Today, my youngest child celebrates her fifteenth birthday. In my mind, she remains the "tiny" one, ever The Baby. Even so, with all the chaos and confusion surrounding our lives, there is a degree of satisfaction in finding my little Quartet together for such a milestone, especially as this may be our last summer together as a foursome for some time to come.As far as writing goes, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, I have regained enough strength to begin to write daily again: the bad news is, I am writing not nearly enough. Even so, the day finds me strong enough to venture out to face my writers' group this afternoon, even though it seems that most will not be in attendance. The notion of holding such meetings at the library in this area is proving a colossal failure; nevertheless, the experience should be quite helpful once the family has relocated out West. The important thing to remember is that the attempt was made. Perhaps such ideas are not viable in New Haven, Connecticut; yet, I am sure that somewhere there exist the desire and enthusiasm for such an assembly. The key is to try, try again!
In the interim, children's stories shall remain my focus--for the present. Telling myself I will not obsess over the progress being (or not being) made by my "best friend" with regards to his own first venture, assuring myself that health issues notwithstanding I can--indeed--produce something of quality, all insecurities, doubts, worries, and financial concerns aside, I will churn out at least one additional tale this week.
Last night, my nineteen-year-old son presided over my writer's group. I was still not strong enough to assume my duties. Frustration, therefore, is theme of my current existence.
Even so, I am determined to get at least a bit of writing done: perhaps I might even track down that elusive ending to the children's tale which wrote (then put aside) months ago!
It takes very little to bring the luminiferous quality of faith into someone's day: faith in goodness; faith in the underlying goodness of man kind; faith that the sun will return after days of darkness and drizzle; that inspiration--though lost--can again be located; that the course of one's life, even as circumstances alter it, can drift towards new hope, peace, and the renewal of one's spirit.Pretty lofty notions for a Tuesday afternoon, huh?Today began with a great deal of pain. There are many "unknowns" to chronic anemia as well as g6pd and MDS. Every illness, every disease results from the body's attempt to rectify some internal flaw or problem; thus, unless one has an idea what it is that set off the series of rectifications or symptoms from which the "illness" resulted, there is not a great deal that can be done to "cure" it (i.e.assist the body in curing itself...without killing itself). One of the great unexplained mysteries in my case is why my body, when at its most red-blood-cell deficient, insists (upon other odd and inexplicable malfunctions) upon draining calcium and protein from my right leg. I won't go into the numerous theories by numerous medical professionals from numerous fields. I will only say this:The end result is a whooole lot of pain.(So much so, I would gnaw the sucker off if I could stand the taste of it!)In any event, pain came, rain came, work needed to be done, sleep had been elusive after yesterday's rant, yet our intrepid grammarian was determined not to let these small worries daunt her. Having made up my mind to move, I planned to get to work, surfing the internet as I clicked away at my daily research. Though it was not until ten that I could convince myself to get out of bed, once I had, I worked at the apartment for a while (still sans electricity, heat, and hot water) then headed out for the library. This being one of the few nights on which I volunteer, I made up my mind to push through the rather...excruciating...mind numbing...nasty...nasty pain in order to get a bit of research done (for my move as well as my writing projects) while simultaneously positioning myself to head out to the soup kitchen (only one door down) later on.
First of all, the number of encouraging messages regarding my decision to move were staggering. I had voiced an impulsive, rather implausible plan of action...and been met with warmth and support. As I read through the e-mails and Facebook messages, I recalled that "prodigious talent" remark from my best friend. I found myself actually accessing notes on that very topic and organizing them into some semblance of order. It was a process which not only reawakened my interest in the project (a "young adult" manuscript--O Mother! My Father..."-- which examines the dysfunctional rather unhealthy marriage between two people as seen through the eyes of their teenage daughter) itself but proved cathartic in dealing with the rage (directed at the relative who escapades have made my life a nightmare and who shall remain nameless but will be hereafter known as either KWH or my family's Dub-Yah) which contributed greatly to the decision to "get out of Dodge" (along with that slight complication of going unpaid!)
While in the library, I met all the familiar faces of the staff members, many of whom rarely fail to inquire as to the progress of my children, encourage me in my long hours huddled over the computer, ask about my health. or simply stop and chat. Those small, random offerings of unaffected kindness were invaluable in helping me plow through the discomfort (no, pain) and other emotional "stuff" in order to do what needed to be done. Not only did one of the security guards take the time to cheer me on; yet, as I was away from my book-covered station, the second noticed (via the surveillance cameras) suspicious-looking individuals circling the desk. Noting that although I had taken my computer, bag, and mobile phone with me to the ladies room my umbrella and adapter had been left behind (and after I had been away from the table for more than the usual five-to-ten minutes) the darling made a point of retrieving the items and locking them in his office. When I returned, noticing the same suspicious couple in passing before coming upon my notably less-cluttered table, I rushed to the check-out desk to tell of my dilemma (philsophically thinking Ha,ha, are they in for a shock! That charger is on its last legs anyway!) I was told, "See Jose!"
