SOME MUSINGS

Snippets of conversations heard on the Broadwalk:

...oh my God...
...what...
...when I get home I'll take my medication so it starts to work on...
[French]
...she seemed aware of her surroundings...
[Italian]
...Hi there...
...I do have a little scoliosis...
[Portuguese]
...Door County, that's it...
...looking at the honeymoon pictures...
...people put...
[Spanish]
...flowers and plants and lights...
...what are you talking about...
...ok I'm going to see that...

I thought while jotting down: these could serve as prompts for writing exercises.  
Feel free to use them.

Because our unit is next to the sidewalk we can hear all manner of sounds while in bed or in the living-room.  The most interesting one though is brushing my teeth in the bathroom and watching pedestrians walk by right on the other side or the workmen across the street hammer and drill.  I've never lived so close to the street.  It jarrs me, it could be scary but isn't.  Not here where we tend to leave our doors open and walk out barefoot in my nightgown.  A different life.

STILL HERE...

Rain last night and today on and off.  Good thing I went to the beach the previous days.  I took my first walk on the Broadwalk this morning.  By the time I walked back it started to drizzle; I saw a lot of people on the beach and wondered why they were still on the sand.  A second later a mass exodus took place.  I had to run not to get wet. 

What to do when it rains?  Went to see a movie: "Zero Dark Thirty."  Not bad.  Provocative.  I have lots of questions now that I'd like to research on the internet but I'm afraid to enter some words or names, lest they come for me.  You never know who is reading what you write or listening to your phone conversations.

It is cool tonight.  Supper at a huge seafood place.  And I think one of the fun pleasures of being in Florida is watching WGN News and the temperature in Chicago.  It is actually kind of surrealistic to watch Chicago news and weather and whatnot.  Why would anyone watch WGN if they don't live in Chicago? 

THE OTHER HOLLYWOOD

Have I mentioned the noise across the street?  Starts about 7:30 in the morning and goes on and off all day.  They're retiling the patio in the building on the other side of Hayes St., a few feet away from our bedroom window.  It's loud, sharp, painful to the ears.  But not as bad as the noise next door from the apartment we stayed in once in Buenos Aires.  They were ripping the walls with hammers.  It sounded like it was right inside our own kitchen, inside my own head.  A nightmare!  We complained and they took a few days off but then returned.  Noises seem to follow me around.  At home the Metropolitan Water District is installing new pipes.  They drill endlessly, they pound.  I hope they're finished by the time we return home.

I like mangrove swamps.  We took two walks today at the Ann Kolbe Nature Center looking for birds.  Where did they go?  The trees were empty of birds, the waterways, the sky.  Saw a couple of ibises, a great blue heron, an egret.  Some warblers.  In other words, no birds to speak of.  But the ambling among mangrove trees brought some kind of peace to my spirit.  But the best part of the day - so far - was the beach.  The warm sun on my skin, the waves, sand between my toes.  That's why I came.  The ocean, the sea, even a big lake are my favorites. 

We play Qwirkle and Scrabble in the late afternoon in the courtyard, have pastries and cocktails.  Soon we'll go to dinner.  I think of the cold in Chicago and want to stay here.  But life awaits me.  Teaching and writing and tennis and friends in Chicago

THE OTHER HOLLYWOOD

On the Broadwalk John Ricci sings Italian love songs while couples dance.  David doesn't want to dance so we listen to the songs for a few minutes and then keep strolling.  It is about 9 o'clock in the evening.  The weather is still warm enough for walking despite the breeze. 

Even though the morning is cloudy I sit on the beach.  Very few people on the sand, one or two brave ones in the water: I work on the New York Times crossword puzzle, take photos of the ring-billed seagulls, stare at the furious ocean.  I want to take the rhythm of the waves breaking and crashing with me, to use when I need to escape reality, to scare away anxiety. 

In the afternoon all four of us drive to Las Olas Boulevard in Ft. Lauderdale to lunch at the Riverside Cafe.  I like Las Olas because I like the shops.  Betty and I browse through Chico's and buy a few colorful shirts.  In the meantime Jon and David take a long walk and find a townhouse they like.  Let's see how much it is they say and David walks over to the real estate agency to find out while Jon is looking in his phone.  Are you serious? I ask.  Let's go please.  Nature is calling.

