Flowing with the Current

I often wonder if I will ever write myself out; will I reach a point where I have nothing more to express? I realize that there will always be something, but when I recognize that I circle back to recurring themes, recurring memories, recurring, recurring—that’s when I feel this way, that I will reach a point when there is no more.

On the whole, I know there will always be more, and I tell myself that it's alright if I must keep visiting and revisiting recurring memories because each time I cross that path, there is something new that I discover about myself and my history. I still hold back. This I sense.

I also realize time changes. As simple as this is to know and understand, as it goes along and sneaks up, that’s when it’s most noticeable. I have always tried to live knowing and accepting that change is a part of life, that change is every moment, that nothing ever stays the same for even one breath…I take my oars; I keep rowing with the current—or at least trying to—rowing along, watching the water glimmer under the sun and knowing that I must continue moving along with the clouds following where the flow goes.

The online short story writing class has begun and as usual a slight anxiety and self-doubt has begun to settle in. It will subside. We have begun introductions at the online course site: Why are we here in this class, what do we like to read, and what do we like to write? It seems that most of the students are younger, maybe in their twenties. They are filled with excitement and are eager to write. I feel inexperienced. I feel doubtful. This is today. Perhaps tomorrow and the next day I will feel different.

Still with my downward feelings, I am excited about the class. I must process my feelings. It’s a way to free myself from the moment.

I will take each day one moment at a time and flow with the change—the ever flowing changes.

The Puppy

Friday afternoon I took a walk during my work break. On my way back to the office, I waited for the signal to turn to green and when it did, I first looked to my left to the car that was eager to turn right into the crosswalk, even though I had the right away. I caught his eye and began to walk. As he passed, his foot was clearly pressed hard to the accelerator—body language—from his irritation and his impatience directed toward and out of his car.

I was annoyed. It seems that I also have a tendency to take humans communicating through their cars personally. I made it to the other side of the crosswalk, onto the sidewalk, when I saw a man and his dog. The dog was a grown puppy. He reminded me of my childhood dog whom I loved dearly. He was my pal. This puppy was a lighter golden color. When I set my eyes on the puppy, all traces of my annoyance faded away. Forgotten. A large smile covered my face as I continued to watch the puppy walk with his floppy legs and happy gait. He was a couple of paces behind his owner. Walking and walking, happy and adorably clumsy, then the puppy lifted a leg and peed right there—in the middle of the sidewalk. I was about seven feet behind. I didn’t laugh, but I continued smiling. The man saw me. He tried to pull gently on the puppy’s leash. It was no use. He then said to the puppy, “really? Here. Really?”

“Is he a retriever?” I asked, slowing down, as I was about to pass. He answered that yes he was. “He is absolutely adorable,” I said.

“Thank you. I really appreciate that,” he said, holding the leash as the puppy finished his business. As I walked by, the puppy gave me a quick hello with his snout. I walked ahead appreciative to see such a happy puppy with not a care in the world. I walked back to work with a lighter step.

Time

Time:

a pie sliced

into many

sections and moods.

I become

warmed up,

the morning

races by,

I settle into a flow

and just then—

there is no more.

The Voice

Who am I today? I am not the image that states back; I am not even my own voice.

I am a culmination of experience and interactions; I am constantly evolving.

Today, I am in fourth grade—Mrs. Reed’s class. I have dodged the oral book report for as long as I can. Mother reads the note, irritated with me—or was she understanding? Memory is cloudy, gray, with streaks of purple. She chooses a book, reads it, primes me. I do not remember reading it myself: Joseph and the Coat of Many Colors. Yes, the story is familiar.

My name is called. Terror leeches on to me. I walk up to the front of the class, clutching my book tightly. I look out at a blur of faces, my legs begin to lock; they are tight. I am a wooden doll. I hear murmur coming from my mouth, a small din of bees in my head. I am in the dark. I have gone deep inside and cannot see, hear, speak. I cannot even see myself; my awareness has slipped away, slipped off to somewhere far away. I begin to feel my legs again and I see the faces in focus now—staring back.

I must be finished. I walk away with great difficulty because—who knows how long I stood up there in the land of nowhere. I went to my seat and hoped to never face a moment like that again. The dark veil…thick laced black curtain would stay. It would take a lifetime to find the light again.

But here I am, legs free, voice free—my words, my voice—with the mark of time and all who have crossed my path—the voice of one; the voice of many.

**

Originally jotted down in my notebook June 6, 2009

**

I didn’t change anything about this piece from when I originally wrote it, except a few minor technical edits. I feel that there are still changes I can make, details I can add, yet I want to keep it this way because it’s how it flowed out of me then and marks a very specific time in my life when this childhood memory resurfaced and came out in this particular way.

