Introspection and magazine articles

7/6/02p
I am restless, unsettled. I came to the cafe with the express wish not to be a simple observer of what is going on around me; but to be introspective, to examine myself-- where am I going with writing. Then I get depressed thinking about all the writers whose books line these bookshelves- thousands? Millions? Or the talented writers whose books will not be published. I have a writer's digest "Writer's guide to Creativity"
which I should read; but feel that it would iron me flat, take out every creative idea and make it like some other person. Pretty stupid-- uh? I wonder if I should take a writing course. Why should I think I can write without studying writing? Would an opera singer not take lessons? No way, she would take as many lessons as she could.

What would my novel be? What genre? Romantic comedy science fiction? Write something autobiographical. I can't remember yesterday much less the apartment building to which I was taken home from the hospital. Do research then. You don't have to kill Jehovah's witnesses, whump thump, kadump, thud, to write about them.

Write something you feel passionate about...
The effect of religion and God on tolerance on being different on art.

Beauty and how it can paralyze you, mesmerize you like an animal caught in a snake's gaze, until it strikes you dead.

Music which holds you completely still and transports you beyond the ordinary

Mood altering substances like triple cappuccino which takes you from weepy, ugly, little feelings to grandiose thoughts that you can actually write ---


How many cappuccinos would it take to write a novel? Get me started someone. Let me fly, cappuccino above the ordinary thoughts that tie me down. I want to fly above all these readers’ heads and collect up all the thoughts that leak out. I can almost see their thoughts leaking out... that scientist over there... reading the math textbook... has numbers spiraling out from his nose... that frumpy looking woman with the bonnet that is made of bamboo has a messy purple aura of leaking thoughts...that young women with her textbook whose subject I cannot read from here has an intense light like the sun shining through clouds... that old women whose scalp shines through her wispy hair has weak emanations of.. That young couple has thoughts intertwined reflecting the body language leaning into each other across the table...
Sorry.... I said I was going to be introspective and not observant. It must be the cappuccino which forces me to type this fast. I like the awake feeling it gives. The frenetic intense feeling of living it imparts. Let us all offer up a cheer to caffeine or whatever else lets the words tumble out effortlessly as water flowing over a waterfall. I am harnessing the electricity that the water imparts and not caring particularly if this is interesting. It is the feeling of intense pleasure that writing can sometimes give when you let it flow.

Looking back on this will certainly freeze the river, damn up the thoughts... damn...

15 minutes later
I am staring at this young women's shoulder. She is wearing an electric blue scoop neck top. I never realized the erotic nature of a shoulder..... Whoa, woe... she came around to sit next to her boy friend to show him something in her magazine. Peaking up from the back of her blue jean shorts and her blue top is some sort of tattoo showing on the slit of skin. The shorts stick out about 3/4 of an inch and my minds fingers want to wander there.... Sheech, I can't believe I am telling you guys these things. Maybe cappuccino has aphrodisiac qualities. Time to shift my gaze.

There is a set of short haired young women. One with dyed blue green neon hair, the other with vanilla ice cream hair. What is with this new fashion of too short shirt tails.... or should I say no shirt tails. Many girls show great rolls of pudge like old fashioned inner tubes. I admit that the tattooed girl looked sexy with her skin slit; but this one. Yikes. There should be a magazine article on this...

A mixed life

7-26-02
It is a mixed life.
Last Saturday at one of the properties for which I am the asset manager, a woman was stabbed to death by the father of her two eldest kids. He broke into her townhouse, waited for her to come home, her two eldest in tow- the baby in her arms, and he stabbed her to death. The baby was also stabbed. Not on purpose. The baby simply got in the way.

When the mother flew in from Nashville to claim the body, the coroner would not release the daughter to the mother.

"I'm sorry you are not next of kin- The husband is the next of kin."

"But, my god, the husband is the one that killed her." I imagine that is what the mother said. What bureaucratic nonsense! Can you imagine?

Worse than that was the fact that the woman wanted to move out of state because her life had been threatened. This woman had had a hard life. She was on probation for stealing food from a grocery store to feed her three kids, the eldest who is only three. She went to the judge and told him of the threat; but the judge would not let her move because she was on probation. NOW may sue the courts. But the judge has said not to blame him; he would be disobeying the law if he let her go out of state. Isn't this a triumph of bureaucracy and letter of the law nonsense? Some things just make no sense.

On the other hand, showing the mix of life, I am on vacation. Mary and I will fly to Orlando to the SALI convention (Stencil Artisan League International) we will visit Disney world, and Animal Kingdom and Epcot and MGM studios. We don’t leave until Sunday. Today we are together at Borders. Mary is sitting across from me flipping through a magazine which has a pattern for a painting that Mary will do in our dining room. Earlier we went to the home depot to get a flapper for the toilet. Since I am the most unhandy of men, you do not know what joy it is for me to fix something without having to call in a professional. Sure it takes me 7 times longer to do it. What a joy it is for me to finish it correctly.

Had to go.

