Waitpower

'member these guys?

I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling very powerful right now. Living in this country today is like helplessly watching your beloved car being driven by lunatics into a ditch, then fished out, stripped and sold for parts—and knowing that we, the people (a lot of people anyway) GAVE THEM THE CAR KEYS. 

When I’m feeling like this, I turn to The Good Book for consolation. The thesaurus, I mean. Flipping to “power,” I want to know it all—synonyms, antonyms. Example: power is strength, it is not weakness. Although an argument can be made for weakness as a gateway to spiritual power. As Saint Paul writes in the “other” Good Book: Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. – 2 Corinthians 12:9. In general, though, being weak is not a "power play" in this world. 

 

Moving right along.

 

There are many kinds of power: Battery Power. Turbo Power. Power Point. Power of Suggestion. Power of Attorney. Power Lifting. Turtle Power. All of these imply some kind of agency—something or someone can do this or that because it (they, we) have (has) the capability. The power, one might say.

 

I recently read the title of a motivational article about three kinds of power: Willpower, Waypower and Waitpower.  I didn’t bother reading the actual article, but I did want to mention the clever title. I can guess the content, though—to effect a desired result, you need Discipline, Direction and…you need to Wait (something like that, but starting with D).

 

Hold on a minute (wait!) No wonder I don’t feel powerful—I hate to wait! I lack waitpower!

 

Yet, like it or lump it, waiting is the condition we’re all in. We can’t move the clock hands forward—well, technically we could, but I’m being theoretical. Also no one has clocks with hands anymore. What I mean is, time takes its…time. November 3rd  will be here when it gets here, right? 

 

So OK, where’s the power? For that, let’s turn to the ancient philosopher Frederick (the Wise) Rogers, who sang, “Let’s think of something to do while we’re waiting, while we’re waiting for something to do.” Plant a seed, and wait—but also, water, weed, give it sun. Nurture. Active waiting, not the sitting-around- doing-nothing kind. I can spend the next two weeks paralyzed with anxiety and dread OR I can keep trying to make a difference. The two weeks will pass either way, but only one way is powerful. 

 

Which is why today, Saturday, October 17th, I will be at a Vote Early event with some friends. I've even made a sign that reads: YOUR VOTE IS YOUR VOICE. We’ll help people register to vote (October 19th is PA deadline), and tell them where ballot boxes and polling places are located. 

 

What will you do with the next 336* hours? I urge you, dear readers, to use your waitpower wisely. 

 

More power to us!

*Assuming you’re reading this on Tuesday, October 20th

Yes, we MUST

Autumn Reflections

  

You think this is pretty? Whatever. (photo by Marta Wave on Pexels)

Ah, mid-October! The leaf-peepers are wending their bumper-to-bumper way through New England, because the only townes with leaves worth any peeps at all, have ye olde village squares with white-steepled churches, and air that is redolent of maple syrup and Yankee gumption. People I know, people I CARE about, are joyfully bundling up in heavy, really unflattering sweaters, scarves and wool socks, sipping their hot apple-pumpkin-spice-cocoa lattes from Starbucks, and loudly proclaiming their great love for this magical season. 

 

Why? I sincerely want to know.

 

Here is what autumn symbolizes to me:

 

Raking the yard. A Sisyphean exercise in futility, as the grass will be re-coated with dead oak remnants within minutes. (FULL DISCLOSURE: I personally do not rake. I have less pointless things to do.)

 

Retiring my flip-flops. The saddest moment of the entire year, a moment I put off as long as possible. Only when my tender toesies freeze into icicles, do I stop wearing my Havianas. 

 

The end of edible produce and decent looking flowers. I do not root for “root” vegetables, not the way I adore asparagus and swoon over strawberries. Frankly, I mash one or two turnips and I’m done. And florally? Mums the word. Mums galore, mums unending. Mums, in the same  drab, dreary shades of orange and brown as the trees and the rutabagas. 

 

Halloween. I’ve written before about my antipathy towards dressing your kids up in ridiculous costumes and releasing them into the neighborhood to ask for, and receive, candy that is far inferior to what is already in the cupboard at home. Boo, humbug! I say.

