Prompt: with love

My pencil just ran out of lead. I was afraid of that and look, it's happened. I'm writing with a pen which feels so permanent, so un-erasable. This all seems very symbolic, but nothing is permanent, even if it makes claims of indelibility. If I have learned anything in my 52 years here in this form, it is as the I Ching so poetically, like water, says and says again and again, that everything changes, nothing stays the same. Like the light at dawn, the light at noon and the light at dusk, we can expect the unexpected. We can measure all we like, with the most exacting of instruments, but even the best laid plans can come undone.

I thought about it on the way over here: I refuse to live in fear. What is far more essential is knowing that we are not alone. That our lives are connected in this room and around the world. And while we cannot predict what colors tomorrow's dawn or dusk will illuminate, know that wherever I am I will be thinking about you, and all the world, with love in my heart.

Prompt: out of the closet

On my way here I was thinking about what I'd like to write about, thoughts I never get to put on paper and so become vaporous wisps that float away before I get to really examine them.

I thought about what the meaning of a "mid-life crisis" really is. Is each "crisis" an individual affair or are they more general like something that can be described in a wikipedia entry?

I thought about a line in a pop song I heard the other day, something about sitting facing backwards on a train. The lyrics seemed so simple, yet so philosophical, as if the singer was reflecting on the past while moving forward. And now, I'm stuck a little wondering how to incorporate this prompt about closets, enclosures of things past, holders of memories, maybe secrets, definitely of items once deemed important enough to preserve.

We have three cats in one closet. None of them liked each other when they were alive, yet here they are together, huddled on a shelf. They're in little wooden boxes that we've meant to bury in the yard for years. In this closet there's also a retractable screen door we've never installed and a window made of three glass cubes, also never unpacked, along with a toolbox, spare random hardware and a jumble of containers I haven't opened in so many years I have no idea what they contain. Needless to say, I avoid opening that closet unless I'm in need of a nail or eyelet hook or tool of some sort. I'm relieved to admit that's probably the most heinous of our closets, but as I write this, I am imagining the others, none of which I would characterize as empty.

Is it possible that an antidote for a midlife crisis could include the purging of a closet? The cats would certainly appreciate being liberated to separate but equal corners of the yard. If anyone here knows someone who could use a screen door or a glass cube window, I am all ears. Just thinking about shedding these few things makes me feel that much more free, more light and out of the closet.

Prompt: unspecified, possibly poetry related

Fragment

Last night A recounted a story about a new discovery on the difference between dogs and wolves. Wolves, when given a test of their ability to solve a problem will continue to paw at their task unrelentingly, whereas dogs will make a valiant attempt or two and then, without fail, turn and look to the human administering the test as if to ask for assistance. On the basis of this evidence, scientists have concluded that wolves, the more tenacious of the test's subjects, are the more intelligent.

This morning I observed our dog, Leonard, as he watched my every move. Each of his glances seemed to call out something different: "when will we be going for that walk?" "how about breakfast sooner rather than later."

Prompt: When do you know it's finished?

When do you know it's finished? This really depends on what "it" is as so much in life is difficult to measure with any accuracy. Some "its" are things one initiates. Such as a work of creativity. In most of those cases, the answer can be very subjective. Even here there can be subcategories of the state of finished. Take for example a painting. If one is aiming for a realistic style, a finished product would look much like its subject matter as possible to have it appear satisfyingly complete. However, if one were more of an impressionist, a finished work is less definable and more up to the discretion of the artist. In the matter of food, one relies on taste but for better accuracy, a recipe can be consulted as to when to stop applying heat, adding spices, adjusting ratios. Other things are more definite. Many would say a book is finished when the last word on the last page has been read. Films are over when their credits roll.

I'm actually not finished yet with the writing of this -- I'm contemplating how you know other things are finished, such as a relationship: maybe when the phone stops ringing? Or is a meal finished once the dishes are cleared? But is anything ever really finished? Because when all is said and done, so to speak, we still, from time to time, will think about these past things, these people we have known, events attended. Long ago, I read in a book that in some cultures, the deceased are still believed to be alive until the last person who knew them has died and now I'm rambling but isn't this true for all that we know of this world? That so much lives on in our memories, in our hearts, even though it's long since been "finished"? Maybe things are truly finished only when there's no one left to remember that there was once a beginning and a middle.

