Disparate Things

An Unlikely Threesome

Often, it is difficult to pair-up things, even writing – fictional shorts, poems, essays, memoir-ish pieces might have a jarring effect when placed in proximity to each other just as certain people do. Such may be the case with Eye Trap, What May be in the Offing and Promises. Yet, for me as I put them together in this order, the grouping felt evolution-like. Would we create wonder-worlds through art if reality did not sometimes frighten and disappoint us? Would we resolve, even promise to improve if we had not experienced failure and then imagined something better?

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In “Eye Trap” (micro-fiction <100 words), I created this little f---er named Iggy; he thinks he has his shit together because he knows how to read people for the specific purpose of manipulating them. Like a bad fortune-teller, he only sees weaknesses and faults to exploit while missing all the spaces in-between that contain what makes us good and worthwhile. I might play with him later in a story, but he disgusts me, and I might simply kill him off…what, you say? Might Iggy also have some redeeming elements in those spaces in-between you mentioned?! No. The fact is, not everyone does.

Eye Trap (Macabre Monday Micro fiction < 100 words)

Iggy was good with women – they were drawn to him like heavenly bodies circling the sun.
There's good reason for the term, “eye-catching”:
Blackhole bitch eyes suck you in and eat you up;
Beach babe eyes promise endless summers and good times.
Home and hearth eyes smother your dreams; 
Huntress eyes stalk your nightmares.
Yep, Iggy had women all figured out, and Iggy’s eyes were bolt cutters.
The heavenly body smiled as she passed him but paused, caught as he knew she would be.
Venus on fire.

“What May be in the Offing” was inspired by a prompt from Beth Kempton’s Spring Light Workshop. I decided to integrate how would day-to-day life feel in my ideal world with the prompt word, "offing".

The word ‘offing’ has a nautical origin dating back to the 1600s describing what we think of as horizon - that part of the ocean that can be seen from land but not including the expanse near shore where ships anchor. To look into the offing means to search for one's magical destiny, fortune, and even what awaits us in the afterlife. It is where imagination and magic meet to create dreams that are the precursors of a new and better reality. My grandmother was the only person I’ve known who used the word "offing" in the course of daily conversation, and she always raised her eyebrows and smiled expectantly when she said it. That word on her lips was rich in possibility, a mysterious yet desirable unknown, her consummate faith in ‘perhaps this wonderful thing may come to pass’. Though the future might be full of infinite possibilities - good, bad and meh - nothing negative could lurk in the offing. The offing is more selective and holds its secrets close to the chest…only those who believe might see what’s hidden in its cards.

My ideal life (elements of which may or may not be in the offing) would contain moments, maybe even hours, or OMG could I hope for an entire day of certain activities, feelings, and thoughts?! None of my desired elements are of an exceptional nature, just daily tasks of living - yet they are far from mundane.

What May Be in the Offing

6AM: I awaken to a beautiful piece of music, classical, perhaps Mozart or Rachmaninoff, playing softly as something beckons me to arise, child of light (it speaks to my inner child who can be a bugger once in a while, but in essence, is a child of light). This inner child is not the whiny needy little thing she can be, but a highly evolved soul who has been healed and in turn can offer healing to others.

6AM - 6:30:  Other than music, it is quiet in my tiny house (otherwise known as a granny pad). The light of day begins to dispel the darkness in my room in a play of chiaroscuro slowly revealing beautiful yet conveniently placed items of necessity (it appears I might know Marie Kondo as a close friend who tidies up for me at least weekly and infuses my living space with her sparks of joy)! I shower and dress in a state of comfort and peace.

6:30AM - 7:00: I prepare a simple breakfast in an efficient, chef’s kitchen which smells of spices and all things healthy and good. While I drink my morning mushroom coffee and finish up my low calorie, low fat, low salt, low carb, low sugar yet incredibly delicious breakfast, I easily peruse my list of unreturned calls, texts, and emails which I take care of in a matter of minutes leaving all parties happy and satisfied, and no one is miffed that I have not devoted more time to listen and respond to their needs. My husband has already eaten his breakfast and is out for a brisk morning walk with our aging chihuahua, Olga, who is doing very well for being 119 years old.

7:00AM - 9:30: I indulge in a wonderful pickleball game with opponents and teammates who are both challenging and fun to play with. The extra oxygen from all my aerobic activity helps my blood carry away any toxins and stored up junk from my system infusing me with giggly endorphins. I drink plenty of water, and miraculously, the water is deeply satisfying, and I want to drink more instead of throwing it back up.
 
