Character

Thanks to Patois over at Whee! All The Way Home, I found a new website and writing community I fell in love with. It's called Write of Passage, and this blog post made me fall in love - hard. So, there you have it.

One week's writing challenge was about character. "Find a person in public today and study their character. Make a story surrounding them. Build them in to your shorty essay." And I can think of just the guy...

I don't know how I got here. Not the disbelief kind of 'I don't know,' but the type of 'I don't know' that only comes with memory loss. But, here I am. And I'm not sure where I'm going. I see these shoes - these really comfortable, polished loafers - and I wonder where I got them, because I sure don't remember that, either.

The first thing I remember about my present situation was waking up under a bench outside the bus station. My head was killing me, my forehead bruised and scratched, and there was someone sitting on the bench above me. When I began to move around, they jumped up in surprise and stood up to leave. In an odd turn of events, someone sitting on an adjacent bench came over and sat down above me. They bent down and asked me, "So. What happened to you?" I opened my mouth to reply but had to stop. It very quickly occurred to me that I hadn't a clue as to how to answer that question.

So I woke up under this bench wearing clothes that were very unfamiliar to me and, quite frankly, a little too...shapeless. I do remember that I was never a sweatpants kind of guy or, well, I don't know. Maybe I was. Maybe this new guy I've become just doesn't think he was a sweatpants kind of guy before. Anyway, these don't feel right. I'm assuming I didn't wear them before because I feel awkward. And the hooded sweatshirt isn't really what I would believe to be my style, either. Remember I said something about loafers? Yeah. I have these Cole Haan loafers on. Bus Station Dwellers don't typically come away from the Salvation Army with Cole Haan, do they? I feel as if this is a connection to the life I had before I forgot my life.

As I was saying, I was sitting on this bench with a stranger who hadn't said another word to me, and I was looking like the Unabomber. (well, apparently i remember something. what year did they catch the unabomber, anyway?) The stranger moved a little closer to me and that made me flinch, so I got up and checked under the bench for any belongings (no such luck) and just started walking.

I know now that I am in Lafayette, Louisiana. I don't live here, though. Or, if I do, I'm a lonely bachelor with no family. I came across a police officer at a gas station. No men of my description have been reported missing in months. He said he would be willing to give me directions to a men's shelter. Outside of that, he said, there wasn't much he could do. So, I just started walking.

I found a freeway. I figured I could always just follow that freeway somewhere. What else was I to do? I don't even remember anything about Lafayette, anyway, so what made me believe I lived there? Nothing. Time to move on. Maybe something will come to me. Then I can go home. So I began walking along the freeway. Not on the freeway, but alongside it, down on the access road. Eventually, the access road will enter the main roadway which has now turned into a highway, and my only choice will be to walk along the busy road and look like a hitcher.

Which I'm not. I want to make that perfectly clear. I'm not hitchhiking. I'm walking, rather than driving, along a major US interstate. Only because there are no sidewalks.

But, eventually, my feet got tired, so I took off my nice loafers and stopped walking. I wasn't really looking for a ride, but one just stopped anyway. It was getting dark and I really didn't want to get mowed down from behind, so I climbed into the company truck (it's against company policy so please don't tell anyone, he begged), and we drove. Well, he drove, and I promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, we were in Lake Charles, getting fuel. He bought me a big 5-piece chicken meal and we ate together in the little cafe. He said he was on his way to Beaumont in Texas, that I could ride with or stay here. I chose to stay.

Unfortunately, there's not much in Lake Charles. So, after a few nights of sleeping in some seedy casinos, I went back out to the highway and began walking. The cops really just leave you alone if you're only walking and don't have a thumb out. Of course, they don't ask if you want any help, either. They pass right by. It's downright rude.

Of course, there is WAY more to tell about what actually happened while I was waiting there, but you don't want to hear that. I don't want to tell it, either. No offense.

So I just kept walking. But then I got tired and sat down here right by this guardrail. I sat for a little while, just watching the world go by, all of them in a hurry to get somewhere. That's where you came in. I heard you before I saw you: thumpity - thumpity - thumpity with your tire. As luck would have it, you came to a stop right here in front of me. Remember how you said you didn't need help, and you were perfectly capable of changing a tire by yourself? That wasn't nice, considering a man with so very little in life offered to help a very-obviously well-to-do uppity bitch like yourself and expect absolutely nothing in return except a thank-you. I may be lost in life, but I remember how to change a tire and lift shit that's too heavy for a delicate woman.

