OK, I don’t want to admit my current word count toward 50,000 – a procrastinator’s embarrassment. I will say I wrote 6,900 reasonably clear words today, and plan to do almost as much tomorrow.
This is how it started when I didn’t know how to start, but did. Yes, this spelling is still there, because the paper effigy of my inner editor is literally locked in a pretend jail in the possession of the local NaNoWriMo group leader, and rough-draft rules supreme. Below is my inspirational image of Diane the writer – caffeinated, colorful, mighty and free (much less up-tight than the editor image!).
A Variegated Life
It’s time to write a book. I have been pondering it all day. No sense of direction is my common position but isn’t going to be any more.
I’m thinking through all the images of things to describe my parents and movie images float through my mind. Like a woman’s or child’s fingers trailing across tall grass. Pans of mountains magesties. Clouds moving across the sun. All languid or majestic but peaceful images. Renderings like paintings of cultural ideas tht drive my thinking. So simple to ingest and regurgitate.
But I want more. A freeing and liberation of my sould through the words. Unleashing what a crappy word ffor what I am trying to say. No analogies. Opening a cage door. Jumping from a cliff. My life is ot a cliché. My mind and its workings are not a cliché! My parents lives are not a cliché.
They are 91 and 92, still living at home. Their love has endured and changed over more than six and a half decades. They are who they are now because of and in spite of each other. They hold hands and love, even as cell by cell they are losing each other. Mom looks at that reality…it is more evident to her, and she has more words that flow that direction… to explain what she feels. She feels much, and urgently. Passionate toward love and also flashes of anger, wounded easily, forgiving quickly. She wants peace. She wants harmony and family. She wants rest and simplicity. She says she is ready for the end of her days, but she fights on. She fights. Easily tired, but ready to enjoy the humor, card games, caresses, jelly making, dining out, funny costumes, discussions, beauty and experience that are the essence of her well lived life. Photographs that must be taken with film, and developed with double prints. Peace with loved ones, every single one, that is one of her many beautiful legacies.
I love her dearly. She raises my ire. I am so much like her, and refuse to be. And want to be.
Dad. He shares. When she divides leftovers or even first time fare between them…takes her portion and passes it to him, he takes half and passes it back. She tells him to take it all, but he never really hears her and defaults to his foundational core. He shares. Shares words, ideas, articles, food, experiences, affection, memories, life. Rich words spill from his mouth like coins from a slot machine. But with much greater regularity. It is amusing, because it is so Art. Even he laughs at times. One time many years ago he said to me that he can see a listener’s eyes glaze over, but just can’t stop himself! For those who can listen and take in so much slowly and deliberately spoken word, there is a wonderland. A wonderland of facts, abundance of experiences well remembered and well spoken, yearnings of his heart. Words the average person has never heard or imagined. A wonderland of insights into a complex and loving man, and the world he observes and embraces with eyes and arms open wide.
I introduce you to my parents, and my attempt at their love story.
Eight days to go…miles of words to go. Later!