Day 18 of 100 days of creativity

 Ok. I'm still working on this piece about who I am. The things that I know are true about myself. What a fun writing prompt.

So I wrote this piece about my community and it didn't sit right. Because they're relationships and they're two-way streets. I was going to then write my community loves me back. That is all a part of love. But that was the wrong approach. I need to acknowledge their love in my relationships.

I love my community of friends and I thoughtfully care for them. I value my friendships so very much. I show my love for them by showing up for each other, participating in adventures together, walking, talking, and having tasty beverages. We dance in ballrooms with masks and joy covering our faces; walk neighborhoods in search of flowers and kitties; talk tearfully on the phone; attend each other's life events. I make them delicious birthday cakes made with their preferences in mind. 

I also love sending mail. It's important to know that you're loved and that someone cares about you. It doesn't have to be in a big, splashy way. I love the colorful, funny, meaningful cards that you can pick out and the brilliant stamps that you choose from. We always got "decorative" stamps growing up. Never just the plain ones. Because again, life is too short to be anything but colorful. Why get boring flag stamps when you could get Lunar New Year Oxen, Coffee cups filled with sunshine, spring flowers, states, famous writers, singers and athletes, landscapes, seascapes, moonscapes, galaxy, other country flags. There are so many beautiful ways to tell people that you're thinking of them. And that you care about them. That you love them. And their love in return is the best gift.

I am passionate and overly enthusiastic. These are both my words and words that have been said about me. I really do wake up filled with joy (also thrilled to know that coffee is in my near future.) 

Day 17 of 100 Days of Creativity

 Prompt: Compose a list of things that are true about you. Sit with each item, making sure you really mean it.

I was working with a therapist last July and we worked on my values at the time. These were the ones that I picked:

Love

Justice

Community

Courage

Creativity

Adventure

Optimism

Forgiveness

Vulnerability

Responsibility

Integrity

I started Justice, Creativity, Forgiveness, and Integrity as the core of my person. These were born into me. And I couldn't tease these out. I also couldn't tell you where they came from. This coach pointed out that these were all how I showed up in the world. She asked me what did I want from the world. I don't know that I've answered that.

This therapist is asking me to do the same thing. Look at my values. And then set goals around them.

The thing is when you go through big things like we all have this past few years, we might want to sit down and rework our values. Do these things still resonate with us? Are they still true?

So composing a list of things that I know is true about me has me thinking about values.

Yesterday I said these things are true about me:

I get my energy from people.

Exercise is essential to me.

I love color.

I love writing letters and cards.

Traveling is very important to me.

These are true. I think the I love letters and cards could be expanded to:

I love my community of friends and I thoughtfully care for them. I value my friendships so very much. I show my love for them by showing up, participating in adventures with them, walking, talking, and having tasty beverages with them. By dancing in ballrooms with masks and joy covering our faces. By walking neighborhoods in search of flowers and kitties, by taking their tearful calls, by going t their life events. I call them. I share with them. I make them delicious birthday cakes made with their preferences in mind. I also love sending mail. I want people to know that I'm thinking about them because I think it's important to know that you're loved and that someone cares about you. It doesn't have to be in a big way. I love the colorful, funny, meaningful cards that you can pick out and the brilliant stamps that you choose from. We always got "decorative" stamps growing up. Never just the plain ones. Because again, life is too short to be anything but colorful. Why get boring flag stamps when you could get Lunar New Year Oxen, Coffee cups filled with sunshine, spring flowers, states, famous writers, singers and athletes, landscapes, seascapes, moonscapes, galaxy, other country flags. There are so many beautiful ways to tell people that you're thinking of them. And that you care about them. And their love and care in return is the best gift.

I'm most content when creating. I can sew all night long. I can write for hours. I can read or listen to music (which I consider a part of the creative process) all day. I swear my heartbeat drops to 50 BPM when I'm in JoAnn's. However, I'm not a crafter who buys things and never does the project. I really don't have the room in my apartment or life for unfinished projects. I might have a few running at the same time, but they're small. If I had space big enough to dedicate to all my projects, that would be a different story. But I don't have that space. 

Day 16 of 100 Days

Prompt: Compose a list of things that are true about you. Sit with each item, making sure you really mean it.

I get my energy from people. When I am sad, confused, excited, depressed, celebratory, successful, or failing, I want to be with people. When I have tough news, the first thing I do is call people to connect. When I had a bad day or a good day, I was to go to a brewery and be around people. Even by myself, I would rather be with people.

Exercise is essential to me. It's my medicine, my edition, necessary for both my physical and mental health. The L4 I broke when I was a teen trying to impress a kid on my street, and ended up doing an endo on my bike, will remind me in excruciating detail how important exercise is to me. My wandering mind will remind me that exercise calms me down. I'm always worse off without it.

I love bright colors. I love bright vibrant colors and patterns. I always have. I am surely influenced by my mother who loved red with unbridled enthusiasm.  For the longest time, the only black pants I owned were the ones that wore as part of my work uniform at the China Lantern. My time in Peace Corps just solidified my love of colorful clothes, glasses, shoes, lipstick, earrings, necklaces, hats, coats, cars, coffee cups, plates, patterns, and life. Life is too short to wear anything but the most vibrant color that you can.

I love writing letters and cards. I love sending mail. I love receiving mail. I want people to know that I'm thinking about them and that it doesn't have to be in a big way. I love the colorful, funny, meaningful cards that you can pick out and the brilliant stamps that you choose from. We always got "decorative" stamps growing up. Never just the plain ones. Because again, life is too short to be anything but colorful. Why get boring flag stamps when you could get Lunar New Year Oxen, Coffee cups filled with sunshine, spring flowers, states, famous writers, singers and athletes, landscapes, seascapes, moonscapes, galaxy, other country flags. There are so many beautiful ways to tell people that you're thinking of them.