7-27-02
Back to borders. I have had two glasses of wine at dinner and the second glass had to be drunk much quicker because Mary wanted to go. My fingers seem unconnected. Numb. I like the feeling. It makes me think I am writing profound thoughts which have never before been thought. God I will seem silly when I read this again.
Borders to buy a sketchbook. It was one of those buy two get one free deals, so i now have 384 pages of acid free paper to jot my thoughts. Maybe I'll write something in it and maybe not since I seem to do quite well with my fold up key board and PDA. I love the freedom that not having to work for another eight days gives me. I have a double cappuccino in hand and a book on the best American Poetry in 2001. Mary has given me a deadline of 7 PM. Now I only have a few minutes and the cappuccino is too hot to drink and the wine is making me sleepy, not dreamy. The coffee has not had time to work. The wine is pulling hard on my eyelids. I am making few observations. I am concentrating on all the wrong things- the loud woosh of the HVAC, the fast clicking of the cash register printing out receipts, the bad haircut on the guy sitting in the window, his hair sitting on the top of his head. I want to go over to him and lift it off to see what is under it. He has a tattoo of a panther on his upper arm, so I dare not do that. A baby is fussing, her mother is young, tanned, and beautiful, a woman on crutches has placed her cast up on the chair opposite her, her leg is loose skinned, cellulite full--- like a pock marked face of a teenage kid. She does smile out at her husband who has just arrived. I ignore her leg and see her bright eyes. Now I must stop writing.

Natural Puzzles

Materialism, God and Dappled Things

7-20-02
I have had so many cappuccinos that this one is free. I was going to time how long from first sip to caffeine nirvana but I forgot my watch at home.

I have had an interesting discussions with a Greek Orthodox Priest. John works in our resident service department as a councilor. His cubicle is near my office. While I can’t agree with him regarding the existence of God, I can agree with his arguments about materialism. He feels that the more materials one has the less human one is. The more contact one has with materials the less contact one has with other human beings. He argues that in the 1950s when we had less things, people use to have family meals and talk to one another. He also wonders why with all the time saving things we have, washers dryers microwaves fast food... why do we seem to have so much less time. His arguments all lead to his belief in God. I think it all leads to the need for art, beauty, and literature... non material concepts yet for me more valid.

We also discussed to some less satisfactory level, Religion and the existence of God. I reiterated all my familiar arguments about how Religions have caused so much misery in the world as differing belief systems clash. I gave the examples of the Crusades, the inquisition, the Jews and Muslims in the Middle east and the IRA and protestant conflict in Northern Ireland. I also thought that the Hutu and Tootsie conflict was based in Religion but he thought it was Ethnic. As to the arguments for god's existence, I said there was no way to prove it. It is simply a belief not a truth. He asked me how did all this get started. I said it was simply a matter of chance. He said that argument was an eighteen century atheists argument ( I can't remember the name )

Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches ' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.


Strange I should open a book to Gerard Manly Hopkins

Even though I don't agree with the idea of the poem, it is one of great beauty.

The Light

7-12-02
The world around me is beautiful,
Has been all day.
The light
It is a day of magic light
That transforms even the dirt into a new world.
The sun's light penetrates the forest canopy
Sun dappled
The mica in the mountain path reflects the light
I walk through all the sparkling doors of the little people who inhabit the mountain.
They have opened their doors and in I rush.
They offer me cappuccino to ease me past the real world,
To make my fingertips tingle,
To take me past reason.
I am surprised that it is a difficult world to understand.
My points of reference are so few and I have no footnotes to guide me.
There are lush green smells,
Tinkling twinkling,
Unthinking streams
I tumble down floating past last year's oak leaves.
I grow small and the soft ferns grow large.
I eat the fungus and into the past I dream.
I now get to choose my parents,
Choose my brain from among the jars sitting on the top shelf,
Choose never to forget not just every word,
Every perfume,
Every feeling,
Every idea,
Every mythology
Every shiny line of hair on every girls head.
I learn to wring time out so that every drop gets used ten times.
I learn to split myself up (not in a psycho way)
So that I can follow each impulse,
Each line of personality.
I am a poet.
I am a hells angel.
I am yours and yours and yours.
I am wild and tame.
I am an inventor.
I turn the world from greed to art.

I understand

The Old Testament:

Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast
Each with a splendor
Which man in all his vileness cannot
Set aside; each with an excellence

I remember every poem I've read
And more marvelous understand each.
Oh what a cappuccino vision this is.

Panera

6-22-02
The car is getting an oil transfusion while I get a caffeine transformation.
Border's was a bit too far to walk. Panera is closer. Panera has better "food" if you can call the wonderful Danish which tastes better than food, food.
I am sitting in a booth. Sea Glass by Anita Shreve is by my left hand. The white cappuccino cup--big, heavy, like an Andy Warhol version ---is at my right. The tray which contains the peach Danish crumbs, the used napkin, and the paper- doily like liner with the green-gold Panera logo is across from me. Mary is having her hair cut down the road (You have to live in Frederick to know that "down the road" means in or near Washington.) In the background a violin and piano piece plays whose name and composer I do not know.
This is not an "old" Frederick place. It is full of new Fredericktonians…Yuppies, intelligent looking, more stylish than those you would find at the Downtowner restaurant. It is decorated in orange and yellow tones. I would not have thought of using these colors; but here they are soothing, upscale, professional, and worthy of the college graduates who are here. There seems to be a conformist way the people are dressed- knits, shorts, logos on short sleeved shirts and shoes. I wear a dress shirt, long sleeved, cuffs rolled back two lengths, blue jeans, white walking shoes (with New Balance logos--- which I would obliterate if I knew how). I like being non conformist, different, special in my own mind.
OOPs... The time.... I got to pick up the car. I have to bring it to emissions inspection station today.

Making Waves (8/18/06)

A picture is not worth the reality that I experienced. I am but a poor writer when it comes to describing the feeling of peace and magic as I heard the waves lap against the shore and watched the sky transformed to a continuous abstract painting worth hanging on a wall. Unfortunatly my psuedo profound musings in the last sentence are interrupted by an image of a Hamm's beer signs with lighted moving scenery (I looked it up on EBay Current bid $577
No beginning and no end

Currents In The Air

6-14-2002
Done with my chores. I am empty of thought; but not in a Zen way. Not in the eastern way of enlightenment. I was incredibly lazy, watched one and 3/4 movies--- the last interrupted by the craftsman who will be working on our house in late fall. My chores were waiting for the HVAC people to do the annual check up on the AC and waiting for the craftsman.

Back to Borders:

This is interesting. An older man---what am I saying --he is perhaps my age--- is meeting with a bleached blond, too much blue eye shadow, too long, too red nails, wearing a black top and white pants with her body puddling in the middle, her skin not as tight fitting or soft as it probably was, no longer a teenager-- hell no longer a 30 year old.. echoes of an attractive woman.

"Glad to meet you. This is an interesting place to do this."

Damn, this is nothing more than a real estate deal.

The woman leaves first and then the man. He has gray hair balding, fluffed up in front, a mustache (do you ever wonder if all balding men grow beards or mustaches to make up for the lack of hair on top) steel rimmed glasses, a gray loose fitting tee shirt and loose blue jeans. I can't read much about him from looking at him.


Ah now here is a woman who appeals to me. She is very well dressed. Her dark blond hair is pulled back from her face, cinched in back by a tortoise contraption whose name I do not know and should if I am ever going to be a writer. She is wearing a black knit top cut so that I can see that her white shoulders have a hint of red from the sun. Her complexion is still smooth. She is concentrating on her book, despite the fact that the cafe is filling up and getting noisy. I am getting bored with her since her back is to me and she is deep in her book. There is a stillness about her.

I have not been drinking much caffeine lately because of the UTI. So the triple cappuccino is having more of an effect than usual. I want to type faster but my fingers are spastic-- hitting the wrong keys. My mind wants to move quickly as well.

There are four deaf people sitting near me. I live across from the school for the deaf in Frederick so I am not surprised. They are so animated. I would hate not being able to hear-- no more opera.

Even the background music is getting to me. It is Spanish guitar. I want to get up on the table and stomp my feet (sure to be carted away if I do) I am trying not to move but I keep tightening my gluteus maximus, swaying my shoulders slightly and moving my feet to the music. The music stops.
The deaf woman and her friend keep distracting me with their animated conversation. Their hands dance in the air to their own music which I cannot hear.

There is a young woman who is probably in her twenties but has a careworn air about her which makes her much older looking. She looks like she is from another age. She walks with a cane and her left hand is totally unusable. CP maybe? Her hair is brushed back emphasizing her high forehead which needs no emphasis. She is talking to an older woman (her older sister?) with a very small head and very big glasses which a cartoonist would have a very easy time with. The older sister has a lock of her hair which keeps escaping from the rest which is held back by her ear. Since I have been studying the younger woman, I am getting a different opinion of her. She seems to have a ready laugh and smile. They get up and walk away. The young woman seems to have a left side which has melted away. I think she may even have an artificial leg. I wonder what her story is.



Life passes quickly
Hardly enough time to be wet with tears
to laugh enough for lines to be written on careworn faces
Why not try to intensify each moment
To feel the currents in the air
To hear a song of insects
To see the fireflies painting the sky, Picasso like
To smell the sweat of worker bees
To sing where catbirds perchTo travel the tracery of a medieval church

However

4-28-02
I am surprisingly tired. I was full of energy until I got into the line for coffee. I waited about 15 minutes with a fat mother and three unruly kids directly ahead of me. The kids needed to irradiate the air with excess energy. Just watching them squirm made me tired and envious. If only I still had that much energy, If only I know what I do and had as many years ahead of me as they do. I can see why the theme of starting over, selling one's soul to the devil, and searching for the fountain of youth is such an important one in literature.

I have been reading Sol Stein's book on writing. Writing is not just inspiration but a craft. It is good to study the craft; especially when the inspiration seems to be on the wane.


However.....
Oh if there were no more howevers
However to haunt us with thoughts of duty

However
The grass needs cutting
However
Tomorrow I have to go back to work
However
OH Whatever!

Fragments.

4-19-2
Man on a single crutch, bearded

Two women on the comfortable chairs, one speaking, her hand waving circles in the air like waves. I think I would like to surf within the motion of her hands. The listening woman, blond, circles under her eyes drawn by time, colored white by artifice.

A man in an army uniform with two dangling picture id's with books announcing his hobby: "Joy of Boxes. Whittling twigs and branches. Celebrating boxes. The best of wood boxes. Hand Tools. and Tools."

Why can't we publish? We could publish a book on why we can't publish.

First reason. I don't have time

>>>the time is passing too quickly. I have to go into work for a single meeting at 1:30. This is distracting me.

Mary has been in a terrible mood induced by her third period in 6 weeks. This after 6 years of no periods due to hormone replacement. Believe me, she is even testing my patience. I know I am supposed to be supportive. I know this is temporary. I know the cause. Doesn't seem to matter. I don't want to be around her. But I simply remember that "this" her is not Mary. God I am glad I am a man!

March Madness?

