in *hey* i attempt to wake from the ai slumber party
It could be why I am still alive. Writing. My mom would always say, bring a pencil and a notepad. I was her tagalong for errands after the divorce. Beauty shops, grocery stores, gardening supplies. She loved to garden. Even when she got older and infirm, it was her gardening that kept her flowing forward. She loved her plants. She knew the names of the birds, insects, spiders, and native Texas grasses.
In my front yard I have installed a prairie of sorts. Native grasses and wildflowers mixed together in a twenty-pound bag, prairie rescue it was called. The spiders, birds, and insects all flourish in my front yard. My gnome neighbor is jealous of my yard. He gave me a new plant and showed me where to put it. He’s a lovely hippie friend, plant and bird enthusiast. He has no cellphone. Cool, right?
The Mexican lawn guy kept showing up for months after I got the grasses established. “No, I don’t want you to mow. This is what I want.”
I remember one of the first short stories I ever wrote (this is how a writer’s brain works) because it’s still captured in her, in my mind, somewhere, from 50+ years ago. I’m still puzzling over the plot, but the title is perfect. Exegent Landing. Yes. I doodled the cover art. I still like to inspire myself with cover art. Today, less “top secret – do not open” and more “subscribe to get a 10% discount.”
I process my daily minutes by capturing pieces of them as life streams by. Put my hand in the cold icy mountain stream rushing down a Colorado grotto. Pull out a word. Exegent. Nice.
As I passed through hardships in my life, the written word was how I processed and made sense of my world. Even just for me. I’d like someone to read it, at some point, but for now, the craft is the thing. Don’t waste a minute of promotional time if it means missing some of the creative drive and productivity.
There’s a catch, however, and I think I’ve run afoul of it yet again. I also have to make a living. See, they don’t give you houses and electricity for just being around. And social security is a few months off. If the fucking unemployment checks would come through. Appealed by Amazon/Whole Foods. “That’s just what they do,” said the lady from The TWC.
Five months in, no unemployment yet. I suspect I will win the appeal with my evidence. Maybe I’ll get my “right to sue” letter from the EEOC first. It’s been a cluster fuck. So many pieces going downhill. Even the new client has issues. I need billable hours not personal issues. Fuck. Ho hum. And so forth.
Time to write. Push. Feel the energy that comes from creative flow. A good balance of rest and exercise. And write write write. I can tell when my mind is slipping, when depression is poking its feelers into my soul… I get quiet. No. Rage against that bullshit. Stay awake, stay loud, stay hopeful. The actress thought better of my offer. More ho and more hum.
The world around me is pleasant and calm. Cats are quiet and stowed away out of sight. I have fuel and supplies for a bit longer. I do need to keep my urgency focused on revenue. More writing for the man, for the cybersecurity contract. The dude, after giving me feedback on the project, gave me the hard talk. “I’m giving you grace…” Um, yeah, about that. I’d prefer not to work with him. But I need both clients. I need four clients. I need him to get his act together enough to give me the next nine assignments.
The blur of actress > crush > coffee request has taken its course. No reply. No worries. No hugs or kisses in that direction. A muse is a wonderful thing. Is it merely youth and energy? Is it new adventures, new scents, new tastes, bedrooms, sharing coffee in a new bed? A dawn approaches, holding a hand, kissing a smile into being, saying, “I love you very much.”
I get there easily. I am demanding, but once I have found my YES, I am also ferociously loyal. And I get frustrated by fear or doubt.
Give me something to write about. To kiss about. To fall in love about.
back to *HEY* index
The Cloud Pilots episode expanding on this chapter.
