This week's prompt for, Sunday Scribblings is Art. They pose the question: What do you make of art?
ugly
beautiful
meaningful
incomprehensible
It's junk!
It's amazing!
Art begs a response
The progeny of creativity,
it speaks to the soul
If the soul begets creativity
and creativity begets art
Does that mean without a soul there is no art?
And if a creation provokes no response, is it still art?
(This is another Debra story. I started writing about her as a lark last June 2008 for a writing prompt. If you want to start at the beginning, click --> here. They read in reverse order, so start from June 20, 2008. I have no idea where it will end, but will continue when and if the mood strikes.)
“Where is HERE?” Debra demanded.
“Looks like a beach.”
Trust Charles to state the obvious. Deb was getting annoyed. No. More than annoyed. Pissed off. No. More than pissed off.
The pressure of a can’t take it any more, screeching at the sky, gut-wrenching primal scream was building from somewhere in her core. Clenching her fists, she screamed silently inside her head. Not that it was silent inside her head, but Charles couldn’t hear it. Inside her head, it was a long AAAAAAAAAAAAAAArrrrGh!!! with full glottal stop.
She turned and with steely determination smiled at Charles through gritted teeth. “Yes, I know it’s a beach. But what beach? Why? And you didn’t answer me. What are you doing here?”
Charles rubbed his stubbly beard with the tips of his fingers. “Good question. Last I remember I was heading out for a day of ballooning. Hot air ballooning, you know? With propane tanks, floating around . . .”
“Yes, I know what hot air ballooning is,” Debra cut him off. “I’ve been. Now, I’m stuck.”
“What do you mean by ‘stuck’?”
“Stuck. As in can’t move. As in stuck in the same place. Stuck! One minute I’m on the beach, looking at a dead horse and thinking about my shitty life; next, I’m in a hot air balloon hearing songs and thinking about my crazy mother; and now I’m back on this fucking beach again – with you!”
“Sounds like your classic nightmare, if you ask me. Though it seems pretty nice here. Blue water. Nice breeze.”
“Yeah? So lick me.”
“Classic Deb. Mary Sunshine, you’re not.”
Debra rolled her eyes. “Here we go again. Think positive thoughts. Blah, blah, blah. Life is what you make of it. The glass is half full. . . .. Don’t you ever get tired of that crap?”
“By crap, I take it you mean being happy?”
“No. ‘Crap’, as in there’s no such thing as willing yourself into happiness. There is no such thing as happy. Just a lot of people pretending to be happy.”
“You think I’m pretending?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“I think you’re pretending to be unhappy.”
Debra collapsed back into the sand. That was the thing with Charles, she thought, for all his positive guru-think, he could always see through her.
As a matter of fact, she WAS rather enjoying herself. She had missed him over these last few years. He had been her counter-balance, the light to her dark, the yin to her yang. Of all her ill-fated relationships and the men she’d known and dated, Charles still held a special place in her heart.
She felt, not regret exactly, but something . . ..
Another Sunday Scribblings #148 prompt - "Regrets")
regrets
a retrospective wish list litany of
could haves and would haves
and if only I had knowns
of service only to melancholy
and late-night insomnia
not the light of day
ole blues eyes had it right
From Sunday Scribblings, the prompt, Phantoms and Shadows:
- things and people, times, places, events and how your memory has treated them. Are there people you try to remember more clearly, phantoms you'd like to reach back into the past and take a firm hold of? What do you remember of your early school years? College years? Your grandparents? First pets, first houses, first friends? Do you have a good or poor memory? If you could go back to any particular time/place to recall more vividly what it was like, what would that be?
I have few regrets in life, but recently, I've grown to regret my almost pathological detachment of people from the past. But, am I ready to do something about it?
I've lived most of my life like a one-way road trip. I make stops in towns along the way; take the occasional detour or side-trip; meet interesting people; connect with individuals for a short time; then move on to the next town and the next experience with only the obligatory we-should-keep-in-touch handshake. I seldom do – keep in touch, that is. I'm not quite sure why.
I've posited that my early childhood experiences have left me with a fear of abandonment, hence it's easier to let those who aren't in my immediate life drift into the shadows. Out of sight, out of mind. What you can't see, can't hurt you. I'm sure there's grist for years of psychoanalysis here.
If others get in touch with me, I'm more than happy to hear from them, talk to them, socialize. But, as for me taking the initiative to get in touch without a specific reason? Not likely. I have cousins I haven't spoken to since the last family funeral, friends I haven't spoken to since the last reunion – and these are just the ones that live nearby. As for people out of town, they may as well have been sucked through a wormhole into another universe.
