I have an algae problem

Dear Blog,
I apologize. I have abandoned you again. I have no good reasons, just a lot of crummy excuses: I'm busy with this or that; I'm a procrastinator; I'm afraid what I have to say isn't important enough or interesting enough; I'm spending more time thinking about whether or not this well be read and how people will react to it than I am to the words stuck in my brain that want out.

It's a problem. When I neglect my writing my blood grows sluggish with unwritten words, unexpressed thoughts. I feel like if I were able to consistently skim off the surface layer of words-- the algae blooms of my mind-- I  might be able to get to a clear vantage point, a path to the deeper stuff below where the brilliant tropical fish weave just so through the beautiful coral. But no. I'm all lake scum and minnows and turtles forever sunning on the same logs. Alas.

But I'm here now. Forever stopping and starting, meandering, trying again. Speaking of which, this morning a friend posted a link to this Buddhist thingy called Starting Over, and it's coming in handy right at this particular very second.

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike

Lots of books about market gardening and chicken rearing and how to build chicken coops. I intend to purchase four baby chicks next weekend. So that oughta give me something to write about, huh?

Also, currently reading Astray, a fascinating book of historical fictions by Emma Donoghue. And an equally fascinating book of I-don't-know-what-to-call-it, by David Shields. Title: Reality Hunger: A Manifesto.

My ever so wonderful writing group met last night and I brought an unfinished piece that I suspect is going to turn into something much longer, about my retiring from midwifery. I have quite a lot to say about it, as it turns out, and it appears I am finally ready to start saying it. Stay tuned. 

Good Eats

The Beachland Ballroom kitchen, run by super-chef Brian Doyle, had a soft opening this afternoon to test out a new lunch menu. My friend Amy and I went, and hot damn, was it ever good. Highly recommended by us: Sweet potato tater-tots with curry aioli, Fresh "pealafel" bites with garlic-tahini sauce (it’s falafel made with peas instead of garbanzos), Brian’s Asian salad tossed with Thai vinaigrette (made with cabbage, lettuces, carrots, peppers, cilantro, and bok choy), North Coast Turkey Sandwich with Slovenian style locally produced bacon, smoked turkey, tomato, avocado, poached free range egg and Gruyere cheese sauce. There was more too, and all of it was delicious. And since it was a soft opening, half-price! Score! But I'll happily be back to pay full price later.

My Adorable Child

...makes me wish I was rich. The school I want to get him into is $18,000 a year. The summer camp I'd like to send him to is just under $5000. And his last dental visit turned up six cavities which will require a special pedio-dentist visit, likely to be out of network and out of my price range. How did this kid end up with six cavities? He gets less sugar than almost any other child on the planet. The poor child has always been forced to drink water instead of juice. WTF?

Off the Shelf

When MikeDeCapite's new chapbook Creamsicle Blue came out last year, I promptly ordered a copy. I'm a big fan of his writing. Mike grew up in Cleveland and his wonderfully atmospheric novel, Through the Windshield, is set primarily in Tremont. I was living in Tremont when I read it and I felt like I was riding in the backseat for the whole journey. I had not yet met Mike when I ordered Creamsicle Blue, but we have a lot of mutual friends and he had generously accepted my Facebook friend request. 

After I ordered the book, I was surprised and pleased to get a personal email back from him, asking if I would like it inscribed in any particular way. Well boy howdy, give me an opening like that, and I'm liable to run with it. And run, I did. “Indeed,” I wrote him, “Please inscribe it, 'To my darling Blayne, Love of my life,' or something like that. Point being,” I said, “...something to make the book club ladies jealous.”

When the book arrived, I was not the least bit disappointed to see the following:

For Blayne- I'll never forget you, although you cast me aside. 

I still have your hatpin, by the way. And your tire iron, and your turtle food. 

 Mike 1/3/12

O, happy day! And I immediately thought that it might be fun to make up a back story to go with this inscription, but I was busy, and the idea was shelved. Until this past month, when the prompt for my writing group was “Off the Shelf.” So I wrote it. And I sent it to Mike and he said-- and this is a direct quote, mind you, “How great. I love it.”

