June 17, 2012

The cannons thundered from the waterfront less than a block away.  The dog looked up in concern, turning to her for reassurance that all was still well.  The haze over the bay had been lingering for days now, and the endless and repetitive song of a nearby mockingbird was becoming part of the ambient sound scape.  Occasionally the recently-fledged peregrine falcons would fly over, crying out like the sophomores they were to hunting.  All four hens in the garden continued their scratching and pecking as though the small squadron above were hummingbirds in the jasmine.  Apparently, the falcons were as harmless as the cannon fire.  It was Pirate Festival weekend, and sun burnt buccaneers were swarming the ferry terminal staging swordfights, walking planks, and groping their buxom wenches.  Traditionally, there was a great consumption of ale as well.

            She had a small desire to join the festivities, but felt obligated to do at least fifteen minutes or one page of writing in order to keep her recent vow to become a writer.  She changed the formatting on the word processing program to “double space,” but it made little difference.  “Anne Lamott I am not,” she wrote,

“Nor ever shall it be so.  I am instead an empty head,” and she ran out of thought.  It rhymed with “Lamott,” but she needed a rhyme for “be so,” so she gave up.

            She looked out the window.  The river was frequently her muse, as was the mountain, as well as her strangely functional family.  To call them a muse seemed an oxymoron.  Do muses cause such frustration?  Do they hurt your feelings like that?  Which muse is responsible for humiliation and depression?  Is it the same one that provides the sense of humor?  One of them is surely responsible for perseverance, as evidenced by her continual confidence in her ability to be a good wife in the face of the two divorces.  It was this gift of denial that had kept her from stepping off of one of the conveniently located bridges here in the Bay Area.  She was absolutely certain that there was a book, or a play, or a decent poem in her somewhere.  The challenge was to find it and release it without losing control of what it might bring with it.

            While toweling her hair earlier, she had thought about naming her next dog Yorick.  She was amazed that she had remembered that.  Ann Lamott carried around index cards.  She could never find hers.  She wished she had a tape recorder built into her head for conveniently taking down ideas.  They came at her from all directions at all times of the day.  Lately the ideas were bombarding her activities like the cannons bombarding the pirate schooner down the river.  There were no cannonballs, but a whole lot of smoke and noise. 

            She left a message with her therapist; it was time for an appointment.   According to Ann Lamott, this feeling of either impending or encompassing insanity is common among writers.  According to the many authors she read, ugly families were too.  Augustin Burroughs and the Sedaris siblings kind of had the corner on that market.  Besides, at sixty, she still lived in fear of her mother’s fury if any of the family secrets were liberated.  She didn’t want to be hateful, she just wanted to be truthful, but she knew her mother wouldn’t get it.  She also knew that her sister, from whom she hadn’t heard in days, wouldn’t speak to her again.  Another syllogism of her life:  if she told the truth about the relations who rarely spoke to her anyway, she’d never hear from them again.  “Why do I even care?”  She hoped she didn’t have to wait long for the appointment.

            She suddenly realized she had written two full pages.  She could get out of her chair now.  She had accomplished something besides showering, cleaning her desk, and vowing to write.  She had actually written.  How about that.  Did that make her a writer, or like the pirate costumes, would the entity be retired after the weekend?