Tuesday, September 30, 2008
{Delay}
Sorry, no post tonight due to a family emergency. My footbridges notes are at home and I'm not there.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Living it Up: A Day of Footbridge Adventures (Here's One)
Shane and I lived three days in one today—12 hours total on the road exploring the footbridges and interviewing. Got home tired and happy as a puppy. Here are some notes and better yet, check out my website for PHOTOS (main page and sidebar link) from the bridge I’m talking about in this very post.
GETTING THERE
Head toward Loafer’s Glory and cross Rock Creek toward Toecane. Round the bend past piles of bucked wood, an old brick building, a glass studio, and a single church. Drive over the tracks. Pass Johnson Cemetery Road and turn right over the bridge, then cut left onto Roses’s Branch (unmarked gravel). Keep an eye on the river, lest the road veer you off course and around the next arm of mountains.
And there—right there where you see the river dip away and the road swerve right, bear left onto River Haven Road (also gravel). It will surely look like the wrong way to go. You will feel silly this early in the morning, the sun still trying to burn off the morning’s fog, NPR volleying commentaries about the Presidential debates. Turn the radio off. Make the turn toward the river and drive right through someone’s front yard, all the while keeping your tires in the ruts. Take your time.
Follow the river like this for several miles. Don’t miss the great blue heron and his graceful pose mid-stream, thin beak like chopsticks ready to cut through the glassy surface. Roll your windows down. Vessels vasoconstrict against the chill and your blood moves back like the green retracting from the tips of leaves each fall. It’s all happening at once, just very, very slowly.
Now you know you’re on the right track. You’re looking for 224W, a swinging footbridge designed by George Canipe, hand built by he and his crew in 1950. At the time, bridges like this were vital for small mountain communities. They shaved miles off of trips, making neighbors closer together, errands easier to run, adventures quicker to find.
The river is wide now, maybe 150 feet across and running low. You could cross on foot with your pants rolled knee high, a buddy for balance; come out safe on the other side. The further you drive the more you can tell it wasn’t always like this. Logjams suggest old floods. The train trestle is a good fifty feet above the opposite riverbank. Flat boulders peek above the surface of the water, long bodies lounging in bed, each curve and divet in the granite like the soft spot of a lover in sleep.
When the river starts to take you like this, all your attention threatening to follow the North Toe down into the broader Nolichucky and just let it all pass on by, that’s the time to pay attention. You’ll see the bridge any second now.
Of course, you don’t see it until you’ve driven right up to it. The framed wooden steps are but an arm’s length from your car and the silver metal trestles frame the driver’s side window. Cut the engine. Open the doors.
AT BRIDGE 224W
We’re quiet because everything else is. A few mallard, the constant background chorus of chickadee and junco and, of course, the river. It sounds like silk, no other word for it. The sound has a feeling, like being tucked into bed. Behind us is an abandoned family home in the style of a beach house. The balconies sag sadly against the porch beams, white paint chipped and cracked. Further up the hill, a small mountain home looks completely closed up. We might even have the place to ourselves.
I like crossing first, bounding across the bridges. It’s impossible not to smile as the buoyancy of each step pushes my feet forward. Shane takes his time, frames his shots, judges the color and lighting. He sees brightness where others can’t see it and finds contrast and an irony of colors in the most unsuspecting places. I imagine stories and he sees them.
A handful of rock steps lead to wooden ones, and we’re up. Four steal cables cut into the ground, two on each side. The lower two are tied off on the metal trestle at the entrance to the footbridge. The upper two run the length of the bridge, ten feet at their highest, arcing low and then high again with the sag of the bridge. Wooden planks make the for a walkway, old two by fours nailed perpendicular to the river across horizontal four by six joists. Rusty chicken wire runs from the floorboards up, tied at about knee-height to smaller steel cables coming down from the two main lines. The chicken wire is too low to use for balance, but the smaller steel cables will do. Sometimes I reach for them. Other times I do not.
On the opposite side, I find old campsites and footpaths. Not much litter. Mullein, milkweed, goldenrod, and aster abound. Like the other bridges, there’s some semblance of an old road that runs up to the train tracks and peters out. I follow it down to a small tunnel that cuts under the tracks. Underneath, every sound is magnified, the slightest crunch of gravel beneath my feet resounding tenfold. The tunnel is short enough that the light can still shine on the walls, illuminating neon graffiti and the names of old lovers chipped through the paint.
Later, a train comes and Shane and I bolt from our respective stands to get as close as we can to that epic, unparalleled movement of steel. I lie on my back ten feet from the tracks while the train barrels past, tilting my chin up to the sky to get an underbelly view of the moving cars.
“Try it!” I shout. Shane’s still taking pictures, everything moving by so fast. “Check it out!”
“Oh-hoh-hoho!” I hear him laugh. He flattens to the gravel to get the same view and smiles, then reaches for his camera again to shoot at ground level.
I can feel the sound pressing through my body. I try to hold it there, let it live in me for a while and haunt the graveyard of sounds past. After the caboose, the only thing left is the hot steel rails, so perfect. Shiny and smooth as ever.
GETTING THERE
Head toward Loafer’s Glory and cross Rock Creek toward Toecane. Round the bend past piles of bucked wood, an old brick building, a glass studio, and a single church. Drive over the tracks. Pass Johnson Cemetery Road and turn right over the bridge, then cut left onto Roses’s Branch (unmarked gravel). Keep an eye on the river, lest the road veer you off course and around the next arm of mountains.
And there—right there where you see the river dip away and the road swerve right, bear left onto River Haven Road (also gravel). It will surely look like the wrong way to go. You will feel silly this early in the morning, the sun still trying to burn off the morning’s fog, NPR volleying commentaries about the Presidential debates. Turn the radio off. Make the turn toward the river and drive right through someone’s front yard, all the while keeping your tires in the ruts. Take your time.
Follow the river like this for several miles. Don’t miss the great blue heron and his graceful pose mid-stream, thin beak like chopsticks ready to cut through the glassy surface. Roll your windows down. Vessels vasoconstrict against the chill and your blood moves back like the green retracting from the tips of leaves each fall. It’s all happening at once, just very, very slowly.
Now you know you’re on the right track. You’re looking for 224W, a swinging footbridge designed by George Canipe, hand built by he and his crew in 1950. At the time, bridges like this were vital for small mountain communities. They shaved miles off of trips, making neighbors closer together, errands easier to run, adventures quicker to find.
The river is wide now, maybe 150 feet across and running low. You could cross on foot with your pants rolled knee high, a buddy for balance; come out safe on the other side. The further you drive the more you can tell it wasn’t always like this. Logjams suggest old floods. The train trestle is a good fifty feet above the opposite riverbank. Flat boulders peek above the surface of the water, long bodies lounging in bed, each curve and divet in the granite like the soft spot of a lover in sleep.
When the river starts to take you like this, all your attention threatening to follow the North Toe down into the broader Nolichucky and just let it all pass on by, that’s the time to pay attention. You’ll see the bridge any second now.
Of course, you don’t see it until you’ve driven right up to it. The framed wooden steps are but an arm’s length from your car and the silver metal trestles frame the driver’s side window. Cut the engine. Open the doors.
AT BRIDGE 224W
We’re quiet because everything else is. A few mallard, the constant background chorus of chickadee and junco and, of course, the river. It sounds like silk, no other word for it. The sound has a feeling, like being tucked into bed. Behind us is an abandoned family home in the style of a beach house. The balconies sag sadly against the porch beams, white paint chipped and cracked. Further up the hill, a small mountain home looks completely closed up. We might even have the place to ourselves.
I like crossing first, bounding across the bridges. It’s impossible not to smile as the buoyancy of each step pushes my feet forward. Shane takes his time, frames his shots, judges the color and lighting. He sees brightness where others can’t see it and finds contrast and an irony of colors in the most unsuspecting places. I imagine stories and he sees them.
A handful of rock steps lead to wooden ones, and we’re up. Four steal cables cut into the ground, two on each side. The lower two are tied off on the metal trestle at the entrance to the footbridge. The upper two run the length of the bridge, ten feet at their highest, arcing low and then high again with the sag of the bridge. Wooden planks make the for a walkway, old two by fours nailed perpendicular to the river across horizontal four by six joists. Rusty chicken wire runs from the floorboards up, tied at about knee-height to smaller steel cables coming down from the two main lines. The chicken wire is too low to use for balance, but the smaller steel cables will do. Sometimes I reach for them. Other times I do not.
On the opposite side, I find old campsites and footpaths. Not much litter. Mullein, milkweed, goldenrod, and aster abound. Like the other bridges, there’s some semblance of an old road that runs up to the train tracks and peters out. I follow it down to a small tunnel that cuts under the tracks. Underneath, every sound is magnified, the slightest crunch of gravel beneath my feet resounding tenfold. The tunnel is short enough that the light can still shine on the walls, illuminating neon graffiti and the names of old lovers chipped through the paint.
Later, a train comes and Shane and I bolt from our respective stands to get as close as we can to that epic, unparalleled movement of steel. I lie on my back ten feet from the tracks while the train barrels past, tilting my chin up to the sky to get an underbelly view of the moving cars.
“Try it!” I shout. Shane’s still taking pictures, everything moving by so fast. “Check it out!”
“Oh-hoh-hoho!” I hear him laugh. He flattens to the gravel to get the same view and smiles, then reaches for his camera again to shoot at ground level.
I can feel the sound pressing through my body. I try to hold it there, let it live in me for a while and haunt the graveyard of sounds past. After the caboose, the only thing left is the hot steel rails, so perfect. Shiny and smooth as ever.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Quick Note
Oh! There is so much to say!