I have now met Mike in person (exactly once) but I'm going to include the following disclaimer: While the two main characters in this story are actual human beings, the events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events is 98.42% coincidental. No turtles were harmed in the writing of this story. To the best of my knowledge, my grandmother was not a Nazi. This story is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians.

Okay, without further ado...

2/18/13

Mike-

Thanks for sending me your new booklet. It was really nice. Sorry it's taken me so long to write back. You know what a procrastinator I am, plus I had to kind of...think things over. I didn't really expect to hear from you again at all, given what happened when we last saw each other. And I don't know where you come off with this “cast me aside” business, given that you were doing more than your fair share of casting yourself. Oh, and speaking of casting, I want that tire iron back! Did you go back for it that day, or did you wait till it stopped raining? Frankly, I'm surprised you went back for it at all and even more surprised that you found it. You flung it pretty far into the woods.

I actually had a flat tire about two weeks before I got this booklet from you, and I had to call AAA and wait a fucking hour and a half for them for want of that damn tire iron. So the timing of your letter was interesting, to say the least. The minute I opened the trunk and saw that the tire iron was missing, the memory of that day and all that followed (or didn't, as the case may be) came pouring back. And at first I was really steamed all over again. Jesus, if you could have seen the look on your face when you winged that thing. “Next time, change your own damn tire,” you yelled. Which is fucking hilarious, given that you know perfectly well that I tried to do it myself and you pushed me aside and said it was “man's work.” I know this was supposed to be your ironical feminist-hipster stance and you were probably just trying to help, but still. I could have had that tire changed in ten minutes flat, and without stripping the goddamn lug nut. And I think you really did have some macho pride and didn't want the guys driving past see you stand idly by while I, a mere girl, did all the work. Stupid male egos. Face it, I was always better at mechanical stuff than you.

But the whole thing actually strikes me as kind of funny now. Remember at the service plaza before we got the flat tire, that bride and groom in line in front of us at the Burger King? I think we totally ruined their wedding day, what with your being “inspired” (haha) at the sight of them to drop to one knee and propose to me on the spot, and my refusal on account of you didn't have a ring. That guy looked like he was ready to slug us both for mocking him. If I hadn't started up with the crocodile tears, I think he would have. On the other hand, they were eating turnpike cheeseburgers, dressed up in a cheap white gown and veil and an ill-fitting rental tux, so what's to ruin, right? I still wonder what their story was. I've occasionally thought that I should make up a back story for them. But actually, you should do it. You're the real writer. Do it and send it to me, okay? Seriously, it would be funny.

This is getting ridiculously long. Listen, you can keep the hatpin, or sell it on ebay, or whatever. That thing creeped me out anyhow. Why on earth my grandmother had a hatpin with a swastika on it, I'll never know. I've wondered if she was secretly a Nazi but I have no evidence for it other than that crazy hatpin. Did I ever tell you about what happened when she joined the Fairfield Transcendental Meditation group? Funny story; maybe I'll tell you someday. She was a quirky lady, my grandma. She always liked you.

I assume the fact that you still have turtle food means that Raphael died, huh? That's sad. I should have come back for him but, well, you know. I always thought of him as your turtle anyhow, even though I bought him. Why would you keep the food? WTF? You're a weird guy Mike, you know that?

And yet...(That's from your book, get it? )...I'm glad you got back in touch with me, really I am. We did have our problems, we were no match made in heaven, but what the hell. We had some fun too, didn't we? This new little book is actually pretty cool; it almost reads like poetry. You were thinking about me when you wrote that part at the beginning, weren't you? Is that why you sent it to me? It sounds like you've been doing some serious soul searching and maybe you've let go of some of that angst you've been hauling around. So you have a steady girlfriend now, huh? I'm glad for you. I hope everything is going well. How's life in the Big City? I've been dating this guy Micky off and on for the past year and a half. You remember Micky? Used to hang out at Edison's with Chuck and Alex and those guys? Well, right now were off. But he sent me a bouquet of pink daisies on Valentine's day, so...maybe.

