What You Have Become

At Starbucks this morning, I overheard a man talking on his cell phone. First he made a business call. Then he called someone else, and said he was at Starbucks before heading into a nearby medical building for his first radiation treatment. He said he had to start his treatments now, because the cancer was so far along. Then he made another business call, and proceeded to talk about one of their employees. It seemed that the guy on the other end wanted to can her, but this man kept saying "Nah, she's doing all right."

I'm not saying he had any type of religious conversion, but I wondered if his cancer had changed how he treated people. Maybe the diagnosis had made him realize how caught up he'd become in corporate life.

Like how something can change so much, but gradually this change becomes routine, and you forget where you used to be. I am thinking of my neighbor who's always screaming at her children. Surely there was a time when their house wasn't filled with curse words? Does she ever think of it?

Thoughts on my library journey are coming. I need one more day of perspective.

A Brood

Today at Starbucks, a woman asked if I were saving one of the empty chairs. I said, "Nope," and she said, "Oh, good."

I invited her to use it, and she said, "Don't worry, I will. I have a bunch of grandchildren." She liken them to a school class, and I didn't think much about it until the woman's daughter came out the door, followed by five children.

The grandmother wasn't kidding.

The kids were all well behaved. I had been prepared to put in my earbuds, but there was no need.

Last night, my dad showed home movies to me and Bryan. After five and half years, my husband finally heard the high, squeaky voice of my childhood. And I was reminded of what a cute kid my middle brother was. And how my oldest brother lived the 1980's in camo. And I learned that my mother's subconscious finger twitching is a longer standing habit than I'd ever realized. And if ever I had any doubts, that my dad really did look like Alan Alda. Still does.

The Starbucks mother did a good job of managing her kids, considering there were drinks and pastries all around. But she did seem a bit distracted. I wondered how many small moments she misses or forgets in the chaos of having five kids--like a long-gone uncle telling a joke while an exuberant little girl pours make-believe tea. I hope she has a video camera.

Magnetic Resonance Imaging

Two men took the chairs beside me at Starbucks this morning. They were quiet, and it wasn’t until I’d looked up that I realized they weren’t simply staring off into space, but were conversing in sign language.

One man was hearing, and he told me his friend was about to have an MRI, and had just taken a sedative because he’s claustrophobic. The pill took thirty minutes to work, but only a few minutes must’ve passed because he looked nervous.

My heart went out to him. I, too, am claustrophobic (no, I won’t go cave-tubing in Belize next week; you can’t make me). I couldn’t imagine having to be in one of those MRI tubes, and I am able to hear and easily communicate with people.

The hearing man was trying to ease his friend's anxiety with humor, saying if the sedative worked too well, he might have to carry him into the doctor’s office. This was the deaf man’s third MRI. He'd undergone the first one without a sedative, and had panicked in the middle but wasn’t able to explain to the staff what was wrong.

The hearing man told me all of this, and nimbly orchestrated a conversation between myself and the deaf man, in which I asked questions and wished him well with the procedure. They left ten or fifteen minutes after having arrived, the hearing man helping his friend--now drowsy--out of his chair.

Getting to Know Your Neighbors

I sometimes complain to Bryan that our neighborhood is white, rude, elitist, and boring. And then today at Starbucks I sat next to a homeless couple who’d ridden there on bicycles. They were reading the newspaper, and the woman was concerned about the situation in Darfur. Her name was Heather. I wish I knew this because I’d talked to her. I saw her name on her Starbucks cup.

At the table beside me was a man and his two grandchildren. They were the nicest kids. The girl was really interested in Louie. But Louie is initially afraid of everyone. So the girl crouched down and approached him real slowly, so carefully. She quickly earned his trust.

Later, the grandfather told me he’s taking care of the kids because his daughter isn’t well mentally. The children and their mother have been “camping” for the last several months. The grandfather is now working with his ex-son-in-law to transfer custody of the children from his daughter to his son-in-law. Tomorrow’s the court date. The grandfather said he’d asked the kids what they’d like for Christmas, and the boy said a home. The girl wants to go to school.

People are so generous with the things they'll tell you.

Sibling Rivalry

With a deadline coming up I made two trips to Starbucks today. This evening I sat inside and listened to a middle-aged brother and sister with a strained relationship argue in the sweetest, most pleasant tone.

I figure they decided to meet in a public location knowing they wouldn’t allow the conversation to get nasty with strangers around. Kind of like the theory that people consume less food while eating with others rather than alone. Nothing like holidays to force, er-, bring family together.

Brief

Overseen at Starbucks: an older man reading the Sunday comics. His eyesight must not've been too good, because he had the pages smashed right up to his face, so he could see the scenes and read the speech bubbles. Almost as good as describing each comic frame aloud to your daughter, right Dad?

For another story as short as a comic strip, check this out.

Overheard at Starbucks...