More footbridges outings, truckloads of wood with dad, Gus the dog bounding up the hillside, maples turning fire red, and homebaked apple cobbler.
But sleep awaits…More to come…
More footbridges outings, truckloads of wood with dad, Gus the dog bounding up the hillside, maples turning fire red, and homebaked apple cobbler.
But sleep awaits…More to come…
Friday, September 26, 2008
Survey Says...
Odds and Ends found in my electric company’s monthly newsletter:
Need someone to clean single man’s house.
Want car, any make or model, must run, for $100 to $150.
Need someone to catch beavers.
Hand quilted quilts, various sizes, colors and patterns.
Pet memorials, locally handcrafted from river stone, granite, wood or glass. $39-99.
FREE manure.
County Facts:
Population: 17,000
Number of households: 7,000
Median family income: $37,000 per year
Tinyville Facts: (this is the town 5 miles from where I live)
Population: 357
Racial makeup: 99.72% white
Ages 25-44: 24.4% of 357
Median household income: $20,000 per year
Claim to fame: Bluegrass star Del McCoury was born here
Averages:
Average age a woman in the U.S. gets married: 25.9
Average age a man in the U.S. gets married: 27.5
Provocative post about writer’s royalties: click here.
Need someone to clean single man’s house.
Want car, any make or model, must run, for $100 to $150.
Need someone to catch beavers.
Hand quilted quilts, various sizes, colors and patterns.
Pet memorials, locally handcrafted from river stone, granite, wood or glass. $39-99.
FREE manure.
County Facts:
Population: 17,000
Number of households: 7,000
Median family income: $37,000 per year
Tinyville Facts: (this is the town 5 miles from where I live)
Population: 357
Racial makeup: 99.72% white
Ages 25-44: 24.4% of 357
Median household income: $20,000 per year
Claim to fame: Bluegrass star Del McCoury was born here
Averages:
Average age a woman in the U.S. gets married: 25.9
Average age a man in the U.S. gets married: 27.5
Provocative post about writer’s royalties: click here.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
The Poetics of Collaboration
Good news!
My first essay on collaborative artists just hit the stands! (That means writing about three bodies of work in 1200 words or less...a good challenge!)
Check out the October issue of Ceramics Monthly or read it online here
My first essay on collaborative artists just hit the stands! (That means writing about three bodies of work in 1200 words or less...a good challenge!)
Check out the October issue of Ceramics Monthly or read it online here
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Honeycutt Bridge
I posted website updates today, including a new main page photo, new sidebar links, an updated list of forthcoming essays, and an updated Current Projects page. ENJOY!
The Honeycutt swinging footbridge was built in 1947 and is the oldest in the state. It's just off 226 where Bad Creek tumbles down into Rock Creek, and despite it's traffic-heavy location, it's easy to miss if you're not looking for it. Yesterday, Shane and I looped around Fork Mountain toward Red Hill and just when I was beginning to wonder if we'd missed it, we spotted the metal tresses in the distance.
It's a humble bridge and one of the shortest we'll be crossing, but just knowing it's place in history gives it a magestic quality. We were short on time, otherwise we might have explored the other side of the bridge after crossing, despite that it leads onto private property. I have hunch we'll be back, though.
This bridge is one of the few designed to be four feet wide (wider than normal) and that was specifically to accomodate carrying coffins from one side of Rock Creek to the other. In 1947, this bridge was the only way people could get from the state highway to the small community of Honeycutt. Today, it leads to a barn and an old road--and my hunch is that the old road leads to the cemetary.
The light couldn't have been better for Shane and he jumped out of his car, camera and tripod slung over his shoulder, a grin from ear to ear. "Sweet!" he said, walking toward the bridge. A sign warned us: WEIGHT LIMIT, 4 PERSONS, but I crossed first and bounced my way all the way across, swinging to and fro, using the metal cables for handholds along the sides. "Be careful little lady!" Shane shouted, but I was already halfway across. Thirty feet below, fat trout scattered downstream as my crossing moved the shadow of the footbridge and startled them. I couldn't help be smile from the rocking motion, the glorious fall light, the quiet waters below.
Shane shot a few images from the 226 side of the bridge, then crossed the bridge, two steady hands on his camera. I darted up the old road on the other side, looking for the cemetary and a place to pee. My eyes traced the cables to their source, a series of knots and braces, and then thick lines of metal shooting into the ground where, certainly, cement holdings held them in place.
"Next week," Shane said, "we'll have a whole day to explore."
"Let's pack a lunch," I said.
"Yeah, and eat it in the middle of one of the bridges."
"Yes!"
The Honeycutt swinging footbridge was built in 1947 and is the oldest in the state. It's just off 226 where Bad Creek tumbles down into Rock Creek, and despite it's traffic-heavy location, it's easy to miss if you're not looking for it. Yesterday, Shane and I looped around Fork Mountain toward Red Hill and just when I was beginning to wonder if we'd missed it, we spotted the metal tresses in the distance.
It's a humble bridge and one of the shortest we'll be crossing, but just knowing it's place in history gives it a magestic quality. We were short on time, otherwise we might have explored the other side of the bridge after crossing, despite that it leads onto private property. I have hunch we'll be back, though.
This bridge is one of the few designed to be four feet wide (wider than normal) and that was specifically to accomodate carrying coffins from one side of Rock Creek to the other. In 1947, this bridge was the only way people could get from the state highway to the small community of Honeycutt. Today, it leads to a barn and an old road--and my hunch is that the old road leads to the cemetary.
The light couldn't have been better for Shane and he jumped out of his car, camera and tripod slung over his shoulder, a grin from ear to ear. "Sweet!" he said, walking toward the bridge. A sign warned us: WEIGHT LIMIT, 4 PERSONS, but I crossed first and bounced my way all the way across, swinging to and fro, using the metal cables for handholds along the sides. "Be careful little lady!" Shane shouted, but I was already halfway across. Thirty feet below, fat trout scattered downstream as my crossing moved the shadow of the footbridge and startled them. I couldn't help be smile from the rocking motion, the glorious fall light, the quiet waters below.
Shane shot a few images from the 226 side of the bridge, then crossed the bridge, two steady hands on his camera. I darted up the old road on the other side, looking for the cemetary and a place to pee. My eyes traced the cables to their source, a series of knots and braces, and then thick lines of metal shooting into the ground where, certainly, cement holdings held them in place.
"Next week," Shane said, "we'll have a whole day to explore."
"Let's pack a lunch," I said.
"Yeah, and eat it in the middle of one of the bridges."
"Yes!"
Monday, September 22, 2008
George and Corrine
[This is the second post in a series I’ll be writing about this fall. If you missed the intro to the footbridges project, read about it here. Please pardon me as I sort through the information on the page…soon enough I’ll find a rhythm and balance between reporting what we learned and telling a story that reveals what we learned…the difference being a matter of craft and sophistication…and not writing at 1 a.m.]
It’s our first day in the field and we start, as expected, at the beginning. But the beginning in the case of the footbridges isn’t so easy to find, since the bridge foreman who worked for the state at the time is no longer alive. George held the position more than 38 years and his wife, Corrine, still lives in Tinyville near the fire department and old Taylor Togs factory. I arranged the interview with her in advance, thinking this would be as good a place to start as any.
Shane and I fuel up at Dot’s Café and drive out of town to her home, a beige and green mobile home on the side of a hill, perfectly manicured lawn framed by humble rows of flowers.
“You look just like my grandson,” Corrine says to Shane. I’ve offered her my hand to shake but in her excitement, she doesn’t see it. “’Except he has no hair left and you’ve got plenty, I see…Now come on in.” She leads us to the kitchen where two chairs have been arranged in anticipation of our visit. A small stack of books on footbridges sits in the center of the table.
“Corrine, thank you so much for giving us your time this morning,” I say. “This is Shane, the photographer. He’s just going to move around while we’re talking, if you don’t mind. Let’s turn this light on here for him and we’ll get started.”
Her memory is slim, as I suspected, and her son. James, who was supposed to come to the interview this morning (all the way from Marion), had to cancel at the last minute. I make a note to call him later, then get down to business.
“We’d like the story to focus as much on your husband as possible,” I say. “And if we can get enough information we’ll be able to acknowledge all that he did to make these bridges possible.” George, it turns out, surveyed, designed, made the blueprints for, and built 14 bridges in Yancey, Mitchell, and Avery counties combined. Of these, we’ll be studying 11 in Yancey and Mitchell counties, the oldest being 61 years old.
When I ask Corrine what George was like at the end of the day, she says “Tired, real, real tired.” When I ask her if he had any phrases or sayings he liked to use when talking about his work or after he’d had an especially long day, she shakes her head, she says, “He liked to keep a good yard. I got one little patch for my flowers because what he loved more than anything else was grass.” When I inquire about his work ethic, she smiles. “He was a hard worker. A hard, hard worker.”
Meanwhile, early morning sunlight pours in through the windows, alighting seafoam trim and white curtains, backlighting Corrine’s white hair just so. Shane takes a few shots here and there, but he’s shooting standard film today so each shot runs at about 90 cents a pop. He turns to capture her kitchen, kitch as can be and equally well-lit, and Corrine snaps to attention to speak up.
“You taking pictures of my dirty kitchen, there?” The trace lines of her eyebrows are raised, crinkling her spotted forehead in a ripple of lines. A half smile forms across her face.
Shane laughs. “It’s just the light…and the color…,” he says, then turns back to us respectfully. “I almost couldn’t help it.”
Corrine lifts her hands from her lap and taps the DOT publications she’s saved for me to look at. “Here,” she says. “These are my books about the flood. It was a real wreck, I’ll tell you. George was real disheartened.”
