Sunday Purgatory, Volume One

Do you want to know what I wrote in one of my notebooks the other day?

Almost walked to the park today but it looked like rain, the kind that can go on for hours, the kind that drenches you cold. Maybe later if the sun comes out.

That was it, kids. That was all. Isn't that the most boring, nothing drivel you've ever wasted a moment reading in your life? I mean, what was the point? Why did I bother?

Look, I know what I'm supposed to be writing in these notebooks, but it's too often an exercise in tedium so screw that. I'm going to scribble whatever the hell I want to even if doing so is counter-productive to my learning to be a "real" writer, whatever that is. Fuck. So frustrating anyway. In bed, in that twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, on the toilet, on the walk to work, shopping for produce, shelving books--I get all these intense stream-of-consciousness thoughts in my head that I know I should be putting on the page, but in the moment it's just not possible to do that. Even if I could, somehow the very act of reaching for a pen and grabbing for a notebook alters something, changes the mood and the moment, interrupts the psychic flow. I can't explain. As I grab it and try to get it down it dissipates, or comes out all stiff and artificial, not like it was in my head at all. Maddening. For a while now I've thought I should be investing in a mini-recorder so that I could just transcribe everything later, but again I feel like my hyper-awareness that my ruminating is being recorded "for posterity" will simply ruin everything; again I'll get all self-conscious and edit and censor myself right out of any original or interesting commentary.

So what would you do?

Right.

Maybe I'll just go back to watching television. On my computer.

Streaming Consciousness

Just caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Amazed--and a tad disconcerted--at how much (sans makeup) I resemble my brother when he was a teenager. A really sullen teenager.

Glad I got off my ass and got out and power-walked this morning. Such a be-you-tiful day too; sunny, warm, cool and breezy. Got all the way to the tennis court in the park before finally turning around and heading back to shower, breakfast and watch Frasier (the "I.Q." episode, then the one guest starring the fabulous Christine Baranski as the Dr. Laura-like radio shrink from hell.) Nothing like a civilized start to your day!

Shopping later:

• fresh strawberries
• bananas
• maybe watermelon if sweet and not too damned expensive
• check out the cherries--only if they're firm and sweet
• green tea
• vine tomatoes
• white potatoes, red onions, green pepper, celery, etc for potato salad
• chips? shouldn't. probably will. undecided.
• a nice dessert of some kind. maybe ice cream, or I'll make a pie (fat chance)
• and I'm sorry, but I want a steak this time, and some hot dogs too. Sick to death of chicken. The Cook Yourself Thin ladies made a mouthwatering-looking flank steak a week or so ago, but I'm not sure I could pull that off. May just try to find a good sirloin.
• hot dog buns
• 100% whole wheat bread (see? see? I'm not totally hopeless)
• paper products: napkins, toilet paper, foil
• whatever else

Note to Self:

• Call Mike M. back
• And, Jesus, Email Michael R. again--it's been way too long; hope he's not mad at me for letting so much time go past without following up.
• Buy the Michel Legrand box set (Le Cinema de Michel Legrand)? Dusty Grooves has it for an excellent price, much better than Amazon.
• Keep trying to find the British CD release of the Tess soundtrack, one that more closely matches the 1981 U.S. LP release, or that at least includes Larry Butler's elegant love theme instrumental.
• Check the mail for the new Netflix stuff!

Arggh. The day is getting away from me (why does it do that? annoying); I should have started this earlier. The store is going to be busy tomorrow, a madhouse by Saturday--I should have done the shopping this morning, especially since I have to work all day tomorrow. Maybe I can shop on my lunch hour tomorr--no, girl. Don't do that. Don't even go there.

What is it now? 82 degrees? Lovely. All those white sails dotting the lake's blue water. I should definitely head back out and get more of this, whether to shop or not. This was a wonderful time to be alive when I was school age, especially the elementary school years. Everything was green again, the weather was nearly perfect--not as cold as it had been, not as hot as it was going to be--classwork was winding down, and my teachers, happily anticipating their summer vacations (or so I surmised), were mellowing and becoming almost human again. Most of them.

