Tag Archives: optimism

Why I’ll Start Writing Again

Whoa, I just read what I wrote almost a year ago– That’s some dark stuff there.

I didn’t remember having written that, but looking back I understand what was going on.

That’s the power of blogging.

Well the old me is back, the real me, the one who uses a pseudo-pseudonym and wants to write 24/7, even when I’m dreaming.

The truth is I never really stopped writing; it was just very dark and lonely and unsuitable for this blog’s audience.

So it was on Tumblr.

Naturally.

I don’t want to go into details about the past, but my marriage is as good as it’ll ever be.

I am less interdependent so if that relationship goes down I think I might skip a beat but probably not 2 and definitely not 3.

Now I no longer commute for work. My boss got me an office a few blocks from my home, so I could concentrate on sales, and I no longer have to wait for coworkers to leave the room before I can write.

I’m all alone here, just me and the Internetz.

And the phone. That rings every now and then but I’m not sure how it works. I think it’s trying to tell me something.

Oh! My faithful subscribers. How I’ve missed thee. If only you could know the anguish our separation has wretched me with. I shalt never leave thee again!

Unless I die. In which case, leaving thee is entirely involuntary and should not be held against me.

Unless it’s suicide.

If I kill myself you can be mad at me. But not if it’s accidental, like an overdose. Stuff loses its strength over time. They don’t make it like they used to.

Anyway, let me tell you what my office is like.

It is on the second story behind an art gallery which sells weird ethnic art, like the African pieces my boss had at his office. I imagine that subconsciously it largely influenced his decision to choose this location.

There is a winery next next door and the mother of the owners is a new friend of mine from my church. My friend also owns the vineyard so in a way it makes me feel special somehow even though it has little to do with me.

In my office, there is a tiny window out of which one can view happy little people- “kids” i think they are called- playing in a park-like setting, around a beautiful fountain surrounded by red and yellow sycamore trees.

The window has bars over it in the old Spanish style and is a small reminder that whilst i am at work, i am to think of myself as a prisoner and partake in none of those joys which i may observe below.

My one point of social interaction is when i walk to the post office every day, or when i get lucky, the FedEx drop off.

The clerks at the post office know me now and they are like 100 times nicer than the ones in DOWNTOWN SANTA BARBARA- yes, I HOPE YOU ARE READING THIS you mean clerk who made shipping packages from there a living hell.

(Just that one clerk though- all the other ones were nice, especially Daniel and Michael. I think they are vets). (War vets not animal vets otherwise their career counselors should have told them).

Everyday the bell at the post office tower chimes out a song. Lately it’s been a lot of Christmas music, which some of us find tastefully offensive. But mostly it’s old American classics, the same kind that used to play in my 65 Mustang’s AM radio.

My office kind of has more space than i need and no walls. My boss let me have his old glass desk so i need to rearrange the computer stuff onto that but i’ve been meaning to do it for 6 weeks now and i just can’t seem to bring myself to do it.

I have what they call lazyphoria.

The office is very cold but it has a brand new climate system which no one knows how to program for heating, only for cooling.

Sometimes i bring my guitar but i can’t play very loud because i’m afraid the other tenants will hear me and ask me to perform for them. Then my boss might find out i’m using the office for concertos and then he’d want to get me a bigger office. But i like this one just fine.

There is a skylight on the ceiling.

Well duh, it’s not like there would be a skylight on the floor… *clears throat*

I guess that counts as a window too. I can see some form of rusty pipe and sometimes clouds, but today the sky is blue- like a tepid sky-blue.

Once, down the hall, the hatch to the roof was open and I climbed the ladder because no one was around and the hatch was open, beckoning for someone to climb up through it. There were only more pipes and roof gravel.

Downer down the hall there are a couple of architects who mostly just look stuck up but are actually quite decent, i imagine, and a married couple who are masseuses, (am i saying that right?) and they are just about the nicest people one could ever meet.

Downstairs there is the shared girls’ room, which ought to have but does not have a mirror, because i assume the other tenants are too ugly an no one wants to remind them of that.

Someone is building a tapas bar so i have that to look forward to.

Perhaps then i shall make a friend or two.

But knowing me, i’ll probably just observe them and then write about them.

So now you have something to look forward to too!

 

 

 

 

 

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how to meaningful conversation neighbor life on life support

How to Hold Meaningful Conversations with Neighbors on Life Support

Ms. Verla had a stroke on Monday.

Things didn’t look good for her.

She kept pulling at that tube that fed fiber up her nose and down into her stomach somewhere.

I asked her if she was comfortable.

She didn’t say nothing.

“Are you hungry?”

“Uh-huh.”

‘Got it,’ I thought to myself, ‘uh-huh means yes, awkward silence means no.’

“Have your sons come to see you?”

…Awkward silence.

“How long have you been here?”

…More awkward silence. Oh wait, that wasn’t a yes or no question.

Duh.

Well what was I supposed to ask a woman born 56 years before me, whom I had seen walking past my parents’ home my whole life pushing her grocery cart full of cans and glass, to make time pass more meaningfully for her?

I knew her name cause I gave her a ride to the recycling yard once.

Only took me about 27 years to get that close to her.

But Monday I was glad I hadn’t forgotten it.

How else could I have found her room at the hospital?

Strange… I thought at least one of her sons would have been there with her.

Later I asked my dad about it and he said the cops were chasing her sons down in the East-side.

Aside from age and socioeconomic differences, Ms. Verla is Black.

Gosh I hope the cops didn’t shoot her sons down, now that I think about it.

