Tag: impatience

Friday’s Wandering Thoughts

Sitting in the coffee shop, I sometimes take a break to pay attention to the people waiting for their coffee. Some are jittery, constant movement. Like they’ve already ingested a significant amount of caffeine, buzzy as little kids on a sugar high.

Then we have the impatient customer. Frequently tapping a foot, normally with hands in pockets or arms crossed, they look like they’re sighing over the unfairness of having to wait so darn long for their drink. Many of these will turn to their cell for comfort, chatting, texting, reading stuff, watching videos.

Others waiting for coffee assume a cool Steve McQueen demeanor, leaning back with mild indifference. The coffee will come and nothing they do will hurry it, so why bother? It’s not surprising to see some of them casually check cell phones, oozing as they do.

Fourth are those with the coffee stare. Stiff as a bronze statue, usually with their arms crossed, they posture right up against the counter’s edge, eyes opened wide, unblinking, waiting for their order. As drinks are made, you can almost hear their neurons shouting, “Is that mine? Is that mine?”

Finally, we have the laissez coffee set. Ordering, they find a table or sit until their order is called out.

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Tuesday’s Wandering Thought

Been watching the Starbucks Grand Prix.

It’s a flat Mickey Mouse circuit. Enter from the main road. Then into the quick left right complex. Hard 90 follows. Accelerate up the short side straight.

Then a fast lefthand sweeper into to the end of the line. Creep up, order, and shoot back out into traffic.

Or, the less used option. wheel around and rush into a parking slot. Park, jump out. Fast walk to the door. Get inside and then —

Options: pick up order at the counter and hustle back out. Or order at the counter. Stand back, cross arms and wait, hip thrust out, staring as they prepare your order. Tap foot as needed.

Rare option: enter, order, sit. Pull out ‘puter. Do typy/clicky things.

Watch the Starbucks GP.

Rarest option: sit. Open book or newspaper. Read.

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The Business Trip Dream

I was working with someone from RL. They weren’t my boss or in my chain but was a director. They came to me and said, “Hey, Mike, I’d like you to come with me on a business trip.” (He always called me Mike, when I’m one of those who goes by Michael.) I was surprised, a little flattered. He explained briefly that we were going to corporate headquarters. Then, we were side by side walking with our luggage, then, poof, we were there. Now it gets crazy.

I was wearing business casual but I’d brought a suit for some serious meetings. First I checked in. I disovered that my room, a large space with several beds, no closets but racks for clothes, and a large bathroom seemed to already be occupied. I thought that a little strange but guessed it was due to budget cutbacks. As I unpacked my clothes and hastened out go to meetings, a young woman dressed in shorts and halter tops.

After an awkward silence, I approached her and mentioned that I’d been assigned this room. Yes, she replied, she lived here. I clarified that she wasn’t just staying in the room for a meeting; no, she lived here with her co-worker. He arrived then, and we exchanged names. Then they started talking about their business while she took out an ironing board and iron and ironed clothes.

Outside, I discovered that I should be wearing a suit for this meeting, because I’d been in the same clothes for two days. Knowing I was due to be here three more days, I went back to the room. The other two weren’t there. I pulled out my suit. It had huge wrinkles on it. I found the iron but couldn’t fine the ironing board. Impatiently, I decided that I didn’t need it and dried ironing my suit on the bed. It wasn’t going well. As it progressed, the guy returned and watched me while he did other things. His presence flustered me.

After ironing it, I dropped my suit into a muddy puddle. Yes, our room’s floor was suddenly a pot-holed, cracked piece of asphalt. Trying to get mud off that part of the suit, I dipped another section and muddied it. I now discovered that I was doing this outside. It was cold and icy. My roommates came by and asked why I was ironing my suit outside. As I struggled to reply, they mentioned how strange it was to see someone wearing a suit. Neither of them ever wore one.

Dream end.

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A Witnessing Dream

I, and another man, were rushing down the street through clear, sunny weather, eager to get to work. Each of us were on the sidewalk. He was ahead of me. The road and sidewalks were wide, and well-maintained. There was no other traffic.

Another friend, an elderly and short retired doctor who often reminds me of a garden gnome (except he never smokes a pipe, and he’s more slender than your typical garden gnome) was rushing head-on toward another friend.

Garden gnome wasn’t in a car. The other friend was in a red car, but it was like a cartoon car. I could see into it.

Watching them close on one another (with garden gnome hailing them and grinning), I thought, they’re both going too fast. They’re going to crash.

They did.

I slowed to watch, worrying and expecting many of the standard things seen in a high-speed crash. The two came together but the one in the car was ejected straight into garden gnome. They both slid down the street hundreds of feet, coming to rest in an intersection.

Oh, no, I thought. There’s traffic. They’re going to be run over.

The garden gnome stood, grinning, unfazed, astonishing me. The other was also unhurt. Collecting herself, she hurried away as the garden gnome tried to speak with her.

Reassured (but astonished) that they were okay, I carried on. Getting to work, I encountered the garden gnome. We exchanged insights about what’d happened. We were laughing about it, since he was okay. I was enthralled by the slide he’d taken. It’d been monumental. I’d never seen anything like that before. He was still interested in talking to the other person, the woman, he said, but she was avoiding him. Then, seeing her, he rushed off again, calling her as he went.

