Wishing for Recess

I long for recess, for uninterrupted time to play with no responsibilities, no tasks looming before me, threatening my peace of mind (or my very small piece of mind for that matter). Now even when I have play time, a long weekend at the beach perhaps, the tasks waiting for me disturb my tranquility. Don't get me wrong; I'd rather lounge on the beach than on my couch at home, but I worry about what's waiting for me: the E-Anthology posts to read, the grants that may need tweaking just one more time, the poems that are oh so close to perfection, my own drafts that need multiple revisions before I can abandon them, the dust that has visited the entertainment center far too long, the rings around the tub (but at least it's not mold, Matt), the miniscule demands of everyday life.

Recess happens after the ISI ends--a week at the beach with family. But Blackwater will still call me back to Valdosta during that recess for two days of professional development. Recess just isn't quite the same now. I still long for it, cherishing every minute, but it no longer offers completely free time, uninterrupted play time, time free of professional obligations. And I guess that's okay because to be fair my professional life includes some play time, time like this morning, time to write, think, and play on paper, enjoying my own words and the words of others, watching a trail of words to see where it leads. It's still a place of discovery, a place of play, a place for the imagination to wander.

On a side note--why is this room so much hotter than the rest of the building. It's a mini-hell in here. Thank goodness we don't have a lot of hot air to make it worse.

College Recess

Why don't we have recess when in college?

Yes, yes, I know we have athletic electives like weight-lifting, tennis, swimming, etc. but why not a class-break time where we all gather to exhaust ourselves with running, screaming, and games of tag. I loved recess when I was a kid. It was the one time of the day where I had the opportunity to not worry about math I didn't understand and history dates I just wouldn't memorize. All of my friends and I could gather for whatever it may be that would increase our activity levels and stimulate our minds. So why not in college?

Imagine . . .
You're in Dr. Sewell's class, you're learning about verb-tense agreement, and suddenly the bell rings - it's play time! All the classes in West Hell would regurgitate their students as we all made a bee-line for the doors and freedom. There'd be coaches with balls, nets, and rackets for us to play with, and after a rousing hour of releasing pent-up energy we could return to class and pick-up where we left off - having relaxed from squeezing one-more-drop of education into an already over-flowing vortex.

Would it really be that simple to better concentrate? Would it actually promote active learning and raise sleep from weary heads? I doubt it, but it would be fun to dunk over your professors. "Yea, you in my house now!"

Musical Memories

Where do I begin? I guess at the start of my love for music. My first musical memories are singing in the church children’s choir from the age of 4 at Augusta Heights. I was the loud one…. We only sang hymns, but I loved singing. I think this is where I get my love for traditional hymns. In high school, I sang in the Youth Choir at first Methodist. For the first week of June, we went on Choir tours. We sang at different churches along the way to our fun destination. Once it was Dallas and Six Flags of Texas, another year it was Washington D.C. Another year it was Nashville TN, Where we stayed in the Opry Land Hotel. But my favorite stop along the way was the Children’s hospital in Montgomery. We sang for all these little kids who were dying. They smiled. And for a moment, I think we gave them a few minutes where they didn’t think about dying. They didn’t think about the hospital bed waiting for them… they just enjoyed the music & the stuffed animals we had brought for them. I cried the entire way to our next destination.

When I was in 4th grade, my mom moved her old piano from her parent’s house to ours. We took piano lessons from an old hag down the street… I picked up relatively quickly. My sister played too. I overheard her telling mamma one day that she wanted to me better than me at something. I was better at singing (so she thought- She can sing both alto and soprano.. me? Only soprano) and playing the piano. I was always cast in the church plays and my sister was only an extra. But she was four years younger. She just couldn’t understand that she’d get better as she got older. But I felt bad. I wanted my sister to be happy. I quit taking piano and claimed it was because I was too busy and that Melissa seemed like she enjoyed it more anyway and I’d let that be her thing. 6 months later, Melissa quit. It wasn’t cool anymore b/c sissy wasn’t doing it…. Go figure. I’m going to get the piano from my parent’s house this summer and have it tuned. I ‘m going teach myself to play again.

I began playing the Clarinet in the 6th grade. I wanted to play the trumpet originally, but my braces got in the way. I loved it! Band became a real part of my life. I am a band geek and I am not ashamed. I think I was more dedicated to band in high school than anything else. I loved it all. I loved the way the notes worked together. I loved the patterns we made on the field as we marched to Souza and Williams. The south Georgia heat was more than my asthma could take sometimes. This wasn’t really a problem at football games b/c they were at night and it had cooled down enough… but at competition in Hawkinsville, it never failed. I had an asthma attack on the field every time. It was usually during our last #. I never walked off the field though… I had taught myself how to breathe into the clarinet as if I was playing but not make a sound… The small airway almost did the same trick a paper bag would do. As soon as we marched out of the judge’s sight, the jacket came off quickly and I’d grab the inhaler from the top pocket of the uniform. Of course, the people in the ambulance would see me and I’d get a quick treatment of pure oxygen just before having our picture made. Mr. Nelson fussed at me every time, but I hear in the few years after I graduated and before he retired that he used me as an example when he talks about being dedicated to the band. I wanted to be in the Marine Band and I had full intentions on auditioning, but I knew I’d never survive basic training.

At Andrew College, I had all intentions of being in the band… brought my clarinet, but AC only had a jazz band. He already had a clarinet… but he asked if I’d ever played the bass clarinet. I told him I had played that and the contrabass clarinet. He grinned as he handed me a huge case. Expecting to find a bass clarinet, I open the case to find a Barry Saxophone. He showed me how the fingerings were almost exactly like the upper register of the clarinet. On the weekends I went home, my sister gave me private saxophone lessons since this is what she played in the high school band.

As I was signing up for Jazz Band, the Choraliers instructor, Miss Jeffries, walks over and asks if I’m a singer too. I explained that I’ve sang in church choirs all my life, but don’t have any formal training. Right there on the spot, she asked me to sing something. I froze… so she took me to her office and grabbed a hymnal. She had me sing “Once in Royal David’s City” which ended up being my solo in the Christmas production. I sang with the music until the night before the performance when she told me “oh, by the way…” You’ll be singing this accapella and you’ll be on stage alone. After you sing the first verse, everyone else will walk in and join in the second.” Holy Crap was all I could think… but it was great. & she knew I needed that last minute “by the way” treatment or I’d have chickened out.

I transferred to VSU where I was planning on double majoring in Vocal Performance and Music Ed. I enjoyed my 8am theory class. I hated ear training. It was in Ear Training that I was informed I didn’t have the ear to cut it through all of those training classes. I hated that instructor. I quit the music program and moved into the English department, and while I am happy with what I teach, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened had I staying the music department to tough it out. I’m sad to say I haven’t played my clarinet since. I want to brush up though… maybe I’ll get good enough to play in the symphony. I’m sure it will take a few years, but we’ll see.

Melodious Music

I'm sure we've all had some sort of impactful serendipitous moment, some occurrence of chance, of coincidence, that makes us question our place in the world. But, have you ever heard the angelic chimes that coincide with something so wondrous and fateful that it makes your heart ache? I have.

It all began about 9 years ago. I had recently moved to Valdosta to be with my then fiancé, The Spawn of Satan. One day during our usual lunch at Palms, a new friend of her’s showed up who was introduced to me as James; immediately I felt some sort of connective clang resound in the recesses of my mind. I had no idea what it meant, but I new something had just clicked into place. Fast-forward 2 and a half years. SoS is now gone from the picture and I have just began my first days of college.
During the preceding summer I made some friends from my job, and we all went out to Remington every weekend to celebrate our youth and joy of life - which is also where we met Joey (yep, another click). My first day of Spanish class brought to my attention the need to study Spanish using tapes to go along with the workbook (and the need to purchase light-bulbs, my bedside lamp had recently blown - so I went and bought two packages to have spares, another clang). Two months later, while checking out the required Spanish tapes I again ran into James, whom I hadn't seen in over two years. At first, he didn't recognize me, but I knew him immediately (yep, another clang resounded). Minutes after retiring to the lab to begin work he came in and asked if he knew me. We caught up on all the preceding years' gossip and exchanged information in case either of us heard of something fun to do here in stuffy old V-town.
Later that night Joey and I went to see a movie, he was trying to help me forget about a recent ex (Black-hearted vermal Demon witch). After the movie we were going to go to a friend's house to party, but he expressed the need for a new light bulb. "Why, I have some at my place!" I exclaimed. When we arrived to get him a replacement bulb, I decided to check the answering machine. It was James asking me to join him and some friends at a birthday party in Remington; I asked Joey and we decided "Why the hell not!?"
Once there my breath was taken away as my eyes locked with this unimaginable Spanish beauty with James' group. There was an instant connection and the sound of angelic voices singing squeezed out the raucous clamor of the barroom juke-box playing Elton John's Song for You.
That was almost 8 years ago. That Spanish beauty is now my wife, Davina, and every time I look at her I still hear bells ring and voices sing. And Song for You is still our song.

Musical Memories (Song Titles/Lyrics)

Yes, Socks. Every one of my prompts has a parenthetical to it. I'm "Complicated" that way.

I love music. I think it started when I was a child growing up in Indiana. My brother Ryan and I would go downstairs into the basement and listen to the Disney records. I remember the Jungle Book for some reason.

Then there were musicals. The Wizard of Oz was one of my favorites, and my parents knew that if it was on, I had to watch it much to their chagrin. So, they would send me to their bedroom to watch it. Alone. Big mistake. You know the scene with the flying monkeys? I thought I could fly, too, so I scaled the drawers of the dresser. Apparently, I was heavier than the contents of the dresser, and it fell on top of me. Miraculously, I suffered no broken bones. Super Asian indeed!

