I have to say the Oxford definition of persistence “firm or obstinate continuance in a course of action in spite of difficulty or opposition” has certainly been descriptive of me and my writing of the last few years.
I can either write blog and poems or read blogs and comment on others, not both, but I persist.
I can either write my own fanfiction or read and comment on the works of other’s, not both, but I persist.
I can also paint or draw, but not both. Unfortunately, that particular outlet has fallen – if not necessarily by the wayside, definitely down quite a number of rungs on the ladder, but I persist.
Yet even while I’m in the kitchen making lemon bars from scratch, I’ll be damned if Erato, Calliope, and even Melpomene won’t suddenly spark an idea in my brain that wants to be written down RIGHT NOW. And naturally Polymnia wants a visual of it that my mind can see, but regretfully my talent and patience cannot always procure to my satisfaction, but I persist.
To write or to read or to comment or to paint or to bake or to any of the several creative outlets that I try to enjoy has been both a bane and a blessing. A blessing that I can, to highly varying levels of proficiency by my eyes, do all of the above. A bane, because I cannot do all of the above all at once.
I know! I know! How DARE I be only human!
Only human in a small apartment where one corner of my dining room does double duty as my office when I work remotely and my creative writing station for blogging/poems/story writing, another as my painting crafts station, the third corner a multi-utility station and the fourth corner is my window and closet. Oddly enough what my dining table has not been used for in ages is that thing called you know dining.
Still, I can’t / refuse to call it my studio, because I cannot afford, never mind actually fit a kiln in it to pursue the glass and metal creative work that remains in my head.
Though it’s my fanfiction that gets most of my creative time, sans the items in need of a kiln, I doggedly try to indulge in all of my various creative outlets. Thus why I have chosen persistence as my one not-so-little word for this year.
I’m determined to somehow find a balance where my blog does not suffer as much this year as it has in past couple of years. Let’s see just how persistent I can be.
Yesterday was my first official day back in the office. I am one of the first people on the floor and it was lovely to see one of the other early birds whom I have not laid eyes on in over a year. After the pre-requisite elbow touching in place of a hug, the first few minutes are spent catching up. It was a routine repeated as others came in. I spent the day in a bubble of working, reconnecting and organizing as we also make ready for a floor wide restructuring.
Some of it was very familiar: Coming in early, jumping into work, plugging up to my music to focus, not taking a proper break for a few hours; rolling my eyes at the one colleague who insists on wearing ill-fitting shoes that squish and clomp noisily as they pass my desk, staying late to work with a client having an issue, even the extra-long commute home was an annoying comfort of the familiar.
Still, for all its familiarity something about yesterday that felt off and I could not identify it until today.
Yesterday… 🎵 Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so fa… 🎵
Huh? Oh, wait sorry, sorry… brain wandered off for a musical moment, I’m back.
Yesterday, because I was distracted by several things, I had not taken my mid-morning coffee run.
Today I remembered. So off went I to my home away from home, away from home.
While the trip itself was done by almost by rote, it was once I was back at my desk and sipped that did it.
My Starbucks special order, the one thing I cannot get in my neighborhood, was in my grubby little talons once more.
There was a new staff from when I was there last; no familiar faces at all. I handed my phone to the barista and watched her face as she glanced from the phone to the register to place the order and then gave me a silent but definitive are you fucking serious(?) look as she handed the phone back. I especially enjoyed the look of resigned yet annoyed belief when I informed her of the irony that it was a former Starbucks barista who worked at that location, which gave me the recipe.
I have a Keurig with Starbucks k-pods at home, and I love it, but it’s still not quite the same thing because I have that ridiculous order. Yes, my favorite order is one of those orders. When I cannot mobile order, I amuse myself by watching every new barista I hand my phone read the order and then tries, but inevitably fails, to not make a face as they re-read it a couple of times before they make it.
Whether it’s the fancier machines or their precise measurements for the base, it’s just something that I cannot duplicate in my kitchen.
As that first sip slid past my palette and settled oh so warmly in my tummy, I felt it. It’s a small thing, but a needed one.
On March 3rd, Sarah Everard, 33 of Clampham, south London, UK left the home of her friends to walk home. She never made it. Police confirmed that the remains found in a woodland area yesterday was hers.
“She was just walking home.”
I remember it was an early summer afternoon, a school day. I was on my way home from the public library; book bag slung over one shoulder, wearing dark jeans, sneakers, a white t-shirt under a red, white and blue plaid with tiny silver metallic threads shirt. I was standing at the curb, under the elevated train tracks, waiting for the traffic signal to change. I noted the car slowly creeping forward as some drivers do when impatiently waiting for a light to change. I was not in the way, I paid no attention to it when I heard a male voice. “You so pretty, bet you’d be even prettier naked. You should let me see.” This was from a man, not a peer – not some boy around my age being horrible, but a man. A grown man who in no way could have thought I was an adult. I had not developed boobs yet. There was something about him. Yes, it was broad daylight, but I was at the corner by myself. There nearest person was a half block away in the opposite direction. I remember worrying: Do I wait until he drives off?Is he going to follow me?Do I need to change directions?What if he gets out of that car?
