What Time Am I In, Anyway? (PC #7)

As I thought about whether I tend to live in the past, the present or the future, the answer emerged easily, speedily. While a fast answer is convenient, it also brought unease as it clearly shows that I haven’t made as much progress in this area as I would have liked.

It’s something I’ve been noodling about for a while, and something I’ve been trying to adjust. This old habit of mine, though, appears to be hanging around. As Pooh used to say upon discovering an empty honey pot, “oh bother.”

If it’s time for anything, it’s time to fess up that I put a lot of energy into anticipating, imagining, building for the future. I want to be more in the here and now, to relish the present. I want there to be a better balancing point between all three. I’m certain I would get more out of my very good life if I were to achieve these two goals.

I could argue that the pending move to France is the source of my refurbished future orientation. It’s a big change happening months down the road. No wonder the future figures so largely! And, I have no doubt that I could conjure up other well-rounded arguments justifying my tendency. What nonetheless stands out — sharply silhouetted — is the disconnect between what I say I want and what I do.

 

The Night Waterers

Up until about a week ago, Georgia (the whole southeastern US actually) suffered from extreme, exceptional drought conditions. In June, Atlanta imposed watering restrictions, meaning once per week you can water your garden. No one is supposed to wash their car. We’re supposed to be rationing the laundry.

Early July brought some rain, but towards the end the rain died off and in August the temperatures soared into the triple digits. I began walking the dog at midnight because it was cooler. That’s when I discovered all of the midnight watering taking place. Neighbors who we commiserated with by day about the drought and heat were out in baseball caps and dark pajamas pointing a hose at their flower beds with the porch lights turned off.

As Rufus and I passed they turned their backs, and I looked the other way. No understanding nods passed between us, no apologetic glances.

Now I understood why a freshness emanated from certain yards when I walked Rufus in the mornings, why their yards smelled sweet and the ones next to them smelled dead. For every three or four yards where the grass was browned out or even the ivy looked stressed, there was at least one yard where the vinca bloomed profusely and the fescue thrived. Uh huh! Midnight waterers.

Truth be told, I was pissed. And envious.

 

Posting Challenge #5 — Life Changing Novels

I can’t point to one book that has been transformative. There have been too many. But, I have some books that must be within 10 feet of where I’m working. I don’t have to see, smell or touch them, but if they’re not within a stones throw the planets feel out of alignment. So, they’re coming with me when we move to France next spring.

In no particular order:

• The Girl’s Guide To Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Banks
• Interpreter of Maladies — short stories by Jhumpa Lahiri
• For the Relief of Unbearable Urges — short stories by Nathan Englander (Is that not one of the best titles?)
• Heir To The Glimmering World — Cynthia Ozick
• In The Heart Of The Heart Of The Country — William H. Gass
• Pam Houston — Waltzing the Cat
• Gertrude & Claudius — John Updike
• The Delinquent Virgin — short stories by Laura Kalpakian
• The Translator — John Crowley
• Three Junes — Julia Glass
• Atonement — Ian McEwan
• Weight – Jeanette Winterson
• The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty
• Villette — Charlotte Bronte

There’s at least 10 more in this particular pile of books. Towards all of them I have that greedy possessiveness we sometimes feel for things (or people) we love and cherish.

There’s a tragic edge to most of these, or at least a bittersweetness. If you’re passionate about good writing, love the tears that good writing can stir, want to be moved deeply, and don’t mind endings that make the story marinate long after the cover has been closed, then you’re bound to find something yummy on this list.

Melissa (a.k.a. Flying Ready), 38, Atlanta, USA

 

Atlanta — my town (for now)

I’ve lived in Atlanta for 11 years, and that’s at minimum 9 years longer than I ever thought I would. (It’s also the longest I’ve ever lived in one city.)

I arrived here after completing an MFA in Fiction Writing from Penn State because I was broke in bank account and sense of direction, and my parents had moved from PA to Atlanta the year before. Atlanta was supposed to be a rest stop, a pause, a blink between now and a shimmering future on the west coast. With eleven years under my belt, obviously other things have intervened between me and that vision.

If we were a pair of jeans, Atlanta and I are an OK-make-do-for-the-price sort of fit. We aren’t made for each other, though. There isn’t that kind of sympatico, home sweet home, like-a-glove sort of feeling. There’s no blame to pass around here; it’s just that way.

While sometimes I’m flat out fatigued by it, I certainly don’t hate the place. There are many things I like about Atlanta. I love the wooded oasis that is our back yard: you can see the Midtown skyline in the winter, but in other seasons it’s positively pastoral — trees, wildflowers, songbirds, great horned owls, red-tailed hawks, possum, chipmunks, voles, even a fox. It’s fun watching a city design itself. It’s like watching a teenager stumble and bumble their way to maturity. Prior to the 1996 olympics, Atlanta didn’t have much of a skyline. Now there’s a new high-rise of interesting architecture going up every day. New cultural institutions are setting up shop, and decayed neighborhoods are experiencing rebirth. The city park is undergoing some serious expansion and there are plans to create another large city park on the opposite side of the interstate that divides the city into east and west. There’s an air of prosperity and pluck.