Theme Week 3 Do Over: What language is that anyway?

It was my first full day in Rhode Island. I woke up earlier than the others and decided to venture out for coffee. I had just arrived from south Florida to stay with my sister. She lived in a small town impossibly situated in the middle of the woods with city all around. A shoebox forest we called it.

I knew that I had passed a small store on my way in the night before but not much of anything else. Surely, they'd have coffee in there. It was dark when I drove in so I didn’t see that there was a diner right across the lot from the store. “Perfect.” I thought as I pulled in.

I knew before I moved up that things would be different. A small town in New England may as well be another country when you’re coming from south Florida. But I was absolutely not prepared for just how different it would be.

She was standing half way between the counter and the door and before I could even step inside she asked, “Waddle it be?”
“Excuse me?”
“You want something?” She had a bank bag in one hand while her handbag, coffee and cigarette dangled precariously in the other.
“Just a large coffee, please.”
She started around the corner of the bar and dropped her burdens loudly on the edge.
“You want that regular?”
“Yes, please”. I watched as she scooped two big spoonfuls of sugar into my beautiful coffee and then drown the whole thing in milk. “Buck 7”, she said.
“Um. I didn’t want cream and sugar”.
“Well, you said reglar dinacha?”
“I thought you meant regular or decaf.”
“No. Reglar.”
“Oh. Well could I just have it black?”
“I spose. You aint from round here arya?”
“No. Just got in last night. Ahh….nice and hot and black. Thank you.”
“You wouldn’t be looking to work woodcha?”
“Excuse me?”
“A job. You wantin work.” She looked as if I were already late fo my shift.
I really should have thought about it longer than I did. I was coming from 3 years in a south Florida commercial insurance agency. What do I know of diner digs but eating at them? And as far as I could discern we weren’t even speaking the same language.
“Sure”. I said. “I could do this”.
“When couldcha start? My girl just got done and I gotta go to the peoples and make the drop”.
“Well, I‘m not really sure what to do.” (or what you just said).
“Aw that don’t make no difference. You just pour the boys their coffee and ask if you got questions. Everybody round here knows how it goes. I’ll be back to the ower.”
I knew that nothing good could come of this even as I was putting the apron around my neck. But it was an adventure and I’m always up for that. Besides, how tough could it be? I just have to pour the boys their coffee. Maybe fry something. Easy enough.
First customer arrived 45 minutes into my “shift”.
He walked in, ball-cap pulled just so down the middle of his forehead. His t-shirt, worn around his bulging belly proclaimed that he’d rather be fishin’. Okay. This is it. First customer of my diner career.
“Hi. What can get you?”
“I’d like a coffee cabinet.”
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“A cabinet, a coffee cabinet.”
“Well, I might be able to scrounge a few pieces of wood together from out back, but I’m not building anything”. I said with my wittiest smile.
“What?” He smiled not at all.
“You do know that this is a diner, right?”
“What?”
“Yeah, what? What was it that you wanted? A cabinet right?”
“Yeah. I want a cabinet, you know a frappe”.
This is just getting weird.
“The machine” he said, his eyes darting over my left shoulder. “The frappe machine, you know?”
“What did you say?”
“The Frappe machine! The frappe machine!” He was practically screaming at me and pushing his finger over my shoulder.
“’That frappin machine?' What does that mean? Are you cursing at me?”
We eyed each other suspiciously for a few seconds while each of us tried to fish out whatever reason we could from the nonsense that had just passed between us. Finally, he broke the silence.
“I’ll have a coke and a cheesebuggah...to go.”

I didn’t keep that job. I got done as soon as Mrs. Hill got back from the peoples. I decided I’d wait and look for work in Maine after I learned the frappin' language.

Contents of a Serial Suitcase

Reading my journals makes me feel guilty. It makes me feel a little more of that distance that I almost pride myself in maintaining. I don't talk a lot about my kids or my family. I leave out the wonderful little stories that my boys give me and they give me real gems. I don't ever mention Keith or really anyone who is important to me. Words hit the paper like spit on the concrete. They all have that same thump. What woman spat this nastiness?.