Well, I hope you're still working on getting that novel published. You been working on that thing for...well, since me anyhow, and that was...how long ago now? A long time. Lot of water under that bridge.

I hope this means we can both let go of the past now. I'm going to unblock you on Facebook, so if you want to send me a request I'll accept it, okay? Friends?

Oh, and Mike? I'll never forget you either. How could I? Your name is tattooed on my left baby toe.

Blayne

P.S. I have a blue notebook of yours with your notes from that lecture we went to by that weird German guy about music and syntax or some crazy-ass shit. The notes don't make any sense to me, but neither did the lecture. He did have the greatest accent in the world though; that I remember. If you want, I'll mail it to you. Also, your 20 pound barbells, but the hell if I'm shipping those suckers.

P.P.S. I'm enclosing $5 toward shipping for the tire iron. Really, I want it back.

True Stories And Tall Tales From The L Cafe

I went to The Lit on Friday, and Andy showed his 1990's Decade in Review highlight video that night in honor of the 20th anniversary of artwalk. And yes, I'm in it. Ah, memories. I hung out at the Literary Cafe a lot when I lived in Tremont in the late '90s. I adore that place. This is a slightly reworked version of something I wrote back then. I wrote a sceenplay version of this too, but we never did get around to filming it. Part 2 will follow here sometime soon.

TRUE STORIES AND TALL TALES FROM THE L CAFE

From Book One: 1999

Mob Hits spilled from the speakers like blood from an open wound, sweet and syrupy as a cold Italian ice, yet bullet ridden with existential angst. The petite blond behind the bar asked for my order. "I'll have a Bud," I said, innocently enough. "We don't serve Budweiser,” she stated flatly. The dame smiled sweetly, yet I detected a twitch of bemused sarcasm. A second bartender furrowed his brow and watched from the far end of the bar, also smiling demurely, yet with a sinister, crooked-toothed air that seemed to whisper, I've got a whoopee cushion with your name on it, Bub, and I'm not afraid to use it. "Make it a Rolling Rock," I said quickly, not wanting any trouble.

A ubiquitous man, tall and beige, was hunched over a ubiquitous sketch pad, pencil in hand. He must be one of those bohemian arteest types I hear this part of Cleveland is famous for, I noted, proud of my finely honed perceptual abilities. A boy-faced man strapped to an accordion ambled up to the bar, ordered a brewski and asked to have it put on his tab. A Tab? Did I hear that right? I wondered if I had slipped through a portal to the past. "Hey,” I asked him, in my best jovial, backslapping voice, “How's the polka business?" He turned to me slowly, expression deadpan. "The accordion . . . " he intoned ominously, "is not just for polka anymore." He wandered off, stabbing at the instrument’s buttons while squeezing out the opening notes of Mac The Knife. I was beginning to suspect that this was no ordinary roadside tavern. This was not going to be an easy job.

The door swung open and an abbreviated, golden-flounced woman wafted in like a moonbeam looking for a starring role in a haiku. She must have been a regular, judging by the warm reception she received at the bar. As she took her seat, I noticed she carried a most unusual handbag. "Excuse me," I inquired politely, "But is that purse made out of a coconut?" The room went silent. She glared at me and gnashed her teeth. "If one more person asks me that . . . " Her voice trailed off as several patrons surrounded her, speaking in soothing tones. I backed slowly away. It appeared I had managed to offend every person I had spoken to thus far. Yet I was determined to stay on the case. I was just going to have to try a little harder. Somewhere within this enigma called the L Cafe, lay a dark secret, mysterious and slippery as an uncooked egg . . . and I was determined to crack it.

FIN

A screen cap of Google street view of the Lit, with a couple filters applied

Lost and Found

In my last blog entry I wrote, among other things, this: 

Weird mind quirk: Not long after moving into my current house 12 years ago, someone who was driving past stopped and asked me where an obscure little street in my neighborhood was. I didn't know. I found out a couple months later and I've been wanting him to stop back and ask again ever since.