I was in high school when I discovered West Side Story. I fixated on that as well. "Maria," "Hey Officer Krupke," "Somewhere." I remember them well. I so had a crush on the guy who played Tony. (So what if he was an old guy now?) Then I rediscovered The Music Man a few years ago. Not the one with Matthew Broderick, but the original one. The Sound of Music I bought new on DVD at a flea market (I that what those things are called? Why are they called flea markets?) for like $2, and was amazed at how freakin' long it was. (One of the 6th grade summer reading books is Surviving the Applewhites, and it references The Sound of Music.)

Grease. How totally awesome is Grease? Is there a better musical on the planet? Who didn't want to be Sandy? I totally wanted to live in that time period. Oh the tragedy to have slanted eyes and brown hair! I could never sing "Summer Lovin.'" (Right now I'm thinking how smart Donna, or Donner as Matt said yesterday, is by changing the topic to "Musical Memories.")

Switching gears. I'm never without my iPod. (You really didn't think that I was going to avoid a reference to Junior, did you?) When my first iPod, Hans, (not Donna's Hans) died, I had a melt down. (He was named Hans, by the way, because he was engraved with the quotation from Hans Christian Anderson "Where words fail, music speaks.") I did not even hesitate to plop down the $300+ to replace him, this time from Best Buy so if his sound jack goes out in the next three years, he will be replaced. (Stupid Apple.)

Despite his 80 GB capacity, Junior only currently houses 431 songs. One of my favorites is "Spark" from Over the Rhine, a little known group from Ohio. (Nick has heard me talk about them.)

Here is a short snippet of the song:
It's not the spark that that caused the fire/ It was the air you breathe that fanned the flame/What you think you'll solve with violence/ Will only spread like a disease/Until it all comes 'round again/ Was John the only dreamer?/ Sleep with one eye close to the ground/And wake up dreaming/When we lay our cold weapons down/ We'll wake up dreaming

Okay, on a lighter note, I love great song titles. Right now, my ringtone is Weezer's "Pork and Beans" and I dream that one day that I'll meet the guy that will make "Banana Pancakes" for me. I also like those great one liners that you find "There's the flasher that lives next door" (okay, I'm kind of cheating; that's from Hairspray). For some reason that line is stuck in my head. Maybe because of Donner's "flasher"'s hat from yesterday?

The Little Nissan Who Could

The Little Nissan Who Could

Several years ago, when my son was younger, we decided we needed a new car. We couldn’t afford a new one, of course, so we found a really reliable used one, a little gray Nissan Sentra.

This Sentra was a 5-speed stickshift. Problem was, neither my husband nor I knew how to drive a stick shift.

“No problem,” said my Uncle Gene. “I’ll drive it home from the car dealership and then y’all can practice learning to drive it in the fields around the house.”

So we had a plan. We signed all the paperwork, and Johnny and Uncle Gene piled into our new used car.

Then we all found out that Uncle Gene didn’t know how to drive a stick shift either. I’m not sure why he said he could. Maybe it was some macho thing.

Mama and Jonathan (my son) and I followed behind them as we made our way home. It was the funniest thing we’ve seen, and thank God it was us right behind them, or someone would have surely rear-ended them with all the jerking and stalling out that they did.

That little car was a trouper, and made it home in spite of all the torment that Uncle Gene put it through on that half hour drive. It only took a few days and Johnny and I had both learned to shift gears smoothly and easily, and really enjoyed the way it felt to drive a stick shift.

But our days of fun in the Nissan were not over.

As I said, we had a lot of fields around our house. There were trails connecting one field to the other, and sometimes these little roads had deep ruts made by the tractors and farm equipment that had to go down them.

And in south Georgia, we always get a lot of rain in the late winter/early spring. I mean a LOT of rain. It was a typical time of year, and the puddles didn’t ever have time to soak into the ground before we’d get another week with no let-up in the rain. We’d gone through a couple of weeks like this, and the ground was saturated. And then one lazy weekend afternoon Johnny said, “Why don’t we take a ride back in the fields and see how everything is?”

So we loaded into the little gray Nissan (Johnny, Jonathan, and me), and we took off. It was actually a pretty day. The sun had finally come out, and the air was nice and fresh, so we rolled down the windows.

Since the roads were still kind of muddy, we took it slow. I was driving at first, and Johnny was watching out of the windows for different kinds of birds that were coming out. Jonathan was hopping from one back window to the other (this was before car seats were required) checking out all the new leaves and mud puddles along the way.

We turned down one section of the road that seemed a bit more muddy, and I looked at it for a minute, unsure.

“Oh, go ahead. It’ll be fine,” Johnny urged me.

And so, feeling a little like one of the Duke boys, I put the Nissan in gear and hit the gas. We were doing fine, and I had a bit more confidence in my driving abilities, so when we came to a section of the road that was totally underwater, I just slipped it into a higher gear, pushed the gas down farther to the floor, and straddled the ruts. We went right on through, with water sluicing up on either side. Jonathan loved it, and just clapped and cheered from the back seat.

I have to admit, for a minute I was worried when we went through it, but once you start something like that, there’s no turning back. So we made it to the other side and kept going to the next field. Once we got there, we got out of the car and all admired the mud that had splashed up the doors and back of the car.

Then Johnny said, “I want to drive back,” and he climbed in the driver’s seat.

Now normally Johnny is a very good driver. He’s safe, he knows how to drive on dirt roads without letting the sand pull him…but I think he felt that he had to prove something to me. After all, if a woman could make it through that little ocean puddle that covered the road, then surely he could make it back through.

But I think Johnny forget that once you drive through a puddle, it stirs things up and makes it a lot harder to drive in the mud. And the one thing I’ve never been able to get him to understand is that you STRADDLE the ruts. You do not ride in them. He just can’t get that in his head.

So, he stops just before the puddle ocean, eyes it, and then stares at me with an almost unholy gleam. “Y’all hold on!” he shouted.

Now if you know anything about rednecks, you know that these words are right up there with the famous “Y’all watch this.” I knew something bad was about to happen.

Jonathan and I barely had time to brace before we hit that water, going IN the ruts this time. Johnny fought with the steering wheel for a second, going steadily through, and then the car slowed…and slowed some more…

We could feel the wheels turning, but the car finally stopped, halfway through this puddle, and the engine shuddered and died.

We all sat there. I stared at the water outside my window, because it took several minutes for it to sink in. We were well and truly stuck in the mud.

Our silence was finally broken by Jonathan’s giggles, and we heard a splashing sound. We turned around and our son was sitting in the back seat, splashing in the water that had quickly seeped up into the car and come in the doors.

Yes, that’s how deep the puddle was.

I didn’t say a word to Johnny. I didn’t know WHAT to say. If I’d started talking, I’d have probably killed him. We both knew there was no way to dig the car out, and the two of us couldn’t push it, so we climbed out. The water was up to my waist. I stood there with the water settling around me, finally looked at him and asked, “Why didn’t you STRADDLE the ruts so you’d have a few more inches of dirt above the puddle? Why did you have to go right in the middle of it?”

He didn’t really have much of an answer. How can you defend sheer machismo? He finally said, “Well, I thought we could make it.”

We tugged Jonathan out of the car through the open windows, and slogged through the puddle. I couldn’t even look back at the car. We squished our way back down the roads to the house. On that day, it wasn’t funny. It was awful. Our car was stuck in the mud, and we didn’t know how to get it out and get it home.

The next day, one of the farmers who rented the fields came to us and said, “I saw your car. You want me to pull it out with a tractor?”

Of course, we did, and he did, and the little gray Nissan was towed to our house. We opened the doors and water poured out, all gray brown and nasty.

We left the windows down and the doors open for about a week, and kept checking on the car. The seats dried, though they were now stained. We finally decided to try to crank it. And you know what? That little car’s engine turned right over like nothing had ever happened to it.

We cleaned the interior and kept that little car for several years after that, even though water still sloshed in the side panels of the trunk whenever we’d hit the brakes.

And she earned a new name that day. She will always be referred to affectionately as our Nissub.

Driving Stories

Many apologies to those in the room, but I couldn't do anything until I got back to English. Apparently it was Slovokian (sp). But hey, doesn't it relate to the topic in a weird sort of Blackwater kind of way? I was trying to get to the Blog, and I couldn't get there . . .

I've come to the realization that when someone wants me to do something that I don't want to do, I'll do it, but I'll do it the way that I want to. It's a Blackwater thing. Case in point last night at a Pampered Chef Party. In case you have never been to one, before they feed you, they have you pass around some little trinket (last night it was two pink ribbon pins) while asking the consultant questions for a certain amount of time about the business.

This was my second PC party in two months, and maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I was feeling more than a little jaded. The pins had been passed from person to person with polite questions like "How long have you been a consultant?" and "How much money do you make?" When they got to me I asked the simpliest question I could. The shortest verse in the Bible question: "How are the orders shipped?" The answer, because I'm sure you all are dying to know, is FedEx, ladies and gentlemen. Try expanding on that one.

Renee, who was sitting next to me, and I then started thinking up other stupid questions that we could ask her, such as "Have you ever cut your finger while chopping something?" but alas the time ran out. And I really wanted those pink pins. I could have put them on my hat today ala the servers at TGI Fridays.

Back to the topic . . . sort of . . . While I was driving here this morning, I had the strange desire to wave at all of the police officers that I saw. (I passed both a Valdosta City patrolman and a Lowndes County deputy. Why is the city a "policeman" and the county a "sheriff"? Why the distinction? As Rodney would say, "'Can't we all just get along?'" Where is Rodney? What ever happened to him?) I don't know if it was the hat or the socks or the combination.

