Category: Thinking, thinking

Birthday Boy

Two seventeen was on the clock when Dee decided she would get up to wait. Rising, she walked downstairs with the slowness demanded of her diseased-ravaged ninety-year-old body, wheezing as she went. They said she’d beaten cancer, but it didn’t feel like it. Her feet and hips ached. So did her neck and her jaw. She could barely raise her right arm enough to dress. Drugs did nothing for that pain and movement any longer. They wanted to scrape the joint.

Turning on lights, she walked around the kitchen and dining room, looking out windows. It was dark, and she was alone. Although her eyes, mind, and body felt tired, sleep was like a Mega-millions lottery ticket this week. She’d cleaned the house, washed the bed linens, baked and cooked, and worried.

Prowling the kitchen, she regarded the black forest cake on the table. He’d told her that was his favorite once, so she always had one on hand, with candles. She didn’t know how old he was. He would never say. Based on his annual visits, he was sixty, but he’d been an adult on every visit, so he had to be older, didn’t he? Sometimes, he looked older. Once, he’d seemed like a very old man. His hair had been almost gone. What remained was gray and white. It’d been shocking.

Rubbing her face, she sighed. She was too tired to think. She’d been looking forward to this, but she also wanted it done. She wanted coffee, but for God’s sake, it was two in the morning. Once it was over, she’d want to sleep. Yes, but she felt so tired, maybe a little cup of decaf would help keep her alert. She didn’t want to fall asleep and miss him.

No, she would not miss him. That would be a first. If he came, he would wake her. If he didn’t come —

If he came, he would wake her, if he had the time. He was always so busy, busier every time. That’s what it seemed like.

And last time —

Leaning forward against the sink to hold herself up, she entered a reverie. Last time, he’d been in the worst condition that she’d ever seen. Blood all over him, and so gaunt, with disheveled hair. God. She’d wanted to hug and kiss him but the sight of him froze her.

“Peter. What happened to you?” she said. She scanned him with her nurse’s eyes for wounds and spotted several.

“War,” he said.

“War?” she said with shock. Recent news events bounced through her thoughts. “What war?”

He shook his head. “There’s not time for that.”

“But you’re hurt — ”

“I’m okay, Mom, don’t worry,” he said, but a wince crossed his face, turning into a grimace. “You should have seen the other guy. Seriously.”

“Your arm is bleeding,” she said, moving toward him. “So is your abdomen.”

Peter moved away from her. “I know. Stay back. I don’t want to get blood on you.”

“But you may have major internal injuries.”

“I know, but there’s not enough time for you to do anything, Mom. I’m going to be gone in a moment. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just had to see you.”

“Why can’t you stay longer?”

He had not answered. Peter had disappeared.

So, she had little hope for this year that it would be a longer visit.

She’d read The Time-Traveler’s Wife when it was released. So much of that book was like her experience with her son. But when she’d mentioned it, he’d said, “No, it’s nothing like that. It might seem random, but your visits are part of a much larger timetable.”

“My visits.” The way he said that, she knew it had more meaning. “You’re the one visiting.”

He’d smiled. “It’s really too complicated to explain. This visit would need to be a lot longer.”

She closed her eyes against the press of pain. It had taken her years to accept Peter was real and that his visits were real. Poor little Peter had lived less than a month. That loss remained a jagged wound in her soul. His first visits —

Her Fitbit’s alarm buzzed, reminding her of the time. She’d set it at his birth time, two thirty-four A.M. He always showed up then. As she pressed the button to stop it, he said, “Hi, Mom.”

Dee started and turned. “Oh, Peter. You scared me.” She laughed. “Right on time.”

He looked great. He came to her and hugged her tight, giving her a kiss as she tried saying, “I didn’t know if you’d make it,” while kissing him back.

“I’ll always make it, Mom,” he said, releasing her.