Traveling is very important to me and brings me incredible joy. It's not just the language and food and music and culture that I enjoy. I love researching the country, city, and community that we're going to visit. I like to read up on history and learn and listen. I listen to the language, how things are said, the tones, the music, the laughter, the business, the animals. I love to try my tongue at a new language. I love experiencing a new place with friends, with my wife, friends, or my family. It is such a privilege to be able to travel and I'm so grateful for that.

Day 15 of 100 days of creativity!

 I want to learn to sew with a pattern and zippers and buttonholes, with homemade bias tape and serged edges and contrasting patterns adapted to just my body.

I want to learn enough Spanish not only so that I can tell people what I want to eat, how much I want to pay, and where I want to go but also my deepest desires but better than a 5-year-old.

I to run 5 miles effortless any time of day and when a friend invites me to run a half marathon with them I do so without hesitation but am not the person to walk to far ahead of the group while hiking.

I want to always delight in spring, and sprinkles and cake recipes that have moments where I go, wait, why would you do that and I lean into that skepticism.

I want to write things. Some things. Plays, poems, short stories, long stories, life stories that make some people laugh, some people cry and others say I've read better. I want to read better. All of the time.

I want to be at more peace. I want to be grateful for all the things that I've had all the time.

I want to bling. I want my physical appearance to precede me and I want to always have an open and nonjudgmental heart. 

I want to lead with love. I want to figure out what that means exactly too. I want to make sure my community feels this love. I don't want to be naive but honest, courageous, and vulnerable.

I want to create a reservoir of my energy for my family, my wife, and for things that I love. 

I say I want to learn to play an instrument but I don't know that I can do that. I am restless and don't have a quiet mind. I definitely don't have a counting mind. I want to be instantly good at it. I need to build up the same kind of patience to learn music that I would have to learn Spanish. I know that music is the universal language and I want to speak it.

I want to rest. I want to learn to rest the same way that I want to learn Spanish and play the guitar. I want to sit in peace and be satisfied. I want to find a flow that isn't FOMO. My intense fear of missing out has given me a life of adventure. So has money, privilege, and whiteness.

I want to immerse myself in art. I want to create art. I want the hotel in my head to always be open and always be occupied with stories that need to be told by travelers traversing this space and asking me for a minute. When the hotel is open and I'm at the reception, the hotel of stories in my head quickly fills up and if I give it time and space, their stories are told and they move on leaving a soft warm bed for the next weary traveler. 

I want that curiously that I had when I was younger and wasn't so exhausted but life and stressed by the burden of justice. Surely justice needs a break every once in a while too. She must get exhausted from the fight because Hope and Justice are warriors. They're not fragile. They're spirited and weathered. And I want to make space on the park bench that I'm for them to come sit next to me and take a break. I'm confident that they'll kindly decline because they have so much work to do. And because Justice always has hope, she's never tired.

I want to have enough money so that I can retire. So that I can stop working and play my guitar and sing in Spanish. But I don't need more than what my family would need to survive and thrive.

I want to say yes to those things that scare me.

I want my wife to feel loved and supported all the time. I want her to feel close to me like she knows me so very intensely and not the stranger who has occupied my body. I want to feel as much love as I feel for her while we're camping unplugged from everything. When no one and nothing distracts me from living very intentionally in every single moment. 

I want all of these things. 

Day 14 of 100 Days of Creativity

 From the Writers Block: Tell a story that centers around a recipe

Our family's pecan pie is very famous. It's not too runny or sweet. It has a butter and caramel flavor. The pecans aren't mushy. The crust is golden with lightly browned edges. Everyone, with all their animosity and differences, love this pie. Love it.

Day 13 of 100 Days of Creativity...

Did you know that humans didn't have a word for blue? Until recent history.

It seems amazing to me. That we didn't quite have the language to describe the bluebird skies that fall upon you on a winter day when the naked trees reach for the deep blue skies.

The color of the ocean was hues of wine according to Homer.

It appears that it wasn't until the Egyptians, who named it, created dyes in it and colored the ceilings of temples with blue stars that looked much like sea stars stuck to the ceiling, knew the color existed.

Besides the sky that we see every day and the ocean that covers 70% of the Earth's surface.

• Azure Aster.
• Balloon Flower.
• Bird-Bill Dayflower.
• Bluebell.
• Blue Daisy.
• Blue False Indigo.
• Blue Flax.
• Blue Hibiscus.
• 
  Those are all blue beauties.

Blue doe not show up in your HR manual of "natural colored hair" meaning a color that occurs in nature.

But red, orange, pink, green, violet, burgundy, those all do.

Those are not the colors they meant. It doesn't matter because, again, there is no blue.

And blue means the sex of boys will be born.

Blue means Michigan State, and Penn State, means the blue of red, white, and blue.

Means the feeling of January after a long winter.

Is the favorite color of 73% of elementary school-aged children and 62% of high schoolers. It's the 6th color of cars after red, which isn't the most-pulled-over car, that would be white, which comes in at #1. Of course it does. And of course it's the #1 most pulled over.

It's the coveted color eyes of the most superior race according to Hitler.

It is the covered color eyes of a young girl in Lorain, Ohio. The bluest eye.

It's our favorite color on so many levels. 

And until recently. We couldn't express it.

Blue.

Blue.

Blue.

We see you.

Day 12 of 100 days of creativity

 From The Writer's Block: Write from the point of view of a character on his or her deathbed.

It's so cliche. I mean it really is. But when you're suddenly out of time there are so few things that matter. 

I feel fine. Right now I feel fine. I have migraines that I manage with steroids. I have a slight tremble in my left hand and my jaw quivers if I don't shut it right away. But other than that you'd never know that I will be gone by the end of the year.

There is no way that I'll survive this.

And all I can think of are how many books I have left to read. There are so many. I mean there are the greats like Dickens and some of the newer greats like Morrison. I recently fell in love with Colson Whitehead and there are three books I need to read right there. Butler, Lawson, Nguyen, Balwin, Jeminsin, Okorafor, Rushdie, King, Vuong, Hemingway, Plath, Diaz, and Kendi too. And don't forget the rereads. There are so many stories that I thought I would reread. 

