What a day! This morning I was out of coffee and everything that goes in it, so I had to drink tea without milk. By the time my eyes were beginning to focus, I heard an explosion and, in the distance, the beginning wail of fire engines. Somehow, I knew they were coming my way. A peek out the front window confirmed my suspicions that a house down the street was on fire and smoking out the rafters. I think the city sent every truck they have.
Then the owner of the burning house arrived--full throttle, as always, parked with a screech across the foot of my drive, screaming before she'd climbed out of her truck. I couldn't go anywhere all day. It became a neighbor event. The dog, freshly bathed just yesterday, had a boo boo and sat in it and now needs another bath. One neighbor thought he'd been frightened by an explosion. Once it even looked like fireworks for a few minutes and I could have sworn I didn't see a fireman move for five more.
The man coming to estimate replacing my windows called and said he couldn't get in. The City had barricaded the entire area so there was no entry or exit without permission. About 4:00 pm I finally was freed to go buy my coffee. I was convinced my day would not improve without at least one cup of real coffee. As I was climbing back in my car at Braum's, the window man called again and said he would meet me at my place. No coffee until later, I groaned.
By the time I could go to vote, it was getting late. I arrived to find a note on the window that said our polling place had moved, but provided no map. Luckily, I vaguely remembered the citizen's center where we'd had a water system meeting several years back and that it was off some side street near the Hwy and it has a long graveled entry. The sun had set by the time I found it. The notice I had received that said my voter registration was no good due to the change of the name of our street, was, luckily, untrue and I actually did get to vote. But I do have to change the address.
I never did get a cup of coffee.
Tuesday, November 06, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Compassion:
This post has been in my draft folder for ages. In reviewing it, I wonder why I left it in drafts.
Briefing over the gist of my morning pages this morning:
I have a friend whose father is suffering one calamity after another in intensive care right now. She is agonizing over his care. She is very focused on the medical team in charge of him. And, naturally, her situation calls to mind my own unburied pain from the year my father died. We are very different people, my friend and I. That is okay. In fact, that what my pages were about: the need we have to be understood, not judged.
A third person entered in. Another woman who has been shouldered with the responsibility of caring for her mother-in-law. She speaks to me often about the situation. I think it may be because she finds acceptance and compassion from me and she can say what she is feeling without meeting with any condemnation. She can tell me that she resents the responsibility as she complains about one more time that she has had to take care of a doctors appointment.
It is okay to say, "I'm tired." "The time this takes out of my life keeps me from doing things I need to do for myself!" Caregivers often don't even have the time to take a bath. I sat by my dad's bedside the day he had surgery and I held his hands all day to keep him from pulling out his IV lines and I couldn't go to the bathroom! "I wish so-and-so would do more." Of course we do! It is the most honestly selfish thing most of us can say. If so-and-so would do more, then we could do less. This is the way we deal with being a care-giver. And it helps so much to have somebody who isn't too busy to take the time to listen, to accept hearing, "I'm not strong enough to do this!" or, even, as I have heard said, "I hate doing this!" And why isn't it okay to say that, to voice it? Truth be told--all of us must hate doing this! What is to love about it? "I love going to the hospital and sitting by my father's bedside and watching him suffer!"? No, nobody could ever say that! So, society insists that must couch it, we must suppress our emotions and say nothing at all--that is the painful norm that saddles us with guilt, the suppressed anger and emotion. To say, "I'm not strong enough," doesn't mean that you aren't bringing what strength you have to the table. It means you want more strength! It would be so healing to be able to say it. To grumble about how horrible it is--because it is! But the heart that is open understands just exactly what is really being said and can reflect back the right emotion.
Yes, I hated it! I hated my failure and my shortcomings, my lack of knowledge, my lack of energy, my lack of bladder control! Beneath the surface are all the broiling emotions, "He is in pain and he is suffering and I must be able to relieve his suffering!" It is pure baggage. I had a book that was recommended to me called (forgive me, I gave it away some time ago) The Thirty-Six Hour Day. I loved that title! It was honest. All those frightened emotions are very real and honesty is not a bad thing: "I don't really know what to do!" "I can't seem to pray at times like this." "Is everything being done that can be done? What haven't I thought of?" In the aftermath, several ideas have occurred to me. "Should I say something about this? Is this normal?" Minds get stretched at times like that and later we second guess ourselves and our judgment of ourselves is always too harsh. Guilt saddles us over what we could not have done. We dry up and we blow away--we lose our selves in trying to help somebody we love who is helpless and hurting. Then forever after we carry guilt for natural unvoiced emotions. And the only way to put ourselves back together is to have some sympathy for ourselves.
Resentments! The thing is--he is sick, dadgummit! I resent that! And I can't make him better! I resent that! I need more energy, more knowledge, more imagination, more patience, more hands . . .
*I have diverged from my original five page rant!*
My point was that we each deal with things differently but everything we do springs from our emotions. And every person involved in the care of that person also has their own baggage, their own weighty emotions. And these different emotional states and needs don't necessarily play off of each other evenly for the best teamwork to support the sufferer. We actually divide and we don't support each other. Society puts a burden on us, a societal norm. But we aren't emotionless machines! From all these different directions come burdens. Some of us are stronger, some weaker, some more energetic, some exhausted, some more knowledgeable, some clueless--but surely at such a time we often don't feel we are enough! We aren't! And people often back up this norm by being impatient with us for agonizing over whatever we are agonizing over. It hurts! I will take these scars to my grave.
A compassionate ear is a great gift. The more honesty they can have, the more likely they are to see that they deserve their own sympathy for their own shortcomings. Because only God could do what we want to be able to do at such a time!
Briefing over the gist of my morning pages this morning:
I have a friend whose father is suffering one calamity after another in intensive care right now. She is agonizing over his care. She is very focused on the medical team in charge of him. And, naturally, her situation calls to mind my own unburied pain from the year my father died. We are very different people, my friend and I. That is okay. In fact, that what my pages were about: the need we have to be understood, not judged.
A third person entered in. Another woman who has been shouldered with the responsibility of caring for her mother-in-law. She speaks to me often about the situation. I think it may be because she finds acceptance and compassion from me and she can say what she is feeling without meeting with any condemnation. She can tell me that she resents the responsibility as she complains about one more time that she has had to take care of a doctors appointment.