It was the first time I felt danger from a man. I was twelve.
In my twenties I was married with two sons. I went to the laundry every Saturday morning. One Saturday a man entered and decided he wanted to chat. I decided I did not want to. He insisted in asking for my name. I insisted I was married and not interested, so knowing my name was not any of his – good-bye. He showed up again the following Saturday. Clearly this was my neighborhood. I was pissed-offed, but not entirely surprised he suddenly showed up in my local market. I informed my husband, but naturally my wannabe Lothario was no where about the next Saturday at the laundry. As it turned out within the following week, as I was heading toward my building, a friend spotted me and started yelling my name to get my attention. Naturally, I ignored him because I HATE that, worse – guess who I spotted within hearing distance? However, the damage was done as the friend had reached me and it was clear he was yelling for me. The only saving grace was that Bill was exiting the building as I was busy cursing-out the friend out for being an asshole and why. Bill came up from behind, putting his arms around me, and yelled at our friend “Why the fuck are you screaming out my wife’s name in the middle of the street like that? Have you lost your damn mind?” At that point Bill saw the guy. He looked me, he looked at guy, he looked at me and I tapped the arm that held me in our code we had for problems. He let go of me and headed in the guy’s direction. Suffice it to say the guy was already backing away at the confirmation that I had a husband and said husband was not an exactly a small guy. I never saw him again. While relieved, it pissed me off anew that the asshole did not accept my rejection. He had followed me. He had my address and because of my asshole friend, had my name. It took seeing my husband’s physical presence before he stopped. I had to wonder were I in fact a single woman how long before I may have been attacked. I wondered if he moved on to another woman who was not as fortunate.
When portable music players became a thing, CDs first, then MP3 players, I learned to keep headphones on my head when so I could pretend I did not hear the nonsense thrown at me when in the street. But I never, ever have music playing in case I needed to deal with someone more aggressive who would not take the hint of simply being ignored. But that does not always help.
In my thirties, I texted my husband to meet me at the train station late one evening after hanging out with friends because of the way a man kept staring at me on the train. I had never contacted my husband with such a request before in all the time we were married. The man had exited the train when I had. He was about to follow me down the stairs when Bill appeared at the foot of them and greeted me. I heard as the man turned and went back up the stairs. Neither of us saw him come down the other side, as far as we could tell, before the stairs were out of sight. But we knew, he was going to follow me.
Twice as a widow in my mid-forties I have gotten off the train and jumped in a cab to ride the four blocks to my home because of that feeling. I will say both times, when I explained the situation, both drivers refused to take my money. All in the name of safety.
Many girls learn from a young age to change their behavior in order to try to feel safe when walking alone, because there are going to be times we will be walking alone. That onus is not on boys as such. Personal safety is a constant self-awareness in our daily lives. One we modify constantly. All in the name of safety.
Do I wear a dress or slacks? Do I wear heels or flats? If I wear heels, do I need to switch to a bigger purse to carry my flats? Questions I must ask each time I go out, in case I have to run. All in the name of safety.
Now in my fifties I don’t go out alone if I think I won’t be home before midnight unless I have taxi money. That also curtails where I go because a late night taxi ride across the City can run me up to $70 on top of whatever expenditures incurred while hanging out. All in the name of safety.
Once, I was meeting my husband for dinner at a friend’s apartment after work. I exited the train and headed towards my destination when I heard whistling behind me. I ignored it and continued walking. It became clear that the whistling was directed at me, coming from someone in a car on the street. I refused to look, because that can be seen as an invitation. A car suddenly turned the corner in front of me and I realized it was my husband and he was pissed I had not responded to him. “Why didn’t you answer me when I whistled?” “Do you have ANY idea how often I am whistled at? I can’t afford to so much as look!” That took him aback. For even the men that love us, that care about us, that know us, just do not understand, because the constant harassment rarely happens in their presence.
Some men still do not realize we single women share our addresses – or the addresses of the bars/parks/date locations of where we’re going – with each other via text or WhatsApp, to keep ourselves safe. We set up calls with our friends. “If you haven’t heard from me by X time, call me. If I don’t answer, call the police.” It is every female’s right to not fear walking alone; it is not our reality. Being a woman is constant worry for our safety — walking with keys between our fingers, being on high alert always — it is fucking exhausting.
When we hear/read of such attacks we each live with the susurrus that could have been me. So many women have lit up Twitter in the past few days on the many ways they have harassed and/or felt unsafe. And a constant theme throughout many of the tweets were the words “She was just walking home.”