It's paralyzing. I am reading as quickly as I can. I am trying to devour these books. And only read one at a time so that I can savor them. So I can enjoy them l like a fine meal. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by the beauty of the prose, the description of the scenery, and the vulnerability of each character. And I can't pause long enough because I have to move on. I have to move on to the next book. 

I panic when I linger too long on the last kiss, the child who cries, the laughter that rings through the night, the monster that brings down the community. 

I panic when I fall in love with a new author or a new series. Or a character who lives on in my mind.

I panic when I know that this is the only book by this brilliant person that I'll be able to read.

I panic. And I choke and then I push all the books away and cry. I scream. I shake my fists. I scream I HATE YOU at no one in particular. I punch my pillow. I curl up on the couch and sob so hard I have hiccups and a headache. I fall asleep exhausted. The pressure from the calico cat sleeping on my hip eventually wakes me up. She knows my time here is almost done. She too wants to be with me as much as possible. She knows my brother Matt will be taking her to live with him in a condo in the city. The gay divorcee. She knows that her next life will be loud and full of attention. Incessant pats from strangers. Getting picked up off the bed to be placed on the floor. As soon as he's gone, she'll jump back up. She'll sleep on the bed as she always has. As a side sleeper, my hip is her perch and her pillow. She'll learn to sleep on Matt's back.

It's not just books that I'll miss - but I will miss those the most. Every shelf in my house is filled with books. They're not stored away in boxes. They're proudly on display like family portraits. Some people have climbed mountains. I have read books. Thousand of books. I have a notepad that is 25 years old when I first started keeping track. There were probably a thousand before I started that list. But it's not a competition. It's just what I do.

I read books.

I garden.

I work. I teach math. I don't love to read math books. I teach math because it's easy and there aren't long essays that need to be graded over the weekend. 

I teach math because I can incorporate the stories I read into my math lessons. 

I am easily the best or worst math teacher in my district. I had the same parent tell me both these things in the same year.

Those are things I love.

And I have four more months to enjoy them. And maybe not even that long. I don't know what will happen. I don't know what abilities will be taken away from me. 

All I know is that I have so many books to read.

I got to go.

Day 11 of 100 days of creativity...

From Writer's Block: Write about a wedding during which the bride or groom changes their mind.

She looked stunning. The dress was just off her shoulders and fitted her like a glove, outlining her very slim body. There were just enough sequins on it to make it look like a 1920s pearl flapper dress without looking like a costume that you ordered online or perhaps you borrowed from your sister who was big into costumes. No one knew that she found the base at a thrift store and had hand-sewn the sequins onto the dress. She also did her own hair and make-up. She printed the wedding invitations and made all the decorations with her sister. I mean this wedding was her dream. This was everything that she imagined. Every single detail. It was breathtaking.

And the thing I know, that only I know, is that it's all going to come crashing down. Caleb isn't going to show. He's at his parent's house right now crying with his head in his hands. He's sobbing. His shoulders are shaking. He has no intention of leaving the house. His dad, who is literally the world's nicest dad, has been there for every single one of Caleb's baseball games, all the way through college. Who helped him make up with his friends when they took the game of tag too far and it turned into a hitting match. Who was there for his first heartbreak. Who will be there for this one. Who was the neighborhood dad that everyone called upon in any emergency but never more than necessary. He's about to come to the venue and tell Fiona that Caleb isn't coming. He never intended on coming. He couldn't stop the wedding once Fiona got started on it. He couldn't break her heart. He thought he would change his mind. He wanted to love her as much as she loved him. But he never did. 

The shock and disbelief that is about to appear on Fiona's face will be seared into everyone's memory for the near future. But this is the thing. Fiona and Caleb were those kinds of people who gathered even more amazing people and this wedding party will still happen. There will be dancing and speeches, and laughter. There will be cake and tears. And it will be an incredible party because these people will buoy this beautiful woman and lift her heart up. There will be time for her to come crashing down in agony and despair. 

And no one knows this going to happen. Right now everyone is just waiting for the festivities to begin in the next 15 minutes or so. Everyone can't wait. And no one can believe how this evening is about to turn out.

I know. Fiona is breathtaking. 

Day 10 of 100 days of creativity

 From the Writers Block: Write about your greatest childhood fear...

I wasn't allowed to be afraid when I was a little kid. My younger brother was already a scaredy-cat. When violent, crashing thunderstorms rolled across the midwest, I would eventually make my way into my parent's room. My brother would have already claimed a spot in our parents' bed. I would quietly ask if I could also sleep in the bed and my mom would say, "No. I'm not going to have two kicking children in my bed. You can sleep on the floor." That was absolutely terrifying. Didn't my mother know that monsters came from under the bed? So I would be facing them, eye to eye by laying on the floor. No thank you. I could go back to my room and wait out the thunderstorm.

I was afraid of the ninjas under the basement stairs. As children of the 1970s, there were a lot of kung fu movies and TV shows. And there were definitely ninjas under the basement stairs. I hated when my mom would ask me to go get something from the freezer in the basement. I would punt to my little brother and inevitably get in trouble because neither of us had procured the frozen butter from the bowels of the basement. I managed to make it down and back without getting taken out by those ever-so-sneaking ninjas. But I knew it was just a matter of time. 

I wasn't afraid of the snakes that the cats sometimes brought into the house, not the bats that occasionally found their way through a screenless window. I wasn't afraid of the dark as one time I heard someone walking down our sidewalk in the middle of the night and I went down the stairs and sat on the landing waiting to see who it was. It scared the crap out of my dad to see his young daughter sitting in the dark waiting for who knows what.