 

Encroaching darkness. Every late dawn and early dusk, I am reminded that the days are short and getting shorter. As I do not drive at night, autumn puts a definite damper on my social life. Meeting a friend for Happy Hour in the fall, I dash from the restaurant mid-drink, no later than 4:30 PM, praying I’ll make it home before the Black Curtain of Doom descends. 

 

Having fun yet? 

 

It doesn’t help that winter follows immediately. Oh sure, there’s Christmas, yada yada, but after that? One long, snowy stretch of misery. Don’t talk to me about Valentine’s Day, either. All the heart-shaped boxes of off-brand chocolates in the world do not compensate for February’s bitter wind and slush. On crisp, clear fall afternoons, that’s what I think about: winter. And death. 

 

I suppose a case could be made against summer, but it would be thrown right out of court. Too hot? Much easier to cool down than warm up. Kids out of school with nothing to do? Simple solution: max out that Amex to spend the equivalent of Harvard on Camp Hip-Hip Hurray. Sitting in a beach chair and gazing dreamily at the ocean is boring to you? You LIKE the way you look in a puffy coat? That’s insane. 

 

In closing, I suggest: a world without “wonderful autumn,” would be a far, far better world (bangs flip flop on table for emphasis).

Poor little Patrick, raking uselessly (Fall, 1993)

Captcha-ing

CAPTCHA is obsessed with traffic lights

“My bumper sticker reads Just Another Version of You.”

                   --Norman Lear

 

Remember the classic Sesame Street song: “One of these things is not like the others,” with a video of three things with wheels, for example, and one umbrella? The kiddos are supposed to choose what “doesn’t belong here.” The grownup version of this game is, of course, CAPTCHA, that annoying online grid filled with photos, where you have to click on only the ones with wheels (what is it with wheels, anyway?) If you are correct, you may be “allowed” to enter the website where you can view your credit card bill. Listen, if I wanted to read a horror story, I’d pick up Stephen King. 

 

We humans are wired to differentiate, to sort everything according to certain criteria. Laundry: whites and colors. People (sadly all too often): whites and colors. Sometimes it makes sense—the taller kids in the back for class pictures, the heavier items on the bottom of the stack. Many other times, it’s a random, and very subjective, separation. Is there a real reason for labeling Regular and Petite sizing…in scarves? Maybe so that the people who are never called “petite” can experience the thrill of wearing something “tiny”? Who knows? Though personally I adore the designers who vanity size! Just saying!

 

Since identifying, then demonizing, the “other” is so prevalent nowadays (and frankly, oldendays too), I think we’d do well to expand our definition of “similar.” Italian calzone, Indian samosa, Chinese bao, Polish pierogi—it’s all stuffed bread, baby! Cajun and Celtic fiddling, American basketball and Dutch korfball, and the list goes on. My point being, the eye, and the heart, that are trained to see commonalities, become less and less likely to isolate and reject what they encounter. Even when the resemblance is a stretch, it’s worthwhile to find the common ground.

 

Of all people, the television pioneer Norman Lear, who gave us All in the Family and The Jeffersons, filled with bombastic, in-your-face characters, was a true believer in seeing our essential sameness as humans. He made sure the audience saw themselves in even the most outrageous caricatures he created. Archie was usually a jerk, sure, but could also be quite lovable (like you and me at times, maybe?) Lear’s genius was the way he bound us all together, hapless mortals stumbling through life.

 

Animosity born of insignificant variations is the scourge of civilization. Latina, Asian, or Native American, moms are moms, right? I loved taking my confirmation classes to visit other houses of worship, just so they could see all that we have in common. Hard to hate all Muslims when our hosts at the mosque were so very kind. 

 

Next time you meet someone who seems totally different from you, try telling yourself—this person is just another version of me. Me, if I’d been born in another body, in another time and place, in a different culture. Then shake your twin’s hand, and go have coffee together somewhere. 

 

This, my friends, is how our fractured world will begin to heal.

Mirror scene from Duck Soup

Help Wanted

Say it ain't so, Chuck! (photo by Noah Smith on Pixabay)

It’s one tough job market out there, gang. As people continue struggling to find employment, that Walmart greeter position is looking better and better—even to Harvard Law grads!

