Write Naked is the title of a Florida Writers Association Blog I recently read and immediately had a visual picture; successful writers sitting at their typewriters nude. It wasn’t pretty.
Then the line, “Would it help?” from the film, Bridge of Spies, came to mind. The character never frets, but inquires if ruminating would help his situation
Could wearing your birthday suit make words flow and bring a place in the sun.
More than likely, I’d just get sunburn.
Come to find out, writing naked means to write from the authors emotional experience and bare ones’ emotions.
Therein lies the problem.
Today’s environment of political correctness has me stymied and frozen in place. I truly do not want to offend anyone and just when we think the worst of the Pandemic might be over, Putin starts a war.
Chicken Little’s’ false news, “The sky is failing,” has become reality.
Would it help if cursed at him in the nude?
. . . just saying
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It’s far from cold today in Florida; not even chilly. The temperature will climb to the mid-eighties.
I miss the snow.
Christmas doesn’t feel like Christmas when I’m wearing shorts and sandals.
My poinsettias won’t get the recommended sunlight inside our house so they are spending time outdoors. However, they might experience wilt since they prefer air temps between 65-70.
The local newspaper gave detailed instructions on how to care for the plant and suggested that, with a bit of work, they would bloom again. It sounded like a lot of work to me.
I’ve never had them bloom again, in Florida, but was successful in New Jersey, when I threw them off our deck.
Miraculously sometime during spring cleanup they were in bloom
. . . just saying
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“Today is Saturday, November 27, the 331st day of 2021. There are 34 days left in the year.” Like other newspapers, our local paper reports this information, and includes significant events from previous years, i.e.; Macy’s first Thanksgiving Day parade took place in 1924 and the release of the Beatles album “Magical Mystery Tour” in 1967.
Only 34 days left in the year! Good grief! Thirty-four days to achieve the goals I committed to 331 days ago.
Oh well, . . . it is what it is.
This expression, one of resignation, is included increasingly in conversations.
Why?
We never catch a break from mayhem.
So, I’ve been watching Lifetime Christmas Romance movies late at night and was thrilled not to see any uniformed police officers during the televised Thanksgiving Parade.
I’m thinking of sending a personal thank you note to Tom Selleck, you know the Police Commissioner of NYPD.
I know. . . I know, he’s not really the police commissioner in New York City. But you may agree, he should be.
. . . just saying
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Zipping along, writing without a clue . . . The words flew
A minor dental procedure was the first undo
Follow by pain in my hip, x-rays and a walker too
Then vertigo . . .boo-hoo . . . once the crystal where out
There was something else to do
Physical therapy not to walk like a drunk
Add to the stew . . . cataract surgery.
And . . . there’s still more explaining to do?
But I’m not feeling blue and please don’t you.
. . . just saying
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(A friend confided her memory of a dance recital and wearing a red dress in detail. Regrettably, she had no childhood pictures of herself. I wrote this poem for her.)
It’s not in the foyer, on a desk, or anywhere else.
The treasure lies deep inside my mind.
A girl . . . in a magenta dress!
Dancing the flamingo.
Swirling . . . Twirling.
Her feet stomp the floor.
The red taffeta bodice clings to her chest.
The crinoline and chiffon flounce and cheer for more.
The white poka dots stand and applaud.
She smiles.
There is no where to look.
Nothing to find.
The treasure lies deep inside my heart and mind.
. . . just saying
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Lynn stood on the sidewalk and could not remember who she used to be.
It was a horrible feeling.
She strolled casually to a nearby bench and sat to quiet the feeling.
The weather was mild. The sun strong.
It was not the present that disturbed her.
Having silly thoughts, she hummed an old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”
She came to buy Christmas gifts, or so she thought.
Instead, she window shopped and tried on clothes in an upscale woman’s store; attempting to find a new identity.
Norman Rockwell’s picture of the golden-brown turkey on a large platter surrounded by family flashed across her mind.
Her romanticized past was painful to watch.
She had been the women wearing the plaid apron, trying to fulfill other people’s dreams. Okay, perhaps they’d been her dreams too.
It was hard to remember, things were different.
. . . just saying
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Yesterday afternoon, my husband and I watched the film, “Twelve Angry Men”
It is a classic.
We frequently tape movies on Turner Classic Movies or our local PBS to watch together at a later date. Everything about the film is impressive and perhaps more relevant today
The writer, Reginald Rose, used a single setting, little action, and mostly dialogue to explore social issues; prejudice, segregation, and injustice.
Wikipedia states it nicely. “12 Angry Men explores many techniques of consensus-building and the difficulties encountered in the process among this group of men whose range of personalities adds to the intensity and conflict. It also explores the power one person has to elicit change. The jury members are identified only by number; no names are revealed until an exchange of dialogue at the very end. The film forces the characters and audience to evaluate their own self-image through observing the personality, experiences, and actions of the jurors.”
The gentlemen of the jury, many dressed in tie and jacket, appear civil . . . But tempers flare when Henry Fonda suggests things may not be what they appear.
It is a great movie.
. . . just saying
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(The word pearl was a prompt given at a writing session. A strong female character came to mind and her story enfolded.)
Pearl
The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.
“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.
She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.
“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”
It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus in the Bronx, each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.
I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”
Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”
If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.
“I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”
“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.
Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.
I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.
John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.
Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.
Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home; stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.
John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.
Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”
“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”
The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”
“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .
“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”
* * * just saying
(Originally posted on November 23, 2014)
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What to Read Can you tell a book by its cover? Sometimes, sometimes not. The cover is a factor in my choosing a book, but frequently I choose from the New York Best Seller List. I borrow rather than buy, … Continue reading →
Weather wise it isn’t horrible outside. It is cooler here and I was able to sit outdoors with a glass of wine after dinner. The was no breeze just the quiet sound of birds calling. I imagined their tweets to be something like, “Thank God it’s not that hot.”
That hot is like a heavy cloak on my chest.
Labor Day in the north signaled the end of summer and back to school. If the weather turned warm again it was referred to as Indian Summer.
I long for those cool temperatures. The careful selection of back-to-school clothes. The smell of a leather school bag. The gradual enfolding of colors; green to gold, to yellow, then bright orange and burnt red. And waiting for the first snow fall.
* * * just saying
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