Field trips were on the rise, the zoo, the museums, as everyone was restless and eager to get out of doors. No homework, or damn near. I remember how strange and dusty and forlorn the third floor hallways looked on the last day of school, especially with all the classroom doors closed shut. Abandoned and forgotten. The long stretch of floor, that had looked so shiny in the morning, was now streaked and mottled with hundreds of sneaker and sandal prints. I'd look back and around, and, momentarily, feel a deep pang of guilt and a kind of regret...

Then I was out the door like a shot. See you in September, Charles Kozminski. You and the custodian--you're on your own now.

• eggs
• bacon? (really shouldn't)
• 2% milk, a gallon
• nonfat milk, a quart
• bath soap

It was a late spring summer-ish day like this one. There was this girl I'd known in school. What was her name...? Cynthia? No. Yes. I think, Cynthia. We'd stopped dead in our tracks, right in the middle of the sidewalk, upon suddenly, unexpectedly, encountering each other in the street after years of seeing each other in Miss Westmore's class every single day followed by years of not seeing one another at all. This was somewhere in the Reagan eighties, a good dozen-plus years or so away from our elementary school lives. We had not really been girlfriends then, not close-close friends anyway, but I remembered she had been nice, not a bully, had had a certain unassuming charm, and I'd liked her. Well enough.

I was disappointed to realize she seemed delighted to see me. Disappointed because I'd wanted to return the feeling but was instead uneasy and immediately on my guard.

"Lorraine. Lorraine?! Hiiiiii!!" She rushed up to hug me, grinning big. A little awkwardly I hugged back, then stepped away. "Hey, Cyn."
"How you been, girl? How long has it been?!" Swinging and shaking my hand like we were kids. She looked so happy, and... and young, still so much like the skinny little girl she used to be, even more petite than I was. Had once been.
"Um, okay I guess; yeah. Been awhile--how are you?"
"Me, I'm fine, you know. Hangin' in there, trying to raise my kids--!"
"Wow--kids? Get outta here, you're somebody's mom?" She laughed a sheepish little laugh, rolled her eyes. "Girllll, yeah! You know how it is." She looked at me again, a penetrating, right-into-the-eyes kind of look, and took a deep breath.
"So--?" She said expectantly. I braced for it.
"--you? Got kids? You married?" Still that searching look. What the hell was she looking for?
"No. No, I'm not. And no kids, no, not me." Careful.
"No? So what do you do? Are you working, or..?"
I took a deep breath. "I--I'm--I write. I'm a writer."

I shrugged and took a step back. And then Cynthia surprised me. She looked--I'm still not sure this is the right word, but it's the one that comes first to mind--she looked relieved. Pleased, but also relieved. Like one of us had dodged a bullet or something. For the barest second I was puzzled, and then all at once I understood, and as her words came out in a rush of praise and breathless enthusiasm, I felt bottomless sadness for us both.

"Yeaahh, I remember you used to draw all the time! I used to wish I could draw like you! And now you write? You're a writer??"
I swallowed, smiled tightly. "Well. Yeah, trying to--"
"That's great. That is great, Lorraine! I knew it, I knew you'd be something! You were always so smart when we were in school--you used to get really good grades I remember that (laughter)--I used to love the way you draw--do you still draw?--I'm so glad to hear this--I'm so glad one of us made it..."
We stood right in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious as the errant passerby pointedly walked around us, eying us. And Cynthia went on a little longer like this, animated and gesturing, almost pathetically eager to congratulate me on escaping poverty and routine, celebrating me my many accomplishments.

My many bogus accomplishments.

Because the truth was, I was not a writer, except in spiral notebooks and my daydreams. I'd been a good student, yes, but not an exceptional one, and I did used to draw because I liked to and because I could. And I was lying to Cynthia now because the truth, that I was working a series of hourly wage administrative jobs for a downtown temp agency, was too mundane and bleak and comedown to share. Because I could see in her eyes she wanted--no, she needed--me to be special, a success, and I couldn't bear to let her down or let her see how much I'd let myself down.