 

We need to get creative (I mean YOU, not ME, of course--I am a very successful full-time writer making several dollars per week). I think LinkedIn only goes so far, listing its boring career opportunities; I myself would hate to be trapped in a cushy corner office, toiling away as a CFO or UFO or whatever it is those cushy office-dwellers are. 

 

As a public service to the current crop of job-seekers, may I suggest the following, actual opportunities? 

 

Grand Carver of England: A royal position dedicated exclusively to slicing and serving meat for monarchs and special state guests. BYOK (bring your own knife)

Shoelace Ironer: King Charles reportedly employs staff to press his shoelaces flat with an iron and immediately replace them with a fresh pair if they look threadbare. Rumor has it that His Majesty is eyeing some slip-ons. Uh oh.

Ludacris’s Game Boy Battery Changer: The rapper employs someone to keep his portable gaming devices charged, with fresh batteries. Is he really that lazy? Well, that’s just…ludicrous.

Mariah Carey* reportedly paid people to lower her onto a talk-show sofa so her gown wouldn't get crushed. 

Lady Gaga* employs staff whose job is to carry her around when she’s wearing her outlandish stage costumes. *A real, muscular hustler could handle both jobs; MC and LG are rarely at the same events.

White House Chief Calligrapher: All you bar mitzvah and bridal shower pen-persons, please take “note”!

The Pope’s Astronomer: Responsible for the beloved annual Papal Blessing of the Quarks

New York City Rat Czar: Is this job to get rid of the rats? Or to become their king? Apply and find out, I guess…

 

Now that I’m writing about Jobs Serving the Rich and Famous, I’ll add tasks I would gladly compensate MY staff to execute, if I were ever to become staffed. These chores would include:

 

Climate Controller: It’s not as cut-and-dried as “Steve hates air conditioning and I adore it.” No, I personally need someone on the payroll to constantly adjust the thermostat so that I am perfectly comfortable 24/7, no matter what I’m wearing, and before, after, and during physical activity. Warning: I can intuitively tell 67 from 68 degrees, so don’t try slacking off!

Dust Buster: There has to be a better technique than mine (the quick, fruitless “company’s coming” swipe). I seek a soul who can “Pledge” to keep my environs mote-free at all times.

Meal Announcer: They would roam our house and yard every evening at 6 sharp, yelling “DINNER IS ON THE TABLE AND IT’S GETTING COLD!!!” at top of lungs. This would require at least 5-20 repetitions before the last little straggler ambles into the dining room and complains that dinner is, in fact, now cold.

 

Happy hunting! I look forward to carefully considering, then throwing away, your applications soon! 

Rodent Monarch Wanted (but the pay is not very...Gouda)

Dribs and Drabbles

  

    photo by Rose Sokolov on Unsplash

 

DRABBLE ONE (THE JOURNEY BEGINS)

 

Today’s drabbles are inspired by a literary prompt on “Moon Lists," an extremely cool Substack I discovered while procrastinating about finishing a writing assignment. What are drabbles, you ask? Another discovery I made recently, instead of doing something productive! A drabble is defined as “a 100-word story.” Not thrilled with this word, too close to “dribble.”And “drivel.”. But who am I to rename these tidy little 100-word nuggets? As I type this drivel—er, drabble—I am uncomfortably wedged in the shrunken middle seat of an American Airlines flight to Chicago. More later! Hopefully from a different time zone!

 

DRABBLE TWO (AN UPDATE FROM SEAT 22E)

 

Sigh. Still in Philly. There is a ground stop at O’Hare due to the foul weather that is the Windy City’s trademark ™ and Lord only knows when this jet will leave PHL. However, I am trying to make drabbles from these lemons, as the saying goes, so I’ll press on! “Moon Lists” are a series of clever writing prompts, and I am all about being prompted. This week’s prompt: where you store the items that explain your life. Item containers can include a filing cabinet, a computer folder, and (my favorite) a bag/purse. I choose my bag/purse. Let’s peruse!

 

DRABBLE THREE (MY PURSE, THE INSIDE SCOOP)

 

Sadly, I cannot access my purse/bag at the moment, because I am flying economy and my bag/purse is stuffed beneath the seat in front of me, just out of reach. But I can tell you from memory what it contains. I have: 

* laptop (or rather I would if it wasn’t in my lap, which it is because I’m busy writing drabbles.)

