8 posts tagged “daily write”

He sat in pine bark mulch, with his back against a stiff shrub of some kind, outside of what looked like a generic office building. Having been outside for a few days now, he realized that shrubs have a little give to them, and aren't so soul-suckingly cold as brick walls. Mulch gave off a pleasant organic smell, covering up his own odor, and that of the piss and garbage that seemed to pervade every inch of downtown.

He shifted around in the worn-out corduroy sport coat, with suede elbow patches, and tried in vain to get a little warmth out of it. He pulled the sleeves down just a tiny bit further over his bony wrists, and recrossed his arms tightly over his knees.

Every exhalation created a little fog of steamy breath in the chill night air. He was so cold, he couldn't imagine it getting much worse, and wondered if people who froze to death really knew that it was happening to them, or whether, like he, they just felt so cold that it was painful, and almost unimaginable, and then... eventually... they didn't feel anything at all anymore. It wasn't like him to cry, but if ever he were going to, this was pretty much the point at which it'd happen. Was he cold enough to cry tears of ice? He drifted off into a dream, imagining snowflakes falling lightly from his eyelashes, as time slowed, and the world faded to black.

She wakes me up when she climbs out of bed, and after she's rounded the corner for the bathroom, I quietly crawl into the warm spot that she left. I doze, and listen to the sounds of her routine: the toilet flushing, the toothbrush whirring, the tap running, the shower water falling on tiles, the vent fan spinning... which always develops a loud rattle after being on for five minutes.

That rattle is what clues me into the fact that she's almost ready, and impatient as I can be, I get up, shake off the last of my night's sleep, and head for the bathroom too. I usually wait for her right on the threshold, blocking the way out of the bathroom, in the space between the doorway and her dressing area. Sometimes, when I really want the day to get going, I peek into the shower to see if she's actually still in there... disbelieving of how long she can take.

Sulkily, I stare off into the hallway while she towels off, combs her hair, puts in her contacts, and otherwise finishes up in the bathroom. Every now and then, I go so far as to let out a bit of a whiney moan, just because I know it annoys her, and want her to know how incredibly bored I am with the waiting, waiting, waiting to get the day started. These protests are always met with the same reaction: "Oh, hush." She's so dismissive of my needs sometimes.

The paint swatch was so brightly yellow, he was certain it could burn its way through his closed eyelids while he slept, potentially causing permanent retinal damage over time. Beige of some variety would be nice, or maybe a calming pale grey. This canary color was the stuff of nightmares. It blared at him, as if a driver out on the street below were leaning on his car's horn.

Of course, she loved it. "It's exactly what I want," was her happy declaration, clearly already feeling attached to her decision, and considering the matter completely within her domain, and so settled. He stared at the off-kilter square patch of sunny punishment on his wall, and debated his reaction to the question he knew was poised on her lips: "What do you think?"

She didn't really want to know what he thought. She was just perfectly polite, and felt that it was necessary to make a show of including him, and a demonstration of valuing his opinion. The expectation was that he would cave to her whims, at least in the realm of interior decorating, and frankly, he was exasperated by this particular cliché. He'd already assented, without so much as one word of doubt or complaint, to the floral bedding, the pastel bath towels, and the chipper little "Home Sweet Home" sampler hanging on the wall in their foyer. He was reaching his breaking point... almost ready to suggest, not without a generous helping of sarcasm, that they paint the bedroom black, including the windowpanes.

She was the kind of person who accumulated keys to things, and then had no idea what, or where, those things were. Still, they might be to something important. Not even so much something that she'd need to lock or unlock again, but more like... something no stranger ought to be able to, in theory, lock and unlock. To allow her mystery keys out into the world, even buried in a trash bag, felt like too much of an exposure... deeply personal and all too risky. Even if the likely-imaginary person who rooted through her garbage somehow managed to find the keys, she knew it was probable that they then wouldn't connect the keys to anything in particular worth locking or unlocking. But, it'd reveal to them that she was the kind of person who threw out keys. Way too much information about herself to let loose out into the World, for all to see. All likely-imaginary garbage-rooting key-finding judgmental people, that is. So, she put the keys into a zippered sandwich baggie, zipped it up, and labeled it "Keys" in permanent marker. She placed the baggie well towards the back of her bottom right desk drawer, under a pile of notepads and other supplies. She closed the drawer, and locked it, slipping the small unmarked desk drawer key into her wallet, safely.

She was standing on the threshold of the room, looking in tentatively, as if intruding. "He's a terrible patient, I'm afraid." She glanced at the floor, and fingered the pendant around her neck: an amber droplet simply strung on black silk cord. She always became a fidget when nervous, and much as she'd chastised herself over the years for it, it was a habit she couldn't break.

Interviewing the nurses was terribly uncomfortable for her. She was always such a private person, and they together, a reclusive, insular couple. It was anathema to her to allow stranger after stranger into their home, and so matter-of-factly discuss the particulars of their situation: her husband's advanced Alzheimer's and related syndromes, which had robbed him of his faculties, and his dignity. He wore diapers and pajamas now, and rarely left his bed. No longer able to read, or write, he stared at the television (once something allowed only in their kitchen, and tuned only to the evening news while they prepared their supper together), uncomprehending.

