Water From a Rock

I thought I'd try a little warm-up exercise before trying to work on my book. First of all, I'm officially done feeling strange about saying 'my book.' That's what it is, and if I never finish it, well, that's something I'll have to deal with. But it is 'a book' I'm working on and so I will just call the kettle black. And I do, in fact, have a black kettle.

I'm listening to Miles Davis by candlelight, and I managed only to eke out a few sentences. The trick I use isn't working this evening. That is to use the text editor on my iBook as opposed to Word. It worked last week. So I thought I'd let my fingers go in here. I've calmed down since my early Saturday morning diatribe. All I had to do was go to sleep.

Which I finally did around 4:30 after some music listening. Of course I had to wake up relatively early because I had to get a haircut. I always enjoy those. Especially during times like these. It has something to do with getting rid of bad energy. I had brunch, which is a concept I'm not fond of. It's not so much the act of eating it, but rather the fact of it. Why not just call it a late breakfast? Right after I graduated, many friends of mine used brunch to keep in contact. My response was always that I would surely still be asleep at 11 and there was no way in hell I would get up after returning to a full-time work schedule so early on a Saturday or Sunday. But I relented this weekend, because I have three days instead of two, and hung out with Jen and Anna.As always it was nice. A catch-up session, if you will. After that, I had some time to kill before heading to Queens to hang out with Cindy and Yvette. So I went to the library for the first time since moving here. There are many in the city, and I went to the big one with the stone lions out front.

This intimidating center of scholarly pursuit overwhelmed me at best. I took cover in the gift shop, salivating over a writing set that comes with quills and ink and all that good stuff. I really want a quill. After dealing with the coat check lady who asked my twice -- not once, but twice -- if I had removed all electronic devices from my bag before handing it over, I was kind of off the entire experience.

When I approached her, she didn't move. Is she a statue, I asked myself. "Do I give this to you," I asked, knowing full well that I did, but her stationary greeting put enough doubt in my mind to prompt the question. "Did you remove any electronic devices," she asked. I said yes. "Cell phone, MP3 player?"

I paused, wondering why my initial response was not good enough. My headphones were around my neck, which, to me means that the music source is somewhere on my person. But not her. With as much patience as I could muster I replied, "they're on me." Just give me my ticket, woman! And that was that. I had only a little time, and I used it unwisely, meandering through the marble halls, with a couple of quick dips in the empty map room and the history research room.

Then it was off to Queens. The rest of the day was great. It was nice to laugh. To crack up, even. We all caught up and told stories. At one point, I apologized for the excruciating detail in one of them and Yvette took the opportunity to tell me that I had a different way of looking at things. I just like to think of it as enjoying the act of storytelling; she said she liked it. Quite a complement that was. And with my faith restored for the day in humanity, I left their house around 1:30 and was in bed by five. I stayed up for a little while after my one and a half hour trip home. I don't feel like getting into anything else. A mundane entry was called for and a mundane entry I produced. I'm on my third cup of coffee, so maybe I'm ready to go back to my book. I'm developing an idea whose significance is probably still unavailable to me.

The process I went through a week and a half ago surprised me. And inspired me. But now I'm a little stuck. Afraid to move on for fear it will diminish into nothingness. If only I could just publish this. I won't go into specifics, because it's for my book. I've told some people about it and it seems to be working. It's all contained so far in fewer than 150 words but it jumpstarted me. For the first time in my life, I actually think something I've written is good. And it's not even the words but the depth of the concept. So I need to keep going. It's given me a foundation in which to root the rest of my story. And yet, I'm stuck here tonight. Alone in my house, jazz keeping me company. And there is that universal audience that is sitting on my right shoulder criticizing every word I write. Indeed, Mr. Miller, this writing humbuggery is such exquisite torture.