Primary Functions
27 Feb 2008 4 Comments
I’m having trouble putting words on a page. When I don’t put words on a page, I become unbelievably hard to live with. This isn’t something that started when I decided to write the Great American Novel. It’s always been there.
I’m a record keeper, a writer all my life. In the midst of my former career, when I didn’t put the words down first thing in the morning, I came unhinged. Writing is breathing. To appropriate Dylan Thomas, I do not go gentle into that good night. I thrash and poke until I provoke someone to poke back. I’m not subtle. When six-year-old Coco tells her sister, “Leave her alone. She’s gotta write,” you sense the urgency in her voice.
Weekends are terrible because my schedule is altered. On Monday, I’m desperate for language. If I don’t get a Monday page count–don the asbestos suit ‘cause there’s gonna be a firestorm. This was the case on Monday afternoon.
Fortunately, my Bacon has known about this affliction for 40 years–Oy! that’s a lot of history between two people. He sat, listened, and let me spew. Then, he said something helpful like, “I had no idea it was so bad.” Which was great because he’s admitted that he’s oblivious to the fact that I’ve been folding socks and changing sheets and making dinner so well, he hasn’t noticed the alien beings protruding Sigourney Weaver-style from my midsection.
How to solve? I wrote out of sequence on Tuesday. I wrote badly, but I skipped to the chase. In this case to the love scene, the chase scene is later. (I may resort to that today.) I’m an extremely sequential thinker, but the neatness of my prearranged ideas must be flat-out rejected at times. This was that time.
In addition, if my brain isn’t occupied when I’m not writing, I obsess about what isn’t finished. I’m not a good tv viewer. I can cope with some trash television on a limited basis. Lately, my thing has been CSI-Miami reruns. I know at some point the blonde is going to shoot the gun and the slo-mo bullet will hit the target. Predictability and limited dialog are assets. When I watch something with too much characterization, I end up writing like what I see. Face it, Grey’s Anatomy is already being done. So…
I went to Target to buy a book. I rarely buy. I can read a novel in roughly 3 hours. It seems a waste of funds to buy first. If I like it, I go back and buy it. On Tuesday morning, I wanted to treat myself, so I shopped the designer big box. Unfortunately, the stock clerk at Target had fitness issues. His midsection was so large he was in cardiac arrest every time he bent over to pick up a paperback. Listening to him breathe was too big a distraction. The deer-in-the-headlights store lost my business on Tuesday.
I drove to the local library. I’m a library expert. I know about Syndetics, and the card catalog on the web, and how to reserve the book for pickup at my local branch. Today, however, I was desperate to browse. IF I COULD ONLY FIND A PARKING PLACE! Local libraries are civic buildings, and this is primary season. Normally, that would mean nothing in Texas, but in the heart of Bush country, a fever has taken hold of the population. It’s called, early voting.
For the better part of a week, the two libraries closest to my home have been swamped with cars. The back rooms hold voting machines, lines encircle the building, and election carnies are out front asking, “Are you Democrat or Republican?”
“None of your damn business!” I heard a 70 year old woman respond.
People are pissed off, and Texans believe “it’s better be pissed off than pissed on.”* No where is it more obvious than the local library. It’s a phenomenon. Texas is touting its place as the “decider.” Leave it to us to contemplate one of the worst “because I told you so” answers in history. Democracy is alive and well in Texas. If you don’t believe me, just try to check out a library book.
I’m off to the chase.
*To avoid committing an Obama, this quote is attributed to Southwestern Oklahoma sage, Donna Brown.
Discoveries
24 Feb 2008 Leave a Comment
in Housekeeping
This is a week of simple discoveries.
Below the quote box to the right of your screen, hit the goodreads button. It will lead you to a cool site where I have listed the books that I’ve read, and those I’m currently reading. I’ve tried before to keep a list of books read, but I’ve never kept up. This website helps me keep track with a click of a button. Check it out. It’s a pretty cool for book-crazy folk.
Friday, the girls were out of school for President’s Day. Leave it to our school district to pick a day at random instead of the federal holiday. We took advantage of being the only school out by going to see Enchanted. I know it was released in November. I’m slow, but I’m so glad we got around to going. Coco, Cherry, and I had a great time. Coco had to cuddle during the last scary scene, but that makes it even better.
It’s spring in my backyard! It happened suddenly. I noticed a week ago that the mesquite trees were budding. Today, my Mountain Laurel tree is in bloom.
The News Fit To Print
21 Feb 2008 Leave a Comment
This week, fire destroyed a home near ours. I was laying in bed with the girls, trying to get them to sleep when I first heard the sirens. It’s a odd thing to know that something terrible is happening so close. I heard the news helicopters circling overhead like incoming wounded on a M.A.S.H. episode. A man died, and his elderly mother was rescued by a passerby. The burned out shell was covered in a blue tarp by evening of the next night. It looked neatly packaged and put away. The loss is devastating, like an open wound on our little neighborhood. Bad things happen all over. It isn’t limited to the third world or the middle east.
I went to my writer’s group on Wednesday because Coco told me to go. When I’m tired, I hate to be away from home. The guilt of leaving my family to their own momless resources wears me down.
Coco told me, “Mom it’s your group. You have to go.”
