Those of us who do even the smallest amount of writing will find ourselves sooner or later in a quandary that may seem quite dark. This particualr quandry is not the one you might be thinking, no I’m talking about the act of writing itself and not the over used clutch of writers block.

Lately a few people have asked (repeatedly) why aren’t you writing or why haven’t I seen anything new from you in months, generally I let them know that indeed I am writing but not stuff I want to share at this moment. What I’m telling people is true but it blushes over the reality that I’m not writing regularly. I’m not sitting down most everyday and spinning webs of words and fantasy, no I’m using that important time to do other things and avoiding direct eye contact with the face of writing.

I assure everyone I have plenty to write about, thoughts are crashing and rattling around within my mind unceasingly. like Niagara Falls plots and ideas churn themselves to a boil within my skull and rarely do I come up from this hot mess for a breath of air. Oh sure I can read a book or watch TV and these pesky collections of words and pictures will recede for a moment or two, but if I don’t keep myself steeled with avoidance the words will slap me aside the head laughing and taunting my puny attempts to deny them.

The words and dreams are never offended when I turn away inching myself toward a more mundane project or maybe some high-minded thing like meditation, no the words know they ultimately are the master that I must give into if I ever want the peace that comes with answering the sirens call. Crashing upon that rocks is not the disaster many would have us believe, it is turning away from this passion and relegating your dreams to a dusty attic in your mind that is the real sin.

Put on some music, open the window letting warm softness of first spring fill your writing area and swirl around filling you with delight. Maybe take off your shirt and let this air bring a tingle upon your skin as you sit down to write, the tingle you feel when your creative juice’s traverse their way up and down your spinal column igniting you with magic, painting scene upon scenes so you might delight in your passion.

My foots tapping to the music, the air wraps itself around my naked upper torso lyrics asking me “who’s going to save me,”  smiling I pick up my pen and touch it to paper writing one word after another…..

Writer’s can’t be saved they can only write…..

Lost words tumble from my mouth making their way to my ears, and I repeat the question hoping to kindle magic bringing about epiphany of purpose where there is none. Stubborn intransigence molded from the sticky clay of change grips me tighter each time I utter another slowly stirred  sigh.

“I’m tarnished,” covered in rusted flakes from tears that never really set me free anchored in mundane existence unable to exorcise myself chained to this tightly wrapped barbed wire encasing my mind,  suffocating my heart.

I shift my thoughts away from self pity engaging my cold hands and furtively light a cigarette rehearing scenes of vertical scorn that friends soon will heap upon me as they recognize the stale smell I carry through the front door.

Friends inside festively milling around toasting occasion posting smiles sucking frosting waiting patiently for me to show unaware I’m staring through tiny rows of wavy garage door glass peeking into their world ashamedly hiding orange cigarette glow from their merry inside world.

December frost hitching a ride on winter’s wind sneaks through weathered cracks causing me to contract further into my own lonely warmth. Fingers encased in blue can’t strike a match to relight the stubby fag hanging off my lip.

Grudgingly thoughts become zen bubbles excuses become phantom, cheer replaces apprehension and for a moment self involvement melts with repeated touch from those inside.

I looked up from my malfunctioning GPS just as Frampton handed me a bunch of succulent red grapes, then he turned and winked at Pablo who picked up his blue guitar, and started painting the walls a deep egg shell.

“Do you know where I am” I asked in a voice that was not mine. Underneath the drop cloth Katie Couric’s voice exclaimed “does anyone really know where they are”?

I shrugged and continued walking while shaking the damn GPS.

Next door the Good Humor Man doled out frozen hash pops to the local sheriff and his deputies while their wive’s tried a new mud and jalapeno facial from the local taco stand. I smiled at the stands owner, a Norwegian super model who leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Lima beans are the new chocolate.”

I shrugged and continued walking, still shaking the damn GPS

A couple doors down I noticed both Meryl Streep and her organic apple cart were upset that Elliot Spitzer was selling Iced Kissed Gourds from Greenland, guaranteed to heat up your frigid bride. Before I could ask where I was she turned away, then abruptly smacked Spitzer, causing him to float away like an deflating balloon.

Again I shrugged, continued walking and yes, shook the damn GPS.