3 8 02
This day has started horribly- an argument with Mary and not even a face to face argument. It is my compressed day- in two weeks I work 8, 9 hr days and one 8 hour day for 80 hrs. This gives me every other Friday off. Mary does not get those days off. Today she loaded up my day with an assignment to wait for a contractor.


"He'll call and let you know when he is coming."

"Will it be in the morning or the afternoon?"

"They wouldn't say."

So I am stuck, here, waiting. The 70 degree weather (20 c), the warbling robins, the trilling finches, the dazzling daffodils, the blue and yellow iris are there waiting for me as I wait for the contractors.

The contractor called will be here about quarter to 1PM.... Yea... the afternoon is mine

1:12 not here yet.

3:15 here and departed.

"Your house is in good condition. You have water penetration and that will have to be corrected. I'll have to come back with a ladder and observe the problems close up."

"When can you do that?"

"I can come back the middle of April, give you a quote first of May, but I wont be able to do the job until the fall>"

I came away from the appointment feeling really good. However instead of heading out into the near 70 degree weather, I ended up at the office store going out of business to find a shredder to prevent identity theft. then to Best Buys to look at the latest computers since mine is still unusable, and now I am a Borders to get yet another book on writing-- Stein on Writing.

Stein:
The key to writing both fiction and nonfiction. It has to be a good experience for both partners, the writer and the reader, and it is a source of distress to me to observe how frequently writers ignore the pleasure of their partners."

Observations
What makes that girl have a Judy Garland face?
Is it her deep set, large, heavily made up eyes? Perhaps her big mouthed smile ringed by extended lips. What is she thinking as she flips the pages of her magazine? She reads with her head cocked to her left side. She sips her- white drink- milk? She smiles at something she reads, her lower lip like a weight showing her teeth. I wish I were a soul gazer because I think I would see her as a languid soul. Her body is large, her breasts are large enough to kill, I can't hear her voice; but her laugh is deep and "southern"

Sol Stein again: "Only writers, it seems, expect to achieve some level of mastery without practice."

3-9-02

I wonder how close to insanity I am some days. I am much too sensitive to beauty today to be normal. The first daffodils transform me.

I step through their yellow trumpets and I am among a strange tribe of creatures. They are not fairies or elves or remains. They are wearing yellow dresses the color of daffodils. They move not with wings but on waves of diaphanous substance more like looking at a mirage. I can't get close to them. They move away from me. Their movement reminds me of fish with filmy fins which wave in the water. A bright flash of turquoise light the false color of the universe hits my arm. It feels warm at first and temporarily blinds me. I think these creatures are trying to study me. Just as I have not seen such bodiless creatures as these, they have not seen something as substantial as I am. Once the warm light has shone on every crevice of me, it blinks off. Slowly I get my sight back and as I do, I begin to understand what they want. It is not through language that they "talk" to me; but through a feeling I have. I feel that they want to know why I am here, what sort of creature am I. and do I have a soul. It is strange for them to wonder about my soul because I have wondered that very thing.

As I am thinking this, the adils (I learned there name later), sense my need for food. A sweet bubble of nectar appears before me. At first I wonder what it is. I notice that it has a more substance then the adils. As I reach out my hand to touch it, the bubble engulfs my hand. Instead of feeling sticky, it feels soft. I pull back my hand and smell the delicious aroma of sweet licorice. I lick one finger and and am surprised that it doesn't taste like licorice at all- rather like sweet lobster. In fact it takes on the white fleshy feel of lobster freshly extracted from the tail

After eating I grow sleepy and


3-10-02
Speaking of sleepy, I have been fighting the irresistible urge to nap all morning. We cleaned up the dishes and Mary wanted to take it easy and read. I, despite the icy breeze, wanted to go out in the crisp clear day.

"Let's go for a ride."

“I want to take it easy."

After my ride through the countryside, I ended up here. You may have guessed. One mention of cappuccino and you know where I am: The cafe espresso at Borders. I am hoping the cappuccino will kick in and wake me from my stupor.

The indecipherable voice of my fellow cafe mates is more like a lullaby. The cappuccino is trying to kick in trying to raise my head from a slow molasses, sinking heaviness. My fingers are large weights; my thoughts which usually wake me up are dragging me further down, like a stone, stoned unconsciousness- consciousness. I am caught between wakefulness and dreaming, plunging, and rising.

My Favorite

Flower: A wild carrot. Queen Ann's Lace 

I don't want

3-23-2
I don't want my chin to melt away in a thousand folds of age. I don't want my ears to grow so big I cannot see. I don't want to shuffle along behind an aluminum tubed walker. I don't want my brain to drool away from my mind. I don't want my hair to leave my head cold in the winter wind. I don't want my stomach to grow so round that I can't see the other edge of the earth.

Hooky Day

3-14-2

I have not wanted to work all week. I am off work and in my study here at Borders, drinking coffee, watching people, feeling the coffee work its way through my brain, hearing the whoosh of HVAC- the mechanical rattle of the printing of a register receipt- the voice of a squealing baby- the crinkling of a plastic wrapper opening-- the low hubbub of the few patrons-- the clink of teaspoon on cup-- the slurp---ahhh of me drinking-- the twink of keys as I type and the hollow sound of an empty headed writer going on and on and on about the sounds he hears.

I wish my nose worked better; perhaps it would smell freshly baked bread.

The cafe overlooks a parking lot. My mind looks out at the ocean from a house built into a hollow high above the crashing white waves. I want to ride down a water slide onto a black sand beach. There you would be untanned white stark against the beach black.

