I looked at Lizette. Her head was on the small pillow raised against the window; irregular lines of hair rested on her neck. The bus was behind schedule, and I wondered if Lizette was sleeping or just watching headlights breaking through falling snow. "Lizette," I said. "Liz." She didn't move. I touched her hair, and it was as soft as any snow. I was reading Stranger in a Strange Land, trying to decide if it was good literature. I once told Liz that I'd always felt like a stranger, but she would have none of it. "We're all strangers, Rick."
-----
The bus was nearly empty. We had the two seats behind the driver. Rick had wanted to fly, but I'd said there'd be romance in a long bus ride. I knew we'd grown apart, and I thought the ride might rekindle something. It's an old story--young lovers fall heavily for each other, then one of them perceives a change. Maybe I was prolonging things, though, and maybe he knew it. When he touched my hair near Omaha, his finger brushed my neck. I couldn't tell him how it felt--we had to reach South Bend for that to happen.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Perchance to Dream
At about 4:45 this morning, I woke up with this running through my head: My sleep has been troubled as of late. No, really: That sentence was in my fat head.
It's true, of course, though the troubles are not due to insomnia as usual, but to fairly odd, if not thematically and logistically consistent dreams: I am usually out in the mountains somewhere, and I am hiking alone. I am always lost, yet I always see but do not encounter friends and co-workers, though many of those people I have not encountered in many years. In each of these dreams I seem to be searching for something, but there are always physical barriers to my progress--a mountain, a canyon, a river. My wife says that perhaps something is missing from my life, and though I could speculate as to what, I'm not perceptive enough to speculate with confidence.
When I was a kid, and maybe I mentioned at some other point in this blog, I would wake up in the morning not just talking in my sleep, but actually writing books verbally. Talking aloud and writing books--go figure!
Not long ago I actually did start a new book, and it felt good to be writing something again. I am fairly void of original ideas these days, at least where fiction is concerned, so I'll take anything. Here's the first sentence of the new book:
Ay, there's the rub....
It's true, of course, though the troubles are not due to insomnia as usual, but to fairly odd, if not thematically and logistically consistent dreams: I am usually out in the mountains somewhere, and I am hiking alone. I am always lost, yet I always see but do not encounter friends and co-workers, though many of those people I have not encountered in many years. In each of these dreams I seem to be searching for something, but there are always physical barriers to my progress--a mountain, a canyon, a river. My wife says that perhaps something is missing from my life, and though I could speculate as to what, I'm not perceptive enough to speculate with confidence.
When I was a kid, and maybe I mentioned at some other point in this blog, I would wake up in the morning not just talking in my sleep, but actually writing books verbally. Talking aloud and writing books--go figure!
Not long ago I actually did start a new book, and it felt good to be writing something again. I am fairly void of original ideas these days, at least where fiction is concerned, so I'll take anything. Here's the first sentence of the new book:
I was once very fat.There's more after that--several hundred words, in fact, but they're not ready for display quite yet. I wonder what dreams may come tonight.
Ay, there's the rub....
Friday, November 23, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#4)
It started when I realized that I'm old. Once while watching TV, I glanced across the room to the framed photographs of our grown children. The more the show went on, the more I looked at those photographs. Finally I started crying. Not loud, just some tears that started somewhere deep. One day I walked through the park and saw mothers and kids. The kids were laughing. I should've been happy, but instead I had to sit down and cry. I wish this would stop. I've always been the strong one in the family, so this can't go on.
----
We've been through a lot in our marriage. Not once, though, did she complain. She said she knew that she could always rely on me to be strong. Even when Toby, our son, said he'd had enough of us both, she didn't complain. I told her he would be okay and would come back some day, and he'd realize that we'd all changed for the better. We even separated for a time, but she called me and said she couldn't stay away. That was after Toby left. Through everything, I've been as strong as anyone could be. She seems happy.
----
We've been through a lot in our marriage. Not once, though, did she complain. She said she knew that she could always rely on me to be strong. Even when Toby, our son, said he'd had enough of us both, she didn't complain. I told her he would be okay and would come back some day, and he'd realize that we'd all changed for the better. We even separated for a time, but she called me and said she couldn't stay away. That was after Toby left. Through everything, I've been as strong as anyone could be. She seems happy.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#14)
His skin was thin, translucent, like ancient parchment under which blue ink was imprinted. When he sat next to me; sunlight through the window made the blue ink beneath his cheek even brighter. As two large women forced their heavy bags into the overhead bins, he seemed amused. Nobody was between us. Later, he declined snacks and beverages, but when the flight attendant brought my ginger ale, he smiled and passed the cup to me, and I felt how cold his hands were. He never spoke. When he slept, his eyebrows lifted slightly, as if he was savoring each breath.
_____
I was used to people staring. I know how I look--fragile, as though something isn't quite right. And things aren't quite right: that nagging pain in my side had quickly turned bad. I knew that the woman sitting in the window seat sensed something. I'd seen her in the airport, how her toenails were painted so beautifully. I'd come to notice such things more over the last ten months of the approximate year they'd given me. I wanted to tell her how wonderful they looked, and to thank her for not pulling away when she felt my cold hands.