She drew back. “Let me look at you.” Her eyes brimmed with pride. He was so tall and good-looking, with a lean and athletic body, and beautiful green eyes. It was the best he’d ever looked. He could be a movie star. “You have a beard.”

“I do?” He grinned at her. “When did that happen?”

Dee wasn’t sure if he joked.

Smiling at her, Peter said, “How are you feeling?”

She sighed. “Oh, I’m tired and old. I’m in constant pain.”

That’s not what she wanted to talk about. There wasn’t time for it.

“You want something to eat?” She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “Do you have time to sit down?”

Regret spilled into his expression. “No, Mom, I’m sorry. I don’t have the time this year. I tried, but….” He sighed, looking tired.

At least he wasn’t wounded, or older than her. Remembering who he was and what day this was, she said, “Happy birthday, honey. I wanted to say that to you while you were still here.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking past her at the table. He grinned. “Is that black forest cake?”

Nodding, she smiled. “It’s your favorite.”

He nodded back. “Cut me a piece. I’ll take it with me.”

“Really?” she said. “Do we have time to for me to sing happy birthday first?”

“Only if you cut the cake while you sing,” he said, “and you sing really fast.”

She rushed to do so. “I put everything out, just in case there was time.” Picking up the knife, she sang, “Happy birthday — ”

She stopped as she looked for him.

He was gone.

“Happy birthday, son,” she said to the empty room. “Happy birthday.”

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All Along the Spectrum

I’m bouncing along the spectrum this week, sliding from hopeless negativity into enthusiastic, boundless optimism. 

I know there’s a sweet spot there. Just can’t seem to find that balance.

That’s not overly surprising, and I don’t knowingly let myself fixate on it. ‘Knowingly’ is key, because my mind has created traps that I fall into without realizing, following worn paths that I should avoid, except they’re so damn easy to follow. Do you write fiction or pursue goals and dreams? If so, you might understand what I mean when I refer to these dark, weary paths.

I don’t know all the nuances that trigger my spectrum slides. I have ideas and insights into that process. When I win writing battles, my spirits soar toward the positive end. Good food, a good time, and a surprising compliment can take me there, too. Struggling with writing decisions, events that seem beyond my control, and simple frustration can drag me down into sour, doleful depths.

I know those things. Unseen health issues affect me with sneak attacks. Or, are they health issues? Maybe they’re not. I note, I feel off, and ask myself, what’s going on? Is it too little sleep, something I ate, part of the aging process, the first symptoms of a disease, or intellectual activities affecting my emotional activities affecting my physical activities affecting my spiritual activities affecting my intellectual activities?

Yes, that circle exists. It’s more complex than those few arcs described. That’s the spectrum. It’s not an orderly, linear line, but a circle, perhaps even a mobius. I think of it as a spectrum on a circle. Abstract visualization is one of my strengths, so I turn to it to help me think through things.

Being aware of the circle’s existence, like the monster in the dark, is helpful. Dreams can sometimes help, but last night’s dreams about aliens and seeking understanding seemed to highlight my morass rather than illuminating a way through it. Bummer. Fortunately, finding a satisfying resolution to whatever artistic-writing-intellectual problem is challenging me helps as well.

Today, after dwelling on the dreams during my morning coffee, I did find a satisfying approach to resolving the problem (which, yes, was of a writing nature), feeding my positive energy. It came while I dawdled, putting aside my normal routine to read some fiction and goof off, rather than to go out to walk and write. After just a few pages of distracting my brain with another’s fiction, my sub-conscious announced, aha, and an idea was floated. The solution isn’t fully formed, but has enough substance that I can grasp and shape it into something more and move myself forward.

Knowing this minutiae about myself is helpful to coping with its repercussions and trying to contain it. It’s easy to let these things eat me up, starting a more self-destructive circle. I encountered those when I was younger, when I didn’t know how to sort myself, when the territory that is me was darker and more unknown. I did a lot of destruction to myself and my life in those days. Fortunately, others helped me with patience, kindness, and insights. When I think back on some of the craziness, I gulp with amazement that I’m alive, intact, and not incarcerated.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

3

Rut

You ever think, I’m in a rut, so I’m going to do something against type to challenge myself, only to discover, yeah, I’m in a rut, and I like it there.