I wasn't ready to call this Unpacking My Journal. If you knew me at all you'd know that I never really unpack anything. I like the notion of a Serial Suitcase. Full of dirty laundry and cheesy souvenirs. Course you know that by the time any person reaches the beginning of their secondary education they've kept more than one journal. My second grade teacher, Mrs. May required my first one. Everyday we would pull out our little pads of that funky lined paper and practice.

"Okay, class, let's work on our letters."

Whether we see it or not we begin from the first Aa keeping our journal: pieces of paper left when we've gone. Even if it's anonymous...It's still ours. Some we share. Most we don't. What we do share is our polished view. The one that you'd write in a "complete profile". I was always a funky ID. Did some of my best writings on those things. You can get really creative when you're an avatar. At the end of the night though when you finally close your book on the day you realize that mostly you are the things that you left out.

Maybe that's why my journal makes me feel guilty. It's all of the things that I leave out.

That ain't such a bad thing...Better out than in.

Thanks for this. I needed that ... Bit of air for this musty old closet.

Theme Week 2:

I just moved the desk in my house to over by the window so that I can look out while I work on homework. It wasn’t a big move but it’s completely changed my perspective. The other day while writing a prompt response I watched two squirrels scurry around the tree outside my window. They were fighting over some tidbit of something that they were both determined to have. The first squirrel got a hold of it and took it straight up the tree with the second one following close behind. They then disappeared from my view.

I just moved the desk in my house to over by the window so that I can look out while I write. It was a big move and it’s completely changed my perspective. The other night while writing a prompt response I watched two squirrels scurry around the tree outside my window. They were fighting over some tidbit of something no doubt tasty that they were both determined to win. The first squirrel got a hold of it and ran straight up the tree and onto a branch. The other was not far behind. They fought on that limb for several minutes and then disappeared in a screech of violence. I was left with an empty window and no response for my prompt.

I just moved the desk in my house to a wall over by the window. When I want to avoid writing I can look out the window by pulling my chair back and moving the plant. It was a monumental move for me. My desk is one of those huge oak writing desks that must have adorned some accountant’s office back in the 70’s. The other night while avoiding the writing assignment I watched out the window trying to find something more interesting than the task set before me. Two squirrels were fighting over a piece of someone’s garbage no doubt disgusting and germ ridden. The first squirrel wrestled it from the other and tore across the yard trying to win his trophy by virtue of distance. The other was behind him screaming and screeching. They fought ruthlessly for 5 minutes each winning by small measure then losing by great default. I ran from window to window hootin and hollerin right along with them screaming from the very core of my primordial self, “Give that to me! Give that to me!” In a heightened state of awareness, sweat beading on my massive forehead I returned to my writing prompt and from the soul wrote a response that made the instructor’s knees buckle. I was given the Nobel Prize for literature and my praises are still sung throughout various regions of the woodland elite.

Theme Week 1: And as the sun sets....

So I'm thinking that this will be my last journal entry on here. Oh, I debated about going on with it but I think I will return these thoughts to my journal which is feeling a little betrayed these days. See it over there? "Why do you have time and notion for those keys and not for me? What do you think your grandchildren will think of the BLOG you leave for them to find in the attic? Not very romantic, Amy". So I'm going to try and return to my ramblings in written form. (Don't tell the journal but this was actually a little easier on the hands. Though it missed the pictures that are so often included in the handwritten text.)

The weekend has settled into a nice rhythmic quiet. All the chickens are home and in their roost. The smells of Sunday supper still hang in the air and soon the sounds of Star Trek Voyager will replace the Noggin ones that bounce around now. I love the sounds of Sunday though frankly it's always been my least favorite day. Sunday evenings were brutal. Always felt so alone no matter what I was doing. It was like I was missing something really important. Not these Sundays recently. My life is so full and filling. An hours quiet here and there is a blessing. I relish it.

I can't tell you the relief that I feel in making the decision to drop ENG101. My belly was in knots, I spent more night than not up until 2 or 3 trying to make certain that I stay just enough ahead that falling behind is the difficult task. I know that I dropped it because it was the course that would require the most structure from me. There's a little guilt in that. Kind of like proposal writing. I know I need it and I will take it. Just not this semester. I'm going to let myself ease into this just a bit. I'm looking at years of this. Best not to get burned out in the first week.