_____
I was used to people staring. I know how I look--fragile, as though something isn't quite right. And things aren't quite right: that nagging pain in my side had quickly turned bad. I knew that the woman sitting in the window seat sensed something. I'd seen her in the airport, how her toenails were painted so beautifully. I'd come to notice such things more over the last ten months of the approximate year they'd given me. I wanted to tell her how wonderful they looked, and to thank her for not pulling away when she felt my cold hands.
Friday, November 9, 2012
Chicago: An Epilogue
After a short train ride, too much time in airports, and a couple of plane rides, I return from Chicago. On the final flight, I find myself seated to a woman who is from Ohio, and we spend a few minutes discussing the previous day's presidential election. She says that Mitt Romney seemed absolutely stunned that he'd lost, but that since she had been in charge of "counting the votes" for years ago, she could have told Romney that he'd lose Ohio. We talk a bit more, and I stop her because I have to clear something up: "So," I say, "does that mean you were Ohio's secretary of state?" We talk about politics a bit more, and then we discuss our children and jobs. She says her oldest daughter attended the Berklee College of Music and, having "the soul of an artist," supports herself as a jazz singer. It's a nice thing, the woman and I agree, to make a living doing what you love to do. And after we land, I show her where to pick up her luggage and where to find a taxi, and I apologize for making her talk shop on the airplane. "It was fun," she says, and I tell her I agree. Then she is off to the Best Western, and I am on my way home.
The day before, election day, started out cool but sunny in Chicago. After breakfast, I walked the city for a few hours, then boarded boat for an architectural tour on the Chicago River. The cool morning had lingered, but the sun had not. Not long after the boat pulled away from the dock, those of us who were seated on the open, top deck were treated to a chilly breeze. I pulled my coat from out of my backpack and put it over my other coat--now fully dressed in pretty much all the warm clothing I'd packed. The tour itself was enjoyable, and the tour guide seemed to know what she was talking about. The longer we cruised, the fewer people remained on the deck--the others had descended to the warm, wind-free interior and were probably drinking hot chocolate purchased from the onboard bar. A light rain--more of a mist--began to fall. "It's only you and me now," the tour guide said, and when I looked around and saw that she was right. My exposed hands and face were cold, but soon enough we were again moored.
After a pizza-and-beer lunch at Pizzeria Due, I stopped in a nearby movie theater to stay warm and dry and to watch the movie Flight, which was enjoyable but also as predictable as the next day's election results. Thematically the script was a bit heavy handed, as well, but I am here to neither praise nor bury a movie.... Outside again, the sun was gone but the drizzle of rain was not. I continued walking, the my water-repellent jacket just repellent enough to keep me dry. Finally, on the gray cusp between melancholy and low blood sugar, I picked up a sandwich in a small grocery store and headed back to my hotel room. Along the way, strolling through Millennium Park, I stopped and used my phone to take this photo:
Later, while watching the election results on TV and eating my sandwich, I thought about the young woman who, the day before, sat down at a table beside me as I ate breakfast. "Anyone sitting here?" she asked. The table she had chosen was large, and I assured her it was empty. She asked if I was from Chicago. She told me about the boat tours on the Chicago River (I didn't tell her I planned to ride such a boat the next day). "You look tired," she said. "I do?" I said. "Yeah, you look tired." I told that I was not, that I was simply old. She then asked if I knew where a certain intersection was, and I said I did not. Next, she asked if I knew where South Bend is. "Indiana," I said. She said she needed eight dollars to get there, that she was leaving an abusive relationship and was kicking a drug habit, so she needed to get to a half-way house in South Bend. "That's where I'll stay until I have the baby," she said, and I was amazed that she'd hit the trifecta. I actually did not have that much money on me, and I told her so. Moments later she was gone, and I kept eating.
I would meet another young woman later that day, someone involved with poetry. Several times since I'd begun walking Chicago, I came across signs and placards announcing the 100th anniversary of the Poetry Foundation, which publishes Poetry. On this day I happened upon the Foundation's offices, where I examined the stacks and stacks of books--all poetry. I photographed some of the stacks and sent the photo to one of my writer-friends, and we both had the same reaction: the place reminded us of the poetry library we had, at different times, discovered in Edinburgh, Scotland.. The woman I ended up speaking to gave me a bit of history about the Foundation (much of which I knew). When I asked how she'd come to work there, she said that a year or so earlier she had finished her MFA at Chicago's Columbia College, and the Foundation needed someone, and....well, that's the story. I would think of her again when the woman on the plane told me about her jazz-singing daughter.
All in all, I suppose the trip was uneventful, though being somewhere other than a cubicle is always good. There were other people I encountered but did not meet: the two men talking advertising strategy in a coffee shop; the three men talking about education and world travel at a cafe; the group of workers (whom I imagined to be doing something creative) seated around a large table, talking and reviewing something displayed on a large screen.
It is good to get out, to see and hear things, to challenge myopia and provincialism. Then again, it can be quite dangerous.
