Riding with a Writer

"I worked in Paris - as a ghost writer. The lady, she was terribly interesting. And what a great opportunity to write and earn a living? And to practice my own writing - I was getting published back in those days. And it was a year for myself to see the world, to live some place else. To speak French - to do something I wanted, but to have nothing more than what I had.

"It was wonderful. In the end, I came back to the states. I started my PhD. That's how I came to Iowa. That's how I met my husband. He was working as an electrician - fixing a light in the hall way - talk about a class difference. He'd gone to school but not for an academic degree. And so he's why I stayed here."

Part of me wanted her to keep talking - to hear stories of her time abroad, to learn more about the lady she wrote for, to learn about where she was published.

The other part flinched at how she spoke about love with the back of her hand.

Practicing #1

I like talking.

Friends, family, strangers - you name it.

To anyone.

About anything.

Even if I'm not interested, I can still make an effort to learn something.

Yesterday, I talked with my sister.

Today, I still miss her.

Hearing her voice reminded me of how much she's grown up.

I don't like talking on the phone.

Struggle #1

I suck at character development.

Forty-five Years After Social Change

My white and tired legs,

shaking from the day standing

in the sun, begging for rest,

thank me for giving them a seat

on Chicago bus number 60, heading for Racine street.

Next stop brings

an old woman with graying hair and black hands,

carrying things in recycled shopping bags.

I watch her head,

heading towards the back of the bus,

looking for an empty seat,

and when she gets to me,

three rows from the back,

I stand

and give her a place to rest those bags and feet.

Odd Ages

No matter how much technology or noise I add to my life, I will remain a human being at the core.

And that's odd - as I am reminded of my interaction with technology each day, while longing for less static and something more personal.

I cannot escape this wireless tangle.

Though I've Never Woken Like This Before

"Feeling your side of the covers fall over me as you got up, I listened to the twelve steps you put between me and the bathroom. My eyes shuttered for a minute, as thoughts of you came. And I was woken again when your voice called to me.

"Jumping up and running to the bathroom, I found you sitting on the floor, head in hands. Your hair just long and dark enough to cover your swollen eyes.

"I asked, Darling - what's wrong? My legs were tired, shaking as I crouched down.

"You'd been awake all night, moving in and out of the bathroom, though I hadn't woken until this last time. There was now nothing left in your stomach, yet your body wanted to continue getting rid of whatever sick remained.

"No, you're not going to die, I said, comforting your worries. And then every summer-fear began streaming through my mind: West Nile, Lyme disease, spinal meningitis. So I said, Listen, it'll be all right. It's just the flu, as I held your hand.

"Then you asked me if I'd leave the bathroom for a minute. So I did. When I came back, you pointed out the blood that settled down at the bottom and proceeded to collapse on the floor.

"With all my 5am energy, I picked you up, wrapped a sweater around you, and brought you here," and I tried to keep my fears hidden as I looked at her sitting in that hospital bed.

"I'm sorry you had to see what was in the toilet," and she said embarrassingly and looked down at her robe, feeling around at the opening in the back. "Has anyone seen my butt?"

"Just me and the doctor," I half-smiled, seeing color coming back to her already pale face.

She half-smiled back. "I'm glad you woke up."

"There's a first time for everything. But I've been awake for awhile."

To get started

It's not that I've forgotten how to write, it's just that I've stopped. So now it's time to start collecting my thoughts and patiently begin scribbling them again.