The silent barks of a small terrier. She was a rescue, and her owner said the previous one had her voice box removed. I will steer away from making an issue of the overt censorship metaphor, and just say this is so cruel. The owner apologized for the silent mouthing her dog was doing towards myself and Louie, insisting she was harmless. I told her that her dog was no bother at all. I would never pre-judge an energetic dog that I didn't know as poorly behaved. But would exercise some prejudice towards a person who found barking an inconvenient behavior of their pet.

Cyclist Chatter

Overheard at Starbucks:

A trio of elderly cyclists. One sung the praises of her water filter, which she’d purchased through her Amway business. No matter how many different ways she explained it, a man with a rear-view mirror attached to his eyeglasses was chronically incapable of understanding the filtration process. God bless his elderly-but-still-getting-out-there-and-cycling soul.

The third cyclist—a man with eyeglasses as big as the bags under Droopy Dog's eyes—shared his toilet-cleaning habits, and wondered whether those tablets that make the water blue and smell like lilies really do any good.

Their parting words, which I agreed with, were that energy bar companies should stop making “chocolate”-flavors products, because it’s false advertising.

Back to It

Today I began wading through the muck of my writing that was workshopped these past two weeks. I have four stories that need rewrites. And although it’s a wonderful problem to have—so much feedback on so many stories!—the task is as daunting as escaping quicksand. The only thing I felt capable of beginning to struggle out of was a short-short that was critiqued at Squaw’s afternoon’s open workshop.

Overheard at Starbucks: One woman telling another about rude, middle-of-the-night phone calls she’s been receiving. The account involved multiple continents, the FBI, identify theft, and a scorned lover.

Somewhere in the thick of it, woman #2 says, “This is, like, a whole story.”

Woman #1: “It is a whole story.”

How jealous I was of #1 and her endorsing friend, #2. My only consolation is that she took far more words than those in my short-short to spin her yarn.

Changes

The local Starbucks that Louie and I walk to each morning to write got some new patio furniture. Lots of comfy, laid-back, plush chairs on the patio. Which look very nice but aren't conducive to writing, either on a tablet or computer. So I'm thinking I may have to look for a new place. There's another nearby Starbucks (although not within walking distance), and a few dog-friendly cafes in Del Mar (which would also require the services of The Green Dragon). I think Louie and I will be making a local tour, seeing which place has good tables, good tea, some shade, and friendly people.

Overheard at Starbucks: Two guys studying to be sommeliers. I heard the same thing from two other kids several months ago here as well. Perhaps the repetition is telling me it is indeed time to move on to another spot.

“Palm of the Hand Stories” by Yasunari Kawabata

What a find! Howard Norman tipped me off to these stories last October at Tomales Bay, and I am just now getting around to reading them. The beautiful description of these tiny stories as being “palm of the hand,” is right on, and is in keeping with the charming images contained within:

A woman who arrives at her hotel room and, exhausted, flops onto the bed, ankles dangling off, and shakes her feet until her shoes fall off.

A girl who meets a friend by plunging through his yard hedges, always to be caught by him on the other side.

A young girl who begs the past employers of her ill father for money, while the father waits outside. One boss looks out the window for the father, to berate him, and finds he has collapsed on the sidewalk from a stroke.

Lanterns bobbing in a valley below, the light for children out searching for insects. Then later, one boy offers a grasshopper to a girl. The insect held in his fist, the girl wraps both hands around it, and the grasshopper is transferred in a slow maneuver.

My experiences with translations is small. Paul Bowles’ Moroccan stories. Russian novels. A short list of Japanese and Dutch, and Czech novels. And at my first writing conference, my roommate was enrolled in the poetry translation workshop. From her, I realized that rather than being a conduit, a translator can greatly influence the new version of a piece.


Overheard at Starbucks: Espanol! I was able to understand single words or very short phrases, which isn’t good for much of anything. I studied Spanish so very long ago in high school, but would love to pick it back up. I'm thinking of enrolling in a community college course in the fall.

Let Them Eat Cake

Overseen at Starbucks: Two parents, two grandparents, and none of them noticed their toddler eating crumbs off the floor. I don't mean to criticize of anyone’s parenting skills, it was simply amusing. I think the situation annoyed Louie, though. All those crumbs he was missing out on.

From Shores to Windansea and Back

Overheard--or, really, just heard--on this morning's MarcFit run: Good conversation with my dear friend Veronika.

Overheard at Starbucks: Three teenage girls. Their words were English but I didn't have a clue what they were talking about. I am so old.

HOA

I have been named to my community's homeowner's association board. There's been quite a bit of drama in the neighborhood lately, and I'm hoping to diffuse a little of it--or at least not stoke any flames. My father is on my parents' HOA board, so I'm hoping he'll be able to give me periodic advice....When I ask for it! :)

The first thing he told me, shortly after I'd put my name on the ballot, was to be prepared for everyone to hate me. Now that I've been elected, I'm hoping not everyone will hate me. A few differences of opinion are okay. Once they see my cute dog (and my plate of homemade cookies), I don't think they'll be able to continue harboring hate. I know as my father is reading this, he's thinking, "Oh, to be young and idealistic."

