Divided in Three

So conveniently divisible these twenty-four hours are! You could almost believe some genius designed it. With days of equal parts sleep, work, and personal freedom - the trifecta of human fulfillment - why are we not all buzzing around like happy honey bees, imagining none other than the lives we live?

Because simplicity died with the first millenium, that's why. Name me anyone today who can live by the 8-8-8 schedule. Please. I truly want to speak with anyone who can do it. For the last couple days I've been trying desperately for such trifection*. The reason: a nearly disasterous morning drive, during which I had to open my window and stick my head into the winter wind just to keep from dozing off at seventy miles an hour.

But eight hours of sleep leaves a mere sixteen hours for work and freedom - the former taking up well more than it's share, what with preparatory routine, commute, lunch, and commute2; the latter being a commodity of which I hate to surrender a minute. "Freedom" as it is, in my life anyway, doesn't refer to some empty-handed lounging around a fireplace or anything. I've got shit to do, and it can't come out of work time (dammit) and it can't come out of sleep time - because now I'm scared - so what does this leave? Am I going to have to learn to be (gasp!) efficient?

Yes, as it turns out, probably, I am. I know I can't go on sleeping just four to five hours a night, as I have done since late high school. I know I shouldn't persist in dreaming of joblessness; not even I can make that stylish too many more times than I already have. So, assuming I won't sell my soul for a PlayStation, there are about five hours I've got left every day for everything I want to do, everything that's good and fun, everything that matters.

*Not a word.

A Covey of Fustian Lexemes

I'm going to redirect you today to the Write Here, Write Now blog, an offshoot of my workshop, where my fellow writers and I share news, questions, and commentary. I've just contributed my first post, which is about how it's good not to sound like a thesaurus-loving robot when you write.

Check it out!

To Walk with Nothing

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Last night, my medium-large purse and I went to Amsterdam. All the way to Amsterdam, just me and the medium-large purse. Three a.m., I got up and sleep-drove to the airport. If I'd been awake, I would have packed a purse of practical things: a toothbrush, a combination lock, pants. But I wasn't awake, and so several grocery lists, three old New Yorkers, and my favorite lip gloss were all that came with me to Amsterdam. When I got there, it occurred to me that the purse was kind of useless. Why would I read about a city where I’m not, and who cares if your lips are shiny, anyway? So I chucked the whole thing in the Singel and walked along Raadhuisstraat, inward toward the center, toward the Dam. Just me and the pants I came in.

---

I have three lifelong dreams: to host a party on a rooftop, to travel West in a covered wagon, and to walk with nothing. It’s that third one that throws people off. (Surprisingly, they tend to be understanding of the second.) But – to walk with nothing? What does that mean?

To me, it means exactly what it sounds like it means. I don’t remember ever having done it before. Maybe as a kid I was able to walk with nothing, but probably for only a few short years. When I was still young, I was given an allowance, and then I walked with quarters. That was the start of gathering things. I was shy, but I grew to be a little less so, and then I walked with friends. We built forts out of blankets and drew with chalk and jumped rope, so we walked with all of that. We fought, and so we walked with high drama. We played Animal Hospital and walked with toads.

I got a little older and the load got heavy fast. I went to school and walked with books. I wanted to learn how to do new things, so I walked with soccer balls and ballet shoes. Soon, I was walking with bigger, more serious books, and it was a much longer walk. I tried more new things and walked with the painting supplies and play scripts that weighed me down like I thought art was not supposed to do. Did I have it all wrong? For two weeks, I walked with a flute. It never stopped. High school, college, world. Like a Dr. Seuss character, I walked with an armload, cartoonishly piled to the sky, waving precariously in the wind. Eventually, I put some things down. But.

There’s a new thing to walk with when you’re grown up, I've found. It’s the must-have grown-up accessory. It’s called expectation – everyone is walking with it! It sounds like a light thing, but, you know, it isn’t. I walk with apples and try not to walk with cupcakes, and I walk fast, faster than you do, because I think it means I’m better than you. Later, I feel badly because that’s not true, and guilt isn’t a light thing to walk with, either. Then there’s hope, heaven help us all, which doesn’t always float as promised. It seems like the only thing I never walk with is a map, and let me tell you, it’s exhausting, walking and walking nowhere like this.