Driving . . . I see all kinds of weird things while I'm driving. Saturday I saw a guy on West Hill Ave, near the IHOP, standing near the curb, pouring orange Powerade on his head. Or maybe it was Gatorade. But I'm inclined to think it was the former, not the latter. Powerade is more watery to me than Gatorade. But that is beside the point. Why would you pour Powerade on your head? I realize that it is freakin' hot, but hot is making yourself sticky going to make it better?

Anyway, as I continued home the same day, I saw that The Catfish House on Bemiss Road is going to start serving breakfast on June 26. I don't know what it is, but the idea of going to a seafood restaurant for breakfast just doesn't do it for me. The other day I noticed the word "homemade" was in front of breakfast. I don't know if that was there on Saturday, but how does that make it any different? What other kinds of breakfast are there at a restaurant? Pre-fab? Freeze dried? Pseudo? Fake? What else would you expect at a seafood restaurant?

My mom, bless her heart, cannot look and drive at the same time. I learned from an early age never to say, "Mom, look at that" because if I did, the car would veer off in that direction as well. My dad was not much better. Before my mom and I told my dad he could no longer drive, he liked to drive on both sides of the road. It's a wonder that I can drive as well as I do considering they were my driving instructors and considering what I look like.

Mean Geane the Green Machine

To talk about cars in my life, there can only be one important discussion: Mean Geane

Oh the green monster was my pride and joy. I originally got her by trading an old engagement ring to my father for her; he'd had her for years and I was recently bereft of wheels.

She was green, as the name implies, but she was also the Titanic of the road, and she sank much the same.

This car was huge and built of solid steel - I never worried about accidents. This badboy could go toe-to-toe with a Mack truck and I'd have still won. I could, and did, shove at least ten people in the car, and that ain't counting the truck which was big enough to fill with water and make my own mobile pool. The bottom three inches were always full of water already, it just leaked too much to ever get any higher.

One of the back windows didn't roll down, the other back window, and driver-side window, wouldn't roll up. Only the front passenger window, was as Goldylocks would describe it . . . Just right. Not wishing to always sit in a wet seat, I cut out some cardboard, shaped to fit the window, about 10 strips, glued them together and kept the whole contraption in the back seat when driving, upon arring at my destination I would place it in the window, hold it inplace with the visor, and exit the passenger side door.
The windshield wipers didn't work, so I had a length of shoe string attached to each wiper, one going in the driver's side smoking window and one through the passengers', if it rained both the passenger and I had to alternately pull our strings . . . this allowed the blades to go back and forth.
The door was never locked, with windows stuck down, but that never bothered me much, since the only thing worth stealing was the 8-track radio that didn't work; for some reason I never figured anyone would want to steal that.
The roof grew green moss; it kinda remeinded me of Moss-Man from the He-Man era, yea the top looked like him. All grown over - but never try to tell what direction north was. It also grew a stalk of grass this one time. You know, the stalks that grow really high and have that wheat looking stuff at the end. I thought about growing my own field on top and brewing beer, but that never seemed to pan out.
There were bullet-holes in the trunk. At least, I called them bullet holes . . . big rust spots about the shape and diameter of a .45 slug. It gave me street cred.
The front lights were those damn lifting doors that pulled up when the lights were turned on so the rest of the time the lights could be protected from outside forces. Only, the driver's side was always stuck down and only lifted when I I gave it a swift kick, never try that while wearing sandals or flip-flops.
Oh how I loved Mean Geane! It sucked the day she died. Rolling along at 74 mph without a care in the world before the radiator clogged and a head-gasket was blown. Several days later some friends and I went to haul her home where she was sold to a junk-yard for the massive, impressive amout of $50.

Oh yeah, and I forgot about the gas mileage. You remember she was built out of solid steel, right? She got 10 mpg on the interstate and 6 mpg in town . . . oh yea, she was fuel-economy friendly alright.

Today's topic: Car Stories

Car stories:

• driving from Bainbridge to Whigham with no brakes
• piling eight people into my MG Midget convertible and putting a hole in the gas tank when we hit a bump
• putting Mom's LTD into the ditch after play performance; having to pull it out with Larry's dad's tractor and NOT telling Mom about it; apparently, the messed-up alignment told on me. Stupid alignment!
• the check engine light coming on in the Prius because the gas cap may not be completely closed, but it's not just a check engine light. It's a "stop driving now and report to a dealer" light. What the 'ell?
• coming out of school to find that my Midget had been moved. The guys in gym class thought it was fun to pick my car up and move it, so I never knew where I would find it. Sometimes it would be sideways. At least they never took it out of the lot.
• getting pulled over from weaving in college. I could tell the cop thought I was drunk, but he erred. I weaved (only slightly) because I was removing a full-body slip while driving. Let me just say that I did an excellent job. Impressed with my dexterity and seeing the slip pooled at my feet in the car, the nice policeman let me go without even a warning. He just suggested I pull over to strip next time.
• driving out to the Big Oak on weekends for bonfires in high school
• driving to my grandparents' house in Odum, Georgia; that always seemed like the longest drive in the world to me. We had landmarks along the way: the three bumpety bridges Dad sped up for (which are no longer there), the meat store in Patterson where we turned to hit the backroads, the lake with the brown substance that clung to your skin when you got out, the dirt road turnoff to my cousin Wanda's house (I LOVED to stay with her), and Dent Road, the road named after my grandparents--I guess when you have sixteen kids they name roads after you
• losing control on back roads from Climax and almost ending up in the ditch on my way to Tallahassee for graduate classes
• driving Grandmother's Galaxy 500 to Mama Cox's house once we turned onto the road past Jet's house
• before Grandmother let us drive her car, she'd let us slide right beside her and practice steering
• riding the tractor with Dad when he mowed the back pastures at Grandmother's house; several kids crammed onto the tractor, loving the experience
• arguing over who got to drive Grandmother's Snapper to mow the yard because driving was driving and any practice counted
• driving go-carts at Uncle Elton and Aunt Delia's house and being thrown out of one when riding with my cousin Ricky--I tumbled halfway across the yard, I think
• my cousin Tom teaching me how to ride a motorcycle on the back trails behind Grandmother's house; he was probably five years older than I was, and when I got in front and he sat on the back, I took off, popped a wheelie, and we both went flying. After that, I think he ran beside me when I tried to drive.
• riding in the Thomasville Rose Parade as Miss Whigham on the back of a cool convertible and going home to watch the tape to see me on the screen with "Miss Whigham, Donna Mayberry" scrolling underneath. My name was Donna Newberry, but I liked Mayberry too.
• riding the bus to school and back, waiting at the corner of the trailer park in Delaware with snow all around
• riding with my parents in the snow in Delaware and sliding across the road

Gosh, I'm just not finding a story I want to tell, but we live so much of our lives in cars now--commuting to work, going out to eat, going on vacations. Dad used to pile the kids into the car around four a.m. when we were going on vacation so that he could drive for several hours in peace. He'd wake us up around seven or eight to eat breakfast at McDonald's, and we'd be only a few hours away from the vacation. I loved those trips. It makes me wonder, though, how obnoxious we must have been back then. Probably pretty bad. I remember the complaints to Mom and Dad about each other and the trying desperately to find a comfortable position in the pre-seat belt law days when we sprawled wherever we could.

"Hey lady, what you doing?" I hear in the hallway and wonder how that conversation will end.

I know it was a completely random thought, but I had just looked at Ansley, and I guess she prompted the random thought or the attention to the random conversation in the hallway.

Okay, enough rambling. Let me see what others had to say.

Insomnia (journal topic)

For the past two nights, I’ve felt as if I have insomnia & I’m sure this will last until July 3rd when my husband gets home. With Phillip gone, I can’t fall to sleep. I hear every noise in the house. Last night, I even waiting until I went to bed to turn on the washer and dryer so that the sounds from the laundry room right next to our bedroom would drown out whatever other noises might be sounding off in the night.
Even over buttons flopping around inside the dryer I heard “tap tap tap tap tap…” It sounded like someone tapping on the window to our back door. No one ever uses the back door. I start to rationalize the sound… it must be the tree… sometimes when the limbs get too long, they tap against the top of the house… then I remember we just cut the limbs before Phillip left. So I get out of bed at 11:30 and sneak around my own house. The noise stops when I enter the kitchen and flip on the light. This made me even more paranoid… then I see Mojo, our leopard gecko in the corner of his tank, front leg frozen in what I know was mid-dig. He has dug past his sand into the rock substrate. That tap tap tap was the little pebbles hitting the sides of his glass tank. Relieved I return back to bed.
I fall to sleep, but wake up about 2 hours later. I hear the wind outside blowing the tree and a cat screeching. I just bet it’s the neighbor’s cat stuck up in my tree again. Then I hear crickets and frogs outside and I think I can go back to sleep until I hear sound like footsteps. These are too loud to me Mojo. I called Phillip. At 1:30 here, it was only 10:30 at his brother’s house. He tells me to calm down and stop worrying and that if it made me feel any better, there was always the gun in his bedside table and the metal baseball bat I’ve kept under every one of my beds since my freshman year of college.
I try to go back to sleep, but I keep hearing that thud like heavy footprints on our porch… Thud… Thud…. Thud… like someone is pacing back and forth right outside my front door. This time, I’m paranoid I tell myself. I think about grabbing the bat and taking it with me, I don’t know how to put the clip in the gun & my luck I’d probably injure myself…. but I realize I’m only being silly. Still, to make myself feel better I crawl out of bed and tip toe through the hallway into the kitchen. I flip on the light, Mojo is spread out on his log now wide eyed and looking right at me. Well, he wasn’t making any noises…. Even with the light on, I notice the Thuds haven’t stopped. Once I get to the front door, I realize those sounds aren’t coming from the porch.. They’re coming from the front room. It must be Shellden (my 6-year-old red-eared slider). Sure enough, when I reach the guest bedroom at the front of the house, there she is, banging her shell on the side of the tank where I feed her. Apparently, she was still hungry after finishing off the freeze dried shrimp I gave her just before bed. This is her signal for feeding time…. I drop in some pellets which she looks at distastefully, but I already fed her the last of the shrimp, so this will have to do.
I go back to bed, but I can’t fall to sleep. I keep hearing the sounds. I swear our pets were plotting against me last night…I’m surprised the fish weren’t in on it somehow… It’s tough sleeping in that king size bed alone. I’m so used to falling to sleep beside Phillip that can’t sleep without him.
Somewhere around 2:15, I decided to try some relaxing sounds I burned to a CD not too long ago. I’m sorry, but the sound of running water is not relaxing. All “Babbling Brook & Bach” did for me was make me get out of bed again. I’m not sure what time it was when I finally nodded off again last night, but I know I overslept this morning. It took everything I had in me to get out of that bed and make it here on time. This afternoon, I’m going to make a pit stop at the Walgreens on my way home. Tonight, I’m going to resolve to some Tylenol PM.