The day before, election day, started out cool but sunny in Chicago. After breakfast, I walked the city for a few hours, then boarded boat for an architectural tour on the Chicago River. The cool morning had lingered, but the sun had not. Not long after the boat pulled away from the dock, those of us who were seated on the open, top deck were treated to a chilly breeze. I pulled my coat from out of my backpack and put it over my other coat--now fully dressed in pretty much all the warm clothing I'd packed. The tour itself was enjoyable, and the tour guide seemed to know what she was talking about. The longer we cruised, the fewer people remained on the deck--the others had descended to the warm, wind-free interior and were probably drinking hot chocolate purchased from the onboard bar. A light rain--more of a mist--began to fall. "It's only you and me now," the tour guide said, and when I looked around and saw that she was right. My exposed hands and face were cold, but soon enough we were again moored.
After a pizza-and-beer lunch at Pizzeria Due, I stopped in a nearby movie theater to stay warm and dry and to watch the movie Flight, which was enjoyable but also as predictable as the next day's election results. Thematically the script was a bit heavy handed, as well, but I am here to neither praise nor bury a movie.... Outside again, the sun was gone but the drizzle of rain was not. I continued walking, the my water-repellent jacket just repellent enough to keep me dry. Finally, on the gray cusp between melancholy and low blood sugar, I picked up a sandwich in a small grocery store and headed back to my hotel room. Along the way, strolling through Millennium Park, I stopped and used my phone to take this photo:
I would meet another young woman later that day, someone involved with poetry. Several times since I'd begun walking Chicago, I came across signs and placards announcing the 100th anniversary of the Poetry Foundation, which publishes Poetry. On this day I happened upon the Foundation's offices, where I examined the stacks and stacks of books--all poetry. I photographed some of the stacks and sent the photo to one of my writer-friends, and we both had the same reaction: the place reminded us of the poetry library we had, at different times, discovered in Edinburgh, Scotland.. The woman I ended up speaking to gave me a bit of history about the Foundation (much of which I knew). When I asked how she'd come to work there, she said that a year or so earlier she had finished her MFA at Chicago's Columbia College, and the Foundation needed someone, and....well, that's the story. I would think of her again when the woman on the plane told me about her jazz-singing daughter.
All in all, I suppose the trip was uneventful, though being somewhere other than a cubicle is always good. There were other people I encountered but did not meet: the two men talking advertising strategy in a coffee shop; the three men talking about education and world travel at a cafe; the group of workers (whom I imagined to be doing something creative) seated around a large table, talking and reviewing something displayed on a large screen.
It is good to get out, to see and hear things, to challenge myopia and provincialism. Then again, it can be quite dangerous.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Chicago
Yesterday involved 2 airplanes, one train, and a many blocks of city hiking before I checked into my Chicago hotel room, a good stone's throw from the Chicago River, a short walk to the site of where Fort Dearborn once stood. I am, I believe, approximately 60 miles from what I call my hometown, though I am a couple thousand miles from my home.
It is good to be traveling again, to be someplace where the voices and the horizon and the energy are all different from the everyday.
After checking into the hotel, I rested for half an hour before north up Michigan Avenue, then west and north and south and east on streets I do not remember right now. I found a Trader Joe's and bought a bottle of wine, though I would not find a corkscrew until late this afternoon, and then had dinner at the Billy Goat Tavern, a place you don't write home about unless you know the history of the place. I walked until my legs ached, and then I walked some more to get back to the hotel, where I watched the local news and and then slept poorly until this morning.
What I thought was early this morning I climbed out of bed, laced my running shoes to my feet, and ran south on Michigan Avenue until I had to stop at barricades set up for the Hot Chocolate run. I thought about joining the runners, but had visions of Rosie Ruiz so I instead turned west then north and I think south again before turning east to get back to the hotel. After showering and resting, I headed eagerly for the nearby Corner Bakery Cafe, one of my traditional breakfast spots. Inside, though, were dozens of parents and kids apparently hoping for a healthy breakfast, so I walked some more and settled on an Einstein Brothers Bagels.
After breakfast, it was time to walk some more, and I found the finish line for the Hot Chocolate run, where I took this interesting photo of what the runners left behind:
I then made my way to a CVS pharmacy where I bought bandages for a bothersome blister that has formed on the third toe of my right foot. Funny: nearly a week of backpacking not long ago and my feet came away unscathed. Now, not even 2 days of walking in Chicago and I wince with every other step.
I took a photo of berries on a bare tree...
I took some photos of moving objects...
...and photographed different shapes and textures.
After several hours of wandering, I made my way to the Rock Bottom Brewery, which I believe also has an establishment in Portland, Oregon, and where I think I've been. When I got back to my room, I removed my shoe and sock toAfter returning to my hotel room and spending a couple hours there, I set out again after dark just to stretch my legs.
Now, I'm doing this and reviewing what truly was a fairly mundane, uneventful day. But, I am here, and in some places the mundane and the uneventful go a long way.
It is good to be traveling again, to be someplace where the voices and the horizon and the energy are all different from the everyday.