Rebb reading The Voice:

http://redroom.com/member/rebbecca-hill/media/audio/the-voice

The Sound of the Voice

When I was a little girl I was drawn to the sound of the British English voice. My earliest memory of this occurrence is listening and reading along to the story of Hansel and Gretel on my red Raggedy Ann record player. I would listen to the story again and again as the soothing voice washed over me.

My mother used to take me to restaurants often after her doctor’s appointment or an early morning ice skating lesson. I would order a cup of tea and a Danish or other similar pastry heated with a pat of butter. As I look back on this ritual, I do not recall how this young seven or eight year old—I can’t recall the exact age—came to order this instead of milk or oatmeal or pancakes. It was the same each time. I would whisper to my mother what I wanted and she would place my order. This time together with my mother was one of the few peaceful memories that I can recall having with her, where she had no worries, where life was grand, just her and her girl.

I had several ice skating instructors and would practice and take lessons at different ice rinks. The name of the instructor that has always stayed in my thoughts was Grace. She wasn’t British, but I recall her voice and how kind she was to me. It’s possible that she was Canadian. She spoke regular American English, though the way she sounded was like a beautiful white swan; she was the embodiment of her name.

As I continue looking back on memory, I can see myself—a little girl looking in the mirror and talking to herself in a British English accent. This little girl would then giggle, run over to the side table and take a sip of her tea in the most proper way. She would only do this when no one was looking. The giggling part probably wasn’t so proper.

I’ve come to realize or maybe—not realize—rather, I’ve wondered did I like my voice better when it was this way…when I was pretending? And is this possibly one of the reasons that I don’t like hearing my voice when I speak unless it’s raspy from a cold or in small bits of Spanish?

This has led me back to a piece that I wrote a few years back simply called, “The Voice.” I wrote it out in my notebook and I’ve wanted to type it up for all these years and to read it aloud and post the audio along with my blog. From the moment I wrote the piece, it felt as if it were meant to be read aloud by the speaker of the piece; I am the speaker of course, then again, perhaps I am not. In any case, I feel that I must detach from it. I fear that if too much more time passes, I either will not ever post it or “The Voice” will become irrelevant to me.

I recognize and enjoy my voice on the printed page when my self esteem is above the red line. Now I must learn to appreciate the verbal sound of my voice, the sound bytes that do not feel as though they convey the depths of my being.

I will post it eventually. It’s inevitable. This is my prelude—my commitment to myself.

I cannot be afraid of the spoken sound of my voice any longer—or of sharing that voice.

I woke up wanting to hike the mountain

I woke up wanting to hike the mountain, the open space where the cows graze, where I can see out past the city and into the hills. M. doesn't care for hiking the way I do. He was still sleeping, but had stirred since he heard me moving around. I touched his arm lightly and whispered that I was going for a hike. He nodded. I told him that when I got back, if he wanted, we could go do something. Then I asked if he wanted to come hiking with me? He said no. I knew he wouldn't want to. Thought I'd ask anyway. 

I grabbed my camera, water, and backpack. Off I went. 

When I started up the hill, I saw a lone black dog with one ear folded down. He seemed skittish and surprised to see me. He retreated and walked back up to where his companion must have been. I wound up the opposite hill. 

As I ascended, I reached a point where I could see the other mountain perfectly; I snapped a photo with my phone camera and sent it to M. with a short endearment.

He replied back a few moments later that it was nice.

The hills were dry. It was early in the morning, so the heat hadn't settled in yet. I walked for some time without seeing any other hikers. When I rounded another long stretch, I saw a gentleman. I smiled and he said good morning. After that encounter, I would have the trail all to myself until I reached my destination. Even though my breathing became slightly labored with the many steep hills, these steep stretches are one of my favorite parts of the trail. I feel my body at a slant and there is something about walking up a steep slope that I crave without being able to explain exactly why.

I didn't see any cows. They must have been in another part of the hills. I saw dragon flies, lizards, a cricket, and a white butterfly.

Walking by myself was a wonderful feeling. I stopped to take photos, at my own pace, and stopped to write a few bits here and there. I realized that while it's nice to have a human companion to hike with, I preferred hiking alone today. I was able to be in the quiet. At one point, my lips were stuck in a smile because I was happy being alone with the mountain and dragonflies buzzing by.  Every part of my being was feeling this joy.

When I decided to head back down, my phone buzzed with a text. It was M. He sent me a funny photo that I had taken of him from a hike we did together. His message said, "where are you? I'm at the top of the hill waiting for you." 

I replied, "really funny. I'm on my way down."

I laughed all the way down the mountain. 

SEND to READER for Kindle & Other Tidbits

“…I want to say that any system that helps you understand the world around you is valuable to you as a writer: natural history, biology, ethnology, physics, geology…You must have knowledge to make the nets in which other knowledge is caught” (Pg. 17).

