It's been a while, n'est-ce pas? What can I say?
I am in recovery mode -- recovery from last semester's Foundations of Mathematics class, from the greater than usual marital strife, from a winter spent in the arms of a physical therapist. And now it's summer. That season I hate where my feet, encased in rubber bands -- or at least that's what it feels like to my nerve endings -- proceed to swell. I can smell again: With this much moisture in the air all the globules of matter from sweat, toilets, the kitchen's compost bucket, perfumes, and cooked food attached to the water molecules and travel up my nose. I've started counting the days until September.
Here's the thing: if I don't get the tough work done in the morning, it simply doesn't get done. And by that I mean the writing. I'm working on a story, "For Those Who Think Young", and am at what I'll call the molding and paring stage. I start with the knife and carve off pages. I take off words and paragraphs here, add words and paragraphs there. I pinched a scene off and attach it to another part. I walk around the creation, still dissatisfied, but not dissatisfied enough to punch the damn thing into a mound, pour water (totally new ideas) over it and start the wheel again. It's an exercise in finding the essence of the story. Two things I know about writing fiction: 1) there's the story you think you want to tell and 2) there's the story that emerges as you struggle to do 1). On a few rare days the work goes well. I am here in the office ignoring my surroundings. It's just me, the paper and my favorite purple-inked pen. Other days, the more common ones, I'd rather be doing almost anything else than writing. A root canal without anesthesia? Where do I go for that!? How about a colonoscopy??? Sign me up, please! Or a stint as a short-order cook at TGIF's? Can't wait to begin!!!! Just don't make me write.
Two things I am doing this summer that are different than last. I am going to the gym. I've grown to look forward to it. I'm not fooled; there's always a honeymoon phase. For now, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I have a date with strength training. I can see the difference in my body. I even attribute the work to keeping my blood pressure shockingly low (at least for me), so much so that next time I see my internist I'll ask him to start tapering me off the meds. And although my feet are permanently swollen these days they are are not nearly as huge as the watermelons of the Summer of 2012. Don't get me wrong, my f(@#(#ked up back is still fckd up, my right hip still feels like someone stabbed me with a long needle, and I'm not too proud to ask for help to turn over, but still, things are much better. I am stronger, nimbler and my arms don't look like cottage cheese dipped in chocolate fondue.
And I'm gardening again. The peace treaty hammered out with Cuthbert left me with the front yard as my domain. After hiring help to move raised beds, and turn the soil, I called on local gardener friends and pals and have planted a crazy quilt of hostas, echinacea, fewerfew, daisies, strawberry's, ferns, and who the hell remembers what that green thing is called. Some of the transplants went into shock, but gardeners are patient animals, and I just whacked them back and sit in the dining room window with the day's first cup of coffee and imagine what next spring will look like. I think all this working out is so that I can get down on bended knee in the fall and plant some bulbs.
I am in recovery mode -- recovery from last semester's Foundations of Mathematics class, from the greater than usual marital strife, from a winter spent in the arms of a physical therapist. And now it's summer. That season I hate where my feet, encased in rubber bands -- or at least that's what it feels like to my nerve endings -- proceed to swell. I can smell again: With this much moisture in the air all the globules of matter from sweat, toilets, the kitchen's compost bucket, perfumes, and cooked food attached to the water molecules and travel up my nose. I've started counting the days until September.
Here's the thing: if I don't get the tough work done in the morning, it simply doesn't get done. And by that I mean the writing. I'm working on a story, "For Those Who Think Young", and am at what I'll call the molding and paring stage. I start with the knife and carve off pages. I take off words and paragraphs here, add words and paragraphs there. I pinched a scene off and attach it to another part. I walk around the creation, still dissatisfied, but not dissatisfied enough to punch the damn thing into a mound, pour water (totally new ideas) over it and start the wheel again. It's an exercise in finding the essence of the story. Two things I know about writing fiction: 1) there's the story you think you want to tell and 2) there's the story that emerges as you struggle to do 1). On a few rare days the work goes well. I am here in the office ignoring my surroundings. It's just me, the paper and my favorite purple-inked pen. Other days, the more common ones, I'd rather be doing almost anything else than writing. A root canal without anesthesia? Where do I go for that!? How about a colonoscopy??? Sign me up, please! Or a stint as a short-order cook at TGIF's? Can't wait to begin!!!! Just don't make me write.
Two things I am doing this summer that are different than last. I am going to the gym. I've grown to look forward to it. I'm not fooled; there's always a honeymoon phase. For now, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I have a date with strength training. I can see the difference in my body. I even attribute the work to keeping my blood pressure shockingly low (at least for me), so much so that next time I see my internist I'll ask him to start tapering me off the meds. And although my feet are permanently swollen these days they are are not nearly as huge as the watermelons of the Summer of 2012. Don't get me wrong, my f(@#(#ked up back is still fckd up, my right hip still feels like someone stabbed me with a long needle, and I'm not too proud to ask for help to turn over, but still, things are much better. I am stronger, nimbler and my arms don't look like cottage cheese dipped in chocolate fondue.
And I'm gardening again. The peace treaty hammered out with Cuthbert left me with the front yard as my domain. After hiring help to move raised beds, and turn the soil, I called on local gardener friends and pals and have planted a crazy quilt of hostas, echinacea, fewerfew, daisies, strawberry's, ferns, and who the hell remembers what that green thing is called. Some of the transplants went into shock, but gardeners are patient animals, and I just whacked them back and sit in the dining room window with the day's first cup of coffee and imagine what next spring will look like. I think all this working out is so that I can get down on bended knee in the fall and plant some bulbs.
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