Back home we play Scrabble (I come in second in a photo finish, David wins); then we have cocktails and supper in the courtyard.  Leftovers from last night are abundant because we went to an Argentine restaurant and ordered so much, we had enough for a week.  Jon and I shared a parrillada for two.  That's a lot of sweetbreads, sausages, and just plain meat.  I ate more than I should have and had a problem sleeping.  Besides I've been a bit anxious the last couple of days.  Why?  I don't know.  The trip? Mom? My heart?  But I feel better tonight.  As they say: "wherever you go, there you are."  You can't escape yourself.  You might try but, ultimately, you carry your baggage with you.  That's why I stare at the waves to take their calming rhythm with me.  That's why I count backwards.  And that's why I write. 

THE OTHER HOLLYWOOD

My friend Betty says she likes Hollywood (Florida) because there are people from everywhere here.  "Just like Rogers Park," I say.  And the waterfront is near too.  We arrived yesterday after a long, delayed flight and a bit of "lost in transit" because David refused to look at a map or ask for directions.  At last! we made it to the Atlantic Sands Suites, less than half a block from the ocean, the sand, the broadwalk, and all the French Canadians who ramble up and down at all times.

This is our fourth time in this part of the world and the third at the Atlantic Sands.  It's almost like home here.  We know the neighborhood and our neighbors - Betty and Jon, we know the oceanfront and downtown Hollywood, we like the weather (who wouldn't? it's in the high70s-lower 80s).  I love to sit in the courtyard and read while people walk by or sit and chat. 

In the morning we go over Jon's suite for coffee and croissants while Betty exercises at Curves; later I sit on the beach and snooze until a crow disturbs my peace, cawing, cawing.  The ocean is angry; the flags are red and purple, meaning undertow and sea life.  After lunch we play Scrabble (I lose, Betty wins) and then David and I drive to downtown Hollywood and stroll on the Boulevard.  We've been here many times before and compare notes on new shops, gone shops.  Plenty of Argentine restaurants to feast on meat and empanadas. 

Chocolada looks like a good place for a coffee this afternoon.  I have an iced cappuccino while David sips a Romanian beer (and smiles at the young, pretty waitress).  Before leaving we purchase pastries for tomorrow's breakfast.  It'll be our turn to host our friends for breakfast.  Back home we enjoy drinks before heading out for dinner.   

The first full day is gone already.  Tomorrow?  More sun, more ocean, more good food, and perhaps some birding, some rambling on the broadwalk, more reading and writing. 

Gotta go: Jon is here for his drink.  Til tomorrow.

COUNTING BACKWARDS: a poem

COUNTING BACKWARDS

            

When she can’t fall asleep she

counts backwards from one hundred

ninety-nine  ninety-eight  ninety-

seven  When her heart races and

pounds she counts backwards ninety-

six  ninety-five  When anxiety threatens

her with fainting she counts backwards ninety-

four ninety-three Sometimes the numbers

get lost in the shuffle of so many thoughts

creeping unwelcomed and she has to start

over again from one hundred  ninety-nine 

ninety-eight  ninety-seven Counting backwards

is hard work.  It requires concentration.  It demands

fortitude and patience ninety-six ninety-

five ninety-four  Counting backwards

serves many purposes   ninety-three  ninety-two

And it’s portable ninety-one ninety   She counts

while riding the bus to work in the morning, sitting

in the café at noon, walking home or simply

waiting eighty-nine eighty-eight  Numbers

appear behind her eyes eighty-seven  Fingers type them

up in air eighty-six  eighty-five  Heart slows

down.  Lips draw a smile eighty-four eighty-three

eighty-two eighty-one eighty seventy-nine

                       

YOU'RE MOVING INTO A NEW HOUSE: Flash fiction

You're moving into a new house. Not your idea really. More like your wife's. She nagged and nagged til you gave in. You're such a softie. At work, at home, on the train, at the gym. You're the nice guy.

You're moving into a new house tomorrow. Still have to finish packing. A bunch of boxes sits on the floor in the attic. They're empty. You are in the middle. You have to figure out what to take to the new house, what to toss out in the trash. It's so hard to choose. You'd like to take everything but your wife said "there is no room for all that junk, just pick a few things and toss out the rest." And you said "ok dear."

You're moving into a new house where there is no room for too many memories. You look around and start from the corner bookcase stuffed with yellowing books from high school and college, even your term papers. I guess I can toss that stuff you think. And begin to page through papers and books. Suddenly you hear your wife's voice. "Dinner is ready! Are you up there?" You don't answer. "Dinner is ready," she repeats. "Come down right now." Dinner is ready? you ask yourself. What time is it? How long have I been up here?

You're moving into a new house tomorrow morning and at this pace you won't be done til next year. Still haven't decided what to take, what to toss. So hard to leave your life in a big, black trash bin in the alley. "I hope you're done with all that." She places a steaming plate of spaghetti with red sauce in front of you. You stare at the spaghetti silently, then say "Sure, I'm done. I'm all done."