Parent

You are standing in the back room of a costume shop on Mass Ave in Boston because your 12-year-old son wanted to go in.

You become aware of the extensive selection of "exotic footwear"--mostly high boots in floppy, shiny vinyl.

You realize you are standing next to a rack of various body stockings, mostly fishnet-style.

You take two steps to the left to subtly place yourself between your son and the body stocking package that has the photo of the woman with her back to the camera, looking over her shoulder, because you notice that this particular body stocking is cut out at the ass.

And you let your son continue to look at the cool Uzi squirt gun and the funny caveman clubs until he's had his fill because he's happy.

You are parenting.

Equinox

Inside me is a child who still stares in wonder at a moon rising full and orange-veiled out of the first sunset of autumn to crest above the treeline. Who runs to the window at the first flash of lightning and finds excitement in a shout of thunder that rattles the windows. Who hears music in nightsounds, from the falsetto chitter of treefrogs and crickets to the trumpet and tympani of the last train through town after midnight. Who waits for the rain when its smell is in the air, content to listen to it whisper against the grass when it comes. Who refuses to not be amazed every now and then at things that are, simply, very simple.

9-22-10

Reduction

There was a period of about a year after we bought our house that we had neither TV nor internet. We bought our house in May and spent the summer and into early fall getting it ready. Rugs yanked up, paint replaced. In one room I had to spend literally hours peeling off a vinyl wallcovering that had been painted. It was like someone had pasted balloon skin to the wall. It came off in long, stretchy strips or tiny slivers. No in between. The fixing-up period was a nightmare, but worth it in the long run.

When we moved in at last, somehow it didn't seem to matter that we had neither TV nor internet. The baby was content to watch the same DVD and Stacey and I had internet at work. Our nights were still pretty well filled with new-house stuff, so it all sort of floated by.

But then came the day when we decided it was time to get it back. In the TV-free stretch I had been reading more, occasionally writing since the computers were set up, they just weren't connected to the outside world. And you know, I didn't mind.

When TV came back to our house it brought with it a horrible truth: put me in front of the glowing box and I will watch just about anything. Dumb things. Things on Spike and G4 and sports that I'm not really interested in. I will fall prey to TMZ and Dog the Bounty Hunter and, may God have mercy on my soul, poker on TV. I become dumber. Dumberer, really.

Let it be known that I do watch some decent stuff. Modern Family is one of the smartest-written shows on TV and I think anyone interested in scriptwriting of any sort should study it. It's character-focused and oozes honesty. Structurally, it's stunning, episode to episode. I unrepentantly watch Glee. I get my fill of non-sensationalistic Discovery Channel shows and am a long-time Deadliest Catch addict.

Still, TV took over. I would sooner flick endlessly through content-empty channels than channel my energy to the page, or even just kick back to read with some music on.

The problem, as it turns out, was that we got a sweet deal for like $25/month when we hooked up with Direct TV. That sweet deal ended recently. As the price shot upwards, it pulled our eyes open, too. We were looking at paying too much for something that gave back too little--and, metaphysically speaking, cost too much. So we have recently slashed our services. Goodbye, Syfy. Au revoir, BBC America. IFC, I F'in hate to C you go, but go you must. We kept some kid channels for the kids. Boomerang stayed, so I can continue their classical education in the animated arts through Wacky Racers, Top Cat and The Flintstones. Food Network survived, which makes up for losing whatever channel carried my beloved Man Vs. Food. (Come to Boston, Adam Richman, and I'll take you to Boston Speed's for the best damn hot dog you'll ever eat. Call me.)

Tonight I watched Big Bang Theory, which, every time I remember to watch it, reminds me why I should remember to watch it. Then I flipped a bit. But with fewer channels, the lack of anything interesting was even more pronounced. Upstairs I have a wonderful book, The Dream of Perpetual Motion by Dexter Palmer, waiting for me. Right now, in the living room, the only sounds are the clack and thump of the dryer turning in the mud room, the too-loud snap of the second hand on the schoolhouse clock on the wall and the tap of the keys as I write. Ella the kitten is curled up in a ball next to me, asleep with her head tucked into her hind legs. There is quiet. There is no white noise backdrop, no eye-tiring flicker. There is space to think and time to write. There's a touch of clarity. There is the fine art of winding down slowly and reflectively at the end of the day. And there is remembering what made those first evenings in the house three years ago so nice. In a word, simplicity.

Now if you'll pardon me, it's time for a glass of water and a book in bed. Quietly.

I could get used to this.

Again.

Short/Start

 This beginning of a short story has been sitting in my list of posts for several months now. I haven't written short fiction in years. I honestly couldn't tell you the year I last published prose. It would easily be at least a decade at this stage. At that, it was genre fiction. Fantasy, horror, dark. I was never much for contemporary fiction. It never seemed to come out honest when I tried. Which is a bit funny considering that I've done fairly well writing plays that possess a lot of honesty.

Anyway, I've been poking at this, and I know where it's going. I don't know when I'll get there but on this quiet Sunday morning I opened it again and looked and tweaked it a tiny bit and I felt like sharing what I've laid down. (I was also inspired by some very nice writing on a friend's blog about the end of summer, so thank you for that!)

This piece is untitled.

= = =
The diner was good for two things: an honest plate of eggs with toast, and people watching. Gerald always sat toward the back, facing away from the door, waiting on breakfast and watching the other diners through the two clear inches at the bottom of an old milk-company promotional mirror on the wall on front of him. It was easier that way. He could pretend he didn't see the disgusted looks and they could pretend not to notice the dirty old guy who bicycled around town.

He watched them to figure out their stories. A few he already knew start to finish, pieced together through overheard conversations or what he observed on repeat visits. People who came back were like chapters. Gerald picked up on how they sat closer or further away one week to the next, or whether they talked to each other more or less or how much or how little they touched each other during breakfast. From that he created their stories. A lot of it was guesswork. He knew that. After so many years of keeping at it, though, Gerald figured he had it down pretty well.

Trina whisked by his table, headed for the kitchen. "More?" she said, one finger flicking vaguely in the direction of his coffee cup. His "yes, please" caught in his throat a bit, came up as more of a croak. It didn't matter. She'd refill it on her way back as long as he sat there, shooting him a quick grin meant to pass for courtesy. He understood. A couple of the older waitresses, the lonelier ones--he made their stories, too--would spare him a word or two here and there, recognizing his place as a regular and a fixture in town. But the young girls wanted as little to do with him as possible.

He knew Trina's story because he'd seen it before. Smarter than she thought she was, thinking maybe she should have gone to junior college and how she just might anyway. Hating her job but stuck with it because the work wasn't hard and the tips were pretty good. Wondering why she wasn't married like some of her friends even though she was not, if Gerald had to guess, a day over twenty-two. Late nights doing nothing worthwhile. Mornings with an armload of plates and a pasted-on smile.

Sure, he knew her. He'd always wanted a girl. Never sure why. The missus had  found it funny.

Podspective

Inspiration wasn't hurrying itself along. In fact, it was late and hadn't bothered to call.

"Put your headphones on," a co-worker said. "Listen to your music."

I winced. "Sometimes I get a little self-conscious about being the guy who's almost 50, always walking around the office with his earbuds in."

"Don't be," she said. "Just tell yourself that somewhere there's a guy who's almost 50 who wishes he had a job where he could wear headphones all day."

I got back to work. With my headphones on.