Fourteen days is a long time to be absent. Two weeks of non-communication and silence. Do I apologize? Do I list my reasons, my excuses? Do I stop altogether or slink back and offer up my belly in submission? Or do I simply pick up where I left off and continue?
I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.
I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.
So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.
I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.
They say you should be careful what you wish for, and perhaps this can be applied to that which we hope to win. Be that as it may, I desire a writing life and so I am embarking on the journey, risking and writing in order to win it, a writer's life.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Little Fiction for You
The following is based on a writing prompt about 2 women in a cafe' talking. I'm searching for a title - What do you think I should call it?
“You know, I really don’t know what to do,” Sheila said as she dragged her finger through the condensation on her water glass.
Marie looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed with concern. “Okay, but you do have to do something. Anything.” She picked up her own water glass and took a long swallow then set it back down. “I mean, even if all you do is walk in and look him in the eye, steady for ten seconds, you know, hold your ground, well, then that’s something. Right?” She raised her eyebrows in an effort to look positive, even though she wasn’t, and supportive, even though she felt completely used up.
Sheila took a deep breath and let it out. “Look him in the eye,” she muttered. “For ten seconds. Hold my ground.” She snorted. “Maybe.”
A waitress walked over to their table, her fifty-something hair and make-up arriving a second ahead of her. “Ladies?” she said and gave them a well practiced, worn out smile. “My name is Estelle. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Cob salad, hold the egg, exchange the bacon for turkey bacon, house dressing on the side,” Marie replied without giving the woman a second look.
“Advice,” Sheila said and flushed as soon as the word was out of her mouth.
Estelle stopped writing Marie’s order on her pad and tilted her head to regard Shelia. “Man, money, love, job, dog, what?” sbe asked.
Sheila swallowed. “Yes.”
Estelle blinked. “He got money?”
“No.”
“Got a job?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Dog listen to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy then, honey. Kick the man to the curb and keep the dog. The dog knows what side his bread’s buttered on. You feed him, give him a good home, teach him who he can count on and watch how he keeps that man out of your house.”
“The dog’s a female.”
“Makes no never mind. Better even. She knows what you goin’ through. She’s been watchin’”
“I told her to stare him in the eye,” Marie put in. “For at least ten seconds.”
Estelle looked at Marie and nodded, then she turned back to Sheila. “Your friend’s right. Stand your ground. Nothing like long hard eye contact to put men and dogs in their place. They get that. Makes sense to them.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at those staring games. My eyes water the moment I try.”
“Look,” Estelle said and put her hands on her hips, boney, sharp things that poked out from her waist like armor. “Is he gonna stay if you do nothin’?”
“Probably,” Sheila replied softly.
“Oh, you know he will, Sheila!” Marie snapped, her limit nearly reached.
“That what you want? Him around all the time? Loafin’? Eatin’ your food? Messin’ your house? Addin’ to your list of things to be done every day and not helpin’?”
Sheila stared at the waitress and shook her head.
“Then you’re gonna have to do it. Otherwise he’s gonna fester in your soul.”
Sheila’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “He’s…he’s…he’s my son. He could never fester…”
The waitress rolled her eyes. “Honey, even the good ones can fester. You made him a good home, sounds like. Too good. He don’t want to leave. You got to be like a mother hawk. Push him outta the nest and make him fly. Stand your ground on the edge of your home and dare him to settle back down there.”
“Oh Sheila, the woman’s right. Kick him out already.”
“Pack his bags," Estelle continued. "Put them outside, walk him to the front door, hand the boy $300 and push him out. You stand in that doorway, you and that dog, and you look him in the eye and dare him to come back in. Tell him you love him. More now than the day he was born. But he was born, his rent on your body was done after nine months and he was out. Now he’s…”
“Thirty-two,” Marie sighed and shook her head.
Estelle looked down at Sheila and gave her a serious once-over. “The man’s thirty-two and you’re still taken care of him. Now that’s enough, honey. You tell him you love him, but you and the dog got things to do, people to see, and places to go, and so does he. It’s time for him to fly the nest and make something of himself. Then you stand there and you don’t let him back in your house. Stare him. And watch how that dog backs you up like nobody’s business. Cause she knows. She knows what he’s doin’ and I bet my paycheck she don’t like it either.”
“You know what?” Marie scooted her chair back and reached down for her purse. “Forget the salad,” she said, and pulled her wallet out and rifled through the bills tucked inside. “Here.” She slid a fifty across the table toward the waitress. “That should cover your time.” She turned to the other woman. “Sheila, get up.” She snapped the wallet shut and shoved it back into her purse. “Come on. Get up. I’ve had enough of this.” She reached over and dragged Sheila up out of her chair.