I can tell that this is my last entry and probably a good thing. I don't want my writing here to become used and tired. Best to let it go and write nothing than to write what is forced and unbelievable.

Thanks for the exercise. Thanks for the vent. Next time you want a peek into my journal you'll have to take a listen to the final cut of pink and follow that map. Ahh again the dance..............

Theme Week 1: The Bitten Word

It's late. I was supposed to take the whole 24 hours off from my studies but I just couldn't do it. I've been going round and round about my schedule. I'm afraid I've bitten off too much for my own good. Two writing courses is tough. Especially when I consider the other courses as well. It's a difficult decision for me to drop a course but I really feel that I should give myself the benefit of sanity. I know that my family would certainly appreciate it. So yep...ENG101 has to go for this semester. Next semester I'll take it in a classroom environment. I've been struggling with the decision for a few days and I'm certain that this is the right decision for me. There. A little of my own housekeeping. More tomorrow.

"So long as they don't get violent, I want to let everyone say what they wish, for I myself have always said exactly what pleased me." -- Albert Einstein
 

I'd like to get this pic and quote to be on the page and not appear as a post. Maybe I'm braindead but I tried the hello proggie and it puts it here. I even read the help section. Any advice? Anyone?

Theme Week 1: A moment, please.

"Here you are dealing with your kids...and the periodic table. When you get out of journal mode and want to create that reality on the page, how do you do it? Plain jane, whitebread? Or something a little disconcerting to match the disconcerting material?"

Remember in my last entry I said that words [the way that we put them together] are as individual as fingerprints? I've been thinking about that comment since I wrote it and wondering what my "fingerprints" might say of me. I wonder about the things that I say and the way that it comes out. My hands can hardly keep up with my thoughts and even the words fall short in catching the nuances. Still, there's a tension as it were between those words. Like the steps of a quest.

I have this distance about me. I don't think you'd notice it if you passed me in the aisles of Doug's but when you get to know me you know it's there. It isn't a wall or an aloofness. And I did the whole child within thing and got through that baggage. It isn't about that. It's about something else. It's that disconcerting material in my thoughts. Everything a story waiting to unfold and everything just a bit higher than whatever is happening at the moment. Science. Philosophy. Math. Languages that speak to me. I've made excuse after excuse to reason away school. Made a couple of attempts that I've always managed to sabotage. Who cares after the psychological reasons. They've all burned out in the scent of homemade bread and the sounds of babies. What mattered was the lack of result. I FEEL that result. I FEEL in some being inside of me.........

Yech. I can't get my point out. The words - so puzzling. Pieces, pieces...bits and pieces.

What might happen, indeed. I guess we'll see, wont we?

Theme Week One: Whatever Happened to Thursday, Anyway?

Well, we don't know what happened to Thursday. Ever have days like that? Ones that just disappear into somewhere else? Sometimes it's Saturday or Sunday before I realize I've lost Thursday. I'm taking 5 courses and a chemistry lab this semester. It isn't too much. Nothing thrills me more and I feel like I can stay caught up. But none of us, me, Keith, Aska or Hagen are used to this new routine yet. Especially me. Last night I came home from class and Hagen was still up (he's the two year old) So I sat down in the recliner with him and when I woke it was 5:30am...time to go get the twins off to school. Thursday disappeared in a flurry of activity and then a deep descent into nothing. Lots of thought though.

I can't believe that this is me. That was me driving home last night, my head full of chemistry. I'm taking ethics. Algebra and these two wirting courses. Yep. That's right. This is MY life. I'm not reading about it, I'm livin it. That's a huge deal for me. I'm going to make. I'm not going to stop this time. My dreams are jealous of my life. I don't know if I said that first. I just woke up one morning and there it was laying right on the tip of my tongue so I spoke it. And truer words could not be applied. Futhermore...I ain't skeert. I am, however going to have to insist that everyone who knows me call me Doctor for the first year after I get my doctorate. Even my kids. I think that's only fair.

