Sunday, March 22, 2009
Pay Attention To The Carrots
Mia and her best friend, Denali, as photographed by his Pop, the scientist. Sometimes the things you love most in the world are a little rough. They grab you by the neck and don't let go. What can you do? But grab back.
I tried, but I couldn't. I tried to stop writing.
Told myself work was too stressful, I was too exhausted, other demands were more, well...demanding. This little hobby of mine would have to go by the wayside. I couldn't even bear the relentless prodding of Facebook with all that poking, and gifting and grabbing by the lapels. The pressure of having to refresh a one-liner on my status (in the 3rd person, for Godsake) sent me over the edge. So I bowed out. Completely.
Then I realized, when I lose touch with my fictionalizing, my words, this abstract hunger to "say something" I lose my connection with everything else. Friends. Books. Art. Humor. My favorite slippers. Even food. Yet strangely, not liquor. Gin truly is the drink of writers not writing. Explains why the Lost Generation was so lost.
I can't remember the last time I cooked a meal I was truly proud of. In fact, last night, while trying to respond to a hoard of work-related emails AND glaze carrots, the emails won and the Ranger's shouting brought me back to the kitchen as black smoke billowed and the smell of defeat dug in its boot heels. Those poor little carrots now resemble turds. Angry turds. And my favorite pan is crusted with charcoal.
Speaking of ashes. Recently, my father and sister-in-law, separately, but thankfully in agreement explained why my brother's ashes would soon be interred in the Santa Fe National Cemetery, next to war vets, with a sweeping view of a shopping mall and a Radisson Hotel.
"Dad, this isn't exactly what he wanted," I suggested softly, not wanting to pick too hard at the scab.
"I know, mijita," he said. "But he's dead now. And he doesn't get a vote."
So the moral of that story...while it may be true the dead DO in fact get to vote in Northern New Mexico, apparently only during presidential elections. Yet a more resounding truth settled in here at the Treehouse...speak up while you still can.
So yeah...I'm back. And just as cranky.