Writing Without the Me #15
Exercise 49: In the Moment
I’m back on this project, and I’m more behind than ever! After an unintentional short break that turned into a big break faster than, say, a small ball of snow rolling down a steep hill turns into a big ball of snow, I am back.
But enough excuses! This exercise is pretty straightforward. It’s reminiscent of one of the first ones of these I did back in January, “Room with a View,” another frame to be in the moment, observe, and record. Three things I’m not super great at. But I feel better about how this one turned out, even if only because I tried harder to stay away from being meta and was able to dig in a bit deeper.
What do I hear? The sounds of a show happening behind me, on the floor of the atrium in the center of the library. A woman is speaking with a loud and clear voice, taking advantage of the building’s acoustics and letting her voice fill the space. She has a commanding presence, though I cannot see her from where I am. Sporadic laughter, but I feel like it’s more because the audience is hearing something true or a truth in a unique way more than something funny. The speaking begins to take on a musicality and morphed into a song. Drumming accentuates the applause of the audience. It adds to but does not cover the closer sounds: The rustle of books. People moving about the library even as the show is happening. Small conversations happening closer to me. Just bits of sentences. Murmuring. Clicks of buttons. Footsteps. Clank of a metal water bottle.
“Someone’s crying, my lord.” Those are the lyrics to the melody of the song the performers are singing. Or maybe not! It’s possible my mind is trying to make the unfamiliar fit a recognizable pattern. My way of telling myself I “get it.” The performers are encouraging the audience to sing along, which is a mistake for the quality of the song but the perfect choice to allow everyone to feel like they are part of this wonderful thing.
What do I smell? The inside of my mask. Warm and damp. Probably my breath but it no longer registers. Even before the masks and The Virus I tried to keep breathing in the city a largely scentless experience when I could. Nothing much good to smell on the streets of SF. Weed, maybe, but mostly pee and refuse and piss and garbage and urine and trash.
What do I taste, or remember tasting right now? Black coffee. Sourdough toast. Apples. Lol my palate remains as unsophisticated as the humor of a 6yo. Also the palate of a 6yo.
What are the sensations on my skin? Soft smooth (laminated?) wood of the library desk, the metal of the laptop. My layers of clothing. Waistbands and straps. My shoe hanging from my foot hanging from my leg crossed on top of the other. A vent somewhere near me gives me a bit of a cool breeze. It reminds me of a cafe somewhere in the past where I’d sit reading books. There had a shady backyard patio, and the door to it never quite closed all the way.
What do I see? Books and books and books. Fluorescent lights. Shelves labeled with paper signs letting you know where in the alphabet you are of sci-fi/fantasy authors. A stained carpet I’d rather not look at too much longer. The glass panels surrounding this desk on three sides make this a cubby allowing me to see the books but also reflect my (stupid) masked face.
But which white square is me?
What does all of this make me remember? Think about? Wish for? Now write two pages (at least) based on being in the moment you are in right now:
Makes me remember other places I sit and write. Where I’ve sat and tried to write. Where I usually read books or the newspaper instead and drank coffee with too much sugar. Other times I’ve been here or at other libraries. Other places with books. Other times when I’ve been near a show but not quite at a show.
It makes me think about all the times I brought my kids to the library. Now it’s hard to get them to come. I like to think it’s the masks. It’s hard to sit and relax and enjoy a good book or a good browse while you’re wearing a mask. It’s more than that but I like to think it’s the masks. It’s also the fact that “going to the library with Mommy” isn’t the same fun thing for a 4th grader that it is for a 2nd grader. And the 2nd grader isn’t too sweet on the notion either. It’s probably because they’re growing up but I like to think it’s because they just like it better at home. Because I’ve made our home just so darn comfortable. Plus I’ve taught them how to put holds on physical books. And I don’t mind swinging by the library on my bike and picking their books up for them. And also the masks.
Makes me wish they liked coming here like I like coming here. But of course, for me, it’s like an escape or a reminder of when I used to go to places with books for comfort. And if they liked coming here for the same reason I do then the questions arise: What are they escaping from? What was I escaping from? Was it an escape, or am I just wrong?
Either way, the problem comes back to a conflict I often find within myself. I want to be the good parent who gives the love and stability children need AND the cool “other” who lets you take a break from all of that boring stuff, who lets you cast off all the rules and restrictions. And you really can’t be both people. The one undermines the other. It’s why it’s “good cop/ bad cop” and not “wow this one cop is making me very uncomfortable with their wildly unpredictable behavior. I’m no psychologist— and even if I were, it’d be very unprofessional for me to diagnose folks who are not my patients— but it’s very possible that this officer of the law is suffering from bipolar disorder.
And it also sends me back to a version of myself before I was a parent. Before I even knew the person I’d become a parent with. Sitting in a cafe filled with too many small tables and a handful of old men. The joy of finding that someone left today’s newspaper behind. The Chronicle was good enough but finding the NYT was a special kind of exciting. Maybe because it cost more. Or maybe because it’s just that font they use. It’s like their own font and no one is allowed to use it. I want to look it up but I’m okay with just being wrong. Plus knowing the truth of it now won’t change how I felt then. That it was something special and cool and sophisticated. Never mind that I’m scrounging a free copy from all the castoff newspaper pieces (folded every way but the correct way) lucky to get a piece free from any sort of food or coffee stain. I felt sophisticated. And like the future was nothing but large. Empty and vast and somehow all the more comforting for that. My lack of ambition presented itself as limitless opportunity.
And now here I am solidly in middle age, desperately trying to fill that gap in plans, in my future, in imagination. I thought I had it filled but one combatted the other and the other is closer to grown up than I’d like to admit. The future looks emptier than ever but not nearly so promising.
Well, that ending was sad and confusing. I’ve read the penultimate sentence seventy-six times and each pass makes less sense than the last. But I’m not fixing it. I like the weird mood it gives. Plus I’m way behind on my goal of getting fifty-two (52!) of these by the end of the year so I can’t be sitting here shining these things forever.