I've operated under the assumption that it wouldn't make any difference whether I see these people again or not. On one level, it is true. I would continue living my life in my own sphere and they in theirs (that old out of sight, out of mind philosophy again). On another level, it could reconnect me with portions of my past and, perhaps, re-order my present. Who knows what gems would turn up; what shared memories or renewed friendships?
All this being said, I don't see myself jumping up to the nearest phone to call anyone from the past. Maybe I'm just not ready. Maybe I'm a coward. Maybe I really do need psychoanalysis. Maybe this is my form of therapy.
(a Sunday Scribblings prompt and the continuing saga of Debra)
"Deb, it is you. What are you doing here?"
Charles took Debra's hand and yanked her to her feet. As she busied herself with brushing sand -- yet again -- off her clothes, Debra couldn't help but see Charles shaking his head in his annoying, can't believe she's done it again manner. She could feel herself bristling.
"What?!!"
"Nothing. I just can't believe you're here."
Charles shuffled backwards and plopped himself onto the sand. He was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, faded khakis and sandals. Very un-Charles-like.
The last time she'd seen him, he was pounding on her apartment door saying they could still "work things out" if she'd only talk to him. She couldn't be bothered. There was nothing to work out. She ignored his subsequent phone messages, emails, notes and letters. Eventually, they stopped. Their relationship had ended like all her relationships -- nowhere. Not that Charles was a bad guy. He just didn't get it.
He'd always been her cheerleader -- a you can do it, think positive kind of guy. He had wanted to get her out of the city and learn how to relax. She didn't see the point. He didn't understand her constant whining about the noise and pollution, her job, her boss, the twits around her, and yet her refusal to do anything about it. She knew it didn't matter where she was -- different people, but still twits; different job, but still annoying boss. Moving would only be a temporary fix. Once the initial glow of new wore off, it would be the same ol' same ol'.
He had been saving his money and wanted to quit his six-figure marketing job and pursue his passion for travel and writing. She thought he was nuts. Why give up a sure thing? Pursuing something as nebulous as "what I've always wanted to do" could only lead to disappointment.
After awhile, she couldn't stand his Pollyanna-isms anymore. What had been, at first, endearing became unbearable. Couldn't he just leave her alone? She was quite content to live her life in sombre misery with the occasional, fleeting ray of sunshine/happiness.
They started arguing about everything. Or rather, she argued about everything. Charles, would just shake his head and shrug. He seemed resigned to her constant nitpicking and complaining. Occasionally he'd suggest a trip to someplace warm and exotic - which she always declined. Then one day, he simply stated that she didn't want to be happy; that, in fact, she revelled in her unhappiness and that he wasn't sure if he could take it any more.
Of course he'd been right. Her unhappiness was a warm security blanket. It was a logical and realistic way to face life. Far better to expect nothing - anything good was a bonus. She couldn't get him to see it that way.
One day, when Charles was on a business trip, Debra had the apartment lock changed, quietly and efficiently packed his belongings in boxes and set them outside the door. She attached a short note saying good-bye and that things would never work out for them. That was five years ago.
And now? She was on a stupid beach, god-knows-where, sand in her shoes, sand down her shirt and sand stuck in her hair. She'd been dumped out of a hot air balloon at the feet of someone she'd dumped just as unceremoniously.
Hot air balloons, dead horses – now Charles? Better or worse, dream or no dream, she needed to figure this out.
"Where is HERE?" she demanded.
(Continuation of a previous SS story).
Not your usual pick up, that's for sure. But who said Prince Charming had to come on a white horse? Besides, she'd always wanted a ride in a hot-air balloon.
As soon as the gate snapped closed, Debra had a brief moment of self-doubt as visions of a news broadcast flashed through her mind, Witnesses said it looked like a giant fireball as the balloon climbed into the sky and then plunged into the RV Park near the U.S. border.
"Oh, stop it! It's only a dream! Enjoy yourself!"
She had a habit of thinking the worst. It was a way to shield herself from the inevitable disappointments in life. Her life philosophy went like this: If she could think of the worst case scenario in any given situation and it didn't happen, then she was ahead of the game; wasn't she.
Debra could still hear the strains of "Someday My Prince Will Come", but it was morphing into something else. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. Oh well, it would come to her later.