“Marie, wait.”
“No. No more waiting. I’ve spent years waiting for you to do this. Years, Sheila. I love you, but I’ve just about had it. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake.” She shook her head hard when Sheila tried to speak. “No. He’s your son, I know, but he’s my nephew and I can’t stand to watch him do this stupid thing to either of you any more.” She pulled Sheila in by the arm and pointed at Estelle. “The woman is right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. Enough is enough. I’m taking you home and we’re packing him out of there.” She turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.”
Estelle nodded, smiled. “Certainly.”
Sheila blinked and whispered, “Thank you,” as Marie escorted her out of the café.
Estelle looked down at the fifty lying on the table. She reached out and tried to touch it. Her fingers passed right through the bill, left it rocking ever so slightly in the ethereal breeze of her translucent fingers. “Certainly,” she said again.
She put her pad back in her pocket and turned away, walked past a young waitress keying in orders at a side kiosk and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The girl turned and looked around but no one was there. She glanced at the table she had just seated and saw that the two older women were gone.
“Hey, Shelly,” she called to the other young woman waiting tables. “Table seven’s vacated.”
“Great. I needed that table.”
Shelly finished serving her customers and then went to clear the used water glasses and wet napkins. The fifty was resting against one of the glasses, the edge of it wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.
“Holy crap,” she whispered and then added “Thank you,” to no one in particular.
“Certainly.”
She turned around, but no one was there.
~ ~ ~
“You know, I really don’t know what to do,” Sheila said as she dragged her finger through the condensation on her water glass.
Marie looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed with concern. “Okay, but you do have to do something. Anything.” She picked up her own water glass and took a long swallow then set it back down. “I mean, even if all you do is walk in and look him in the eye, steady for ten seconds, you know, hold your ground, well, then that’s something. Right?” She raised her eyebrows in an effort to look positive, even though she wasn’t, and supportive, even though she felt completely used up.
Sheila took a deep breath and let it out. “Look him in the eye,” she muttered. “For ten seconds. Hold my ground.” She snorted. “Maybe.”
A waitress walked over to their table, her fifty-something hair and make-up arriving a second ahead of her. “Ladies?” she said and gave them a well practiced, worn out smile. “My name is Estelle. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Cob salad, hold the egg, exchange the bacon for turkey bacon, house dressing on the side,” Marie replied without giving the woman a second look.
“Advice,” Sheila said and flushed as soon as the word was out of her mouth.
Estelle stopped writing Marie’s order on her pad and tilted her head to regard Shelia. “Man, money, love, job, dog, what?” sbe asked.
Sheila swallowed. “Yes.”
Estelle blinked. “He got money?”
“No.”
“Got a job?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Dog listen to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy then, honey. Kick the man to the curb and keep the dog. The dog knows what side his bread’s buttered on. You feed him, give him a good home, teach him who he can count on and watch how he keeps that man out of your house.”
“The dog’s a female.”
“Makes no never mind. Better even. She knows what you goin’ through. She’s been watchin’”
“I told her to stare him in the eye,” Marie put in. “For at least ten seconds.”
Estelle looked at Marie and nodded, then she turned back to Sheila. “Your friend’s right. Stand your ground. Nothing like long hard eye contact to put men and dogs in their place. They get that. Makes sense to them.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at those staring games. My eyes water the moment I try.”
“Look,” Estelle said and put her hands on her hips, boney, sharp things that poked out from her waist like armor. “Is he gonna stay if you do nothin’?”
“Probably,” Sheila replied softly.
“Oh, you know he will, Sheila!” Marie snapped, her limit nearly reached.
“That what you want? Him around all the time? Loafin’? Eatin’ your food? Messin’ your house? Addin’ to your list of things to be done every day and not helpin’?”
Sheila stared at the waitress and shook her head.
“Then you’re gonna have to do it. Otherwise he’s gonna fester in your soul.”
Sheila’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “He’s…he’s…he’s my son. He could never fester…”
The waitress rolled her eyes. “Honey, even the good ones can fester. You made him a good home, sounds like. Too good. He don’t want to leave. You got to be like a mother hawk. Push him outta the nest and make him fly. Stand your ground on the edge of your home and dare him to settle back down there.”
“Oh Sheila, the woman’s right. Kick him out already.”
“Pack his bags," Estelle continued. "Put them outside, walk him to the front door, hand the boy $300 and push him out. You stand in that doorway, you and that dog, and you look him in the eye and dare him to come back in. Tell him you love him. More now than the day he was born. But he was born, his rent on your body was done after nine months and he was out. Now he’s…”
“Thirty-two,” Marie sighed and shook her head.