9:30AM- I0:30: I spend the recommended time weight training and know the extra muscle is helping my body regulate its blood sugar as well as burn more fat. I wear earbuds and enjoy an informative and amusing read from an author I am unfamiliar with who has a voice like Yul Brynner, a writing style like Dean Koontz, a depth and sensitivity like Chaim Potok and a sense of humor like Marty Feldman.  I lift my weights with only a bit of strain and my body thrills to the challenge. 

10:30AM-11:30 I meet a lovely friend at a new cafe and enjoy some novel dishes I have not tried before. The dishes just happen to be accompanied by ultra-easy recipe cards which I have no doubt I can replicate in my state-of-the-art kitchen. We talk of books, ideas and silliness, never thinking to mention the miserable political and world news that permeates the airways.

11:30-2:30PM: My favorite part of the day! Reading. Writing. Reading some more. Researching. Writing some more. Best yet, I experience no attack of writer's block nor any OCD editing that is more counterproductive than a pen without ink. I learn new things about old things I had taken for granted, and I feel a sort of catharsis in the process. My alter-egos (all of them) are harmoniously chatting and laughing amongst themselves like old, dear friends and none of them are casting disapproving glances my way.

2:30 – 4PM: I spend time with my grandchild after her school is out and we play, laugh, and act goofy together. The love in my heart is in my every action and word. Hubby joins and finds a playful part of himself (heretofore well-hidden), enters our game and we play happily until she must go home.

5 - 8 PM: Due to a recent and unexpected windfall, we decide to go out for dinner and enjoy a lovely meal with wine and live music without worry or having to sacrifice to pay the tab. Did I mention the view was amazing?

8PM – “Second star to the right and straight on till morning”: Sleep comes easily and deeply with dreams from childhood of Peter Pan, treehouses, dogs, forests, and fairies; some reveal new truths, some present puzzles to be solved. Those I love and who have passed on assume roles and smile mischievously as I fail to recognize them at first. Those still with me in life cavort in and out of my focus, as though they know secrets just beyond my ability to understand and are amused at my struggle. 

A new day begins. Dream-Grandma smiles as she slowly fades alongside the others. With raised eyebrows and a mysterious smile, she looks at me as if to ask, “What wonderful things do you suppose await in the offing?”

Promises

Inspired by Beth Kempton’s Spring Light Workshop

This word has been pulled through the muck and trampled beneath wheels that are always churning in my mind. I recall with no tiny amount of resentment and heartache so many promises given to me that were carelessly broken. But what of my promises, ones I made over the years, to others and even to myself?

There was the solemnity of my first promise made after joining a little troop of girls who mostly ate cookies and created gooey, messy crafts. "Scout's honor" was a sacred oath and not to be broken upon pain of death (did I really believe failure to keep my honor meant death)?

Reels of old 9 mm films showing my childhood run grainy in my mind and I see a few grade school declarations of, cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye, (what a frightening rhyme to teach children)!

And there is me in Catholic school swearing to God about something I didn't do, something I witnessed, and something I would do (why on earth was I swearing to God all the time when I clearly knew such swearing was a sin)?

And then, mercilessly my grainy film reveals so many promises I made to myself; it was painful to re-live them - what a sad litany of failed self-improvement projects.

I’ve always known that making a promise is serious business. So serious that I've avoided for some time the word, "promise" replacing it with statements like, "I will try..."  "I'll do everything I can..." "If there is time..." Cleverly, I've avoided too much commitment, ever so subtly, I've tiptoed around, "I promise..."

Reel after reel of grainy mind movie (this film room is a mess and I really need to tidy it up), shows evidence that I have broken nearly as many promises as I have kept over the years but with a much higher breakage rate on promises made to myself.

Why? Probably because I didn't (can I really put this in past tense, isn’t ‘don’t’ more appropriate?) consider myself an important beneficiary of promised goodnesses; certainly, the me who would be let down can handle it, right?

The question now is, am I ready to embark on a new path with a better commitment to committing?  Not as a snot-faced kid who had the best of intentions but as a grown woman who has known the heartache of a broken promise and the importance of honoring one…even the ones made to herself.

The proverb, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," comes to mind and with that thought, I have decided to promise (that dreaded word) to allot time each day to work on my craft; hone my words so that I feel a sense of satisfaction and completion not only in the process but in the product. This promise to myself, while others may bear witness, is not really for anyone but me and it is not contingent on others’ affirmations, future rewards of being published or even making money (all these things would be great, but gravy really). Writing is for me, and I am a worthy beneficiary of this promise to persevere (I say as one of my satirical alter-egos laughs).

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