Oh, look. There's another car pulling up right now. Sure, man, I'd love a ride to a gas station. I seem to have misplaced my cell phone and should call my wife. I left the house in a hurry and was just on my way to pick up our daughter down the road a bit who, ironically, was having car trouble! Just let me get some things out of the trunk and I'll be right with you...

Now, I'm not going to open this trunk, because I know you'll scream or try to run away. I'm sorry I had to do this to you, but when people offer to help, you really should be a little nicer about it. As I said, I have nothing, but was offering you everything I had, and it was rude for you to not take it. So, farewell, and thanks for listening to my story. I hope someone lets you out soon. If not, well, I'm sorry. Maybe you shouldn't have stopped when you saw me sitting here on the guardrail, aimlessly watching cars pass by. I have to go now, I'm sure you can hear my ride honking.


I'm not sure if I followed the prompt, really, but I kind of enjoyed creating the character. This evening I was driving to the BEST Greek restaurant in town and saw this guy just sitting on the guardrail of an extremely busy, inner-city freeway on-ramp. He was dressed in black sweats with his hood up, looking just...vacant. There were no stores, no homes, no cars nearby, and I just began wondering what must've happened to place that guy right there at that time. I'm sure his real story would've been much better than my rushed fiction one. Comments are welcome but, to be honest, I half-assed it and made it up as I went along. I think I must be a bit more dedicated to the future prompts. I promise. *holds up right hand*

All The Pretty Lights

I used to hate Christmas. I would get all depressed and drink a lot, using the holiday parties as a way to mask my despair through overindulgence. My goal was to be the one unnoticed at the party, not to be the life of it. For many years of my life, starting at adolescence, the holidays were a time of stress and loneliness, and continued until just a few years ago.

My mother began a retail career when I was 12. If you're female, you know how important a mother's guidance is right around middle school age. My mother decided, however, that I didn't need her anymore and she went back to work. As is the nature of the beast, the retail monster ate up all of her time, especially starting around Thanksgiving. She worked 12-hour days, if not longer. If she wasn't home, my father saw no reason to come home, either. He went out to do Lord knows what and I was home alone. Sometimes until 10 at night. I grew to really hate the holidays, because it represented abandonment.

After I moved out, I began creating meaning to the holidays on my own. I began to find reasons to celebrate and decorate and enjoy myself. While I still battle depression that is sort of erratic about when it hits, I no longer dread the Christmas season and get suicidal.

(as an aside, i did try to kill myself once, and it was 2 days before Christmas 10 years ago.)

Now that I have seen the good parts to Christmas again, I can remember all the good times I had as a kid. The smell of our plastic, fake tree, how the needles were slightly rubbery between your fingers, how the ornaments had to be placed just so, because the leaves wouldn't bend or move. The excitement and thrill of unwrapping each ornament from its tissue paper wrapping, oh-so-carefully, waiting to see which treasure was inside. Helping my mother set up our wooden nativity scene, where each figurine had some kind of assembly. I loved the 3 wise men and putting their thin, brittle staffs through the hole in their fists. And the lights. Always the lights.

I was so lucky because, as a kid, I had both sets of living grandparents. The best part was that they lived 3 blocks apart. We did Christmas Eve with my mother's huge family and then Christmas Day with my father's side. When I was still little, we'd drive 2 hours northwest of our house to my great-grandmother's, and we'd stay there for a few days starting on Christmas Day. And my parents would throw New Year's Eve parties that were totally not like a horror movie - very mellow, relaxed, and a small gathering of very close friends and neighbors. My parents didn't associate with lushes.

My favorite Christmas memory is a conglomeration of several years. It's a memory of me setting up the tree with my mother, and being absolutely transfixed by the star at the top.

After dinner, I would sit in complete darkness with the only lights coming from the tree and the garland on the mantel. I would put on a Christmas record (usually a Burl Ives kiddie version of something) and just lay on our couch. My parents would be in their room or my dad in his home "office," or any number of other things, but they would leave me alone and leave the lights out. I would cuddle with my blanket and Teddy, and my little terrier who was still a young pup then, and would slowly start to fall asleep.