Later, she’ll tell us about her children, grand children, and great grand children. She’s had a recent hip replacement surgery and is battling skin cancer one mole and scraping at a time. “I’m worried,” she says. “I’m worried these days because the keep finding more. Next, I’ve got to get one taken off my shoulder here, and I don’t think I’m going to like those stitches much.”
“I bet you’ll surprise yourself,” I say. “You’ll get those stitches out before you even have time to notice them. I wouldn’t worry about a thing, Corrine.”
“George was a self-made man,” she says. “Only educated through the third grade, but he made his way…” she trails off.
I smile. I’m not sure where this is going but I need everything I can get and I’ve tried every trick I know to jog her memory or pin he down to specifics. So far, she hasn’t said much that I can quote directly in the article and her memory is too fuzzy on dates and times, or even anecdotes about her husband.
“Well then, how did you and George meet?” I ask.
Ding! She lights up, mouth forming into a soft O, her lower lip sinking back a little. Her eyes grow wide as a doe’s and then she bursts into smile. “Well then, he grew up with his family on one side of Pumpkin Patch Mountain and I grew up on the other,” she says. “And we used to take our corn and our grain down there to the old red mill by Loafer’s Glory, not far from here, and that’s where we’d get our grits made. It’s different now, though. Now we’re heading into a depression. I live through that Great Depression, you know, I lived through it. Looks like we’re having another one here, yes, it’s looking like that more and more everyday.”
I ask Corrine when her husband died, she shifts her bright teal eyes to the table and draws her hand to her face. “Oh honey, I can’t. I can’t think real good, you know…I just can’t think.” Shane snaps the photo: her hand, her hair, the flowers behind her, the way the light bends through the curtains and spreads onto the table.
It’s hard but this says so much. When I asked her about the floods, she told me about her skin cancer. When I asked her about George dying, she had to stop thinking. And as we were leaving, when I told her the magazine article would come out September 2009, she said she was worried again, that who knew what next. More than any phrase she offered about her husband being a hard worker and a self-made man, these things tell me their love was deep. It tells me parts of the past run muddy into puddles where she can’t see anything and parts of the future look uncertain and dim.
After a few more questions, she gets up and shows us the rest of her house, including pictures of George and his awards from the state. Her back room has piles of hand-crocheted scarves and she insists that Shane and I pick one out for ourselves.
“Oh no,” I say. “Oh no, no, no. I couldn’t. No, thank you, that is very sweet but N—“
“Go on then,” Corrine interrupts. “Go on, take one. Now. Take one. Go on.” She’s firm as a tree trunk on this one, and Shane at I exchange glances, then pick matching scarves to commemorate our work together.
“I felt bad,” Shane said later about the picture. “But I had the shot framed, it was there. Then you asked the question and she couldn’t stop herself. That hand, the way she lifted it.”
“I know,” I told him. “And don’t feel bad. I mean, I did too, but that’s just how it goes. You never know what you’re going to get when people let you into their lives like that. We’ll come back by next week though, and return those books. We ought to bring her something though…”
“Yeah, we should. She was sweet as could be.”
“Flowers, we’ll bring her flowers. George liked the grass but she loved the flowers.”
“Perfect,” he says. “Perfect.”
It’s our first day in the field and we start, as expected, at the beginning. But the beginning in the case of the footbridges isn’t so easy to find, since the bridge foreman who worked for the state at the time is no longer alive. George held the position more than 38 years and his wife, Corrine, still lives in Tinyville near the fire department and old Taylor Togs factory. I arranged the interview with her in advance, thinking this would be as good a place to start as any.
Shane and I fuel up at Dot’s Café and drive out of town to her home, a beige and green mobile home on the side of a hill, perfectly manicured lawn framed by humble rows of flowers.
“You look just like my grandson,” Corrine says to Shane. I’ve offered her my hand to shake but in her excitement, she doesn’t see it. “’Except he has no hair left and you’ve got plenty, I see…Now come on in.” She leads us to the kitchen where two chairs have been arranged in anticipation of our visit. A small stack of books on footbridges sits in the center of the table.
“Corrine, thank you so much for giving us your time this morning,” I say. “This is Shane, the photographer. He’s just going to move around while we’re talking, if you don’t mind. Let’s turn this light on here for him and we’ll get started.”
Her memory is slim, as I suspected, and her son. James, who was supposed to come to the interview this morning (all the way from Marion), had to cancel at the last minute. I make a note to call him later, then get down to business.
“We’d like the story to focus as much on your husband as possible,” I say. “And if we can get enough information we’ll be able to acknowledge all that he did to make these bridges possible.” George, it turns out, surveyed, designed, made the blueprints for, and built 14 bridges in Yancey, Mitchell, and Avery counties combined. Of these, we’ll be studying 11 in Yancey and Mitchell counties, the oldest being 61 years old.
When I ask Corrine what George was like at the end of the day, she says “Tired, real, real tired.” When I ask her if he had any phrases or sayings he liked to use when talking about his work or after he’d had an especially long day, she shakes her head, she says, “He liked to keep a good yard. I got one little patch for my flowers because what he loved more than anything else was grass.” When I inquire about his work ethic, she smiles. “He was a hard worker. A hard, hard worker.”
Meanwhile, early morning sunlight pours in through the windows, alighting seafoam trim and white curtains, backlighting Corrine’s white hair just so. Shane takes a few shots here and there, but he’s shooting standard film today so each shot runs at about 90 cents a pop. He turns to capture her kitchen, kitch as can be and equally well-lit, and Corrine snaps to attention to speak up.
“You taking pictures of my dirty kitchen, there?” The trace lines of her eyebrows are raised, crinkling her spotted forehead in a ripple of lines. A half smile forms across her face.
Shane laughs. “It’s just the light…and the color…,” he says, then turns back to us respectfully. “I almost couldn’t help it.”
Corrine lifts her hands from her lap and taps the DOT publications she’s saved for me to look at. “Here,” she says. “These are my books about the flood. It was a real wreck, I’ll tell you. George was real disheartened.”
Later, she’ll tell us about her children, grand children, and great grand children. She’s had a recent hip replacement surgery and is battling skin cancer one mole and scraping at a time. “I’m worried,” she says. “I’m worried these days because the keep finding more. Next, I’ve got to get one taken off my shoulder here, and I don’t think I’m going to like those stitches much.”
“I bet you’ll surprise yourself,” I say. “You’ll get those stitches out before you even have time to notice them. I wouldn’t worry about a thing, Corrine.”
“George was a self-made man,” she says. “Only educated through the third grade, but he made his way…” she trails off.
I smile. I’m not sure where this is going but I need everything I can get and I’ve tried every trick I know to jog her memory or pin he down to specifics. So far, she hasn’t said much that I can quote directly in the article and her memory is too fuzzy on dates and times, or even anecdotes about her husband.
“Well then, how did you and George meet?” I ask.
Ding! She lights up, mouth forming into a soft O, her lower lip sinking back a little. Her eyes grow wide as a doe’s and then she bursts into smile. “Well then, he grew up with his family on one side of Pumpkin Patch Mountain and I grew up on the other,” she says. “And we used to take our corn and our grain down there to the old red mill by Loafer’s Glory, not far from here, and that’s where we’d get our grits made. It’s different now, though. Now we’re heading into a depression. I live through that Great Depression, you know, I lived through it. Looks like we’re having another one here, yes, it’s looking like that more and more everyday.”
I ask Corrine when her husband died, she shifts her bright teal eyes to the table and draws her hand to her face. “Oh honey, I can’t. I can’t think real good, you know…I just can’t think.” Shane snaps the photo: her hand, her hair, the flowers behind her, the way the light bends through the curtains and spreads onto the table.
It’s hard but this says so much. When I asked her about the floods, she told me about her skin cancer. When I asked her about George dying, she had to stop thinking. And as we were leaving, when I told her the magazine article would come out September 2009, she said she was worried again, that who knew what next. More than any phrase she offered about her husband being a hard worker and a self-made man, these things tell me their love was deep. It tells me parts of the past run muddy into puddles where she can’t see anything and parts of the future look uncertain and dim.
After a few more questions, she gets up and shows us the rest of her house, including pictures of George and his awards from the state. Her back room has piles of hand-crocheted scarves and she insists that Shane and I pick one out for ourselves.
“Oh no,” I say. “Oh no, no, no. I couldn’t. No, thank you, that is very sweet but N—“
“Go on then,” Corrine interrupts. “Go on, take one. Now. Take one. Go on.” She’s firm as a tree trunk on this one, and Shane at I exchange glances, then pick matching scarves to commemorate our work together.
“I felt bad,” Shane said later about the picture. “But I had the shot framed, it was there. Then you asked the question and she couldn’t stop herself. That hand, the way she lifted it.”
“I know,” I told him. “And don’t feel bad. I mean, I did too, but that’s just how it goes. You never know what you’re going to get when people let you into their lives like that. We’ll come back by next week though, and return those books. We ought to bring her something though…”
“Yeah, we should. She was sweet as could be.”
“Flowers, we’ll bring her flowers. George liked the grass but she loved the flowers.”
“Perfect,” he says. “Perfect.”
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Our Forthcoming Fall
The buckeyes are always the first to go. It starts with the subtlest wilting of each fingered leaf. The edges begin to curl, brown at the tips as if turning back from the sunlight. And then the yellow, bright as a goldfinch, spreading in just a matter of days. In less than two weeks, every leaf on the tree will be dappled with color.
The birds are lifting, too. Juncos suddenly seem abundant, ready to wait out the winter, though the bunting are long gone with summer and even the finches are fewer and fewer by the day. The deer are feeding earlier in the evenings and later into the morning, stockpiling anything green in a race against the colors, before it all eventually succumbs to the forest floor in ranges of gold and orange, maple red. Much later, everything will be white.
In the lower field, where I’ve started this year’s woodpile, two rows of buckeye rounds stacked three feet high await splitting. I started in on some yesterday, splitting about fifteen rounds and stacking the split pieces toward the South, in a patch of the field where I know the sunlight holds its gaze the longest this time of year. With any luck, I won’t be burning this wood until February ’09, which is still cutting it close in my book, though it’s far better than last year’s cache.
The deer have been especially interested this year, nosing about like dogs, tracing the tips of each sawed round with their black-tipped noses. Even the tarp won’t dissuade them, young ones milling about between piles of split wood. I’m not sure whether it’s the scent of the tree or my own, but something pulls them there day after day. I watch them from the porch as I brush my teeth in the morning, tell them not to mind me, I’m just waking up.
It’s going to be a happy fall. I’ve started meditating again, and with a slew of freelance work off my desk, I can start to fill my well again to prepare for the next round of creative work.
I realized yesterday that I never really stopped after graduation. Summer came and went and I only went to the river a few times. The rhododenrons reached their burly arms into footpaths and entryways around the property. Ivy crept around the gutters and the upper retaining wall. A hive of paper wasps managed to complete a terrifyingly perfect nest beneath the far wing of the porch. I did not notice. I was writing.
Rather than fight the transition of seasons, I will mark it with a similar transition of my own. It’s best, anyway, to transition with the natural world—changing surroundings more readily beget a changed inner landscape and I’m all for it.
So here’s to breathing deeply and taking the time to notice what this forest has to offer. And today? Today I trimmed back those rhodi branches, hacked away the ivy, and tarped the wood for tonight’s coming rain. Who knows about tomorrow—it’s another day.
The birds are lifting, too. Juncos suddenly seem abundant, ready to wait out the winter, though the bunting are long gone with summer and even the finches are fewer and fewer by the day. The deer are feeding earlier in the evenings and later into the morning, stockpiling anything green in a race against the colors, before it all eventually succumbs to the forest floor in ranges of gold and orange, maple red. Much later, everything will be white.
In the lower field, where I’ve started this year’s woodpile, two rows of buckeye rounds stacked three feet high await splitting. I started in on some yesterday, splitting about fifteen rounds and stacking the split pieces toward the South, in a patch of the field where I know the sunlight holds its gaze the longest this time of year. With any luck, I won’t be burning this wood until February ’09, which is still cutting it close in my book, though it’s far better than last year’s cache.
The deer have been especially interested this year, nosing about like dogs, tracing the tips of each sawed round with their black-tipped noses. Even the tarp won’t dissuade them, young ones milling about between piles of split wood. I’m not sure whether it’s the scent of the tree or my own, but something pulls them there day after day. I watch them from the porch as I brush my teeth in the morning, tell them not to mind me, I’m just waking up.
It’s going to be a happy fall. I’ve started meditating again, and with a slew of freelance work off my desk, I can start to fill my well again to prepare for the next round of creative work.
I realized yesterday that I never really stopped after graduation. Summer came and went and I only went to the river a few times. The rhododenrons reached their burly arms into footpaths and entryways around the property. Ivy crept around the gutters and the upper retaining wall. A hive of paper wasps managed to complete a terrifyingly perfect nest beneath the far wing of the porch. I did not notice. I was writing.
Rather than fight the transition of seasons, I will mark it with a similar transition of my own. It’s best, anyway, to transition with the natural world—changing surroundings more readily beget a changed inner landscape and I’m all for it.
So here’s to breathing deeply and taking the time to notice what this forest has to offer. And today? Today I trimmed back those rhodi branches, hacked away the ivy, and tarped the wood for tonight’s coming rain. Who knows about tomorrow—it’s another day.
Friday, September 19, 2008
It Was Light and Then It Was Dark, and Then It Was Light Again
I don’t care if I go crazy! One, two, three, four, five, six, switch!
Crazy go I if care don’t I! Six, five, four, three, two, one, switch!
Submit to Brevity. Check.
Write two more essays and start a third. Check.
Complete most important grant application of my life, including editing it with feedback from four different readers. Submit application. Check.
Set up footbridges interviews for Monday. Check.
Check things off of the Ultimate List of Things To Do by 9/20 List. Check.
Hold head and repeat odd phrases. Check.
Deal with lost hound dogs found sleeping on my porch. Check.
Recent bio submitted to a publisher: Katey Schultz writes from her home near the summit of Roan Mountain and the NC/TN state line. Sometimes she talks to herself and other times she does not. She prefers Beagles to Chihuahua's any day and wishes she'd invented the phrase, "man's best friend." Her writing has appeared in Cadillac Cicatrix, M Review, Oregon Quarterly's essay contest, Now & Then, Southern Arts Journal, and more. She is Nonfiction editor of Silk Road and Fiction Anthology editor for Main Street Rag. Someday she will publish a book, she swears.
Crazy go I if care don’t I! Six, five, four, three, two, one, switch!
Submit to Brevity. Check.
Write two more essays and start a third. Check.
Complete most important grant application of my life, including editing it with feedback from four different readers. Submit application. Check.
Set up footbridges interviews for Monday. Check.
Check things off of the Ultimate List of Things To Do by 9/20 List. Check.
Hold head and repeat odd phrases. Check.
Deal with lost hound dogs found sleeping on my porch. Check.
Recent bio submitted to a publisher: Katey Schultz writes from her home near the summit of Roan Mountain and the NC/TN state line. Sometimes she talks to herself and other times she does not. She prefers Beagles to Chihuahua's any day and wishes she'd invented the phrase, "man's best friend." Her writing has appeared in Cadillac Cicatrix, M Review, Oregon Quarterly's essay contest, Now & Then, Southern Arts Journal, and more. She is Nonfiction editor of Silk Road and Fiction Anthology editor for Main Street Rag. Someday she will publish a book, she swears.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
A Metaphor in the Merlot
My friend’s cat wakes her up at the ass crack of dawn each day to be let out. The cat is anxious and eager; one might even say impatient.
Why?
Because the cat wants to go outside and fuck the neighbor’s tom cat.
Meanwhile, my friend stumbles back to bed, alone, and stares at the ceiling. Sleep evades her because all she can hear is the screeching, seesaw sound of cat-fuck.
Later, she will tell me this over wine and I will want to spew what’s in my mouth, tiny flares of merlot arcing across her kitchen table.
See us there sitting across from each other, how we could fall apart in half a breath. But notice how poised we are, how familiar with this holding back, the refusal even of what’s most primitive. See how tightly we purse our lips. We are women who know—it’s worth saving that wine while we still have it. Yes, saving every last drop.
Why?
Because the cat wants to go outside and fuck the neighbor’s tom cat.
Meanwhile, my friend stumbles back to bed, alone, and stares at the ceiling. Sleep evades her because all she can hear is the screeching, seesaw sound of cat-fuck.
Later, she will tell me this over wine and I will want to spew what’s in my mouth, tiny flares of merlot arcing across her kitchen table.
See us there sitting across from each other, how we could fall apart in half a breath. But notice how poised we are, how familiar with this holding back, the refusal even of what’s most primitive. See how tightly we purse our lips. We are women who know—it’s worth saving that wine while we still have it. Yes, saving every last drop.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Guru on the Mountain
It’s mid-afternoon and I’ve just had an acupuncture treatment for my knees. Initially, I planned to drive the short distance from my parent’s house to Joe’s to get my herbs—since resting is always good after a treatment. But the air is cool and the dog is absolutely convincing, so I set out on foot. Slowly, this time, very, very slowly, I begin the walk to Joe’s.
There’s always life up at Joe’s Mountain Gardens, even when nobody’s on the mountain. Acres of steep-sloped gardens with more plant varieties I can count or name glisten in the sunlight that fights its way through grey clouds. We’ve had rain off and on all day, so the plants appear heavy, laden with raindrops yet glowing greener and healthier because of it.
I climb, climb, carefully marking each step by sight before placing my foot. The dog has climbed up and back three times already but finally, I make it to the Herb Shop and find my prescription. Nobody’s around but my name is marked clearly on a brown paper bag, along with a few others, against the back wall of the shop. Inside are three tinctures Joe’s made just for my knees: Ox Kneet Root (a blood mover), Bone Break (for bones, tendons, and cartilage), and Joint Remedy (especially extracted for the knees).
The cost is $32 and the tinctures will last me anywhere between three and six weeks, depending on how much I choose to take. I leave him a check and head back down the hill, simple as that. Hours later, when I finally get back to my own house, I’ll call Joe and ask him how much to take and when.
“You can mix it as you wish, he says, but I’d say one to two droppers-full one to three times per day. Most people settle for a dose in the morning and a dose in the evening, and you can mix the Ox Knee Root in as needed. That’s the zinger. That’s the one that’s really going to zoom in on the problem area for you.”
I thank him profusely and tell him I’ll try to stop by next time I’m at my parent’s house again.
“Good,” he says. “You’ll want to come back in a few weeks anyway. I’ve got this Bone Knitting Powder I’ve started for you. It takes a while to make and I need a few more ingredients [from China] but it will be ready next time you’re here.”
Bone Knitting Powder. I know about this stuff. It’s the miracle worker and no, I don’t fall for medicinal hoaxes. Tom Bisio writes of this in his reference book, A Tooth From the Tiger’s Mouth. It’s the real deal. And Joe is making it for me. Up on the mountain. Out of herbs he’s grown and herbs from China.
Call it preference. Call it dogma. Call it what feels right. But seriously, this feels so much more reassuring than those needles and subsequent injections I had nine days ago—nine days and the joints are still puffy, still odd looking, the pain still there (heightened at times), and I’m still on exercise lock down. I want to take the best of what both the Western and Eastern medical worlds have to offer me, I really, really do. But so far, one is causing a lot of pain and costing boo-koo bucks, while the other is local, organic, and provides immediate relief.
