For any of you that still might check in, a brief reason why....
When I started my new job, I gave myself a six month fucking around period -no pressures- while I learned my job, got a sense of the new area and learned to work again. I extended that another few months when I was reassigned to an intense project. Just this week, I had the "time's up" moment, get back to work.
The work. The stuff that matters. The writing and whatever habits it takes to support the writing. There are other distractions of course. The distractions damn near define me. Painting, musicing, pining, yearning. Lots of ings. Christ, I've even been swinging the golfing club.
The other reason why the vacation's over: my physical self is rocking. Another ing! After uping my synthroid dose a fair amount, I'm no longer physically crippled by pain. It's a bit of a miracle to feel like this after so many years of doing nothing but hurting. For those who have listened to me whine about this over the years, I thank you for listening. I wouldn't be here without you.
So when you talk with me, ask me how the novel's going. It will be going. You might not get much info from me other than productivity reports. What I'm writing about is A Big Secret. Pester me, my vacation's over.
"From the Beginning I've found that I have to speak past the internal censor who basically wants me to shut up and be silent, and the best way for me to get something said has been to move real fast. The faster I can write, the more likely I'll get something worth saving down...."
"The dreaming self has a more powerful memory than the conscious self."
i am near ready to break into poetry which is disturbing. don't be worried, nothing is going to happen, fair warning. nothing is going to disturb, nothing is.
saturday another winter april day i was painting. Testing colors really, not trusting the deep expertise of the book in front of me. when i found out the book was right so i moved on to working with a new big brush. i haven't done large format but i don't want to be fussy and small all the time so i am learning how to apply pounds of paint at a time. i've had the brush for a while but not the guts to use it. so much paper, so much paint, so much waste.
the flurries started as i dipped the brush in water and dipped for paint. o another time: the new brush smelled like my grandma's house. it's no revelation that paints smell, usually just chemical. brushes smell. often stink at first because they're dead animal hair. i have a squirrel brush that smells like hot summer ass.
the susie short brush took me right back to the days of baba's stove, alive with chicken soup and cabbage rolls, her giant presence and me wanting acceptance. i was her son's ghost unnerving her following her wanting to be loved again after leaving so soon the last time. who can paint with the snow flying on a spring afternoon forty years ago? time will kill me all over again.
It's been a while since I've written. I apologize for the lack of twaddle.
Well, I'm a hypocrite. It's a bit vexing but not fatal. You might be interested in hearing about the details but you're not getting them. None of your business. I think it suffices to say that I spotted the infraction, eventually clucked a bit and went on my way. Don't worry, it wasn't anything big. Just like something on the bottom of my shoe- inconvenient but a couple of swipes later, gone.
There might be other glaring examples of this kind of self-duplicity in my life. Hope not. I'd like to think it's not who I am. But you are reading the diary of someone who's avoided shopping at one of the best grocery stores in town because I thought it was seedy and low-rent. Went in there tonight and bought a bunch of organic stuffs at good prices. Some of you are familiar with that pattern. In spite of the consistent recommendation of folks around me, I avoided the place. Ultimately, I didn't listen to those around me on this. Another strike against me!
It wouldn't have surprised me if I had overreacted to the episodes above. Who in their right mind welcomes a self-egging, regardless that the eggs were laid by free-ranging hens fed only organic feed? It wasn't too bad finally. Nice to spot the outright mistakes in my life. Maybe there's some hope on teasing out the more subtle offenses too.
I propose that when a person guns down a handful of other people, the news media should not use the killer's name. Sure, sometimes it's some illness that causes the terrible action and that's horrible too. But I am tired of hearing the name of the killer and his story. Time to stop. Report the story and snuff out his identity. Kill and you will become generic and unknown.
***
Splotches are gone. What was fascinating was the sequence in which the offending sulpha drugs left my body. First this area, then that. The last body parts affected, after everything else had cleared up, were my hands. The palms were very red, like I'd dipped them in too hot water, a slight itchiness. The progression was similar to what the Human Torch goes through before he flames on. Sadly, I think I'd need to take more of the drugs before that happened.
***
My company had its second jam night with a bunch of bands comprised of us worker bees. Let me tell you, we got us some talent in the hizzy. (A hizzy, for you older readers, is a house. That is how I interpret it from my large collection of hip-hop records.) We rocked The Hungry Woodsman (no, I am not making this up) until 1:30 when we were kicked out. Best of all, in my company, everyone is free to act as they want to. No false dignity: everybody dance now! At one point, a guitarist broke into a smoking rendition of the Voodoo Child lick and one of our executives raced out onto the dance floor and slide onto his knees into the "we are not worthy" salaam pose. He was followed by directors and various folks. Now THAT is team building.
***
I finally ordered a grinder to replace the one I lost in the mini-flood. I have been putting this off but started to do the Starbucks math: grinder it is.
