My rituals are begun. I'm about to write my three pages, clearing the way, centering myself, sinking into a comfortable writing seat. Soon I will ignore the rise and fall of the winged creatures outside my creation room window. I will stop imagining what they are and are not, stop marking the patterns their flights seem to make. Though they do fascinate me with their dances.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Another good story from last week begins last Wednesday. I went to a meeting with some spiritual seekers and it was held at this woman's amazing historic home. It was a modest castle with arched doorways and lead glass windows. I listened to stories of tragedy, stories of ghosts, angels, and prayers. I didn't have many requests to voice at the time, but I did have a question.
I was twenty or twenty one years old and it was the start of a new school year. Over the summer I had made dozens of new friends and had been spending a lot of time at one social butterfly's house in particular. She lived with two roommates in the upper portion of a duplex. Below them was the party junction of four or five boys. One of the boys was an artist with big, wild hair. If I could sum up a certain weakness for men, that's the sentence I'd use. An artist with big, wild hair. I nursed this crush, secreted from him, for quite a few weeks.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Last Labor Day weekend saw us with neighbors and friends barbecuing hot dogs and hamburgers as Real Americans do. I brought a winning broccoli slaw and ended the night with a massive strudel-like apple pie from Costco. I mean, really? Can you get any more cliché? It was lovely. The hosts were our surrogate grandparents up the road, they throw a fine party. As we picked at the last crumbs from the massive strudel pie, our surrogate grandmother's daughter asked me how my writing was going. She relayed to me a conversation she had with another neighbor of ours. Apparently they were talking and he wondered aloud about what I was writing. Then, she told me, he blurted out, almost giggling, "For all we know she could be writing an erotica novel!" I was agape as she mimicked him: older, dorky, and unassuming.