "stinking river," so that the massive amount of unchecked sewage and pollution would not flow directly into the city's fresh water source. The Chicago River, sewage packed and dyed green, now flows briskly into the Des Plaines River, into the Mississippi and finally, down to the Gulf of Mexico.
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“All that is in me goes back to the Hudson,” President Franklin D. Roosevelt once said. Roosevelt considered this river his home, and returned many times both as president and private citizen.
His fifth cousin, Theodore Roosevelt, was a sickly child who was sent upstate each summer to take the fresh-air cure. The cure was a Hudson River tradition-- and those who wished to partake in the river's healing powers frequented the Hudson River Valley's many resorts, camps and luxury sanatoriums. It worked for our pal Teddy, who grew up to be big and strong and charge up San Juan Hill. The Hudson also made the old Teddy bear a nature lover, and he went on to create the National Parks and National Forests as the United States’ 26th president.
Franklin Roosevelt followed in the footsteps of big old Teddy bear in more ways than one. Aside from becoming president, he too, contributed to the natural treasures of the United States. Growing up in the Hudson River Valley, he was surrounded by the beauty of the river and its forests. Inspired by the Hudson's beauty, he promoted wildlife and forest protection laws throughout his political career.
Roosevelt returned to the Hudson River Valley after contracting polio at age 39 in 1921. It was here, near the river, where he recovered and became the American hero of the history books. 
Take a picture of the closest river / une Manche of reputable size. Find a story, anecdote, or exclusive tell-all and share it.
And parrot was right. The suits did change.
Seasons churned buttermilky thick and licked at mouse and parrot's heels. Autumn passed in brown beat boots. Winter was a waning whine. Spring sat stagnant- alight with sprigs of bursting.
And now it was summer again. To tumble in summer and hum a bit number was all that our heroes wanted to do.
He always put it in the medicine cabinet before bed. That is where I always saw it. My father's watch was engraved with the initials of his grandfather, his father, and his own. They were not my initials, nor my younger brother's but every night I traced them over and again and I know my younger brother did too. I think I was the only one that wore my father's watch, though, each night, and saw as it fell down my wrist and forearm as I brushed my teeth. Each night, my father would point at his watch and tilt his head to peek out behind his wrists, but it was a stern peek, and it was his way of telling us it was bedtime. He did many actions, just as this one, cute ones, but done sternly.
The watch went to my older brother after my father's death, as he shared his initials. Years later, my brother lost the watch in India or in Spain, in Russia or in Scotland, I do not remember. We never saw my older brother much after my father's death. Though when we did, my younger brother saw the watch and in it the same stern looks of bedtime. My older brother tried awkwardly to fill them.
Suitors though, have a habit of changing suits. The suits, at first, were well tailored and fit like dreams but slowly the suits would change and seem somewhat outdated, the lapels too pointy, the sleeves too short. Mouse did not know why a particular suit stopped fitting. "It was so well tailored," mouse would squeak. "You just wait, mouse," parrot said. "Your suitor need only grow into the new suit. It will take time. But soon it will fit, not as before, but just as perfectly. After all, does your mouse coat change not change with every season?"
And somehow, all their luck changed. Fortune had brought the little rodent and tiny bird back together again. But- cruelty: there was still a hill to walk between them. Parrot was sometimes no good at walking on his knobby parrot toes, and mouse was just a little too sweet to trek up a hill at night alone. And so the parrot sang all day long, as other beautiful birds, who could easily walk the hill, marched in and out of his cottage. There were magpies, mallards, manakins, martins, meadowlarks, mockingbirds, motmots, and mynahs. And the mouse had her suitors, too: gray, white, brown, and black. Sometimes there were special birds. And sometimes there were special mice, but the days when our heroes saw each other- well, those were the best days. 
Parrot thought over and over how to make a cup of tea that would somehow be felt across countries. Parrot thought of the words of Kakuzo Okakura from 'The Book of Tea,' 'nothing is more hallowing than the union of kindred spirits in art. ' Parrot thought of the Tibetan custom to leave a second cup of tea untouched when a loved one leaves, waiting for his return. Parrot thought and thought and finally, went down to the concierge and asked for a telegram, a short one. Mouse sat over full cups of tea empty of meaning until mouse got a telegram that simply read, 'mouse, i am in each cup of tea with you. Let the steam warm your little mouse nose and remember how it all is exactly what it is.'
The mouse missed the parrot more than ever imaginable. Especially when she would go to dark, beautiful tea houses and not be with dark, beautiful people. The mouse thought that drinking tea was a waste of water unless the parrot was there.