Today is quiet. No class tonight. Hagen is sleeping soundly and I actually get to listen to tunes for a while. Music and words...ahhhh life - she be very very good to me.

I thought we were supposed to be able to see other student's work. I was looking forward to that. I'm like you in the respect that I enjoy peering in to someone's written word. I've heard it said that all the words have been combined in all possible ways. I say Peeeshaw. Words are as individual as fingerprints in my book. Especially when they're allowed the freedom to flow from their own source. I keep checking out your page to the prompts and I only see our bits. Should I be looking somewhere else or simply minding my own business? Either way, my feelings won't be hurt. I've just never been afraid to ask.

I don't think that this will be it for the day. I just have to get some of this housework done. My desk is the only thing here clean. I'm impeccably disorganized except with school and work and there i am just impeccable. (Oh I love the written dance)

Theme Week 1 - Witness this Wednesday

I hope that this is what you meant. Shall I do a new post for each day? I can run on when I don't really mean to. Seems there's just more to say after I've said everything that I thought I needed and probably more than you wanted to hear. I think you were absolutely right in your assessment of my "baggy" writing - I am definitely sometimes in the mood to make the reader dance. That's especially true in my journal keeping. I wondered after if I should try and reshape the way that I keep this particular journal and have another locked away that I could write in and just be me. "Well", I thought to myself "wouldn't that be nice? While I'm at it, this wishing game, I wish for a maid, a pair of shoes that fit and a little quiet time in which to write in that other journal." I've been neglecting it for months. I go through those spells every few years. I can't decide if I'm too busy living it to be writing it or afraid of what I might see when I look back, which I frequently do. So, to sum up all of these bags :) I'm afraid that sometimes you'll just have to dance with me a bit if you're asking to look inside my journal.

Today the reality of this undertaking caught me by surprise. I turned the corner to go into my Ethics class (Robb taught that last year in case you never asked your old roomie) and there it was....seriousness and let me tell you, it was a boatload of it. Not the Ethics class per se...no, it was something else. I was early to class and had just printed out my syllabus for ENG101. I was so excited...another online course and it's WRITING!! Praise be! Well, turns out that this is one tough cookie. This isn't going to be an easy A. Not that I hoped it would be but I kinda hoped it would be. Immediate thought was DROP OUT! Run do not walk to your nearest admin person and drop the hell out of that course. Well, what kind of example would I be to my 14 year old son watching everything that I do? No kind that I could live with. So I'm going to trudge my way through it and hope that I don't offend her somehow. I just feel like I might. Writing is such a personal little demon to me. The grammar and usage and all that I DEFINITELY need. I'm hoping that I can contain the whirling dervishes of my mind and be a little more precise...a little less.....Baggy.

I can assure you that my other theme assignments will be a lot more polished. Maybe if I didn't keep a journal already I could be different in it but this feels like my turf. Well it is my turf...it's my journal. I don't want to give you the impression that I'm offended or being defensive though it may sound that way. I'm just backing up my own self to my own self. I need to be real here. and free to have that. Otherwise you will never get a feel for that me which is what I think you're after as much as allowing me the opportunity to have that glance into my own self. Clever. See how I figured you out?

That's it. Goodnight, Mr. Goldfine. That boatload of seriousness story will have to wait to be fully revealed and resolved for me. Let's see what the dream fairies have to say.

Me, in three persons or Of me, her and the girl in the corner

Me:

I am a writer. I always have been and likely will ever remain so. I write poetry and journals and business letters for friends. I write notes to my children and my lovers and my family when needs must. I have taken courses and read fervently books that speak to me of techniques and style. I have a couple of pieces that were published years ago in an obscure trade magazine for convenience stores. I have attended Duke University's conference for writers which was a real treat For years that was my dream, to be a writer. I never really defined that dream...What constitutes being a writer? Being Published makes one a writer? I suppose. I have refined my own definition of a writer as "one who writes". It's in my blood. When I don't write I am meaner and more vicious. I am confused and sometimes go for months without any means of marking my progress. That brings a sense of desperation to one so fully dependent on the process. How do people remember things, the small details of a scenario or of a person that can only be caught for that instant in time? The important details must be placed squarely on that rectangle to be assimilated. Some days my only entry is "bleh" but I remember that "bleh" when reading through the journal and quickly turn to the next page.