I think the thing that I was actually afraid of was tornados. But if we peel back that onion a little more, I was actually afraid to be abandoned during a tornado. I was afraid that my family would leave me in the shower when a tornado came. We had to take showers in the summer as kids who used their wooded backyard as a playground daily. And sometimes I would resist because it was storming out. But my mother would insist that I take a shower and my compromise was to wait between the storms rolling through. And it was scary. It probably only happened a handful of times that I would start a shower before or after a storm. But I can still feel the fear. I wasn't afraid of the actual thunderstorms - my father and I would often hang out in the garage and watch them barrel though. They were powerful and fascinating. I loved them. But I feared that a tornado would come and that they would forget that I was in the shower. They would forget that I was there in the shower.

Isn't that everyone's fear? Isn't that the root of many psychoses? The fear of abandonment? 

Because I wasn't allowed to express fear, I'm actually pretty fearless. There are some things that I don't like (like really steep cliffs) but there are so many things that I say yes to and jump in first. I have to remember sometimes that I have fear and that I'm allowed to have it and express it.

Day 9 of 100 days of creativity

 From Writer's Block: According to a Gallup poll, 10% of Americans say they have communicated with the devil. Write a story about one of these accounters.

Hallie says it's the booze. But it wasn't. I swear. I had been sober for years. For at least a year before this happened. Hallie doesn't believe me. Because that's sisters for you. She didn't believe me because she said I was always telling stories. She called me the fisherman. She would said, "What'd the fisherman tell you now." That wasn't very nice. She also wasn't entirely wrong. I did like to tell stories. I think it was my need to get attention. Drinking was my need to get attention. No one paid attention to us kids. There were seven of us. And our parents were always working. It was always the older kid to look after the younger. Hallie was number three. She looked after me Dwayne, who was number 4 but Dwayne and I were really close together so she had to look after both of us. She didn't hate that. She liked me and Dwayne. We were really close. The three of us in the middle. Mitch, the oldest, resented all of us. And Betsy, the youngest, almost drown many times because no one really looked after her. She doesn't talk to us anymore. Any of us. She has her own life in LA. She's kind of famous. But she'll never talk to any of us or send us any money. She goes by Rita now.

But just because Hallie doesn't believe me doesn't mean it's not true. 

It was a rainy Tuesday night and I was at Karl's house. He has a small house with his wife and two kids in Boone. I was staying there for a while. I was sober but I was having a hard time getting back on my feel. It's funny, when I was drinking or drunk I was so much more successful in this life. I could pass. I was meeting clients every day. I was killing my numbers at my marketing firm - a job I got without a college degree. I mean they didn't know that but I only had completed two years. I had money. I had a nice condo. I was passing. But eventually, those demons catch up with you and I hit rock bottom again and this time I couldn't hide it. 

So after I got sober I stayed with Karl. He had room for me. He trusted me. I loved his kids. I did stuff. I applied for jobs. I went to AA meetings. I wasn't lazy but I just wasn't getting anywhere. And that was Ok. As long as I was sober. That's all that mattered.

So they went out of town to see her family. I love Karl's wife. Beth is really great. She also loved me but in a little brother kind of way. They were going for four days. 

On the first day, I applied for some jobs. Got a few groceries at the local Walmart. I thought of applying there but that felt desperate. I wanted to save that job for when I actually was desperate. I played some video games and went to bed at midnight.

The second day, it rained. I was going to mow the lawn but it pretty much rained the whole day. So I didn't do much of anything. I took a few naps. I ate a frozen pot pie for dinner. The peas were great. I talked to Karl on the phone later that evening. I told him about the rain and the lawn. I told him about the peas. 

I woke up at 2 in the morning. A chill woke me. I was suddenly very afraid. I instinctively grabbed my cellphone. My heart was racing. I was staring at the ceiling. I don't remember opening my eyes but I was somehow awake. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to run and simultaneously stay perfectly still. Was someone in the house? Was there a noise that woke me up? I slowly sat up and put my feet on the floor which made me more scared. I couldn't describe the pure panic. It's similar to the feeling when I'm not going to get another drink.

I walked down the hallway towards the living room that flowed into the kitchen. And there he was. Sitting in Karl's chair. The chair you'd find him in when he wasn't running after the kids or doing chores. His dog would sleep in that chair when Karl was at work.  But it wasn't Karl. It was the devil or a devil. He was massive., barely fitting in the chair. His whole body was muscular with giant rams horns that wrapped around his head. His skin was deep red almost purple. He had large hands with claws for hands.  It wore no clothes but i also wasn't naked. There were no soft edges to him. He turned and looked at me. I stopped breathing. I stopped thinking. I thought for sure that I was going to die right here. 

"Andrew. How have you been?" His voice was startlingly familiar. I thought for a minute that it was Dwayne. I couldn't speak.

"You shouldn't be so surprised to see me here Andrew."  

"No?" was I could muster.

"You owe me. I've come to collect on that debt."

"I do?" I was genuinely surprised. This was not an IOU that you'd forget. Even in the most drunken stupor, I had to remember this.

"You don't remember?"

"That's something Hallie would say."

The devil laughed.

Day 8 of 100 days of creativity

From Writer's Block: According to the Gallop Organization, more than one million American dogs have been named as beneficiaries in a will. Write about one of their owners.

I think Angela would kill me if she knew I was leaving everything to Tessa. Don't give me that look. Angela wasn't any more practical. Do you know how many paintings we have of my amazing hunting dog Tessa and Stuntman Mike her teacup Yorkie? Paintings, portraits, photos. We have matching collars, leashes, and jackets for them and their humans. Matching shoes. They had their own beds even though they always slept with us. They really were all we had.

Angela and Mike were killed.

They were struck in the crosswalk. The light was green. The walking man was lit up in white. Mike was leading with glee. Mike was leading the way he always does. Without a care in the world. Just happy to be with his human.

