Musing the Grit

Yesterday morning Steve calls, "Hurry, go outside. Show River the snow." I pick her up and run down the stairs and she screams, "Wook Mama, wook!" Cars slow as they pass to marvel at the single white drift. A man snaps photos.

We are clearly not in Portland. No, this is what happens in Berkeley when we hear the word snow. We run. We stop in cars. We capture the novelty.

When I get close enough I halt and turn halfway back. "Wow, look at that! We won't touch the snow, sweetie. We'll just wave to it and say hi." I try to muster a quick excuse for our retreat.

It's not snow. I find out later: Fire trucks were in front of the house the night before. An explosion a few houses down killed a man. His wife and son made it out, but he did not. Last night I wake at 4am to the sound of chain saws, deep throttle engines. Steve whispers, "They've been out there for forty-five minutes. More emergency vehicles." I get up and look out the window. Right in front of our house, the longest fire engine I have ever seen. In front of that, an idling paramedics truck.

I grab my coat and boots. Go into the dark but no one is out. A block this way, down that way, not a single person, but I can feel them all awake, my neighbors in their beds. I call the fire department and the voice says, "Yep, another fire at the same house tonight."

For two more hours I lay in bed and feel for the first time how I am held in an electrical embrace by the structure of these walls. House by house, I feel connected, wired to each dwelling, with the thought that it takes a second for so much to happen. And I wonder if the women, lined down the street, under covers, rest a hand on their partner's body while they send up prayers for the crossing of a man freshly parted.

My husband says that I write too abstractly. I need to write more plainly, more detail. Tell it like it is. Hmmm. Ok. But who wants to read this?

Three days ago anon drinks a bottle of NyQuil, scarfs a box of DayQuil, downs a six pack, and inhales spray paint in a whirling hour. While he sleeps it off, I ask, "So, did you have your Starbucks today?" And we laugh hysterically. That line doesn't get old. She says, "No, I'd have to leave town for that. I'm at Walmart, whohoo!" We laugh too hard. On the other line later, other anon is drunk, crying about this and that but it's too slurred and blurred to hear so I delete the message.

Taking the little one to daycare and picking her up, she is into slugging me in the face. So hard that it makes this tough-girl wince. I have expert self-defense training to kick the shit out of anyone who tries to lay a hand on me again. They should have said, "Yeah, but when you kill the attacker, um, well, you'll have to put a lid on all those moves we trained your subconscious to act on in one second, because your toddler will pelt you in public.

Just discovered Brandi Carlile and rockin out to Eye of the Needle.

***

I'm at the cafe where I wrote the manuscript - very nostalgic place for me. I visit today to find out what's here. The big binder sits on my desk at home, and I want to know what is here now.

Off to Portland at the end of February for another famously great Jennifer Lauck writing workshop, with the beloved circle of wild writing women.

Wondering what I have in me and what it will take to seduce the muse?