"Would you do this?" you ask handing me the sun block.

I travel around the landscape of your back. My fingers rest at the top of your shoulder blades and then ride down. Slick, slick, slick my fingers sound against the valley of your back. Light touches on spine bumps and the landscape heaves and the earth of you squeals. My hands dissolve and atoms of you and I collide like Fermi Laboratory children detected only by the sensitive instruments of the imagination. Great blue oceans of you and continents of me form out of the primordial ooze and ahhs of touching ideas. Inspiration- the breathing in of another soul-- a soul from some past time? A soul from some future life?

Lips

Smart Enough?

2-22-2
Do you ever think that you are just not smart enough? That there are currents of meaning floating around in the air just in front of you that you simply cannot understand; that your receptors just did not work as well as they should; and that the final irony is that you were given enough intelligence, enough talent to notice that you are simply not smart enough to get it. Do you see someone throw a look at another person which the other person understands; but you are clueless as to the meaning? Do you read something and your eyes glaze over, your mind wanders to who knows where or you give it meaning that the author did not intend. Ever since I have given up the idea of God, which was so strongly tied into my idea of self, I have substituted the idea that you make your own meaning. So what does it matter if you do not comprehend others ideas. It does matter if you wish to be connected to others, I suppose. I wish for either more brains or people to be more literal. On the other hand if people were more literal, literature and art would be deadly boring. I am rambling, beginning to be boring, and as I was saying
Do you ever think that you are just not smart enough?

Trains, Writing/Copying, Reinventing Mama

2-13-02
I haven't been on a Metro train in years. It all comes back in a whiff of subterranean air, the distinctive clack of wheels crossing tracks, the muffle of train station announcement from a human voice, the automatic voice
"Doors Opening"
"Doors Closing"
accompanied by a distinctive 'Ding-Dong' door chime, the heads bobbing in unison to the undulation of the track, the rustle of newspapers, the sea of eyes-- some half closed, many staring down at newspapers.
2-16-02
Mary is sick. She is sitting across from me at Borders. Her voice is hoarse, she is tired, her hair looks like it has been inhabited by wild bees, and she has picked out a Tracy Kidder novel, "Home Town." She finished the "Summons" by Grisham in 4 days. Writers should be very happy with Mary--- She buys books. I feel like a traitor telling her to go to the library and borrow the book.

A young gum chewing, bubble blowing , roots showing, too bright red finger nail girl reads a book and writes in a spiral bound notebook. Although I can't read what she is writing, I know it must be schoolwork. She keeps switching from one colored pen to another. Her writing looks as precise as printing-- very neat and tiny -- her margins form ruler straight lines down the page. I wonder how much of what she is writing is original and how much is simply copying from a book. This makes me wonder how much of what I write is original and how much simply comes from what I have read.

I have been thinking about my mother lately and how I would like to reinvent her.

My memories of my reinvented mother begin in the womb. I didn't know then that she was listening to a Samba, gently swaying to the music, and humming in a high, sweet voice. I have vague recollections of sweetness, warmth and gentle movements.
“She could have been a professional singer of the first caliber" my uncle tells me now. Neither my mother nor father told me anything about her missed career. I only hear about it at my mother's funeral.

"She made me promise to tell you this only if she could not tell it. This seems as good a time as any." My uncle wipes away the tears. They were very close as only twins can be.

“I on the other hand got nothing." He had drunk too much of the after funeral wine at the "come back to the house" -- party to remember all the great things my mother was.

I was beyond crying. I was 16 and trying to be tough. In fact my father worried about me. I seemed to be stuck in the denial phase of grief. It simply seemed impossible to me that this person who took care of my every need, who pulled up the blanket when I was cold, who wiped away my tears when I scraped my knee, who introduced me to new worlds the first time she read treasure island to me, was simply not going to be around. Even though lately I had been sticking out on my own as all teenagers must,

I have to take Mary home...

More reinventing Mama later

January Snow

1/21/02
The snow seem to fall in two groups...one floats down as if it didn't care and was enjoying the float time... the other comes down straight and fast. It is aggressive and determined to reach the ground. Does it want to cause problems for man?

It is nearly 10 and I am awaiting the Pest control people. Ever since we moved to the South, we have paid for termite inspections each year. We have never had a problem with termites; but the year we discontinue the inspection will be the year we begin to hear strange noises in the night. scrunchy...scratchy... creaky noises. We will come home one day and find a room missing here or there. We will sit down at our dining room table and suddenly find we are having a picnic on the floor.

Is there a time in your life when you decide that Hey... I am not a genius... Hey... my legacy to my fellow man is not going to be very much. In fact instead of a 'leg'acy perhaps I should call it a 'finger'acy. I am most likely not going to write another "Shipping News" Since I have not been writing at all, it is unlikely that I will even write the best Instant Story ever. While these thoughts may seem depressing, the very fact that I am writing them down is helping me out of this little stint of feeling sorry for myself and getting me back on the main track of my life... the main goal of my life... to be happy.

I think I began writing because happiness had deteriorated into complacency. I began writing because I liked the idea of defining my identity as a writer. There is something romantic about the notion of writing. At the time I began writing, my job as management analyst had no such cache. People often ask you what you do as if this is what you are. Saying that I am a management analyst just didn't synch with my own idea of what I am. I have since taken a job as an asset manager which is probably less defined. When people ask what I do, I tell them I manage the managers of 10 apartment buildings but I am trying to be a writer.

"What have you written?"