There is only one answer: One day at a time. Nine days ago, I needed injections. Today, I kneed Ox Knee Root. Tomorrow, who knows.
There’s always life up at Joe’s Mountain Gardens, even when nobody’s on the mountain. Acres of steep-sloped gardens with more plant varieties I can count or name glisten in the sunlight that fights its way through grey clouds. We’ve had rain off and on all day, so the plants appear heavy, laden with raindrops yet glowing greener and healthier because of it.
I climb, climb, carefully marking each step by sight before placing my foot. The dog has climbed up and back three times already but finally, I make it to the Herb Shop and find my prescription. Nobody’s around but my name is marked clearly on a brown paper bag, along with a few others, against the back wall of the shop. Inside are three tinctures Joe’s made just for my knees: Ox Kneet Root (a blood mover), Bone Break (for bones, tendons, and cartilage), and Joint Remedy (especially extracted for the knees).
The cost is $32 and the tinctures will last me anywhere between three and six weeks, depending on how much I choose to take. I leave him a check and head back down the hill, simple as that. Hours later, when I finally get back to my own house, I’ll call Joe and ask him how much to take and when.
“You can mix it as you wish, he says, but I’d say one to two droppers-full one to three times per day. Most people settle for a dose in the morning and a dose in the evening, and you can mix the Ox Knee Root in as needed. That’s the zinger. That’s the one that’s really going to zoom in on the problem area for you.”
I thank him profusely and tell him I’ll try to stop by next time I’m at my parent’s house again.
“Good,” he says. “You’ll want to come back in a few weeks anyway. I’ve got this Bone Knitting Powder I’ve started for you. It takes a while to make and I need a few more ingredients [from China] but it will be ready next time you’re here.”
Bone Knitting Powder. I know about this stuff. It’s the miracle worker and no, I don’t fall for medicinal hoaxes. Tom Bisio writes of this in his reference book, A Tooth From the Tiger’s Mouth. It’s the real deal. And Joe is making it for me. Up on the mountain. Out of herbs he’s grown and herbs from China.
Call it preference. Call it dogma. Call it what feels right. But seriously, this feels so much more reassuring than those needles and subsequent injections I had nine days ago—nine days and the joints are still puffy, still odd looking, the pain still there (heightened at times), and I’m still on exercise lock down. I want to take the best of what both the Western and Eastern medical worlds have to offer me, I really, really do. But so far, one is causing a lot of pain and costing boo-koo bucks, while the other is local, organic, and provides immediate relief.
There is only one answer: One day at a time. Nine days ago, I needed injections. Today, I kneed Ox Knee Root. Tomorrow, who knows.
Monday, September 15, 2008
As Joe Would Say: "Hella productive day."
Submit to Narrative. Check.
Submit to McSweeney’s, Graywolf. Check, check.
Submit to The Gettysburg Review, both fiction and non. Double check.
Submit to Glamour’s “Real Life Story” contest (why not?). Surprise! Check.
Write the art essay for the museum in Puerto Rico – check.
Send 3rd version of Arts Writers Grant application answers to three super-pro artsy friends to critique and scribble all over. Triple check.
Reschedule one artist interview, add another interview, and start email interviews with the others. Check, check, check.
Put every potion ever made on my knees. Do not practice karate kicks even though I’m doing them in my sleep, inadvertently. Take Uncle Marky’s advice about life and love, call Mom to ask how her day was (and don’t settle for a short answer), call Dad about the downed buckeye tree, step out onto the porch at least six times and appreciate the fall air. Thank Claire for the rec letter, thank Joe and Dorianne for coming to this weekend’s literary festival, call Lindsay, Veva, and Kyle. Universal check.
Submit to McSweeney’s, Graywolf. Check, check.
Submit to The Gettysburg Review, both fiction and non. Double check.
Submit to Glamour’s “Real Life Story” contest (why not?). Surprise! Check.
Write the art essay for the museum in Puerto Rico – check.
Send 3rd version of Arts Writers Grant application answers to three super-pro artsy friends to critique and scribble all over. Triple check.
Reschedule one artist interview, add another interview, and start email interviews with the others. Check, check, check.
Put every potion ever made on my knees. Do not practice karate kicks even though I’m doing them in my sleep, inadvertently. Take Uncle Marky’s advice about life and love, call Mom to ask how her day was (and don’t settle for a short answer), call Dad about the downed buckeye tree, step out onto the porch at least six times and appreciate the fall air. Thank Claire for the rec letter, thank Joe and Dorianne for coming to this weekend’s literary festival, call Lindsay, Veva, and Kyle. Universal check.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
I Know I Sound Like a Broken Record
Sarah has her hand on one of my knees and Laura has her hand on the other. We’re all out on my porch—a beautiful fall day—and I’ve just fed them brunch. They hiked this morning and wanted to know why I couldn’t join them.
“You ready?” I say.
They nod.
I bend my knees about 20 degrees and, like synchronized swimmers, they each zip their hands away from my kneecaps, swinging their arms in full arcs and back to the safety of their own bodies. Their mouths drop in tandem, then that same, ugly gasp: “Ooooh-ack-ugh.”
Call it crepitus. Call it patellofemural syndrome. Call it runner’s knee, call it a lack of cartilage, call it crunching, call it wrong. It’s real. Inside my body. Keeping me from exercising now for 7 consecutive days and 7 more to go (bare minimum). My body is a knot from sitting and writing and not having any release on the trails or in the dojo. Each knee, since Dr. Superman’s injections, is swollen more than it has been in the 8 months I’ve been in pain. And the left knee, in particular, has this poochy-pouch thing going on where the needle went in last week.
And that was supposed to help?
Seriously, I’m no wimp (I had a series of these injections in my feet years ago), but I’m having a hard time believing in the miracles of this procedure as each day goes by and I experience less and less relief and the thought of even normal daily movements (i.e. GOING ON A WALK) seems further away.
“You ready?” I say.
They nod.
I bend my knees about 20 degrees and, like synchronized swimmers, they each zip their hands away from my kneecaps, swinging their arms in full arcs and back to the safety of their own bodies. Their mouths drop in tandem, then that same, ugly gasp: “Ooooh-ack-ugh.”
Call it crepitus. Call it patellofemural syndrome. Call it runner’s knee, call it a lack of cartilage, call it crunching, call it wrong. It’s real. Inside my body. Keeping me from exercising now for 7 consecutive days and 7 more to go (bare minimum). My body is a knot from sitting and writing and not having any release on the trails or in the dojo. Each knee, since Dr. Superman’s injections, is swollen more than it has been in the 8 months I’ve been in pain. And the left knee, in particular, has this poochy-pouch thing going on where the needle went in last week.
And that was supposed to help?
Seriously, I’m no wimp (I had a series of these injections in my feet years ago), but I’m having a hard time believing in the miracles of this procedure as each day goes by and I experience less and less relief and the thought of even normal daily movements (i.e. GOING ON A WALK) seems further away.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
It's All in the Mailbox
You know you’re living the writer’s life, with all its highs and lows, when you receive in your mailbox the following contents in one day:
1. Credit card bill w/ charges for writers conference and plane ticket to attend it in Chicago
2. Rejection letter from #*%$$!#@
3. Recommendation letter from your thesis advisor that makes you cry and smile at the same time
4. Generic printer ink purchased in bulk
Belated happy graduation card
1. Credit card bill w/ charges for writers conference and plane ticket to attend it in Chicago
2. Rejection letter from #*%$$!#@
3. Recommendation letter from your thesis advisor that makes you cry and smile at the same time
4. Generic printer ink purchased in bulk
Belated happy graduation card
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Zip-Zap-Zoom
TWENTY-NINE, GOING ON SEVENTY
Ok so fine, take my knees.
And my big toes.
Take my ankles and in general
take anything that needs to rotate fully
to keep my from limping.
While you're at it, take my left eyeball to destroy depth perception
and take my hands because, sometimes, they get this eczema
stuff that's really gnarly. Might as well just lop them off.
Please, will you take my ovaries?
Or at least the hormones that operate them
because seriously, they only get me all
worked up. And worked up is getting harder
and harder to pull off, what with a limp
and googley eyes and no hands and so forth.
And when I turn thirty, steal my breath
so that, try as I might
I may not blow out the candles.
I may not make a wish.
I may only sit and stare at the sad, sad cake
while the candles burn down.
The wax will be so beautiful.
The way it moves and melts with disregard.
How it bends so smooth, then cracks
when it finally cools. And there, right there
in the bubbled pink and pale green pools
goo-ed into the frosting, I will trace the wrinkles
of my grandmother's face. See how happy she was
in her old age. Remember that she didn't walk
for the last four years of her life.
And still, she smiled.
Ok so fine, take my knees.
And my big toes.
Take my ankles and in general
take anything that needs to rotate fully
to keep my from limping.
While you're at it, take my left eyeball to destroy depth perception
and take my hands because, sometimes, they get this eczema
stuff that's really gnarly. Might as well just lop them off.
Please, will you take my ovaries?
Or at least the hormones that operate them
because seriously, they only get me all
worked up. And worked up is getting harder
and harder to pull off, what with a limp
and googley eyes and no hands and so forth.
And when I turn thirty, steal my breath
so that, try as I might
I may not blow out the candles.
I may not make a wish.
I may only sit and stare at the sad, sad cake
while the candles burn down.
The wax will be so beautiful.
The way it moves and melts with disregard.
How it bends so smooth, then cracks
when it finally cools. And there, right there
in the bubbled pink and pale green pools
goo-ed into the frosting, I will trace the wrinkles
of my grandmother's face. See how happy she was
in her old age. Remember that she didn't walk
for the last four years of her life.