Illustration- By RansomStone, from Etsy
The next morning, mouse awoke early and tiptoed across the small room quietly as, well, a mouse. Mouse explored empty streets to find the perfect little market. She bought flour and fruit and eggs and fresh milk all to prepare (in secret) a grand breakfast fit for a king or a mouse or a parrot. She tiptoed around the kitchen and tried hard not to make noise with the cast-iron pots and pans. Parrot was usually a very light sleeper and woke at quiet wind, but parrot felt safe and comfortable under mouse's watch and slept deep. But nothing could keep those sweet aromas from rising parrot and parrot woke to a feast of all the senses. Sunlight came streaming in through the windows. Food was out on the table. And mouse, mouse was smiling puppy smiles, wearing her feather shawl. The puppy smile was a little nervous, "I made breakfast," mouse said.
Illustration: Camilla Engman
Parrot was lost shouting parrot songs on top of the
And the rain fell and fell, until in each street puddle collected a tempest. A storm. A little bit of bad news. And the skies darkened as the wind picked up. Houses were shaken from their foundations, children were tucked into their beds and their windows were closed. The angry breeze preyed upon parrot and mouse. They held on to each other as tightly as they could, with mouse's tail wrapped around a streetlight, and parrot's beak gripping an umbrella stand. But it was no use. Parrot was picked up in the gust and tossed around, thrown about all the way to the eiffel tower.
Illustration: Ward Jenkins
Mouse went about her days as mice too often do. She collected things and found beauty where others do not and saw colors and shapes. "Look," she said, pointing at a puddle. The reflection of the puddle was just so that one could see a cloud above them that resembled an ace of spades. "An ace of spades!" said parrot. "But look now," said mouse. The ace of spades had drifted out of sight and one simply saw the blue in the sky and felt the leftover energy of the rain the night before. "Do you like sunny days or rainy days?" asked parrot. "Rainy days are good for some things. Sunny days are good for others. Would you like some chocolate?" They spent the afternoon walking through empty streets and taking small turtle bites out of a chocolate bar. They made eye
their head. Slowly, they made the way back to their flat and watched the rain fall and listened to the snaps of cloudbursts. The chocolate was all gone but the eye contact was not. "It is so warm, next to you," parrot said. They were sitting across the room from one another. "I know."
"We can go see the bean" said the mouse. "But I am a little cold. This breezy windy breeze is making my tail stand on end." And then the parrot turned himself around, and plucked the longest, bluest feather from his tail. He wrapped it around the mouse like a little shawl. "There," he said, "now you will be a little warmer. Also, now you look far better suited to go to the opera." "To the opera?" the mouse asked. "Yes, I wanted to surprise you" said parrot. "I bought two tickets for Don Giovanni tonight. Would you like to go?" And then the little mouse began to shed crocodile tears. There was a little Don Giovanni in both of them.
Parrot and mouse had many adventures in 
The parrot and the mouse have decided to leave the world behind. They put together all the crumbs they could find and tied them in a burlap hankie. They took the hankie downtown to the wholesale camping shop and traded the crumbs for a surplus army knapsack. In this knapsack, they put their pens and pencils. They also brought chickpeas and romantic records. The parrot carried the sack on his back and the mouse in his beak. "One-two-three!" they counted. And off they flew to 
Once upon a time, there was a little topolina and her friend, the papagallo. The topolina and papagallo traveled over the same ocean in the same sorts of craft, but when they arrived, their roads forked. The papagallo lived out each day reading Baudelaire and taking long walks and stroking his bird beard thoughtfully, while the topolina drank too much wine and learned about Italian neo-realism. Both were very content and very heartsick-- until one day, they met each other in 
My first memory is of my mother snapping a tight rubber swim cap over my ears. And I looked up at her with a mix of anguish and delight. I love that feeling. You are all at once contained in neon rubber, your hair soft and dry. But your head is in open water—a river, a sewer, a dunk tank. A shark could nibble on your digits, but the tops of your ears would be unharmed.
What’s the best thing about being underwater? I think you decay faster in fresh water. I like to sometimes sit on the bottom of the pool and close my eyes and imagine my particles and pieces mixing with chlorine and blue tiles. Everything could turn to dust, everything except what is tucked beneath my rubber cap. They would find me there sixteen weeks later, nothing but bone, gristle, and bright pink latex pulled tight over brown curls.
Exchange photos found of strangers on holiday on the English Channel / La Manche and respond with a story.
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