I then have to explain about how you have to stuff a story into 250 words--character--action---beginning---middle---end.

"Have you written anything longer? Have you published?"

Alas I am at a loss.

I tell myself I will get serious about writing in 4 years when I can retire.

"I'll have the time." I tell myself

"Why wait four years? Do it now."

“I don't have the time. I don't have the talent." I argue with myself.

Do you think all writers are great writers when they first begin?"

"I haven't just begun. I've been writing for 5 years and what do I have to show for it-- 20s of points on Instant Stories"

"There is no excuse for giving it up. It will raise you out of complacency; give you a better definition of who and what you are."

"But...but I don't have a story to tell. My youth was not THAT traumatic. My mother was not THAT crazy... well maybe. But I have come to terms with that and don't want to blame my faults on nurture or nature."

"Make up a story. You have a great imagination and when you work at it, wonderful descriptions."

"I lack the ability to put together good dialogue. There is nothing more boring than too much description. "


"Study dialogue that you admire. What makes it work etc etc.
And so the argument goes back and forth


10:35 the pest control people are not here yet. Time to read... either A Beautiful Mind or Harry Potter...

Harry Potter--

2:15 at Borders... I have finally had enough cappuccino to get a free one. So I have a quadruple cup in front of me. I am wondering what will happen to my brain. Will it swell up until relief comes in the form of coffee spewing from my nostrils?

The lighting at my table is wonderful for seeing the words form on my pda. I am hoping that something magical will form of its own accord.

This place is packed. I am concentrating on what people are saying so that I can catch little snippets of conversation

A laugh... n uhhhh a big smile with a hand fluttering against the young girls chest...... are they talking about boys.

Florida Lights

1-25-2

Borders with Mary
She is buying a book for a man who she knows will be dead soon. He is only 70 but to my eye looks much older. His days as a doctor are done.
What do you buy a dying man? Mar is buying him a garden book. He loves it and now as his inoperable cancer ceaselessly grows within, he plants things which he may never see bloom.

The Borders music group is setting up.
There equipment is cheap. One man tunes his mandolin. He wears a blue chambray colored shirt which he wears untucked. It does not hide his stomach. He is probably in his 50’s; He is balding and has wisps of hair on top and too much thin grey hair behind. His lower lip protrudes a bit from his face. his second chin reaches down to his shirt. He wears faded blue jeans.

The other "entertainer" wears green-brown corduroys with a caramel colored belt. He too has a belly which speaks middle age. He has a nice haircut and looks like he is a bureaucrat.

Mary is flipping through a country living magazine. She is buying a Sue Miller book: "Inventing the Abbott’s” She wrote "The Good Mother" The other book Mary will buy is Mother of Pearl by Linda Haynes.

The "entertainer’s” are spending too much time getting set up. There is not that much equipment that they have to spend so much time "tuning"
Mary expresses that frustration:
"Get ready already"

Mary is trying to get me to leave. Now she is getting upset because the book she is buying for the Doctor has a few creased pages. It should be perfect. If you had so few days left, you should have perfection.

Undated

Already I am at odds with the instructions. Take three sheets of paper. How many pages on this small screen are equal to three sheets of 8 1/2 by 11 paper? The exercise is to describe what I am feeling right now - where I am right now - physically, emotionally and psychologically. I am where I usually am- on the edge of things- distracted, not deep enough in the essence of anything to be able to write about it. It doesn’t help to be sitting here at Border's sipping on a very good cappuccino and stealing glances at this very beautiful girl. She has a black string top plunging down to a point where I have to look. It is so stupid. Why is the space between a woman's breasts so interesting to guys? .It most likely has to do with the limbic brain vestigial snake brain She has very smooth tanned skin-- perfect skin like lightly chocolated milk. She has very short brown hair which in an older woman would look like a helmet. On her it complements the long dangling ear ring which sparkles in my quick glances. She has a lovely face which to describe I would have to stare more than I feel comfortable. She is typing on a portable computer, Is she writing her final paper for a class? She has shuffled some papers and she is typing from them? She seems to type quickly and she is staring intently at the screen. Unlike me she does not seem easily distracted. I just noticed she has incredibly long lashes. She finally looks up at some young kids. Her eyes are brown and very large. She is closing up shop- on her cell phone- asking how some one is-- telling him/her that she just finished her paper. When she went to unplug her computer, I noticed she has a tattoo on her back.. Is it a rose? Is it a green blob? Is it a mark showing that she is a love slave? She has left.

Now how do I feel? She has left. Youth has left. I have only imagination to allow me to meet this woman. I don't regret my life choices. It would be interesting if you could split off part of your consciousness into a corporeal form so that you could become the characters in your imagination. -- the dashing young man who meet the Border's girl and with a few well chosen words and movement of his hands gets her cell phone number just before she leaves. Then in a bold move calls her that very night and talks to her through the night. By the morning he finds that the woman is very shallow, cares more about looks than books, and was writing a paper on the use of cosmetics in ancient Egypt. Or---- he finds that the woman is promised to a gangster and he woos her anyway and they run off to San Clemente where he is gunned down in the Nixon library-- or the woman is dying of consumptions--- oops that's La Traviata. Am I on page 2 yet?

