Back to the Bar

So the week has passed by in a total blur. I have been working at the bar every day this week as the General Manager is preparing to get married. While I know that this situation will not last long, no longer than next week, I have the feeling of stepping backward into an older version of my own life.

I haven't been writing this week, too tired, but I have been diving into my reading. I read John Steinbeck's "Tortilla Flat," on my brother's suggestion. He says it is his favorite book of all time. It is also a personal favorite of a good friend. I don't see it. There are some beautiful passages in the book but I have little to no interest in reading about the aimless.

The next book I picked up gave me the opposite reaction. "Mothers and Sons" by Colm Toibin is a wonderful collection of short stories where there is some mother/son relationship in the stories. It is a beautifully lyrical collection and I am so glad that it came along at the moment it did so that I could cleanse my palette of "Tortilla Flat."

So, not much of an update on the writing but pushing along the best I can. Until next time.

An Evening at the Park

The day was a productive one, probably because it began with a fight. I went to the movies last night with my brother and saw "The Dark Knight," which my wife wanted to see. Although I will definitely go see it again, planned on it the whole time, she felt neglected and I'll need to apologize tonight.

Anyway, the day was full of errands, checking things off my "Honey-do-list," and getting the lawn mowed, the house straightened. In the evening I was restless, tonight being the night my wife goes to her glass class. So, I called a friend, my mother, trying to find someone to dine with...no luck. I took Shea to my work and had a Cobb salad, something I have been craving for a while. Afterward, my mother called and asked to meet me and Shea at a local park.

The evening was warm and the sun low on the horizon when we met at the curb of the park. There were multiple Hispanic families in the park, their children playing on the various play structures, slides, and swings. We got Shea to the portion of the playground for 2-5-year-olds and let her loose. The Hispanic kids seemed almost amazed to find a Caucasian child at their playground. They stared and one boy even pointed.

Shea was reluctant at first, wanting to hold my hand, standing at the edge of the play structure but the little boy, Tercer, kept coming back to her. He was a two year old with close-cropped hair and a runny nose. He would make sure he beat Shea up stairs and down slides. He never stopped moving. His father, a robust Hispanic man with limited English, kept grabbing him and pulling him away, smiling apologetically.

"Esta bien," I said, trying to let him know that we liked the idea of Tercer playing with Shea. He looked at me as if I was a typical white man with four or five words of Spanish under my belt.

"Cuantos anos tiene?" I asked, trying to figure the boys age.

"Dos," the man said.

"Uno y seis meses," I replied, pointing at Shea. The man seemed to relax a little, looking at me quizzically, wondering where the gringo with the Spanish came from.

Tercer was unstoppable and his curiosity about Shea brought him back to her time and again. His father kept returning, looking at us with those same eyes of apology. I began speaking to him in Spanish about how active Tercer was, how handsome, even telling Tercer that it was okay to go first down the slide, before Shea sat down. The father smiled at me and he talked with me a little more.

Shea, upon seeing Tercer was friendly and just another child, was getting bolder and bolder. She climbed the stairs to slide down the slide by herself. She almost climbed all the way back up the slide, which is a big deal for her. She's been in physical therapy for her hand and her feet and it was amazing to watch her hold the sides of the slide in her hands and walk herself back up the incline. She is getting so strong.

When I was about to ask my mother for a tissue, to wipe Tercer's nose, his father returned and collected him, his wife, who had been relaxing at a nearby picnic table, stood with a stroller nearby and two older girls at her side. I began to wonder about the gender politics that might be taking place here on the playground, with Tercer and his father, with me and Shea occupying their same ground, but before I got too far down that road the father said, "Buenas Noches," and smiled at me with real kindness in his eyes.

"Buenas noches," I called after him.

My mother was watching me, her mouth agape, "I forgot you spoke Spanish that well."

A nice night of introductions and surprises for all, I guess.

The work isn't about the work.

I've pounded through Pete Fromm's "As Cool As I Am" and am on the lookout for the next page-turner that is going to see me through this fallow period I am experiencing. I've taken a breath and have relaxed into the fact that I am still working on writing. I am reading a lot. Three books since graduation about a month ago. I am still blogging, using this forum to work through the myriad insecurities that plague me...and there are many. I'm batting ideas around in my head.

So what is it that is still bothering me?

Well, I believe it is that I am not immersing myself into my day to day life. I gave a whole speech at graduation on this very topic, on being present, and I can't seem to get myself down into the nitty-gritty of my return home. It doesn't help that things are tight with money, which means they are tight with my wife. But that can't be it. There is some internal resistance that is pushing me back and away from my life. I am faltering here. I find that I can't have an in depth conversation with my wife without it boiling down to some kind of verbal skirmish, no matter how petty or minor. It can't just be me. It just can't. So I wonder what the issue is, I take up precious mental real estate trying to figure out what it is that is pushing us apart (for now). I'm tempted to push the envelope and go for the full thermo-nuclear incineration fight. The one where I bring up counseling, where I admit to her that I believe we have communication issues and hope that some of the shrapnel that flies will actually cast a glint of realization onto our current situation. I have to get past this. I have to move on. I need to settle into a new routine where I am productive. Otherwise, I'm going to start pulling my hair out. It shouldn't take long...I don't have that much left.

Reconnecting

I've just gotten off the phone with a friend from the MFA program. We talked about what we've been doing since graduation-the reading, the writing. I've been putting a lot of pressure on myself to keep up the production on new material and I'm realizing that I have to quit turning the screws on myself. I need to relax into a new mode of production. A phase has ended by graduating the MFA program and I need to find the new rhythm my life allows for creativity.