Prompt: the toe nails of the yoga girl

I sat on the low wall and watched the circus of humanity. I was waiting for Zen so we could get lunch. Beautiful spring days like this tend to bring out even the most domestic. Take for example the couple at the table adjacent to me. They were arguing about the most insipid things, but they were doing so sublimely.

"Your socks," she began, "I really wouldn't have thought to wear them with that tie."

"Really?" he mused. "I hadn't considered color so much. You know I'd rather we used a fragrance free detergent."

We three continued facing the green. On it could be seen a stay-at-home daddy group, most of whom romped on the grass with their charges who screamed excitedly at being chased by the bearded zombies. Students commandeered the patio furniture, their textbooks splayed beside them as they smiled or scowled into their phones.

Off to the side and in the shade, I noticed a yoga girl. She was balancing on a bright pink mat in a "tree" pose and looked terribly serene, except for her toenails, which clashed with the mat. I was just pondering what the couple next to me may have had to say about her unfortunate polish choice, but just as they began to discuss it, Zen came round.

"How 'bout hotdogs?" Zen said. "I'm in the mood."

Prompt: with one computer click

WIth one computer click one can send an emoji or two or three emojis strung together like a sentence.

With one computer click one can find out that the reason one's toes often experience an electric-like shock is because they are suffering from Morton's Neuropathy.

With one computer click, an exotic vacation awaits, as does an exotic plant or dancer.

With one computer click one is not far from potential financial gain or possible ruin.

With one computer click one can become immersed in an intangible world, lost idly for hours clicking from one site to another like Tarzan swinging from vine to vine.

With one computer click, there is also the option of turning off, getting up, going out before it's too late.

Watch out for that tree.

Prompt: Idioms: To pull the wool over one's eyes

Note: You don't quite realize how full of strange little sayings our everyday speech is until someone very very young or very very foreign interrupts you in mid-sentence, or perhaps a few moments into your monologue, to clarify what sleeping dogs have to do with lying or what eyes have to do with catching a thing.

When the wool was, for the very first time, pulled over someone's eyes, I imagine it must've been winter. I'm envisioning a stocking cap, two friends, maybe siblings, a hill and a fast sled. The duo might've been piled, one on top of the other, and the upper one, as a joke, pulled the stocking cap over the eyes of the one beneath, the one steering the conveyance, as it sped between trees toward the bottom of a snow blanketed hill. I can't decide if the wearer of the cap yelled, "don't pull the wool over my eyes!" or if it makes more sense that one of their mothers spontaneously barked it out as she looked on from a safe distance, quickly assessing that the small gesture, innocent enough in almost any other context, was not exactly conducive to best sledding practices. This same matronly figure, after having convinced said sledders of the dangers of hat misplacement, might later have seen the benefits of recycling her extemporaneous phrase and consequently applied it to other potential tragedies in the making.

And now, in looking this little ditty over, I don't think I've hit the nail on the head with this short exposition on idiom because I seem to have run out of time. Or maybe, is it possible that I have succeeded and am completely pulling the wool over your eyes with my literary prowess?

Prompt: Lost and Found

Lost and found. Like hide and seek and show and tell: so innocent. So hopeful. One and, then of course, the other. The implication being there is no in between. One is either lost or found, hidden or sought, shown or told. But, undisclosed between these known and beloved territories, there is a third space, a more grey area, an uncharted, suspended state. I want to tell you that I've been here for some time, but I'm hesitating. And it's this hesitation that is almost a sure sign, a guide post, even, that points here to the in between.

Prompt: fecund

Fecund is such a strange word. Its very sound seems to imply things or actions done under cover of darkness, in conditions moist and damp. Mists rising from crumbling brown soil at dawn are the most telling of the previous night's activities.

Prompt: Spring begins its infancy in early February

So embarrassing...