After checking into the hotel, I rested for half an hour before north up Michigan Avenue, then west and north and south and east on streets I do not remember right now. I found a Trader Joe's and bought a bottle of wine, though I would not find a corkscrew until late this afternoon, and then had dinner at the Billy Goat Tavern, a place you don't write home about unless you know the history of the place. I walked until my legs ached, and then I walked some more to get back to the hotel, where I watched the local news and and then slept poorly until this morning.
What I thought was early this morning I climbed out of bed, laced my running shoes to my feet, and ran south on Michigan Avenue until I had to stop at barricades set up for the Hot Chocolate run. I thought about joining the runners, but had visions of Rosie Ruiz so I instead turned west then north and I think south again before turning east to get back to the hotel. After showering and resting, I headed eagerly for the nearby Corner Bakery Cafe, one of my traditional breakfast spots. Inside, though, were dozens of parents and kids apparently hoping for a healthy breakfast, so I walked some more and settled on an Einstein Brothers Bagels.
After breakfast, it was time to walk some more, and I found the finish line for the Hot Chocolate run, where I took this interesting photo of what the runners left behind:
I then made my way to a CVS pharmacy where I bought bandages for a bothersome blister that has formed on the third toe of my right foot. Funny: nearly a week of backpacking not long ago and my feet came away unscathed. Now, not even 2 days of walking in Chicago and I wince with every other step.
I took a photo of berries on a bare tree...
I took some photos of moving objects...
...and photographed different shapes and textures.
After several hours of wandering, I made my way to the Rock Bottom Brewery, which I believe also has an establishment in Portland, Oregon, and where I think I've been. When I got back to my room, I removed my shoe and sock toAfter returning to my hotel room and spending a couple hours there, I set out again after dark just to stretch my legs.
Now, I'm doing this and reviewing what truly was a fairly mundane, uneventful day. But, I am here, and in some places the mundane and the uneventful go a long way.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Where I'll Be
A week from today I'll be making flying Southwest airlines to Chicago. Southwest is letting me fly for free, though it is also making me use the flight by mid-November. An Illinois winter can be chilly and cold, but I've worked hard to not label weather as either "good" or "bad"--it just is. I'd prefer dry weather, but I've been there before and gotten drenched by late-night rains. I once had to duck into store on North Michigan Avenue to buy what turned out to be the last raincoat on the rack. When I stepped outside again I stood beneath an awning and enjoyed the rain and the thunder and the lightning.
During most trips to my home state, I also manage a stop in my hometown, which is a 2-hour train ride from Chicago proper. I once even dragged Kominski there, and we visited the now-defunct Dick Tracy museum. Chester Gould, the man who created Dick Tracy, lived in my hometown for awhile. On this upcoming trip, however, I'm not sure I'll want to spend over 4 hours on a train just to visit a small town in which there aren't many attractions.
As usual when I travel, I have no detailed itinerary. Instead, I tend to wander awhile and consider my options. I found this to work even in Europe, though on each visit there I did have general ideas of what I wanted to see and do. I probably end up missing some of what people believe are the important places, but as I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere, sometimes the turn down a random street leads to the best discoveries.
Regardless of the weather and the lack of a plan, the trip will be good--god willing and the river don't rise, anyway.
During most trips to my home state, I also manage a stop in my hometown, which is a 2-hour train ride from Chicago proper. I once even dragged Kominski there, and we visited the now-defunct Dick Tracy museum. Chester Gould, the man who created Dick Tracy, lived in my hometown for awhile. On this upcoming trip, however, I'm not sure I'll want to spend over 4 hours on a train just to visit a small town in which there aren't many attractions.
As usual when I travel, I have no detailed itinerary. Instead, I tend to wander awhile and consider my options. I found this to work even in Europe, though on each visit there I did have general ideas of what I wanted to see and do. I probably end up missing some of what people believe are the important places, but as I'm sure I've mentioned elsewhere, sometimes the turn down a random street leads to the best discoveries.
Regardless of the weather and the lack of a plan, the trip will be good--god willing and the river don't rise, anyway.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Where I Am
A year ago today I started the morning with a hot pasty I bought at a small shop near the Earl's Court tube station in London. Later, I spent a few hours at the Tower of London, which was interesting but seems to have been transformed to a crowd more suited, even accustomed, to Disneyland.
Today, though, I am not there. Instead, I am sitting at home drinking hot tea and getting ready to floss my teeth. This, assuredly, is living life to its fullest.
I have been spending a lot of time lately contemplating work--not the word's denotation, but in regard to how I make my living. I used to say I sat in a cubicle and did things, but through part design and part personal choice, I can barely say that: A recent corporate reorganization gave many of us the opportunity to telecommute most of the time, while others can do so all of the time. The company gave us the hardware we need for such a thing, but in return we had to give up our own, personal cubicles.
As with most corporate reorganizations, this most recent one was couched in terms of being better for the company, better for the employees (though over 1000 of them were laid off), better for the customers. Mostly, I think, this is hogwash: I'm old enough and cynical enough and jaded enough to see that it is usually only a handful of people--mostly executives--who benefit from such things. But, to the victor go the spoils, and I do not begrudge one executive or another who seeks his or her own fiefdom.