She looked up to see the balloon billowing and filling above her head. There didn't seem to be any source to inflate it. Well, at least she didn't have to worry about exploding propane tanks. The basket lifted gently off the sand and rose up, up and away.
Up, Up and Away! That's what the other song was - the Fifth Dimension song. "This isn't a dream, it's a nightmare!"
Now, that she could name it, she couldn't get it out of her head:
Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon
We could float among the stars together, you and I
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
My beautiful, my beautiful balloon
The world's a nicer place in my beautiful balloon
It wears a nicer face in my beautiful balloon
We can sing a song and sail along the silver sky
For we can fly we can fly
Up, up and away
Debra hated the song. She'd always hated it. It was one of her mother's favourite songs; one that she'd play over and over, happily dancing and singing along. "Ha! Lot of good all that happiness did for her."
The syrupy, sweet lyrics made Debra want to gag. It was the antithesis of everything she'd come to know about life. Her life, at least. There is no nicer place, no silver sky, and certainly no "you and I".
How could she get this stupid thing down? And how could she stop the friggin' music?
As her head filled with colourful adjectives, she heard a whooshing sound. A cold wind ripped through the basket of the balloon, knocking her off-balance. The back of her head smacked against the edge of the basket and in the engulfing black fuzziness, she felt herself slide and roll onto the floor.
When Debra opened her eyes, she realized she was back on the beach. Same white blouse, white slacks, white pumps.
There was a figure silhouetted against the blue sky. She squinted to make out details.
"Charles? Is that you?"
For a Sunday Scribblings prompt.
Debra liked the demented, the dark and the surreal. It reflected her personality. From a young age, she’d realized there was no such thing as happy endings. The pursuit of happiness was for the delusional.
To the world, she presented a hard, been knocked around, can take care of myself, so don’t fuck with me veneer. She didn’t believe in fairy tales -- unless they were told by Tim Burton. Yet, in the back of her mind, she harboured the faint hope that there might be a happy ever after for her. Of course, she never allowed anyone to see this hopefulness.
So, now, here she was lying on a white sand beach. She couldn’t remember how she got there.
She looked down at herself. She was dressed all in white; white slacks, white blouse, white pumps. She strained to remember something – anything. It was surreal; a scene from the Twilight Zone. Wasn’t there a scene like this in Contact where Jodie Foster’s character meets her dead father on a beach? Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was dreaming. That’s it – a dream – it must be a dream. Well, if that was the case, she’d just go with it.
Down the beach, she could see a dark shape against the whiteness of the sand. As there was nothing else around, she took a step towards it. In an instant, she found herself looking down at the body of a black Arabian, lying on its side – the same horse she’d sketched over and over in countless notebooks as a child; when she still had dreams of happiness; before her mom’s death; before the anger and constant black cloud.
A kaleidoscope of her life played back at her in the sheen of the Arabian’s coat; the self-destructive behaviour, the failed marriages, the sabotaged relationships, the sorry state of her self-imposed loneliness. Maybe she really was dead. But wasn't there anything good about her life?
A fluttering movement caught her attention. She turned around to see a multi-coloured hot air balloon. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. That’s the thing about death dreams, she thought – they don’t need to make sense.
Across the breeze, a pure light-as-air voice was singing, “Some day my prince will come . . .”
Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.
For Sunday Scribblings, "Happy Ending" and Dan Wiencek's 13 Writing Prompts
(This is probably one of the weirdest pieces I've done. All I had was Dan Wiencek's last sentence, the Sunday Scribbling’s prompt of “Happy Ending” and my own self-imposed word limit. I had no idea how I’d get there until I got there.)
If left to my own devices – no job or early morning commitments – I'd be up most nights until dawn.
I'm a night person. I like the solitude. I like the stillness. I like the wrap-around black coziness and the inky-black eeriness; the disconnectedness that sometimes leads to hidden and surprising insights to my soul. Perhaps, these insights were there all along, submerged below the surface of my daytime consciousness – unable to break through because of the noise and clutter of everyday life. I don't know.
What I do know is that those niggling, back of the brain feelings ignored during the day because I'm too busy or too pre-occupied, break out full blown at night. The solution to problems, so unanswerable during the day, becomes obvious and self-evident at night. Thoughts and feelings, long ago forgotten become unforgotten.
At night, all things seem possible. The line between reality and dream; conscious and sub-conscious thin and fade in those late-night hours. At 4 a.m. there's a surreal feeling of floating in another dimension while the rest of the household is snug asleep in their beds.
