The Old Country

I don’t know why I’m writing this.  Wait a minute.  Yes I do.  I’m writing this because right now I can’t be anything more or less than I am.  I don’t feel like making something up, and pretending nothing happened.  This is not fiction.  Although I wish it was.

I am an American.  Usually I don’t like to bring that fact into a conversation.  I don’t know why.  But there it is.  I am an American.  And a New Yorker.  I am from New York.  I am an American.  I am a New Yorker.  That’s why I cannot, this time, make anything up.

I used to choose not to say the pledge in school.  This past week, I’ve said it twice.  In front of my television set.

I’m writing this because like every other American kid, I went to the World Trade Center on a school fieldtrip.  In the sixth grade.  And then again to show some tourists around, the only other time natives line up to see their own landmarks.  It was a must-see.  For tourists.  I am not a tourist.  We thought it would always be there.  It wasn’t like some bastard was goint to crash into it or anything.  Well.

I’m writing this because I love that skyline.  The best view in the entire world.  I’ve seen it how it’s meant to be hundreds of times.  And not just on a postcard.  The Towers weren’t just part of a beautiful view.  They were a livelihood for thousands of people.  People that can never go home again.  Times like this, I want to go home.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do.

The streets are supposed to smell of pretzels and roasted almonds, not flesh.  Those people were supposed to go home.  Landed and had airport moments with their families, or gotten in their cars after another day at work.  But they can’t go home.

I’m writing this because everything else seems so small; like the view from a plan window 20 thousand feet in the air.

 

From my journal, written in the week that followed September 11th, 2001.

Grandma Lied. Coasters Are Bad.

Image by Old Shoe Woman via Flickr

And so, I am on my way home from work, with a blog post or two playing around in my head.

I get home and I am all set to write.  Actually can’t wait.  My PA makes me a coffee before she leaves, and the cursor is blinking expectantly on the screen, ready for my words.  My fingers reach for the keys.

And my phone rings.  I talk to my Dad, listening while my own sentences run through my head.  I can multi-task.

I get off the phone.  Billy Joel starts to sing what I think of now as an appropriate song, and I lift my mug to take a sip of by now luke-warm coffee, just the way I like it.

I’m going to write.  Billy Joel is singing.  I’m happy.  All is right with the world.

And then the bottom drops out.

No, really.

The coaster, sneakily stuck to the bottom of my mug, clattered onto my keyboard.  Because of my slightly delayed, over-zealous fright-reflex, my butt left my seat, my hand shook and I spilt the coffee on the keyboard.

Billy stopped singing.  All was quiet.  Well, except for me.

After making the air blue, I switched off my sticky computer and hung it upside down.

And then, not unlike the time I couldn’t work the blu-ray player, I called Sarge.

‘I’ve done it again,’ I said.  It was true.  The reason I have insurance on this computer is because I did the VERY SAME THING  to my old one.  It was probably the same coaster, too.  The technician said I blew the mother-board.   Which is just a nice way of saying I have too much sugar in my coffee.

My current computer is drying out in our boiler cupboard as per Sarge’s suggestion.

I am writing this in my notebook and then I will type it on his computer.

I have actually thrown out the offending coaster.  I hope my coffee mug is making a mean ring on the table.

If my computer doesn’t switch on again, I shall be cashing in on my coffee-meets-computer-mishap insurance.  That’s what it’s for.

Life is Good

 

I’m sitting here in my pajamas and robe writing this in a notebook as Sarge makes us breakfast.  It is 3.30 and life is good.

I’ve been thinking that thought since Thursday.  It’s been going through my head like a mantra.  I’m sitting here on Friday night eating Chinese food and watching The Golden Girls reruns.  And life is good.  We’re trudging through snow tracks on Saturday on the hunt for cake and hot chocolate, and life is good.  We came home last night and finally had those beers and watched Raging Bull, and life is good.

After a lazy morning, we got up and talked to my Dad about plans for Hogmanay.  As I thought about the prospect of spending New Year’s Eve on an island in a cottage, with some of my favourite people,  I actually said, ‘life is good.’  As I listened to Sarge and my Dad talking on the phone, life was great.

OK, I don’t have a job to go to tomorrow, but that just means I haven’t found the right one to go to yet.

I have warm socks on my feet, good books to read, words to write and people to love.

Life is good.

Hot chocolate. Found yesterday.

I hope it’s good for you, too.  Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.

Stop Dreaming

I used to be obsessed with my dreams.  I was the one who bought the books and looked up the themes and symbols.   I asked questions right before I went to bed hoping I’d find answers in dreams.   I wrote single words and even lists in the morning and weeks later had no idea what I was on about.  That state of confusion isn’t limited to dreams.

I don’t remember my dreams anymore.  Perhaps because a major one came true, and I’m awake and living it.  Or maybe the alarm kicks on every morning and douses the lights on the play in my head, before I can remember it.

Some questions are answered, some ghosts laid to rest.  There are new questions though.  What are we doing this weekend?  What will I write today?  Is there any beer?  These are important these days.  And that’s OK.

Maybe waking up and living just to live makes dreams happen, and makes room for others we didn’t know we had.

What did you dream last night?  What are you living today?

The Sky through the trees in Pisa, Italy.

Ink from my notebook…

I am restless.  Before sitting down to write this I played Mafia Wars three times, brushed my teeth twice, drank two cups of coffee, ate a bagel, turned on music, turned off the washing machine, did some laps around the house, thought of poems I’ve written about procrastination and wondered if this is another one, turned the music off and sat down to write this.

 

The above word-splurge is what happens when you can’t leave the house because you are waiting for a workman to come and fix something in it, and actual ink from my actual notebook.