But that night at the hospital, when things didn’t look too good for her, the nurse came in and reprimanded her for pulling her tube five inches out.

Then some guys in the hallway radioed the technician responsible for putting tubes up noses for help.

As it turned out, her sons had requested she be taken off life support.

“Just leave her and see what happens,” said the radio call.

I stared out the door with my eyes wide open.

Ms. Verla couldn’t see me.

She ain’t seen nothing for about four months on account of her diabetes.

But her eyes looked pretty wide open also.

Hm.

The elderly are always more conscience than we think they are.

The food lady came rolling in a food tray for her.

“This is for him.”

“For her,” I said, consternated that her oddly-shaped, languid bulk of a body should be confused with that of the opposite sex.

“Hang in there,” I told her before leaving so the nurse could change out her linens.

…Next night, I expected the worst, but she looked much better.

The tubes had been doing her wrong.

“Hi Baby,” she said cheerfully when I told her it was me in the room.

That was what she always called me, long as I can remember.

“The doctors in the hall are really handsome, you’d like to see them,” I told her.

“Uh-huh!”

We both laughed.

“You’re not doing so bad anymore.”

I stood there for a while watching the clock.

Her sons weren’t there again.

Must be terribly boring lying in bed all day all by yourself unable to move or anything.

Or maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be in order to recover.

I dunno.

“You want me to read you the Bible?” I asked.

“Nn-mm.”

OK! no more awkward silences.

“You want to hear Amazing Grace?”

“Uh-huh.”

Took forever to load on the phone but once it started I could see the look of relief on her face.

Half way through it she held her hand out to me.

Did she want me to stop it?

“Do you want me to stop it?”

“Nn-mm.”

She held her hand out again.

Oh. Right. Hold hands.

I told her I’d be back in a couple days to see how she kept up.

When I came to the hospital, the young man at the reception desk told me she had been discharged.

“Do you know where to? I mean, I know you can’t tell me, it’s confidential, but I’ve known her my whole life, and I have no idea where they took her.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, “I don’t even have access to that information, and if I did, I would not be able to tell you.”

So just like that, Ms. Verla’s gone.

I always imagined myself writing her biography, interviewing her about the way life was in the deep south before civil rights and all that.

I guess it’s common to have regrets left over when long relationships draw to a close.

I’m glad, though, that she was our neighbor all those years, I’m glad she was a part of my life, and I’m so glad I went with her as far down the road as I could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BiPolar Bear Blueberry Polaris

The Unfinishable Stories

Not to be confused with the Never-Ending Story stories.

The protagonist covered herself with a warm fuzzy blanket in the middle of the night, typing away what was surely to be the next greatest masterpiece- the Tesla of modern literature- the Burj Khalifa tower of novels- the Surface3 tablet of plot developments…

when she suddenly realized she had gone too far with the similes.

She put her phone under her pillow and stared off into the black roof.

It had been months since she had been inexplicably drained of any sort of inspiration.

Some nights, such as to-night, it would come in a sudden burst and she was certain this tall brick wall in her imagination-boot-camp would be conquered, she would rise above it, stand on the edge with her hands resting on her waist, look back at all the crumpled pieces of ripped notebook paper and laugh haughtily while the dawn of a new day broke in the horizon.

“I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!”

"I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!"
“I have done it! I and I alone have finished the unfinishable story!”

But before she knew it she would be fast asleep dreaming of a hurricane passing through her living room, worried sick whether she had left enough food at the cat-shelter. In New Zealand.

And so the unfinishable story remained unfinished.

She never let that get her down, though.

The next night, she would put that sour experience behind her and start a new unfinishable story.

THE END

Daily Prompt: Pick Me Up

I’m gonna try doing this from my phone…
It’s getting all foggy inside the comforter here.
Yesterday my friend texted me if I wanted to go to Starbucks with her cause they were having a 50% off sale.
That cheered me up though I couldn’t go since I was at work.
It also cheers me up when my husband says he’ll take me shopping, he’ll make me lunch, he’ll do the dishes, or he’ll stop by the grocery store.
When someone calls me “Mija” or “hija,” terms of endearment meaning “honey” or “daughter,” it warms my heart.
Not often someone will call me funny or an artist… I take both compliments quite seriously.
Just as long as they don’t call me a funny artist.
Also find it charming when someone asks how my cats are doing.
If I had to choose one it’d be when someone says, “I saw your pictures” or “read your poem.”
Some of these pick-me-ups sound a little self-centered.
Maybe next time I try to cheer someone up, I’ll just talk about me.
Response to wp daily prompt.

fat duck flying

I Hope

I hope you never die.
I hope no one ever has to lose you
With the exception of me.
I hope the sky is always blue
For you
(Unless you like gray).
(In which case I hope it’s gray).
I hope your kids grow up in a garden with a pond.
Yes.
A duck pond.
But the ducks will not migrate
Because I know you’ll overfeed them
And they will be too fat to fly.
I hope you have lots of them.
(Children, not ducks).
(Well, ok, ducks also).
(But especially children).
They will make you laugh
And you can explain things to them-
The way things really are-
Not the way people like me would have them believe.
Tell them unicorns aren’t real.
Tell them cats don’t know how to type or read.
Explain to them the laws of Physics
At an early age so they can not fit in at school.
Don’t give them a false sense of pride.
They find out sooner or later.
We all do;
When it’s too late to go back and change where we’re going
Because we didn’t know who we were.
But you are different.
That’s why I hope you never
Have to
Go away.
That is, with the exception of,
From me.

fat duck flying