The neighborhood had taken on the air of a cosmic circus traveling from planet to planet powered by surplus Chia Pets and the unused glitter from Wayne Newtons last New Years Eve party.

I was sure the Aliens would not understand English but I asked anyways. “Do you know where I am?” In a deep voice James Earl Jones surely would have loved, one of them replied. “Why of course, you are everywhere grasshopper,” then he turned and the group of undocumented space travelers laughed riotously each slapping the others shoulder.

I shrugged and continued walking, not bothering to shake anything.

I was determined to find a normal person when I noticed an old lady working in the garden. I was relieved to see it was Aunt Bea and I knew she’d help me but just as I reached her she turned, in her hands was a riding crop, it was then I noticed David Bowie covered in welts blissfully lying in poison ivy, Bea smiled and motioned for me to join them.

This time I gagged and then shrugged while continuing to walk, no urge to shake.

In this age of wanting everything and needing little I wondered, why is it so hard to find out who you are and where your going. To my surprise Grace Slick jumped out from behind the poison ivy bushes where she had secretly been videoing the S&M scene, and cried out in her aged 60′s voice “in your head baby I’m afraid you don’t know where it is, don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love, you’d better find somebody to love.”

Grace reached out in a decidedly Joplin-esque manner, touched her finger to my malfunctioning GPS and disappeared.

I shrugged once more, pondering her words, then staring in wonder at my now functioning GPS I continued walking. The only thing left to shake was the dust off my shoes from this crazy neighborhood.

Don’t you want somebody to love, don’t you need somebody to love, wouldn’t you love somebody to love, you’d better find somebody to love.” Indeed.

Spanky wondered aloud “ how can people be so clueless,” it was an age old question, one pondered by generations long before Spanky came on the scene and, one Spanky generously acknowledged he was not the original thinker of, still Spanky questioned, why do people need to believe the unbelievable and the indefensible. How is it he thought, that people can spit on empirical evidence and call it opinion, again he spoke for all the creatures in the wood to hear, “how can people not see what is front of their face?”

A little chipmunk nose wiggled out from under a bright green leaf, then eyes and mouth became visible and with one seemingly impossible jump, she was on the stump across from the pondering figure of Spanky. “The answer is easy and it is not easy” she twitted in a sharp chippy voice. Spanky was not surprised at all by this talking chipmunk, he just lifted his head and gave her the same rapt attention he would with anyone who addressed him. He asked with excitement and humility, “please tell me more Ms. Chipmunk if you will.” The little monk smiled back at Spanky, and after turning around three times, found her spot and sat down.

“People are like all of creation, they are frightened by the seeming chaos inherent in the unknown, so like the Blue Bird they scurry about building an ever tightening nest around themselves for protection.” Spanky now deeply in his listening mode, nodded and smiled as the little monk took a breath before continuing. “Unlike the Blue Bird, people use things like greed, distrust and fear to build their nest of protection, what they end up with is not a nest at all, what they end up with is a wall and what a wall it is.”

Spanky sat quietly his eyes were half closed listening to the little monk share her wisdom, From time to time he’d nod as he felt her words fill him to the brim, each nod would make a little more space within Spanky’s brain for another crumb of knowledge. Spanky was content and happy that this little monk would take time out of her busy life to share with him what she knew. Spanky thought to himself as the little monk took a breath, oh how lucky I am to hear such as this.

The little monk read Spanky’s thoughts and ceased talking, she looked at him quizzically, hoping he would notice her questioning gaze and answer for himself. Spanky didn’t disappoint the little monk, he saw the question her scrunched up nose and wide eyes were meant to convey and took a deep breath preparing himself to answer.

I walked on in the light rain side stepping around the puddles placing themselves in my path, I thought about why sidewalks in this part of town were so scarce. Gazing upwards at the three and four story tenement houses surrounding these streets the reason came to me without having to chatter to myself. I walked on to get to the bus stop, sidewalks coming into being then disappearing for blocks then starting up again only to fade before I could walk twenty steps.

Under my arm which was under the big black umbrella I carried your present covered in an old dry cleaning bag protecting it from the wet above and the splashes below. Every few feet I would look down at the package and smile thinking of you and wondering if you’d love this gift I was bringing to you.