It is okay to say, "I'm tired." "The time this takes out of my life keeps me from doing things I need to do for myself!" Caregivers often don't even have the time to take a bath. I sat by my dad's bedside the day he had surgery and I held his hands all day to keep him from pulling out his IV lines and I couldn't go to the bathroom! "I wish so-and-so would do more." Of course we do! It is the most honestly selfish thing most of us can say. If so-and-so would do more, then we could do less. This is the way we deal with being a care-giver. And it helps so much to have somebody who isn't too busy to take the time to listen, to accept hearing, "I'm not strong enough to do this!" or, even, as I have heard said, "I hate doing this!" And why isn't it okay to say that, to voice it? Truth be told--all of us must hate doing this! What is to love about it? "I love going to the hospital and sitting by my father's bedside and watching him suffer!"? No, nobody could ever say that! So, society insists that must couch it, we must suppress our emotions and say nothing at all--that is the painful norm that saddles us with guilt, the suppressed anger and emotion. To say, "I'm not strong enough," doesn't mean that you aren't bringing what strength you have to the table. It means you want more strength! It would be so healing to be able to say it. To grumble about how horrible it is--because it is! But the heart that is open understands just exactly what is really being said and can reflect back the right emotion.
Yes, I hated it! I hated my failure and my shortcomings, my lack of knowledge, my lack of energy, my lack of bladder control! Beneath the surface are all the broiling emotions, "He is in pain and he is suffering and I must be able to relieve his suffering!" It is pure baggage. I had a book that was recommended to me called (forgive me, I gave it away some time ago) The Thirty-Six Hour Day. I loved that title! It was honest. All those frightened emotions are very real and honesty is not a bad thing: "I don't really know what to do!" "I can't seem to pray at times like this." "Is everything being done that can be done? What haven't I thought of?" In the aftermath, several ideas have occurred to me. "Should I say something about this? Is this normal?" Minds get stretched at times like that and later we second guess ourselves and our judgment of ourselves is always too harsh. Guilt saddles us over what we could not have done. We dry up and we blow away--we lose our selves in trying to help somebody we love who is helpless and hurting. Then forever after we carry guilt for natural unvoiced emotions. And the only way to put ourselves back together is to have some sympathy for ourselves.
Resentments! The thing is--he is sick, dadgummit! I resent that! And I can't make him better! I resent that! I need more energy, more knowledge, more imagination, more patience, more hands . . .
*I have diverged from my original five page rant!*
My point was that we each deal with things differently but everything we do springs from our emotions. And every person involved in the care of that person also has their own baggage, their own weighty emotions. And these different emotional states and needs don't necessarily play off of each other evenly for the best teamwork to support the sufferer. We actually divide and we don't support each other. Society puts a burden on us, a societal norm. But we aren't emotionless machines! From all these different directions come burdens. Some of us are stronger, some weaker, some more energetic, some exhausted, some more knowledgeable, some clueless--but surely at such a time we often don't feel we are enough! We aren't! And people often back up this norm by being impatient with us for agonizing over whatever we are agonizing over. It hurts! I will take these scars to my grave.
A compassionate ear is a great gift. The more honesty they can have, the more likely they are to see that they deserve their own sympathy for their own shortcomings. Because only God could do what we want to be able to do at such a time!
Am I?
Am I going to do the NaNoWriMo?
I have an idea, but inspiration always comes in waves and it is too rudimentary and also too important to commit to forced writing. The wave comes and the current lifts me off the bottom and I feel myself floating, it covers me, my head feels the current, my hair flows with the water as it passes by. I can feel it in the very roots. I have no idea how far the wave carries me before it gently sets me back down and I feel my weight settle back into the heavy gravity of the world. As the wave passes and I have regained my footing, I look at it as it recedes, looking more like a mere gentle rise with no foam or form. I turn and look for the next wave. I see it in the distance, the curling form of the top of the wave making a steady foam that it pushes before it, but it looks to be a long way off yet.
In short, I know what I want to write about, but my approach has not yet been decided. It is the creation of the body that it lacks. It is ephemeral and illusive. As long as there is no imagined container for it, it can't be poured into anything. It is just the raw idea. My working title is Metamorphosis, so surely you can imagine!
Of course, something could happen in the next twenty-four hours. I might grasp some thread and I have thought of signing up for the NaNo anyway. It is okay to let the goal slip by and especially in a month when there is a wedding at the very most productive time of the month. I have so often wondered why they chose November! It seems to be one of the worst possible months of the year. But just add a wedding to that--a total distraction and days away from home. I'll lose a full week! From the day I leave to the late night that we endure to arrive back home to get Ike back to school on time.
But phooey! I would like to do the NaNo!
I have an idea, but inspiration always comes in waves and it is too rudimentary and also too important to commit to forced writing. The wave comes and the current lifts me off the bottom and I feel myself floating, it covers me, my head feels the current, my hair flows with the water as it passes by. I can feel it in the very roots. I have no idea how far the wave carries me before it gently sets me back down and I feel my weight settle back into the heavy gravity of the world. As the wave passes and I have regained my footing, I look at it as it recedes, looking more like a mere gentle rise with no foam or form. I turn and look for the next wave. I see it in the distance, the curling form of the top of the wave making a steady foam that it pushes before it, but it looks to be a long way off yet.
In short, I know what I want to write about, but my approach has not yet been decided. It is the creation of the body that it lacks. It is ephemeral and illusive. As long as there is no imagined container for it, it can't be poured into anything. It is just the raw idea. My working title is Metamorphosis, so surely you can imagine!
Of course, something could happen in the next twenty-four hours. I might grasp some thread and I have thought of signing up for the NaNo anyway. It is okay to let the goal slip by and especially in a month when there is a wedding at the very most productive time of the month. I have so often wondered why they chose November! It seems to be one of the worst possible months of the year. But just add a wedding to that--a total distraction and days away from home. I'll lose a full week! From the day I leave to the late night that we endure to arrive back home to get Ike back to school on time.
But phooey! I would like to do the NaNo!
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Why I am a liberal!
I have seriously wondered before how two people can grow up in the same family, be taught the same things by the same people and then one grows up to be liberal and the other conservative. The two are linked both politically and religiously. I feel shocked sometimes when I learn that somebody I thought I knew is very conservative politically, "How could she be?!" I always did think that liberals and conservatives balance each other and one without the other is pure chaos. In our own ways, we can take things too far. At least I got that much right.
Here is a profound video on the subject. If you are conservative, realize he is aiming his message at his mostly liberal audience, but I think that you can learn as much as I did about how we differ and how we influence our world and what we should do about it.
TED | The Real Difference Between Liberals and Conservatives
Here is a profound video on the subject. If you are conservative, realize he is aiming his message at his mostly liberal audience, but I think that you can learn as much as I did about how we differ and how we influence our world and what we should do about it.
TED | The Real Difference Between Liberals and Conservatives
Monday, October 29, 2012
Jell-Ooooooooo
Jell-O is like Koolaid, clear, sweet and oh, so 50s! Every mom always had Jell-O and Koolaid. It was a good mom sort of thing to do. I can just see the quintessential 50s mom wearing her checkered dress and her white apron carrying a tray loaded with bowls of bouncing red Jell-O, smiling benevolently on her children and their guests. But that is just in advertisements on TV. Venturing a guess, I'm sure it was red checks with cherry Jell-O to match. Real mom's didn't look quite that good even though most wore aprons. Otherwise, Jell-O didn't impress me much.