—Damon Knight
From Creating Short Fiction


I believe I’ve shared the SEND to READER website before and it may be old news to many and there are other options, but I wanted to share it again because for anyone in the U.S. (not sure if it’s available for Kindle U.K. readers) who would like to send information from the web to your Kindle with the push of a button, for free, it’s quite useful. When I’ve had any questions, Sergey, was prompt and helpful.

http://sendtoreader.com/

Every now and again, there may be a page that does not work, but for the most part I’ve had success with it. One recent example is I wanted to read Eugene O’Neill’s play, Beyond the Horizon. When I checked the library it was available as part of a collection of his work, but I did not see the play by itself. Not wanting to hold up a heavy book for a short play, and not wanting to purchase it, I looked online again. I saw that Bartleby.com had the full version. I clicked on scene I of Act I, clicked my SEND to READER button, turned on my Kindle, and there it was. Since I had plays on my mind, I also checked out A Street Car Named Desire from the library. I have always remembered an old friend’s aunt saying how it was her favorite play. I may have seen the movie version with Marlon Brando a long time ago. It’s a fuzzy memory. After I finish reading the play, I want to watch the movie again.

Short story writing class begins soon and I am very excited. I have read through the syllabus after fumbling through getting setup and logged into the online course site. I’m glad I did this a week in advance because I was having problems, but the problems were my own— user error. I’ve used CourseCompass which is now MyLab before and luckily I didn’t have to purchase another access code because it seems that I’m still in the system from a previous course.

I bought another writing book on Amazon: Creating Short Fiction: The Classic Guide to Writing Short Fiction by Damon Knight. It’s an older book originally written in 1983; the third edition was written in 1997. I like writing books because I feel that I’m having a conversation with the author and when a writing book makes me laugh as this one has several times, it makes the conversation that much better. I appreciate the author’s ideas and the examples he shares from his life as a writer. I came across a sentence he wrote, which brought me back to what Ayn Rand was saying in her lectures on writing about collecting and holding a wide range of information in our subconscious and how when we need that information, as writers, it surfaces. I’m not as strong a synthesizer as I’d like to be, but I’m aware of patterns and I love ideas and information. I’ve always been curious—sometimes too curious. Knight’s statement—the image he created—added a layer and meaning to what Rand said in her way. His quote has become the epigraph of this blog.

Yesterday I worked on my writing submission for the writer’s group. I took my netbook and myself to the coffee shop to work on the piece that I had made some scribbled comments on. It was great working in the coffee shop. I left home a little earlier than usual to write and then off to work. I felt energized. I still have editing and refining to do and I’m almost out of time.

One issue that has come up in the writer’s group on my past submissions is that I have to keep an eye on my point of view (POV). It’s so easy to slip in and out. I also have to watch my tenses. Sometimes I’ll switch between past and present. When I’m reading other people’s work, the more complicated tenses sometimes throw me. I ask myself if they need to have so many instances of past perfect, etc. There is a time when it’s necessary, but then if there are too many successive cases, it bogs the writing down. In one of my pieces, it was suggested to watch my sentence variety and repetition of words or sentences. I have noticed that I do have a tendency to repeat. Sometimes it’s intentional; other times, I don’t catch it until I read my work aloud. And there are so many other little things that I notice and causes me to keep going back and back.

I will polish my current submission as best I can before I send it to the group. I’d like to catch the technical errors so that the group can read through without those distractions. I’m almost there! We have all gotten in the habit of stating what our piece is: Part of a novel, a short story, non-fiction, etc. I will classify the piece I’m working on as a creative non-fiction travel piece.

It was that time of year for another dental cleaning. I love going to my dentist’s office. Dr. D. has a strong sense of beauty and balance evident in the artwork throughout her office. In the waiting room, I had to sit in a different chair this time because the others were taken. I pulled out my iPod Touch to catch thoughts that were whirring around in my head. I needed to tap them out. I wrote and wrote with my fingers tapping those letters out. The receptionist apologized for the delay. I told her no problem. What I should have said was, thank you for the time and space to get my thoughts out. I was done after five to ten minutes and turned my attention to the reading material on the table near my chair. I hadn’t noticed this book before. Dentistry: An Illustrated History by Malvin E. Ring. I picked up the heavy book and turned the pages. The pictures were fantastic. I hadn’t gotten past the first few images and it was my turn for a cleaning. Rats! I needed more time. A picture that caught my imagination was the two teeth pictured here—tooth worms, I think. I’ll have to read about it. The library didn’t have this particular book, but I did find another title: Tooth Worms & Spider Juice: An Illustrated History of Dentistry by Loretta Frances Ichord. It’s meant for young readers. I’m going to check it out.

Tooth image accessed from here.

Being pulled in many directions, just like those Dandelions that Ray Bradbury has written about…I see myself as a dandelion—floating about on the wings of the breeze under warm rays of light.