Swimming in the Styx

I am riding a Pixie Stix induced high that has left my tongue a bright orange tint and has given me the attention span of a gnat on crack, so while I am technically in the middle of writing the 20 pages of script that are due in my playwriting class on Monday, I cannot keep my head out of the clouds long enough to produce wryly effective dialogue between two engaging characters. The wonder filled magic of powered sugar and artificial color. Ten minutes till The Daily Show, the time I told myself that I’d give myself a break from all the hard work that I have been pretending to do on the less- than 20 page manuscript. I should have started with a one act and worked my way up to full length, but noooo I dove headfirst into a class that requires a 100 plus page stage script with a brain full of only about 30 plus pages of ideas. I’m losing what edge I had. I’m losing the joy of writing for writings sake. My creativity is unmoved, and there is a stagnant odor rising from the shimmery conclave pond of ideas that I used to draw from with both hands cupped.
I don’t know how to scrape clean the mold that has gathered in the dark places of my mind.

It’s 10:59 and Jon Stewart will be on soon. I have ranted. I have hoped. I have left the pond without a drop to quench my thirst. There’s more Pixie Stix over on the coffee table, anyway.

Setting

The floors are original hardwood, circa 1915, stained, wax coated and splintering between the cracks. The room is old, like the building supporting it; a brick structure of history and spirit. There are layers of paint and tears lining the walls, the first layer from forgotten hands long since coated with a color for every personality that the small apartment held. Roaches hide tightly between the curved crown molding and grayish-beige walls. The personality of the paint says, “neutral” or, more accurately, “lazy.” It was the color of a tenet long since moved.

A butterfly canvas chair sits cradling a crooked velvet pillow the shade of young merlot, and a shoebox of computer disks rests beside it. Two large curtained windows cover a wall facing a near identical brick building, a air conditioning unit stares out of the neighbors window and peers through the old needle-work drapes. They are white, the old drapes, made of a sticky fabric that catches hair and runs rough under fingertips. A set of J.R.R Tolkien books are propped under the hidden industrial Venetian blinds, letting sunlight peek through between “The Hobbit” and “The Fellowship of the Ring.” In fact, books are everywhere in this old room filled with modern things, books in lopsided stacks on the floor, under the butterfly chair, in a flimsy black plastic bookcase an arms reach from the chair. It is crammed full of books and books on top of books. A wooden bookcase sits opposite the butterfly chair, on the other side of the room, and more books line its tall shelves. “The Handmaid’s Tale” wedged between an Italian travel book, and a novel by Neil Gaiman. The books are color on the bland walls, they shine out a enticing light and fill the void of personality that the walls lack.

A wooden desk is in between the shelf and butterfly chair, a bright computer monitor takes up more than its share of room. A large oil painting hangs above the desk, swirling an orange and yellow sunset over the sterile white of computer equipment. A desk hutch is there too; a long row of CD’s proclaim the sideways album and band names in shades from blue to neon pink. Snapshots of still, smiling faces in a variety of gold and silver frames line the top of the hutch. A dusty computer sits on the floor, with stacks of paper resting nearby. Basil and oregano, the slight smell of countless dinners lingers through an open door to the kitchen. A hint of sandalwood incense mixes subtly with the stronger herb smells, and the room is warm from sun and scent and the comforting solidity of age.

Sunday in Blue

Sunday Brunch with Joey at Boudreaux's; I dressed like a fairy and he wore the white collared shirt that makes him look like an anime character with his newly-dyed and recently cut black hair.

First day of work in less than 8 hours. Needing sleep and chocolate, maybe some Sunday night love-making, or at least a quick snuggle.

A solid thirty minutes more and my homework would be done, but I want to shower and sleep and curl my hair in tight pig-tail springs, blog and wrap around “Anansi Boys,” the latest novel by the charming Neil Gaiman.

Who, by and by, was in a hidden bookstore on the rich side of town signing copies of said book, and I waited two hours in a line that overwhelmed the store, and got stuck in front of a group of barely-high schoolers trying to out-squeal each other. And, they kinda smelled bad, like moldy sweat and dirty laundry, only amplified by new sweat and a group combination of general teen-ageness that I find offensive, since I thought being tortured by teenagers was at a stand-still until I either worked in retail again or had children of my own.

Haven’t dreamed, and barely slept.
Good night world.

The earth says Hello

I think I should go jogging, because jogging is what the 20-something girls do on a Saturday morning if they are sober enough. Jogging, or stumbling into a greasy diner for hash browns while still in Friday night’s make-up. I’d much prefer the stumbling-into-sober act compared to the hung-over soccer mom look I’ve got going today. Saturday morning is best observed in high heels, club clothes, and the lingering scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and Elizabeth Arden.

I shuffled into Starbucks at 9 this morning in jeans and an oversized Rosie the Riveter sweatshirt, a cheerful and resolved ”We can do it!” sprawled on my breast, catching the sleep that I rub out from under my glasses with watery yawns. I tried to avoid sidewalk puddles so I wouldn’t get my bedroom slippers wet. Good morning world.

It’s the first weekend I’ve been in Charlotte for the past month, and this singular moment is the first time I am able to sit uninterrupted in front of a computer with a working internet. Joey was filling in for a manager in Greensboro, NC, for these past few weeks, and took the computer with him. Work is work and the computer is technically his. I was left with the slow laptop, but it refused to work about an hour after Joey left, and for all my trying I could not get it to connect to the internet again. That’s all the boring news of my whereabouts and half-hearted balm for the wounds of broken promises to the blog.

In between spending weekends with Joey in Greensboro, I got to play single girl again. The level of my productivity was amazing; perhaps for lack of company, perhaps for lack of internet, and all the other distractions computers hold. (Spider solitaire, I curse you.)
Classes started back again, and I enrolled in a Playwriting workshop, as well as a class called “Writing the Long Poem”. (If I start describing my life as an epic, in full lyrical verse that would make Blind Homer weep, you’ll know why.)

I also, surprisingly, found a job. I am the new (and somewhat sexy) Library Assistant for the downtown children’s library. It’s a new facility, officially titled “ImaginOn!” and it combines the children’s library with the Children’s Theater of Charlotte in one huge block long building with a purple roof. The initial drawings and promotions for the building illustrated lines of bright yellow school buses, children bouncing on in an orderly fashion with books in hand. Since Charlotte-Mecklenburg schools have now cancelled all field trips, clubs and sports that require buses due to tremendous gas prices, it may be a quiet job.