Over the course of the conversation I also realized that I'm in the middle of a major transition. I have finished a major milestone in my life and am about to begin a whole new adventure that may offer a lifetime of inspiration and satisfaction unlike some of the other career opportunities I have tried.

Also, I have just come off a creative high in putting my thesis together, much like an entire book project, and I need to allow myself the chance to gain some distance from that project before I begin anew. This is not an excuse to stop writing but rather a chance to begin something entirely different which means I will begin in starts and stops. It isn't that I'm not writing but rather I am learning how to write the new thing and not rehashing old territory.

As one of my adviser's always said, "Onward and Upward."

My Thesis as Ash

I realized today that it has almost been a month since I graduated from the MFA program and there isn't a single person in my personal life that has taken the time to read my thesis. Not one. In fact, this morning as I was sitting with Shea, my wife handed me my thesis so that I could endorse my paycheck. I asked her if she had gotten any further into it since we last talked (she hadn't even finished the first story) and she said no. She said she hadn't had time. I told her that people make time for what is important, don't they? She didn't get it. She didn't understand that that artifact, that tome of dust and ash is very important to me although it is nothing more than a snapshot of a period in my life. It is part of the past and there is nothing I can do to hold on to it, preserve it. I can simply march forward. In the end, from my loved ones, all I want to know is that someone gave a damn.

The View is the Same

I've returned to the hospital in an effort to harness the creative energy necessary to begin writing again. There has been little movement on this front over the last two weeks. I've written a total of about three pages in that time, if you exclude the blog, and I'm beginning to be a touch worried.

It's not that I'm allowing myself to go down a shame spiral but I am wondering if I am pushing too hard at this, if it should come more naturally, but then I think back to a time-about a year ago-when I first discovered the usefulness of sitting in my chair. It is something that is mandatory for me as a writer and I need to remain disciplined in my approach to the craft. Yes, I am not writing all that much but I am reading and stewing under the surface about what could possibly be next.

In sitting here at the hospital, I encountered an email from a former classmate who is going to hear Charles D'Ambrosio, Nick Flynn, and Andrea Barrett read tonight. It is a tempting offer to just pack up and leave, to head over to the reading and bury myself amongst the attendees there (of which there will be a couple of classmates). But I've decided against it. I need to forget about distraction and make myself comfortable with the page again. I need that white space to look at me for a while. It is the only way to conquer it and eventually find the voice that will allow me to fill it with words, with story.

So, after posting this, I am going to hold myself true to the word of my commencement speech. I am going to turn off the wireless Internet and let that cruel glowing eye of Microsoft Word stare me down in this blinking contest we often play. I hope my eyes don't dry out because I hope to be a contender tonight.

People Watching

It has been a long time since I've been to a big, outdoor show. Last night, The Police came through town and my wife and I were able to get a baby sitter and head off to the show. It was fantastic. The crowd there varied from people twenty years my senior to people twenty-plus years my junior.

There was one guy I watched for about a half hour. He was and older man, dancing on the edge of the grass near the stairs leading out to the exit. He was singing along, dancing with an syncopated off-time rhythm. He was a big fan, that much was obvious. His band t-shirt was stretched tight over the bulk of his belly, his cheeks were reddened by the glow of the sun and his own excitement, and the smile that pressed the corners of his mouth revealed a glowing set of straight teeth.

He got the lyrics wrong on more than one song but his enthusiasm was obvious and he made my night. Yeah, Sting, Andy Summers, and Stuart Copeland helped make the night amazing, but watching a grown man having such a good time with little or no regard to anything beyond that moment was refreshing.

The band played so cleanly. Their voices, guitars, and drums blending into a glorious tribute to a time that, for me, was simpler, more free, and playful. What was amazing about this concert was that they played every song that I wanted them to play. Have you ever been to a concert where they played the songs from the new album and not the songs you wanted to hear? This was the opposite of that. They played all of the songs that made them famous, gave them a new spin, and absolutely rocked the house. What a refreshing night it was.

A New Day

It has been over a week since graduation and I took those days to relax, bask in some warm feelings of accomplishment, and reacquaint myself with my wife and child. It's been great.

But, today the work begins.

The MFA program is a nice comfort to have for two years. There's the camaraderie of your fellow classmates, invigorating lectures and presentations, and a built in editor with all of your professors and advisers. The reason I chose a low-residency program is because I felt I would be better served learning to write as my life was in progress, instead of halting everything and submersing myself into another purely academic environment. I needed to learn how to incorporate writing into my daily routine, in between the money-making work, wife, child, etc. I believe I have done that over the course of the last two years.

Now, I'm sitting in the hospital cafeteria where I wrote during that time and I'm facing the first day of writing without that support structure. In a way, it is kind of liberating. There are no deadlines facing me. I do not hear the voices of my adviser's guiding my writing. I am free to have my own distinct and original voice. Not that they were heavy-handed in guiding my voice, but I always found my stories to more closely resemble the writing of my current advisor than it had been before they got their hands on it. It's nice to know that it is just me out here, working away, ready for the next project to begin.

I've been reading two very distinct memoirs over the last week, Traplines by John Rember and The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer, and it has piqued my interest into the venue of personal essay. I have had a couple of ideas for personal essays bouncing in my head for a couple of months and I believe I am going to try my hand at one tonight.

Wish me good journey. Everything from here on out is new territory and I'm sure I'll be up to my ears before I know it.