Most good moms appeared to prefer cherry to every other flavor. I hate cherry. Now, black-cherry is good, if I had a choice. I question whether or not they ever asked for our opinion or if they just liked red. Really good moms would make the Jell-O squares. Now, those were fascinating and I could use my spoon to push and pull the perfect square into strange shapes and watch it bounce back when I pulled my spoon away from it. The squares, however, tended to be thicker and more rubbery and resisted penetration with the spoon, couldn't be cut, and the squares were little too large for my mouth. Many landed in my lap. They could also be picked up in the fingers and played with. So, they were a pleasant toy, great to look at but no more fun to eat.
Jell-O also appears to link itself automatically to tummy upsets and sore throats. This is not good for its reputation. The doctor prescribed it to stop diarrhea. It is an illogical correlation. Cherry Jell-O with banana slices comes to mind and mothers could save themselves some trouble if they made a big bowl of it in advance. It is not soon forgotten. To see that bouncy, cold, clear and bright colored bowl of Jell-O is almost enough to make me think I must be sick. I was such a good girl that I would obediently eat it just as well as I would take my Benedryl and with only a little less groaning than my Pepto Bismol.
Another thing about it that kinda makes me feel sick, as I remember it, is how many moms served it in those Tupperware bowls. They had that old plastic odor that could obliterate any other odor, especially the scent of cherry Jell-O. The bowls were usually heavily used and somewhat faded having originally been made in pale pastel colors, semi-transparent with spoon scratches all over them.
In short, Jell-O was not a good subject and Natalie really let me down on that one! Needless to say, I have no Jell-O.
Most good moms appeared to prefer cherry to every other flavor. I hate cherry. Now, black-cherry is good, if I had a choice. I question whether or not they ever asked for our opinion or if they just liked red. Really good moms would make the Jell-O squares. Now, those were fascinating and I could use my spoon to push and pull the perfect square into strange shapes and watch it bounce back when I pulled my spoon away from it. The squares, however, tended to be thicker and more rubbery and resisted penetration with the spoon, couldn't be cut, and the squares were little too large for my mouth. Many landed in my lap. They could also be picked up in the fingers and played with. So, they were a pleasant toy, great to look at but no more fun to eat.
Jell-O also appears to link itself automatically to tummy upsets and sore throats. This is not good for its reputation. The doctor prescribed it to stop diarrhea. It is an illogical correlation. Cherry Jell-O with banana slices comes to mind and mothers could save themselves some trouble if they made a big bowl of it in advance. It is not soon forgotten. To see that bouncy, cold, clear and bright colored bowl of Jell-O is almost enough to make me think I must be sick. I was such a good girl that I would obediently eat it just as well as I would take my Benedryl and with only a little less groaning than my Pepto Bismol.
Another thing about it that kinda makes me feel sick, as I remember it, is how many moms served it in those Tupperware bowls. They had that old plastic odor that could obliterate any other odor, especially the scent of cherry Jell-O. The bowls were usually heavily used and somewhat faded having originally been made in pale pastel colors, semi-transparent with spoon scratches all over them.
In short, Jell-O was not a good subject and Natalie really let me down on that one! Needless to say, I have no Jell-O.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Now I remember!
It was my plan through October to work out of Natalie Goldberg's "Old Friend From Far Away." Is that insane, or what?!
So, I'll do "Coffee" on Page 16. I just want to say, having seen the previous entry on page 15, Three, that I am short on writing friends, so if anybody wants to be a cyber writing friend, say so, please.
Here goes: Coffee
It is interesting that I was just contemplating how much more I could accomplish in a day if I didn't love my morning coffee so much. A long time ago, I learned that once I started working, my coffee would get cold. So, I stopped working.
I don't really sleep all that late. I just don't like to rush my morning coffee hours. When I work and I only have time for one large, hastily gulped cup of coffee, the day never seems quite right. I'm not awake enough. I'm not at the top of my form. My brain doesn't kick in until late morning.
Coffee is a major part of my weekly food budget. By the time I buy the coffee, filters, sweeteners and maybe even more coffee for a different flavor, half my food budget is gone. I could almost live on coffee. I can make sacrifices elsewhere, like on meat or veggies--you know, the non-essentials.
My morning coffee is the main reason I wash the dishes before I go to bed. I hate not having a clean coffee pot--everything must be spotlessly clean so I get the best flavor out of my coffee. I even hate coffee stains on glasses, and on filter holders. Seriously, I could be lazy and leave my dishes, but the mere thought of a dirty pot would be like a waking nightmare if I stumbled into the kitchen in the morning to find my pot or favorite cup dirty.
This love of coffee is my Mother-in-Law's fault. I had never drunk coffee when I got married. Nobody gave my husband and I a coffee pot for our wedding. But I had two electric can openers. My Mother-in-Law suggested trading a coffee pot for one of my can openers. That was the beginning. It was one of those old percolators. I sort of miss them, sometimes.
As the years passed, we followed the fads until finally coffee makers lost their appeal. The last automatic I had was a Bunn, for the speed, you know. But there was something unsatisfying about it, the coffee wasn't as good as I like--the water wasn't as fresh. I once had a Melita porcelain pot and filter which I gave to my son and he never used it. Now, that is exactly what I want and they are pricey! I want it back! I finally rigged up my own. I use a hand-thrown stoneware pot with a plastic Melita filter holder. I make two cups at a time and no more. I like my coffee steaming hot and very fresh. It isn't as fast as a Bunn, but it is worth the wait.
So, I'll do "Coffee" on Page 16. I just want to say, having seen the previous entry on page 15, Three, that I am short on writing friends, so if anybody wants to be a cyber writing friend, say so, please.
Here goes: Coffee
It is interesting that I was just contemplating how much more I could accomplish in a day if I didn't love my morning coffee so much. A long time ago, I learned that once I started working, my coffee would get cold. So, I stopped working.
I don't really sleep all that late. I just don't like to rush my morning coffee hours. When I work and I only have time for one large, hastily gulped cup of coffee, the day never seems quite right. I'm not awake enough. I'm not at the top of my form. My brain doesn't kick in until late morning.
Coffee is a major part of my weekly food budget. By the time I buy the coffee, filters, sweeteners and maybe even more coffee for a different flavor, half my food budget is gone. I could almost live on coffee. I can make sacrifices elsewhere, like on meat or veggies--you know, the non-essentials.
My morning coffee is the main reason I wash the dishes before I go to bed. I hate not having a clean coffee pot--everything must be spotlessly clean so I get the best flavor out of my coffee. I even hate coffee stains on glasses, and on filter holders. Seriously, I could be lazy and leave my dishes, but the mere thought of a dirty pot would be like a waking nightmare if I stumbled into the kitchen in the morning to find my pot or favorite cup dirty.