Estelle looked down at Sheila and gave her a serious once-over. “The man’s thirty-two and you’re still taken care of him. Now that’s enough, honey. You tell him you love him, but you and the dog got things to do, people to see, and places to go, and so does he. It’s time for him to fly the nest and make something of himself. Then you stand there and you don’t let him back in your house. Stare him. And watch how that dog backs you up like nobody’s business. Cause she knows. She knows what he’s doin’ and I bet my paycheck she don’t like it either.”
“You know what?” Marie scooted her chair back and reached down for her purse. “Forget the salad,” she said, and pulled her wallet out and rifled through the bills tucked inside. “Here.” She slid a fifty across the table toward the waitress. “That should cover your time.” She turned to the other woman. “Sheila, get up.” She snapped the wallet shut and shoved it back into her purse. “Come on. Get up. I’ve had enough of this.” She reached over and dragged Sheila up out of her chair.
“Marie, wait.”
“No. No more waiting. I’ve spent years waiting for you to do this. Years, Sheila. I love you, but I’ve just about had it. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake.” She shook her head hard when Sheila tried to speak. “No. He’s your son, I know, but he’s my nephew and I can’t stand to watch him do this stupid thing to either of you any more.” She pulled Sheila in by the arm and pointed at Estelle. “The woman is right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. Enough is enough. I’m taking you home and we’re packing him out of there.” She turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.”
Estelle nodded, smiled. “Certainly.”
Sheila blinked and whispered, “Thank you,” as Marie escorted her out of the café.
Estelle looked down at the fifty lying on the table. She reached out and tried to touch it. Her fingers passed right through the bill, left it rocking ever so slightly in the ethereal breeze of her translucent fingers. “Certainly,” she said again.
She put her pad back in her pocket and turned away, walked past a young waitress keying in orders at a side kiosk and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The girl turned and looked around but no one was there. She glanced at the table she had just seated and saw that the two older women were gone.
“Hey, Shelly,” she called to the other young woman waiting tables. “Table seven’s vacated.”
“Great. I needed that table.”
Shelly finished serving her customers and then went to clear the used water glasses and wet napkins. The fifty was resting against one of the glasses, the edge of it wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.
“Holy crap,” she whispered and then added “Thank you,” to no one in particular.
“Certainly.”
She turned around, but no one was there.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Wonder of 9
It is the 9th second of the 9th minute of the 9th hour of the 9th day of the 9th month in the 9th year of the 21st century. That’s pretty cool. That’s 9 six times, which is 54, and of course 5 + 4 = 9. Did you know that you can do that with products of 9?
2 x 9 = 18 -> 1 + 8 = 9
3 x 9 = 27 -> 2 + 7 = 9
7 x 9 = 63 -> 6 + 3 = 9
23 x 9 = 207 -> 2 + 0 + 7 = 9
368 x 9 = 3312 -> 3 + 3 + 1 + 2 = 9
And did you know, assuming you are in possession of two healthy hands with all their digits, that you can do the nines tables, 1- 9, on your hands? Try it…
1 x 9 -> Hold your hands up in front of you, fingers spread wide, palms facing out. Bend your left little finger down so that all the other fingers and thumbs are still spread out and visible. Now, starting from the left, count the number of fingers/thumbs still out -> 9, right? Seems obvious and a bit silly. Now try…
2 x 9 -> Hands out, fingers splayed. Starting from the left,bend the second finger in (this represents the #2 in the problem). This should be your left ring finger. Now, how many fingers are still extended to the LEFT of this bent finger?
1
How many fingers are still extended to the RIGHT of the bent finger?
8
Put these two numbers beside each other and you get 18. 2 x 9 = 18. Cool, huh?
Try 5 x 9.
Hands out, fingers spread, count 5 in from the left and bend that finger. Count the number of fingers to the LEFT of the bent finger.
4
Count the number of fingers to the RIGHT.
5
Put the two numbers side by side and you get…
45
5 x 9 = 45
Are you back now? Come on. We all know you just took a small break from reading this to do the rest of the 9s tables on your hands. It’s fine. Seriously. It’s all good. Mostly because 9 is cool.
Look at how 9 shows up. There are 9 months in a normal school year – many of which are divided up into 9 week quarters. It takes 9 months to build a human baby, and, in some cases, 9 minutes to send in the “troops” to get the baby started in the first place.
We dress “to the nines”, a favorite medieval weapon of choice was the cat-o-nine-tails, and don’t forget those felines and their famous “nine lives”. They may need them, of course, while evading their historic nemesis the K-9.