And just now I got back from a walk in my neighborhood, during which a young man ran up to me and breathlessly asked me if I knew where that very street was. And I told him! He thanked me and ran off in that direction. It was utterly weird yet very gratifying, despite the fact that it was clearly not the same person who had asked me 12 years ago. One would hope the first fellow has found it by now. Still. What are the chances?

I'll bet 3 out of 4 readers would like to tell me that this was not pure coincidence. That "putting it out to the universe" has caused, or at least contributed, to this happening. And I'd kinda like to believe that too; that I let loose this little wish and the universe responded to it, albeit imperfectly.

Trouble is, if you believe your wishes, prayers, and positive thoughts can cause good things to happen, what are you to believe causes the bad stuff? I'm not going to delve any further into this right now, but it is something I think about often. Causation, consequences, coincidences. What do you think?

Readin' and Writin' and Suchlike

Yes! I recently joined a writers group composed of nine wonderful women, all of whom are truly talented writers. Last night we met at my house. The ladies brought lovely snacks, chocolate, and FIVE bottles of wine. Jealous yet? Our prompt had been Keeping it clean. The writings were brilliant, illuminating, hilarious, heartbreaking, and more. The conversations they spawned were likewise. I wrote a piece that was the proverbial "thing that you don't want to write about," the hard, gut-level stuff. I went last, cried throughout the reading of it, felt the calm empathy and warmth of this circle of women. Cathartic. Just a lovely evening. Next month's prompt: Off the shelf. Should be interesting.

 
Good Eats

This morning I went down to the Coit Road Farmer's Market to buy eggs and whatnot. Kevin, market manager and owner of Spicehound, had made venison sausages yesterday, and today had cooked up a big ole pot of them with a mess of cabbage and boy howdy, was it ever good.

My Adorable Child

...called me from the zoo today, where his dad had taken him. He wanted to know if his pet mice were okay, and if it was okay to eat some french fries. Yes and yes. I love to hear his voice on the phone. He somehow sounds even younger and cuter. 

This is not a Facebook post

So I thought I'd do something different today and I left this "compose blog post" window open all day and wrote down random thoughts as they occurred. And I just reread them now and they look to me like a series of Facebook posts. Do I really think in Facebookese now? This cannot possibly be good.

I feel that I have become addicted to the internet in general and Facebook in particular. I'd like to temporarily shut down my Facebook account, but this is complicated by the fact one of my few paying jobs these days is making a daily post on the Funny Times Facebook page. I don't think I can continue as an admin there if I don't have an active primary account. And I'm an admin on five other Facebook groups, four of which I created and two of which have had an influx of new members and a flurry of activity lately. So I can't very well abandon all of them now, can I?

Is internet addiction a real thing? I'm suppressing the urge to Google it because, come on. What am I going to do, join an online forum for internet addicts? If anyone has any wisdom in this regard, lay it on me. Meanwhile, here are my random trinkets of thought, for what it's worth...

***

Weird mind quirk: Not long after moving into my current house 12 years ago, someone who was driving past stopped and asked me where an obscure little street in my neighborhood was. I didn't know. I found out a couple months later and I've been wanting him to stop back and ask again ever since.

***

I fear the possum lying in the middle of the road isn't playing.

***

Eating fresh raspberries in winter feels incredibly extravagant and decadent to me. I try not to do it too often so I can maintain that feeling.

***

Just a plain roasted chicken on Mulberry Street. This was my thought about my dinner as I watched some fancy meals go by on my wall. Yeah, that would be Facebook I'm referring to.

***

Word of the day: sapiosexual. Yes, I saw it on Facebook. FML.

***

Outlandish! I like this word. I'll not mention where I heard it today. I tend to like old fashioned words that have fallen out of favor. My son says he has two favorite words: chicken and dunebuggy.

***

Damn. These could have been some hella fine Facebook posts and garnered all manner of likes and comments but instead Ive got them languishing away on a blog that I know perfectly well not more than five people will read. Because nobody clicks over on links to blog posts from Facebook and where else does anyone even find out about blog posts?

Yes indeed, I do have myself a problem here. Help?