And still, she smiled.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Arg-Rar-Rah
Apocalypse of a Dead Woman
I held a torch for you and you did not come.
Ten thousand million years passed and
the crows, wings folded, fell from the sky.
There were too many to count.
The fence lines rolled into the horizon and
the wide open sea drained onto the continents.
The sun and moon overlapped more often,
causing confusion. Tides that used to rise gently
smacked about with no shores to kiss.
All of this happened in but a handful of minutes
on a dark, dark planet where nobody cared to look.
Still,
one light remained.
And when the work undid itself, the sea slinking
back to its bed between landmasses, the survivors
felt empty, dryness inside their mouths.
One said he tasted sand
and another said he tasted salt.
A mother said she tasted her missing baby
and an elder said there was nothing left to taste.
I said I tasted light, even on the darkest nights,
and that all the waves of the world had not
persuaded me of anything different.
I held a torch for you and you did not come.
Ten thousand million years passed and
the crows, wings folded, fell from the sky.
There were too many to count.
The fence lines rolled into the horizon and
the wide open sea drained onto the continents.
The sun and moon overlapped more often,
causing confusion. Tides that used to rise gently
smacked about with no shores to kiss.
All of this happened in but a handful of minutes
on a dark, dark planet where nobody cared to look.
Still,
one light remained.
And when the work undid itself, the sea slinking
back to its bed between landmasses, the survivors
felt empty, dryness inside their mouths.
One said he tasted sand
and another said he tasted salt.
A mother said she tasted her missing baby
and an elder said there was nothing left to taste.
I said I tasted light, even on the darkest nights,
and that all the waves of the world had not
persuaded me of anything different.
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
I Will Do These, I Swear
List of things to do by 9/20:
DONE
1. Finish paid novel critique
2. Read fiction anthology submissions
3. Read literary journal submissions
4. Ask for Top Secret Fellowship letters of rec
5. Download NC Fellowship application
6. Email friend who borrowed my thesis, try to get it back.
HALFWAY DONE
7. Interview and write about DJ
8. Interview and write about MC
9. Interview and write about CC
10. Complete Arts Writers Grant Project
NOT STARTED
11. Submit to Brevity
12. Submit to Gettysburg Review
13. Enter U30 Narrative Contest
14. Submit to Greywolf
15. Submit to McSweeney’s
16. Write about Core Show for Mtn.X
17. Write about KLWM for Mtn.X
18. Formally query American Craft (CD and all)
19. Set up footbridges interviews
20. Advertise that I do novel critiques in Mtn.X
IN THE WORKS
21. Host 2 literary festival authors (also my former professors)
22. Work at the Coffeehouse while doing all of this
23. Try to meet new people.
24. Spend time with Sarah and Laura.
IMPOSSIBLE
25. Fall in love and get married
Win the lottery
DONE
1. Finish paid novel critique
2. Read fiction anthology submissions
3. Read literary journal submissions
4. Ask for Top Secret Fellowship letters of rec
5. Download NC Fellowship application
6. Email friend who borrowed my thesis, try to get it back.
HALFWAY DONE
7. Interview and write about DJ
8. Interview and write about MC
9. Interview and write about CC
10. Complete Arts Writers Grant Project
NOT STARTED
11. Submit to Brevity
12. Submit to Gettysburg Review
13. Enter U30 Narrative Contest
14. Submit to Greywolf
15. Submit to McSweeney’s
16. Write about Core Show for Mtn.X
17. Write about KLWM for Mtn.X
18. Formally query American Craft (CD and all)
19. Set up footbridges interviews
20. Advertise that I do novel critiques in Mtn.X
IN THE WORKS
21. Host 2 literary festival authors (also my former professors)
22. Work at the Coffeehouse while doing all of this
23. Try to meet new people.
24. Spend time with Sarah and Laura.
IMPOSSIBLE
25. Fall in love and get married
Win the lottery
Monday, September 08, 2008
In the Western World
We will call him Dr. Superman.
He is the orthopedic surgeon I have been waiting to see for two months and today I finally got to meet him. And while the waiting room was utterly claustrophobic, the patient rooms decorated for different university sport’s teams made up the difference. Mine was orange. Bright orange. So orange I had to shield my eyes at first glance. This could only be Clemson University. The flaming gay doctor’s assistant with the kickass name, Nike Shox shoes, styled hair, and a pierced ear also helped.
But more than anything, Dr. Superman’s medical knowledge and the fact that he sat down and took the time to talk to me—about the seasons, about writing, about a 7th grade teacher who changed his life—impressed me the most.
His arguments for steroid injections and human growth hormone (a study he’s involved in through Wake Forest University) were compelling. “We don’t play God, but we take what God gave us and use it to heal ourselves faster,” he said. I’m beyond telling people in the South that I don’t believe in God—it just doesn’t get me anywhere—but his analogy served its purpose. He takes what our bodies already make naturally and puts it right where it needs to go, in highly concentrated amounts.
The good news is that the X-Rays and MRI results showed no acute injury, the only suspicious area being the left lateral meniscus (duh), which “demonstrates degenerative changes.” The bad news is that the cartilage under both of my kneecaps is nearly wiped out. “You’re not bone on bone yet,” Dr. Superman advised, “but you’re taking away more than your body can keep up with. You make the things that come together to form cartilage—your body does this for you everyday at noon and midnight,” he goes on.
What I can’t believe is that he was talking in a way that I could actually hear, without dumbing too much down. I can’t believe I now owe over $1,000 to the hospital for my MRI (and yes, that’s WITH insurance). I can’t believe I’ve been told to do PT 3x/wk at $70 per pop (which I will not do—I asked for a home plan). I can’t believe I took two knee braces, supplements, and the injections not knowing whether insurance will cover them. I can’t believe just to get there, get in the door, and get home costs me $90. In short, I can’t quite believe I’m walking this Western medical path.
And when it came down to it, I nodded my head yes. Yes, inject me with that stuff. Put it right into my knees with that giant needle even though it goes against everything I feel good about and have practiced for the last six years of my life. Just do it. Now. Please. Because I can’t take anymore of anything else.
It’s not supposed to hurt, they say—and lord knows I’ve had these injections before, back in my rugby days, before I had to have foot surgeries. But it’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, that I didn’t have to grab the sides of the patient table and tear at the tissue paper a little. Or that, when he asked me what was wrong with a particular scene I read in this novel that I didn’t like, I had to hold my breath and answer him in fits and starts as the fluid pressed its way into my body.
“Scene development,” I told him.
He looked at me. I looked at the ceiling, jerked at the hips.
He pressed down more on the needle. “And?” he said.
“And dialogue. You can’t prop up a scene on dialogue alone.”
“I agree,” he said. “But what about the narrator?” He’s finished with the right one and is letting me catch my breath.
I wait. I don’t know for how long. “She narrated in limited 3rd but she did a lousy job.”
“What do you mean?” says Dr. Superman, preparing the next needle.
“I mean she kept cheating but using interior monologue—“ stab, swell, shoot, jerk—“as a way to get back to a 1st person voice. And—“twist, turn, tear, grind—“and there’s a better way to do that.”
“How?” says Dr. Superman. “Because that’s really the hardest part, isn’t it? Writing in 3rd person but portraying what a character is thinking and feeling at the time?”
He’s almost done. He’s got to be. I swear. “You’re right. It is hard.” Almost as hard as this, I want to say. “But you can show a character reacting to something in real time and that’s even more powerful than saying what’s he's thinking, for instance.”
He pulls the needle out and sits back in his chair. I’m still curled up, gripping the edges of the table. Me. The former rugger. The karateka. The mountain mama. Withered, on a fake leather cushion.
I exhale.
Reality is hard to dismiss. I’ve been in pain for 8 months. My acupuncture treatments every two weeks keep me moving and, at times, bring me to a pain-free state with 100% functioning and mobility. Other times, I’m limping. The tinctures, poultices, lotions, and liniments from Joe are immensely helpful, but they’re not enough at my current rate of activity.
Which brings me to the next “I can’t believe…”
On my way out, I was told to talk to the head PT at the center to get a recommendation for treatment and a PT near me in case I decide to go. I told her I live in Tinyville.
“Where?” she said, her Back East accent none but charming.
“Um, it’s at the base of Roan Mountain?” I said.
“Mount what?”
“Ok, it’s about 17 miles from SmallTown. Do you know where that is?”
“Huh?” She shook her head.
“Ok, do you know where LittleTown is, about 38 miles from BigCity, NC?”
“Yeah, oh yeah. I know that place. There’s one office there, I believe. Right there off the highway.”
“Yeah, that’s 26 miles from my house, but I know which one you’re talking about.”
She laughs, then asks me about my home plan. I tell her the exercises I’d been doing and she approves, although she cautions me that it can’t be a “professional” opinion since I’m technically not scheduled for an appointment with her. But she’s from Back East and she can’t help herself, so the advice just keeps flowing from her mouth.
“Most of all,” she says, leaning across the counter and looking me square in the eyes, “you’ve got to rest.”
“Oh, I have been,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. She's got this look of disbelief going like my Cousin Angela from Boston gets.
“Ok, I mean. Half. I’ve cut my activities in half.”
“And?”
“And really, that’s it. That’s the truth.”
She pinches her lips tight, then speaks. “You aren’t going to want to hear this but you have to stop. Don’t kick. Don’t jump. Don’t stay in difficult stances. Two weeks, no karate.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, I mean it. Rest. Just rest. R-E-S-T. Just two weeks. You have to do this. Work out your abs. Your arms. Do stretches, whatever. But stop all the other stuff.”
