Monday, December 18, 2006
What is Realization?
What I love about falling in love with writing is that I can be watching Jeopardy, winded from doing three double-loads of laundry and to hear something that throws me into the novel! Of course! She hamstrings her kids! Of course, that's what it is! Grab the notebook, get it down. Easily it could become an essay, but what's the point? It might hurt who I'm thinking about when I write it. Better said as a character. I used to think that was such a removed way of dealing with life. I know novel reading is at its lowest in today's society, but that does not mean I am not committed! She hamstrings her kids put me into the realm; the realm of layered discovery. And you can't get that on television - maybe the big screen - maybe, but first the book must be written that guides the way. No more hamstringing of this girl!
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Yes-- constant flashes of revelation.
Like today. I was ordering a sandwich at my bodega.
A guy with a cropped silver beard,
gravelly voice, knitted cap and paint splattered pants walks in.
Not house painter splattered, but the dribble and splotch effect of the drippings of an oil painter.
"I'll take some a that chicken, yeah, the rice and one a those.
My daughter's coming from Boston
today."
As the silver edge is pinched over the plastic lid, he says, "You're taking care of that right."
No response from the guy behind the counter.
"Remember. Cause I did that thing..." No response from the guy behind the counter.
"You know what, forget it," he says and walks out.
A moment, an exchange, so filled with anticipation-- getting a meal ready for an adult kid coming home,
trust-- expecting the meal as payment for some prior act; betrayal, disappointment...
I felt a pang. If I had money I would have said wait, let me pay for that. But life isn't fiction.
Or is it...
I know that man will walk into the next novel.
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