Scream, Already!

Thanks, Lisa, for that kick in the butt. To the screaming:

You were somewhat correct in that when I took the time to write in the past few weeks, it was to catch up on the book at the easy expense of the blog. You gave me too much credit, however, in assuming I was producing much at all. If I were one of those writers who figures out how to put writing above nutrition and hygene on my daily to-do list, I'd be up every morning at 4:00 or 5:00, produce two to three hours of great literature before the rest of the house begins to wipe the crust from their eyes and stretch their rigid limbs across the crumpled sheets. I haven't figured that out yet. It's on my to-do list.

I'm sitting at Martha & Bros. on the corner of Divisidero and California, 8:35 a.m., Thursday July 5. Coffee shop with FREE high-speed internet access. I've spent the last five days in Heidi-land. You might have been there once yourself: expecting overnight guests, you attack all the little chores that nobody ever gets to until guests are about to come around. A two-day frenzy of shopping, cleaning, patching, deconstructing and reconstructing. Like, putting the door knob back on the pantry door after 2 years; framing and/or hanging pictures on the bare walls they've been resting against since the walls were painted; changing the moldy shower curtain. Then, stashing the unaccomplished ugliest in closets and under beds 15 minutes before guests arrive.

We entertained our long-lost Rhode Island buddies, Deb and John, and their happy band of offspring, Pete, Evan, and Juliana. It wasn't the typical visit where the adults go to one end of the house and the kids to another and meet back at the end of the visit. The children's companionship satisfied as much as the adults', moreso, even, by the sheer surprise of it. Performing on our musical instruments partly because they couldn't help themselves, and partly to entertain, not show off. Conversing like ambassadors of nations. And being kids like you just don't see kids anymore these days: authentically excited about the newness of a place; playing hand-slap and dance games in public; posing for goofy touristy photos because IT'S FUN. Three days. Not nearly long enough to reclaim all the time and events lost to the 3000 miles and years that have separated us.

In the hour I've been writing, sipping coffeee, moving my seat, here at Martha & Bros., I've wiped from the corners of my brain a few of the cobwebs that quickly formed while away from writing. My vocabulary is flabby and my attention is weak. I'm fighting to return to the writer within. I feel so distant from her, spoiled by the undisciplined flow of an active social life. The sights outside the window in front of me delight and easily distract me; the wonderful diversity of city people. Earnest, freshly showered morning people dashing to the bus. Weary, red-eyed July-4th revelers shuffling into the cafe, desperate and repentant. Oh, here's a woman in black capris pants, black heeled pumps, a pretty white blouse under a shapely tan and black striped fitted jacket, black hair pulled back in a stylist pony tail, one hand steadying the distressed brown leather bag hanging off her shoulder, other hand suspending her cuppa away from her outfit. This is the SF look. We've mastered the art of making casual attire still mean business. There's a dad taking his son to day-care (I'm assuming, at this early hour). He must be six-nine and weigh 145 pounds. Stylishly short dreadlocks and thick-rimmed glasses, gray t-shirt and black jeans. His son barely tops at at Dad's mid-calf. But their arms are long enough to reach each other. Bike riders, seriously on their way to work, jeans and a jacket; not weekend show-offs in neon colored spandex. A mom in flip flops and workout pants pushing well-used stroller, walking dog. Lady in jeans and navy blazer, long red hair, no make-up. That one across the street must be a good lawyer; I can tell by her gray-and-black streaked page-boy cut, ill-fitting, no-nonsense black suit and beige, over-stuffed canvas carry-all. Waiting for the bus. Public defender. You, there. Are you a yoga teacher with all your gear stuffed into that Whole-foods sack? And you, nice powder blue and black Timbuk2 bag. Gotta class? Guy in crisp ironed shirt and khakis coolly defying the 3 seconds left on the walk signal. No worries. Chinese couple just now sit at cafe tables outside my window perch. Coffee? No thanks, just resting. Whoa, girl, a little too much gut squishing up over your belt. Believe me, that's eye-catching in the worst way. God, I'm way too distracted. Off to my library office.

P.S. Working at the library for an hour is not working. Can't. . . focus. . . my. . . thoughts.