The car didn't even look, took the right on the green without slowing down. Neither of them knew what hit them. Mike died instantly attached to his neon green leash ready to cheer on the Seahawks. Angela had to be taken off life support two days later. She hit her head. She didn't feel any pain. When I was holding her hand as we were taking her off of life support, I didn't tell her about Mike. I said that Mike and Tessa couldn't wait to see her. I don't know if she could hear me. Sometimes they say that they can hear you.I only told her things that she'd want to know. That she was ok. That we couldn't wait to see her. That I had done all the laundry and that her parents were waiting for her and she was free to go.

But she was already dead. So I was just telling myself those things.

And we donated all her organs. She was a runner - actually more of a walker. She was fit. She lifted weights. She gardened. She was a bookkeeper. She loved our dogs.

I love her.

And I immediately changed my will.

Tessa my poodle pointer is getting everything.

Yes. I know it's ridiculous. And I don't care. I don't like her sister. And her nephews are fine but they weren't particularly close to Angela. 

In all of our time together, it's been me, Angela, and our dogs. That's all we've really needed.  

Day 7 of 100 days of creativity

You know those games that you play, back in the day, in the before times when you'd go into the office. That get-to-know-you game, is also called an ice breaker.

"If you weren't working this awesome job, right here (insert eye rolls, some of them sincere), what would you be doing right now?" And the answer is often in a similar vein. Half serious. Some of them are really far-fetched. But I always say the same thing.

I would be writing sitcoms.

I would be sitting in a windowless room littered with water bottles that smell of farts.

I am a romantic but I know what this would be like.

I love working in teams. I love working things out together, out loud in a boisterous group. I love creating tension and then finding comic relief. Where you're all responsible for creating magic in the space.

I love theatre for that very reason. You take this magical space, fill it with magic for a moment in time, and then it becomes a black box again. Awaiting the next murder, romance, heartache, misery, joy, and sorrow.

I feel like my most honest self was my 21-year-old self. She felt invincible. No one told her that she couldn't win a Tony. No one told her that she wouldn't win an Oscar. No one told her that she wouldn't write amazing stories. No one squelched her dreams like they do to 10 years olds who want to be Olympic track stars. No one told her any of these things because she didn't tell anyone. These hopes and dreams were bubbles at the top of a soda can waiting to be released once you punched through the aluminum with the tab. And she was ready. She was ready to move to New York. (She was less ready to move to LA.) And the Peace Corps took her down one path. And then life took her down another. Some plays have been written. Some beauty has been made.

The can has mostly sat on the self.

Until a global pandemic knocked it over.

An insufferable job pushed it off the shelf.

And a touch of cancer dented the sides. 

And now no one dares open it up.

This is what happens when a dream is deferred.

Day 6 of 100 days of creativity...

 From Writer's Block... The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago...

"The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago." Tiff leaned into the Zoom with her goblet of wine. We saw mostly her hand. And her nose. She peered into the camera and laughed. "What am I even going to say to her?"

Felix picked up his phone. We had been privy to his ceiling the whole night. "Look. You need to tell her everything. Like everything." We were still looking at the ceiling but a stream of smoke floated across the screen. It really was like a movie.

"She can't do anything about it. Neither of them. They can't make amends. It's been fifteen years." Gwen was an influencer so her camera was the exact distance from her face to make her look even more stunning than she was in real life. And she was stunning.

"You have to. You have to make amends Tiff. She might not make it." I chimed in. I scratched the stubble on my chin. It was that annoying length. "She's not going to make it Tiff. This isn't about her or you or your relationship. It's only about you."

You could hear her breathing. She was terrible at muting her phone. You often heard her burb or slurp or snore. You'd mute her. She'd chime in. Then she'd belch or laugh or yell at the cat. She was always yelling at the cat.

Tiffany leaned in, "What do I even say?"

"You know what to say." This time you saw Felix's face which was almost as white as the ceiling. "Tiffany Torres. You know better."

"Don't be a dick." We weren't even sure Gwen's mouth moved.

"Exactly."

"I think she was talking about you, Felix." I put my head in my hand and sighed. Loudly.

"Tiffany. Your mom is dying. It doesn't matter why. I mean yes, it does. It matters that she's become a FOX-news-loving nutjob. That's not insignificant. But at the end of the day. At the end of the day. You have to say all the things that you need to say, Tiff. You need to tell her that you love her. You need to tell her that you never stopped loving her and that she was always your mamma. That you're sorry we're in this position now but she needs to know that." Felix took a long drag of his cigarette. He started smoking to be different. To stick out. And he's literally the only person in our friend group and beyond who smokes. It's so very 1960s gay, which is probably why he won't quit. Felix is about aesthetics. "This is about you Tiff. And don't expect an I love you back. Carmen might not do that. She might not go there. And you have to be ok with that Tiff."

The quiet stretched into forever. Into the white noise that isn't there, that's part of Zoom conversations. That Gwen sets up because her marketing company pays for it. She makes three times as much with her YouTube Channel but we use Cloud Communications Zoom meetings. 

"Ok." Tiffany could be heard walking into the kitchen grabbing more wine. "Ok." she shouts at her computer in the living room.

"Ok?" I question.

"Yes. Ok. It's ok. I can do this. I can tell Carmen that I love her. I can do this."

"It might be tough. She might be struggling to breathe. You're going to need to write out a script." Gwen said calmly.

"She got fucking COVID from her fucking husband who decided to die before her." Felix didn't mince words.

"I know. I know all of this. I know all of this." Tiffany's face was taking up the whole screen. "I got this friends."

I looked at the screens. I could only see Gwen. And Felix's smoke. Tiff was off the screen again.

And then we all heard it. Clap. A glass shattered. Silence.

"Tiffany! Tiffany!" Gwen was grabbing the edge of her scene. I could only see her mouth screaming, "Tiffany." Felix's face appeared.

"Oh no." I dropped my phone into my pocket and ran to the door. "Tiffany. We loved you. We loved you."