And there’s something in her tone, the way she’s leaning in as if to impart a gift, but she’s got me all ears and finally I say, “Ok. Ok. Rest. I can do that. I think. I mean—yes. I will.”
“Good,” she says, and sits back into her chair. “That’s better. We’ll see you in five weeks.”
He is the orthopedic surgeon I have been waiting to see for two months and today I finally got to meet him. And while the waiting room was utterly claustrophobic, the patient rooms decorated for different university sport’s teams made up the difference. Mine was orange. Bright orange. So orange I had to shield my eyes at first glance. This could only be Clemson University. The flaming gay doctor’s assistant with the kickass name, Nike Shox shoes, styled hair, and a pierced ear also helped.
But more than anything, Dr. Superman’s medical knowledge and the fact that he sat down and took the time to talk to me—about the seasons, about writing, about a 7th grade teacher who changed his life—impressed me the most.
His arguments for steroid injections and human growth hormone (a study he’s involved in through Wake Forest University) were compelling. “We don’t play God, but we take what God gave us and use it to heal ourselves faster,” he said. I’m beyond telling people in the South that I don’t believe in God—it just doesn’t get me anywhere—but his analogy served its purpose. He takes what our bodies already make naturally and puts it right where it needs to go, in highly concentrated amounts.
The good news is that the X-Rays and MRI results showed no acute injury, the only suspicious area being the left lateral meniscus (duh), which “demonstrates degenerative changes.” The bad news is that the cartilage under both of my kneecaps is nearly wiped out. “You’re not bone on bone yet,” Dr. Superman advised, “but you’re taking away more than your body can keep up with. You make the things that come together to form cartilage—your body does this for you everyday at noon and midnight,” he goes on.
What I can’t believe is that he was talking in a way that I could actually hear, without dumbing too much down. I can’t believe I now owe over $1,000 to the hospital for my MRI (and yes, that’s WITH insurance). I can’t believe I’ve been told to do PT 3x/wk at $70 per pop (which I will not do—I asked for a home plan). I can’t believe I took two knee braces, supplements, and the injections not knowing whether insurance will cover them. I can’t believe just to get there, get in the door, and get home costs me $90. In short, I can’t quite believe I’m walking this Western medical path.
And when it came down to it, I nodded my head yes. Yes, inject me with that stuff. Put it right into my knees with that giant needle even though it goes against everything I feel good about and have practiced for the last six years of my life. Just do it. Now. Please. Because I can’t take anymore of anything else.
It’s not supposed to hurt, they say—and lord knows I’ve had these injections before, back in my rugby days, before I had to have foot surgeries. But it’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, that I didn’t have to grab the sides of the patient table and tear at the tissue paper a little. Or that, when he asked me what was wrong with a particular scene I read in this novel that I didn’t like, I had to hold my breath and answer him in fits and starts as the fluid pressed its way into my body.
“Scene development,” I told him.
He looked at me. I looked at the ceiling, jerked at the hips.
He pressed down more on the needle. “And?” he said.
“And dialogue. You can’t prop up a scene on dialogue alone.”
“I agree,” he said. “But what about the narrator?” He’s finished with the right one and is letting me catch my breath.
I wait. I don’t know for how long. “She narrated in limited 3rd but she did a lousy job.”
“What do you mean?” says Dr. Superman, preparing the next needle.
“I mean she kept cheating but using interior monologue—“ stab, swell, shoot, jerk—“as a way to get back to a 1st person voice. And—“twist, turn, tear, grind—“and there’s a better way to do that.”
“How?” says Dr. Superman. “Because that’s really the hardest part, isn’t it? Writing in 3rd person but portraying what a character is thinking and feeling at the time?”
He’s almost done. He’s got to be. I swear. “You’re right. It is hard.” Almost as hard as this, I want to say. “But you can show a character reacting to something in real time and that’s even more powerful than saying what’s he's thinking, for instance.”
He pulls the needle out and sits back in his chair. I’m still curled up, gripping the edges of the table. Me. The former rugger. The karateka. The mountain mama. Withered, on a fake leather cushion.
I exhale.
Reality is hard to dismiss. I’ve been in pain for 8 months. My acupuncture treatments every two weeks keep me moving and, at times, bring me to a pain-free state with 100% functioning and mobility. Other times, I’m limping. The tinctures, poultices, lotions, and liniments from Joe are immensely helpful, but they’re not enough at my current rate of activity.
Which brings me to the next “I can’t believe…”
On my way out, I was told to talk to the head PT at the center to get a recommendation for treatment and a PT near me in case I decide to go. I told her I live in Tinyville.
“Where?” she said, her Back East accent none but charming.
“Um, it’s at the base of Roan Mountain?” I said.
“Mount what?”
“Ok, it’s about 17 miles from SmallTown. Do you know where that is?”
“Huh?” She shook her head.
“Ok, do you know where LittleTown is, about 38 miles from BigCity, NC?”
“Yeah, oh yeah. I know that place. There’s one office there, I believe. Right there off the highway.”
“Yeah, that’s 26 miles from my house, but I know which one you’re talking about.”
She laughs, then asks me about my home plan. I tell her the exercises I’d been doing and she approves, although she cautions me that it can’t be a “professional” opinion since I’m technically not scheduled for an appointment with her. But she’s from Back East and she can’t help herself, so the advice just keeps flowing from her mouth.
“Most of all,” she says, leaning across the counter and looking me square in the eyes, “you’ve got to rest.”
“Oh, I have been,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. She's got this look of disbelief going like my Cousin Angela from Boston gets.
“Ok, I mean. Half. I’ve cut my activities in half.”
“And?”
“And really, that’s it. That’s the truth.”
She pinches her lips tight, then speaks. “You aren’t going to want to hear this but you have to stop. Don’t kick. Don’t jump. Don’t stay in difficult stances. Two weeks, no karate.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, I mean it. Rest. Just rest. R-E-S-T. Just two weeks. You have to do this. Work out your abs. Your arms. Do stretches, whatever. But stop all the other stuff.”
And there’s something in her tone, the way she’s leaning in as if to impart a gift, but she’s got me all ears and finally I say, “Ok. Ok. Rest. I can do that. I think. I mean—yes. I will.”
“Good,” she says, and sits back into her chair. “That’s better. We’ll see you in five weeks.”
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Seriously.
I could describe this scene eloquently if I weren’t so exhausted, but here goes anyway:
So it’s Sarah and I, well past dark, sitting on the front porch of the gallery in downtown Tinyville. We’ve just finished attending this weekend’s opening, featuring a potter whose work I am writing about, and we’ve decided to finish the wine that’s left and enjoy the early Fall air.
The ultimate irony is this: Sarah’s decided to try online dating, with my help, and there’s a wireless internet connection at the gallery. That’s the real reason we’re sticking around. She’s brought her laptop and I’m guiding her through the 50,000 questions on the eHarmony survey and that’s when it hits me. We are sitting, quite literally, along the main street of Tinyville. Two blocks south there is a Texaco gas station with half a dozen 4x4’s and twice as many men eating soft serve ice cream from the market and sitting on their bumpers. This is what they do on Friday and Saturday nights. We just went to a gallery opening where the only person doing any hitting on anybody was a 50 year-old man who shook my hand twice, held onto it for too long, then pulled a Steno pad out of his breast pocket and said—while writing MY NAME down in his book—“I’ll count you among my closest friends.” He proceeded to bump into me the rest of the evening, stare at me blankly, and interrupt my conversations. He had flakes in his hair and his eyes were glossy and I think he was off his rocker. I told Sarah if he got near me one more time I was going to round kick him in the temple and she laughed. I didn’t laugh.
The point is this: People meet people on main streets. That’s where you do things and are seen and can be seen. The same thing with gallery openings. So we’re sitting on main street outside a gallery—a double whammy potential dating scene—and we’re looking for dates ONLINE. I mean, really? REALLY.
So it’s Sarah and I, well past dark, sitting on the front porch of the gallery in downtown Tinyville. We’ve just finished attending this weekend’s opening, featuring a potter whose work I am writing about, and we’ve decided to finish the wine that’s left and enjoy the early Fall air.
The ultimate irony is this: Sarah’s decided to try online dating, with my help, and there’s a wireless internet connection at the gallery. That’s the real reason we’re sticking around. She’s brought her laptop and I’m guiding her through the 50,000 questions on the eHarmony survey and that’s when it hits me. We are sitting, quite literally, along the main street of Tinyville. Two blocks south there is a Texaco gas station with half a dozen 4x4’s and twice as many men eating soft serve ice cream from the market and sitting on their bumpers. This is what they do on Friday and Saturday nights. We just went to a gallery opening where the only person doing any hitting on anybody was a 50 year-old man who shook my hand twice, held onto it for too long, then pulled a Steno pad out of his breast pocket and said—while writing MY NAME down in his book—“I’ll count you among my closest friends.” He proceeded to bump into me the rest of the evening, stare at me blankly, and interrupt my conversations. He had flakes in his hair and his eyes were glossy and I think he was off his rocker. I told Sarah if he got near me one more time I was going to round kick him in the temple and she laughed. I didn’t laugh.
The point is this: People meet people on main streets. That’s where you do things and are seen and can be seen. The same thing with gallery openings. So we’re sitting on main street outside a gallery—a double whammy potential dating scene—and we’re looking for dates ONLINE. I mean, really? REALLY.
Friday, September 05, 2008
Click, Click
Website updates!
I know, I know…there’s probably too much text on that central image, but it’s just too cool not to feature. New sidebar links and updated “Forthcoming Articles” section. The Archives link functions now and the Bio page is updated to indicate my graduation.
I know, I know…there’s probably too much text on that central image, but it’s just too cool not to feature. New sidebar links and updated “Forthcoming Articles” section. The Archives link functions now and the Bio page is updated to indicate my graduation.