No, no, no, not me. Never.

Right.

1

The Last Straw Rant

Plastic straws are the latest convenience to come under attack. Honestly, I won’t miss them.

I grow up under the impression that straws were for children to drink milkshakes. That was later amended to include smoothies and fraps. But straws for ice tea, lemonade, and water in a restaurant? No.

I witnessed that whole evolution and shift. I remember being in a California restaurant and being asked if I wanted a straw for my ice tea. What? No. I then remember dining with another person in California, and she specifically asked for a straw for her water, and another for her ice tea.

That was the mid-nineties, and I thought it strange. I became horrified and startled by how frequently people asked for straws if straws weren’t given to them. I often asked people in the early years why they wanted a straw. Many didn’t want to put their lips on the glass. Others didn’t like the ice bumping up against their face, nose, or lips. More said that they thought it neater, or more refined.

I guess that’s why I never took straws up; I’m neither neat nor refined. I rarely drink milkshakes, fraps, or smoothies these days. I guess I’ll acquire a metal straw for the times that I do.

It might be my last straw.

12

Thursday’s Theme Music

I always enjoy the sense of being lost and finding yourself. Maybe I enjoy that sense because I do it often, and I do it often because I like the feeling of reward I get from finding myself after being lost. It can be a pretty damning web.

I was thinking of all that today as I walked, recalling “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree” by KT Tunstall. Her song always imparts that sense that, out of all being presented in our minds, there are pieces we must pick out and fit together to solve part of the puzzles that we are. The thing about solving the puzzles that we are is, we’re never finished. As dynamic as southern Oregon weather, we as people change as frequently.

I don’t know what you think about the song, or the search for yourself, but it’s a good tool for furthering exploration of my infinite existence. The song came out just fourteen years ago, though. Before it, I often used Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” for the same purpose. You might realize that “Comfortably Numb” only came out in 1980, and ask (if you’ve read this far), “What song did you use before that?”

Well, that would be “The Real Me” by The Who. And before then?

Hell, who knows?

 

1

On This Day

I was looking at a “On this day in history” timeline. Joan of Arc executed. Andrew Jackson’s duel. First Indy 500. Babe Ruth’s last baseball game.

Seems like May 30th is a good day to make history. Carpe diem.

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Bot-tender

I followed my robot vacuum around today. Using it for spot-cleaning, I’d move it, turn it on, and then stand over it like a football coach on OTAs. “Move left,” I’d tell it. “Get that fur. Come on, pick it up, pick it up. That’s it. Good job.”

Doing this presented me with a feeling that I was cleaning, but I also felt empowered. I controlled the bot.

Maybe, too, I was seeing the future. Robots and automation are taking over more jobs each day, with plans for greater shifts on the near-horizon. But bots and automation might require intervention and guidance, as my Roomba does. We may have a new job category opening, bot-tender.

It could be the hot new thing, but I don’t think it’ll pay much.

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Tricks of the Mind

I ran into a friend who is also a writer. She and I, along with a few others, used to meet for drinks and conversation. All writers, we talked about what we were writing and our writing processes, and complained about the non-writers and our struggles with them. Non-writers are rarely interested in our WIPs and processes. I can appreciate that. I’ve gone into eyes-glazing-over mode when others have gone into explanations about their processes about things like making soap or quilting.

Our outings were wonderfully healthy and happy times. Everyone in the group moved, though, leaving us to find other avenues or go without. I turned to posts like these to help me cope.

When we encountered each other on the street, we resumed our writing relationship, spending fifteen minutes catching up. Both had elsewhere to go, though, so we had to cut the encounter short.

