What's in a name?

Daily Write: Alone in the Woods

Being alone is my favorite way to experience the woods. Gone are the distractions of conversation with people, or keeping track of where the dog's disappeared off to. Gone is the self-consciousness related to strenuous exercise in the presence of others; no need to care that anybody's hearing my labored breathing, or seeing that I've sweated through my shirt. Gone is the requirement to keep pace with a companion; nobody's there to go too fast, or too slow, both of which can be ruinous to what would otherwise be a good trek. My stride is the perfect speed, and I can stop when I want, for as long as I want, without feeling like a bother or an imposition. I can drink all the water, and not share my snacks. I can spend 10 minutes trying to get the perfect photograph of a happy group of Tiger lillies in a captivatingly magical meadow -- these meadows, they appear around corners when you least expect them, tucked secretively into shadowed forest -- or sunlight filtering through the yellow-green leaves of the birch trees, highlighting papery white bark as it sloughs off of their trunks. I can spread my arms wide and spin around in wonderment when I pop out of a shrubby trail above tree line, greeted by a stupefying vista that makes me just grin dumbly, lost for words, and without the desire to say anything to anyone anyway.

Daily Write: Snap, Crackle, Pop

Once a Summer, the whole of Camp would don long sleeves and bug spray, and grabbing flashlights, slowly trek deep into the farthest reaches of the property upon which the camp sat, in rural Maine. At dusk this journey began, the older girls watching out for the younger, suddenly solemn and wanting to be motherly caretakers, wanting this night to be peaceful and perfect for everyone. Girls holding hands, carefully placing their feet on the path of dried pine needles so as to avoid the treacherous roots of the towering evergreens all around, lighting the way for one another, panning their flashlight beams over the terrain ahead. Deeper into the woods, darkness fell quickly, and it was incredible how quiet and serious 120 girls, the eldest only 15, could be. Gone was the typical giggling, chatting, and even the pervasive singing that rang throughout Camp the rest of the season. In their place, hushed whispers, downcast eyes, and an arm wrapped 'round another's shoulder. Arriving at the bonfire site, listening to the pops of water and air bubbles exploding from the logs, watching the showers of sparks burst upwards, zipping and zig-zagging skyward, each girl held her secret carefully. Written in soft graphite on a dry piece of birch bark, she awaited her chance to set this secret free, and be rid of its weight, anticipating the quick sizzle and bright flare of the flames as they engulfed her private message, no longer needing to be kept hidden, and no longer needing to be told.

Daily Write: Bright Lights, Big City

Lost again, turning look-alike corners in the sameness of this urban jungle, at each turn finding the same people, pavement, buildings, busses, taxis, storefronts, hot dog vendors, pigeons. I dissolve into New York, the solid physical self of me dissipating as I walk, bits of me breaking off and blending in with the steamy exhaust blowing up from the subway grates, rising up into the skyscraper canyons, and disappearing into the thinner air above street-level. My calves ache, my hamstrings begin to quiver in protest, and I can feel each individual tendon and muscle running along the arches of my feet as they cry out in a chorus, "Stop! Sit! Have you gone mad?" In a few more hours, I won't know as much about who I am anymore, or anything about where I've been today, or why I'm still walking, but I'll keep losing myself like this, fading into New York with its hugeness, its callousness, its bright harsh light, its concrete, steel and glass, its money and yellow cabs and knishes with spicy brown mustard, its bridges and stairwells, brownstones and parks, 5th Avenue and Mott Street, Tribeka and the Upper West Side. It becomes me. I become it. I am found.

Daily Write: Homeward Bound

The cab pulled up to the curb in the humid grey light of the June dawn, the idling engine the only sound aside from the occasional melancholy hoot of a mourning dove. He fished out 30 bucks from his wallet, told the driver to keep the change, and climbed out of the back seat, peeling his moist back away from the vinyl upholstery. The day was heating up already, and he was glad to think of getting inside, taking off his suit jacket and shoes, rolling up his sleeves, and sitting in the air conditioned kitchen with a cup of coffee and the just-delivered morning paper. He trudged up the few steps of his front stoop, garment bag slung over his shoulder, briefcase in one hand, and keys in another. This last effort was almost more than he could muster, but somehow he managed to swing the screen door open with a free couple of fingers, and awkwardly jamming himself and his baggage between the screen door swung wide and the front door, he fit the key into the lock, and turned it counter-clockwise, hearing the "welcome home" thunk of the deadbolt being thrown aside. Grasping the polished brass handle, he turned it, and pushed the heavy wooden paneled door open, immediately refreshed by the cavernous cool air hitting his face, and sinking quickly into the weave of his damp clothing.

Catching Up

Got a little behind on my daily writing exercises, and so did three in a row tonight, after indulging in a long hot bath to help get into a relaxed, creative mood. I like some aspects of all three, although of course find fault in all three of them too. I realize, however, that I have to cut myself some slack, since they're written in 10 minutes, and there's been no pre-planning related to them, nor any editing after the fact. Will post them here momentarily, although I really have no idea if anybody out in the ether is paying any attention, or cares. Oh well, mine is not to wonder about whether this writing is being read, and instead I must simply try to write. In theory. In practice, I seem to indulge a little bit in the wondering about whether anybody's reading, too.