This love of coffee is my Mother-in-Law's fault. I had never drunk coffee when I got married. Nobody gave my husband and I a coffee pot for our wedding. But I had two electric can openers. My Mother-in-Law suggested trading a coffee pot for one of my can openers. That was the beginning. It was one of those old percolators. I sort of miss them, sometimes.
As the years passed, we followed the fads until finally coffee makers lost their appeal. The last automatic I had was a Bunn, for the speed, you know. But there was something unsatisfying about it, the coffee wasn't as good as I like--the water wasn't as fresh. I once had a Melita porcelain pot and filter which I gave to my son and he never used it. Now, that is exactly what I want and they are pricey! I want it back! I finally rigged up my own. I use a hand-thrown stoneware pot with a plastic Melita filter holder. I make two cups at a time and no more. I like my coffee steaming hot and very fresh. It isn't as fast as a Bunn, but it is worth the wait.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
A quick evening note:
My older son will be getting married the Saturday after Thanksgiving. He has waited many years for this opportunity. He has a lovely fiance--any mother's dream girl for her son. And, finally, we are getting close to the big day.
No young man has ever so much enjoyed the very idea of wedding planning as he does. It has been quite trying to him to relinquish most of it to his fiance and her mother. But one thing is left for him to plan and it is for us to do. Or, is it for me to do, but he has the plan?
I was out running errands when he first called. He began the conversation, charmingly, by telling me what his plans were--making his suggestions for the rehearsal dinner menu--but at the same time telling me that we needed to talk about it. I stopped by Head Country B-B-Q to pick up my dog's favorite dinner. I treat him every now and then, so dinner tonight was a huge brisket sandwich of the quality that is hard to find and then, for sure, only in the South. The conversation continued while I ordered and waited for my sandwich. The young man that waited on me pantomimed his questions. He smiled as I drove away.
I managed to drive home, mobile phone held to my ear. And then to get dinner, dog, back-bag and phone, still held to my ear, all in the door and make my way over doggy gates (yes, with the dog) and through doorways to my study. I revved up the computer and waited a good half an hour while the conversation meandered through other territory before returning to the subject of the rehearsal dinner.
Once, when we were momentarily disconnected, I managed to get my sandwich out of the carton and arrange the meat on the bread. The call resumed, I set the sandwich aside, and we talked too long. After quite a few minutes, I heard a happy yip a few feet behind me and looked to see my expectant little dog who could no longer restrain himself in the hope of half that luscious brisket. Normally he has such good manners. But, I must say, I loved seeing his enthusiasm as he has been generally under the weather for the last few weeks.
Finally, my son managed to pull himself back to the subject at hand. He ordered me to open a notebook and take notes. I finally found the menu that is available on line and we spent the next forty minutes selecting exactly what he had suggested in the first five minutes of the conversation a good two hours previous.
Gosh, I love my kids! Even that furry little thing that is curled up on his doggy bed sleeping off too much beef brisket.
No young man has ever so much enjoyed the very idea of wedding planning as he does. It has been quite trying to him to relinquish most of it to his fiance and her mother. But one thing is left for him to plan and it is for us to do. Or, is it for me to do, but he has the plan?
I was out running errands when he first called. He began the conversation, charmingly, by telling me what his plans were--making his suggestions for the rehearsal dinner menu--but at the same time telling me that we needed to talk about it. I stopped by Head Country B-B-Q to pick up my dog's favorite dinner. I treat him every now and then, so dinner tonight was a huge brisket sandwich of the quality that is hard to find and then, for sure, only in the South. The conversation continued while I ordered and waited for my sandwich. The young man that waited on me pantomimed his questions. He smiled as I drove away.
I managed to drive home, mobile phone held to my ear. And then to get dinner, dog, back-bag and phone, still held to my ear, all in the door and make my way over doggy gates (yes, with the dog) and through doorways to my study. I revved up the computer and waited a good half an hour while the conversation meandered through other territory before returning to the subject of the rehearsal dinner.
Once, when we were momentarily disconnected, I managed to get my sandwich out of the carton and arrange the meat on the bread. The call resumed, I set the sandwich aside, and we talked too long. After quite a few minutes, I heard a happy yip a few feet behind me and looked to see my expectant little dog who could no longer restrain himself in the hope of half that luscious brisket. Normally he has such good manners. But, I must say, I loved seeing his enthusiasm as he has been generally under the weather for the last few weeks.
Finally, my son managed to pull himself back to the subject at hand. He ordered me to open a notebook and take notes. I finally found the menu that is available on line and we spent the next forty minutes selecting exactly what he had suggested in the first five minutes of the conversation a good two hours previous.
Gosh, I love my kids! Even that furry little thing that is curled up on his doggy bed sleeping off too much beef brisket.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Increasing rage in a crowded world:
My son reported an incident Friday that has caused me to think somewhat on the changes in our society. Sometimes, it seems, a theme arises from disparate incidents and this does seem to be the case.
He was with his girlfriend and they were driving in the city. Ahead of them a truck attempted to change lanes and overlooked the black car in the lane next to him, my son assumed it was in the driver's blind-spot. As soon as the driver saw the vehicle, he swerved back into his lane without incident, but then began to attempt to make the necessary change of lanes. The driver of the black car was obviously angered and swerved toward the truck menacingly. No matter what the driver of the truck did, the driver of the black car thwarted his attempts to make the lane change.
At the next light, my son and his girlfriend were horrified when the driver of the black car hopped out of his car and approached the partially opened window of the drivers side of the truck with an open hunting knife in his hand. My son rolled his window down in order to hear what was said, brave young man that he is. While threatening the driver of the truck verbally, the driver of the car made thrusting motions with his knife toward the other man, particularly toward his neck.
When the light changed and the man in the car took off, my son followed him to get his license tag number. Again, he was almost too brave and shadowed the black car very closely, he said. He succeeded and then the Ike and his girlfriend went to the police department to report the incident. While there, he saw that the driver of the truck was already there reporting what had happened.
I told my son that I was very proud of him for doing that, although I suggested he might have followed the black car a little more cautiously. And momentarily, boor that I can be, I said that when I was young road rage was never heard of--of course, there is nothing new under the sun and I know it, but it didn't occur often enough to be labeled road rage until about twenty years ago. But what intrigues me is why this is happening to people. Why has anger been getting more and more out of control? Greater minds than mine have pondered these questions, I'm sure. Perhaps it is my writer's mind that wants to mull over the causes of behavior in my own way. Our conversation while eating at Chili's drifted off onto other subjects, but my mind kept returning to it in lax moments over the past few days.