The new nurse, chosen as the lesser of the various evils, stood at his bedside now. One hand rested impatiently on her hip, the other was outstretched, holding a small plastic cup with straw to her husband's lips. "Drink up," she said. "Come now Mr. Wainwright. We don't have all day, and you must stay hydrated. We wouldn't want to have to put an IV in again, now would we?"

No, we wouldn't, she thought, and dropping her eyes again, turned and slipped down the hallway, away from him for now.

"...the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God." The bailiff's baritone voice resonated in his skull. Sam squinted into the courtroom, scanning the assembled onlookers, looking for benevolent faces. The bailiff coughed, indicating that he was taking too long to repeat the oath. Sam's hand on the bible was moist; he wondered if a wet handprint would be left on the book when he lifted his palm away from it. He never thought that it'd come to this: ratting out his best friend to avoid jail time. It comforted him to know that he hadn't done it yet. Until he spoke the words that he'd agreed to with the DA, he could still somehow imagine that everything was going to work out fine for both of them. His heart was thudding in his chest, and his ears started to ring, as the judge set the lawyers in motion. The prosecutor got up confidently, deftly buttoning his jacket.

They were sitting on the floor of her bedroom, backs leaning against one of the twin beds, looking up at the wall. Chris flicked the lighter on, and touched the flame to the bowl, inhaling. He held his breath then, as he passed the pipe, embers still alight, to Sarah. Straining to speak while not exhaling much smoke, his voice constricted and cracking, Chris said, "What is up with that quilt you've got hanging on the wall?"

He nodded in the direction of the wall above the second twin bed, upon which was displayed a crib-sized quilt, in muted hues of cream and mauve. The pattern was haphazard, the fabrics' colors so sedate as to seem dingy, and nowhere was there evidence of any particular quality of workmanship. It was, by all rights, ugly.

Sarah looked up at the quilt, smiling a close-lipped grin, while she held her breath. Exhaling rapidly, she explained, "I just couldn't leave it hanging in the store. It looked so pathetic. Somebody put their time and energy into it, and some love. And it's a vessel for that now, and it just seemed really wrong to let that goodness be left alone there. It was sad. So, I saved it."

Sarah was always a sucker for stuff like this; overly empathetic with people, this trait translated even to inanimate objects. Take Christmas trees, for instance: it just about killed her to see all the left-behind, unsold trees, sitting on tree lots on Christmas Eve. Implausible as it was, some little part of her felt that those trees had hopes, and aspirations. They wanted to be in somebody's cozy living room, sparkling and bedecked with lights and ornaments.

A trip to the beach over the weekend, and the Spring weather that's taken over here in Cambridge, has awakened my creative spirit, and I'm back in the mode of writing, photographing, thinking, making, doing.... A bit of a manic phase, perhaps. Whatever exactly triggered it, and whatever exactly will come of it, who knows?

One thing that's happened already: I decided to return to the practice of writing, every day. In 2005, I was at my most prolific ever, in terms of my personal writing, when I took the "Round Robin" class at The Writing Salon in San Francisco. Some of my long-time readers might remember that I posted a fair number of these "daily writes" to my Typepad blog (beginning in Oct 2005 -- you can check out the archives if you like). And so, I'm going to do that again. I've allied with a long-distance friend of mine, as writing partners, and we're doing 10-minute writes, every day... the same formula that was applied in the Round Robin. I'm going to push myself to post as many of them here as I can, although as with any writing, and in particular with writing that's not been polished and edited to death, it's hard to put it out there for all to see... it certainly makes me feel very vulnerable. And yet, I'm writing because ultimately I want people to read it! To that end, here's tonight's "write," which was... a struggle. The prompt was, "Write about flying:"

"I know why the caged bird sings," goes the poem... crying out for the ability to stretch its wings and fly. And so, many of us do this, every day. We sing through our art, our music, our work, our reaching out for connection to others. We sing through our writing. We try to break free of the bonds of self-doubt, of hardship, of fear, of boredom. Pushing oneself against these barriers, and giving, creating, risking... the sensation probably isn't entirely unlike flying. It feels dangerous, dizzying, and just a bit out of control. Much safer to tuck in our wings, and sit quietly alone, perched atop the walls we've spent our lives building.

Ugh. And right now, I'm feeling like what I just wrote is utter crap. I struggled to get started with this "write," and am mightily fighting my way through it, holding myself back at every impulse. Each key press is over-thought, and that feeling of flying through the creative process... the crazy wave that I sometimes ride when I've relaxed all of the internal editing and criticism... it's completely unattainable tonight.

I know it's out there though. I've flown before, and will do it again. That's what this process is all about. Stretching my wings often enough so that, every now and then, I get a good soaring high, instead of a painful fall from the comfort of my secluded nest. Unfortunately, tonight's is a bumpy ride down through the tree limbs of self-consciousness and inhibition. And thank god, that's the 10 minute mark, in which this "write" concludes with a resounding thud!