Getting There
Occasion 1
Time: Last week, on the last official day of the craft school’s summer session.
Location: The porch of the Dye Shed on the craft school campus
View: Open fields atop Conley Ridge, llamas included. Unfolding hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond that.
Company: Fellow craft school staff members, a few local artists, and platefuls of amazing food from The Pines (craft school dining)
Beverage: Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic, served in handblown glass tumblers
Insight: I do not just work with my boss that I don’t get along with at the coffeehouse. I work on a larger team of amazing, talented, bright, curious, and innovative artists and thinkers. This is the end of summer and the beginning of sanity on campus. Things will be more manageable from here on out. I can relax now, and shift my perspective.
Occasion 2
Time: Yesterday morning, working solo at the coffeehouse on our special Fall Break hours
Location: Coffeehouse
View: Over the top of the espresso machine, through the paned windows, I can see the top of Conley Ridge and the morning’s first rays burning off the fog above the fields.
Company: All staff members, all relieved that summer is over, all in need of fine espresso beverages that I am there to make for them.
Beverage: I was drinking iced Toddy w/ soy
Insight: I knew everybody in the room, what they drank, and how to make them smile. That’s a pretty great position to be in. And what else? They all said thank you and meant it.
Occasion 3
Time: This afternoon and evening.
Location: The dojo.
View: The kamiza—our Shuri gate to pay respects to the lineage of our school of training.
Company: A row of karateka and Hanshi, one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.
Beverage: N/A.
Insight: I’ve been helping out with kids class for a few weeks and will up my attendance this month to help Hanshi (Sienna has started college and her first part-time job and isn’t in class anymore). Today, I found ways to help that were non-obtrustive to Hanshi’s style and genuinely helpful to the kids. Hours later, after adult class and 80 minutes of kamenokata (grappling), we were all changing to go home and Hanshi told me I did a great job helping out, even patted me on the back and said he was really grateful for the work I did with the kids. On my way out, I paid Dori $30 extra dollars for the additional kids classes I’ll be attending this month. I might be helping, but I’m learning, too, and the least I can do it pay for my time there. It felt good to do the right thing and to want to do it.
Occasion 4
Time: Tonight, for about four hours.
Location: David and John’s gallery in downtown Tinyville
View: Sitting on the gallery porch, we could see he main street in Tinyville, a used car lot across the street, and all the stars of the Blue Ridge in the sky beyond that.
Company: David, John, Wesley, Karen.
Beverage: An Argentinian Malbec
Insight: I have friends outside of the craft school and outside of the dojo and they make my experience here in Tinyville more real. I can’t forget this. I am not the person who serves coffee and goes home to hide and write—even though that is what I have been doing pretty much nonstop since I graduated (and, well, the two years I was in school). I have a balanced life, or the capacity to lead one and it’s nights like this that help me remember.
Time: Last week, on the last official day of the craft school’s summer session.
Location: The porch of the Dye Shed on the craft school campus
View: Open fields atop Conley Ridge, llamas included. Unfolding hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond that.
Company: Fellow craft school staff members, a few local artists, and platefuls of amazing food from The Pines (craft school dining)
Beverage: Bombay Sapphire gin and tonic, served in handblown glass tumblers
Insight: I do not just work with my boss that I don’t get along with at the coffeehouse. I work on a larger team of amazing, talented, bright, curious, and innovative artists and thinkers. This is the end of summer and the beginning of sanity on campus. Things will be more manageable from here on out. I can relax now, and shift my perspective.
Occasion 2
Time: Yesterday morning, working solo at the coffeehouse on our special Fall Break hours
Location: Coffeehouse
View: Over the top of the espresso machine, through the paned windows, I can see the top of Conley Ridge and the morning’s first rays burning off the fog above the fields.
Company: All staff members, all relieved that summer is over, all in need of fine espresso beverages that I am there to make for them.
Beverage: I was drinking iced Toddy w/ soy
Insight: I knew everybody in the room, what they drank, and how to make them smile. That’s a pretty great position to be in. And what else? They all said thank you and meant it.
Occasion 3
Time: This afternoon and evening.
Location: The dojo.
View: The kamiza—our Shuri gate to pay respects to the lineage of our school of training.
Company: A row of karateka and Hanshi, one of the best teachers I’ve ever had.
Beverage: N/A.
Insight: I’ve been helping out with kids class for a few weeks and will up my attendance this month to help Hanshi (Sienna has started college and her first part-time job and isn’t in class anymore). Today, I found ways to help that were non-obtrustive to Hanshi’s style and genuinely helpful to the kids. Hours later, after adult class and 80 minutes of kamenokata (grappling), we were all changing to go home and Hanshi told me I did a great job helping out, even patted me on the back and said he was really grateful for the work I did with the kids. On my way out, I paid Dori $30 extra dollars for the additional kids classes I’ll be attending this month. I might be helping, but I’m learning, too, and the least I can do it pay for my time there. It felt good to do the right thing and to want to do it.
Occasion 4
Time: Tonight, for about four hours.
Location: David and John’s gallery in downtown Tinyville
View: Sitting on the gallery porch, we could see he main street in Tinyville, a used car lot across the street, and all the stars of the Blue Ridge in the sky beyond that.
Company: David, John, Wesley, Karen.
Beverage: An Argentinian Malbec
Insight: I have friends outside of the craft school and outside of the dojo and they make my experience here in Tinyville more real. I can’t forget this. I am not the person who serves coffee and goes home to hide and write—even though that is what I have been doing pretty much nonstop since I graduated (and, well, the two years I was in school). I have a balanced life, or the capacity to lead one and it’s nights like this that help me remember.
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Trying to Start
I’ve been getting closer to taking that step into the meditation hut (next to the house). I still haven’t entered the shrine room, but the desire has been there twice in the past two days. Desire, partnered with resistance, I should say.
When the feeling came up, I noticed it and named it for what it was, then went back to what I was doing (yoga, interestingly enough). I’ll get there. I know I will. One day at a time, right? Each moment is a new opportunity.
When the feeling came up, I noticed it and named it for what it was, then went back to what I was doing (yoga, interestingly enough). I’ll get there. I know I will. One day at a time, right? Each moment is a new opportunity.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
Statistics
Here is what I am learning:
At the end of the day I come home and either
a) want to write, read, and edit until 2am (80% of the time).
b) want to exercise (10% of the time if it’s not already a dojo night).
c) or feel that my house is too big and my self is too small and there is all this space to fill and nobody to share it with (the other 10% of the time).
The thought of meeting somebody new or going on a date either
a) sounds like way too much work (49% of the time).
b) seems like an impossibility given where I live (49%).
c) or sounds kinda cool if there was mutual attraction (2%).
The degree to which I may be deceiving myself about this: Undetermined.
The thought of turning 30 in a few months either
a) makes me feel even more excited about working towards being self-employed (50% of the time)
b) or makes me think that if I want to meet somebody, I’d better do it soon and I’m going to have to move in order to do it (the other half of the time).
THE PROBLEM WITH THIS IS: If I want to be self-employed as soon as possible, I can really only afford to do that here, where my cost of living is incredibly low. If I want to meet somebody and that requires moving, I’ll be putting off my desires to be self-employed for at least a few more years.
Number of times in any given day I think about whether or not I will be alone for the rest of my life: 5-20.
Number of times I think about this while practicing karate: 0.
Number of times I think about this while writing a story: 0.
Number of times I think about this while preparing submissions for publication: 0.
(And people wonder why I get so much done…It’s called productive avoidance and it feels effing great. Try it. I swear. It’s better than party drugs.)
Other random facts:
Number of female friends last week who confided to me, on separate occasions, that they hadn’t had sex in 3-12 months because there are no men in our mountains: 5.
Number of potential dates I could think of for these women: 0.
Choice quote from one of these women: “I’m putting an add on Craig’s list saying I’ll pay $20 per inch.”
Number of women who laughed at said quote: Every woman in the coffeehouse at the time.
At the end of the day I come home and either
a) want to write, read, and edit until 2am (80% of the time).
b) want to exercise (10% of the time if it’s not already a dojo night).
c) or feel that my house is too big and my self is too small and there is all this space to fill and nobody to share it with (the other 10% of the time).
The thought of meeting somebody new or going on a date either
a) sounds like way too much work (49% of the time).
b) seems like an impossibility given where I live (49%).
c) or sounds kinda cool if there was mutual attraction (2%).
The degree to which I may be deceiving myself about this: Undetermined.
The thought of turning 30 in a few months either
a) makes me feel even more excited about working towards being self-employed (50% of the time)
b) or makes me think that if I want to meet somebody, I’d better do it soon and I’m going to have to move in order to do it (the other half of the time).
THE PROBLEM WITH THIS IS: If I want to be self-employed as soon as possible, I can really only afford to do that here, where my cost of living is incredibly low. If I want to meet somebody and that requires moving, I’ll be putting off my desires to be self-employed for at least a few more years.
Number of times in any given day I think about whether or not I will be alone for the rest of my life: 5-20.
Number of times I think about this while practicing karate: 0.
Number of times I think about this while writing a story: 0.
Number of times I think about this while preparing submissions for publication: 0.
(And people wonder why I get so much done…It’s called productive avoidance and it feels effing great. Try it. I swear. It’s better than party drugs.)
Other random facts:
Number of female friends last week who confided to me, on separate occasions, that they hadn’t had sex in 3-12 months because there are no men in our mountains: 5.
Number of potential dates I could think of for these women: 0.
Choice quote from one of these women: “I’m putting an add on Craig’s list saying I’ll pay $20 per inch.”
Number of women who laughed at said quote: Every woman in the coffeehouse at the time.
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