I’ve got writers block. I’m blaming it on this place. This is the fourth seat my ass has kissed since I got here two hours ago. The first one was right in the sun, but it was the only one available with an outlet to feed my neglected red box. Too hot. Sweating. Not good. I have to move.
I need the perfect spot to write.
Skinny girl with asymmetrical orange hair is getting up…she’s sitting at a nice big shady table by an outlet. I gather my stuff and patiently wait while twiggy gathers hers….FUCK!! How can this even be considered a table? Wobbly….really wobbly, I spill my coffee…oh, and the chair is wobbly too. Stability. I need stability. I can’t sit at wobbly tables, I cannot relax and write in a wobbly chair! Unless it’s a rocking chair. Too wobbly. I sop up my coffee with wads of thin brown napkins. I go back to the sunny spot, I chose a chair in a not so sunny, but still somewhat sunny spot. I’m still optimistic, still ready to write. Smiling, I pull off my white knit long-sleeved shirt. I can do this, I’m here to write damn it! I’ve got lots of shit to write about, I’m FULL OF SHIT…. just waiting to be poured out…. Natalie Goldberg says, “write under all circumstances”….so, feeling myself becoming damp, I begin to write an ode to Phoenix.
It sucks. I delete it. It’s flat and dull…it doesn’t make sense…it’s only 3 sentences, but I sweat over those three sentences….because I’m sitting in some sunlight, and this is Phoenix in December! Dear Phoenix, I’m not complaining. I love that I can drive around with the top down, I don’t need to use the heater…I know that you don’t mind if I complain, you love me unconditionally…I’ll write that ode later…because I can’t sit in this spot anymore!
I’m still here to write. I’m going to write. I’m writing.
I spy an empty table next to the ghetto table, next to an outlet, and while it’s in the same neighborhood….I discover that all four legs touch the ground with the same pressure , and the chair? I can wiggle around all I like, and the thing doesn’t move a bit. The music….it’s loud. Too loud. And it sucks, it’s girly club music. I imagine the girls singing this are wearing layers of glittery makeup, itty bitty shiny skirts, navel bearing tank tops decorated with studs and chains…they are shaking and spinning their über toned bodies in a field of chocolate-colored men, who try to tempt them away from their dance with six-pack abs, jewels, shiny cars, and wallets dropping thousand dollar bills at their 6 inch heel clad feet. I hate them.
I can’t write anything worth writing because the music is god awful, AND the speakers are going in and out….I should leave. Go somewhere…else. Elsewhere magnificence radiates from my mind and makes it’s way down my arms, and out my long elegant fingers…effortlessly….. all the way…….HERE.
But not HERE. This happens in the magical land called Elsewhere…not HERE.
I sense that I’m just struggling to move away from spaces that seem….not worth the struggle. I stay..my ears are offended, but willing to stay put. Sometimes they are tolerant ears. Ears made of patience and curiosity.
I want to write about my dream last nite. I start to write about the super sized pink envelope in the mailbox…for ME! My friends see it, and they try to hide it ..I yell at them, “I’ve waited long enough!” I snatch it from their sneaky hands…I notice the return address first..David Gershwin? !!!! It’s addressed to….The Ugly Duckling’s Gosling. I’m not insulted….I’m curious..it’s open already..there are pictures of Maria printed on paper taped to the back……It’s cold in here!!!! I delete my words, put my shirt back on, check my email…oh, Mayo is offering a mindful living course….a couple of my favorite doc’s are teaching it, it’s free to Mayo employees….I don’t need a mindful living class…I need to be mindful. I have plenty of tools, I’ve been to plenty of classes. I need to write…
About the banana bread that was in my mailbox this morning…a gift from my new landlords. They are Mormon. They gave me a Christmas program for the LDS church in Mesa with a copy of my new lease. They are nice. With the banana bread came a holiday letter. The heading was, “Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukkah!”, I wonder if they saw my Grandmother’s menorah in the window? I love my new neighborhood. I was invited to a brunch on Sunday to put together luminaries to “light up our neighborhood” by one neighbor, who after introducing herself , gave her address instead of a last name…I was called “cute little Kate” by another neighbor I met who informed me I had moved to Mayberry RFD in the city. She also shared her address with me, and told me to please come by if I needed anything. “We’re so glad you are here…we didn’t like the guy that lived here before”…..It’s a colorful storybook neighborhood, the houses are made of gingerbread and decorated with gumdrops and sweet cream frosting. I swear!
Now I’m being tortured with a rap ditty by some dude with a fake British accent…it sounds like he’s tying loose knots with his drunken tongue creating sounds that keep me from writing anything other than this……….
I’m never coming back here.