Dreams/Nightmares - What's normal?

I really hate dreams.

Dreams are really personal to me. I usually remember them, because I usually force myself to wake up during them. You know how in Freddy Kreuger movies the people have to learn how to take control of their dreams to defeat Freddy? Well, I can do that, and even though I’m not having to battle him, my dreams are still awful. Usually they either have a lot of blood in them, or people who have died. Very unpleasant either way, for different reasons.

The ones with blood are just disturbing. Usually it’s my blood. The most vivid one I remember was one in which I was standing in a fountain. I’m not sure why, but that’s where I was. Someone was after me, and I was terrified, and I don’t remember who they were or what they looked like, but I do remember that I finally looked up at them and said, “I refuse to let you take me.” And then I slit my wrists, slicing the flesh from my wrist nearly up to my elbow. I held up my arms to show my pursuer, and the blood just ran down my skin to splash in the water in the fountain. The blood was so red and warm and thick. I don’t think I’ve ever had that much sensory detail in any other dream. I could feel it, smell it, and just the image of it dropping into the crystal blue water still haunts me.

That’s when I forced myself to wake up. I don’t know what would have happened after that. I didn’t want to find out.

I have a lot of dreams like that, being chased or pursued. I wonder why. Do other people have those dreams? After those, I make myself stay awake long enough to shake off the horror I’ve just been through.

Then there are the dreams about dead loved ones. I have a lot of those about Papa and about Uncle Gene. I loved them both so much, but these dreams are disturbing. Usually in the ones about Papa, he’s just skin and bones. In the most recent one, he was dead, but had been allowed to come live in his house for another week or so. We knew his time was limited. We were all staying in his house with him, and he was talking about the changes that had been made to it since his death. He looked so horrible, the way he did during his last days lying in his home hospital bed. His skin was loose and wrinkly over his skeleton, because he’d lost so much weight. His cheeks were drawn in, and his eyes were piercing. It was our beloved Papa, and yet it wasn’t.

And then when I wake up from a dream like that, I experience the loss all over again. It’s like he’s just died, and I’m left with that aching emptiness.

I really hate dreams.

What’s wrong with me anyway? Are these dreams normal? What do others dream about? I’d like to know.

Insomnia

Okay, I have to admit that the topic today revolves around me. (You all knew that that I was a selfish, self-serving little . . . )

I have a theory that the later at night that you sit at a computer, the harder that it will be to "power off."

Case in point, last night. After an exhilarating day at the WP, I was motivated to actually clean off the kitchen bar. This has been the summer of cleaning and organization since I decided that I would have to wait a little longer to buy/build a house because I am too damn picky. Or I have too much damn stuff. (Can you see where I am going with this?) So, I got to cleaning, put away the laundry that I did over the weekend that usually just hangs out until I need it, and washed the sheets and towels that I had previously manipulated my mom into doing. Then I got on the computer, wrote on a few walls on Facebook (I forgot it was another guilty pleasure), and headed to the e-anthology.

I started going in chronological order, then I just started randomly typing in page numbers. 88. 66. 34. 15. 74. I would click on a post then decide that I wasn't in the mood. I was behind on my posts, so I was determined to get caught up at any cost. And, of course, because I am me I couldn't just "bless." Besides I don't know how to "bless." Before I knew it, it was 12:00 A.M. And I get up around 4:00. That's just how I function. Crap.

After convincing Lorelai, who was asleep at my feet, that it really was time to go to bed, I took my allergy pill and Topamax. In retrospect, maybe taking it with a Diet Coke wasn't such a good idea. But to be honest, I'm really not 100% sure it was a Diet Coke. All I know is that there were three in the fridge last evening, and this morning there were two. I brushed my teeth, put in my retainers, and hoped that my pills would somehow cause regain their drowsiness quotient. (I just remembered I haven't taken my Topamax for this morning.)

I don't know exactly what time it was when I went to bed. All of my clocks (I have four) are set at different intervals, so I really have no idea what time it really is, especially when I am tired. But it was after 12:00 . . .

1:00 or some semblance of it comes around, and I'm pissed that Lorelai can sleep so peacefully, so I decide that maybe if I cuddle with her, she will help me sleep. Luckily, she doesn't growl at me like she sometimes does, and she lets me curl up with her. (Don't make it peverted.)

2:00 or something like it and I am still awake. Lorelai, annoyed with me, separated from me earlier with a "humph" and a plop to the end of the bed. I decide that a popsicle (sp?) might do the trick. Maybe I'm just hungry. After all, all I had for dinner was a salad. I open the freezer, grab one, and open it only to be disgusted. It's another one of those stupid raspberry ones. I throw it down the sink and decide to eat a Fudgesicle (sp) without even bothering to take out my retainers.

Somewhere between then and 5:00 I must get some sleep. My alarms don't even go off, but I just decide to get up. What's the use of staying in bed at this point? I'm not getting any sleep. Lorelai, on the other hand, maneuvers to my side of the bed and lies down with her head on my pillow.

On the way out, I tell my mom, "She's going to be grumpy today. She didn't get much sleep."

Insomnia

Insomnia? What do you mean insomnia? You mean, there are people out there that can't sleep? Inconceivable!
My pretty little head hits the pillow, and within three minutes, it's lights out. I don't think I've ever had an insomniatic moment. I run my body so ragged most of the time, that when it's time to sleep - that's exactly what it does.
Now, that's not to say I haven't been awake all night before. For the past five+ years, I've been working as a night auditor at hotels (my Dad did too, one of the few things we have in common). Most of my life, I've been a job hopper. Usually fired in less than six months became sort of a mantra when starting a new job. I never meant to - it just sort of happened. For instance, I had a manager at Goody's (here in Valdosta) one time, and I'll change her name to protect the innocent. Terri, oh, sorry - her fake name is Janice, really seemed to like me from the git-go, I think she had dreams about my hard body. I had a conversation with her on my last day there. Terri was always an under-the-skinner and more arrogant than me (if you can believe that). Anyways, I got tired of her attitude, stood up, and bellowed for all to hear that "You think you all that and a side of fries don't you. Beotch, you ain't sh%#! I can put her through that wall (talking about the wall in here office)! For some reason she heard will. Needless to say, I've been banned from Goody's for all time. Then there was this time at JC Penny's, I don't remember the manager's name, or the jewelry manager's name, but they caused my demise in that oh, so illustrious place. I was the best jewelry worker they had. Only there six months and I outsold everybody else at that counter, including management. I could sell ocean-front property in Ohio if I had to. This was on top of all the busy work she gave me to keep me from reading. One night the store manager saw me reading and reported me to the jewelry manager. The next day I went to work, she called me into her office and told me I had to quit reading while at work. I agreed, it was my job on the line after all, but I told her on one condition - she must answer a question for me. "Why, if with all the work you give me, more than anyone else, and I still find time to read while out-selling everyone else, including you, can't I read?" That was a short day at work.
Something about working at a hotel appealed to me though. I was at work during the slowest time of the day. I'd bring my Playstation, XBOX, laptop, PSP, books, homework - you name it and I can do it. So in essence, I get paid to play? You bet baby! I guess that's why I love hotel work so much. Thankfully though, after five years, my last day is less than a month away. Now that the Mrs. and I have full-time professional jobs, there's plenty of money coming into the house, so now I no longer need to pull extra shifts to make ends meet.
Now, when not being tired out two nights a week, it used to be five, is when I'll probably start having insomnia. Oh well. Sometimes you have to have your cake before you can eat it I guess.

Two Dreams (unedited)

The Escape

My cat ran away to find a mate. I tried to catch her, but in the process, accidentally strangled her. Then I realized that she was just an offshoot of a plant, which had two extra buds. She was not really dead as long as the two buds were alive. The buds were yellow.



The Potion

A woman in a marketplace tried to sell me a potion, which would "make every eye turn toward you, and every eye turn away." I refused, but as I left, she must have spilled a tiny bit on my clothing.

I instantly noticed men, noticing me. Every man who passed turned his gaze to meet mine, their hair dark, their eyes searching for something only I had. This was the first day.

The second day, my travelling companion (a woman) began to behave strangely. She was cold, distant; something on her face was worrying me. She decided to go her own way and leave me to the mercy of the city. Men were still watching me from every corner of every street. And I knew she knew.