One thing that Ike had responded to, in our discussion, had been that the man was older, most likely in his forties, he thought. Ike does not think his own generation is prone to this sort of anger, but what he calls, "Generation X". I think it might be the following "Me generation". I actually think it was the "Me half-century," truth be told, as we grew more and more selfish toward the close of the last century. And this is selfishness at its worst.
Oh, about a decade ago, my Son-in-Law would talk about people making what he called "forced lane changes". These people apparently irritated him no end and he would take steps to obstruct their efforts. Frankly, at the time, I was confused because I could not figure out exactly what he meant by the term or why someone would do that--unless it were necessary for them and they were just driving. I have often seen this done since and I have been the victim of it, too, and I am always stymied as to the selfishness of this act. Wouldn't these same people be equally irritated if they were the one in need of a change of lane into a crowded lane in order to catch an exit only to have someone stop them by speeding up, slowing down and whatever else it took to keep them stuck in the wrong lane? And some of these exits these days, if missed, could take a person a long way out of their way to get back to where then needed to go. And why the anger over what anybody else feels a need to do, anyway? It just takes years off our lives, that's all. And sometimes more.
Consideration is a forgotten word! That is what has been lost in this increasingly selfish and impersonal world that we are living in. At one time, people helped each other--even strangers. We would open doors for those carrying a heavy load or allow a person with one item into the check-out que ahead of us if we had less and we would hold back to allow the driver of a car to get into the flow of traffic--we would even wave them in. And it didn't cost us much in time or effort. It made life easier for us all. In actual fact, it is rewarding to help others. At least, that has been my experience. But anger and selfishness are catching, like a disease. This man with his knife is a murderer looking for a victim--over a lane change!
Last night before my son left home to return to his apartment in the city, we were watching videos while eating our dinner. It is the season for Hallowe'en ghosts and goblins and anything that causes a slight chill to creep up the spine. A video he chose showed how in Japan there is a forest in the shadow of Mt. Fuji that has become a favorite suicide spot, the second most used spot in all the world second only to the Golden Gate Bridge. The creators of the video seemed to be a bit thin on evidence, but we watched them walk through the odd looking Japanese forest, prod at this or that, shake out an abandoned backpack, etc. And then we watched another even better video that, at first, appeared to be more professionally made and more factual. They even showed an actual skeleton--or at least did a good job of creating the effect. Oddly enough, the subject material slowly deteriorated into new-age postulation as to why this spot was so popular for suicide.
As I said, it seemed to mark a theme for the weekend in disparate ways but perhaps with a common cause. In a world where we are increasingly faceless and meaningless to the general flow of life around us, we begin to act more and more selfishly and the result, it seems to me, is a denial of the importance of others and concern for others which is our nature.
I would contrast it to a recent show I watched on PBS about the history of England based on the history of one small town in approximately the center of the country that was like a microcosm of the entire kingdom since before the Norman Conquest. For an American who lives without real roots, it is profoundly interesting to realize that for most of mankind's history, there was very little mobility and the same family lived in the same town from the first time a last name was recorded shortly after 1066 up to this very day, and evidence suggests that a town had been located there for centuries before that. To think that same last name would be mentioned again and again in the history of that town and that of all their neighbors, as well, and children could go to a memorial and see their own ancestor's name inscribed in it. It was a place where my great-great grandfather and my neighbor's great-great grandfather knew each other--it would be like a town of siblings! Everybody knowing the history of all their neighbors, everybody sharing the same history and nobody "faceless" or unfamiliar.
I hope my son's generation is more passive and more considerate and I hope it stays that way. I wonder if we could take steps to alleviate the causes of anger due to impersonalization of others.
I highly recommend the PBS Special (this is just the preview but all three segments are available at PBS.org): Michael Wood's Story of England
He was with his girlfriend and they were driving in the city. Ahead of them a truck attempted to change lanes and overlooked the black car in the lane next to him, my son assumed it was in the driver's blind-spot. As soon as the driver saw the vehicle, he swerved back into his lane without incident, but then began to attempt to make the necessary change of lanes. The driver of the black car was obviously angered and swerved toward the truck menacingly. No matter what the driver of the truck did, the driver of the black car thwarted his attempts to make the lane change.
At the next light, my son and his girlfriend were horrified when the driver of the black car hopped out of his car and approached the partially opened window of the drivers side of the truck with an open hunting knife in his hand. My son rolled his window down in order to hear what was said, brave young man that he is. While threatening the driver of the truck verbally, the driver of the car made thrusting motions with his knife toward the other man, particularly toward his neck.
When the light changed and the man in the car took off, my son followed him to get his license tag number. Again, he was almost too brave and shadowed the black car very closely, he said. He succeeded and then the Ike and his girlfriend went to the police department to report the incident. While there, he saw that the driver of the truck was already there reporting what had happened.
I told my son that I was very proud of him for doing that, although I suggested he might have followed the black car a little more cautiously. And momentarily, boor that I can be, I said that when I was young road rage was never heard of--of course, there is nothing new under the sun and I know it, but it didn't occur often enough to be labeled road rage until about twenty years ago. But what intrigues me is why this is happening to people. Why has anger been getting more and more out of control? Greater minds than mine have pondered these questions, I'm sure. Perhaps it is my writer's mind that wants to mull over the causes of behavior in my own way. Our conversation while eating at Chili's drifted off onto other subjects, but my mind kept returning to it in lax moments over the past few days.
One thing that Ike had responded to, in our discussion, had been that the man was older, most likely in his forties, he thought. Ike does not think his own generation is prone to this sort of anger, but what he calls, "Generation X". I think it might be the following "Me generation". I actually think it was the "Me half-century," truth be told, as we grew more and more selfish toward the close of the last century. And this is selfishness at its worst.
Oh, about a decade ago, my Son-in-Law would talk about people making what he called "forced lane changes". These people apparently irritated him no end and he would take steps to obstruct their efforts. Frankly, at the time, I was confused because I could not figure out exactly what he meant by the term or why someone would do that--unless it were necessary for them and they were just driving. I have often seen this done since and I have been the victim of it, too, and I am always stymied as to the selfishness of this act. Wouldn't these same people be equally irritated if they were the one in need of a change of lane into a crowded lane in order to catch an exit only to have someone stop them by speeding up, slowing down and whatever else it took to keep them stuck in the wrong lane? And some of these exits these days, if missed, could take a person a long way out of their way to get back to where then needed to go. And why the anger over what anybody else feels a need to do, anyway? It just takes years off our lives, that's all. And sometimes more.
Consideration is a forgotten word! That is what has been lost in this increasingly selfish and impersonal world that we are living in. At one time, people helped each other--even strangers. We would open doors for those carrying a heavy load or allow a person with one item into the check-out que ahead of us if we had less and we would hold back to allow the driver of a car to get into the flow of traffic--we would even wave them in. And it didn't cost us much in time or effort. It made life easier for us all. In actual fact, it is rewarding to help others. At least, that has been my experience. But anger and selfishness are catching, like a disease. This man with his knife is a murderer looking for a victim--over a lane change!
