Busy Day Imagining the Future

No stories today except what I did. I attended an all day meeting where I was told to imagine the future. What would my library look like in the year 2025. It was interesting. We were also asked to look at other companies as metaphors to figure out how my library meets those same sorts of services, etc. or how it would look if we could. They wanted me to imagine, so you can understand if I'm a little worn out to tell you a story. I did write today, though. I'm just not sharing it as it was a very messy Ten Minute exercise about a woman who sets out to settle a feud by calling up the Seven Devils of her childhood stories and using her own heart as the sacrifice whether the feud is settled successfully or not.

Back to the future library, though. MOOCs are in the news about what a cool idea they are but what really is going to happen to them, with them and so on. I had this idea that in the future, people could earn certificated for attending these free virtual classes and completing all the assignments and that my library was one of the certificate granting institutions and that it offered MOOCs in Groups where people could work together through a class so it wouldn't be such an isolated task and that way people would have something of a support system to help them get through the class beyond somebody answering email. These certificates would help people gain more skills they could put on their resumes that they make at classes we offer in partnership with some sort of staffing agency that also offers, with my library, a cloud based staffing service. We would fund all this through a grant, of course. And then with the other classes we offer in other skills and small business, etc, and through the skills learned in maker spaces, we would help people be able to start their own small businesses at home or part time or whatever. But what does that have to do with books? Libraries are more than books.

I think the group my library assembled to take on the task of helping to imagine the future is a good one. I met many interesting people today. But we were kept so busy I barely got to really chat with any of them. I guess I'll have to wait until next time.

The most interesting person I met today, though, worked for a non-profit homeless agency, and he said they had plans to end homelessness for vets and youth by 2015. That's incredible. I hope it's true. Then, he said, they were going to tackle chronic homelessness. Amazing work people in this city are doing. I can't wait to see how they do it.

Jazz Musician Junkie

This is my dream from last night. I guess I dream in cliches a bit, huh?

A 20-something musician, mainly jazz, heroin addict was looking to clean up his life and looking for his father who left the family when the 20-something was very young, like two years old. 

Milt Jr. meets up with an old jazz musician friend of his father's who is also a junkie. More of a junkie and street performer than a jazz musician anymore. Robert tells Milt Jr. about his father, how he cleaned up his act years ago, remarried a woman who had two kids of her own. When the wife died, the step-kids were too busy with their own lives to have anything more to do with their mother's second husband. They all lived in different cities so it was easy to let the relationship fade away. He didn't even bother calling them when he was diagnosed with heart failure.

Jr. finally finds him. Tells him he had the help of his old friend Robert. Milt wants to talk to Robert to make amends. When they go back to find Robert, he's in trouble. Son offers to save him just as the police are closing in on the drug house where Robert's been staying. They go into hiding back at Milt's shitty apartment. He can't afford much since he has to pay so much for doctor's visits and trips to the emergency room. 

Robert stays on the sofa going through withdrawal. Tries to fight his way out sometimes when he has the strength. It's so tempting for Jr. to want to give into his fight and run off into the night with Robert to score. But he has his father now.

Milt calls Jr. into his room and asks him to help him get some stuff from beneath the bed. When Jr. looks underneath he doesn't see anything, but Milt explains that he sort of packaged it up underneath the slats of the bed with butcher paper and tape. Jr. pokes at it, but his father leans in and shows him to rip through the paper not worrying about the mess. Jr. feels through the paper for the objects that Milt hid there. He pulls out a few scrapbooks and a small box, like a plain jewelry box. Jr. flips through the scrapbooks and sees a few picture of him as a toddler and then a little older from when he was around ten. "Your mom tried to keep in touch with me. Maybe thought I'd come back for you."

Jr. waits for him to say more, not really sure he wants to hear more. When it's apparent there's nothing more to say Jr. continues flipping through the book. More than half of the book is blank pages. Another scrapbook has images of Milt playing saxophone and posters advertising his group. Milt looks through another scrapbook of photos Jr. doesn't recognize.

Jr. picks up the box and opens it upside down. Out falls a prescription bottle of Dilaudid and  a bundle of heroin. The words "what are you doing with this" can't even form on Jr's lips. His own driving desire to take the stash and run fights against the astonishment that his father, an ex-junkie, could sleep every night over a stash like this.