Maybe, late at night, I enter a dream state and only think I'm awake – in reality, walking around zombie-like. It doesn't matter. I'm convinced my late nights keep me sane.
Another Sunday Scribblings post
Life
Here comes the ball
Whizzing down the lane
Straight as an arrow
To that sweet spot
Strike zone.
I've got it
Feeling good
I'm gonna knock it out of the park.
Oops,
Curve ball.
Strike one.
Here comes the ball
. . .
More Sunday Scribblings
"Quitter!"
"Who's a quitter?"
"You are."
"Just because I don't want to do something anymore doesn't mean I'm a quitter."
I don't quit. I give up. Sometimes that's what you have to do.
There are times in life when what you are pursuing just isn't worth the time, aggravation and effort anymore - perhaps the pursuit was the real endgame; when you've given it your all and there's no more to give, short of your life or your soul; when it's time to wave the white flag; when it's time to graciously step away and say, "Sorry folks, but I'm done". It's not a bad thing.
This is another one of those things I wish I'd known when I was younger, but then again, maybe it's something everyone needs to learn on their own.
For Sunday Scribblings
I like to think I'm open to new ideas and the use of new technology. I hum along using current technology, perfectly happy and rather smug that I've mastered new gizmos and the concurrent jargon when, WHAM, it's obsolete.
The shift-over starts insidiously enough. A few brave souls try out the new technology. It's usually clunky, not that efficient and prone to problems. More people jump on the bandwagon and the technology improves. Then it's like a switch gets flipped. One minute everyone is using the old ABC, the next, they're using the new XYZ. Think about the switch-overs of vinyl LPs to cassette tapes; cassette tapes to CDs; typewriters to word processors; VHS tapes to CDs/DVDs; dot matrix printers to laser; rooftop TV antennas to cable. The list is endless.
I'm not exactly sure when everyone else changed from using rotary dial telephones to push button touchtone phones. I only know that our family must have been one of the last holdouts for rotary phones.
It's not that we didn't embrace the touchtone. It's just that, being frugal, we didn't see a need to replace the perfectly serviceable black rotary dial phone we had in the kitchen. It had made the trek with us from the last two homes we'd lived in and was a comfortable, solid as a rock appliance. When we moved into our current home in the late eighties, touchtone phones were provided by the phone company for two telephone jacks. The black rotary was an extra that we put in the kitchen. We never gave it another thought.
One day, our youngest son had a friend over to play. We had invited him to stay for dinner and he needed to call home and ask for permission. Fine. We directed him to our kitchen phone. He picked up the receiver -- then silence. He put the receiver back down. I thought perhaps he'd forgotten his phone number.
With an embarrassed look, he said, "I don't know how to USE this."
He had never seen a rotary dial phone, let alone used one before.
It had never occurred to me that there was an entire generation of children growing up with no clue what "dialing" a telephone number really means.
The following Christmas, Santa gave us a new push button touchtone telephone for the kitchen.
p.s. These days, I wonder how many young people can read an analog "face" dial watch or if they can only read digital time.
For Sunday Scribblings
Joyous
Running
Balls to the wind.
Eyes wide
Heart-thumping
Leap
Into the black hole of unknowns.
Accepting
Expecting
Love
Pain
Loss
Sorrow
Knowing
Mortality hovers.
Running
Leaping
Regardless
Is fearless.
Another Sunday Scribblings prompt.
(Look -> here <-- to see what this is all about. 92 prompts in one story.)
When we were wee, life was like a chocolate sundae. Sweet, yummy and blissful. Perhaps I should say blissed out. Because I don't think childhood is rooted much in reality. At least, not the adult version of reality.
Fantasy was a mainstay of my childhood. Bedtime stories allowed my imagination to sprout wings and fuelled inspiration for secret identities where I could be the wicked stepmother or monster one moment and hero the next. No masks necessary.
I always met bedtime with anticipation. Bed was a place to go on a dream journey – destination; unknown. The following morning, I'd sit in the kitchen where I regaled the family with another new tale.
These stories always troubled my grandmother. They gave her goosebumps because according to her old-world superstition, she believed that retelling dreams was like bringing a fortune cookie to life. It would bring both punishment and reward, but most likely the former. A powerful force, that could change the course of an already slippery life.