If only my imagination would stay focused or maybe it is good not to be focused I can go anywhere I want to go and since this exercise is to go anywhere I want to go --

Regrets-- I wish I'd ---

We interrupt this program for a special announcement--someone is getting married. A man with a black robe is walking up the path. gotta go be back when I find a new location

Back
It is a lovely location-- a white gazebo-- in a botanical garden full of exotic palms. The giant live oaks are dripping with Spanish moss shaped like thin spirits of all the brides that have been married here before. I thought of them as sinister before---wraiths-- but a wedding gives them a different meaning.

I am going back and taking a picture. Am I on page 2 1/2 yet???

The wedding ceremony lasted a few minutes. I missed taking a picture. When the minister walked up the path toward me, he was alone; the wedding party took a different path.

"I hope the marriage lasts longer than the ceremony," I said. He laughed a particular deep southern laugh.

It must have been a second marriage. There were two young girls; the bride wore a cream colored dress, the groom wore a dress shirt, tie less, and light colored slacks. There were two photographers in peacock blue knit shirts.

I walked down a path and met an old man who obviously had had a stroke. I said, "What a beautiful day!" and he answered something that confirmed his stroke.

Before I got off on this tangent, I started on a thread of regrets. I have one-- I never learned to play an instrument. I will remedy that when I don't have regular work to do.

I think I have reached my 3 pages. As for writing anything that reveals something new or shocking about me-- I am too ordinary for that-- so I can let all the strings of my mind hang down in disarray LOL

Impressions

7/23/01

The speech went well. I was thrown only when Carol asked me to speak to a slide that I was not supposed to speak to. The evaluations fairly reflected the difference in our speaking abilities. Since this was my very first speech, I think I did well and wouldn't even mind doing it on my own. The secret is preparation and knowledge.
Reno-
Inside
stupified people throwing money into machines- millions of twinkling lights.Stupid twiddle-diddle music and the loud sounds of quarters infrequently tumbling into the money tray.
Outside
Incredibly blue skys cloudless in the mornings, suprisingly pleasant temperatures, at 6thousand feet, thnner air. Reno is in the dessert, to have green grass you must water frequently. No one seems to walk here. I walked from Sparks where my hotel is located to downtown Reno along the Trukee River. The river path handout I received from the concierge said there was drinking water at three places along the trail. They should have said there was three water less drinking fountains.

Through the Looking Glass

Lake Tahoe

Reno is too dry for me. Lake Tahoe on the other hand is beautiful.

A pleasant surprise on my trip to Reno.

7-18-01
I am on my way to the bathroom at the international terminal at BWI when Carol catches up to me and says that I have been paged to go to the check in counter.

"You need a seat assignment,” Carol tells me.

"I already have an assignment."

I am waiting in line when the flight attendant at the check in counter pages me again. I start to go toward her when she signals me to go to the check in desk. This was nice because I did not have to wait again in the line. (5 years after writing this and I have no idea what I meant. LOL)

Then the big surprise.

"Sir, you have been upgraded to first class."

I don't ask why. Don't even remember to say thank you.

"Sir you can board now with the first class passengers."

Before doing so, I walk over to Carol and tell her that I have been upgraded to first class.

"What did you do to deserve that?" She asks.

On board the flight attendant takes our first drink order, hands us our menu and gives us our first class nuts. Yes they are not the ordinary pack of 14 peanuts that you get in coach. There are cashews. There are almonds and walnuts and filberts. Nary a peanut in the bag. These are genuine first class nuts. Even the bag says: "First Class Nuts"

Soon the stewardess, Cindy, starts handing out the $4 headsets. I am tempted to get my wallet out and pay to watch the stupid movie. Ah, I forgot, this is first class, I can watch the movie, “Heartbreakers starring Sigourney Weaver, Jennifer Love Hewitt and Gene Hackman.
I personally think they gave me first class seats because they knew who was seated behind me. It is a middle aged man in shorts with a few days growth on his chin that he is passing off as a beard. He smells like a brewery and from the number of times that he went to the bathroom, he either has a tiny bladder that fills up quickly with alcohol or he is doing drugs. Each time he gets up my seat back feels as though the plane has lost both wings and is plummeting to the ocean.

We have now been served our drinks in real glass! Ok, I know that there is no such thing as unreal glass; perhaps that is what those poor shmoes in the coach cabin call their plastic cups. When you think about it they may call their plastic cups, plastic glasses. I am now taking a sip of my first class orange juice from my glass glass. It is delicious. Just that-- refreshing newly squeezed oranges. I see the bare foot of the woman passenger in the first row. My synapses put her feet on the fresh squeezed orange. Suddenly,It seems less first class. There should be rules for bare feet in first class. I am sure they would not tolerate that in coach class.

Cindy puts a table cloth on my tray Well maybe it should be called a tray cloth. It is about the size of a napkin, in fact, I think it is a napkin. Should I pull it off the tray and tuck it into the top of my shirt?

The flight attendant, Cindy, gives me a tiny rolled up towel. I take it as if someone hands me these everyday. Secretly I hope it is a tiny hot dog; even though I know it is simply a hot towel with which to wash up. Now where is the towel to use to dry my hands from using the hot towel?

Now my napkin. Now my silverware, I know it is not real silver; but at least it is metal.


The first course (you’d expect that in first class you would get a "first" course now don't you.) consisted of a fruit plate with two large strawberries, a kiwi slice displayed on a slice of orange, an artfully arranged mélange of melons and fresh pineapple. Cindy returns with my choice of croissant or some kind of arty bread. I choose the croissant.

