Only 9 1/2 hours to fly across the country

Well, since I have just come off a mechanically beleaguered plane, the temperature outside is 24 degrees, and a warm bed is calling my name, I'm just going to leave this final chapter right here for all you nice people and go to bed.  Voila:

The world he knew disappeared and with it everyone else. The Brute hung in the air like the dust on a shelf. He tried calling out. He tried a whisper, a scream. He breathed out really hard, but it was like a bad dream. For the Brute was unable to utter a sound. There were no more words; not a soul was around.  He just hung there in sadness, alone in the dark. Time ambled by, but then an idea sparked.

The Brute realized he didn’t like being alone. He missed all the people, his school and his home. He felt very sorry for the things he had done, and he wished extra hard to take back every one. He squeezed his eyes shut, conjuring all the bad words. He shut them in a box and marked them “unheard.”

Suddenly he imagined he felt the sun on his face. He pictured patterns of leaves in the sunshine like lace. He heard his named called, but he kept his eyes shut. He thought, if this is a dream, I choose not to wake up. And then someone shook him. He blinked and he looked. Miss Wilson! She gave him another great shook.

“No sleeping in time out.”

The teacher’s face was stern.

“I wasn’t asleep!” The Brute uncurled like a worm. Then he remembered, “It was so awful, my dream.”

“I should think so,” said Miss Wilson. “You’ve been very mean.

The Brute took in the playground and saw the girl he’d made cry. When the bell rang, he ran toward her. He poked her and said . . . hi.

Blueblack and cracked

Tonight there is going to be a low of 39 degrees, and I am sitting here in my puffy jacket because there is no heat in my apartment.  We're in the process of moving, so it's only a temporary arrangement.  But in the mean time, I am so grateful for a little invention called the hot water bottle.  The hot water bottle is ingenious in its simplicity.  It's even better if you have an electric kettle to boil up hot water in a jiffy.  You know how when you get into bed, it takes a few minutes for the chill to wear off the sheets?  Not so with the hot water bottle!  Just tuck it in while you change into your pajamas, brush your teeth, and then snuggle up beside it.  Not only will you have the warmth from the bottle itself but the spot where it was sitting will remain cozy and hot.  It's all you can do to not say, "Ahhhh," I promise you.

It's funny how it's not really necessary to improve upon some things.  The guy who invented this rubber incarnation of the hot water bottle at the turn of the last century got it right.  I had to look him up.  His name is Slavoljub Eduard Penkala.  Apparently he is the same guy who invented the mechanical pencil and the first solid-ink fountain pen. He had over 70 patents!  Well done, Slavoljub.  My chilly old bones thank you.

Speaking of cold, does anyone remember the following poem from high school English class?  Right now I'm finding the "blueblack cold" easy to identify with- it's such a great description.  It's taken for granted, but the simple act of getting up and facing that cold, starting the fire so his family can be warm, is a tremendous act of love by the father.  It makes your heart ache as you realize along with the speaker what love is truly made of.

Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. 
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Of food and dreams

There is a cupcake in the refrigerator.
I am trying to ignore it.
A single cupcake,
a leftover party favor.
It doesn't belong to me,
but I am the only one here.
Devilish little cake,
it whispers promises and compliments.
It has denounced its owner
and pledged eternal love to me.
I didn't earn you, cupcake.
I have not accomplished anything today.
I sit here, cold, watching the rain,
the sky the color of uncaring.
Two pairs of socks dress my feet,
I am cocooned in a fleece blanket,
I know all the news of the world.
This has been my day,
decidedly not dessert-worthy.
I put you out of my mind.

Back to work, 
testing the wall.
I push one brick, I knock against another.
I keep prodding like a toddler
to find one that isn't fully committed.
One brick that wobbles,
I'll kick and claw.
I'll bleed on it
until, like a decayed tooth,
it just falls out.
Then I find myself on the other side.
A sunshine world.
The people see me and wonder,
where have you been?
I don't tell them of the time I wasted
chasing other people's cupcakes.

Souls and Rain Drops

Yesterday was a glorious rainy day out.  It was the kind of day that calls for a blanket and hot cup of tea.

I can't remember the last time we got a steady drizzle.  Driving back from a film shoot the other night in the valley, I saw lightning over the hills and it surprised me so much.  I was dazzled as if I was a child seeing it for the first time, and then I quickly had to get my eyes back on the road.

It's funny how something as common as rain can be such a nuisance in some places but such a special event in others.  I remember one time the local news sent a crew to a supermarket parking lot to report on the drizzle.  And many people in Los Angeles view rain as a perfectly legitimate excuse to stay home from work. 

Having lived in other places where rain often brings its bigger buddies with it (thunder, tornadoes, hurricanes, etc.), it's kind of nice to just have a little gray shower without all the threats.  It helps us appreciate the sun we take for granted.

I love this little poem by Sidney Lanier reflecting on the rain.  It says so much with just a handful of lines.  The poem itself is like a rain drop.  It plops in, wrinkles my brow as I think about it, and then dissipates.  

Souls and Rain Drops

Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,
Then vanish, and die utterly.
One would not know that rain-drops fell
If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.

So souls come down and wrinkle life
And vanish in the flesh-sea strife.
One might not know that souls had place
Were't not for the wrinkles in life's face.