The third day was men. Everywhere. There were no women. The earth was men. They all saw me. I was the only one who was different. This made me both exotic and threatening.

There was no one else. I was all alone. I was a woman.

Guilty Pleasures

I'm only sharing one small tidbit here today, just one of my guilty pleasures.

I adore bad sci-fi movies. I’m never happier than when there’s a horrible sci-fi movie on. Like Frankenfish. It's probably my favorite. Or the one with the killer worms. Or the giant mosquitoes. There are actually several movies with giant mosquitoes and with killer fish. And I'm not talking about Jaws. I'm talking about the real killer fish, like mutant catfish.

And there are sooo many movies about killer snakes. I really enjoyed Boa v. Python. And this may fall in the same category, even though it was a top movie. Snakes on a Plane. It was such an awesome movie. They wanted to change the title of it to something bland like "Flight 514" or whatever. But you know what Samuel Jackson said? He said (and this is a line from the movie, too), "People, it's about mother-f***ing snakes on a mother-f***ing plane. That's what it has to be named." So they left the title the same. Think of how much the world would have lost if it had been given "Flight 514" instead of "Snakes on a Plane".

And of course, at the end of these films, there's always one baby of whatever has mutated, and it survives. It has to, so they can make a second movie about it.

I loved Mystery Science Theatre, because they understood the beauty of the bad sci-fi movie, and were able to make fun of it in an affectionate way.

Sometimes my kids will come in the room and say, “Mom, what are you watching?” And I’ll answer, “Oh, this is the one about the killer bunnies!” I just can’t understand why they don’t get as excited as I do over these classic films.

The Guilt of Pleasure

Guilty pleasures? Wow! There's so many avenues I could take to define just what a guilty pleasure is. The Catholic altar boys with hair parts down the middle (I love that joke), the construction workers that I see leering at the college girls each morning, wearing bikini underwear with spandex (ewww). What is my guilty pleasure?
Food. I'm 20-30 lbs overweight, I rarely exercise (although after BWP, when I have more time and energy, Billie will become my new best friend - ever tried Tae Bo?), and I always eat to excess. I can't help it. The sensuousness as drops of gravy caress me while rolling down my chins. The pheromones released by Whoppers that tickle my nose and reel me in like a prize-winning marlin. The exotic beauty that suffuses my sight as a Krispi Kream glazed is lovingly placed in the tray, calling my name with an erotic voice that promises me all the pleasure I can imagine. Oh for the silky texture of yeast rolls: their hot, buttery, melt in your mouth taste, the soft give you feel as you gently run your finger tips down their long, vivacious, and soft curves, the arousing scent of perfume labeled Blue Bonnet (available at fine grocery store dairy sections around the world), seeing their eroticism as they gently unwrap themselves from the protective napkin lingerie so cunningly wrapped around by the seating hostess.
Oh yes, food is definitely an erogenous exercise steeped in years of culinary perfection and photo shoots that seek to rival the guilt associated with looking at Playboy.
I love food. The way it calls to me on long, morning strolls from my car to the BWP, begging me to turn around and drive to the nearest location to satisfy primal urges passed down from my forefathers. It's just early morning, my wife and I have just eaten, and already we start discussing what's for dinner. It's not that food is all I think about, but I'd feel much more comfortable spending $153 at Publix than $101 at the jewelry store.
I don't binge and purge, I don't look at a plateful of mouthwatering, juice infused steak and just reach for the bed of lettuce it lays on so mockingly calling to me as the dirty sheets of Anna Kournikova would (meow). But, I do eat more than I should and then feel guilty afterwards. I ate supper not three hours ago, but already feel the need to pour a huge bowl of cereal (I use a bowl that easily holds a cup and a half of cereal) even though it's 11:01 at night.
Why the guilt? It's not like I'm cheating on my beloved wife, I don't break any laws, there's never any time taken away from what I should be doing to advance myself in my chosen career. I think it has to do with exercise. Yea, let's go with that.
I'm never interested in sweating up a storm when instead I could be watching TV or playing video games. I never feel the desire to hurt myself beyond all reasonable realms of conceivable endurance. So what if my belly makes me look pregnant from the side?
I tell you why the guilt. It's not about me; it has nothing to do with how I see myself - I'm quite happy with myself - I'm in love with myself (yea, if I was a chick, I'd wanna date me). But, it does have to do with my family. My future children deserve all the time I can give them, and more importantly, my wife seeks to better herself - it's only fair that I aim for the same. That's where the guilt comes from . . . I should make myself as attractive as possible so she can hang on my arm, look at all the passing hotties, and declare Yea, this is my man.
I hope to do better. We're going back to Belize this Christmas, I hope, and I should look better for my triumphant return. I will do better. Belly look out! You days are numbered!
And every time I make this promise, it calls to me and begs me to not go through with it. The little voice of nagging shame that is associated with a lack of exercise and an overindulgence of food, but I will not listen. This time . . . it's personal.

Guilty Pleasures aka Things I'd Rather Not Admit But I Will

When I think of guilty pleasures, I think of the things that I would be embarassed to admit. The things that would completely undermine my reputation as a serious and studious person. For example, the fact that I always find the time to watch America's Best Dance Crew whenever it comes on, that I actually find humor in Rob and Big, and have songs by Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, and Britney Spears downloaded to my iPod.

One of the things that I love the most is spending Sunday afternoon in bed. I don't know when it started, but I always come home from church (usually after lunch with my pew buddies, the Klimkos), get out of my probably only wear it on Sunday dress, put on a comfy T-shirt (my navy Georgetown is my current favorite) and a pair of Gap boxers, and hunker down in my bed for the next twelve hours. I will wake up every couple of hours, sometimes to be with my golden retriever Lorelai and sometimes without, and turn on the television only to be disappointed by the lack of choices despite the fact that we have satellite, then go back to sleep. But by 6:00, I am normally totally awake to watch the CSI marathon on Spike at 6:00 although lately I have started to watch the Law and Order: Criminal Intent marathon on Bravo. Nevermind that I always have other things to do. I'll go to bed at 10:00 P.M. when the episodes start to repeat and wake up at 4:00 A.M.

Another guilty pleasure that I have is buying expensive handbags. My rationale is simple: I don't have children, so I can spend that money on a purse. Besides it is an investment; they are timeless, and they will stand the test of time although I have to admit that I haven't recycled any of the ones that I have purchased in the past. They are just hanging or sitting in my closet. But they are there when I do have children and can no longer afford to buy them.

Another guilty pleasure I have is black and white cookies. It is probably a good thing that they are not readily available in the South because if they were, I would be even worse off. When I went to New York City, home of the black and white cookie, I bought them everytime that I went to Starbucks. It didn't matter that they were 1.95 for two cookies the size of my fist; I had to have dem cookies.

The other day I was at Starbucks and was totally bummed that they did not have any butter croissants. Then I saw one lonely package of black and white cookies just thrown on top of the biscotti as if they were rejects. What had happened? What? Were they not good enough for the North? Quickly, I snatched those bad boys up and did a mental happy dance. It was too early to scare the people at Starbucks with my dancing, another guilty pleasure of mine.

Written Marathon

Today we went to a myriad of places around Valdosta to find influences for our writing. It's amazing how much creativity can flow when visiting a place that was once the home of bums, now the home of Rastafarian hippies, and soon to be the home of victims to "that crazy grounds keeper."

Hildegards

Something just feels so right about writing at a coffee shop. I think the greats that have gone before tend to influence us. Like ghosts, their words echo down the years; haunting a place with the special connection they had in their time and place. A presence of experience greets me as I sit down to write. My hand flows as the pen regurgitates line after line onto porcelain paper. Their thoughts suffuse me. I feel as if I'm drowning in a sea of long-ago voices. They call to me . . . demanding that I write something memorable.

Maybe some day, many years from now, my voice will add to the crowded den's din of voices. Maybe some up and coming writer will himself sit in the exact spot as he quaffs 10 packet, milk-infused coffee and attempts to quiet the clamor that attacks him now as I was once attacked. Maybe my voice will speak to him from the dark murmurings that wished me to see what it is to truly write . . . to belong to that select organization of writers that have gone before.

Maybe that's the mark I leave. Human beings wish to be remembered, they wish to leave a mark on the world they leave behind. Maybe I'll never write the great American Novel. Maybe I'll never save one of my failing kids. Maybe only my family will visit my grave and listen to the voice of "what if" as it echoes through the still-born wind. Maybe my mark will just be the influencing voice that suffuses this place.

I hope so. I hope some future writer looks back and wonders about these past writers I now belong to. Maybe they'll look back and see me. Not the six-foot, brown-eyed Caucasian wearing sandals and a Belikin t-shirt, but the aspiring writer seeking to clarify his thoughts by listening to the greats of the past, and those that helped them get there. I doubt it, but maybe my memory doesn't.

Greyhound Bus Station

When walking inside many sights, sounds, and smells assault my nostrils. I can smell the Channel #5 worn by the old lady that sits with what I assume is her husband. I can hear their hushed conversation, little snips and snaps, and I ask myself where they're going. One of the great things about a bus station, and people watching, is the "I wonders."

Maybe they're on their fortieth or fiftieth anniversary. Maybe they're traveling to sights unknown:

The visit to their daughter who is giving birth to the first, or ninth, grandbaby. Maybe they go to visit their illiterate, juvenile son in Sing Sing who's doing twenty-five to life for knocking over some convenience store where the gun accidentally discharged. Maybe their life dream has always been to see the country-side. Gas being what it is, they've left their Winnebago at home and decided to instead sail to California aboard the ocean-liner of the road. Seeing destinations always envisioned but never realized. I wonder if they have specific destinations in mind and have meticulously plotted out the stops along the way: Baton Rouge to see what the Garth Brooks song is all about?, San Antonio to see the Alamo (is the Alamo in San Antonio?) to visualize the dream once held and defended by Daniel Boone and co? maybe the Grand Canyon? They wish to see something so old and majestic and think "we've had a good life - we've left our mark on the world too."