At the bus stop I was the only one waiting, cars and trucks flew past leaving a rooters tail of mist shooting up into the sky hoping to beat the red traffic lights capricious nature. As they flew past I smiled under my big black umbrella thinking it could be any city in America where drivers  just look straight ahead missing everything around them, their passengers blank stares catching my eye and missing my smile.

Deftly I looked at my watch without anyone noticing and saw it was noon, time for the bus to be here to take me to you. Almost before I could look up my ears heard the dirty roar of diesel rumbling toward me and the metal grabbing of wet breaks as the bus stopped in front of me, climbing the steps holding your present tightly paying the fare I found a seat among all the empty seats hanging my black umbrella on the seat in front of me  and sat with your present on my knees.

The bus roared off down any main street chugging and lurching as it inched forward, squealing and hissing as it was made to stop. I thought about how excited you would be when I knocked on your door and handed you the present. Out from under the plastic I’d pull the neatly wrapped deep blue box all tied with yellow string inviting you to sit and unwrap it.

Click click click the fare box on the bus wrenched me from my daydream,  looking up I saw two young working girls making their way toward the seat in front of me, I quickly move my umbrella to make room, the taller one smiles mouthing thank you. They are in their twenties radiating a youth that covers them like a transparent egg shell and before I can catch myself leering they both turn in their seats and smile at me.

Quickly I’m pulled into their eyes so fresh and vital my hearts aches. The taller of one asks me what I’m carrying?” It’s a present” I stammer all tongue tied and gurgly. The girls look at each other with pouted smiles that could only be for my benefit. My thoughts drift to them and I wonder if they know they now belong to me, they are mine to take home for a rainy day just like today.

The bus lurches forward almost throwing me to the floor then stops and the girls get up to leave, turning back waving and smiling they are gone before I can end my daydream, before I can take them home I realize I have your present all wrapped up and on my knees. I think about how you would forgive me of my fantasy but just to be sure I’ll not tell you.

I climb the 13 wooden steps to your door my umbrella now under my arm the clouds parting to send a sliver of sun to your door. I think about how you would point out the  poetic nature of such a moment and I stop to breathe it into me so I can save it for you. I reach out ringing the door bell waiting for you to throw open the double wooded doors welcoming me hugging me kissing me but there is no answer.

Walking around your house carrying the present I have for you I look in every window only to see empty rooms, only to see no signs of you. Confused I sit on the porch swing holding your present on my lap swing back and forth wondering where you could be. The silver of sun passes by fading into evening and I swing back and forth with our present on my lap wondering where you could be

Crap Crap Crap

Crap crap crap that’s all this is my editor yelled. Day after day you come in here with these light weight stories and you expect me to publish them, what’s wrong with you? He sneered

What’a mean lite weight stories, I write about heart break, romance and unrequited love

Shit man all you write about are romanticized views of reality and they are not even your reality they are some sort of dark works colored with an Audrey Hepburn-esque brush.

I recoiled in my chair griping the arms tightly,” what are you saying, you have encouraged me to to write more you said my work was deepening and was good”. I shouted.
“
I said those things hoping you would move toward your depth toward your truth. Instead you serve up white bread drivel meant to melt the heats of women who lie on couches eating chocolates and spend the night getting themselves off.”

Your experiences are not like what you write, hell most of the women you’ve loved were wicked, they were drunks, they slept around, fuck a couple of them were whores  and yet you continue to write like you were stuck in the 1950’s.

By this time anxiety was cascading throughout my body, I wanted to run and run fast I had to get out but I couldn’t move it all just flew apart like some dime store puzzle.

The editor stared at me red faced then lit it up again. “Now your sitting there wanting to run away when you need to jump over this desk and beat my god-damn face in, but no your all caught up in your head.”

He took a breath walked around the desk to sit in the chair next to me and with a hand on my knee continued to destroy everything I had thought about my writing.

Let me give you an example. He effused. You write about these women in your life like they are the only ones with the flaws yet that’s not  your own experience, out of the 3 big loves of your life two died hating you and the third won’t talk with you. What’s that say man? Why are you not writing about that?

