Retirement Options

At the end of Star Wars–what will always be known as “the first one” to anyone alive and in the theater in 1977–we see Darth Vader’s TIE fighter spinning out of control, and into the depths of space.  We are safe at last from the terrible threat of empirical tyrrany.

Alas, all of us know that three years later, “The Empire Strikes Back” showed us that tyrrany was alive and well, and more determined than ever to bend us to its will.

Just wondering.

Character-istics

I’m supposed to be paying attention to character development this summer.  It’s my role in the 100 Days Project.  But sometimes I can’t help but tell stories.  I’ve been called on it once, to my chagrin.  And not once, to my recall out of 38 people, have I mentioned anything about hair or eye color.  Some sketch artist I am!  In trying to be subtle and let the characters introduce through action and dialogue, I am slipping out of my obligation and falling into story mode.  Show don’t tell is such an overdone bird; but how else does one show but through telling?

The intro to a character so compelling his story lasted 20 pages and won high honors at Trinity:

The closet was warm, but not black enough.  He could never get it black enough or quiet enough.  He pulled down a pair of lined woolen pants, and with his small fingers used them to caulk up the gap under the door where the sunlight sneaked in.  That was better.  Now it was stifling in the closet, yet he shivered.  Beads of perspiration sprang up on his lips, nose, temples.  He took a sweater and wrapped it up tightly around his head, bunching his fine blonde hair to one side.  Almost black enough, but it was difficult to breathe.  He could remember when he did not have to breathe, did not need to pull the coarse, death-tasting air into himself.  That was the problem:  he could remember those things.

The beginning of Joshua is what I would consider the opposite of what I’ve been trying to do this summer.  With each day’s character, I’ve been taking a situation, thread, or thought from one of Steve’s stories, and applying it to a person.  Sometimes they’ve been rightthere, so quick to jump to the fore that it was all I could do to type fast enough.  Sometimes they frankly shocked the crap out of me.  One moment I was in the middle of writing about a stupid, winsome girl, (#26), and the next thing I know she’s a conniving witch out to snag some poor dope into preggering her.  I did not know that would happen.  I did not know her very well at all.

And thus I think I come to one of the dilemmas of a lengthy, exercise-style project such as this:  how can one find the depth and quality of “good” writing when there isn’t a lot of time to do it in?  I don’t want to become formulaic; that smells of laziness and noncommitment.  I don’t want to just call in a character to fulfill my slot for the day, though a few times I’ve come close because the obvious path was just so well lit.  It’s a temptation to become complacent and congratulatory when my stuff is done and others are yet to be heard from.   But what does that earn me?

My difficulty remains to find a way into someone’s thoughts, moods, and desires.  Joshua consumed me because he was my answer to a puzzle:  what would someone be like who was born with all the knowledge of the universe?  I don’t know why he’s a boy and not a girl.  (Funny, my first response to most of the project stories has been a  female character.)  I don’t know why Joshua’s so young, either.  He was given to me that way, just as his doctor came on board with red hair and green hi-top sneakers.  My dailies are not so clearly drawn.  Some of them, as I look down my index card of 100 slots filling up with names, are totally forgettable–or forgotten.  Who was that one?  I need to go and check.  Joshua, on the other hand, still sits beside me with his messy blond bangs and old, old eyes.

I need more quiet time.

The Power of Planting

It’s the 27th of June, and I’ve just planted peas.  I am, at a minimum, a month behind every gardener in the state.  Maybe if I called up to Maine I’d find someone who hasn’t yet turned over their plot, but even now I think everyone else has dirtier fingers than me.

I overhauled this year, acknowledging the back-breaking labor that makes it more difficult every year to get excited about being outdoors.  I don’t think I’m turning into a soft intellectual, but the ground is farther away, and my back more unwilling every time I blow the candles out on my cake.  I enjoy not being in pain, but the exchange for that is carefully tailoring my activities.  Luckily I have a seventeen year old son who has finally grown into his feet.  At 6′2″ he can put away all the dishes that belong on the top shelf.  He can also toss forty pound bags of organic soil across the garden without panting.  Combine that with a dozen rescued railroad ties, and my “new” garden is complete.  I have three raised beds:  green beans, peas, and tomatoes/broccoli living together.  I can now weed like a lady, instead of directing my derriere at the public.  Every year I plan on adding a few more, until the chefs at Elizabeth Park’s restaurant are jealous.

But I worry about the timing.  Did I spend five hours outside for nothing?  That’s the wondrous thing about planting, sinking your hands into the damp (okay, muddy) dark earth and drizzling seeds into furrows.  Planting is a hopeful task.  There is a reverence in placing seeds into the soil akin to delivering the gifts of bread and wine to the altar.  Only so much can be done on our end; the rest is up to God.  So far, He has not let me down.  And as far as I know, He doesn’t work on our calendar, but His own.  The way I figure it, the rain and temperatures are more like mid-April than late June, which means I’m right on time.   After the seedlings emerge, I’ll start praying for a nice long Indian summer.

Under Advisement…

advisor:  n. one who gives advice;  a teacher responsible for advising students on academic matters;  a fortuneteller.

Another desired role has come my way today:  I have been chosen to be an advisor to new IDP students entering Trinity in the fall.  It wasn’t very long ago that I was in dire need of the same thing.  Now I get to reach out to a new group of men and women following a similar path.  Until I was asked it seemed like a fun thing to do.  With this honor, though, I have to question a few things:

1–Do I know what I’m doing at Trinity?  I still haven’t been inside the big cafeteria.  The sights, smells, and sounds are just too big for me.  Not to mention the political geography throws me right back to high school.  The football table, the clique table, the foreign language tables–that’s a hoot, you can eat lunch and practice your Mandarin at the same time–are incompatible with my solitariness.  I eat in an empty classroom in the English house.  On the bright side, however, is the fact that I DO know where all the food and drinks to be had are located!  The good coffee is in the library, Chai tea is in the grill downstairs in Mather, and the Bistro has tilapia and ribeye for $12 on Wednesdays (dinner only).  So my advisees will not starve or die of thirst.

2–Am I qualified to advise?  I’m loud, opinionated, disrespectful, nosy, bossy, and am the mother of two teenagers (God help me, my daughter turns 13 in two weeks).  I’d say that’s a big fat check.  Plus, I know how to get parking permits without having to pay for them.  Two checks.

3–Academically, am I a good example?  There will always be students smarter, younger, prettier, and faster than me.  But I can run rings around them all in a poetry discussion, short story debate, or literature analysis.  Nyah.  And if my advisee is a Chem or higher math major?  I’m in good with the director of the Math Tutoring Center, having brought her gallons of coffee in the past year out of gratitude for passing me through the placement test.  (She continues to insist I passed the test, she only corrected it, but I’m hedging my bets.)

4–Can I give good advice?  Well, I haven’t told anyone to jump off a bridge lately

It still seems sometimes like the Adult Police are going to show up at the door and arrest me for fraud.  I used to think this was a phase, but my mom recently told me she catches a look at herself in the mirror and thinks, “Who is that gray-haired old lady?”  So I might be doomed to a life of self-delusion.  Better to think I’m a child imitating the grown-ups than the other way around, I think.

I hope I’m helpful.  I hope I’m advice-full.  I hope they like me.  To steal from James, I’ll try to not suck.

Perspectives

This one a day character project is finding its channel.  So far, (knock wood), it hasn’t been difficult to discover someone waiting to be written about.  Some of them are quite endearing, at least to me.  I have a few favorites, some who seem very similar to people I know, and one who actually scares me.  I don’t visit him, but I do go and check on some of the others.

Funny thing, though, the ones I think who are special, whose qualities I find interesting or appealing or just odd, are not necessarily the “popular” people.  Judging by the status count on the site—which is really a horrible invention or a godsend, depending on which way the esteem pointer is swinging—the ones most interesting to others are the ones I think “Eh.”

The number one character in the bunch so far is the Fisherman, a composite of just about anyone with a rod that I know, including the stranger that wades into my river every couple of weeks.  He’s the owner of the Subaru.  A friend named Dave is the fly-tyer (tie-er?), and my dad, brothers, and I have all cast lines over the years.  My daughter sits on the wall and uses bread-balls for bait.  The little trout are quick, but she’s getting quicker.

The thing is, though, the character was just a construction for the analogy.  Leaning on Steve Ersinghaus’ story, I wanted to consider Possibility.  It could have been someone sitting on a bus without an actual destination.  Any stop will do.  The character didn’t even earn a name, he was so vague.  But people really like him.  Leslie, on the contrary, is the closest one to my own soul so far, and she’s not even on the charts.  Thankfully Julian has dropped off.  I would wonder about my visitors if they found him so entertaining.

I wonder what my life will be like when all 100 arrive?