That’s why I dream of the glorious walk with nothing. When I imagine this walk, it's in a place with nothing of mine. I think a mesa would be perfect. My medium-large purse would be left in the hotel room, because there’d be nothing to buy, nothing to do, nothing but air. I would amble around alone, swinging my empty arms, feeling, as they say, on top of the world rather than under it. And it would be very cool to be, for once, inside the definition my mind would file under freedom forever and ever, amen. Being me, of course, I would probably be bored in ten minutes.

But think of those ten minutes!

Feel Like Hell?

Well, you have a good excuse. Today has been declared the most depressing day of the year. They actually put it into an equation and came up with today. Dark + cold + the demise of resolutions + big bills + nothing much to look forward to = January 24th. Or something like that.

This day also happens to be a bit of a crap-anniversary for me, so it's extra depressing. I'm not gonna go there - because I've already been there all day - but let's just say I'm looking forward to tomorrow. Like Annie said, just thinkin' about...

Every Thing

I was wading, slogging through my emails at work this morning, getting more discouraged as the hours passed. A glitch in operations had left thousands of subscribers without the easy online access to which they're all accustomed. It was looking like each of them was going to complain to me about it. I'm the fix-everything girl.

Amid many what-the-hells and do-something-fasts came a message of a different tone. He must have known he was just one in the barrage. Two lines below a polite request in shaky English, he wrote the sentence that made my day: "It is not to have worries, every thing will be fine at your side."

Fridgetop Publishing

I've just taken an important step in my development as a writer. I have obtained a kit of magnetic poetry.

Over-reverence of poetry seems widespread among literary types (at least in my experience) and, back in the day, it caused me to have a pretty bad time writing it. As a result, I never attempted it again. I dabbled in everything else, but not that. The genius of magnetic poetry is that it takes all the seriousness out. You don't have to be afraid that you're going to write something terrible because you definitely will. And then you'll scoot a few words around and come up with something better/funnier/dead-on. Or not. If you place your magnetic word tiles on the bottom half of your refrigerator, you can always blame your less successful work on the nearest small child.

So, now that I have a pressure-free method of poetry writing, I may actually write poems. In fact, I just wrote one. In the spirit of fearlessness, I will share it with you now:

bitter those drool ing pound s
fiddle fast er & sweat

My inspiration was cheesecake guilt. I'm obviously quite talented.

Unsilence

When the Radio Listener moved in next to me, I knew I was in trouble. We're different. I don't do country. I don't do lite favorites. I do NPR and guitar players you've never heard of. But I don't even do that at work. I'm the world's worst multitasker; I literally can't walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone groove and update spreadsheets.

And yet, when RL wheeled her cart of supplies into the cubicle next to mine and asked me if her radio was going to bother me, I said no. "No! It's fine. [Smile.] I'm used to the noise." That part was true. I'm in a high-traffic area of an office that contains the usual cast of phone talkers, hallway shouters, loud sighers, and cackly laughers. It truly doesn't bother me. It's the human din.

Music doesn't fall so well into the natural background, though. Neither do shiny objects, food smells, sudden urges to walk around, internet news sources, or any of my running daydreams. For what can distract me, I ought to relocate to an extra-large refrigerator box in the middle of a barren field. Although, there would still be the ultimate problem - my brain, which can't focus on any one thing for longer than ten minutes. A real limitation, that is.

But, suprisingly, I made some progress today. Somewhere between Barry Manilow and Peabo Bryson, I realized that I'd crossed six items off my list. What does this mean? Am I some kind of closeted soft rock fan? Or are these singers really so boring that their sounds don't register at all, don't qualify as either distraction or din? I don't know, but I'm going to take it as good news. I've got work piled high around me, so the next time the Radio Listener asks if the noise is bothering me, I'll tell her, truthfully, "No! You can turn it up a bit, actually. I mean. If you want."

...can't even...finish this...title...

Oooh, it's bad. Very bad. Since the start of this to-be-fabulous year, the list of things requiring my immediate attention has grown from a manageable Post-It to more of a scroll. When life gets hectic, my natural tendency is to dash about, flinging minutes at each little task, never sitting down to give solid hours to the big ones.

For example, I have...nope, I don't even have an example. I'm surrounded by bills and books and far too many calendars for one person to own. I don't know what they're all asking of me. I wish they'd go away so I could YouTube the night away.

I guess this is just the mid-January slump, which happens to everyone. I thought I would cleverly thwart it this time, by giving myself a two-week, resolution-free grace period before beginning any major project. But that idea, like all ideas born this time of year, is stupid. Slump happens, and now I'm two weeks behind.