I laughed, shaking my head. "Yeah, well. It's hard, you know..." Cynthia nodded vigorously, as though she could well imagine. "Oh, but you'll make it, Lorraine! Just keep it up, girl, keep doing it, you'll make it--I know you will--"

Then we chatted briefly about other schoolmates--who was now driving a bus, who had gotten married and divorced and re-married, who had had to leave town, who had had twins, who still looked just the same as back in the day--and finally we hugged once more and parted, moving again in our separate directions, each of turning around to wave. I couldn't get away from her fast enough. Her and her touching pride and hopefulness; me and my pack of lies.

And Cyn, if you're reading this now, try not to hate me too much. I was wrong for that, I know, but I wasn't playing you. I was just scared. You had come floating up out of my past, the girl who had known the girl with all the potential, and--for a moment, for a little while--I was desperate to see in someone's eyes the me I wished I was, would like to have been.

• mild cheddar cheese
• laundry detergent
• bag of ice
• frozen spinach
• soda pop.

Diary Pages -- May 2003

Ahhh, the familiar terror of the blank page.

Welcome, torture.

Still thinking about the e-rants of Miss White Disgusted--who made it quite clear that she's had it up to HERE with the snide remarks, evil looks and general disapproval from black women about her relationship with a black man--and Mr. Black Royalty, who had a thing or two to say in reply to Miss White Disgusted. Both of them angry, both fed up, about the other's clueless attitude. Or something like that.

Very interesting reading indeed.

I can't decide what fascinated me more, Miss Disgusted's insulting ignorance about black female anger or Mr. Royal's sardonic reply--which, for all its loyalty and impassioned righteousness, rang slightly false somehow.

I mean, he made his point, Mr. Royalty did, about the strict upbringing of young black women and how this made the sexual "availability" of willing young white women an appealing option for young black males on the make. ("You're no goddess, baby--you're just easy!")

I have to admit I liked what he Mr. R had to say about the resilient strength of African-American women through the generations, the way generations of us have taught white women how to cook, how to dress; how we've raised white women's babies even as our own were ripped from our arms forever.

And let's give Mr. Black Royalty points for his willingness to acknowledge black male fear of black women, and the worry that she will leave him behind as a higher wage earner--better educated, better motivated to succeed, more socially sophisticated--enters her life (or as she becomes all of those things).

Yeah, I liked all of that. Until I slowed down to

First Sunday In May

Beautiful, sunny and everything's popping green (at last). I should be outside today.

Can't. Too much pain. Will have to take it easy today, maybe finish the Paul Krugman book. But there's a cooling breeze coming off the lake--damn, wish we had a patio.

Bolero is playing in the black and white background of Secret Agent/AKA Danger Man. A petrified middle-aged businessman type is about to get offed by the doughy, steely-eyed blond guy holding the pistol. Always loved the theme of this show--not the Johnny Rivers vocal, which is swingin' finger-poppin' fun alright, but the spritely, organ- and trumpet-driven incidental music or whatever it's called that always opens the episode. You see the "Series Devised and Edited by Ralph Smart" and other credits over the action as it plays. Remember?

Max was so pissed off last night she pissed me off. Can't get that out-of-left-field phone call out of my mind. I guess Mom is right that it's likely a control issue. Max has been the family free spirit for such a long time, it's hard to watch her slowly becoming a cranky old lady with ever diminishing capacities. She hates the new apartment--totally understandable where the kitchen and bath are concerned--and she's lost her pretty view of the boats on the lake. But mostly she hates her increasing vulnerability, the way she's become so dependent on the rest of us for almost all the things she used to be able to do herself.

I understand that, I do. I watch Maxine's decline and am swept with sadness at the change in her, and worry what's coming for my mother, my Aunt Mary, my Uncle Bob and Aunt Vera. And Michael.

And me.