Spring begins its infancy in early February. This is a comforting thought to those of us who winter badly. To restate the obvious, the coming of light and warmth after the depths of cold and darkness is enough to quicken one's pulse. This winter has been particularly bleak for reasons unknown. Despite the fact that droughts appear to have been somewhat quenched, I don't feel particularly fecund form all the downpours. That's a euphemism for writer's block or any other type of creative impulse. It's not that I don't have the desire to make this or fabricate that. Quite the contrary; I do, in droves. It's just that they're all in my mind, never exactly coming to fruition. I feel like I'm in a perpetual state of "observation mode", a way of appreciating the world I used to encourage my son to practice when he was little. Now I find myself there more often than I care to be. I feel like I'm witness to so much that baffles me, that outrages or saddens or frustrates. Most recently, I've been thinking we are all an audience to a world stage where the feature is an epic of good vs. evil. It's as if we are all the proverbial deer caught in the headlights as a blinding battle unfolds before us and we stare at the spectacle and wait, we are wondering who will win and who will end up as road kill. Yes, this is a terrible metaphor, but I don't believe I'm the only one who is getting caught up in this zeitgeist. We are all sitting in our metaphorical tract houses on our well-appointed cul-de-sacs watching our electronic rectangular windows on the world as clowns dressed as gladiators, red-faced, scream obscenities at each other in the name of freedom.

Prompt: random writing: stream of it

Underwear is like bondage, so constricting, yet also capable of bringing one to the present, if only to remind the body that it is here, being squeezed beyond a reasonable doubt. A hair suit of sorts in terms of constant physical irritation. Why start with something so ridiculous? Because it has just been tugged at, bringing things into the present. I am supposed to be writing without stopping, no corrections, just letting it out. And here I am erasing things like "underwear" and "waistband" and "tug".

Someone wrote today of the steps needed to peel an orange as a way to practice mindfulness. (This unceasing typing is difficult, not in that I don't know what to type but in that I don't know what to type first, what to leave out and what to put in.) I loved her description of finding just the right soft part of the peel that must be located before one can put one's finger into it and start to remove the rind. I immediately imagined the soft spray from it, the way the juice catches the light so you can see it before you smell it, as if the speed of light were not only faster than the speed of sound but also of smell. And I am already correcting things here, changing words, backspacing like crazy. Back to the steps of peeling an orange. After the peel came off, I was not as interested. Maybe in the sections and separating them but not in the description of the taste, except for it being sweet and possibly a little tart. The contradictions. I love the contradictions and the light coming through each piece as it's removed from the whole. But she didn't talk about the light - I saw it while she described the taste and then she went on to describe the way she felt it in her mouth and then her tonsils, which she noted she still had, and how it eventually moved down into her throat and possibly her stomach. But I was barely listening to that because, well, frankly, I did not want to imagine those things, they were way too intimate for me. And really I didn't want to go with her there because I don't want to eat an orange that way but maybe if I wanted to be mindful I would. I was more interested in the light and how it caught and illuminated from within each segment as it emerged from its cocoon of the whole fruit, now shed of its skin.

I am cheating. I have just reread what I wrote above. It is all true but it's not untouched like freshly fallen snow. It's been trammelled a bit and plowed into drifts. It may be suffering from a bout of slush. I will try to manufacture more flakes. Apparently identical ones can now be created. I read (I just erased again!) recently that a technology scientist invented a way to create identical snowflakes. Why, I ask you? Why is that even necessary? Just to see if it were possible? It's like cloning sheep. Or pets. There must be some inherent quality that isn't exactly the same, we just can't see it. I would venture to guess that the snowflake doesn't want it to be seen. It wants to keep some of the mystery to itself. Maybe that's why they melt when you get close enough to study them. There are so many wacky thoughts going through my mind right now. How does one even put those on paper without sounding like a whackjob? Like for instance, do I think snowflakes are alive? Yes, I do, in a sense, but not like you or I are alive, but in their own way that is like a rock is alive or a planet or an unknown part of the universe. But that all sounds so woo woo as Denise would say. Oops just edited myself again.

