Monday, October 5, 2009

Last Week of the Blogal Year


what Fritz sends me by email in answer to "poet's eggs" 
René Magritte, "La Clairvoyance"*



"You can't quit," says Fritz.  "I think there would be general outcry."

"No doubt.  And rioting in the streets"

"Exactly."  We're standing in the kitchen. 

Where we always stand. 

I'm running water down the sink.  He's eating Shredded Wheat out of the same 4-cup measure he's used as a cereal bowl since before I met him, holding its big plastic handle with one hand and lifting milk-dripping cereal to his mouth with the same half-pound steel spoon he's had since his college days.  "Your wife's going to make you get rid of that," his roommates used to tell him. 

"Plus, and not that it really matters, but I - " Fritz ducks his head, lifts the big measuring cup to drink it off, " - I like to read it."

"Well, if I do carry on, I was thinking . . . " (I am roasting Fritz a bit, because I know that what Fritz likes to read especially are stories about Fritz) " . . .  maybe for this next year I'll just post once a week and go back to the first year of my life and for each week work my way forward - what am I tired of carrying around from that year? what can I let go? what do I want to carry forward?  What do you think about that?"

His face is a study of conflicting urges.

"Well," he says, "but you might want to have it about other things.  Too."

(Because he's fast at math - 23 weeks and we'd be nearly halfway through the year before Fritz would make an appearance.)

Later he tells me, "You know, this is the only history I have of my life.  I hope you keep on with it."

I'm curious, "So do you think knowing I'm writing you, falsifies our conversations?"

"Oh, no!"  And then, "Maybe it makes us try to be more interesting people.  Not that we are, necessarily.  Interesting people.  But it opens up the possibility that - we may be?  And when we say something, we wonder - " he cocks an eye at me archly (we're driving in Hillsboro now, curving around the on-ramp), " - is that quotable?"

"Yes," says Eldest when I tell her this later, laughingly, in the kitchen once more.  "I wonder that sometimes, too.  I watch to see if you start jotting.  Sometimes."

Later, downstairs leaning over Middlest's shoulder:  I'm chivving her to get off Facebook so I can have access.  But she's champion at the delay.  "Oh and I like the year-by-year idea," she says.  "And I like the pictures - the more the better - they make it more interesting."

Which makes me sigh. 

One of my original goals was to keep the pictures confined to an opening image only.  To rely on the words themselves for all the firepower, because . . . and did I make up this story or have other people heard the one about the theater actor so gifted he (or she?) could make an audience cry just reading the phone book? . . . that was my goal. 

AAA-Absolute Striptease. AAA Advanced Air Ambulance.  AAA Air Supply Heating & Cooling Refrigeration.  AAA At Your Site Storage LLC . . .

"I'm tired of writing about mySelf," I tell Fritz.

"That's not true.  You write about your family."

"Same thing."

"No."

"Yes.  Same thing.  I feel like I'm marinating in jus de moi."

"Whatever," says Fritz, who speaks German anyway.

So I've been collecting material for Something Different.  Or Somethings Different. 

"You need to connect up with the city council - brighten up their website," says my walking friend when I tell her about one of my ideas, as we walk in the morning dark, up and down our hills .  "Or take it to the Chronicle."

"I need to write it first," says I.  And this is the week in which I begin . . .


(UP NEXT : What This Blog Could Become . . . )







* more of Magritte's paintings (especially for you, Fritz)
"the artist knows that the egg will become a bird -- that it is already a bird"





7 comments:

Lisa B. said...

Let be be finale of seem
the only emperor is the Emperor of Ice Cream.

I don't know why but I feel that needs to be said.

I love your blog. In my opinion, you should change if you want to, but you don't need to. But whatever you do: don't go away. Mustn't!

Neighbor Jane Payne said...

I'm interested to see where this goes. I have certainly enjoyed where it's been. Who could have posed those dancing pears, but you?

I do love hearing about Fritz as a father and husband. I can hear his voice in every sentence. And yes, Fritz, I think you're interesting. Always have been, always will be. You're a great cousin and I love you for it.

Mrs. Organic said...

So you've switched to partial feeds and it cuts off right where you describe Fritz's bowl and my comment was going to be a question about whether he still employs that hefty spoon.

Glad to hear he does, it just wouldn't be the same if her were eating it with a dainty spoon - it just wouldn't be Fritz, you know?

And I love reading your "jus de moi." Not usre I could take only once a week, but as long as you don't quit. Could it be the looming pressure of NaBloPoMo? All this rambling to say I love reading what you write and feasting on your photos, too.

Mrs. Organic said...

Please excuse that typo. I've got to get better at proof-reading.

Emma J said...

Lisa B - I often feel Wallace Stevens needs to be said. And ice cream is like wild geese - always evocative.

Neighbor Jane - Fritz returns much affectionate regard. He also wants it known that he has never said he prefers stories about Fritz. That was extrapolation on my part.

Mrs. O - switched back to full feed (sorry!). Yes, looming pressure of NaNoWriMo (. . . I'm getting giggles just imagaining what NaBloPoMo might stand for . . .?!). Are you going to try it, too? During month of November I will only be able to post once my word count for the day/week is done. So once a week is all I'm committing to next month.

Mrs. Organic said...

Sorry about that I pulled that one out of thin air (with the aid of Ambien). What I'm wondering is if you're posting any of the novel or just writing until you hit your word count and then posting for us, your reading public, something else entirely?

I have a loose idea of a story that wants to be written but another one of those I couldn't take if it started happening to someone I care about. Why is there always darkness in what wants to be written out my fingertips?

Emma J said...

No posting of the novel here. The whole idea is that I can write as horribly as necessary about whatever comes "out of the fingertips" as you put it so well - I will post mostly photo essays and brief post cards during November and hopefully updates on my wordcount thus far (so thrilling but it's what I can do).

Why not write the darkness out? You know, writing as exorcism . . . ?

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