Daily Write: The Time Has Come

Before it was even put together, the bottom flaps taped shut, it felt full of inertia. The first box was the hardest. Just constructing it seemed an heroic effort... laboriously folding down, taping together, and flipping back over... it took about 10 minutes before she even began that... she'd only been staring into space to start with, and finally, after a half hour, she had a single, empty, box.

This seemingly vacant cardboard cube was in fact overflowing with everything they'd been through as a pair, all of their shared belongings, the souvenirs of their life together. This invisible volume pushed every possible new occupant out... kept things away. And so, it seemed like nothing could be fit into this, the first box, but something had to be. There had to be a start to this, or it would never end. But, how to select what's hers, and what's his, when it all was theirs?

Every book, every CD, every little decorative doodad, every glass, every plate, every coffee mug, everything... literally everything... had to be touched, picked up, examined, hefted, considered, thought about, reminisced over, cried for, and put down. Put down, but not into the box. The box was still empty, a whole day later, and although she felt cried out, for now, she kept failing to figure out how to go about this awful business. The pile of flattened cartons lay in the front hall, along with the rolls of strapping tape and a permanent marker for labeling. She just couldn't face them... this... it... him... the lack of him.

Confessions of a Bibliophile

I ended up walking into Porter Square Books today, and going a little crazy:

Daily Write: Customer Service

She came in at the very end of the night, alone, to this "fine dining" restaurant in rural New Hampshire. Point being, it's not like Manhattan, or LA, where people routinely waltz into restaurants, without reservations, alone or in groups, at 9:30 PM or later. The hostess was convinced to seat her somehow, through a negotiation I didn't witness and wasn't privy to the nature of. And who got the table, but unlucky me?

At first, it didn't seem like such a big deal. I was on shut-down duty that night anyway, and so had to stick around until all the diners had left, and take care of putting the dining room back together: setting all the tables afresh, restocking the stations with flatware, water glasses, salt shakers and pepper grinders. I figured I could easily take care of this lone customer while busying myself with my other tasks, and I'd pick up an extra tip, maybe $10 or something, for my trouble. Little did I know, that the strangeness of this woman had only been hinted at by her late and solo arrival; the real craziness began when she started ordering things.

She wanted only a salad for her meal. This wasn't an option on the menu; we served hot appetizers and soups, as well as a large array of entrees (rack of lamb, steaks of various description, lobster, fish, and some rather involved pastas and paellas and the like), all of which came with the house salad. No separate salads on the menu whatsoever. But, she wasn't budging from her seat, nor from her request that she be served a salad. The customer is always right, was her cliche argument.

It was the first of multiple trips back to the kitchen that night, to find out from management whether I could grant her wish, and what price I ought to put on it. She wanted dressing we didn't have; I should make it from scratch for her. She wanted more bread. And more. And then some more again. And it needed to be heated up better. And where's more butter? No, no drinks. But keep the water coming. Dessert? Why yes! She wanted a piece of pecan pie, heated up, and ala mode. Yes, we had pecan pie. No, we didn't heat up our slices of pie for customers. Yes, we had vanilla ice cream, but we didn't serve the pies ala mode, and so I could do that, yes, but would have to charge for a serving of ice cream, in addition to the slice of pie. Totally unacceptable! The ice cream must be free, and the pie must be heated!

Ultimately, all this was done for her, by me, as graciously as possible. In a restaurant where a normal check would come to about $45 per person, plus tax and tip, hers came to a paltry $12. And, in her last act as my customer from hell, what do you think she did? Yep, she not only stiffed me on the tip, she stiffed me on the entire goddamn bill, taking the opportunity to slip out of the place unnoticed, the dining room long since having emptied. Bitch! Restaurant policy was that her deficit had to be taken out of my earnings that night. I'll never forget it, and now it seems so silly to have gotten so upset over it, but I just broke down and cried... that a stranger would spend more than an hour humiliating me, and then steal $12 from my pay as her parting gift... it was more than I could take.

Hyland, a professional waiter (not just Summer staff, like me), had stayed behind with me that night, and took pity on me... paying half of the bill from his take that night, and wrapping an arm around me, he walked me back to his nearby apartment. We cracked open a bottle of red wine, and he read his original beat poetry to me. As awful a customer as she'd been, a huge pain in my ass, and ultimately creating such a ridiculous loss of my dignity, I have to admit I'm thankful she came in, and thankful that I was assigned to deal with her. The night of wine and poetry is something I'll always remember fondly, and I wouldn't have ended up with Hyland, listening to the rhythm of his thoughts mixing with the breeze outside in the woodsy surroundings, my body tingling with wine-warmed blood, without her.

Daily Write: It Used to Scare Me

It used to scare me to write. Do most creative people fear their creativity, at least at one time or another, and stifle themselves with that fear? Obviously writers do: heck, we have an official term for it: "writer's block." Musicians? Actors? Both suffer from stage-fright, certainly. Some never make it anywhere near a stage, and simply cannot manage to practice their art form in front of anyone other than their reflection in a mirror. I imagine there are as many sketchbooks and canvasses that have never seen the light of day outside of the studio in which they were worked upon. The ultimate high in making art of any kind... written, audible, visual... is breaking free of the fear, going all out, and then allowing it to be shared with others', and knowing that those people were profoundly affected. The tiny tastes of this that I've had, scattered widely out in the last two decades, are enough to keep me coming back... to keep trying to destroy the self-erected barriers to full and free creation, and just go for it... write with my heart, my head, my body, my life... my true voice. It used to scare me to write. It still does. But, I write.