This reorganization shares a common vocabulary with so many others: synergy, leverage, maximize. My friend Kominski has documented much of this vocabulary, even the grander corporate language that he and I have heard in the nearly 3 decades we have known each other. And this language, in some ways, is meant to excite those of us who remain. But--and I again lay some blame on my age--getting excited about work is getting to be more...work. The company that employs me is perfectly fine as an entity, and the people I interact with are friendly, pleasant, and talented. But, at the end of the week, I essentially produce nothing of value to anyone. There is no synergy; I am not leveraging anything; nothing is being maximized.
Being within the Tower of London again might not be so bad.
Today, though, I am not there. Instead, I am sitting at home drinking hot tea and getting ready to floss my teeth. This, assuredly, is living life to its fullest.
I have been spending a lot of time lately contemplating work--not the word's denotation, but in regard to how I make my living. I used to say I sat in a cubicle and did things, but through part design and part personal choice, I can barely say that: A recent corporate reorganization gave many of us the opportunity to telecommute most of the time, while others can do so all of the time. The company gave us the hardware we need for such a thing, but in return we had to give up our own, personal cubicles.
As with most corporate reorganizations, this most recent one was couched in terms of being better for the company, better for the employees (though over 1000 of them were laid off), better for the customers. Mostly, I think, this is hogwash: I'm old enough and cynical enough and jaded enough to see that it is usually only a handful of people--mostly executives--who benefit from such things. But, to the victor go the spoils, and I do not begrudge one executive or another who seeks his or her own fiefdom.
This reorganization shares a common vocabulary with so many others: synergy, leverage, maximize. My friend Kominski has documented much of this vocabulary, even the grander corporate language that he and I have heard in the nearly 3 decades we have known each other. And this language, in some ways, is meant to excite those of us who remain. But--and I again lay some blame on my age--getting excited about work is getting to be more...work. The company that employs me is perfectly fine as an entity, and the people I interact with are friendly, pleasant, and talented. But, at the end of the week, I essentially produce nothing of value to anyone. There is no synergy; I am not leveraging anything; nothing is being maximized.
Being within the Tower of London again might not be so bad.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Where I Was
A year ago today I landed at London's Heathrow airport, rode the train to Earl's Court Station, and checked into the Earl's Court Easy Hotel where I stayed for 3 days before venturing to Amsterdam. Every day, it seems, I enjoy thoughts of returning to return to England, a place that after a trio of visits I've grown quite fond of. Looking through my Moleskine, I read now that I enjoyed a couple of beers at a pub called the Prince of Teck, and I remember leaving a bit lightheaded as I made my way back to my hotel. As I leaf through the Moleskine, I see names of other pubs: Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London (where, apparently, Dickens liked to drink); The World's End (Camden Town); The Temple Bar Irish Pub (Amsterdam); The Four Candles Free House (London); The Essex Serpent (London, near Covent Garden).
The thing about wanderlust, I think, is that it's never truly assuaged. A recent 6-day backpacking adventure didn't help much, and an upcoming 4-day trip to Chicago will probably only whet my appetite for something grand. If it isn't an illness, it certainly is a selfish thing: heading out alone and leaving others behind.
A few photos.
The Tower Bridge and the Thames from inside the Tower of London.
Within Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Oxford.
Amsterdam.
The thing about wanderlust, I think, is that it's never truly assuaged. A recent 6-day backpacking adventure didn't help much, and an upcoming 4-day trip to Chicago will probably only whet my appetite for something grand. If it isn't an illness, it certainly is a selfish thing: heading out alone and leaving others behind.
A few photos.
The Tower Bridge and the Thames from inside the Tower of London.
Within Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.
Oxford.
Amsterdam.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#13)
She was a harpist, and she wore a harpist's clothes. At least, she wore them for her "appointments," as she called them. Not "gigs" or "performances," but appointments. "I have an appointment this Friday," she might say. When it was time to go she'd put on her long black dress and the delicate pearl necklace and earrings. She was gifted, but one poor performance kept her out of Juilliard when she was still in high school. She never let me touch the harp itself. "It's all I've got, really," she once said in a way I knew she didn't mean.
-----
We doted on her and grew to enjoy her music. We even added a room so she could practice. She hardly came out of that room during high school. Frank, her father but no longer my husband, said she was the best he'd ever heard. I told him, If your kid's the only one in the neighborhood who plays, she's bound to be the best. We were happy when she got married, but we worried, too: She loves that instrument more than anything. I still go watch her when I can, but Billy, her husband, never seems to show up.
-----
We doted on her and grew to enjoy her music. We even added a room so she could practice. She hardly came out of that room during high school. Frank, her father but no longer my husband, said she was the best he'd ever heard. I told him, If your kid's the only one in the neighborhood who plays, she's bound to be the best. We were happy when she got married, but we worried, too: She loves that instrument more than anything. I still go watch her when I can, but Billy, her husband, never seems to show up.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#12)
When our daughter was born, I moved my office paraphernalia from her room to the master bedroom. At night, the Moloch of a computer taunted me. When my husband and I made time for sex, if I wasn't distracted by the thought of our daughter waking up, I was distracted by the computer, by the fact that I should be sitting in front of it, writing every night. When I should've been thinking about sex, I thought about writing. Worse, when I did manage to write, I thought about sex. I finally reached a point where I did neither well.