Overheard at Starbucks: Lots of noisy kids. Not every moment can be poignant.

"Airships" by Barry Hannah

This book was recommended to me by my friend Dave. I should like it. The stories are told with strong narrative voices, by very individualized, finely drawn characters. And the stories go everywhere--from the contemporary south to the Civil War. But for all my trying, these stories just don't jive with me. It's probably because whatever they're trying to accomplish is well above me. Perhaps I'll pick it up in a few years and see if I've grown enough. :)

Feeling flummoxed, I did some web searching to see if I couldn't put Hannah's work in some sort of context. I found biographies, bibliographies, interviews, and fan websites. But then I found a page that made my confusion clear. Hannah has a MySpace page. (Along with Raymond Carver, Ernest Hemingway, and Cormac McCarthy.) He is both too abstruse and too hip for my sensibilities. Or, at least his wily fans on My Space are.

Overheard at Starbuck's: a bunch of business/sales/marketing talk. And incidentally, one of the men was a recent hire to a company I worked at shortly after moving back to San Diego from Maryland. Thank God there are people in this world who live for that type of career. I would be utterly incapable in any such role. 

Olympia SM 3

Any day where someone brings you a typewriter is a good day. Last week, Brian told me he'd have something for me at the next club meeting. At tonight's meeting, he gave me this wonderful 1957 Olympia SM3. Not only is it a meticulously maintained machine, it comes with history! Brian bought the typewriter from a woman managing the estate of Emile Franchel, a well known hypnotist in the middle of last century. This was his typewriter. Brian originally got it for his daughter when she was becoming interested in writing, but she didn't use it much. I am so grateful he thought to pass it along to me.

A flyer from one of Emile's local shows, which was included in the machine's case (along with the original manual and dust cover!)

Name plate on the case's outside.

I have a manuscript due Monday for Napa, and no good ending in sight. Perhaps this typewriter can help me figure out how things should end up for my boy narrator and his burrito-eating uncle.

Overheard at Starbucks: Cantonese, I think. Two men were passing a fifty-state quarter back and forth. I don’t think they were talking about the featured state, but perhaps a game or a utilitarian use for that shiny object.

Labyrinth

Overheard at Starbucks: a woman asking a doctor friend for advice on her HMO. She has some type of chronic illness and was upset that 1: her health care provider was only interested in managing the pain rather than finding a solution, and 2: she was being forced to play tag with a maze of doctors and health centers.

I knew she'd be in good hands with her doctor friend. He'd arrived at Starbucks before her, and while waiting had inadvertently scared Louie (it isn't hard to do). Wanting to make Lou calm, he patiently held out his hand for him to sniff, then fed him a stray Cheerio.

New Friend

Overheard at Starbucks: Actually, it's an encounter at Starbucks. With a young girl of Middle Eastern descent who couldn't stay away from Louie. (I'll admit, he is a crowd pleaser, boasting fans of all ages). She stood right next to him on his chair and pet him, giggling when he'd lick her hand. Then she scooted closer to me and stood with her hand resting on my arm. It was really sweet, except I had writing to do. This girl was so friendly and fearless and eager to receive and give affection in a way that gives you hope. Her parents were worried she was bothering me, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Not after I got full use of my arm back, anyway.

The Starbucks Dog Book, and Starbucks

I recently blogged about the rise in popularity of literary books about dogs. Included in my post was mention of The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. I didn't know anything about the book other than its premise, but today learned more from an article in the current Poets & Writers. The angle of the article (which I recommend) was the long road Stein took from his first book to this, his third. The article also mentioned that several agents and editors rejected the manuscript, their reason being, "I can't sell a book about a dog." It had to smile.

The things I overhear at Starbucks every day while writing is simply amazing. I'm going to attempt to make it a daily blog feature. Today's entry: two male friends from high school and now back from their first year of college catch up over coffee (iced--heat wave!). One boy brings along his girlfriend he met at college. They had intelligent (though at times naively judgmental) conversations about world politics, US politics, and college ragers. More interesting, though, was that it truly was a dialogue, they weren't simply telling the other why they should think a certain way, but explaining nuances. And the other person was receptive to it.

I think I noticed this because in the portion of Straight Man I read to Bryan last night (we sometimes read books aloud to each other, and are currently working through this comedic novel), narrator and English professor Hank laments the sad state of his department, where no actual exchange of ideas takes place at faculty meetings. Rather, opinions are lobbed like grenades (or the metal end of a three-ring binder, which Hank's nose is impaled with during one particularly heated meeting). It is so true that comedy highlights truth.