Day 5 of 100 Days of Creativity

 From Writer's Block: Tell a story in the form of a love letter...

Hi Philomena!

I told you that I would write you! Here it is -  an official letter! I also got you this striped scarf from a vendor right outside of the Notre Dame. It's still covered in scaffolding - you know from the fire a few years ago. Remember that? Sitting in Ruby's room watching it on CNN. That was so wild. I mean who knew that we would be experiencing so many world events?! You know? I mean so much has happened since then. But that was really big. For the time.

So this vendor who sold me this orange scarf - his is name is Mamadou. He's from Mali in West Africa. From what I understood, he's a refugee here in France. There's a lot of Al Qaeda in northern Mali. The French military is there to weed them out but of course, that's a double-edged sword. They need the French there to keep Al Qaeda from taking over the government but they're having all of these problems because of French colonization in the first place. Mamadou worked for the Malian government - he was protecting artifacts. Get this, he was working with the French government to get artifacts that they stole during colonization returned to Mali only to have to turn around and ask the French to protect these artifacts. Isn't that trippy? And now he sells scarves outside the Notre Dame. He said he was in danger because of all the work he did with both governments. He wants to go back. His parents are still there and some of his brothers. He misses his family. But he's just not safe. He's nice. I didn't try and barter. I just gave him the price he was asking for the scarves. I also go one for Natalie even though she comes to Paris all the time.

I've seen so much this first week here. I would definitely recommend the museum pass if you decide to go. I found this great little Belgian beer bar right by the Centre George Pompidou - that really weird modern museum. This bar is great! I've gotten to know all the guys there. David sees me come in and immediately seats me. He likes talking with me about beer. It's so fun! I've learned some better adjectives to describe what I'm drinking. It's really fun. I usually just have two beers and then will head off to another museum. If David was like 10 years younger, I would totally ask him out. He's good looking but he's got to be at least 50. That's the cool thing here too - you can be a server forever. Like it's a career.

So those are the two guys that I've met - LOL. I mean I haven't turned on any dating apps or anything like that but I could. I would probably have a date every night. I mean maybe I will. I have three more weeks. I should probably travel around France but seriously, I could probably spend the whole month in Paris and not see all of it. There is so much to see every day! 

I've been keeping busy so that I won't think about Pieter. I do wish he was here so that we could be sharing all of these experiences. Sometimes I just go and sit at a cafe and drink a coffee and watch people go by. I keep thinking I might see him - which is why I do "normal" things and just not do all the touristy things. But I'm here - I mean I might as well see all of the things we were going to see anyway. Sometimes I'm lonely. But all I have to do is go outside my apartment and I'll meet someone new. People who say the French are rude haven't been here in a while. I have made a new friend every day. And if I start to feel really lonely, I'll just go have a beer with David, Pierre and Nick at the beer bar. They're all so welcoming.

Anyway, I have the apartment for three more months. If you change your mind, come out! We'd have so much fun! Plus the weather is getting nicer. It hasn't rained for two days and it's just lovely out. You can tell that we're on the cusp of spring. I forget how far north France is. If you came, we'd leave the city and explore other parts. I would love to go south. Of course, there is weird energy because of Ukraine. I know some people feel particularly stressed out. Like, that a war has already started. The woman who lives next to me is very stressed about war and what's happening. We've talked about it a little bit but she has a very strong dialect and I don't always understand her. Plus I always see her after I've been to the beer bar - LOL.

Ok. I got to get this in the mail. Tell everyone I said hi!

xoxo

Mia

Day 4 of 100 Days of Creativity

 From Writer's block... write a story that begins with a phone call at 3 am.

Pop. Pop. Pop. I am staring at the ceiling.

Pop.

The chickpeas that was was soaking overnight for hummus were making their signature sound. It took me almost a year to figure out the sound. I even had an electrician come out and check our kitchen to see what was causing the sounds. 

One day doing dishes I was started by the tiniest pop.  

Pop.

I look at my cellphone. It's nearing what I call bewitching hour. I set it down. If anything is evil is going to happen in the world, it would happen between 3 and 4 a.m.The bars have let out. The third shift doesn't let out for hours. The streets are empty. It's so quiet. Which makes it impossible to get back to sleep. My mind scans the audible landscape for something to focus on. Something to think about besides my racing thoughts which have been waking me up around 2:30 every night. For months. A year? Who knows. Sleep was elusive and I was a zombie walking through the daylight hours.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. My phone startles me.

I pick it up though I'm nervous about who would be calling me at 3 a.m. What if it's my mom? Or my sister? What if something happened to them? Maybe my friend Simon who had been struggling lately. Did he need me? My hands tremble as I reveal the name: Lena. 

"Hello?" I whisper because that's what you do at 3 am even when there's no one else in your home.

"Mel, it's Lena."

"What's going on? You ok?"

"You're up." 

I think about that for a second. "I couldn't sleep."

"I figured you'd be up. I need your help." My mind started racing. What on earth could Lena need? She worked in marketing for one of the local tech firms in town. She put insane hours. She probably hadn't even gone to bed yet. 

"Ok. What's going on?"

"I clocked my boss and I don't know what to do."

"Wait. What?" I immediately thought of the old 80s movie 9-5 were Lily, Jane, and Dolly basically kidnapped their boss. It was funny. At the time I imagine it was even funnier. Watching it last weekend, it's made me nervous. It was a legal nightmare.

"We were out meeting with THE CLIENT. You know, my biggest account. We were at Moby's - fancy fish restaurant - "

"Yes, I know." I felt the need to show her that I was on par with her money and her success when I wasn't even close.  Why do we even do that?

"And THE CLIENT left and I was talking to Mark about our next steps, our plan with them, it was great. We each had another drink. No problem."

"Ok."

"Well, he followed me out to my car. And I asked him if he wanted a ride and grabbed my arms and kissed me! He pushed me against the car - "

"Oh god!"