----
She's been distracted for years, and I've always felt that only part of her was with me. "I'm a writer," she explained. "I pay attention to everything. And at some point I'll use it. I remember women's shoes and the color of their toenails, and I notice how people move during their conversations. I can't help it. Everything's fair game." Often, I know she isn't really with me--she's using whatever we're doing for a plot line or a segment of dialog. To her, everyone and everything are pretend. I'd complain, but who wants to read that in a novel?
----
She's been distracted for years, and I've always felt that only part of her was with me. "I'm a writer," she explained. "I pay attention to everything. And at some point I'll use it. I remember women's shoes and the color of their toenails, and I notice how people move during their conversations. I can't help it. Everything's fair game." Often, I know she isn't really with me--she's using whatever we're doing for a plot line or a segment of dialog. To her, everyone and everything are pretend. I'd complain, but who wants to read that in a novel?
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#11)
"What is it you want?" she asked in her best monotone. It wasn't a new question. I'd come home from work, dropped my computer bag to the floor, and gone straight to the patio. I hadn't meant to ignore her as I passed through the living room, but what I'd meant to do didn't matter. She stood in the doorway when she asked, and I didn't look back toward her when I answered. "I'm not sure," I said. "I've got nothing to do at work, and that usually means they'll be getting rid of me soon." "Then quit," she said.
----
Every few months it happens: He comes home, sits morosely on the patio, starts to complain but then stops. I can see his father in him when he's like that, how his parents danced the same way sometimes. The old man, when he came home sometimes, stopped himself whenever my mother-in-law sighed at his complaints. I think it must be a German thing, that tendency to dwell silently in those little pools of self-pity but then refuse help or advice from anyone. I was serious the other night when I told him to quit. Christ, one of us has to.
----
Every few months it happens: He comes home, sits morosely on the patio, starts to complain but then stops. I can see his father in him when he's like that, how his parents danced the same way sometimes. The old man, when he came home sometimes, stopped himself whenever my mother-in-law sighed at his complaints. I think it must be a German thing, that tendency to dwell silently in those little pools of self-pity but then refuse help or advice from anyone. I was serious the other night when I told him to quit. Christ, one of us has to.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#10)
It was the first night of autumn. I was half-way home when I finally understood that my marriage had gone from failing to failed. I'd been told that things were over, but like learning about a fatal illness, I'd denied it. At a rest stop, I parked among the diesel rigs. There, I sat and sifted through the cabinets full of stored petty annoyances, frustrating habits, unintentional slights. When they were separated into piles, I tried to assign ownership, but the piles kept falling into each other, and I knew then that there would never be enough highway or darkness.
----
I'm not one for quantification. What's the point? Sometimes--and I said this often--things simply just are. I see everything as organic; everything lives and dies. Frankly, I don't blame either of us--first one stopped trying, then the other one followed suit. And, yes, there's too much blood and time between us to make this easy. When I found the car gone yesterday, I thought things were finished, especially after what I'd said. But after the phone call, I'm not sure of what will happen next. I just sit watching TV, listening for the garage door to open.
----
I'm not one for quantification. What's the point? Sometimes--and I said this often--things simply just are. I see everything as organic; everything lives and dies. Frankly, I don't blame either of us--first one stopped trying, then the other one followed suit. And, yes, there's too much blood and time between us to make this easy. When I found the car gone yesterday, I thought things were finished, especially after what I'd said. But after the phone call, I'm not sure of what will happen next. I just sit watching TV, listening for the garage door to open.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#9)
It's all about synergy, about realigning our priorities to movements in the marketplace, about adapting as quickly as we can. Now that the teams have merged, we can reassess our respective strengths and find ways to bring them together. Leadership knows that this is a difficult time, but we have to re-focus ourselves and to align our core values--as a corporation, as a team, as individual contributors--and embrace the future. We can't afford to wait, to let the competition pass us. We want to set the trends, not follow them. The next fiscal quarter is crucial to everyone.
-----
We read the memo. Well, we don't get memos anymore; we read the communication. I'm 62. Except for Marie, the people on our team are young, in their 20s and 30s. Marie and I skipped a required meeting and went for drinks that afternoon. We compared our corporate lives, and Marie quoted Neil Diamond: "Except for the names and a few other changes, the story's the same one." We want to tell the kids that they shouldn't be afraid, that no fiscal quarter is more crucial than any other. But we know our fiscal future, so we drank a lot.
-----
We read the memo. Well, we don't get memos anymore; we read the communication. I'm 62. Except for Marie, the people on our team are young, in their 20s and 30s. Marie and I skipped a required meeting and went for drinks that afternoon. We compared our corporate lives, and Marie quoted Neil Diamond: "Except for the names and a few other changes, the story's the same one." We want to tell the kids that they shouldn't be afraid, that no fiscal quarter is more crucial than any other. But we know our fiscal future, so we drank a lot.
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Last Ride
You've observed the decline: diminished eyesight, worse hearing, occasional stumble. Then, in just a couple days' time, obvious decline turns to apparent demise as the back legs pretty much stop functioning so that even a stumble is out of the question. He can do little more than lie down, so you move his bed closer to the patio door where he can feel the night air. You help him to the water dish and support him so he can stand and take water in, then carry him outside and support him there so he can let that same water out. Sometimes you let him lie in the grass beneath a warm sun before bringing him back inside and holding food to his mouth.
Too soon, though, he doesn't eat, doesn't even lift his head, doesn't recognize anything but the loudest of voices. There are a few moans, you think, but no signs of pain, and you are thankful for that. Everyone decides on what to do, and you volunteer to call the animal hospital and then, surprisingly, find your voice barely confident as you ask for advice about how to handle things. The woman is helpful, even says that you can give her a credit card number over the phone so you can leave the hospital quickly. That makes you think back to when you, your sister, and your father were at the funeral home arranging for what to do with your mother, and the funeral director had your father sign a paper acknowledging that, before anything else, his fees must be settled.
Your wife carries his bed to your car, and you carry him. You and your wife compare notes, and you realize you both awoke the previous night and thought you heard him in your room, that he'd somehow gotten better and could walk again. Then, you lay him down as gently as you can and shut the door, hopeful that he will be okay in the August heatwave. The drive is short, and somewhere along the way you think of Old Yeller and The Call of the Wild and Travels with Charley; you even think of Marley and Me, though it's a bit too sappy for your taste. And you remember winter nights when you had a paper route, how after school or after football practice you would take your dog and and head into the dark and the cold to deliver papers or collect money from your customers. You'd stop in the field between your house and your route, and you'd lie in the snow and stare up at the stars or let the snow fall against your face, your dog's front paws on your chest as she, too, enjoyed the night. It has been a long time since you've thought of that.
At one point during the ride you hear him moan, so you turn the air conditioner higher to, you think, cool the car further, though there's a part of you that hopes the increased noise will cover the sound of any moaning. At the animal hospital, you park your car and open the rear hatch. He hasn't moved; he shows no recognition of anything, of you. He has, though, vomited, and you clean his face and snout. Later you will laugh when your wife reminds you that he vomited in the car on the day he was brought home, too.
Two technicians come out to greet you, bringing with them a small stretcher not unlike the kind you were trained to use in the navy. You lift him onto the stretcher, and the technicians strap him in and take him inside. Everything afterward is quick, and you head to the lobby to write a check because you did not opt to provide a credit card number over the phone. Then, you are back in the sunshine and on your way to the gym where exercise helps you work your way back into the day.
Too soon, though, he doesn't eat, doesn't even lift his head, doesn't recognize anything but the loudest of voices. There are a few moans, you think, but no signs of pain, and you are thankful for that. Everyone decides on what to do, and you volunteer to call the animal hospital and then, surprisingly, find your voice barely confident as you ask for advice about how to handle things. The woman is helpful, even says that you can give her a credit card number over the phone so you can leave the hospital quickly. That makes you think back to when you, your sister, and your father were at the funeral home arranging for what to do with your mother, and the funeral director had your father sign a paper acknowledging that, before anything else, his fees must be settled.
Your wife carries his bed to your car, and you carry him. You and your wife compare notes, and you realize you both awoke the previous night and thought you heard him in your room, that he'd somehow gotten better and could walk again. Then, you lay him down as gently as you can and shut the door, hopeful that he will be okay in the August heatwave. The drive is short, and somewhere along the way you think of Old Yeller and The Call of the Wild and Travels with Charley; you even think of Marley and Me, though it's a bit too sappy for your taste. And you remember winter nights when you had a paper route, how after school or after football practice you would take your dog and and head into the dark and the cold to deliver papers or collect money from your customers. You'd stop in the field between your house and your route, and you'd lie in the snow and stare up at the stars or let the snow fall against your face, your dog's front paws on your chest as she, too, enjoyed the night. It has been a long time since you've thought of that.
At one point during the ride you hear him moan, so you turn the air conditioner higher to, you think, cool the car further, though there's a part of you that hopes the increased noise will cover the sound of any moaning. At the animal hospital, you park your car and open the rear hatch. He hasn't moved; he shows no recognition of anything, of you. He has, though, vomited, and you clean his face and snout. Later you will laugh when your wife reminds you that he vomited in the car on the day he was brought home, too.
Two technicians come out to greet you, bringing with them a small stretcher not unlike the kind you were trained to use in the navy. You lift him onto the stretcher, and the technicians strap him in and take him inside. Everything afterward is quick, and you head to the lobby to write a check because you did not opt to provide a credit card number over the phone. Then, you are back in the sunshine and on your way to the gym where exercise helps you work your way back into the day.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#8)
He said, "I'm a writer." So, because I'd never met a writer, I married him. "You've done some dumb things," my mother said when I called her that night. "You said that when I got a tattoo, Mom. You and Dad made me feel like I'd committed a mortal sin. When I don't do what you and Dad did when you were young, you make me feel terrible." Steve, the man I'd married, was in the other room calling his own parents. I wondered what they were saying. "Has he published?" my mother sighed. "He's working on that," I said.
