100 words a day

In the beginning I was concerned about the undeniable narcissism of it. Who do I think am? What makes me so important? I think every artist struggles with those questions. I can’t be the only one. If we allow ourselves to believe in our own meaninglessness, we cower. We end. We must believe in the value of our contribution in order to create. Even if no one else does, we must believe in ourselves. I don’t ponder these existential themes everyday, but they always linger in the background.

This became a test of endurance. Today, I exhale. Tomorrow, everything changes.

I don’t know why I resisted. Did I actually think I could survive in DC without air conditioning? In August?

I called a service guy today. He took a moment to confirm the contact information he had for me in the system. The first number he quoted sounded eerily familiar but it wasn’t mine. At least not any more. Then it came to me: it was from the office. With the great big window.

“Oh, that was my old work number. I have a new one now.”

“Excellent! It’s about time you got out of there!”

He actually said that.

I could go a whole day without looking out a window.  In a former life I had an office. With a great big window.  That was several lifetimes ago and that story’s been told.  Ad nauseam.

I believe you don’t need a window to know what it’s like outside.   Today it feels like it’s raining.  I don’t want to know if I’m wrong.  I don’t want to know that it’s sunny and beautiful.  I’d prefer to think it rainy and cold, perfect couch weather. Because that’s where I want to be, and I’d like the weather to match my mood.

Usually my apartment greets me with a refreshing waft of cool air when I get home. Yesterday, nothing. The temperature outside my apartment was exactly the same as inside my apartment. The thermostat confirmed my suspicions: 80 degrees. Not good. I could hear my air conditioner chugging along. I imagine it had been working hard (and ineffectively) all day. 

I don’t mind when little things go wrong in my apartment. That’s part of home ownership. I actually enjoy the occasional surprise project. But an HVAC system? Even with my out-of-control-superman-sized can-do attitude, I know when I’m out of my league.

Life would be easier if I were a duck. Or a goldfish. I get hurt and angry and I have this pesky little thing called a memory. It’s not a good one, but it works sometimes.

At times I can be as tall as the Empire State Building. And to be dismantled in a weekend is more than demoralizing. When I go home I look forward to leaving, then takes me a week to rebound to my fighting height.

I know it’s melodramatic to say I’m not going home again, but right now three hundred miles is still too close.

I cast my mother as a villain in a short story I once wrote.  I named her Doubt.  She crashed a party thrown by Joy and Merriment.   When she entered, Carefree scampered out the back.  I wrote that ten years ago.  Little has changed. 

The worst-case scenario is the only thing ever on her horizon.  That’s not the crystal ball I choose to use.  In that world there’s no leaping, no soaring.  There is no risk.  Why risk if you are doomed to fail?

That’s it for me. I am sick of acknowledging the caution; I just want to proceed.

What a difference a sleepless night can make.  Last night my mind was running faster than a sprinter in her final fifty yards.  I begged morning to come to I could stop pretending and I could continue the race.  But when morning did greet me, I had no energy to say hello.  

I thought coffee would work. But it was no match for the stifling suffocation of a hundred degree day.  Any energy transference was quickly halted by the heat.  And now I can’t remember what it was like to have a spring in my step. It was only yesterday.  

It couldn’t have been scripted more carefully. Two weeks ago I told him I used to be a manager. He was surprised and asked me if I had liked it. I did. I really missed it. Foreshadowing.

Last week I helped him out with his work and his respect deepened. He applauded some of my methods and began using them as his own.

I found out today I will soon become his boss. This promotion came out of nowhere and presented itself like an early morning earthquake. It woke me up and left me shaken the rest of the day.

The irony is not lost on me.  This morning I discussed finding inspiration everywhere.  I spoke with such authority of cultivating those fleeting thoughts that show up unexpectedly throughout the day. I recommended keeping a notebook around to capture the random ideas so they are not at the mercy of one’s memory.  

And, of course, tonight I have nothing.  Nothing to say, nothing I’d like to dissect.   I write less (and worse) when I’m content.  It’s the artist paradox: we yearn for the end of our suffering, but once we glimpse happiness, we don’t know what to do with ourselves.

Right now I’ve accepted the fact that there are certain things I do for income and there are other, more interesting and exciting things, I do for free.  As long as I have (and take) the time to do those other things, then I am in no position to complain.

For now, my two selves seem to have met each other in the middle. My rational self has allowed my creative self to commit to a daily practice. My creative self has continued to be vigilant in ensuring that my rational self never sneaks out and enrolls in law school.

When I was little I decided to write a book. I settled in with my brother’s loose-leaf notebook paper and a pen. (Look at my seven year-old self tossing her hat in the ring. Sigh.)  I understood the basic structure of books and began writing with fervor. I started with the title page. Done. Easier than I thought. Then I wrote the table contents. With page numbers.