Here is a new snowfall of words. Does correcting spelling count as cheating? I am going to say no. Oops, just backspaced. I am thinking about what I want to say, which is part of my problem. I don't know exactly what I want to say. Sometimes that's because I think the things I want to say are banal, have already been said so many times over it's just incredibly boring and alarmingly selfish to record such cliches yet again. Oops just erased an entire line. Why else don't I know what to say? Because there is so much that hasn't been said! Or hasn't been heard maybe. For instance, the idea that someone, possibly like myself, although I'm not saying this is a given, is longing to say something real, something so moving it brings tears to the reader, to the witness, tears not only of wonder, of understanding, but of laughter and hilarity. Would they be laughing at said author? Possibly. How ironic would that be since said author is very earnest. Earnestness is actually quite laughable, comedic actually. (more backspacing and overwriting just occurred) Which brings me to the idea that said author might at first be heart broken because authors are known to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Or should I just lump all artists (or "creatives" as they are now dubbed) into this circumstance? If an artist produces a creative thing that is met with uproarious laughter, does said artist crawl under a rock never to produce a creative thing again, especially if said artist was earnest enough to think said creative thing was not done in fun, ie said artist is not a comedian? What if said artist comes to realize from this reaction something else? (more backspacing)

Obvs I am trying to work something out here. Not sure what. See, this is what happens. I get stuck in a thought and then go round and round not sure how to emerge or complete a thought I started that seemed so compelling moments earlier. In that particular instance, I believe I was thinking something specific. I was texting with L and it occurred to me that an artist of this nature, while they believed their goal was to create something mind-blowing, actually was seeking something else that they weren't "mindful" of just yet. That the story of getting to this true goal is their journey which includes a fair amount of sublime ridiculousness or the ridiculous sublime. And their true goal is what? Finding out that they are not alone in wanting to make the world better for everyone. While they were being so hibernated in their quest for blowing minds, they missed how connected they are to other people who also want to make the world better. This seems interesting yet, complicated. I'm thinking this artist, in their absurd egotistical way thought they were alone in their exalted pursuit but it turns out they are not alone at all, but in good company. And this feeling of not being alienated is very empowering. Not just to the artist but to all those people they have encountered on their sublime ridiculous journey, people who have felt and are feeling the weight of their aloneness in wanting to make things better.

And now I read this over yet again and I am like, omg, this is so stupid sounding. And all I can think about is I must cover my tracks, I must erase this blather. But of course I can't because it's my writing exercise and I promised L I would do this even though I've cheated time and time again. What if I do a call back, as in take something I've already mentioned above and make it reappear here to tie everything together and make it whole, make it make sense which is ridiculous and sublime because it's a random, stream of consciousness thinking (mildly edited) that doesn't make much sense to begin with. Well, if that's the case, then I can take a little bit of liberty and cause a virtual avalanche and cover this drivel up completely. That's metaphorical for turning this blog's settings to private.

Prompt: the 7 deadly sins

She said, "my professor told me if I couldn't think of anything to write about, just write dialog. I tend to free associate anyway, so I could just write down all the free floating stuff that meanders through my mind." She lit a cigaret and inhaled deeply, while her free hand waved the match in the air, extinguishing it with a sudden jerk of her wrist.

He looked down at his coffee and considered investing in a refill, calculating how long he could nurse it against the cost. "Huh," he offered, finally, but she kept going. "I never am at a loss for something to say. I think I'm a great conversationalist, don't you? I mean I can talk about pretty much any subject. Even sports I can usually fake. All you really have to do is nod and smile at the right times. Don't you think so?" She took a last pull on her cigaret then stabbed it out, exhaling, "Just the other day, in fact, I was sitting here and this guy sat down, right where you are now. He goes, 'Is this seat taken?'"

He looked up at her then, more attentively than usual. "Oh?", his body tensed and he sat up, rigid.

She continued, "he was really quite handsome. Well-dressed...maybe even a little too well-groomed. If you know what I mean."

He relaxed back into his seat.

Prompt: I finally figured it out

"I wish I could say I finally figured it out," she thought to herself, rubbing excess facial moisturizer onto the backs of her hands so as not to waste a precious drop. She blinked, stared blankly at her reflection in the bevelled mirror, laced at the edges with black where the silvering had worn thin. She blinked again, then smiled then frowned, smiled again this time baring teeth that twinkled in the glare of the bathroom lights. She sighed and fluffed her hair. In the second before she turned off the light, the mirror caught the faintest glint of a tear in the outer corner of one eye. By the time she'd reached the bottom of the stairs, it was gone, the sparkle of her dazzling smile arming her for the day ahead.