My earliest memory of real storytelling was with my best friend, Dana. We had an ongoing storyline called the "Chronicles of ED" (our initials). The chronicles always began with the words, "I have an idea" or "I have a secret". They ranged from silliness about my shoes to the weightier issues of first love and the spicy details of a date. Anything was fair game and went on until one of us said the words, "the end". It didn't matter to me if Dana had done most of the talking in the past hour, as long as I got my 2 cents worth in, I was okay with it.
It's still a mystery how Dana and I became so close because we came from totally different backgrounds. I was The Town Mouse to her Country Mouse. Yet we were like two peas in a pod. We shared everything: our deepest darkest secrets, skin and hair tips, music; we even had our first crush on the same guy who approached us with the lame pickup line, "Hi, my name is Larry. What's your sign?" We shared a collector personality – collectors of quotes and snippets of overheard conversation – invaluable for our storytelling.
After college, as one last fling before beginning real life as adults, we went backpacking in Europe. We continued our storytelling tradition as fellow travelers by keeping a journal titled, "Hotel Stories – With (or without) Baggage".
If I could stop time or go back with a Time Machine, it would be to this part of my life. Alternatively, if I could be an omnipotent monarch, my first act as Queen of the World would be to banish all greed and pettiness.
Dana planned to be a writer. I wasn't so sure what I would do. My own writing began with simple Dear Diary entries and I had continued keeping journals throughout school, but writing as a career was something else. If money had been no object, I would have made the decision to become a writer after our European trip. As it turns out, we said our goodbyes, Dana gave strict instructions to keep in touch, and we went our separate ways.
My first job was also my worst job. I was organizer of a hospital fundraiser and Christmas dance. I carry holiday memories of tuxedoed strangers kissing in boozy embrace and helping guide (carry) tipsy socialites back to waiting limousines. I'll never view society pages the same again. I couldn't continue.
I realized that my dream job was writing. So, I got hired on a news-talk radio station writing a little of everything. I got very good at summarizing what was in the news. Heck, I even did a piece about the inner life of pets.
I continued to do my own writing on the side and began submitting pieces to various online magazines. Through Google magic, Dana found one of them. She sincerely congratulated me on the publication. She, too, was doing okay with her writing. Then something happened – it became a competition between us. Who had the most/latest published piece; was it syndicated? I suppose not an uncommon phenomenon – but she became more nemesis than friend. The last straw was when she called me a thief for using an anecdote from our Hotel Stories journal. I snapped. As a child, I had dreamed of the books I would write. I didn't need her approval. I was a writer, period.
I don't want to be a passenger in my own life or fall victim of a misspent youth. There is no second chance. I've decided that rather than dream about who else I might have been, I should think about who else I can still be.
Every now and then, I get that sinking feeling I'll never write anything worth reading, but then it brings me back to my three wishes I shared with Dana way back in childhood.
That's why I live where I live - next to the ocean, pen, paper and laptop at hand.
Life is good.
If you made it to the end, congratulations!
Here's the list I used (original minus the 8 I've already used):
Real Life --- When we were wee --- Chocolate --- Why I live where I live --- My Shoes --- The books I would write --- Three Wishes --- First Love --- Earliest Memory --- Mystery --- Bed --- Music --- Two Peas in a Pod --- Hotel Stories --- With Baggage --- Thief --- My 2 Cents --- Who else I might have been --- Who else can I still be? --- The Inner Life of Pets --- Monster --- Fortune Cookie --- I would never write... --- Google Magic --- Instructions --- Skin --- If I could stop time --- Good --- Bedtime Stories --- Morning --- I don't want to be a passenger in my own life. --- Hero --- Nemesis --- In the last hour --- Punishment and Reward --- Anticipation --- Change --- Destination --- Kissing --- I have an idea --- Fantasy --- Chronicles --- Goodbyes --- Yummy --- Crush --- Troubled --- Superstition --- Dream Journey --- Inspiration --- In the Kitchen --- Deepest darkest --- In the news... --- Secret Identity --- Rooted --- Wings --- Ocean --- Second Chance --- Masks -- Simple --- The Town Mouse & the Country Mouse --- Spicy--- I have a secret --- What's your sign? --- Slippery --- Hair --- Wicked --- Phenomenon --- Decision --- Goosebumps --- Dear Diary --- I get that sinking feeling --- the end --- Writing --- Collector Personality --- Hi, my name is... --- Powerful --- First Job, Worst Job, Dream Job --- My first act as Queen/King of the World would be --- Hospital --- Money --- I Carry --- Misspent youth --- Competition --- Dance --- Holiday Memories --- Now & Then --- New --- The Date --- Fellow Travelers --- Passion --- Time Machine
Methodology:
Six billion people
Randomly placed on
Land masses
Separated by
Mountains, rivers, oceans and
Ideologies
Allow movement and contact.