"I know. And you know - you know I'm a boxer. You know I got to the boxing gym like - "

"What did you do?"

"I knocked him out. I got out of his hold and clocked him. I didn't mean to."

"Oh god. Of course, you didn't. Did you call the police? Or an ambulance?"

"No! No! I would lose my job! My career would be ruined. It would be his word again mine. I was parked outside. Not in a garage. There were no security cameras."

"Lena." I hadn't realized that I was standing up next to the bed putting on the jeans that were on the floor, and looking for the mustard top that I had worn earlier in the day.

"He's in the car with me. He's alive. I mean he's breathing. And he has a pulse."

"Oh my god. Why - "

"I didn't know what to do!" I bit my lip. What the hell?

"Ok. Where are you?"

"I'm outside your apartment." I froze. 

"What?"

"I'm outside your place. I need your help." I felt an acid bubble in my throat. I was cold with panic. Terror is the word that comes to mind. I couldn't be implicated in the assault of a giant in the marketing world - I mean it was his fault. Why would anyone try that on Lena? Why didn't she call the police? Or go back into the restaurant. 

"Mel?"

"I'll be right down."

Day 3 of 100 days of creativity

 From Writer's Block: trace the journey of a five-dollar bill through the lives of five different owners. What was exchanged during the transactions? How much (or how little) did the transaction mean to each of the people involved?

Katelyn walked up to the TouchTunes box at the end of the bar. Her mom use to give her money to play the jukebox, which is what it was called then when her parents were having a serious conversation. "Here Katelyn, go play some songs, your dad and I need to call." The screen would light up her face as she scrolled through all the possibilities. She could only play so many songs. She had to be careful to pick the best songs and also stay away from the table for them long enough to have their serious discussion which was always a fight . She had it down to a science. She would spend about 10 minutes looking at songs and when she saw her mom lean back into the booth back in victory or defeat, she'd finalize her selection, picking her parents' favorites and maybe one for herself before quietly walking back to the book as if nothing had happened. 

She looked at the TouchTunes. Five dollars only got her three songs. She knew he was going to break up with her. The machine lapped up the bill, smacking its lips. She needed to pick carefully. She needed to buy some time. She knew just want songs to pick. And they would say what needed to be said. She pushed P-A and immediately the song came up. "We Belong Together." by Pat Benetar. "I only have eyes for you," by The Flamingos. And Odesza's "The Last Goodbye" which was her new favorite band. She took a deep breath and walked back to the booth.

Will locked the front door. The only person left was Hank. The guy who lived above the bar. This was basically his living room. He found his favorite place at the bar every day when they opened at 3 p.m. Other regulars knew Hank but they really didn't know him. They all wanted him to have a story. He was a Vietnam vet who was haunted by his experience. He was part of the Weather Underground fighting the man. He was a hippy who burned his draft card. He was a school teacher like Robin Williams in Dead Poet Society. But they were all wrong. Hank was just a drunk. He was a high-functioning alcoholic. He wasn't even as old as everyone thought he was but alcohol beat him up worse than the passage of time. 

Will took the key out of the register drawer and opened the TouchTunes machines pulling out the hundreds of dollars from the week. People loved TouchTunes. The passive income was astonishing to him. Sometimes the TouchTunes for a week was as good as a Wednesday night at the bar. Close the machine back up and turned it back on. Taking the cash, and the register, over his shoulder he tossed, "Hank. I'll be in the back." Will closed the office door and locked it. There was a gun in the office that was always loaded. He trusted Hank - mostly. Tonight was quiet for a Tuesday. Ever since Adam quit doing trivia on Tuesdays, they struggled. Including the TouchTunes money for the week which was $600, the bar cash, and the credit cards the night totaled $1,100. His tips were just over dismal but pretty expected for a Tuesday. He slipped the money in his wallet, all twenties except for the five he owed after losing a game of poker. 

Anthony flipped over the cushions. Surely there had to be money in the seats. There was always change. There were always a few bucks he could find. Since the start of the pandemic though there hadn't been change. There hadn't been loose coins or crumbled-up dollars. There hadn't been midnight runs to Taco Bell. There hadn't been coming home from concerts after the bars closed at 2:30 a.m. pumped up on the music and the people and the drugs. There hadn't been morning poker with his roommate before he went to work out a fiver. Or sometimes ten if he wasn't on his game. There hadn't been any of these things. He realized that these friends weren't good ones. The roommate moved out leaving him with a huge rent to pay. He was laid off. Rehired. Laid off. Found a new job. His body ached. His mind ached. He just needed five dollars. He needed a fiver to go and grab a five-dollar pizza from Little Caesars. He needed to be out of the apartment. He needed fresh air. He needed people. He needed people to know that he was alive. That he mattered. 

There wasn't anything in the cushions. He stood up. Too quickly and nearly fell back down. And then he went into the kitchen opening up the junk drawer. And there it was - the last fiver he won from Will months again. Looking up at him. Inviting him out.

Day 2 of 100 Days of Creativity

Prompt from The Writer's Block: According to the Florida Department of Corrections, more than one hundred people have registered on a waiting list to see an execution. Write about one of them.

Look. I know. I know you're judging me. I am on the waiting list to see an execution. Look. I know. I would judge me too but you have to understand how I got there. How I got here. I'm from Ormond-by-the-sea. You probably haven't heard of it. Have you heard of it?

If you blink you'd miss it. I joke about those fly-over states - which are most states when you're from Florida. I mean it's basically New York City, Florida, Texas, and California. We're the most populous states. Outside of us, everyone is a flyover. Outside California, everyone else is just a state. California is its own GD country. But I'm from Florida. I'm from Ormond-by-the-Sea. Have you heard about us?