Prompt: beyond illusion

What lies beyond illusion? What color are lawns on this side of the fence, anyway? And if clothes make the man, who is this tailor? And how is it that everyone can write so fast in this group? While I struggle to pluck each word from the orbits whirling in my imagination, as I grapple with the perfecting of a phrase, a simple subject, verb object construction, everyone around the coffee table is scribbling madly away, tapping merrily on keyboards. I alone am bumbling, stumbling, groping to say something coherent, having given up on profound. Writing always seems to drag me beyond illusion and plunk me, unceremoniously in the here and the now.

Notes

Motivation, compelling

Be careful what you wish for

How did I get here?

Even though one appears to "have it all" longing persists

Age

Middle age

Shuttling back and forth between the past and the present to make sense of where one is, how one arrived here

writing

What is that makes something compelling enough to read? If it's a memoir, and it's about someone, the life they've lived thus far, is it the events of their life? The way they've considered those events? They way they write about them? Is it about contemplation? Exhibitionism?

What exactly is it that I've enjoyed reading about when reading about a person's life lived thus far? I think first and foremost, it has to be language and its use. If something is written well, I will read it through almost no matter what. I'm thinking about A Parisian from Kansas. Or Travels with Lizbeth. Or Being Geniuses Together. Or Gertrude and Alice. All of these are, in my opinion, interestingly written. Probably a little bit of meandering between thinking aloud on the page, contemplatively, and alternating with some description of a person, place or thing.

Writing about events, chronicling, seems dull to me, so listing one's accomplishments is not so much what I look for in a book. If however, the author, or the teller of the tale, perambulates, meditates, weaves in and out of the calendar of their life, hovering here and there to put something into context, I might linger, but it really depends on how they spill their beans. I imagine I like them poured slowly, one by one, maybe even categorized for color or size before moving onto the next, but not too perfunctorily. Just tantalizingly enough to cause one to wait until the next pops out, or dribbles, or saunters, and then the next and so on. But then again not too showy with the bean revelations or else it might feel too self-conscious.

I notice now, the titles above all have something in common: place as a character with which to interact. Travels. I suppose I like the idea of being somewhere else, to be out of one's element. That's what I like about being elsewhere. It forces you to think differently, to experience the world new again, as if you were your younger, more innocent self. It didn't take much to transform your world anew: a winter's storm; a string of lights; a blanket draped over two chairs and a flashlight to read by. I love that. I mean, I sometimes feel that way again, here, at home, on a simple walk after it rains, or early in the morning when everything is waking up, fresh from sleep. I love that feeling of seeing something for the first time, because, really, as they say, you can never step into the same river twice, right? Everything is changing, nothing stays the same. But I digress. These books are about being in places where the senses are constantly engaged, on high alert. Isn't that what a life, a lucky life, well lived can be all about?

If I were to write something, I would like to leave stories for N to read, so he would know my life better. What it was like growing up, things I couldn't tell him even though I've told him so much. Yet there's so much that I could never tell him. I could tell him the stories of my parents, as much as I know, and their parents, of which I know even less. That would be interesting to me, possibly to him. I can try but I just have these fragments that add up to not much. Sometimes it's interesting how life turns out. And sometimes it's not.

When I was still in college, a friend and I would argue about the end of the world. Back then, before the end of "the cold war", Americans worried about nuclear bombs, and about the former Soviet Union sending missiles over here to annihilate us. My friend and I would sit in our cramped old-fashioned kitchen around an atomic styled chrome table that I bought at a garage sale. We'd spend most of our tiny paychecks on cheap red wine, expensive cheese, and back then I'd found a good source for fresh brioche. Over these hard won delicacies, we fought. I was convinced the world would end with a bang but she disagreed. To her a whimper seemed much more likely. When I look back on this scene, I have to concede that she may have been right.

This town was different back then. Not all prettied up and manicured within an inch of its perfectly landscaped lawns. It was funky. In fact, I worked briefly at a place called The Blue Mango, a co-op restaurant that every self-respecting hippie within a thousand mile radius had heard of and made a pilgrimage to. In truth, the Mango was just one of countless such establishments across the country back then. Places run by committee, when even the smallest detail had to be agreed upon by a majority of members. Including what brand of ketchup to use or how to rotate bathroom duty. But we loved the Mango because it was ours. Never mind that our paychecks were often months late being cut or that we "waitoids" had to split our tips with the bussers and the kitchen staff. We weren't beholden to anyone except ourselves and our patrons.