I was already late, so I grabbed my bag and rushed out the door. She was right, of course. It’s my group. I need to be there. What was I thinking?
Bacon’s new job is fine. We are getting back into the swing of a regular schedule.
Cherry’s teacher pulled me aside this morning. She wanted to show me Cherry’s math journal. Ms. M. was almost breathless describing the approach Cherry used to solve a logic problem. How did this happen? I can’t balance a checkbook without a calculator, yet this kid is growing up in my house. Adoption is a fabulous thing.
I didn’t meet the 50 page goal last week, but I learned some valuable information about myself. I’m best when I work consistently without regard to numbers. Yesterday, I wrote eleven pages. Today, I rewrote those eleven pages. I have nothing new, but I’m better. The new goal is to work every day for a specific amount of time.
Boy cardinals are red because they eat the berries off of a red bush. The berries aren’t good for them, but they eat them anyway because girl cardinals like their men red. Amazing what they do for love. That’s why I write romance. What will you do for love?
Coffee
17 Feb 2008 Leave a Comment
in Housekeeping
The coffee pot quit this week. It was red with a programmable timer. I quit using the timer several months ago when I discovered coffee brewing randomly in the middle of the day. Since then, I’ve been plugging and unplugging the pot just in case it decided to make coffee again all on its lonesome.
The morning the pot quit, I was desperate. I started and restarted the red demon ten times. I didn’t get coffee, only E r r E on the digital display. After fifteen minutes of frustration, I crawled back in bed and tagged Bacon.
“The coffee pot doesn’t work. No coffee.”
He messed with it another 20 times before pouring a coke over ice and bringing it to me in bed. It was a thoughtful gesture, but Coke is a poor substitute to a coffee drinker. We drove to Target for a Mr. Coffee, no bells and whistles, but we have coffee.
I didn’t drink coffee until I discovered Starbuck’s at age 35. Not drinking coffee was a rebellious act. Drinking it became a fashion statement. Now, it’s a habit. I could stop here. Caffeine bad–gotta quit. But, coffee’s more than that. Coffee evokes memory.
When I was small, my mama drank it black and scalding. I loved the smell, but I wasn’t tempted. It seemed like drinking hot tree bark. In college I was rebellious. I would do nothing my mother did. My caffeine fix came from Coca Cola. Now, I’ve made the circle. I’m a mom coffee drinker, a lightweight compared to my mother. I drink my tree bark with Nestle’s Quick, but how I drink it doesn’t matter because I know what coffee is.
It’s sun in my kitchen window behind flower boxes stuffed full of green. My little girls are pajama-clad and sleepy-eyed while my dad, my brother, and I drink pot after pot. Talking about everything from liberal politics to car engines, we run more water through, so we can sit a little longer. Pour another cup.
It’s mountains, and the old aluminum pot on the stove in the camping trailer. My nephew brings Starbuck’s because he knows that this is a moment we won’t soon forget. What could be better than dark Sumatran roast in the cold New Mexico morning on the edge of the Pecos’ Wilderness?
It’s bringing my lover a cup in bed, so he can face the day.
It’s Swiss Miss Cocoa left with a note, “for your coffee in the morning.”
If my Methodist upbringing can substitute Welch’s grape juice for the Blood of Christ, then surely, coffee can be the fuel running our collective memories, the fuel of family and friendship. I’ll drink a cup to that.
Cherry For President
14 Feb 2008 2 Comments
Presidential politics has been a big topic at our house. In second grade social studies, Cherry has been studying the requirements to be president. You have to be an American born citizen at least 35 years old and have lived in the U.S. for at least 14 years. Cherry realized that under current law, she can never be president because she was born in China.
“I’ll just have to get the law changed,” Cherry said.
Bacon and I extended the second grade curriculum to include a discussion of the current presidental race. Cherry and Coco know the names of the first woman, and the first African-American to be major candidates. We talked about going to see Hillary Clinton when she comes to San Antonio.
Early in the afternoon on the day of the rally, we decided it was too hard to go to see Hillary. It’s on a school night, over late, and on the other side of town. Then, there’s Coco. She hates to stand in line, be still, ride in the car, and stay up late.
Who we didn’t consider was Cherry, an eight year old girl who wants the chance to be President of the United States.
“We aren’t going?”
“It will be late, baby. Tomorrow is a school day. You have homework.”
“But, I wanted to see Hillary Clinton. She’s a girl like me, who might be president.”
The line into McGreehey Arena wound completely around St. Mary’s University. We stood in it for over two hours. It was a warm evening. The girls were terrific. When we got to the door, we were the last people allowed inside. I heard a staff member say they had reached capacity according to fire code. The line outside was still huge.
We stood on the floor in front of the stage. Lots of people with placards were in front of us waving like they were at a pep rally. It wasn’t a great spot, but the girls perched on our backs and Bacon’s shoulders. Sometimes, they stood on the floor and couldn’t see a thing, but they were listening.
On way home in the car, Cherry said, “I hope Hillary gets that law changed.”
“What law is that?”
“The law that says I can be president some day.”
“You’ll have to write a letter, and let her know how important it is to you.”
“Maybe I can send her an email.”
crisp |krisp| adjective
