Journal & Musing

Do you see yourself as a leader?

This is such a serious prompt, but I’m inclined to answer because I feel like writing.

I do not, nor have I ever seen myself as a leader. I certainly never wanted to be one. I’ve always fancied myself a fly on the wall. But then I step out of my car at work and my alter ego takes over. Or maybe disappears. Whatever the case, I become an entertainer and speaker of truths. I don tiny plastic hands and greet my subjects at the door before inundating them with knowledge they never thought they wanted to know. I fill their heads with thoughts that wake them up in the night in fits of anxiety. And they come running to me —the source of their agony—for comfort.

¡El edificio se calló!

So I was told once.

Then he made a 4, and now the building stands strong.

Growing is scary and painful, but somebody has to guide them through. I shove them through. With my tiny plastic hands.

I guess what I am saying is that if I have to do this thing, if I have to teach, if I must lead, then I will do it with as little seriousness as possible. The subject is hard enough.

What’s your favorite word?

Kerfuffle instantly came to mind, which is odd since I neither use the word nor ever think of using it. When I was young, I liked the way the word “Ledbetter” sounds. It’s not really a word but a name, except it is the name of a street, which is where I first saw it, and a street name could be a word. Not that names aren’t words, but they have no real use. I could write a book of words without ever stating a name and still be able to clearly distinguish between characters. Prince didn’t have a name for a while, and Shakespeare didn’t think much of the idea. Frankenstein’s monster was nameless until someone decided his name is, in fact, Frankenstein and unwittingly passed along the lie, which I suppose isn’t really a lie since the mistake was likely just that: a mistake. Now look. Order a Frankenstein costume and you’ll get the mask of a ghoulish undead rather than a mad scientist. But I suppose the lunatic doctor, himself, was a monster in his own right,

I am fully aware of my digression.

I might have a favorite word, but I think I like how the words are put together better than the individual words, themselves.

Wild sea money. That’s a favorite of mine. I don’t expect anyone to know the context of that phrase. But if you do, we should be friends.

What are you doing this evening?

Tonight I am eating leftover cake, which i bought on the way home from work yesterday after a particularly difficult day. Yesterday’s cake was medicine. Today’s leftovers are simple joy. Today was good.

Why do you blog?

Oh, well, I used to have the urge to write. Something in my core burned red-hot for it, but I seldom feel that way anymore. I like the community, though this go-round I haven’t connected with anyone. Just as well. I don’t write often enough to maintain that sort of thing. But when I did, boy, that was nice. I had amazing writers to write to and to read from. One in particular was a mentor kinda. He didn’t know it, but I learned so much from him.

Now it’s like yawning. I have a sudden urge to fill, write a little something about nothing, and then move along.

I should read more.

I was perusing FaceBook last weekend while getting a pedicure, and one of those novella ads (is it an ad?) rolled over my screen. I clicked on it, which is something I never do. I read 11 chapters of this crappy story because I couldn’t put it down. It was so bad, but reading it was like watching a bad movie that you can’t stop watching. Then at a climactic moment, I was informed that I had to pay to read the rest. I didn’t.

Anyway, that has nothing to do with this post other than to say that my love for writing and for literature has degraded into something far from passion. But I can’t put it down.

Interview someone — a friend, another blogger, your mother, the mailman — and write a post based on their responses.

She sauntered into the room as though she owned the place. In truth, she owned every room she entered. Her presence commanded attention. At this moment, I had the honor of sharing her space. She sat on the sofa across from me, grooming herself.

I greeted her.

“How do you feel about all the attention you get? Pardon my candor, but you are aloof. Does the fawning ever get to you?”

She glared at me for a moment, shocked by my forthright accusation, at the get-go, no less. I felt my aggressive approach would catch her attention and maybe even impress her enough to grace me with a response. I succeeded only in not offending her. I took that as an acceptance of my dare to entertain her ego. After a moment of sizing me up, she returned to her grooming as though I had never said anything. I scooted closer, risking her departure. A person’s proximity was usually not tolerated unless she approached, herself.

I continued.

“May I ask, what is a typical day for you? For someone so self-absorbed, you seem to prefer being elusive. People often comment on your mysterious disappearances. Would you mind sharing what you do while avoiding your subjects?”

She paused.

“That’s my business. How does my hair look? The shine is beautiful, is it not? I maintain a strict diet of the highest quality on the recommendation of my doctor. He prescribes only the best for me and insists I eat the most expensive food on the market to give me this healthy glow. He says the diet will increase my longevity and keep me beautiful. My hair is my most striking feature, and the food I eat helps keep it that way. Perhaps I will let you touch it before you leave. It’s irresistible, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, it is. Speaking of physical features, you have a distinct look about you. I’ve done research and found you may have Norwegian roots. Would you care to comment on your lineage?”

“I come from nobility, as you know. Though I, myself, will not contribute to the bloodline. I have siblings who already have. They expect to continue in that endeavor. My oldest sibling has the obligation to do so”

“Do you have plans to find a mate and settle down someday?”

“I don’t kiss and tell, my dear. I keep my private life private. Besides, the mystery increases the attention I get when I step into the limelight. I am missed. I am told so daily.”

I could tell she was getting annoyed by my prying. But I continued.

“What did you do today?”

“I slept most of the day. I prefer spending my busy time at night. I am quite tired at the moment, to be honest. Here, touch my hair. I want my visitor to know how luxurious it is.”

She leaped over to my chair and snuggled for a brief moment before biting my hand. Her teeth were sharp.

“That’s enough,” she said abruptly, and promptly left the room.

Her servant approached me and thanked me for the visit. She offered me a refill on my tea, but I felt no reason to stay now that the job was finished.

“Did you get everything?” She asked.

“Not nearly enough, but I imagine she prefers to keep people wanting. She is a princess, after all.”

“She is here, at least,” the servant added.

As I left, I caught a glimpse of Tinkles peeking at me from around the corner.

“Goodbye, cat. Thank you for your time”

I reached down to pet her once more, and she bit me again. I reared back in pain as she scurried away.

“That will scar,” I said to myself with a smile of gratitude. “A souvenir.”

What’s your favorite time of day?

Most of my life I have had a love affair with the late-day sun, watching it dance on the sheers with the shadows of the leaves against the window, following rays of light from one room to another to see how far the reflections go, and tracing speckles across the bed after a nap. The amber glow puts me in a dream-state until it fades, and I mourn its transition to twilight.

But then, there’s twilight. That fleeting moment when a deep blue hue embraces the atmosphere, drenching the air until fading to indigo. Sometimes the moon rises so bright you can see the green on the trees. And the crickets chirp and the lone mockingbird sings. The cat sees you in the moonlight and winks a wink of mutual understanding that life awakes when the world is asleep.

Cozy in my corner chair, in the dark, listening to the mockingbird play a tune just for me, I write until I feel the magic pass. Then I drift off to sleep in that same lucid dream-state as in the late-day sunny window when the light seeped through the blinds and spilled all over the floor.

With my eyes still closed, I hear lawn mowers and leaf blowers and smell the fresh cut grass of morning. The day ahead brims with potential when no plans are made.

And then the amber light streams through after an adventure found, lulling me back to sleep for a late-afternoon nap.