The waitress, no flight attendant, no Cindy, removes the first course and shortly brings back my order of omelet and Norwegian salmon with capers and onions. As I enjoy this, I wonder how Carol and Mike are doing with their choice of chef's salad or hamburger. (As I look back at this from when I wrote it five years ago—Wow, how the years have changed service. Coach now gets only the peanuts that they used to serve in the beginning of the flight.)

After the meal, I finally make it to the bathroom which is invariably is too small for me. Hey, isn’t this first class? Where is my palatial bathroom? Perhaps this first class is not up to the standards of United or American. I will have to ask my brother, Dan, who often flies first class. and Gene Hackman.

I am now going to read. The movie stunk, I am glad I didn't have to pay the $4.00

Off to read


The second half of the trip was not nearly as lucky. We were scheduled for departure at 1:34 and finally took off at 2:10. I was assigned seat 8b... First class in this plane is row 1 and 2. Close enough to see through the crack in the curtain but not near enough to get a glass- glass. No-- the service is a white plastic cup. I did trade my 8 b for 8 e to accommodate a man and his traveling companion. That is a bit of a lie. I really was afraid that the fat woman would sit in the seat next to mine. After the comfortable, roomy first class seat, I was in no mood for lapping fat heating me up over the dessert in Phoenix.

We were just served our "snack" and Pepsi. Jay, my new flight attendant, asked me what I wanted and what the two men on either side of me wanted. The guy to my left wanted a Vodka and club soda for $4. Jay forgot my order and had to ask again. You would think that a man with a job like Jay's would take pride in remembering the simple orders. Perhaps he should get a system. Jay is not nearly as attractive as Cindy was. Jay is bald and with his eyes about 1/2 way down his head, I wanted to draw another more pleasing face on all that exposed skin above his eyes. Cindy did not have a mustache. She did have the beginning of a new chin. I suppose she was an extremely attractive women when she was slightly younger. I did not like her hair. While it was not obviously dyed it was one of those hair cuts like all the Hollywood actress sport--- I think of it as deliberate messiness. Evidently the white haired man who was wearing the blue blazer, tan pants and loafers who seemed to be manufactured in some Ivy league school found Cindy attractive. She went through the first class cabin and asked if anyone wanted an additional drink. While I could have had Courvoisier Cognac, I passed up the chance in favor of a Pepsi. She brought it to me about 15 minutes later. She was speaking to her potential sugar daddy and forgot all about me. She gave me a nice smile and said she was sorry. I guess that was enough for me

As you can see I am still reliving the glory of my first class life. These dried up little runts of pretzels do not compare to my first class nuts.

Back to Icy Sparks..

Growing Inside

5-4-1

5-4-01
I gravitate toward Borders on my compressed Fridays. It is as if I expect all the wonderful books to infuse their spirit into my soul...or could it be that I just want a cup of cappuccino. There are wonderful reading chairs here. There are many people to watch and describe.

There are two young guys sitting on the couch reading magazines and talking. One is reading "Draft" magazine; the other is reading "Biking." What is "Draft" magazine? Since there is no military draft, it cannot be about ways to avoid the draft and travel to Canada to avoid the war. Maybe it is about Beer. Making Beer? No, it must be about drinking beer from the looks of the guy reading it. Damn, they left. Now I will have to do my descriptions by memory. The "Draft" reader had a big head, big arms and big legs. I thought this guy shouldn't be wearing shorts. His head moved around when he talked; not as much as Stevie Wonder's wandering head when he sings. I think he used to be very tall; but something happened, a big weight descended on him and now he is compact-- fat---and sausage legged. He also has a line of dark eyes, deep set, almost as if the two eyes make a single eye slit. I don't remember much about his friend who read the biking magazine. He wore a baseball cap, deeply curved brim. He seemed no different than a hundred other young fairly good looking guys. He probably thought he looked cool. I hate the mind set of people that say good is to look like a model. I prefer people who look different than the "model" look.


Writing Prompts.
I am trying to remember what the writing prompt is for today. My memory.... no really my attention span... is not good. This is the biggest problem for me in becoming a writer. If you do not observe deeply, how can you writer. You see my attention to the purpose of writing for May 4th has wandered. I think it had something to do with thanking god. Whoa, hot button issue here. I get all riled up on this issue. I think it stems from a strong negative reaction to my Catholic youth. I was going to be a saint. Life was a simple test to see if you could get into heaven. I remember the peace of my unquestioning faith. The quiet times in church when I reflected on the goodness of god. It is too bad that I have lost all that. Reason has led me to believe that god cannot exist... al least not in the way I knew God when I was young. I know Jas and I have had some correspondence about this. And I think we agree to disagree. My simple argument is this:
God is all powerful
God is all good
God is all knowing

If that is so, how can God let things like the massacres in Rwanda between Hutu and Tutsi happen. Since he is all knowing, he would know it is happening. Since he is all good, he would know that it is a bad thing for people to massacre other people because the one is different than the other. . Since he is all powerful, he could prevent it. Yet, it happened.

Then there are different religions. Hey, your writing prompt got me started on this. I have the time and energy to do so. So you have to suffer through my thoughts on this issue. How can there be Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland who hate each other so much that they will blow each other up. The same can be said for Israelis and Arabs. ... then back through history.... the crusades, the Catholics ignoring the holocaust in WWII, my brother's death, my niece's murder.... Sorry, now I am babbling.

I am going back to reading Daughter of Fortune. Here it is the fifth month and I have only read two and a half books.

I am sorry that books on tape don't count. Then I would be over my book a month goal.