Look I said I’ve had enough, this is over I don’t want to hear another word, your fired.”

My editor stood up laughing and looked down at me saying “you can’t fire me, for christ-sakes man, I’m you.”

Before I get to today’s story I want to let people know that the fine people over at NaNoWriMo have a writing contest for screen plays coming up on April 1st, 2008. Check it out.

Today’s Daily Dose 100 word story is entitled Hips an Soul, Enjoy! Oh and todays’ story is only like 72 words, malfunction in word processor count. I need to get that fixed.

Hips an Soul

So striking that summer with Twiggy hips, Carly Simon lips, icy blue eyes.

The moment she sat down we tagged, music jazz, politics radical, wine cheap and lots of it.

First weekend we ended up in Craftsbury Vermont, fiddlers contest.

Danced for two days.

Together every moment reading, eating, laughing, listening.

In September all she said was “going to Utah for my soul.”

And she walked away.

How did I miss that?

Ok what does a sleazy diner and the yellow brick road have to do with each other? Today’s Daily Dose 100 word story is entitled Cheap Eats Diner, Enjoy!

Cheap Eats Diner

Wiping caustic sweat from her brow, stepping from behind the grill smiling like a little girl not the dejected woman she had become.

Seven years since they argued, now hands touching her soul felt elated.

Before today this colorless joint was her cross, her tomb of forgotten dreams.

Holding hands they opened the door.

Like a rusted colander her boss shouted “ you leave, don’t come back.”

The fading grill at their backs mother and daughter walked past the laundry past the litter and onto the yellow brick road.

I wonder, do dreams ever really die? Can they be resurrected?

We all have points in our life where we shift to a totally different direction. Sometimes we pursue a dream and reality becomes so different or so difficult that the dream ends.

I’ve always wondered what happens when a dream ends and how can we benefit from looking at it, from spending time revisiting that dream and its ending. It is after all what helps to define us, right now.

Today’s 100 word story is entitled, Left Home. Enjoy!

Just turned 18 cruising along main gawking at all the people. Dreaming of living and a job, in the big city.

It was dry and tedious as I trekked business to business but by the forth day I just popped my head in and asked “hiring”. Sensing hesitation or hearing no kept me moving to the next establishment. I was in rhythm, I had created the job hunting shuffle.

The fifth day I was cooking in an Italian joint, the sixth day got my draft notice.

I wonder, do we remember a dream ending or do we just start another?

Sometimes in the middle of a memory we find that little tid bit that takes our breath away and makes us wonder. Isn’t the wonder the stuff that paints our world?

No I’m not talking about the fluff or sappy stuff that Madison Ave pours over or lives on a daily basis. I’m talking about the real wonder we experience when we understand something for the first time, really understand it.

Today’s 100 word story is entitled, Sylvia’s Diner

Bundles of newspapers waited impatiently for Sunday brunch customers at Sylvia’s Dinner, its tag” if it ain’t fresh we don’t have it.”

Talking was frowned upon, reading comics, reviews and the obituary’s encouraged.

A table near a window was the goal, watching all the decked out church goer’s come and go the highlight film.

Fresh squeezed OJ was only an arms length away, even closer was Sylvia who roamed from table to table refilling everyones coffee and smiling with those cosmic eyes of hers.

I wonder did everyone have cosmic eyes then, am I too cynical to see them now?

I stumbled across a lens on Squidoo called Drabble and was delighted to have found it. A Drabble turns out to be a story that is exactly 100 words in length and there are groups that showcase the work of writers using this format. One blog/podcasting site is called 100 word Stories and has inspired me to create my own stories and podcasts in this format.
Today’s 100 word story is entitled At my own funeral, Enjoy!

[display_podcast]

Hunched in the locked confessional booth fearful of discovery, holding my breath I squint through the cracked stained glass.

Sitting directly in front of me wearing a black floppy Hedi Lamar hat was Delilah. Animated as always her head bobbing to and fro blocking my view of the mourners.

Sure, I wasn’t dead but I felt like I was. That damn Delilah was causing me as much grief at my funeral as when we lived together.

I whispered pleadingly “please Delilah take off your hat.”

Mourners came and left my funeral. Tell me, how can I ask who they were.