* hairbrush, because I anticipate my hair will need taming if we ever land in breezy Chi Town.

* seven pens, because my pens tend to run out of ink every few sentences.

* planner, for planning purposes 

 

 

DRABBLE FOUR (CONTAINER CONTENTS, CONT.)

 

*notebook, which I would write in if my handwriting was legible

*Tums, which I chew like candy because my anxiety-induced heartburn just won’t quit

*pack of tissues with one tissue left

 

What does my bag say about me? That I’m a neurotic, cursive-challenged, wild-haired writer with acid indigestion? And a stuffy nose? 

 

True, but I was hoping for a more profound summary:  Elise is a natural leader with bigly intelligence and movie-star good looks, a remarkable woman who always buys cheap pens and flies economy. Oh, and she’s also hilarious. 

Next time I’ll choose a more perceptive container. 

 

DRABBLE FIVE (THE LAST DRABBLE)

 

That was a terrific prompt! Thanks, “Moon Lists!" As we have all de-planed now (still in PHL!) due to ANOTHER storm in Chicago, I will wrap up my Drabble Series with a pithy reflection on life’s hard lessons: 

No matter who you are, no matter how smart or gifted or gorgeous or humorous, O’Hare Airport is the great leveler. First class, middle class, or steerage, we’re ALL gonna be very late, on every single flight to ORD. 

 

Well, I’m off to buy more overpriced Tums and tissues! To paraphrase Ram Dass, “we’re all just walking each other to Hudson News.”

Of MacGuffins and Chekhov's Gun

  

photo Unsplash

I’ve never done this before, but today I’m opening my metaphorical door to reveal my top-secret creative process. Shhh! Keep it to yourself! Otherwise, EVERYONE will start writing exactly like me, and that’d be just too much excellence!

 

Most writers are familiar with some basic tenets of the trade. Write something every day. Write “morning pages” (stream of consciousness, whatever pops to mind). Write what Anne Lamott calls a *&%$!!$# first draft, and edit/polish later. Limit the exclamation points and ALL CAPS—let the writing emphasize itself. Include clever literary devices, such as MacGuffins and Chekhov’s gun. Show, don’t tell. Yada yada.

 

Well, let me tell you, I ignore most of these tips and tricks, having skipped the tedium of finishing my college degree. Yet, look at me! By my own standard, I’m a very successful author. 

 

Here’s my actual routine.

 

I write when the spirit moves me, and never otherwise. Some days my literary output consists of a grocery list (though I do try to write these in iambic pentameter). Other days, I type on and on for many hours, until the sun is setting and I realize I haven’t started dinner yet, and I have not gone to the supermarket with my grocery poem. I have zero patience for first drafts and revisions, crappy or otherwise, so what I initially write down, is what editors get. I ADORE CAPS AND !!!!!! ‘s. I tend to tell, not show, because if I don’t, my faithful readers might get bored and drift away. “Her eyelashes froze as she walked along?” Nah. “It was cold out.” MUCH better!

 

For some strange reason, I have yet to be published in The New Yorker. Go figure.

 

As for the MacGuffins and Chekhov pistols…

 

A MacGuffin is an object or person introduced early in a story, which seems pivotal to the action, but who/what in the end is not really that important after all (haha!) Examples are the jeweled statue in The Maltese Falcon, and the sled named “Rosebud” in Citizen Kane. 

 

As for dear Anton C., he was quoted as saying that if a gun is mentioned in a story, it had better be fired at some point.

 

To recap: 

 

*The MacG Is something that seems important at first, but turns out to be unimportant in the end.

*The gun is something that is necessary to the plot, even if at first it doesn’t seem to be.

 

Both of these require advance planning. The writer must know where they're going, and painstakingly map out the narrative’s twist and turns. I know scribes who diagram their entire book, every thread satisfyingly connected. 

 

They are not me.

 

Sample Elise story:

 

The Lincoln Memorial weighs 38,000 tons. It was cold as she walked past it with Chekhov’s gun. When the evil MacGuffin approached, she shot him. Then the Washington Monument fell on him. THE END. 

 

See? Exciting, and, best of all, no brain power required!

 

You’re welcome. Please shut the metaphorical door on your way out.

Chekhov's water pistols
(photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels)