Moody Meow

It just dawned on me that we left Florida a year ago. We’ve missed a year of tropical storms, mosquitoes, palmetto bugs, opossums (sort of…they have them in OR too), shitty drivers, rising crime, and bazillion dollar electric bills from running the AC. And on many fronts, a year of silence. It’s partially my fault. Life moves on, calls are meant to be made but end up buried in an endless list of to-dos.

I miss some things about Florida, some of the intangibles that those who reside there will take for granted because it’s a part of the every day. Right now I’m in a mode of analyzing what’s important or noteworthy, of weighing the aspects of this and that and seeing what they mean to me and mine. I think Grannie’s death, and the trip to the Carolinas reminded me of a lot of things, and it can be summed up in a quote from an amazing schoolmate of mine. She told me, “Life’s too short to read shitty books.” I think that statement is applicable to all things, and it made me think, and think deeply. I fully intended on writing about the trip to the Carolinas, of telling you ever tear-soaked detail about how the family came together to mourn our matriarch. But she was a storyteller, above all else, and I think she would like the way her story will be told, at least by me. Step by step regurgitation of events is boring…but add a little nuance, and you have magic.

My observations throughout the past few weeks:

• The nicest stranger, a southern gentleman with stories for days, sat next to me on the plane from Pittsburgh to Atlanta. He told me tales of his life, how he stayed in Frisco every year where my mother lives, and teaches people to ski. I imagine that he would be a great conversationalist over dinner, with a beverage. And when we deboarded, he pulled my bag down from the overhead compartment and carried until we reached the train.  I told him I could carry it. “I’m a southern gentleman,” he said, with his raspy, world-wise voice. I knew he was a gentleman when he sat down next to me, made brief eye contact and then looked at his hands. His son is just a few years younger than I am, and blogs. I wanted to know the name of his son’s blog, so he handed me his buisiness card and told me to e-mail him. It’s sitting on my desk, and on my list of things to do tonight. You can tell a lot about a person when you watch their first contact with you. Some people bow their heads, intent on never sharing eye contact. Others stare (the tattoo on the chest doesn’t help) and seem to want to dominate. But he was only interested in whittling away the time with a chat. And I have to say, it’s the best flight I’ve had in years.
• The sky takes a deep breath before she exhales a southern storm. The air stills, and even the crickets respect the silence before the thunder rumbles through. Each creature takes a moment. Then the breath of violence, which turns the whisper of the trees into a rumble of rage. Leaves torn litter the lawn like confetti. Branches snap off and fall to the ground. But you can’t hear their snapping for the thunder and the trees. And then the rains beging. Not a trickle, but a sheet. A wall of smokey white marches through the wind and smacks the roof with a satisfying tempo. Once your ears grow used to the sounds, the mix of water on wood and wet leaf against bark, the sky stills, the winds dissapate, and the world is left to steam. Heat and wet cook the wood, until all is quiet.
• Writers are a self-centered bunch. They love words, especially their own, and want everyone to love them as well. This isn’t an observation of one person, rather of the collective at school. I think the reason we (and I do include myself in this) are so loud, and so eager to speak is that we want to share. Some do love the sounds of their own voices, and other’s won’t chime in for fear of ridicule. But if you gather a group of writers together, add a splash of wine and a week of no sleep, you will come home and realize that your head is full of words, your live is exhausted, you are overly tired, your ears may ring, and although writers can be self-centered, you would go back to Res in a heartbeat. Well, maybe…. as long as they had something for veggies that wasn’t a cheese sandwich.
• Sculpted hinges are cool as hell. Don’t deny it.
• Shy people fascinate me, especially successful shy people. My new mentor, who is very nice, seemed uneasy around me. My solution is one that my sister would appreciate, for our immediate reaction to people less obnoxious than ourselves (bad  grammar, I know)is to make total asses out of ourselves. If Gary, or Calie reads this — think Lionel Richie and dancing on the ceiling. My stupidity makes me snort. I think I am the funniest person I know.
• I watched a grown man bring a woman to tears during residency, and it did not make me happy. So I pulled aside said man, and tried to explain to him how to work in a group. Maybe I was a little rude about it, but I can’t abide accusatory crits. When he critiqued my work, I also felt a little defensive. I don’t want people to blow sunshine up my ass, but I’ll be damned if someone is going to tear my work (or anyone else’s for that matter) down to nothing. Beyond my rough, fuck-the-world exterior, I really hate it when people are rude or embarrass others. What I’m saying is the badass is a facade…just ask my beagles.
• My Grandmother has been reduced to ashes it, and it just hit Momma yesterday. And there’s nothing I can say to make it better. I feel so fucking powerless.

And that’s all the storyteller wants to talk about right now. I’m eyeball deep in work.

And KL - I’m sending hugs, love.