I had no concept of plot, themes, characters, or anything else upon which one could construct a story. But I had chapter names. I laugh, but I fear my approach hasn’t changed much.

This thing I do, it’s quite Seinfeldien, actually. “What’s your blog about?” “Nothing, really.”

Then I listen to love songs. Something always happens in love songs. Hearts collide, explode, then depart. Who knows if the stories behind the lyrics are true. Some of them must be. It doesn’t matter.

What if I wrote love songs? What if there was always something going on? And when there wasn’t, I could just spin a story that would draw tears. I could invoke my heart’s muscle memory to create an achingly beautiful tale to bide my time until the next true thing happened.

What is it that makes manual labor so enjoyable? Is it the feeling of accomplishment, of being about to point to something tangible that you’ve completed? Or is it that it requires little brain power, so the mind is free to roam aimlessly for hours on end?

I am re-caulking my tub. It requires thoroughness and cleanliness: two qualities not found in my toolbox. I am mostly a sloppy person with quirky spurts of anal retention. I was fantastically organized when I bought my home. And my car. But everything else I own is currently lying on my bedroom floor.

What if I didn’t edit?
What if I didn’t count?
What if I wrote with abandon?
What if all of the words that tumbled onto the screen left an indelible mark? Would I stop mid-sentence? Leave a thought unfinished?

It’s day four of an alcoholic spree. It’s been the perfect storm of birthdays, barbecues, and dinners out. I’m sitting on the metro concentrating on not getting sick. If only it didn’t shudder this much. I’m counting the remaining stops before I get home. Ten. Nine. Eight. …. I know I can’t drive. Guess I’ll be napping in the car tonight.

I loved my family. I love who we are now as well, but we’re different. We’ve added and subtracted, divided and multiplied. But there was something absolutely magical about that original foursome. It’s easy to recall the cold and distance, but more than anything there was laughter.

When I think about what I want now, I revert to the stereotypical artist’s answer: a man of depth and darkness who’s comfortable apart from the crowd. But honestly, I just want someone who can make me laugh. I too easily slip into the melancholy; it would be nice to be rescued sometime.

I hate turning down additional insurance.  I do it, but I always feel uneasy about it.   I always wonder if I am being offered it at this particular moment because the universe is trying to tell me something.  And if the universe is talking to me, I will turn my music down.  Luckily, my rational frugal side is stronger than my confused spiritual side.

When I got my new car the finance guy spent thirty minutes trying to sell me additional coverage.  He was wearing an eye patch from a car accident.  That was a hard pitch to turn down.

Just as I planned, I crashed the meeting today. And I got an assignment out of it, with a new “client.”  It’s easier to get work when you’re sitting front and center in a crowded meeting than when you’re hiding in your cube.  Lesson learned.  Is this work I am taking away from somebody else on my team? Technically, yes.  Do I feel bad about it? Not particularly.  I know that person is completely swamped. I’m not. So I win.  

I feel like I’m finally beginning to hit my stride.  I’m happy about it, but I still don’t really care.

Boss, just back from vacation: So what did I miss?
Employee: We had that meeting you wanted me to have.
B: Great! How did was it?
E: Well. It didn’t go exactly as planned.
B: Why not?
E: They changed the topic of the meeting.
B: But you were supposed to lead the meeting.
E: I know, but it changed directions.
B: You’re going to have to reschedule it. To have the meeting you were supposed to have.

Silence.

Me (Noticeably cringing, wishing desperately my chair was equipped with an eject button. Or arsenic.)  Did you have a nice vacation?

I’m not proud of this: whenever I spend time with a married man whose age is reasonably close to mine, my thoughts invariably wander to the weird: what would life be with this man? Would I be happier? 

Usually, I am relieved.  I thank heavens that some woman mercifully fished him out of the sea.   

There have only been two men in recent memory that I actually got wistful over.   But then I consider the lives they’ve built with their wives.  There’s undeniable envy.   But their contentment, their peace, I couldn’t have it with them.   It’s not me right now.

“Do you parents still live in

It was an innocent enough question. But I noticed a flicker of pain in his split-second pause.

“My mom still does”

That could mean divorce.  Or death.  I chose not to clarify.

We sat at his dining room table and took turns synopsizing our last seven years.   Yes, it really had been that long.   Then he told me his father had died.  Five years ago.  My heart just dissolved. THIS is the stuff you come out of the woodwork for. There is absolutely nothing more important.  And I was nowhere to be found.

Here’s my new plan: I am going to start going to meetings I haven’t been invited to.  I don’t mean tiny meetings on obscure topics where my crashing would be obvious and my presence irrelevant.  I’m talking about meetings big enough for me to blend in but small enough to be noticed if I choose. I’m finally figuring out that these meetings are my organization’s men’s locker rooms and golf courses.  They’re where discussions are occurring and deals are being made.