Variables:
Leadership
Religion
Political beliefs
Difficult to control
Ever changing
Observations:
One: Fear, hostility, aggression
Two: Curiosity, compromise, sharing, strength
Results:
One: War
Two: Peace
This bears further investigation. Notably: can the results be skewed to favour War or Peace by the introduction of other variables.
A Sunday Scribblings post
Sleep can be
rejuvenating
refreshing
inspirational
Just what the doctor ordered.
Too often
needed
drug-induced
fitful and nightmarish.
Elusive.
More Sunday Scribblings
My fridge space alternates
Between
Double-stacked Tupperware containers containing I-can't-remember-what, but it must be good because I saved it goodies, Styrofoam and plastic takeout holders with leftovers of last weekend's dinner out, green fuzzy science projects in saran covered bowls, Corning ware dishes with mystery meat in maybe gravy and remnants of what looks like stew, opened jars of condiments, jams and jellies ranging from full to one tablespoon left if you scrape the bottom carefully, seven-layer dip that can't be used because we have no chips, oranges and apples jockeying for in-between space amongst the foregoing because the veggie bins are full, and
Where the heck can I put the new groceries
Stuffed.
To
Shrivelled apple, desiccated green onion and limp carrot in bin, half carton of skim milk, slice of week-old dry mushroom pizza, and
There's nothing to eat
Barren.
A Sunday Scribblings post.
A Sunday Scribblings blog
It wasn't Lydia's finest moment. She lost her cool and snapped at Gail.
Gail hadn't done anything to warrant the wrath. She just happened to be the unfortunate rabbit that happened into Lydia's crosshairs at that precise moment. Gail, face flushed and tears welling up, abruptly turned and made a beeline to the ladies' room.
Sigh. Lydia went through a quick mental checklist: Should she follow and offer apologies? Let Gail have a good cry first, then apologize later (Lydia was not good at there, there pat on the back hugging consolation)? Just let it go and allow everyone think she's a bitch (which some did anyways).
Rats! She headed to the ladies' room. Inside, she found Gail in front of the mirror delicately dabbing smudges of eye makeup on her lower lids.
Lydia barely finished her opening line of, "I'm sorry. It wasn't anything you did" before Gail interjected and said it was okay. She understood perfectly: Lydia had been under a lot of strain lately, so many deadlines, so many demands on her time, and everyone knew about her man problems. No need to apologize.
Lydia hadn't expected this. Before she knew it, she was telling Gail everything shitty that had been going on in her life for the past few weeks. Egad, confiding in her! Next thing Lydia remembered was Gail's arms around her shoulders, hand pat-pat-patting her on the back and saying they should get together for coffee sometime.
Over the next couple of weeks, they got together for coffee, then lunches and a couple of dinners. Each time, Gail was there - supportive, ever-listening and attentive. They were becoming good friends. At the end of the month, things were easing up at work. She'd received a small bonus on her last project, her relationship with John had resolved (dissolved was a better word) itself and she was heading off on vacation.
Gail saw her off at the airport and said she'd pick her up on the return.
While in Hawaii, Lydia kept in touch via email and gushed about the fabulous time she was having. She felt rejuvenated and happy. Two days before her return home, she received an email from Gail saying, sorry, but she couldn't pick her up at the airport, would she mind taking a taxi. Not a problem, they would get together later.
When she got back, she found out Gail had been transferred out of her department. Funny, Gail hadn't mentioned it. During the next week, Lydia left numerous voice messages asking when they could get together for lunch. When Gail finally responded, she apologized and said she was swamped with work – maybe another time.
They eventually met two weeks later for lunch at Cardero's. Lydia was bubbling over recounting her amazing vacation and telling Gail about the man she'd met (also from Vancouver). They'd already been on one lunch date and one dinner date. It was too early to tell, but they really seemed to get along.
During lunch, Gail was strangely subdued and distracted. At times, not seeming to listen at all and responding with an occasional sounds nice comment equivalent to the "that's lovely dear" comments from absent-minded Aunt Tillie.
It was obvious over the next weeks, that their friendship had lost its lustre. She stopped trying to contact Gail.