I continued on to work but then was hurrying down the sidewalk along the street again, eager to get to work. The garden gnome was racing toward another friend. She was in a car. He wasn’t. They were weirdly like a video game.

I thought, I just saw this happen. Is it going to happen again?

It did. They crashed together. She was ejected. They slid along the road together.

The crash had been greater than before, sending debris into every direction. I rued not checking on them the previous time, so this time I went back to check on them. Both were fine. Each rushed off after reassuring me of that.

Well, that baffled the hell out of me. In the dream, I thought, I witnessed the same accident twice. Do these things happen in threes? Will there be a third?

Then I was called to work, except work was over, or that phase that’d been going on. We were continuing on to another phase.

Two distinguished and accomplished people were ahead of me. Still, outside, we were all heading toward a checkpoint. We needed to get past the checkpoint to continue. Some events were planned for the other side.

Each of us was carrying a large piece of something. I’m not sure if mine was a large stained wood object or bread to look like stained-wood. It was huge, requiring me to stretch my arms out, and slowed me a little.

One of the people, tall and mustached, wore an expensive but old-fashioned trench coat. I could tell by looking at it. The other, a younger woman, treated him with diffidence. He was talking, and they were strolling.

I was catching up with them. As I neared them, I heard him make a comment to that nature. Then he saw me and stopped.

We were going up a grassy green slope toward the checkpoint. The man, while trying to be blase, said that they should hurry so that I didn’t arrive for them. He upped their pace. I upped mine. Despite my larger burden, I got there first, pleased, triumphant, and sweaty.

“Did you wash it?” I was asked by the short, plump agent, as I looked back at the others. They remained a distance away. “You’re supposed to at least rinse it off. You guys never rinse them off.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about. I tried telling her, “It looks fine to me.” Waving that off, she escorted me to one of the tables set up for inspection as this transpired. Three tables were set up. Two other agents were present. So, they should be able to handle us in parallel, I thought as the other two arrived with their loads. I tried and failed to see what they carried.

My agent diddled and fussed without seeming to do anything. I knew, oh, they’re deliberately slowing me down. I wasn’t affronted nor outraged, but accepting, okay, slow me down here, others have more urgent needs (read, egos), and I can burst ahead once I get past these gatekeepers. I tried looking ahead to see what was next so that I could plan my actions. While I did, the other two slipped by me and went on, barely scrutinized, confirming my impression of what was going on.

The dream ended.

 

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The Wait

I write on a laptop, typing and editing as I go. It has its bennies and shortcomings. For instance, you ever become so excited to write and edit, so looking forward to getting started that the muses are singing in your head and their energy is coursing in your blood vessels? But then you must turn…on…the…computer….

Then…open…the…program…

Then…open…the…document…

And…it…seems…to…take…about…two…million…years..?

Exasperating.

I am exaggerating. It doesn’t take two million years, but rather about three minutes, what with the things that are done automatically on startup, like Internet connections and security software updates. It just feels like a looonnnggg three minutes.

But it’s all open now. I have fresh coffee at hand. Time to write and edit like crazy, at least one more time.

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Drum Roll

Do you ever seem to wait literally forever (right, no hyperbole or exaggeration here) for something like pizza or an ATM delivering your cash, so you begin a drum roll, because it seems apropos?

No? Is it just me, then? Are you implying that I’m impatient?

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The Winding Road

As the current sub-plot and story line of my work in progress winds along like a leisurely country drive, I curb impatience to be done. If I had to describe myself, impatient is a word I’d consistently employ. I’m continuously monitoring and struggling with my impatient urges to be done, to move on, to get there, to get finished, etc.

Today, motoring through the scenes I planned to write, I realized that I wasn’t as close to being finished with the work in progress that I’d hoped and believed. I’m enjoying writing it. It’s weird to say that it’s a leisurely write, because I write several thousand words a day (knock on wood – don’t want to scare off the muses), and edit it every day. Yes, I’m a writer that edits as I go, because my writing is an organic garden in progress, and requires constant attention. I usually edit the volume in progress (number four), but sometimes jump back and edit the others. They’re all beta, and will require more work when they’re done before they’re finished.

I want this series done so I can go on to other books that I’ve begun or planned. One is from a story idea a fan sent me. “What can you do with this concept?” she asked. Answering her, I ended up writing about forty pages. I stumbled across it last night, and enjoyed what I read, and remembered what else was planned, and I feel like I owe her to finish it.

The second project that I want to continue is the third novel in my Life Lessons mystery series. Readers of the first two books have asked several times, “When is the third one coming out?” Soon, I promise, as soon as I finish this work in progress. I’d written five chapters of it before getting distracted by the current concept, and read some of that last night, and remembered, “Oh, yes, there’s so much to write here.” I had several more sequels planned in the series and had a broad outline of that developed. And, as I write this fourth volume of the current WIP, a fifth volume keeps tugging on my sleeve.

Not enough time, you know? Those are just a few of the dozen items in the writing bucket. But, c’est le vie, this is the writing life.

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

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