There are 9 innings in a standard baseball game, during which we might end up on “cloud 9” while day dreaming about dancing to “Love Potion Number 9” as we “party like it’s 1999”.
There are 9 Supreme Court Justices and 9 circles of Hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy. And while I haven’t purposefully placed them this way, I imagine there are days when those justices feel like they must be somewhere among those nine circles.
Last, but hardly least, as a writer and artist I would be remiss if I failed to mention that there are 9 Muses to lend us mere mortals their creative influence and silliness.
(The title of this piece and these words exempted, there are 585 words total written here.
5 + 8 + 5 = 18.
1 + 8 = yes, you guessed it, 9.
~ Peace and fun)
2 x 9 = 18 -> 1 + 8 = 9
3 x 9 = 27 -> 2 + 7 = 9
7 x 9 = 63 -> 6 + 3 = 9
23 x 9 = 207 -> 2 + 0 + 7 = 9
368 x 9 = 3312 -> 3 + 3 + 1 + 2 = 9
And did you know, assuming you are in possession of two healthy hands with all their digits, that you can do the nines tables, 1- 9, on your hands? Try it…
1 x 9 -> Hold your hands up in front of you, fingers spread wide, palms facing out. Bend your left little finger down so that all the other fingers and thumbs are still spread out and visible. Now, starting from the left, count the number of fingers/thumbs still out -> 9, right? Seems obvious and a bit silly. Now try…
2 x 9 -> Hands out, fingers splayed. Starting from the left,bend the second finger in (this represents the #2 in the problem). This should be your left ring finger. Now, how many fingers are still extended to the LEFT of this bent finger?
1
How many fingers are still extended to the RIGHT of the bent finger?
8
Put these two numbers beside each other and you get 18. 2 x 9 = 18. Cool, huh?
Try 5 x 9.
Hands out, fingers spread, count 5 in from the left and bend that finger. Count the number of fingers to the LEFT of the bent finger.
4
Count the number of fingers to the RIGHT.
5
Put the two numbers side by side and you get…
45
5 x 9 = 45
Are you back now? Come on. We all know you just took a small break from reading this to do the rest of the 9s tables on your hands. It’s fine. Seriously. It’s all good. Mostly because 9 is cool.
Look at how 9 shows up. There are 9 months in a normal school year – many of which are divided up into 9 week quarters. It takes 9 months to build a human baby, and, in some cases, 9 minutes to send in the “troops” to get the baby started in the first place.
We dress “to the nines”, a favorite medieval weapon of choice was the cat-o-nine-tails, and don’t forget those felines and their famous “nine lives”. They may need them, of course, while evading their historic nemesis the K-9.
There are 9 innings in a standard baseball game, during which we might end up on “cloud 9” while day dreaming about dancing to “Love Potion Number 9” as we “party like it’s 1999”.
There are 9 Supreme Court Justices and 9 circles of Hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy. And while I haven’t purposefully placed them this way, I imagine there are days when those justices feel like they must be somewhere among those nine circles.
Last, but hardly least, as a writer and artist I would be remiss if I failed to mention that there are 9 Muses to lend us mere mortals their creative influence and silliness.
(The title of this piece and these words exempted, there are 585 words total written here.
5 + 8 + 5 = 18.
1 + 8 = yes, you guessed it, 9.
~ Peace and fun)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Advance Across the Lawn
When I open the front door they are there, line upon line of black-coated soldiers, advancing across my neighbor’s lawn, moving north into mine. Looking south I can see no end to their ranks. Their numbers seem endless, their forward movement unencumbered by the dips in the ground, the trees, the gas light. They are searching, heads tilted toward the ground then to the right, now left. Occasionally one looks up, another turns and faces me as I stand there watching in a confused silence as they march. Sharp faces, bright eyes, sleek uniforms all.
It takes a moment for me to realize that even the house is no obstacle to their mission. Scouting parties scramble along the steep incline, tossing debris from the gutters. It snows twigs and leaves and dust past my door.
I’ve hidden nothing, I think. There’s nothing up there to find. Nothing anyone would want. Nothing of value.
One of them stops and stares at me, looks hard with his sharp eyes while his comrades shower my front step with more gutter litter. I close my open mouth, swallow and hope it doesn't make me look guilty. A mercenary, his uniform a drab brown and beige camouflage, stops and regards me, regards my innocence. He glances at the soldier in black and then continues on, as if to say – “Leave the questioning of civilians to the officers; I’ve other stones to turn”.