And that's the point. We're near Dayton. Everyone knows Dayton. Dayton is America's romance with cars and sun and sex and speed. We're an exit on your way to Dayton from South Florida. There's the rub - South Florida. We're the stop where people would stay who didn't have money. I'm not talking about the people from New York or New Jersey or even Virginia. We might be where you stay when you can't afford to stay in Dayton. Or the suburbs. We're a flyover. During the Daytona races, my mom would send us camping. Sometimes we'd stay with our grandmother but mostly she gave us a cooler full of lunch meat, Cheetos, and Sunkiss cola. We'd take blankets and sometimes our tent or a tarp and set up our space just out of sight. She'd rent out our home to poor South Florida folks going to the races. 

We didn't mind though. We didn't go to school. My brothers and I would pool our money and buy trinkets to sell to tourists. Sometimes Mr. Arnold, who owned the gas station would pay us to wash car windows and give the cars some attention when they rolled up to get gas. This was the 80s. No one cared if we were in school or not. It was only a few days that we were gone. Sleeping on the beach. Working for Mr. Arnold. Sometimes we would lay on the beach at night and look up into the sky.

My oldest brother loved poetry. He was a little strange. He died. When he finished high school he moved to New York City. It broke our mother's heart. Twice. The first time when he moved to New York and the second time when he died. He died of AIDS. Our mom doesn't care. She'll tell everyone that he went to New York to become someone and then died of AIDS. She didn't really think about the stigma or how Howie could have gotten it. He was her oldest boy. She loved him. She loved him so much. And when our dad left, our mom relied on Howie even more.

When we were on the beach, sometimes he'd pull out his Walt Witman book, which he loved more than the Walk Man that I was always stealing from him. The four of us boys would lay on the blanket on the sand while our mom hosted people in her home and he'd read to us: 

On the beach at night,

Stands a child with her father,

Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,

While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,

Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,

Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,

Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,

And nigh at hand, only a very little above,

Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,

Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,

Watching, silently weeps...

And I never remembered the part that came next because I would be lost in the stars. 

Howie's voice carried you away. Carried you away from Ormond. From Florida. From anything that made you sad.

I have never left Ormond. I finished high school. I still live in my mom's house though she's been gone a long time. 

And that's why I'm on the list to watch an execution. Howie told me to make something of myself.

And I'm trying. 

Don't judge. I really am. Now there's Airbnb. I still camp in the sand but I make way more money than my mom made. So much more. Things have changed.

But Howie said to make something of yourself. I figured if I saw an execution that would make me special. It would increase the value of my property. 

That's why I'm on the list.

Day 1 of 100 Days of Creativity

 From the book, Writer's Block... Begin a story with a character who has lost something important to them.

She stood up, straightening out her red dress, evening out the pleats that gathered at her waist. Little white hearts were scattered on the dress like candy confetti on the funfetti cake that was waiting for her at her aunt's house - though she didn't know they were there waiting for her. They were her favorite.

She suddenly felt a sense of dread creep up in her causing her cheeks to flush a deep red, matching her dress. Snoopy! What did she do with Snoopy? She looked at the brown slat bench she was sitting on. Wasn't her just here on the bench with her? She never goes anywhere without Snoopy - his arms uneven from years of being dragged by one arm. He was missing one ear. His bead black eyes were smoking with scratchy cataracts from being loved so hard and dragged across so many surfaces. He wasn't a branded Snoopy dog but a knock-off mother had gotten her at the Dollar Store before she was born which is the time she calls anytime before she can remember. She can remember Knock-off Snoopy's fur was white and brown and these days the white was beige with a little bit of red from the Kool-Aid that she had split on him or the paint from art class. 

She looked under the bench. He wasn't there. She around the tree closest to the bench, careful not to muddy her nice shoes in damp spring grass. She could see her dad and her aunt in the distance. Surely Snoopy wasn't with them? She looked back at the large brick building - did she leave him in there? She ran to the door splashing through a puddle but the door wouldn't open. She looked over at her dad. He must know where Snoopy was. She started to panic. She never lost Snoopy. Never. Where could he be? 

She started down the sidewalk. She shouldn't run and muddy her shoes but she had to get her dad quickly. Time was of the essence. She had to find Snoopy! She started to skip. She was definitely allowed to skip in her dress and good shoes. She skipped past the bench and the tree which she just noticed was covered in cherry blossoms. She skipped around a puddle. And slowed down as she neared her father. She scanned the small crowd that was gathered under a deep purple tent. The rain that had awoken her and Snoopy this morning had let up. Slowing her skipping to a hurried walk and quietly stepped up next to her dad. His suit was deep blue. She slipped her little hand into his, it was so big but cold. 

"Dad." She looked up at his face which was splotchy and red likes hers gets when she cries. "Dad, I can't find Snoopy."

He bends down close to her, "Snoopy?"

"Yes, my Snoopy dog. I think I left him in the building over there. Can you come to help me find him?"

"Snoopy?"

"Yes, Dad. Yes. My Snoopy dog. He's in the building." She starts to tug at his hand. How can he not know who Snoopy is? How can he not know where he is. Mom always knows.

"Amelia, you gave your Snoopy dog to Mommy." Amelia looks up at him.

"I did?" 

"Yes. Remember, you put it in the coffin next to Mommy. You didn't want her to be scared. Remember?"

"But Dad, I need my Snoopy dog. I need him. Who is going to make sure that I'm not scared?" Amelia started to panic. What if Snoopy was gone forever. She needed him. Mom didn't need Snoopy. She was an adult and wouldn't get scared. Amelia let go of his hand and started running away from her dad, her aunt, and all of the other people under the purple tent. She needed Snoopy. How could her dad not understand that?

"Honey." She ran past the tree and the bench and to the building and pulled on the heavy doors. Why wouldn't they open? Why couldn't she get in? "Let me in!" Amelia screamed. "I need my Snoopy!" And just like that she was being swooped up in the air and grabbed her father's neck, crying onto the blue suit now covered with raindrops. "Daddy. I need my Snoopy dog."

"I know honey. We'll get him. Let's go. Let's go get some funfetti cupcakes at Aunty Mia's house. They're you're favorite."