One thing she revealed was that she’d begun using a typewriter to write. She’d slowly stopped writing as much as she used to write, and thought that part of her issue was that she found herself editing as she wrote when she used a computer. That process curtailed her productivity. Typing the work in progress, at this point essentially defining the concept, helped her because she held tangible evidence in her hand each day.

It was an interesting issue and approach. I can relate. Sometimes, when the writing way becomes denser, as it has in the current chapter in progress, tangible progress seems elusive. I type, think, edit, revise, and repeat. It’s not as much fun, but I discover that I still achieve about fifteen hundred words a day. That’s not an amazing amount, but it’s tangible progress.

Once in a while, I’ve returned to writing in a notebook. I consider that much rawer and intense. I’ve done so when I feel like I’m stuck. I usually felt stuck when multiple paths to pursue were available, paralyzing me with indecision and doubt.

In the end, I applaud her typing effort. Whatever it takes to goad yourself to keep writing, you know?

Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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Sizzle

Have you noticed that the world is sizzling more?

No, this isn’t a climate change post about the world’s increasing average temperatures, melting and disappearing glaciers, rising sea levels, and more frequent and violent storms. We can’t do anything about that, so let’s not talk about it.

I’m talking about marketing sizzle. We can’t do anything about it, either, but many people are already talking about climate change. Not many are talking about the marketing sizzle.

The sizzle comes from that expression, “You don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle.” Most companies are selling sizzle. We called it vaporware in the software business. It’s the stuff they tell you is so frigging miraculous that you won’t believe you ever did without it, the stuff that rarely lives up to the promise.

Television shows are big on selling the sizzle. “It’s the most mind-blowing episode ever! You won’t want to miss it!” They’re not usually the most mind-blowing episodes ever to me. I can usually get up during the show, go make a sandwich, feed the cats, and answer the phone, come back and find that I’ve missed nothing of substance, only a little sizzle.

Television is a sizzle pioneer, but all the companies are catching on that they’ve got to sell the sizzle. “Look how fast our car is,” many commercials claim, showing people grinning from ear-to-ear as they race through a city like Jason Bourne escaping his government buddies. “Look how much fun it is to drive! Look how free this people feel.” Weird how there’s no other cars in that city.

Beer and soda commercials aren’t slouches when it comes to selling sizzle. They now love to show healthy, athletic people surfing, singing, playing guitars, mountain climbing, or hiking. Then they stop to have a good old cold soda or brew. None of these people have problems. None are diabetic or overweight. The commercial’s slug rarely address the people, though. They speak of the beverage. “The world’s most refreshing beer.”

They state it without evidence. That’s the way it goes. Sizzle doesn’t need evidence. Just fire it up and let the hungry masses know about it, and they will come and buy, like, “The fastest broadband service ever seen.”

The government is proud about how these companies sell sizzle. They don’t want to do anything to reign in the sizzle. These companies are doing the world a public service. If it wasn’t for the sizzle, we’d be worried about things that don’t sizzle, like the wealth imbalance, corrupt politicians, investigating Russians, rebooting our routers against hackers, rising white supremacy movement, white and male privilege, the contamination of our food supplies, the growing plastic islands in our seas, increasing war and tensions in the middle East, our dwindling fresh water supplies, rising cancer rates, the Italian government and EU economy, or police officers attacking people over parking situations, escalating events in fear of phones.

It’s much better to think about the sizzle.

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Method Writing

There’s method acting, the art of experiencing what a character feels and endures. I suspect I’m a method writer. I like putting myself into the character and feeling their experience.

My method writing process created a hard writing session today. The character of focus was attacked and injured. Alarms were ringing, and his ears suffered. That affected his focus, concentration, and effort.

It affected mine, too. I felt weighed down by his pain. The clamoring in his ears filled mine, exhausting me. My typing slowed as his efforts to think and move wrung out his physical and mental energy. By the time that I finished, I wanted to curl up into a ball and rest in a dark, quiet room.

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