Last night before my son left home to return to his apartment in the city, we were watching videos while eating our dinner. It is the season for Hallowe'en ghosts and goblins and anything that causes a slight chill to creep up the spine. A video he chose showed how in Japan there is a forest in the shadow of Mt. Fuji that has become a favorite suicide spot, the second most used spot in all the world second only to the Golden Gate Bridge. The creators of the video seemed to be a bit thin on evidence, but we watched them walk through the odd looking Japanese forest, prod at this or that, shake out an abandoned backpack, etc. And then we watched another even better video that, at first, appeared to be more professionally made and more factual. They even showed an actual skeleton--or at least did a good job of creating the effect. Oddly enough, the subject material slowly deteriorated into new-age postulation as to why this spot was so popular for suicide.
As I said, it seemed to mark a theme for the weekend in disparate ways but perhaps with a common cause. In a world where we are increasingly faceless and meaningless to the general flow of life around us, we begin to act more and more selfishly and the result, it seems to me, is a denial of the importance of others and concern for others which is our nature.
I would contrast it to a recent show I watched on PBS about the history of England based on the history of one small town in approximately the center of the country that was like a microcosm of the entire kingdom since before the Norman Conquest. For an American who lives without real roots, it is profoundly interesting to realize that for most of mankind's history, there was very little mobility and the same family lived in the same town from the first time a last name was recorded shortly after 1066 up to this very day, and evidence suggests that a town had been located there for centuries before that. To think that same last name would be mentioned again and again in the history of that town and that of all their neighbors, as well, and children could go to a memorial and see their own ancestor's name inscribed in it. It was a place where my great-great grandfather and my neighbor's great-great grandfather knew each other--it would be like a town of siblings! Everybody knowing the history of all their neighbors, everybody sharing the same history and nobody "faceless" or unfamiliar.
I hope my son's generation is more passive and more considerate and I hope it stays that way. I wonder if we could take steps to alleviate the causes of anger due to impersonalization of others.
I highly recommend the PBS Special (this is just the preview but all three segments are available at PBS.org): Michael Wood's Story of England
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Morocco!
I recently finished reading Garment of Shadows by Laurie R. King. I found it to be a thoroughly intriguing mystery. The story is set in Morocco and more particularly it is centered in Fez. Out of curiosity, I did a search for Fez and came up with a great travel site with a very pleasant guide: Fez, Morocco
I could go to Morocco! And, I could read another book by Laurie R. King.
I could go to Morocco! And, I could read another book by Laurie R. King.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Pulse of Culture
Now that I am older, I sometimes feel as though I have lost my sense of the direction our culture is moving. I so often recognized coming trends in my younger days and now I just feel general confusion and my sense of trends has evaporated. But then I began to consider how much our culture has changed since I was young, how much diversity there is now. There is not just one pulse, there are many. The sense of confusion I feel is due to the diversity and one would have to have their fingers on the pulse of every cause of that diversity.
Why should I be out of touch? I spend too much of my spare time on Facebook. Isn't that where our culture is, generally speaking? Everyone and everything is now on Facebook. The whole Internet is now on Facebook and everything we do online can be reported to our Facebook page. I call Fb 'never-never land'. If I log in, I'll be there for hours in the blink of an eye. Then, when I log out, I'll be none the wiser than I was when I logged in. One liners really don't impart much information. So, the trend in Fb is less is more and we are mentally shrinking.
As much as I would like to be sidetracked by Facebook as a subject, I must move on to other trendy things. Needless to say, electronics are so trendy that the industry is controlling their users now. They tell us what we need and then they eliminate what we might want otherwise so we can't get what they have decided we don't need. Again, I feel my tendency to draw back, to withhold their right to do this to all of us. For example, the now, already, essential mobile phone. Seriously, do you like your mobile phone . . . er . . . apps device . . . er . . . surfing device . . . texting device . . . compact-office-in-a-pocket-including camera & games, minute-travel-agent? How long does your battery last? They are rated on how long their batteries last if they are not used. What happened to good mics? They used to have them back in the 90s. I suspect that the bad mics are on anything less than the latest and greatest. Is it heavy? I fondly remember how tiny the earliest mobile phones were. About ten years ago, I heard an elderly man complaining at the phone store that he just wants a basic phone. And, of course, the salesman patiently and repeatedly told him that they don't make the old basic phones anymore. Now, I feel that way. I want a phone that will stay charged through an entire conversation without ending it, 'My phone is warning that the battery is dying, so when it goes dead, you know I didn't hang up on you.' Maybe, now they are making 'handheld devices' (even the name of these things is vague), we could return to a basic phone that is good at being a phone. So, the trend is bigger is better now, a whole tablet, and the world is stuck on convenient sources of power.
I thought this would be a simple subject, one I could just muse on, a series of brief paragraphs over each subject. But rather, I have hit two subjects that are loaded and require more than a hefty paragraph each. I managed to eliminate most of the Fb paragraph, but when I launched into the subject of mobile phones, I realized it is too important to slice it down to the essentials. That is one misguided trend when the original intent, a good phone, has been entirely forgotten even by the users. I intended to consider fashion, music, books and other media, as well, and I made a mistake. Perhaps some other day I could try again and avoid Fb and mobile phones and related media.
Why should I be out of touch? I spend too much of my spare time on Facebook. Isn't that where our culture is, generally speaking? Everyone and everything is now on Facebook. The whole Internet is now on Facebook and everything we do online can be reported to our Facebook page. I call Fb 'never-never land'. If I log in, I'll be there for hours in the blink of an eye. Then, when I log out, I'll be none the wiser than I was when I logged in. One liners really don't impart much information. So, the trend in Fb is less is more and we are mentally shrinking.
As much as I would like to be sidetracked by Facebook as a subject, I must move on to other trendy things. Needless to say, electronics are so trendy that the industry is controlling their users now. They tell us what we need and then they eliminate what we might want otherwise so we can't get what they have decided we don't need. Again, I feel my tendency to draw back, to withhold their right to do this to all of us. For example, the now, already, essential mobile phone. Seriously, do you like your mobile phone . . . er . . . apps device . . . er . . . surfing device . . . texting device . . . compact-office-in-a-pocket-including camera & games, minute-travel-agent? How long does your battery last? They are rated on how long their batteries last if they are not used. What happened to good mics? They used to have them back in the 90s. I suspect that the bad mics are on anything less than the latest and greatest. Is it heavy? I fondly remember how tiny the earliest mobile phones were. About ten years ago, I heard an elderly man complaining at the phone store that he just wants a basic phone. And, of course, the salesman patiently and repeatedly told him that they don't make the old basic phones anymore. Now, I feel that way. I want a phone that will stay charged through an entire conversation without ending it, 'My phone is warning that the battery is dying, so when it goes dead, you know I didn't hang up on you.' Maybe, now they are making 'handheld devices' (even the name of these things is vague), we could return to a basic phone that is good at being a phone. So, the trend is bigger is better now, a whole tablet, and the world is stuck on convenient sources of power.