Maybe instead they wait to pick someone up. Her sister is coming to visit for the first time in twenty-three years. They'll hug and cry, reminisce the old times, and be ready for the visit to be over in just four days. Maybe cousin Dougie is bringing the ashes of Aunt Mathilda who always wanted to have her ashes scattered over the cornfields between Valdosta and Quitman because she grew up in this area and wants to rest here for all eternity to see the sun rise and watch the corn dance to greet it. I wonder . . . isn't it illegal to carry cadavers, and their ashes, across state lines?

Sunset Cemetery

This whole day's writing seems to be about being remembered and thought about. Do you think some of these souls buried nearby are still remembered? Do they still have family around that visit their graves, plant flowers, and pick the weeds that dot the landscape and seek to bury the frescoes of remembrance between waves of new growth? How existential, to bury the past with the future . . . growth knows no barriers.

Just look at the cell phone tower buried right in the middle of this silent recess. I remember the arguments both for and against that filled the newspaper from end-to-end just a few years ago: "It's disrespectful to put something so technological in the middle of a memory ground!" or "Why not!? It's not like the dead will know or care!" Such arguments cry loudly to this child of yesteryear and molder of tomorrow. I shape as I see and leave my footprints just like anyone else . . . look at the cigarette butts that lie fallow alongside the Kirkland marker. Do you think the old and buried Kirklands care? Do you think they look at them and shake their heads in disgust?

What about the parking structure going up next door? I think the dead like such tombstones around. I mean, a college sprang-up to encompass this "home of the long rest." I think they see it as their marker for the world - "we're right here, don't forget about us!" Look at the life that goes on around this place: building growth, new students seeking to broaden their minds, children screaming at the park down the street. These markers don't trivialize memories of those dead and gone. Those memories are vitalized! Life happens where death has gone before; it's a product of the great circle. They build, we celebrate. They leave, we remember. They die, we grow.

Blackwater Poets

Blackwater Poets

Blackwater poets, the best we can be
Things we want to know
Well, let’s see.

Lana brought breakfast
Everything was great
Rebecca steals chocolate
Everyone else gains weight.

Why do actresses look like skeletons
And Matt never disagrees
Shane drinks day-old milk
It’s Adel Baby!

Ansley is at the stall door
Lori, will we ever meet E.T
Lower the bar
Is still Shane’s plea.

Can my yard be mowed
All in a day
If you’re married to Hans
I’d say no way.

Donna shops for bare butts
None in sight
Lynita shares the log
Oh bite me, just one bite.

Ricardo is in the corner
What does that mean
Tammy’s not allergic
Boy are we all relieved.

We do our best
To revise and critique
Popp a cork in it’s a--
Dude, we should just publish this s---!

Excerpt about Tomorrow

I won't post my whole freewriting from this morning. Some of it is too personal. But it did make me reflect a lot about tomorrow, and here are some thoughts I had.

What if we did know what tomorrow would hold? Would we change things about today? Probably so. We would make wiser decisions, spend our time differently. In most cases, we’d probably try to influence the things we’d know were in our future.

What if we knew we’d be in a car accident? Wouldn’t we plan a different route? Or cancel the trip entirely?

What if we knew that a loved one would die? Wouldn’t we warn them? Or at least spend today with them?

What if we knew we’d win the lottery? Wouldn’t we go ahead and start making plans for trips and pick out a new car?

What if we knew there’d be another September 11? Would we try to warn the people even at the risk of seeming crazy? Or would we hide and watch, being grateful it wasn’t happening to us?

What if we knew a child would come to us and say, “Mom, I’m gay.” Would we go ahead and rage at that child? Would we start crying and railing at God?

What if we knew a baby would be conceived who would later be stillborn or have some defect? Would we go ahead with the conception? Would we choose to deny that life, however short or different it might be?

What if we knew we’d be named Teacher of the Year? Would we plan a celebration dinner? Would we start bragging right away?

So many “what ifs” are tied in to “tomorrow”.

I think I’m glad I don’t really know what tomorrow will bring.

Tomorrow's Wishes

You know, many times when we think about, write about, or talk about tomorrow in reality we're making wishes. Maybe they resound within the depths of our minds, "Did I remember to turn the coffee maker off this morning? ( as in I hope the house is still standing when I get home)," maybe they're voiced to those around us, "I hope there's macaroni for lunch tomorrow," or maybe they're even written about "Beans, beans the musical fruit (wishing for beans because gas makes some people feel better)."

So, what wishes do you have? What do you hope for when you think of tomorrow? I hope for world peace. Isn't that the usual cliche' answer? I'm a little more selfish than that . . .

1. I wish for . . . one million dollars! (duh, duh, duuuuuuh!) They say money doesn't bring you happiness . . . you know who says that? Those that already have money; they weren't happy to start with. I bet I am. Give me one million dollars, hell, give me five dollars, I'll show you happy!

2. I wish my wife had much bigger . . . . . . . . . yea, you know what; something to grab onto and ride like the wind, something to keep from being bucked off, something that would allow me to have a mouthful and eat my cake too. I tell you, there's nothing like having to eat with small forks. You know, bigger forks would get more food to my mouth, I could stop wasting so much time eating and get back to enjoying life.

3. I wish for cat's that had a rubber-like substance around their body. I can't play basketball in the house, too much breakable stuff. How much fun would it be to shoot a three-pointer from the comfort of my own recliner and hear "Meeeoooooow!" at the same time? By the way, never try this unless they have a rubbery substance - did you know cat's don't really bounce?

4. My own bar, where I could be the bartender. People always tell you their problems if you're the bartender at a bar . . . I don't like telling others my problems . . . so maybe then I could tell them to myself as I drown in the recesses of a milky & vodka White Russian.

5. I wish we could combine all religions. There'd be nothing cooler than being able to rub elbows with Muslim and Christians, Catholics and Wiccans at the same time. All would be invited, except for Cannibals. Nobody likes them. Imagine if the cocktail weenies all ran out at a social gathering - I think the Mormons would be the first to go. I wonder if they taste like chicken . . . I'll have to go to the Pacific one day and ask around . . . maybe bring a few with me, in case, you know.

6. Pants that had belts that automatically attached whenever put on. Good, I'm glad you're available tonight (as pants off the backside mean in prison) but it's really not that nice. Scooby Doo boxers do nothing for me. Now red, lacy thongs . . . hm? Note to self, stop by Victoria Secret on the way home.

7. Grass that mowed itself, because there's something about the minute screams that really grates my nerves as the lawn mower shaves a little off the top of each blade. I wonder if grass talks about us after we're done . . . you know, maybe cutting the grass is better after all; I hate when things talk about me behind my back.

8. I wish my hands moved as fast as my brain, because when I'm, you know, envisioning things, I'd like my hands to be able to keep up with my brain. God I type too slow.

9. Crossing signs that made a sound, instead of flashing lights. Because I wear my sunglasses at night sometimes too . . . and I'm sure it would be good for blind people too. How do we warn blind and deaf . . . ?

10. More insensitive people. Why is it that all things written have to offend someone? I mean, I doubt you personally were being thought about as a certain piece of literature was being written, or were you? Yea, that's right, you're on my Shiite list.

11. I wish I could smoke inside. Many non-smokers come outside, yet people continually complain that they don't like the smell of smoke. You know, holding your breath's not really THAT hard.

12. I'd like more to talk about, and more time to do so. I'm sure there's someone out there I haven't offended yet, just wait, I'm getting around to you. That's right Rebecca. I've talked about religion, tacos, handicaps, and animals . . . Kung Fu is next.

Things I'd Like to Know

In response to Lindsi's question: I’d like to know how to eat this pig in a blanket and type at the same time without looking like a pig. It doesn’t seem appropriate to simply stuff it in my mouth and type.

I’d like to know why when I wake up in the morning, my fitted sheet is pulled off at the top left and right. And the allergen pad is only pulled off on one side.

I’d like to know what Lindsi and Donna are thinking.

I’d like to know why my new camera phone sucks in comparison to my old one. What’s up with that?

I’d like to know how soon it will be before Cindy Kay pops a cap in someone’s ass. (I’m quoting Nick here, I think.)

I’d like to know why my mom doesn’t just throw Cool Whip containers away. I mean who really needs that many containers?

I’d like to know the purpose of the marker between the LCD projector and the ceiling.

I’d like to know whether or not I grind my teeth. My dentist always asks me. I SLEEP BY MYSELF. I DON’T KNOW!

I’d like to know how it is that I can eat this quiche that contains mushrooms when I dissected a sheep’s eyeball yesterday, and it looked strangely like a mushroom.

I’d like to know why the Taco Bell on Ashley Street doesn’t use gloves.

I'd like to know if I can write more than one sentence.

Freewriting about things I'd like to know

Freewriting June 17, 2008

Things I’d like to know…

This topic makes me think of Designing Women and Charlene. Charlene was always making odd off the wall comments about “I wonder why…”

Let me think for a minute…things I’d like to know.

I’d like to know why I’m so smart but my son seems so dumb sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I love him to death. But I see him making some of the same mistakes I made once upon a time. Why can’t he listen to me and my experience?

I’d like to know how fathers can leave their families and go off to live separate lives. Don’t they care about the children they leave behind? Don’t they know how it affects them for the rest of their lives?