“Not all men” attack but all women experience the fear of it. And we are so, SO DONE with being told we just need to avoid certain streets or areas, don’t be out certain at times or don’t dress a certain way. Sarah Everard was in bright colors, wearing clothes comfortable for walking the less than hour trek to her home. She was simply living her life. “She was just walking home.”
I’m sure Sarah Everard was aware #NotAllMen, also. She was on the phone talking to her boyfriend during part of her trek. She was not attacked by #NotAllMen. The only thing she did wrong was encounter #TheWrongMan. The one who could not respect one fact:
It’s March and time for the Annual Slice of Life month long writing challenge. A slice of my life each day for today and the next 30 days. It’s the 13th annual challenge: I have participated in several before, but last year I let life get in the way did not even try. Truth be told I had already told a couple of people that I would not this year. Yet here I am.
I am in the process of finishing the final touches for a book of poems that is about fifteen years overdue. The finished product will not be in my hand come the first day of spring as I hoped. It is finally ready to go to an editor which is further than I’ve ever gotten with it before. My next big step after that is the copyright process. I am crossing my fingers to at least have the first galley in hand by the end of April at the latest. Wish me luck!
In the interim I have a couple of out of town trips scheduled in the next few weeks. I should be able to get a few blog posts out of that right? Yes, I am a glutton for punishment to take up this challenge on top of all of this, but it is called a challenge for a reason.
So this conversation snippet happened on the train ride home:
LS: So, angels are good girls that never got caught, Good girls are bad girls who got caught and were sorry for their deed, Bad girls are wicked girls who got caught and were sorry they got caught, Wicked girls are bad girls who got caught and are not sorry – period But then there are wicked girls who can’t get caught because they own up to their misdeed before it even happens, so what do you call them?
As part of the month long celebration of a friend’s birthday. we had a birthday lunch at a Momofuku Noodle Bar. Yes, that is the actual name a small, but popular chain of an Asian noodle bar in New York City. I’ve been to Momofuku a few times now. For a place renowned for their noodles, each time I’ve been there was for their chicken dinner, of which there is not one noodle to be found.
Let me present Delicious Exhibit A: Deep Fried Chicken and Spicy Sweet BBQ Wings, plus salad and tortillas in the covered black dish.
Momofuku Chicken Dinner
Really how gorgeous is that bowl of veggies? Romaine lettuce, mint and cilantro sprigs, with sliced mini carrots and radish. So colorful, it’s a work of art.
There were five of us at the table. There was still three pieces of chicken left over. That has never happened before. We all looked at each other as if to say “How did this happened?” We just couldn’t eat another bite.
Not even this:
Just a little something…
So naturally the birthday girl got to take the leftovers home, sans the little bit above of course.
You won this round Momofuku, we’ll get you next time.
Today is St. Patrick’s. Yes, it is celebrated here in the New York City with parades, the wearing of the colors of Ireland, consuming traditional Irish food and let’s be honest drinking -seriously a lot of drinking. While it is a very festive occasion in several Major cities here in the U.S., it is not a national holiday here where schools, banks and government offices close. While many places celebrate it, what a lot of people don’t know is that Montserrat is the only other place outside of Ireland where the date is officially marked as a national holiday.
Montserrat, “The Emerald Isle of the Caribbean” Irish connections have long been a source of interest for local residents and tourists alike, and over the past two decades have made concerted efforts to bolster its Irish legacy and build upon perceived connections between present-day Montserrat and historic Irish communities. Its most prominent example of these being St. Patrick’s Day, that simultaneously commemorates the island’s Irish heritage and an uprising by Afro-Caribbean slaves and members of the island’s free black community on the same day in 1768.
An officially designated national holiday, it has become a week-long festival that includes a parade in national dress, dinners, dancing, pub crawls and public talks.
Part of a St. Patrick’s Day Celebration in Montserrat.
So to my best friend who is from The Emerald Isle of the Caribbean, Erin Go Braugh!
It seem a number of people either in real life or here among slicers are all talking about their schedules. With St. Paddy’s Day on Saturday and a birthday celebration on Sunday, I figure I should take a look at mine.
Now, everyone who knows well enough knows – I make no promises to attend anything without consulting my calendar first. Especially after the fiasco a few years back where I did not just double, but triple booked myself for events within the same five-hour time frame. I am very conscientious of managing my time better now.
That being said, I realize now that I have something planned for the next seven weekends and a smattering of weekday events tossed in for good measure. Between birthday parties, a house-warming, movies, Paint Nites, concerts and art galleries and The 24 Hour Project and brunches and friends visiting and posting slices… and… and… and…
And yeah, I’m now exhausted just looking at my calendar.