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.

"Listen to Me"

I sat in the chair opposite and asked how he was doing. It was obvious he wasn't doing that great. The side of his face was swollen, showing the signs of what we'd done the previous week. We'd taken a section of his jaw, placed it in a metal basin. We left him in a room with another team who fabricated a replacement part for him from a small piece of his lower leg and a plate that resembled something from my brother's erector set - all slots and screws. Not only was he swollen, he was bruised and his eyes had that dull look of someone who has had just enough narcotic to lower the boil to a simmer, but not enough to be able to describe pain as "gone".

He called me by my name but only after making the effort to look at the plastic-shielded tag hanging from the lapel of my lab coat. He pulled a piece of paper from his left shirt pocket, unfolded it, and started to read what was written on that pale green, lined sheet of paper.

"I want you to listen to me. For the last three years, I get up every morning and decide what I will eat that day. Almost everything goes into my blender, or I eat grits, or eggs. I love milk, so I drink a lot of milk. Oh, coffee. I have to have my coffee. The only way I can eat in a restaurant is to order grits and eggs. I want a steak so bad and I'll never eat another one. I bought an expensive blender. I make soup out of everything. I know what my body needs to be healthy. I put vegetables in there, and fruit. I never drink alcohol. My weight is stable. I haven't smoked for years. I want someone to listen to me and to understand what I've been going through. Everything I eat, I eat out of that blender."

He looked at me. I couldn't remember if his eyes were brown before, but they seemed black at that moment.

"I hear you. Do you need to tell me anything else?"

He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, shaking his head. "No, that's all."


I've been asked what I gain from my work. Sometimes I don't know at a particular moment, I only know much later. The moment in time I described seemed very special, though. I felt as if I gained insight into what it felt like to be in someone else's skin. I'm pretty sure that was the point. I'm almost certain of it.

Letting myself run, letting myself write...

With no real plan and beautiful weather calling me, I let my feet take me where they wanted. I ran through River Oaks, winding through the manicured, mansioned-lined streets for an hour. It was just me and the gardeners and an occasional bee-stung woman in a Porsche - or some other car I'd never drive. I'm just not that good at the car thing.

Sidewalk repair forced me to be ginger at times, tip-toeing and stretching my stride, taking care not to trip on stray bricks as a xylophone played some tune I don't know through my MP3 player.  The song showed up on my playlist one day after I moved some music around, trying to learn how the device works.  That was months ago.  I've heard that song dozens of times and it sounds new each time.  I still don't really know how the player works, either.

Today the sun won the match fought with the winter chill.  Although it was only 48 degrees, it felt closer to 60 and it seemed as if spring was pulling at me to stay outside just a little longer.  I kept moving, not wanting to end my run.  I saw a robin, but she was laying dead on the sidewalk.  She looked colder than I felt.

Fatigue continues to be my running partner.  It's not overbearing, or overwhelming.  It runs next to me and when I kick off my shoes, it sits on the couch with me, asking if we can take a nap even before we take a shower. 

It feels as if this shroud will lift if I don't wrap it around me.  If I don't pull it close, it won't gain purchase.  I'll allow myself rest, but I won't allow myself complete surrender.  Yesterday I had a feeling that each day brings something extraordinary.  It was more of an enlightenment.  I think I'll go with that.

A Recent Discussion: Amid Pizza, Beer and That Trusting Feeling of Being Able to Say What Matters

What to write about? What topic is most on my mind at this time? I'll delve into the most recent political discussion I had because it really gets to the heart of what matters to me.

I think many of us were schooled in the Guns or Butter Debate at some point in our academic careers. I remember Mrs. Fark (really, Mrs. Fark) talking to us about it in the fourth grade. She was stern, tall, buttoned-up, and I think I still have scars on my right wrist where her fingernails dug into me one day. I'm not sure why she made an impression on my scholarly life, but I can remember that when she wasn't terrifying me, she taught me a thing or two. I don't know if she came down on one side or the other of the debate about arming a nation or feeding its people, but she gave us the basics. At the time, I believed that war was evil. I was afraid that my brothers would be drafted and I didn't want anyone to go hungry. My little heart was already beginning to bleed.

Today, we've warped to a time when it seems almost impossible to choose between guns or butter. We are a military nation, expanding our might globally while people starve within our borders and worldwide. I have accepted that I can only fight as far as my arms or my personal resources will reach. I am able to donate funds to local and global charities to help feed those who are without, but I am simply not able to stop the war machine, as much as I might desire to do so.

There is a new debate/choice waging now that I think holds similarities, yet can be looked at on an even more finite ethical level.

Us –vs.- Them.

Well, that sounds a little vague, doesn’t it? Consider the issue of health care. I’ve heard the argument that our elected officials should solve the unemployment crisis before tackling health care accessibility for all Americans. I’ve also heard it said that taxes should be lowered before health care is addressed.

I’ve heard myriad “issues” proposed as more important than health care.

My opinion, my inkling, is that perhaps, PERHAPS, it’s an us –vs.- them issue. Is not the ability to obtain quality health care in a timely manner something that we should expect our citizens to be able to do? I understand the difference between a “right” and a “privilege”. I’m just saying that when I look at my fellow humans, I see no reason why they shouldn’t have access to health care: basic, timely, efficient health care unless it's about taking care of "us" before we take care of "them".

I don’t need my taxes addressed before that happens. I understand that I could lose my job tomorrow. I’ve lost my job before.

I’m talking about the way we treat other human beings. I’m talking about my guns and butter.