I’d like to know what our new assistant principal is going to be like. It’s always scary to get a new administrator. I know his name and where he’s transferring from, but I have no other information about him. Does he like technology? Will he be hard on us when he observes us teaching? Is he good with handling discipline? Will he get along with our principal?

I’d like to know just how God thought of all those different plants that He created. I was praying on my way to Blackwater this morning, and trying to give Him praise for things, and so I was paying special attention to all the different trees and flowers that I passed. I could never have imagined so many different creations. Different types of bark, different shapes of leaves, different shades and striations of petals. I might have been able to think of one type of pine tree, but He didn’t stop with just one. There are numerous types of pines, and they’re all different. I used to know them all, but I’ve forgotten them now. But as I was driving, I could see the differences. How did He do it?

I’d like to know what my kids will be doing in ten years, or in twenty years. Will they be married? Will they have kids? Will they live near me? Will they have good careers? Will they be happy? Will they still talk to me at all?

I’d like to know the results of my sleep test from last week. Do I have sleep apnea or not? If not, then why am I having trouble sleeping? Why don’t doctors let you know results as soon as they get them? Is it that hard to write a letter or make a phone call?

I’d like to know just how high gas is going to get this summer. I think it will go up to $5 over July 4 weekend. When will the politicians realize that us common folks just can’t afford to drive and to eat. We have to choose one or the other in some cases. And there’s no public transportation in a lot of places, so we don’t have a choice.

I’d like to know the recipes for all these breakfast foods we’ve been enjoying. I love breakfast casseroles, and I’ve tasted some of the best ones this past week.

I’d like to know what this school year will be like without having Pam on our hall. I hate that she was transferred to third grade. I won’t be able to run down to her room all the time for advice or to just gripe about things. It’s going to be so different. It will affect Katie even more than it will affect me. Katie and Pam were best friends. Will all our friendships die? I know they won’t be as strong as they were. I hate change sometimes.

I’d like to know what I’ll be doing in ten or twenty years. Will I still be teaching? Will I be consulting? Will I have finally earned my Master’s? Will I still be living in Waycross?

I’d like to know what my ancestors were like. I never knew one of my grandmothers because she died before I was born. Am I anything like her? What worries did she have? What songs did she sing? What was she proud of?

I’d like to know how long my mother and aunts and uncles will live. And my other grandmother. That may seem morbid, but maybe I’d be able to treasure my time with them more. Or maybe not. I should be treasuring the time I have with them anyway, right, no matter how long it might be. Maybe there are some things I really wouldn’t like to know.

I’d like to know what kind of relationship my father would have had with me and with my children. Would he have spent time with us? Would he appreciate us and be proud of us? He died when I was eighteen, but I didn’t really know him. I won’t ever understand why he acted the way he did. I won’t ever understand the feud he had with a neighbor and how that changed his life. Those are questions I live with every day. Some days they’re loud in my mind, and other days they’re just a soft whisper that I can ignore.

I’d like to know why all those women want Flava Flav. It must be because of the money, or to get their five minutes of fame. I have to admit I haven’t watched all of the show, because I just can’t stomach it. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not the sharpest or the prettiest tool in the shed.

I’d like to know just how far we’ll go with all the reality shows that are on. Will it get to something like ‘The Running Man”? I’m afraid we’re headed there fast. Isn’t real life entertaining enough for us? Why do we have to turn to watching the lives of others to get some kind of pleasure? What does that say about us as a society? Have we lost the ability to truly live? Have we replaced it with a box with sound and moving pictures?

I’d like to know where ex-boyfriends are. Who did they end up with? Where do they live now? Are they happy? Would they have been happier with me? Would I have been happier with them? I don’t think so. With them, I wouldn’t have the beautiful babies that I have now. But still I wonder about “what might have been”. I guess we all wonder those things at times. I admit I’ve Googled a name or two, but haven’t been able to find much. I haven’t really tried hard, though. Maybe I don’t really want to know those things after all.

I wonder how clean the house will be when I get home. Last night wasn’t too bad. Amber is good about keeping things picked up and telling the other two what to do. Still, I’m sure I’ll have to go in and face some laundry and a kitchen full of dirty dishes. Maybe that will be the worst thing I face today. I hope so. I can handle that kind of problem pretty easily.

I wonder if my cousin Jeremy’s baby will be a boy or a girl. I’m so happy for him and Megan. He’s had a great year. He just earned his doctorate last month, in genetics of all things. And now he’ll be a father. He’s the first of the grandkids to actually become a father, himself. I was so afraid it would be my son. I’m not ready for the title of Grandma. I never want that title. I want my grandchildren to call me Duchess. I’m not sure why. It just sounds regal, and a lot better than “Mamaw” or “Granny”. Ick. I don’t want to be a grandmother for many years.

I wonder if my chewing noises sound as loud to other people as they do to me. I’m trying not to make any noise, but it seems the harder I try, the more my tongue and teeth just won’t cooperate. Oh well, I’ll enjoy breakfast anyway.

I could list “I wonders” all day long. There are so many things I wonder about. I wonder if other people have as many I wonders as I do. I guess I won’t ever know, and the day I stop wondering is the day I die. It’s good to wonder, because that’s the only way we learn.

What if Sir Isaac Newton had never wondered about the apple that fell from the tree? Or Ben Franklin had never wondered about lightning? Or Thomas Jefferson had never wondered about those taxes? Or Edison about light? Or Bell about hearing problems? Or Ford about horseless carriages? Or Bill Gates about computer productivity? And so many I wonders before them. Cavemen wondering about shapes to create the wheel. It would be interesting to do a whole I wonder list from the beginning of time. Eve wondering about the apple and the serpent’s words. Noah wondering if it ever would actually rain, and what rain was anyway.

Oh well, maybe that list of “I wonders” is for another day.

Needing to know . . .

I'd like to know . . .

• why no matter how hard and how frantically I push the mute button on this laptop it shouts that it is turned on, attracting unwanted attention from Cindy Kay despite the bubble of protection I should have from her--where is Lynita when I need her?
• why the coffee runs out right when Lynita arrives
• how Adam continues to create flubs for the ISI despite not being here (grin)
• how Amanda lost so much weight
• when we'll plan the writing marathon (we now have the drivers)
• if anyone will lower the breakfast bar before Shane
• if I should take Lynita more coffee
• how early I can get to the beach Thursday night
• how late I can send Dad a Father's Day card and not be disinherited
• when I can talk or even think about not having kids without crying
• who will organize the t-shirt design and purchase this year
• what I'll put in the anthology this year
• how many brochures to order for next summer's ISI
• why everyone else types or writes quickly and seamlessly while I struggle for words this morning
• why Anna doesn't react well to cold medicine
• how Cindy Kay's adopted cat is doing
• what we'll do for Shari's demo
• which picture I'll use (I brought four) as part of her demo

I'd like to know . . .

• who will write the best poem this summer
• who will write the best memoir
• who will write the best teaching story
• whose grant will be funded
• who will write the best book review
• who will write the best legislative letter
• whose legislative letter will get a response
• whose poster presentation will best represent the work of the demo
• who will be the best responder
• who will do the best log
• who will post the best blog writing
• who will have the most memorable line

Hmm, I see an awards show developing for the ISI, perhaps as a post-ISI get-together? And the award for best quotation goes to _____________. And the award for most frequent use of inappropriate language goes to _____________. Actually, we could probably have our own Most Shocking show.

I sit silently, glancing around the room occasionally, wondering what others are writing, wondering where their words are taking them, envying them their journey, hoping to share the experience later.

Rebecca's head bobs to her music or her thoughts or both. Nick stares into his computer, sighs, and types sporadically. Lindsi dances a bit in her chair; I wonder if it's the food wiggle factor or a way of developing her thoughts. I want to try it, but she'll think I'm mocking her, and I would never want her to think that. Movement catches my eye, and I notice Rebecca's foot bouncing. I wonder what music she listens to and how it affects what she writes.

Tammy rakes her fingers through her hair, seemingly deep in thought as she studies her computer screen. Shane holds his head and adjusts his glasses as his thoughts slow. Where's his hat? Wouldn't he write better with it? Or maybe he's not interested in cool today. Today might be his day for deep, philosophical thoughts a la Jack Handey. (Isn't that the guy's name from Saturday Night Live?)

My chair scrapes against another chair as I slide forward, trying to find a more comfortable position for typing. The table is just a bit too tall for short me. Oh well, I guess I'll see if anyone else is on the blog and start responding.

Things I'd Like to Know

I bet you could carry all I don't know in a simple sewing thimble, or is it all I do know, you know that's number one on my list of things I'd like to know.

1. See above
2. Just how many grains of sand are there really on the beach?
3. What do you call a male ladybug?
4. Why do pizzas come in square boxes?
5. If a tree falls in a forest, and no one is around, does it make a sound? You know, like "help!?"
6. Why are "kiddy pools" always so warm?
7. Wal-Mart is always lowering prices, why is nothing free yet?
8. What's another word for synonym?
9. Do infants have as much fun in their infancy as adults have in their adultery?
10. What are cats allergic to?
11. If a child using sign-language swears, does his mother wash his hands with soap?
12. How do I set my laser printer on stun?
13. Are Laughing Stock just cattle with a sense of humor?
14. I mean, just how many ways can there be to skin a cat?
15. Why are lethal injection needles sterilized?
16. Why do we drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?
17. What color do smurfs turn when holding their breath?
18. Who was cruel enough to add an "s" to the word "lisp?"
19. If a man speaks in the forest, and no woman is around to hear him, is he still wrong?
20. If a person with multiple personalities threatens to kill himself, is it considered a hostage situation?