So far, one good thing: I've finished book #2 on this year's list. (I'm at the respective end, middle, and beginning of 1, 3, and 4. I'm quite scattered in reading, as in life.) I actually do have commentary I'd like to share, but I'm tired and it's late and I'm in giving up mode tonight - so let me just tell you to read it, if you haven't. It makes a bold statement without ever seeming to have an agenda. That's a controversy in itself, and you should think about the reasons why. Go to it. Hell yeah, Zora.

Fame and Family

I've been tagged by Richard to post five things you probably don't know about me. Which is super, as I've had almost no inclination to invent topics to write about recently. Probably because I've been so busy reading, working, and trying not to die. I'll have much to say soon. For now, here are my five things, with a slight theme-twist:

1. My great aunt Helen has a picture of herself with Bill Clinton. Although she appears to be elated, she'll tell you in her no-shit, 96-year-old style, that, in fact, she hates him. I admire nonagenarians with big opinions.

2. My grandmother, Rose Waters, starred in a 1950's TV cooking show. My mom inherited her culinary talent. I'm never in the kitchen long enough to be sure, but I strongly suspect that I did too.

3. My grandfather, Robert Waters, was the Washington correspondent for the Hartford Courant in the '60s and '70s. He used to have drinks at the Press Club with Ralph Nader. I love hearing those stories.

4. Grandpa is also a second cousin of Vanity Fair writer Dominick Dunne, whose brother is the late novelist John Gregory Dunne, who was married to the very famous Joan Didion. We don't hear from them.

5. My cool aunt Mary once won a ride in the Wienermobile. She made and carried an enormous sign that read 'My nephew is Jon Byrnes', because she knew it would embarrass the hell out of him. It did.

Now, I believe I'm supposed to keep this going by asking other bloggers to post the five things. Hmmm, I guess I'll go for Dr. K, Manisha, and Melanie.

Wine, Then

"Relax! You have to relax."

Relax? What did she think this was, Sunday afternoon on the boat? It was the gynecologist's office and I was on the table. I didn't say what I was thinking: you want me to relax, you're gonna have to turn off that damn spotlight and get me a bottle of wine.

Instead, I tried to relax. It wasn't so much the physical discomfort that was bugging me, it was the problem she might find. I recently had a scary experience with a ruptured ovarian cyst, and it seemed like I probably had another one coming. Same symptoms, similar time frame. Because I'm one of those people who knows just enough to get herself in trouble, I'd spent the past week imagining the worst: tumor, surgery, loss of my entire reproductive system, and/or sudden death. And now I had to relax, so someone could find the awful truth and deliver it. Crikey.

"Well, it certainly doesn't seem like we've got anything out of the ordinary." No? I was skeptical. Um, then why am I in pain? And why does this KEEP HAPPENING?

"These things develop all the time. [Doctor speak, doctor speak.] You're just more sensitive to it than most people. If you have sharp pain along with fever or nausea, then go to the hospital. Otherwise, take these pills."

Ah, excellent. Another internal episode of ER had ended, and with no Shocking Moment at the end. This time she lives, roll the credits, I thought. Maybe there's a worse episode next season. I'll always be vaguely fearful of that. But for now, I guess I can really relax.

Additions

Please direct your attention to the sidebar, where I’ve begun what will likely be a long and slow renovation. I know very little about websites, HTML, and coolness in general, so for now I’m just adding links and lists.

I’ve stolen the book list idea from one of my workshop comrades. He read seventy-seven books in 2006, and is therefore my literary role model. In ’07, I’m shooting for forty-eight. When I was a kid, I read one book every day during the summer and about two a week otherwise. But now there are jobs and grocery outings and the pursuit of fitness, and there’s my own writing. AND there’s the internet, the greatest time-sucking contrivance ever. That makes it a feat to finish forty-eight books in a year. Keeping a public record of them will force my progress, because the main thing that motivates me is gloryandpraise – or its paler, blog-born cousin. Unfortunately.

Speaking of which, why don’t I work on getting some more readers for this little G-list tabloid? There’s a goal.

Reward

"Do you have my stapler?"

It was a classic Office Space moment, complete with sheepish mumbling and a mug of coffee. I giggled, ha ha, you're kidding, huh? She wasn't. It was her good stapler.