When we were living in California, some--Jesus!--25 years ago, Max and I would often get in the car and just go. Sometimes shopping, sometimes sight-seeing, sometimes just for the ride up the Pacific Coast Highway and the breathtaking views of sparkling water and distant mountains. We'd roll the windows down, turn the radio up and laugh like maniacs at jokes nobody but us would get. We'd find the best restaurants and sweet shops, if we were lucky a combination of the two, and bring home mouthwateringly fresh peach pies, strawberry pies, lemon lush pies and (this absolutely floored me; still does) the most delicious french vanilla ice cream--a local drug store brand, as good or better than Haagen Daz, Baskin Robbins or Breyer's. Don't smirk. If you'd been there you'd know what I mean.

I miss El Pollo Loco, Marie Callendar's, Jongewaard, and Jim's Hamburgers--far and away the best greasy spoon burgers I've ever had. Mostly though I miss going to all those places with Max. She was then the age I am now, and I was a little girl with big, grown-up hips thinking lipstick, summer dresses and high heels made me her equal. We were such great friends. We're still friends. But everything's so different now.

Everything is so dfferent now.

WTF??

Two blogs--or was it three?--posted in January, one in February (something about Rita Hayworth? Where was I going with that?), and nothing at all last month. Nothing really this month either, as this is the last day of April '09.

What is going on? I so want to write... but when I sit down to try to do so all that comes is nothing. Nothing, nothing and more nothing. It's hideous. And the reading is not going all that well either come to that, even though I'm steadily buying books and borrowing books and people are giving me books. I just can't seem to concentrate, to focus. It's almost impossible to relax and just give myself over to the whatever--the page, the pen. Maybe I need to get out more.

Do you think I need to get out more? What do you think?

PS: Carrie Prejean is a fucking idiot. Nice teeth, though.

Yesterday Was Awful

Put the blame on Mame, boys
Put the blame on Mame
Mame did a dance called the hitchy-coo
That’s the thing that slew MacGrew…

Don’t know what made me think of slinky Rita Hey-Hey-Hey playfully pulling off one long black satin glove, raven waves falling seductively over one eye…

Auburn waves. Not raven. The Lady From Shanghai notwithstanding, the lovely Rita was most famously a redhead and Gilda, her most memorable film, was a noirish black and white.

Yesterday was awful, one of those working days that makes me wish I’d tried harder to stick it out with the money-grubbing private sector. I arrived roughly an hour early as is my custom and decided to use part of the time to shop for a few groceries. Some thirty minutes later it turned out I’d bought rather more than a “few” items and was relieved to make it back to the front door of the library with several heavy shopping bags of milk, juice, meat, etc. Even bought a pint of my beloved Haagen Daz—on sale, of course. By then there were some twenty minutes to go before time to open for the day. I wasn’t worried, initially. I could see all the lights up, including in the auditorium and staff room spaces… someone had to be there…back there… somewhere…

Not.

No Friendly Custodian Guy, no Briskly Efficient Branch Manager, and—it goes without saying—no Clerks, senior or junior. Nobody. ‘Cepting the painters, who as a rule seldom look up from their mixing and pouring or break from their gossiping, assuming they even heard my increasingly insistent tapping and pounding.

The time ticked away, the unseasonably warm temps began to melt my Haagen Daz, and the patrons began to gather in earnest, most of them youngish men impatient to get on the Internet access pcs and get those job searches, tax preps and circuit breaker requests going. Most of them seemed resigned to yet another late opening day; one or two of them seemed dryly amused. “That’s our people, ya know? We jus’ be like that sometimes.”

I was not amused, dryly or otherwise. I was steaming. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to help it. It was damn near noon; in another minute or two, once again, I was going to be late swiping into that damned time clock, once again through no fault of my own. This was a replay of Saturday, my previous working day, when the only other staffer on the schedule—the only one—finally pulled up to the curb several minutes late. And once again I’d placed an SOS call to the Branch Manager, who was not scheduled to work that day but was now forced to alter her plans due to the irresponsibility of one of her coworkers.

This time around I called the (Interim) District Chief as well, and told him directly how—“tired” was the word I chose—how tired I had become of these irresponsible no-shows, particularly on a day when everyone, the Branch Manager, myself, and four full time clerks, was scheduled to work. One or two of them might be sick or have suddenly to deal with some unavoidable emergency, possibly even three of them, but all five? Five full-timers, each with keys to the door, and none of them are here? The weather is mild and sunny, traffic is running normally, there is no snow—so what could be the justification for this?