I don't specifically have any course expectations or hopes. My writing will improve, I know that to be fact. Mostly I am excited to just let the whole experience bring all the triumphs and failures, all the self defending punctuation errors and "huh"s that I know will come and be glad just to have had the balls to do it.

That's me.

Her:

She wasn't confident. Her movements indicated that she was a bit withdrawn but trying to peer from beyond those glasses into something bigger than she felt. The words were there for her but getting them out, putting them out there for anyone to read, that was a different matter. What if they could peel back the personification and see the person? Would they laugh at her words? Would they judge her by them? She had a knack for coyly distributing her ideas in conversation without really being committed to them. That was her art. Age would refine her. Make her less self conscious and more brave than youth ever could. Experience taught her compassion for those words that drove her. She learned to believe more in herself and less in the artful dodgings that so peppered her youth. She was never really published. No books to her credit, no public audience that sang her praises. Her writing was a personal journey into self. And it was enough...

For her.

The Girl In The Corner

You're young. You can be anything that you dare should you follow it up with effort. You have words that fly from your fingertips to electrify the page. Everything comes so clearly and easily for you. Your mind coils itself around an idea or a word or a phrase and won't let it go until you can feed on its promise completely. Everything about you in that room means business. You cut and carve your way through paper after paper, some landing in the stack neatly by your arm. Others litter the floor with their unimportance and irrelevence. You breath and eat and sleep those bastard words until you give them a family and a home and a name by which to call them. You hunger for more when the sheet is blank before you. What now comes? What now? For you there will be no end to the want for more for you are

The Girl In The Corner

Theme Week 1

Tuesday Tremors

School starts today. No really!! Furthermore, I'm a STUDENT. What in the name of corn on the cob is up with that?? Me...a student. Finally. People ask what I'm going to school to be. When I answer that I'm going for my doctorate in Physics, well the faces are ....ummmm....doubtful, surprised ... noone nearly as surprised as I am. Tonight is Chemistry. I already looked it over and tried to catch up a bit from the appendix. I love the periodic table and the idea of chemistry and I am ever so passionate about what I'm doing. New frontiers...new journeys. A life full and dare i say it? complete. I know from my own personal experience that a journal is a very personal experience and can be boring for the unintended reader. who cares? This is my theme for the week and, having kept a journal for years anyway, i know that if i strive to write for you i will fail to write for myself. if grammar and punctuation are important, well likely there i'll fail before i fully begin. Today I am too excited and nervous to contemplate any massive contemplation. Perhaps after class I will have more to say and less to say on saying it. :)

Post Traumatic Chemistry Syndrome

Alright. Really I did okay. I even remembered things that I didn't know that I even knew. Funny the middle-aged brain. I like the instructor because she enjoys what she does. In anything, that's nearly half the battle.

My family can read these blogs. My kid can read them. Anyone caught in a web can read them. Somehow that heightens my desire to be a little riskier and say what's REALLY on my mind. You know, those first thoughts that get backspaced before they actually come to fruition on the tongue or on the page. Those are my words. Give me those over the tired rank and file response that I sometimes feel conditioned to sacrafice. Sometimes I hear myself say something and immediately following there's a curse under my breath. "Where is your bravery now, girl?" it asks of me. Who ever has an answer for a question of that magnitude? You can't answer with a "but i" and you can't say "well, i" without knowing that you're going to sound like a complete liar...even if only and especially to yourself.

So here I sit tonight, the rush of excitement settled already into this quaint little smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I'm wondering what I think of it all. Of me taking this step into chemical, ethical, algebraeic creative non fictional english comp - step ones in a series of 2 and 2a and 2bs of steps on my way toward something there...up there in here bigger than what i can imagine that it might be. of you, sitting there reading all these blogs from all these people peering so stealthfully into what, under most circumstances I would password and pray and throw myself in front of to keep you (the collective you) from seeing. Funny, this. Funny, that.