Tuesday, December 28, 2004

EOB

I see him through his office window on the fourth floor of an old building across the street from the bus terminal.  He’s standing in his shirt and tie, looking down at his desk, his hands on his hips.  All around him the rest of the bullpen is dark; I can see the room is full of other desks but no one is sitting at any of them at the moment.  His desk, under the tight circle of his lamp’s illumination, is not large; stacks of paper and binders crowd the meager surface before him.  I can’t make out his features but he seems to be at the leading margin of his middle years, a man of average size and strength, a man like any other, like all others.  The light bouncing off his papers faintly uplights his shirt, his face.  His head slowly turns from side to side; he takes in the scene of darkness and vacancy that surrounds him.  His hands rise to his face; he presses his palms slowly to his eyes, lets his head fall forward into them and cradles his face.  His shoulders rise and droop, once, weary.  He wipes his hands off his face - it seems, reluctantly - and reaches down to turn off his desk lamp.  The office goes black.  Moments later, I see his silhouette against the light of a doorway as he leaves.  Then the darkness remains uninterrupted until I get on my bus and go home. 

*******

Have a great holiday.  See ya next year.

Sunday, December 26, 2004

Holiday Intermezzo

Here’s a bit of a holiday place-holder post. 

We here at Chuckles Central have been having a lovely holiday.  Christmas morning we made delectible canadian bacon eggles (over easy eggs with melted cheese on a broiled bagel) and then took a relaxing walk at Chrissey Field, where we took these pictures of, respectively, the warming hut, some ripples in still water, and Fort Point (huddled under the south span of the Golden Gate bridge). 

These ones, now, are shots of some of our favorite ornaments, as appearing on our two tiny treelets.  First up: Dog and Frog (pickle, background left).

Next, a traditional ukranian egg and a bathing beauty:

I’ve always had an affinity for this serene fellow:

And finally, this cheerful camper came with a set of soviet - not russian - ornaments we bought from some russians - not soviets - about ten years ago.  The set includes several glass spangles, a vaguely Santa-like personage, and this bulbous geek, whom we have always called “Corn Boy.” C’mon, Cornboy, say hello to the good folks.

Rather than blather, I’ll leave it at that.  We’re leaving soon for Maryland, so I’ll pick up with the brainfarts when I get back.  Happy New Year and all that.  It has been an absolute pleasure spending 2004 with y’all.  Here’s to more in aught-five.

Thursday, December 23, 2004

The Best Story I Never Wrote

I was reminded of it a month or so ago when pea wrote about how she tricked herself into trying to remember a bit of dreamed dialogue, and woke up with a mental bookmark that had slipped out in the night, telling her only that she’d forgotten what she’d intended to remember.  But at least she remembered to write about that.  That’s better than I usually do.

I carry a little memo pad (or two) with me, just in case I have some sort of notion I’d like to hold on to. I also carry a writing book in case I get a chance to flesh anything out into complete sentences.  I make occasional wordpad notes on a spare screen while at work, too, and I write on my hands and forearms and stuff my pockets with little loose notelets.  YET I FORGET.  Barely a day goes by when something doesn’t get past me - a scrap of a dream, a terrible pun, a poignant vignette, the first line of the best story I never wrote.... In every case, I promise myself that this one is too obvious, too beautiful, too witty to get stuck in the lint trap that is my ADD, and that I therefore won’t need to take the momentary effort to transcribe my thoughts into some less evanescent form.  Not a note; not a word; not a crude bleary doodle.  I’ll just remember, I tell myself.

I can be so full of crap sometimes.  I never remember a goddamn thing.  I even had to force myself to write down my ideas about forgetting things so I could make sure to touch on them all here. 

The insidious thing is, once I’ve written some notes down, I don’t usually need to check them again.  If I’ve gone through the whole exercise of writing something out completely, working it through all from start to finish (as I did with this little essay), of course I’ll type it up faithfully - I won’t wing what needn’t be wung.  But if it’s just a matter of a few words, the literary equivalent of the string-tied-around-my-finger, once I write it down somewhere it sticks to my brains tenaciously till I’ve sublimated it out in some sort of finished product or have formally dismissed it as unworthy of further attention. 

Try to remember?  Invariably forget.  Write it down so I don’t forget?  Never need to look at it again.  Not enough effort, or more than necessary.  If I ever figure out how to gauge my behavior to my needs, I’d get a lot more done and I’d have lots of extra energy too.  And plenty of fresh notebooks, to boot.  Meanwhile, if you see an absentminded dude patting himself down for paper and pen while you’re trying to get around him on the bus, give him a break.  He might not remember it, but he’ll sure appreciate it.

Ed. note: I’m gonna take a few days off for the Saturnalia, and next week I travel to the east coast for to party with the inlaws in Maryland.  Posting will be light till 2005.  After that, god only knows what the future will bring - but I do have a lot of crap written down in those ratty little notebooks....