The last time Lydia saw Gail was at the café across from the park. Gail was with Jane, an older co-worker from the office who had just been given her pink slip and would be joining the ranks of the unemployed in two weeks. Jane was in tears and there was Gail, ever-attentive and sympathetic-looking, holding and pat-pat-patting her hand.
A foul weather friend in action.
From Best or Worst Times?:
We've all heard of fair-weather friends, those vapid souls who adore us when we are thin, rich, and healthy, but suddenly disappear the minute that illness, divorce, or job loss threatens to wreck their buzz. Less discussed -- but no less prevalent -- are foul-weather friends. These are the friends who are extremely supportive when you've lost your job or split up with your man, but become cold and distant when you start to get your life back together.
"Good friends will offer you support during hard times, but a foul-weather friend is drawn to your pain," says Judith Sills, PhD, a psychologist and author of If the Horse Is Dead, Get Off! Creating Change When You're Stuck in Your Comfort Zone (Viking, 2004)
(A Sunday Scribblings prompt)
My life is made up of miscellanea.
The subtitle of my blog sums up much of what drives me and my life. I'm inquisitive. Eclectic is the word I use to describe myself.
I love gathering information, following every trail, sniffing out odd words and associations, looking up birthdates, birthplaces and schools of people I see in the news and online. A place I've never heard of? I'll be looking it up. A new book I haven't read? I'll be searching for a review. There isn't a sport that I won't watch at least once, a musical genre I won't give a listen, an author I won't try.
When asked about "favourites", I have a hard time coming up with an answer.
For example, if someone was to ask me what my favourite sport is, I'd, first of all, have to ask spectator or participation? If spectator; I'd say I like hockey, figure skating, basketball when Phoenix (Steve Nash) is playing, some football (depending on the time of year and teams), baseball during the World Series, tennis if certain players are playing (too bad Andre Aggasiz retired), golf if Mike Weir or Tiger is playing, curling during the Olympics and the Tournament of Hearts, speed skating, downhill skiing, triathlons, marathons, gymnastics, swimming, synchronized swimming, diving, and probably cricket if I could ever learn the rules. Depending on time of season and mood, I'd have a hard time choosing what to watch on TV. If someone was to ask me what my favourite type of music is, I'd have the same problem. I'm always listening and learning.
Yesterday, I used the term "a walking contradiction". When viewing the miscellanea in my life, that's how I feel about myself. It's oddly reassuring:
I'm both intrigued by people, get along with most, but like to be alone.
I like sports, but don't think I'm particularly athletic.
I read almost anything except romance novels, yet went through a phase where I read practically every pink-covered, damsel-in-distress covered book I could find.
I used to say I hated opera, but now find classical music and opera one of my favourites forms of relaxation.
I'm both optimistic and pessimistic, but if I were to choose, I'd say I'm more of a glass half full type of person; which would make me an optimist, I guess.
I strive to be more concise, but enjoy my rambling, never-ending, stream of consciousness orgy of words that overtakes me from time to time.
I'm a very private person, yet I have a blog that shares some of my most intimate thoughts.
I believe in the innate good of people, but am always wary of the hidden dark side.
I'm a good judge of character, but can be bamboozled by someone close to me.
Who am I? I'm an eclectic collector of miscellaneous miscellanea, living a life of perpetual inquisitiveness, gathering an endless assortment of both useful and useless trivia in order to live a life acquiring as much knowledge as possible - just because I can.
or "Are you sure we turn here?"
There's something exciting about not quite knowing where you're going. For the sake of this prompt, I'm talking about walks, but it could apply to life in general. This prompt has also given me the opportunity to revisit my trip to Rome taken almost exactly one year ago.
It's not that I don't know where I'm going, it's just that I'm not quite sure how to get there.
I'd spent months prior to our trip armed with a multitude of maps and guides and had a pretty good mental map of central Rome. Or so I thought. Funny how places aren't quite the same when you actually get there.
We were leaving Castel Sant'Angelo where we'd spent the last two hours combing the dark and slightly creepy stone corridors and surveying the expanse of Rome from the parapets.
It was nearing twilight and we wanted to see the Trevi Fountain before searching out a place for dinner. So, out we head into darkening Rome.
I'm positive we need to go over the bridge and head left and forward (I'm not good about the North-South thing, so my directions are relative to the last place I happen to be). It's a pedestrian bridge and is lined on either side by statues of angels.
At the other end, we turn left and start walking. But it gets more deserted and darker. We decide to head down a busier looking side street, still going in the same general direction.