Just my little list of what I'd like to know. I decided to cut it short to not bore anyone, but I think I'm a little late for that. Oh well, when life gives you lemons you make lemonade!

Things I'd like to know...

Okay, Things I'd like to know is our topic for freewriting...have fun with it!

Scars

Ok, what is it with this scar cover-up equipment today? Yes, yes, I know you want to look pretty and nice; I know there's this directive dedicated to all life, and driven into us since our teenage years, to look nice, but when did scars become a symbol of ugliness?

We have wrinkle-creams, pour masks, face-lifters, hole-fillers, pore reducers, hair dyes, split-end remedies, pimple creams, spot removers, color-toners, lypo, rhynoplasty, tummy tucks, fanny lifts, breast reductions, breast enlargements, hair transplants, brow lifts, and color contacts. All these things seek to cover the unsightliness - do we really need scar reducers too? Maybe I'm just a young, married, hot individual and come from a time when scars make you look cool, like a he-man that faced perils innumerable and emerged victorious, and like Conan, scars prove that the best in life is to "crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentations of their women."

I have scars - the epic battle between two colossal four-year olds that ended in the destruction, after many days and nights, of the sleepy hamlet of Glass Coffee Table. I emerged victorious and carry the scar immediately to the side of my left eye as a badge of honor. There was the time the back of my head decided the door-opener of the bus was weak and therefore to be crushed, which resulted in the Venus of the fourth grade (her name really was Venus, and yes, she was soooo hot) to cry over me and my fate - as hot women always cry when they see their heroic, Adonis-like champions laid low. Numerous scars dot my hands and arms from that black-hearted vermin Bilbo (my wife's favorite cat) from the times my resolve and courage held firm and his evaporated like a fart in the wind. Maybe the most victorious one was the time I went against a glass pickle jar with a knife (I had the knife, not the jar) to punch air holes in the top so all thirty-four, finger-length Brim could breathe in their underwater depths.

Can you tell I like scars?

Topic: Scars

Hmm, I'm not sure I want to write about scars. I'd rather write about chicken nuggets for breakfast. Cool, huh?

Scars: I don't have many scars. No broken bones, very few hospital stays. (Sorry, I keep getting distracted by breakfast. How is the hashbrown casserole still warm when Matt had to drive from Fitzgerald?)

My brother went to the emergency room three times in one day as a kid: 1) at a baseball game his head tried to catch a line drive; 2) at a car dealership a monkey bit him (he should have known better than to stick a finger into the cage); 3) I can't remember what prompted the third visit to the ER, but let's assume it was his fault as well. Where were the people who should have been investigating my parents by that point?

Wes has lots of scars as well: 1) he sliced his finger off when cutting meat at a grocery store in high school; 2) he nearly lost the tip of his finger when his older brother slammed the car door on it; 3) his hand is scarred from the little pinky incident written about in last year's anthology; 4) his leg shows scrape marks from the same little pinky incident. I'm sure there are more, but that's all I can remember. (I'm sure he'll remind me of others when he reads this post.)

My scars--I can only think of one: a small surgical scar from a breast biopsy several years ago. When I had my first mammogram, the doctors saw a small mass, probably nothing, but we had nothing to compare it to. This was to be my baseline mammogram, the one to use for measuring future problems. We could check it out, or we could wait and re-check it out. Waiting annoys me. We scheduled a biopsy, and I planned to miss class.

I arrived at the hospital at an ungodly hour and started the process. I worried a little because Wes reacts so badly to anesthesia, so I wondered how it would affect me. As always, I'm completely different from Wes. I remember the doctor talking to me, and then I woke up in the recovery room because of some guy nearby moaning. Glad to be me and not the moaner, I looked away, wanting someone to take me back to my room. Wes met me there. He looked a bit green. The whole experience was worse for him than for me. I sat there until the nurses told me I could leave. They called in a pain prescription and told me I could eat by the time I got home.

We picked up the pain medicine at a pharmacy in Albany so that I'd have it for the drive home, and then I wanted to go eat. Wes couldn't believe it. When he has had even minor surgery, he is sick for two days from the anesthesia. I just knew that I hadn't eaten since ten o'clock the night before, and it was now afternoon. Hello? Food time.

I decided the nurses probably thought I lived in Albany, so it was fine to eat now. We lunched at Johnny Carino's--at least I think that's the name of it. Yum. So far, absolutely no side effects.

It took a while for the results to come in, but they were negative. I returned to have the stitches removed, and now I have a little scar--just a little puckering to remind me of the scare.

Thus, I have very few scars.

I had a brush with death, but it left few external signs but lots of internal scarring.

When I went to India, I became extremely sick. In fact, when I returned home, the doctor said I was about twenty-four hours from death because internally my tissue was swelling. Soon, I wouldn't have been able to breathe from my throat closing up. It sounds far more dramatic than it actually felt. For a while I was a medical oddity. The doctor took pictures of me--I'm probably in some medical journal as Patient Jane Doe, the freak. I looked like I had leprosy. I'm surprised airlines let me board.

Of course, as a good teacher, I used my freakishness in my favor, threatening to touch students if they continued to misbehave.

I'm forgetting about some of the pain. If I force myself, I can remember that parts of the disease and recovery turned me into a sniveling baby, but I think forgetting is healthy sometimes. I know that I scared friends and family, and I tried not to let them see how much it hurt, but I think forgetting the pain is essential to moving on. I will never forget the experience, but the worse parts have faded a bit.

Um, I'm not sure why I suggested this topic. It's turned depressing for me.

Daily Log

Here's our daily log from June 11, posted by Shane Wilson. It's too funny.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mvks8A-29I

Today's topic: Food

Food, glorious food . . .

Today, we dine on pigs in a blanket, strawberries, grapes, bananas, yogurt, scrambled eggs, and two different kinds of cake. Yes, cake for breakfast. If I haven't said this recently, I love Blackwater Writing Project and particularly the Invitational Summer Institute. This morning, when the alarm blared, I only liked it. I didn't want to leave the bed, but I did, and then my day brightened when Ricardo arrived, food in hand. Mind you, I like Ricardo even when he doesn't bring food, but with food . . . Wow! Gosh, now I wonder how much more attractive everyone else will be on the assigned breakfast day. It's like looking at people in just the right light with the certain filter on the camera that blurs wrinkles and softens skin but also slims them by fifteen pounds.

Favorite foods:

• sunflower seeds--more a ritual than a favorite food, but I snack on them when Wes gets a migraine (I hope Lynita's migraine disappears soon) or when I don't feel well or when I've had a really bad day
• quesadillas--probably the first food I figured out how to make in college. I'm not a great cook, but that recipe has spread throughout my family, and now I'm required to make it on family vacations. Because it's foolproof, I'm okay with that.
• margaritas--okay, I know it's not a food, but margaritas naturally follow a discussion of quesadillas or other Mexican cuisine, right?

I look up to see Lindsi licking her fingers. I guess that means Ricardo excelled at breakfast.

Favorite foods:

• chocolate caramel latte--a pick-me-up that comforts me and energizes me. Okay, I can't really tell that it gives me energy, but that's the excuse I give myself for paying five bucks for coffee
• tiramasu--I just realized I have NO idea how to spell that. Oh well.

Favorite food moments:

• making boiled cookies with Grandmother
• going fishing in Grandma and Grandpa's pond with partly thawed chicken livers
• eating breakfast casserole and gorilla bread on Christmas morning after opening presents with Wes's side of the family
• eating lunch at Aunt Carolyn's house Christmas Day, particularly when she makes her twenty-one layer chocolate cake, which is pretty much every Christmas
• eating boiled peanuts around a bonfire in high school--in a small town there's not much to do on weekends, no restaurants, no movie theatre, no bowling alley

Okay, my cell phone vibrated LOUDLY. That was distracting, but it was my aunt, the one who has been helping with my other aunt who just lost her husband, so I felt like I had to take it. I'm glad I did. Everything's fine, but I'm going to visit them tomorrow to see for myself.

It's hard to get my train of thought back now. Only eight people remain in the room writing. More people are starting to scatter for freewriting. I'm not sure why, but I like that. I like that people are figuring out what works for them as writers: writing online or by hand, writing in a classroom or a scenic spot, writing in a crowd or writing alone. Those are important issues to resolve for writers.

I want to be funny and thoughtful and brilliant, but today I guess I'm just here, following the discipline of putting words on the page, listening to the gossip in the next room, watching Nick type as I imagine an old-school journalism does on a manual typewriter, spying Lindsi eating pigs in a blanket, watching Cindy Kay's hand move across the page, amazed at how much longer she writes now than she did at the first PreInstitute. We're a week into the ISI, and I think about the progress: memoirs written and revised and many already posted, book reviews written and shared and revised and some posted, responses to the E-Anthology posted (including some excellent, challenging responses), teachers stretching themselves as writers and perhaps some beginning to see themselves as writers. Nick speeds up typing, his thoughts perhaps flowing more freely now. Tammy's fingers fly across her keyboard, except for when she pauses for a grape. Dottie looks troubled. I hope she doesn't have a headache today as she did yesterday.

Speaking of food, what does it mean that only Tammy and Ricardo wanted to spend lunch with us? All the other folks who usually leave for lunch stayed once they realized we were leaving. Hmmm. If I were paranoid, I would wonder about that.

Nick laughs at what he's writing, and Renee and I share in his laughter, just smiling at his excitement.

Lori sits between Renee and Dottie, but I don't have a clear shot at her. She looks impassive, unreadable.

Hmm, favorite foods, I keep drifting far from the topic, but that's okay. My mind shifts to the next hour, to what should be creative writing, but to what we're pre-empting for professional writing groups, moving creative writing groups to the afternoon, just for today.