Creepshow

Waiting for another friend to arrive at the Art Festival, L and I watched the crowd move through the entrance. It's an artsy crowd. It's not unusual to see all kinds, but this guy...this guy stood out. Not only was he approaching (I'm guessing) six and a half feet in height, he was wearing a straw fedora, a linen jacket with the sleeves rolled up, no shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. He had that pumped-up look, all brawn and no brain. What? Do I judge? Well, yes! He was a walking cartoon. He was also every bit of fifty years old. Ridiculous. L and I are perfectly capable of discreetly noticing the outrageous and pointing it out to each other. We did. We watched him as he wandered about the artists' booths, chest puffed up and eventually he disappeared into the crowd. Wow.

We mentioned him to our other friend, V, after she arrived. As we walked among the crowd, the topic turned to hats. The teenage son of V wanted to know what exactly was a fedora. After we went through that description, the conversation quickly turned to other topics and the Cock of the Walk was forgotten for the next three hours. I wish it had stayed that way.

We decided we'd had enough fresh air, sunshine, and art and we made our way back to the main gate. I asked V's son to snap a quick picture of the three of us next to a signpost for the festival. We moved close together and started to flash the requisite smiles. That's when Mr. Fedora showed up, standing behind our photographer, just standing there - smiling at us. Very, very creepy. Just as suddenly as he appeared, he took off walking down a path. I turned to V and said, "Did you see him? That's that guy?"

He gets about 100 yards away, turns around and heads back towards us. The guy headed right at us, nearly brushing into us.

I have no idea what his deal was.

I'm pretty sure I don't want to know.

I'm hoping he was some sort of plant for a social experiment and we failed. If he wasn't, I'm seriously creeped.

Rain and Light

It's raining and the wind is moving through the canyons of Midtown, letting us know that spring isn't summer and we shouldn't get so carried away as to wear sundresses and sandals just yet. I've been inside all day, catching up on this and that. Mostly I've been enjoying listening to the sound of the fat raindrops as they hit my windows. I've got the shades open enough to let what sunlight can filter into my apartment without me exchanging full-on glances with my neighbors across the courtyard. It's not that I want to be antisocial, I just don't feel like sharing all that much today. It's a quiet day. Nice.

I realized that I haven't written here for a while. I've been in New Orleans, visiting my son and his sweetheart. We ate in charming restaurants, off the beaten path. We tried to watch the St. Patrick's parade, but it was on New Orleans time (ran four hours late). We were so beat from walking a couple miles and consuming green beer that we gave up and went home. The people-watching was excellent along the route. I did a little shopping for Mother-of-the-Groom dresses. Didn't buy anything. The wedding is many months away. I have time and I need to be in the right frame of mind to purchase something so important. I consider it of extreme import. I'm very happy about this wedding.

I have no photographs to document my vacation. I forgot my camera.

Taking eight days off work was just what I needed. I should have done it last month, but should've never did anything - that's what my mom used to say. I'm just glad I took time time away. My outlook feels much brighter, even as I look out my window onto a gray sky, it's not bleak. Not one bit.

I've been thinking about the canvas and paints I have stored away. There's more than one way to record memories and there's more than one way to bring light into a room. It may be time to bring them out again.

Mas Masa

How many people does it take to make a tortilla?

Define "make".

We gathered in the kitchen and looked at the newest purchase, a tortilla press. It was a worthy idea. We would come together and cook a meal as we'd done many times before. This time we'd take it one step further and prepare the most basic ingredients ourselves, the tortillas. Our host had taken the effort to purchase the corn and the flour. He had a press and he told us it would be easy. "Just add water until the dough forms a ball."

Bueno.

Almost an hour later we were still without a single success. We were lubricated with vodka tonics and there was guacamole to sate our building appetites. Laughter filled the kitchen and there was talk of walking to the grocery store on the next block to buy some packaged tortillas.

"No! We can do this!"

We added more masa. We got our hands dirty. We tried again. And...

Success!

We started cranking out one after the other of perfect round discs of corn, passing them to the cooks who heated them on the griddle. The smoky aroma started to fill the room. We toasted our success and laughed as the stack started building, waiting for the grilled fish, chicken and beef.

Our host beamed as we all sat down to a fajita dinner that night. We'd come together to make it happen. His latest gadget was a hit. There was talk among the crowd of some of us even buying one of our own.

Sometimes it takes a village.

In My Little Black Book

I haven't done much creative writing lately, because...

...I visited with a counselor to help me get a handle on this sadness.

She suggested I write in a journal instead.

Why?

I don't sleep so great. I have a headache. I've been concerned that my muse might have taken flight.

That's not it - my muse is probably sitting in some corner of my apartment, waiting for me to finish what I need to finish. I'm in mourning. Rather, I should be in mourning, but I haven't allowed myself the time to go there. I've been working at my paid job and the need to mourn has manifested in teeth-gnashing, sleepless nights that leave me gulping coffee during long days occupied by dull headaches that keep me from having a single creative thought, let alone the energy to compose a clever sentence or phrase.

So I'm putting a few words in a lined notebook I picked up from the clearance rack at Target. It's got a pretty black cover, all swirly, velvety and black. I'm writing to my Dad, about my Dad, for my Dad. It doesn't make much sense. I guess it doesn't have to.

I look forward to meeting with my muse again. Maybe we'll sit down for a cup of herbal tea and catch up on old times.