And, when I rushed back to the table to grab the computer and bag (which I had very unwisely left behind in my haste to catch the departing couple) three other patrons called out to let me know "the security guard" had walked off with my umbrella.
Apparently, he saw them, ascertained that they seemed a little too interested in my collection of books and notes, and stepped in immediately. "You can't be too safe, honey." He said. How comforting that the "honey" was actually a welcoming, sincerely affectionate term of kindness...and felt as such!
"We take care of our people!" one librarian told me five minutes later with a smile.
There is goodness in the world, even amidst the chaos.
To what better topic to devote a few hundred of my thousand words that that?
Here I sit at my usual table in the New Haven Public Library on Main Street, having completed my usual "Just Say NO to Being Hit On" ritual. I have moved two of the four chairs surrounding my table to another then placed my cumbersome Tinkerbell bag and jacket strategically upon the second. Next, I have plugged in my already fully-charged cell phone, tucking it between said bag and jacket lest some smooth Lothario again corner me with the "do you mind if I move these" line. (The inconvenience of disentangling the cord is a viable excuse for not freeing up this particular chair since the entire Reading Room is quite undeniably empty.) My reference books are spread out about the table, my computer centrally positioned to discourage the bold from squeezing in beside me. And, to top it all off, my best, no-nonsense "no, I am not interested in a 'friend'"demeanor is firmly in place--like well-polished armor--to turn away even the most persistent of the bold.Seems a lot to do simply to work in the library?Yes, I would say so. Still, somehow, this ritual has become a necessary part of my morning research routine. Why, I could not say. After all, I am no raving beauty, In my over-sized t-shirt and leggings, I have not dressed to impress. In truth, it never ceases to take me off-guard when males of varying ages, ethnicity, and socio-economic positions seek me out in the all but empty library in order to sit at my table making very trite, very annoying, very blatant "chit-chat" while I struggle to simply write! I have my "regulars," who pointedly seek me out, making a great production of passing my table, selecting reading materials, or placing their bundles upon my table while loudly or pointedly making their presence known. My popularity has, in fact, become something of a running joke among myself and certain members of the library staff.Before moving to New Haven, I did not realize that daily stalkings were an occupational habit of the serious writer. Naive though I may be, I had no idea that libraries were "notorious pick-up stations." Call me stupid, but I actually thought people came here to, um, read. Still, two minutes into my library routine, a man very casually (too casually, in fact) approached my pointedly isolated table. "'S supposed to rain today?" he asked, as though something in my dress, manner, or demeanor indicated identifiable meteorological abilities."I'm not sure," I replied off-handedly, careful to be neither rude nor receptive."You Jamaican?" he asked.The motivation behind the question--as I have no accent, am wearing a Phillips Exeter Academy t-shirt, and have never even been in the general vicinity of that particular island in my entire life--baffled me into making momentary eye-contact. "No," I replied, again erecting my chilly, impregnable walls of distance and resistance."You're pretty though. My name is Miguel. And yours."Usually, my response to that question is an icy glare, a menacing twisting of the lips, and a distinct, no-nonsense, "My own!" complete with disdainfully arched eye-brow. The Jamaican line having momentarily distracted me, however, I muttered, "Chance." (Not that it matters, as the name is invariably repeated back to me as "Janice," for some completely incomprehensible reason.)"I'll see you around!" he announced with the supreme confidence of one who has made a definite conquest. There was even a bit of a bounce in his step as he exited, never so much as casting a glance at the periodicals offered in this quiet corner section of the building.Thus, here I sit, sighing and shaking my head to clear my mind of its fog of incredulity. One would think I could slip easily and unobtrusively into the background. After all, Tyra Banks, people, I ain't. In fact, I consider myself actually quite plain, leading me to wonder what fascination, what blaring magnetism draws this kind of attention throughout the day every day no matter what steps I take to discourage it. My conclusion: an electromagnetic field surrounds my ancient ibook, sending out periodic signals which subconsciously hone in on desperate or lonely Lotharios, drawing them inexorably to my table. And, as I must invariably utilize this particular tool (as well as the irremovable reference materials necessary for this particular project), such interruptions must be accepted as par for the course. But geezsh!
All I want to do here is write, people.(Hmmm. The twenty-pound dictionary on its fiberglass pedestal! Albeit I usually just cross the room when the need to flip through it arises, it is quite movable. ...And it would take up quite a bit of space at my table as well. Convenience, utility, and versatility! Odd that I never though of it before!)