Okay, said the (Interim) District Chief, sounding pretty tired his own self, I’ll talk to them.

I’m sure he will. He’ll talk to them, maybe lecture and gently scold them all, the way presumably the previous District Chief did. The Branch Manager will react with her typical stoicism. And the clerks will grumble amongst themselves and sulk their resentment; one or two feeling perhaps a twinge of guilt… and nothing will change. Absolutely nothing.

Why is this? Why are unreliability and a poor work ethic so tolerated by the City? I don’t know for sure and have no data to back me up on this, but my assumption is that it’s a form of self-protection. To keep wrongful dismissal lawsuits to a manageable minimum the strategy seems to be to keep giving problem employees lots and lots and lots of rope with which to eventually hang themselves. I mean, I guess it’s a strategy; presumably by the time serious action is taken against a troublemaker—and by “troublemaker” I do not mean your noble, conscientious whistleblower type—all the protests in the world of discriminatory mistreatment won’t be able to hide the evidential mountain of chronic misconduct.

Which makes sense, I suppose.

But what happens to office morale in the meantime? While all that rope is slowly spooling out, what becomes of the dependable worker bees, increasingly disillusioned and wearied to the point of cynical detachment by the excesses of the slacker drones around them?

So tired all of a sudden; all of a sudden I'm fighting to keep my eyes open. I really should grab my coat and go for a walk. But it’s so gray outside, so dreary-looking, and in any case this is not a neighborhood in which under the best of circumstances I feel all that comfortable walking around.

Maybe I’ll just crawl back into bed and sleep for awhile. And dream of employers who don’t reward inconsideration and indifference.

Ghosts

Barack H. Obama is now President of the United States of America. How cool is that?

It's a good thing, but that's not enough. I want to feel the elation I saw on all those shining young faces. Instead I just feel... subdued. Not so cool.

I wish I was twenty years younger. I wish I was a teenager and Joey was alive and we were both young again and connected to this moment in exactly the way so many younger people are today and seem to have been throughout Obama's campaign. I want to feel as good, as invigorated, as I'm sure they do. Through most of Obama's run, instead of Yes We Can! what I felt was, Well... Maybe. We'll See. I was not a true believer. He seemed to me so young to be reaching for what he was reaching for. I wasn't convinced he was ready yet I knew I wouldn't want to see him lose. At some points I was actually annoyed--couldn't he wait another few years? What was his hurry?

And now I am happy that he is President and I have high hopes for him--who does not? who could not with all that is at stake? I think he will be a great president. Because we need him to be.

But Uncle Larry has died, just Saturday. And his passing, a sadness in and of itself, is another reminder of all those missing places at the family table, all the people I've loved, and admired, who didn't make it to see this moment of history. Mark told me that well over a year ago Larry had predicted Obama's win--and not a pathetic, controversial, squeaker of a win, either, but a decisive sweep. That was a remarkably confident forecast given that more than a year ago no such thing seemed so certain. Who knew? Who was Barack Obama?

Who indeed? Who was George W. Bush except the privileged wastrel son of an accomplished father and a powerful political family? What did he know about running a country, about global statecraft, about leadership?

Not so much, turns out. And many, many of us are the poorer for it.

I wish--I know I said this already--I wish my brother Joe was here. I'd like so much to be talking to him today and have him talking to me, telling me what this day meant to him. If he were alive so many things would be different. We'd have all been at his and Maria's house having brunch, the televisions would be going, broadcasting the Inaugural, and everyone would be wandering all over the place, hugging, eating, and driving Colin and Allegra to distraction with endless grown-up questions about what they thought of all this, what they'd remember best. Family and friends. There would be good food and the dogs would be frantic with happiness, making affectionate nuisances of themselves. We would banter and console, argue and laugh. Conversations would spill out onto the porches. We would remember. We would eat some more. I would eat a lot.

I'm going for a walk. It's cold. But I need some fresh air and solitude. This room is crowded with ghosts.