I thought this would be a simple subject, one I could just muse on, a series of brief paragraphs over each subject. But rather, I have hit two subjects that are loaded and require more than a hefty paragraph each. I managed to eliminate most of the Fb paragraph, but when I launched into the subject of mobile phones, I realized it is too important to slice it down to the essentials. That is one misguided trend when the original intent, a good phone, has been entirely forgotten even by the users. I intended to consider fashion, music, books and other media, as well, and I made a mistake. Perhaps some other day I could try again and avoid Fb and mobile phones and related media.
Friday, October 05, 2012
A dog's duty
In the past three years, I have often told people how Dickens, our little Maltese dog, will begin to watch me closely as 3:00 pm comes around. I see a sadness in his eyes, if I look at him, but I never mistook the fact that he was in the habit of going to get the boy at school every afternoon at about that time. And so every day, I would take him "Bye, bye" and he would be as excited about it as ever. Because I like Sonic drinks and that was often a part of our daily outing with Dwight, I take him there. I thought this satisfied his need to go somewhere as though he couldn't remember the real reason.
So, today, as I do every day when I am not working, I loaded up Dickens and we went to Sonic. I even talked to the carhop, who also has a similar type dog, about how he needs to take an afternoon trip everyday. But the minute he gets in the car, Dickens lays down and sleeps. I think it's funny for him to be so excited about going and then sleep all the way.
On the way home, I drove a slightly different way than I usually do. I avoid school zones and their heavy traffic when the children have just been let out. But today, I drove within a block of the school. I could hear the children's voices and see them running in all directions. From the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw Dickens struggle to stand up. The little loyal old dog who went so many times to pick up the boy was prepared to do his duty. He faced the school, his little ears picked up, his tail curled over his back happily.
I turned off the street before reaching the congestion around the school. He tottered a bit, his head dropped and then his tail and then laid back down. Tears stung my eyes. No, he has not forgotten his duty. He has been wondering and worrying all this time that we haven't been going to the school and today, for a moment, he thought I had remembered.
So, today, as I do every day when I am not working, I loaded up Dickens and we went to Sonic. I even talked to the carhop, who also has a similar type dog, about how he needs to take an afternoon trip everyday. But the minute he gets in the car, Dickens lays down and sleeps. I think it's funny for him to be so excited about going and then sleep all the way.
On the way home, I drove a slightly different way than I usually do. I avoid school zones and their heavy traffic when the children have just been let out. But today, I drove within a block of the school. I could hear the children's voices and see them running in all directions. From the corner of my eye, I suddenly saw Dickens struggle to stand up. The little loyal old dog who went so many times to pick up the boy was prepared to do his duty. He faced the school, his little ears picked up, his tail curled over his back happily.
I turned off the street before reaching the congestion around the school. He tottered a bit, his head dropped and then his tail and then laid back down. Tears stung my eyes. No, he has not forgotten his duty. He has been wondering and worrying all this time that we haven't been going to the school and today, for a moment, he thought I had remembered.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Shitty Rough Drafts
I thought that because I've attempted to restart my writing habit a number of times only to fail, that the best thing would be to go back to the beginning. In the beginning, my blog was for daily writing adventures. It wasn't supposed to be agonized over or perfected. It was to be purely rough draft. It was supposed to be a "keep the pen moving" effort.
A writer is really someone who can never quite give up writing. The evidence is overwhelming against me. I must have a half a dozen notebooks for different purposes, although those purposes are often fuzzy and cross the lines somewhat. I always have a journal. I have one notebook for when I manage to work on something from Natalie Goldberg's, Old Friend From Far Away. I have another one that I bought because it was cheap on sale and it captures my wilder moments. So, I am simply confessing that I am a writer and I can't give it up. I might as well make some sort of forward progress. I have two shitty first drafts and who knows how many hefty beginnings. It seems that my biggest problem is revision. When it comes to revising a novel with a minimum of one-hundred-fifteen-thousand words, I'm overwhelmed. I bog down in what to add and what to slice and keeping track of all my thoughts. But I do worry that I will die with shitty rough drafts on my hard drive. Worse, I worry that my computer will die with shitty rough drafts that aren't saved anywhere else. Obviously I have a problem. I might need Writers Anonymous.
Yesterday, I took Anne Lamott's, Bird by Bird to work with me. She makes me feel so good. I laugh until my sides hurt. I have read and reread this book so many times through the years. Or, I just pick it up for a laugh. I thought that would be the best way to begin again, with Anne's guidance and humor. I needed to remember turning my critics into mice, picking them up by the tail and dropping them into a mason jar. I had to draw a bracket around her paragraph about her mind having conversations with people who aren't there. For me anything that happens or is going to happen is the cause of an imagined scenario. And sometimes even a revised scenario. And sometimes, I'm even smart enough to remember that I never get it right before the fact. Some of these are just sketches. Sometimes I even color in the lines. I talk to a lot of cops that way, too, if I think they might have seen me do something stupid or if I see a cop do something stupid. I was just having a conversation in the bathtub with my employer over a hoped for position. I hate to look for another job. He'll never know.
It is this kind of imagination, this all consuming constant story creation, with my mind forever lost in its own little imaginings that must be the hallmark of all who are driven to write. When I was tiny, my grandmother was always saying that I would lose my head if it weren't screwed on. Others said things that weren't quite so nice that implied the same spacey approach to life. She saw it, she just didn't know what she was seeing.
I used to think I loved to write but I never had a story worth writing. I would agonize over it for weeks at a time. Why I thought I could love to write if I didn't have anything to write about is a mystery. I would cook up a novel idea and lose it in creating an outline. In truth, I feel that way again now. But I had one profound moment, years ago, when it dawned on me that I have been making up stories constantly every day of my life as far back as I can remember. They may not be interesting, but I've dreamed up millions of them. I think the problem is the blank page. Seeing a blank piece of paper makes me think I have to write something great. Well, shoot that mouse! If I can just manage one sentence, tarnish the page, I'm halfway there already.
I was going to write about lunchboxes because Anne uses remembering school lunches as an assignment. I was going to tell how all my friends had the coolest lunchboxes and that was back in the day when they were still metal. What I really wanted was a Wyatt Earp lunchbox. I never had one because I usually went home to eat with my Dad. But when he was out of town, I had to take my lunch like the normal kids. Talk about being up against the fence! And since I made my lunch, I had to write my own name on the paper bag, if I was fortunate enough to have a lunch bag sized bag.