The "floor" was made up of tables just like any other restaurant. I can't remember the carpeting but I remember stacking chairs after closing to vacuum late into the night. Sometimes, Walter Pope would show up and play the piano in the corner while we restocked condiments. Sometimes he'd even stay after we'd left, under the little dim spotlight, playing I have no idea what songs. Years later I saw him in the east bay and we exchanged pleasantries. He was as happy go lucky as he'd been a decade earlier. I wondered if he still played piano in the middle of the night.

Around the outside of the main restaurant was an open air patio that wrapped around the building. On busy summer weekends, for brunch, people would be lined up out the door even though there were plenty of tables inside and out. They even lined up to pay for their meals, at the small lectern where the cash register sat, near one of the swinging wooden doors that led from the inside to the patio. They stood in line, under the little mango, painted blue, that dangled over the register. I don't think anyone ever saw the little blue mango up there, collecting dust.

The menu design changed little in the all the years of the Mango's existence. Most of the offerings remained steady as well and consisted of vegetarian classics such as Huevos Rancheros, pancakes, waffles, etc. There were also dishes that bespoke the restaurant's philosophy, like the Worker's Breakfast. This was a bowl of beans, rice, shredded cheese and diced green onions topped with a dollop of sour cream. My favorite was the "nut yeast gravy" always available to pour liberally on whatever one wished, and went especially well with potatoes. This all sounds so cliched now, and it may have been back then, but it was so comforting to be there. Even when meetings went late into the night and sometimes into the next morning and even if those meetings were strained and the agendas preposterous, it was all done with empathy and respect. I mostly felt supported there and amongst friends even when my last paycheck finally came six months after I'd quit.

I knew it was time for me to stop waiting tables. I'd started my vocation in high school, five years earlier, in southern California, in a place called The Parasol, an umbrella shaped building in the Googie style that was open twenty four seven. As innocent as its exterior may sound, it was a strange place with even stranger clientele and I was happy to leave there not long after my training was complete.

When I got to SF, in the fall of 1982, I bussed tables for a while in a fairly expensive, well-respected, dimly lit white cotton table cloth establishment where a friend worked. Her uncle waited tables there so I suppose I had an in. Or my in had an in. In any case, it was probably a typical restaurant there at that time. It may have been ahead of its time in that it served the new California cuisine that was just starting to come into its own. My friend and I were two of maybe four bussers. We were required to wear black pants and white shirts with skinny ties. Comfortable shoes were a wise investment as we were on our feet before the restaurant opened getting the floor ready for opening, folding napkins, refilling condiments, etc. After closing we were responsible for cleaning up while the wait staff counted their tips over a leisurely bottle of wine followed by a rollicking party in the basement. This always included quantities of high quality weed and the occasional cutting of lines. After everyone was good and plastered, and weather permitting, or not, there were usually a party or two to attend, more than likely in a warehouse south of market. But that's another story.

Not too long after I'd started bussing, one of the chefs helped me get a gig as a waiter at her friend's new restaurant in North Beach. It was right on Columbus. I remember riding my little motorcycle up there in the mornings, in the fog. The air smelled like freshly roasted coffee and good bread. I might have stayed there for a while but the place didn't last long, possibly due to poor planning. At the time, I was 19 years old and was helping to get the grand opening ready. I would be waiting tables in the cafe, which is where guests would have an appetizer and drinks while they waited for tables to become available. I don't recall exactly how they prepared for the opening, but I don't recall having any instruction on formal table service. This proved disastrous as the owners had neglected to train us on basic formal table service. With my luck, on the fated night, because we were not prepared with adequate staff in the cafe, I found myself pouring for a very large table who seemed friendly yet also strangely condescending. This, I later found out, was the party of a well-known chef and national restaurant critic. The next day, in the paper, my faux pas were one of the highlights of his critique. Needless to say I didn't last long there. But while I was there I met some characters of interest.