I didn't have the good stapler. To my annoyance, I have no stapler at all. To my even greater annoyance, I think about this stuff. Who has the best cube? I'm always wondering. Who has the nicest ergonomic keyboard? Apparently, fluorescent light fries the particular brain cells that tell you, he who dies with the sweetest office supplies...still had to use them.

So, in the heat of the moment, whenever I have a stack of papers threatening to rearrange themselves if they're not immediately fastened together, I'm pretty pissed that they still haven't given me a stapler. What's the holdup? According to our start-of-the-year pep talk, we're an organization steadily on the rise. Our finances are well in line and we're becoming ever more relevant in our field. We, the workers, are to be commended.

Of course, we, the workers, realize and appreciate what we're working for - a society whose priority is the education and support of its members. We know this commendation won't come in the form of gigantic raises. And that's fine. For my part, I'm just hoping they can drop thirty bucks on a really badass Swingline.

January Thoughts

Forgive me, I can't abandon the event of a year-change within two weeks or so of its occurrence. I realize it's hugely cliche to get all reflective during the first days of a new calendar, but I offer up this defense: I'm always reflective.

One year ago in January. '06 had arrived in the middle of a series of nightmares wherein all my teeth fell out. In one dream, my teeth fell out AND the world ended - an obvious "you must change your life" from my subconscious. I thought at first that all the mental spinning was an effect of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, or confusion (plainly), but then I admitted that, more than anything, it was anger. I was reading a book where the main character was angry. His anger caused him to leave a perfectly decent life and cross an ocean. I wanted to cross an ocean.

There were very specific reasons why I'd become so angry. One was that whatever I came up with as a possibility for changing my life, I couldn't actually do. I wanted to, but I couldn't. It was mostly about money: the best, worst, and most heartbreaking reason people have for feeling stuck. I'd defied financial prudence before, a year prior, quitting my job with a three-digit bank balance and no new opportunity waiting. So I already knew about the ride that comes with doing that - the greatest confidence you've ever had, the highest high, and the crash. I knew that it had been a good move in the long, long run (I'd escaped an industry I wasn't made to work in), but it had also resulted in the now. The world-ending, teeth-of-sand, freaked-out now. I was hesitant to do it again.*

My frustration with feeling stuck built to an alarming height. I devised a new escape route every morning and I'd written a detailed list of pros and cons by the end of the day. I went out in public dressed to teach myself the lesson of nobody-cares-what-you-do: black lycra capris, an electric pink shirt, a suit jacket, striped socks up to my knees, and red loafers. (I was right, nobody stared.) I spent days off entirely in bed, or in an armchair, just trying not to wake up too much. I was like a part-time manic depressive, always dipping and flailing, but managing, for the most part, to keep it under wraps. "Oh yes, the salmon is very fresh. What can I get you to drink this evening?" You have to be pretty wrapped up, as a waitress.

And that was the start of '06. Two thoughts floor me today: how different my life is now, and how close it is to being exactly the same. A few decisions and an adventure later, my job, daily routine, and attitude are completely different. My worries are all the same. I've gone from one perfectly decent life to another perfectly decent life, and I understand, I do still understand, why sometimes that makes people angry.

*I would, in fact, do it again. Five months later. The whole thing - no money, no job, and just to make things interesting, a plane ticket to Europe. Turns out, I'm ballsy.

You Are Here

It's ninety minutes to midnight when we push aside our drinks. "Let's write them down!" Our resolutions, we mean. We'd discussed them over dinner, but we're not finished yet. Speedy extracts a pen from her purse and I grab some cocktail napkins.

We resolve as most people resolve - to improve our lives with professional advancement, killer black dresses, and boyfriends good enough to fight with. Dr. K wants to avoid insanity and get gumption. I want to learn to speak Mandarin and play Texas Hold 'Em. Speedy will escape her second job. MJ initially refuses to go down the futile promise route, then decides to call her friends more frequently. Collectively, we add one to the top of the list:

1) Do this stuff. Really, really.

Maybe it'll make the difference that we wrote our promises in ink, but probably it won't. Probably, the napkin-lists we save will be like fragments of a map, the bits that say 'You Are Here', this is what you wanted when. Not that we won't accomplish our goals; I think we will. But I don't think it'll be because we took the time to define them. The theory about goals being only as attainable as they are specific is, in my opinion, complete crap.

Instead, we'll succeed because of that top line, assuming we have the good sense to heed it. In 2006, I learned that it doesn't matter so much what your resolutions are. What matters is being resolute.