My mother would come in around bedtime to move me into my room, and I would throw an exhausted, groggy little fit so that I could sleep on the couch in the glow of the tree. I never won, unless we were already out of school for the holidays.

Just about every day I think about ways that my life has gone bad wrong. I lament over bad choices, ill-informed decisions, or shoddy luck. Sometimes even taking stock of the good things doesn't cheer me up. Memories like these, though, really make everything okay. When I walk into my own home now, regardless of the crappy parent conference I just weathered 20 minutes before, I walk in and see that tree and cover myself in a blanket and everything just seems to be peaceful and calm. I curl up around the 3 loving dogs I have now and realize that at that very moment, we're making new memories. More great Christmas memories to help override all that's gone so wrong with Christmases in the past.

But I still don't do mall crowds. Thank GOD online shopping has become the norm for holiday gifts now! Crowded shopping malls is one tradition I'm thankful to forget...

Tick, Tock

There is a part of my heart that broke today, when I realized how a typical day in the Stillie household has changed over the years. The biggest change I'm trying to grapple with - and change about myself - is that writing used to be a very large part of my daily life. Now...not so much, and not by choice.

I was born to be a writer, even if I was never destined to be great. Sure, I'd love to get published, but I have to write something worthy of publication first. I'm just not there yet. And, at this rate, it might be quite some time before I am, because of the drastic way my life has changed.

Today, by the time I get my email checked, The Boy walks in the door. He makes snide comments about my amount of Internet usage which, honestly, isn't even that much. The truth of the matter is that, at this point, I feel as if The Boy is stifling me more than he is complementing me. There are so many things that I can't do because he pitches a fit or refuses to accompany me that I'm a different person. It just so happens that writing is one of those things that The Boy impacts.

If I write downstairs on my laptop, he's constantly looking over my shoulder and reading what I'm doing. He has no respect for my privacy and it's annoying. Even if I'm just checking my email or surfing, he's always looking. I shouldn't have to keep writing everything in Word and copying and pasting if I want to post it into a web application just because he's nosy - but I don't want him to know all of my Secret Internet Sites!

If I go upstairs into the loft to write on my desktop, he'll come upstairs every so often to see what I'm doing, or he'll try to read my screen from downstairs or he'll keep asking me what I'm doing. I'm not sure he gets the whole concept of leaving someone alone when they're trying to be creative with words.

This isn't a new problem. My ex-husband was the same way. He just couldn't stand it if I was doing something I wanted to do - for myself. I don't know if he wanted to be part of it, if he wanted to foil it...I have no idea what it was, but he attempted to interject himself into everything I tried to do for myself. The Boy is similar.

Part of me feels guilty, because I do require so much personal time. Especially when I've become less enchanted with the man in my life and I began spending more time alone. That's what has now happened with The Boy.

So, besides all the same bullshit going on at work, the on-again/off-again texts and calls from Scott (in which i am not really participating!), and the financial problems I think I may have licked, I have not been in the best mental state. Not that I really ever am, but still. When I get depressed, or stressed out, or when things are going badly, I prefer to spend a little more time alone. And I'm not getting it. Which just annoys me.

And then, after the eavesdropping, the staring over the shoulder, I still have to walk the dogs, grade papers, tend to all the pets, do something about dinner, run errands, and get ready for the next day. I can't imagine having a kid. Seriously. Women who manage to work, write, and successfully raise a kid...it's crazy.

I feel my life is ticking away and I am not getting enough time to create. Not enough time to build, express, or make. That feeling of running out of time...it sucks.

Speaking of which. I took off work today to go to the dentist. I know...took off a whole day for the dentist, but they had no afternoon appointments and I couldn't see going in for a half day, taking off at 11, not having time to come home and let out the dogs and then sitting down in the chair at noon and having no idea when I'd get back home.

Since I'm sure I won't be able to eat again until four or five tonight, and all I've had was cereal (because i somehow screwed up toast and there is nothing else to eat here), I need to find sustenance.

I hadn't forgotten this place. In fact, I've been taking notes about certain things I want to share on here. When I get the time. My next move is to figure out a way to plan writing into my day, kind of like work, commuting, dinner, and bedtime. Maybe not blogging every day, but writing every day. I'll let y'all know...