-----
My wife and I run a small wedding chapel in Las Vegas. We've seen drunks, old people, and high school kids. We don't judge them. People leave here married, but there are no guarantees. Some come back years later to renew their vows. It's romantic. Steve and Marie were young and had to rent a witness. "Can I make a call?" Marie asked. I let her use my phone. She seemed so happy. She and Steve ran out, though, and Marie hadn't hung up the phone. On the other end I heard a man and woman yelling at each other.
-----
My wife and I run a small wedding chapel in Las Vegas. We've seen drunks, old people, and high school kids. We don't judge them. People leave here married, but there are no guarantees. Some come back years later to renew their vows. It's romantic. Steve and Marie were young and had to rent a witness. "Can I make a call?" Marie asked. I let her use my phone. She seemed so happy. She and Steve ran out, though, and Marie hadn't hung up the phone. On the other end I heard a man and woman yelling at each other.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Call and Response: Viewpoints in 100 Words (#7)
She didn't know because she'd never asked. At least, not until she found me in the garage. "What are you doing, Steve?" she said. She was dressed for bed; the strap of her nightgown hung down over her left shoulder. She looked nice with her eyes sleepy like that. "Is that your dad's gun?" I looked at her. "Yes," I said. She frowned. "The same one?" We both knew the answer to that. "What are you doing with it, Steve?" I wanted to be silent, noncommittal. "Why would you, Steve?" I looked at her. "I'm not my father!" I yelled.
_____
I shut the door and ran into the bedroom and picked up the phone. I wasn't sure of who to call, though. Nothing had happened, and he doesn't have any family. I got my bathrobe and went outside so I could look through the garage window. He just sat there, his back against the car. I still had the phone. Then he got up, put the gun away, and started back into the house. I ran inside and climbed into bed. "You're wearing your robe," he said when he lay next to me. I clutched the phone and stayed silent.
_____
I shut the door and ran into the bedroom and picked up the phone. I wasn't sure of who to call, though. Nothing had happened, and he doesn't have any family. I got my bathrobe and went outside so I could look through the garage window. He just sat there, his back against the car. I still had the phone. Then he got up, put the gun away, and started back into the house. I ran inside and climbed into bed. "You're wearing your robe," he said when he lay next to me. I clutched the phone and stayed silent.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Slice and Dice
Out riding my bike fairly recently, I let the gears and chain make noise, and I let my mind wander. It's funny how that wandering can go in so many directions from one gear change to another. Click-click and there's a change. This time I wandered into writing; specifically, I wandered into a novel I've been looking on for much too long (writing, not reading).
There's a certain segment early on that has always troubled me because it takes too long getting to where it needs to go. I've tinkered with it a bit, and then the night of the ride I found the answer: cut it out like some benign tumor. So, I did: I sliced just over a one-thousand words, stitched some things back together, and sent the book into recovery. It was a good thing.
Then, over this last weekend while far from home and without external distractions, I started again, this time cutting more bits out, fixing many typos, making some things make sense. I've not had such an extended time for such stuff in a long time, and I felt fortunate. I've looked at this book many times, and I'm still amazed (and frustrated) at how many things need to get fixed. And this time, I even realized I need to add a new, minor character to take some burden off another, less-minor character. It's like an implant, and augmentation, which isn't a bad thing.
I hope to finish this final revision sometime soon, but then I have to decide on what to do with it. The tome isn't necessarily literature, but it's as good as some of the pop fiction I've read. What the book and I need is someone to take a look at it--someone who's not a good friend or a family member; someone who'll notice the the flaws and tell me about them. But, that's not likely to happen. Rather, it'll go back under the floorboards again, its heart beating while I try to sleep.
There's a certain segment early on that has always troubled me because it takes too long getting to where it needs to go. I've tinkered with it a bit, and then the night of the ride I found the answer: cut it out like some benign tumor. So, I did: I sliced just over a one-thousand words, stitched some things back together, and sent the book into recovery. It was a good thing.
Then, over this last weekend while far from home and without external distractions, I started again, this time cutting more bits out, fixing many typos, making some things make sense. I've not had such an extended time for such stuff in a long time, and I felt fortunate. I've looked at this book many times, and I'm still amazed (and frustrated) at how many things need to get fixed. And this time, I even realized I need to add a new, minor character to take some burden off another, less-minor character. It's like an implant, and augmentation, which isn't a bad thing.
I hope to finish this final revision sometime soon, but then I have to decide on what to do with it. The tome isn't necessarily literature, but it's as good as some of the pop fiction I've read. What the book and I need is someone to take a look at it--someone who's not a good friend or a family member; someone who'll notice the the flaws and tell me about them. But, that's not likely to happen. Rather, it'll go back under the floorboards again, its heart beating while I try to sleep.
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