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!)
The morning sees me doggedly determined to make amends for yesterday's slothful ways. I keep telling myself I will never see that small but committed publishing company if I spend every sunny afternoon with a book propped on my lap...but even I'm not too confident I am listening to myself.
So, while the spirit is willing, here I sit, surrounded by no less than ten reference books, a note pad, three pens, my laptop, and the necessary quiet of the library (with its fewer distractions), trying not to wonder how Ondrelique is faring in math and French , if Dauriauna has taken her vitamins, or if Torrese is remembering to relax (for a change) and not take life too seriously. I remind myself that the children will be fine, just as they were yesterday and the day before, whether I worry over them or not. The apartment can be cleaned this afternoon as easily as this morning. My financial concerns will still, tomorrow, be waiting. My crazy brother will be no less insane in a few hours.
In short, the other aspects of my daily existence (needs, concerns, tasks, and objectives) will not sprout wings and take on Chanctetinyea-devouring life in the time it takes me to get this work done.
So, it's up to me to now stop analyzing it all...and just do it.
I am in earnest--I will not equivocate--I will not excuse--I will not retreat a single inch--and I will be heard! --Wiliam Lloyd Garrison, U.S. Abolitionist, (1805-1979)
I shall gather up this sunshine, And with it fill my pockets. In that way, I can carry it with me always... Always, and wherever i go. When the storms of life rage at me, Casting darkly gloomed shadows; When the winds of change funnel into gray cyclones-- Of confusion there present And of the debris of the past; If trouble rains acidic droplets-- Bitter tears born of fulfillment denied; Beneath cold and clouded sorrow; In fear; in doubt; in heartache; Even in the bleak "winters of my discontent," I will pull it out in fistfuls And sprinkle it about me To watch it in all its golden splendor-- The sweet nectar that is this present happiness-- Burst into ribbons of color (Underneath a canopy of vibrant blue), Then say to myself, "Ah! This is contentment!"
It now well and truly official: I am admittedly, unashamedly, undeniably sorry...
Sorry in the sense of lazy; sorry in the sense of a procrastinator; sorry as in should-be-ashamed -of-myself-but-well-folks-just-ain't!
Although I should be hunched over my computer getting actual work done, here I sit beneath the glorious sunshine reading a wholly recreation, totally mind-numbing book of no literary or intellectually stimulating value what-so-ever. Books are one of my guilty passions, reading my addiction. In fact, were there a Book Anonymous group, I would be offered a life-long position as the keynote speaker--not that I would ever be induced to, like, join. Tomorrow, I will regret (or, at the very least, tell myself I should regret) having spent the time this way. For now, however:
"I shall gather up this sunshine, And with it fill my pockets. In that way, I might carry it with me always... And wherever I go...."
(I'll finish that poem tomorrow. Right now... I'm being "sorry"!
This morning, I am scrambling to regain lost ground in reaching my daily objective of the one-thousand words per day minimum. Those with blood enzyme and anemia concerns should know better than to swill two glasses of (rather delicious, I might point out) iced tea after a brisk, hour-long morning walk! For those who have never had a caffeine hangover, you are not missing anything special: believe me!I awoke, however, thinking of a question posed to me last week by my son Torrese. He asked if I thought infants had a concept of time. This actually coincided with a discussion my three brighter-than-brilliant children and I have had regarding the existence of "unspoken" language (in a form similar to what is categorized as good, old-fashioned ESP) at birth...and whether or not the process of learning to speak or adopting verbal means of communication actually limits (rather than improves) the ability to communicate.Even as I answered his question (the subject, I understand, of debate among several of his college mates within the dorm), stating that I believed time to be a wholly human creation and telling him I also thought babies and infants responded to the world in terms of rhythms and vibrations until the concept of time was impressed upon them, I found myself thinking back to the days in which he and his sisters were tiny. They, like all tiny children, seemed to communicate without words, responding to silent yet very real cues without effort or thought. Anyone who has watched infants (of like ages) playing together has no doubt seen instances in which one child extends a toy or bottle or other object--wide-eyed yet silent--to his or her playmate only to have the other child either reach for it, smile at it, or in some how respond to the action as though there were some intuitive understanding of what was expected. I certainly noticed this when watching my own three; moreover, in later years, when the older two (only eighteen months apart in age) grew older, I frequently noticed that they still seemed to communicate without words, often beginning (after long periods of silence) conversations in the middle of thoughts or ideas, as if they had been talking all along...or had been "speaking" in one "language" before reverting to another. For me, this is a compelling notion. What it, indeed, we begin our lives relating to the world in terms of energy and vibrations, responding to stimuli around us unconsciously, much as animals in the wild are able to "pick up" hints of danger by "instinct". Would it not be wonderful if we as human beings possessed--have long possessed--the unlimited ability to communicate with others wordlessly and on a level we take for granted in our daily lives? What if, in the process of learning to speak, we subconsciously diminish the capacity to do so as our dependency on spoken language grows? And, if such is even possible, what implications would it hold for the undiscovered, undetected, as yet untapped potential of the human mind--of creativity, of imagination, of intelligence, and of profound thought--as we know it. Even for me, someone who revels in the beauty of the spoken and written word, the notion is somewhat...ensorcelling.