To be in the right place at the right time, you must start by being in the right place.

Today marks my two month anniversary with the new car.  One would think I’d be able to park it by now. My getting-to-know-you period with my last car consisted of hitting things: curbs, gates, other cars.  But that’s how I learned.  I knew exactly what my car could do. 

I have no idea what this bubble-mobile can do.  And because I’m keeping it clutter-free, it feels like a rental.  And try as I might, I cannot park it.  It’s become a bit of a joke.  Now I just shake my head as I walk away from it.  Every single time.

Today I was reminiscing about my arthritic knee. She was better than the weather channel. This afternoon the sky was so ominous people came out of their offices to see the impending storm. My knee was strangely silent. I wondered when she lost her voice. Where was I?

Tonight I played volleyball for the first time in a year. When I pulled up to the familiar brick building, I finally understood. It wasn’t the running that destroyed my knee. The abrupt stopping and starting, changing directions, and sliding on my knee pad-less knees probably had something to do with it.

You know you’ve overreacted when you’ve finished recounting the story of a gross offense inflicted on you, and your friend looks at you, expectantly, waiting for the real shoe to drop. And it’s only after she sees your wide-eyed anxious nod, does she realize that you’ve finished.

At that point you might as well change topics. There’s nothing she can say that can drown out her moment of silence. Apparently the felony you’ve described wouldn’t even warrant a minor parking ticket. The fact is, maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal.

And maybe you were the ass who overreacted.

I ask for work.  I volunteer for everything.  If it wasn’t 105 degrees outside I might offer to mow the lawn.  I’m not usually this eager, I’m just unusually bored.

I am too reverent to go to the movies or leave for a long lunch and return with a manicure.  Instead I quietly sit in my cube and read junk online.  Sometimes what I read is unexpectedly hilarious.  The biggest challenge I face each day is stifling my laughter.  Today I lost the challenge.

I spit out what I was drinking.  When my neighbors were on a conference call.

Does absence makes the heart grow fonder? I’m starting to think that overused expression is mean. Isn’t the subtext actually, “I liked you much more when you weren’t here. I don’t remember you stinking this much.”

Cynical? Sure. But why do we remember people better than they are? Is it our natural inclination to want to give others the benefit of the doubt? Do we second-guess our initial impressions or do they fade with time? And then how often are we disappointed when we realize our original estimations were accurate?

It sounds more like amnesia makes the heart grow fonder.

Is it possible we only grow in the presence of others? And if we don’t see people they’ll forever be the age we left them?  In the past ten years, I think I’ve spent a total of six months with my mother. In her eyes, am I still twenty?

I understand that her tightening grip on motherhood has more to do with her ambiguous future than me.  If I needed her more, would she still cling? Or would she demagnetize?   Ultimately, she is reaping the benefits of a job flawlessly done.  And I think part of her actually regrets it.

I wonder if I’m too old to enjoy musicals. Tonight my mother and I took in a Broadway show. After each act, we looked at each other and counted down how many were left. The show wasn’t terrible and you could tell the actors were working very hard, but it just wasn’t very good.

Maybe musicals aren’t easy for anyone. I spend my time listening so hard, trying to discern the lyrics over the orchestra, that I don’t remember to enjoy the show.  Tonight, I gave up. I let my mind go. And when people stood for ovation, we ran.

They say that the sky is bigger out west than it is here. They say our skylines have stolen our skies. I didn’t understand until I visited Colorado.  Then I agreed.  Until tonight.  For the final two hours of my drive to New York I was entertained by a stormy summer show.  Streaks of orange and white lightning ran races from their starting blocks in the east to the finish line in the west.  Their tracks illuminated the entire sky until the next race.  Giant trees of light exploded above the horizon.

On nights like tonight, eastern skies can compete.

There are certain things in life that I want to take for granted.  Bridges, for example.  I drive a lot.  I want to have so much confidence in bridges that I don’t even notice when I’m using them. Actually, add tunnels to that list as well.

Sadly, that is not always the case.  The collapse of the bridge in Minneapolis is affecting me on a level I didn’t expect.  All day websites and newspapers featured surrealistic photos that looked more like movie stills from an action-adventure film.  Then came the headlines: “The country’s crumbling infrastructure.”  The whole thing is terrifying.

I don’t appreciate unearned flirting. I should have to work for it. Maybe I want him to work for it. I believe there should be a period of time where messages are exchanged, be it glances or emails, before the buttering up begins. This wasn’t butter; this was margarine.

There is no virtue in describing my “sweet green eyes” if I’ve just told you that I have green eyes. I am not flattered by dolled-up mimicry.

Maybe I am making this more difficult than it needs to be. Apparently I’m ornery. This might have something to do with my status.