The officer glances skyward, receives some sort of communication from the soldiers on the roof. He gives me no second glance after that, but turns north and resumes his march. The relief I feel in my stomach is enough to make me feel I really have hidden something from them. I’m no criminal. There’s nothing here for me to hide. It’s all legal and mine.
I start to count them, the soldiers and mercenaries pushing the frontline north through my yard. Twenty. Thirty. Six on the roof. Now I see ten in the tree. How did that happen? Slowly I step back from the storm door, slide my left foot behind the heavy oak front door and begin to ease it shut. Every time one of them snaps his gaze on me I stiffen, freeze, wait until he looks away.
I’m no criminal! There’s nothing hidden here! I want to shout, but I don’t. Instead I slowly close the door and then I run. I run for the sitting room and the box tucked in the back of the closet. I jerk it carelessly out from under the blankets piled on top to save it from casual notice. I work the latch with frenzied fingers.
Hurry! Get it out! Now!
The latch gives and I am in. I snatch the camera out, pull it tight to my chest and run to the living room window. The soldiers are still marching. There seems to be no end to their ranks, their continuous forward motion. I pinch the edges of the lens cover and remove it, press the power button, and raise the camera to my eye. The soldiers look so small in the viewfinder and I cannot decide which area to photograph first, swinging my head from side to side, turning the camera on end and then back. I take too long and the battery powers down. I press the shutter release, regain the electric image, and see the ranks pull their shoulders in, gather themselves and leap, as a single unit, as one organism, into the air and fly. All of them. Even the mercenaries. Someone across the street has slammed a car door, the sound like a gunshot in the early morning, and has sent them fleeing.
Branches bob from the power of their departure; dead leaves and dust float down from my gutters. All I can do is stare, open mouthed, out my window and scan my side of the street. They are gone. Not a single one is left behind. Not on the ground, nor in the trees, nor on my roof. Except for the camera in my hand and the image seared into my mind’s eye of one hundred grackles and starlings marching north across my lawn, it is a normal early morning.
It takes a moment for me to realize that even the house is no obstacle to their mission. Scouting parties scramble along the steep incline, tossing debris from the gutters. It snows twigs and leaves and dust past my door.
I’ve hidden nothing, I think. There’s nothing up there to find. Nothing anyone would want. Nothing of value.
One of them stops and stares at me, looks hard with his sharp eyes while his comrades shower my front step with more gutter litter. I close my open mouth, swallow and hope it doesn't make me look guilty. A mercenary, his uniform a drab brown and beige camouflage, stops and regards me, regards my innocence. He glances at the soldier in black and then continues on, as if to say – “Leave the questioning of civilians to the officers; I’ve other stones to turn”.
The officer glances skyward, receives some sort of communication from the soldiers on the roof. He gives me no second glance after that, but turns north and resumes his march. The relief I feel in my stomach is enough to make me feel I really have hidden something from them. I’m no criminal. There’s nothing here for me to hide. It’s all legal and mine.
I start to count them, the soldiers and mercenaries pushing the frontline north through my yard. Twenty. Thirty. Six on the roof. Now I see ten in the tree. How did that happen? Slowly I step back from the storm door, slide my left foot behind the heavy oak front door and begin to ease it shut. Every time one of them snaps his gaze on me I stiffen, freeze, wait until he looks away.
I’m no criminal! There’s nothing hidden here! I want to shout, but I don’t. Instead I slowly close the door and then I run. I run for the sitting room and the box tucked in the back of the closet. I jerk it carelessly out from under the blankets piled on top to save it from casual notice. I work the latch with frenzied fingers.
Hurry! Get it out! Now!
The latch gives and I am in. I snatch the camera out, pull it tight to my chest and run to the living room window. The soldiers are still marching. There seems to be no end to their ranks, their continuous forward motion. I pinch the edges of the lens cover and remove it, press the power button, and raise the camera to my eye. The soldiers look so small in the viewfinder and I cannot decide which area to photograph first, swinging my head from side to side, turning the camera on end and then back. I take too long and the battery powers down. I press the shutter release, regain the electric image, and see the ranks pull their shoulders in, gather themselves and leap, as a single unit, as one organism, into the air and fly. All of them. Even the mercenaries. Someone across the street has slammed a car door, the sound like a gunshot in the early morning, and has sent them fleeing.
Branches bob from the power of their departure; dead leaves and dust float down from my gutters. All I can do is stare, open mouthed, out my window and scan my side of the street. They are gone. Not a single one is left behind. Not on the ground, nor in the trees, nor on my roof. Except for the camera in my hand and the image seared into my mind’s eye of one hundred grackles and starlings marching north across my lawn, it is a normal early morning.
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