That would have been boring anyway. Or, should I say, too.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Hush! This is a secret and I am not telling anybody that I am blogging again. I am also going to work on my writing again which is why I am beginning by blogging. I expect this to be boring and bad. But my topic today is reading.
My reading habit had become too lax. While cleaning the house recently, I noticed my piles of books, those piles that shift from here to there around the house but have not changed much over time for quite a few years and continue to collect dust. They are all good for me to read, edifying, but have failed to hold my attention and so they sit. Each has a bookmark sticking out of one end wherever I finally lost interest so totally I could never bring myself to open it again. If a good book lands on the pile, it isn't long before it's gone. With fall looming and silence in the house, I was suffering a terrible hunger to read. I knew that I need to devour books, fun to read books, books that are not good for me to read before I could feel mentally healthy. I took a trip to the library to solve the problem three days ago.
I felt right at home the minute I walked in the door. The carpet hasn't changed, the old sweet scent of books, of old paper and ink, of read text, was perfect perfume, an elixir for flagging spirits. I began by going directly to the front desk. In the back of my mind, a fear had begun to fester that they would kick me out if they saw how long it has been since I last checked out a book. It is time to confess that I prefer to own my own books, but books have become quite pricey of late. It turned out that my library card had expired one month and one day before I came back. It wasn't as bad as I had feared it would be and I needed a new card anyway because I'd lost my old one. A new card on my keyring and I was ready to find some books.
Fortunately, the fiction section is the first room beyond the lobby. History, though I love it, was off my list--too good for me, too edifying, too likely to collect dust. I began reading titles and immediately saw one I ought to read. Out of habit, my hand responded to the impulse, I reached for the top of the spine. But froze--do I need another good for me to read book that I will drag through? I managed to pull my hand off the top of the book and walk on. I needed a book that would grab me! I even managed to get all the way around to the other side of the first row of shelves, scanning titles and authors and muttering, "No, not that one," over and over, before I saw the first promising title--a book I hadn't read by an author with whom I had no previous acquaintance. Perfect!
What is more, this particular title concerned me. It is remarkably close to the working title of my WIP, slow progress. If you are a friend of mine, you may remember that title is, And Fair, Fierce Women, borrowed from a poem by Robert Burns. This book's title is Fair and Tender Ladies. Too close, too close. It fulfilled the requirement that the book must grab me. It grabbed me so fast that the cover was open and I was reading in less than a second. It is an older book, published in 1988 and I am stymied as to how I could have missed it in the past.
My search resumed and I went into the next room and began at the end of the fiction section. The next one that grabbed me was not so unfamiliar, I just don't remember reading this particular novel before. It is, A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb, a medieval mystery, and if I am lucky, the library will have the whole series at some point. That's what I hate about libraries.
Then I did something that is totally out of character for me. I made myself leave. I did not continue until I had an armload. This is fortunate now that I am living alone and unemployed. With no interruptions and no schedule, I might be totally out of control if I have some books that aren't good for me to read. I am a confessed book devourer. I can resist going to the bathroom for hours when I am reading a gripping story.
I checked out, I went home and immediately began to read. I read until 4:00 AM. I resumed reading with my early afternoon coffee the next day. I read straight through, into the second day, until the last page had been turned. And then . . . and then I reread parts. Both were excellent, but especially Lee Smith's. I would be reading still had I picked up six books instead of only two. Besides, this means I get another whiff of library perfume and more wear on my new library card. This is always good for my spirit, to get out and go to either a book store or a library. This is where I come alive.
My reading habit had become too lax. While cleaning the house recently, I noticed my piles of books, those piles that shift from here to there around the house but have not changed much over time for quite a few years and continue to collect dust. They are all good for me to read, edifying, but have failed to hold my attention and so they sit. Each has a bookmark sticking out of one end wherever I finally lost interest so totally I could never bring myself to open it again. If a good book lands on the pile, it isn't long before it's gone. With fall looming and silence in the house, I was suffering a terrible hunger to read. I knew that I need to devour books, fun to read books, books that are not good for me to read before I could feel mentally healthy. I took a trip to the library to solve the problem three days ago.
I felt right at home the minute I walked in the door. The carpet hasn't changed, the old sweet scent of books, of old paper and ink, of read text, was perfect perfume, an elixir for flagging spirits. I began by going directly to the front desk. In the back of my mind, a fear had begun to fester that they would kick me out if they saw how long it has been since I last checked out a book. It is time to confess that I prefer to own my own books, but books have become quite pricey of late. It turned out that my library card had expired one month and one day before I came back. It wasn't as bad as I had feared it would be and I needed a new card anyway because I'd lost my old one. A new card on my keyring and I was ready to find some books.
Fortunately, the fiction section is the first room beyond the lobby. History, though I love it, was off my list--too good for me, too edifying, too likely to collect dust. I began reading titles and immediately saw one I ought to read. Out of habit, my hand responded to the impulse, I reached for the top of the spine. But froze--do I need another good for me to read book that I will drag through? I managed to pull my hand off the top of the book and walk on. I needed a book that would grab me! I even managed to get all the way around to the other side of the first row of shelves, scanning titles and authors and muttering, "No, not that one," over and over, before I saw the first promising title--a book I hadn't read by an author with whom I had no previous acquaintance. Perfect!
What is more, this particular title concerned me. It is remarkably close to the working title of my WIP, slow progress. If you are a friend of mine, you may remember that title is, And Fair, Fierce Women, borrowed from a poem by Robert Burns. This book's title is Fair and Tender Ladies. Too close, too close. It fulfilled the requirement that the book must grab me. It grabbed me so fast that the cover was open and I was reading in less than a second. It is an older book, published in 1988 and I am stymied as to how I could have missed it in the past.
My search resumed and I went into the next room and began at the end of the fiction section. The next one that grabbed me was not so unfamiliar, I just don't remember reading this particular novel before. It is, A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb, a medieval mystery, and if I am lucky, the library will have the whole series at some point. That's what I hate about libraries.
Then I did something that is totally out of character for me. I made myself leave. I did not continue until I had an armload. This is fortunate now that I am living alone and unemployed. With no interruptions and no schedule, I might be totally out of control if I have some books that aren't good for me to read. I am a confessed book devourer. I can resist going to the bathroom for hours when I am reading a gripping story.
I checked out, I went home and immediately began to read. I read until 4:00 AM. I resumed reading with my early afternoon coffee the next day. I read straight through, into the second day, until the last page had been turned. And then . . . and then I reread parts. Both were excellent, but especially Lee Smith's. I would be reading still had I picked up six books instead of only two. Besides, this means I get another whiff of library perfume and more wear on my new library card. This is always good for my spirit, to get out and go to either a book store or a library. This is where I come alive.