***
For some reason, whiskey tastes better to me than it has for years. Isn't that a heartwarming story?
***
Tonight I imagined that I was sitting in the Academy Awards audience because my novel was adapted into an Oscar nominated film. Fantasy, I know. But it's better than my usual fantasies of finding dollar bills on the ground. Or turning into an ant. Or turning into an ant who finds a dollar bill on the ground. See what I mean.
Any city dweller expects something special when they hear the word green way or green belt. There's the small promise that the city hasn't swallowed our animal selves whole. Maybe we'll have the chance to pause for rustle, smell the trees or see a glint in the creek.
Medford has the Bear Creek Green Way which has been a work in progress since the early 70's. It runs more or less along Bear Creek from Ashland through Medford. Oh, and along I-5 as well. The run isn't pristine by any measure. It's been called one long campground for the homeless, among other things. I've found that to be accurate enough not to quibble.
When a friend recently visited, I suggest that she not wander alone in this stretch. I hate that. I hate saying stay away, not safe, when the path should be a community jewel instead of a halfway house. Still the right call, I think. For me as well as her.
My experience along the green way so far is what I expected. I feel safe enough on my bike and whenever I stop, the others stopped are usually those folks seen as the problem, the folks that are just hanging on. Today, I talked with a couple of guys as we watched the ducks dipping for, uh, duck food in a big rough pond.
Gary's bike was acting up again and Phil was happy that he was able to find an pint of an elusive very cheap kind of beer. Each had stories of getting knocked off their bikes and ending up in trouble. Gary was cited after he was hit and hospitalized for going 5mph in a 3mph zone. No kidding. Phil said that the hardest thing about relying on the bicycle for transportation was that there were stretches where only I-5 was a good way to go. He extended the opinion that truckers really didn't like bikes on the highway.
Both of these guys fit under the general heading of the underclass that's robbing Medford of its greenway. I had a hard time thinking that way. Both worked when they could find a way to the site. Otherwise, they collected cans which usually were transformed into food and beer. The green way was convenient for them, central and safer than the streets. Today was a good day in the valley- you could almost spot Spring in the mountains.
As much as I'd like to launch an impassioned defense of or attack on something here, I find myself thinking about something simple instead. What would I do if I were these guys? I'm lucky in spades compared to these two. Gary's eyes just glazed over when he found out that I sit in front of a computer to make a living. Way beyond him, he said. Phil, an Indian, talked a bit about meeting an Indian brother once who lived like an Indian, on a reservation. That was just as foreign and impossible to him as the computer was to Gary.
No answers here. I thanked them for the company and took off back down the Green Way. The little hut overlooking the pond was soaked by the golden hour. They fired up their beers and enjoyed watching the ducks swim in lazy circles.
"...like something out of the book of Job" has been the line that people have enjoyed most over the past few days. I've been trying to describe what almost all of my clothed body looked like after an allergic reaction to an antibiotic. That line kills. You can use, is okay.
I'm still quite itchy although now I look a ton better, more along the scale of the damage caused by the worst episode of biting critters you've ever encountered. And yes, that is a ton better. The splotching and hives were spectacular, like a red, angry cheetah. Thought about posting a photo of any body part but decided it would do no good at all.
I took four days off to work through this (not quite done yet) and doped myself up with antihistimes and wore very soft clothing. I found out that a pattern printed on sheets is not comfortable in all skin states. I thought gingham was my friend....
***
I have a new job assignment. My company is converting a tired piece of software into fresher puppy and I'm the expert from my and another department. This should last around eight months. After that, I assume that they'll put me into a digital shredder and sell off the remaining 1's and 0's. How do I feel about the move? Should be worthwhile; a great way to learn what other departments do, mess with stuff and shape tomorrow's future! For the better! Really! I hope so, at least.
***
My heart clutched a bit when I saw a book on the bestseller list with an element in it like the one I'm writing. If the element was too close to mine, I'd be screwed.
Close but not close enough. I continue one. And no, it's not a Nora Roberts or Maeve Binchy book you bastards. Leave me alone.
***
Reader, I bought a couch. It's a simple leather thing from Macy's. It's some fake Italian name, Scolifiganlio, or some nonsense. That's because it's Macy's Natuzzi brand made in China. Great sits and I'm still trying to figure out how to use it.
***
My kitchen flooded due to a stopped drain common to our fourplex. Once again, nothing but respect to water and its ally, gravity. Two sets of plumbers visited, the first incompetent, the second competent. Why in this town do all plumbing services have "rooter" in their name?
***
While I was down with the scratches, I tried to watch a bit of daytime tv. Wow. You three regular readers know that I can watch me some crap. But the predominance of Court TV shows (four on six channels in the two time slices sampled) made me wonder about who watches this misery. What does it mean to their life? Do I want to live near them?
Not to be unkind to my new town, but it might have been instructive if one channel featured meth cases. But that's not the point, is it.
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