Now, the thing about Rome – and most old world – streets is that they don't run in straight lines or even in a logical grid as we're accustomed to in North America. Streets in Rome are what we might consider alleyways or back lanes. We take a couple more streets in the same direction. That's when, A says, "Are you sure we turn here?" You see, he never looks at a map and assumes I know where I'm going. I experience a momentary jolt of panic before I think, how bad could it be? We're wandering the streets of Rome with thousands of other people doing exactly the same thing. It seems everyone walks in Rome – locals and tourists alike. I decide to relax, smile and keep walking.
We weave our way in and out of piazzas, past shops, and restaurants opening for the dinner crowd. Eventually, we hear the sound of voices, rushing water and a glow of lights around a nearby corner.
We turn and there it is – the Trevi Fountain.
See? I knew where I was going all the time.
More Sunday Scribblings : Walk
Left Brain
According to his list, Lou had precisely four chores to accomplish before noon:
- French baguette at his favourite bakery
- Fresh salad greens and cherry tomatoes (at one of two possible grocers, depending on how fresh things looked)
- Balsamic vinegar
- (2) ¾ inch thick New York strip loins from his favourite butcher
- (6) Chocolate truffles
He systematically ticked off each item as he accomplished them, carefully following the order on the list so he wouldn't have to back-track. This was very important to Lou. He hated back-tracking and always planned his car routes ahead of time to save both time and gas.
He even planned the order of shopping at the public market so that he would only have to make one looping jaunt through the colourful stalls, ending with the Chocolatier for the truffles. This served two purposes: one, they wouldn't get crushed and melted; two, the chocolate shop was near the exit door closest to the parking lot. He couldn't see the point of spending hours aimlessly browsing. In and out. That was his motto.
As planned, he was home by 11:55 a.m.
He had a lovely evening planned with Regina. He'd told her to come at 7:30. They'd relax, have a glass of wine and appetizers while he was grilling the steaks and be sitting down for dinner by 8. That would leave plenty of time to finish and still get to the late movie.
Everything would go like clockwork. A perfect evening.
........................
Right Brain
Saturdays. Regina loved Saturdays -- no alarm clocks; sleeping in, padding around barefoot and in pjs 'til noon. If only everyday were a Saturday.
Except today, she had a few things to do before going to Lou's for dinner. What were they again?
She let a kaleidoscope of images flash through her brain.
Oh, right! She had it now: Pick up the poster she'd had framed (the store had called her three times already saying it was ready – the last time asking if she'd rather have it delivered); return the three overdue library books (she'd gotten several email reminders and the fine was now up to around twenty bucks, but she could only find two books); and call Lydia to wish her a belated happy birthday.
No problem. She didn't have to be at Lou's until 7:30. Or was it 8? Never mind. It was supposed to be a casual dinner, then out for a movie. A few minutes either way wouldn't matter.
. . .
She got to the framing store around one-ish. The clerk was busy, so she did a bit of browsing while she waited for him. She ended up buying another poster and a couple of antique-looking frames that were on sale. She could use them as gifts or keep them for herself. She'd decide later.
Around the corner, she stopped at her favourite coffee shop. It was a small independent. Not too many of them around these days -- she liked the idea of supporting the little guy. Besides, it was homey and warm, full of friendly faces and people who took the time to say hello and ask about her day – so unlike the brand name store across the street full of upwardly mobile and trendy hipsters.
Next stop, the library. Rats! She'd forgotten the books. She really did need to return them today, so she made a u-turn mid-block and headed home.
She entered her apartment just as the answering machine was kicking in. It was Lydia. She picked up just in the nick of time as Lydia was saying, "So, give me a call when you have . . ."
What good luck. They had a nice, gossipy, catch-up-on-everything kind of talk before Regina said, "Well, I really have to go or I'll be late for dinner with Lou" which started another long explanation and discussion about Lou, whom she'd never mentioned to Lydia before. (How had she forgotten?)
At 5:30, she was racing up the stairs of the library. They closed at six. The clerk at the return counter gave her a hard time about the missing third book. He insisted that she'd "lost" it, so would have to pay the full cost of replacement – sixty-five dollars. After much pleading and speaking to his supervisor, they finally relented and gave her until Monday closing to find the missing book.
By the time she got home, it was almost 6:45. She'd never be able to shower, blow dry her long hair, do her nails, dress and be cross-town at Lou's by 8.
She'd better call and let him know she'd be a little late.
More Sunday Scribblings