"In case I ever needed to go before my time. A more appropriate way to go, I don't know."

Jr. takes a calming breath, closes his eyes, lets himself imagine the preparation, the smell of the match catching flame, the bubbling, the swirls, the cotton, the needle soaking up that awful glory, the feel of his nail flicking the barrel, "don't waste a drop," the pinch of tying off, the firm vein under fingertips, a perfectly virgin vein that doesn't roll, the sharp pierce, the bloom of blood, a sign of a direct hit, the push on the plunger, and the release, and how everything is all right with the world.

Until it wears off and the hunger sinks in. More than hunger. Need. The shivering. The aches. The sickness. And ever the desperate need wailing and shrieking and clawing at the insides. Jr. focuses everything on that intense feeling of desperation. He's slowly able to compare it to the now. To the mediocre feeling of everything might not be okay but there's nothing that can't be handled.

"You okay there--?" Milt almost says "son". Almost. 

Jr. nods. "Can you take this? Please?" and holds out the bottle and the bundle. His hands shake.

"Guess I didn't leave soon enough." Milt takes the drugs and pockets them.

Jr. stands. Walks over to the filmy window and looks out at the brick wall view. His hands tight in his pockets. After a moment, he answers. "No, you exited right on cue." And with that he turns and looks at his dying father sitting on the floor with his scrapbooks and a pocket full of a drugs he would have killed for a month ago. He turns to leave and doesn't look back.

2014: Fulfill Some Dreams and Spanish-English Dictionary

I have been wanting to start a creative writing group--well, reawaken HLS even though its members have been thrown to the four corners of the world. Slowly they are coming back, but until then I thought I would just start up another creative group. So I did. There are four of us and our first meeting was last Friday. It went very well. It's forcing me to remember to write and to write regularly. I gave everyone the Ten Minute exercise assignment that I did in Melanie Jordan's poetry class. Melanie, if you're reading this, it was one of my most favorite classes of all time. From those exercises we are supposed to write something and bring it to the next meeting to be critiqued at the following meeting.

Today I read this. I liked what he had to say, but I really liked his idea of how anytime we wanted to sort of rework himself, he would start a new project. He also talked about how he did a project called Today where he took a picture and wrote a story every day starting on his 30th birthday and continued for 440 days. A story a day? Maybe I could do that. Of course, I would think that, but really. Why not at least do best to attempt it. Who cares if I miss a day here or there. I'm the only one holding myself accountable because here is what I realized after reading the article. He would start a new project when he wanted to change something about himself. I would love to become a better person, to improve myself. Not better, but truer. The only constant in my life has been the desire to write, to tell stories. So if I have always wanted to be a writer, wouldn't writing everyday lead to me being truer to myself and who I am? Obvious, I know, but sometimes I need something that obvious to bang me over the head. Focus. Thus, combining all those things, I took a picture of a Spanish dictionary and wrote my Ten Minute exercise as a story about that dictionary. It's cliche, I know, but when you are rushing through something as an exercise and writing for the first time in several months, well, it's not a masterpiece at the end. I think we all realize that.

A Spanish dictionary lies on her bed near a small suitcase. The bed is unmade. Only a rumpled sheet remains, bright in the morning light filtering through the open window. The quilt fell to the floor sometime during the night and she has been too manic to stop a moment and pick it up. She flits from one task to another as her mind races from one thought to another to an excuse why she shouldn't be making this trip. Not now. Better to stay and make up with Georgianne. Georgie who didn't sleep here last night for the first time in two years because she needs some space. They really need to take a moment. Rest for a beat. How else did she put it? What does it mean that Alina cried the tears of heartbreak without the broken heart? Her heart wasn't breaking.

She picked out her best underwear from the top drawer of their dresser and stuffed it into a corner of the suitcase that had once belonged to her grandmother and somehow had come to be in Alina's possession. She'd kept it in a top corner of her closet, the space where things are put to be forgotten about. She'd kept it there until the email from Manuel showed up in her inbox three weeks ago. She'd started fantasizing about her grandmother's suitcase and jumping on a plane, taking up Manuel's offer to come visit.

Manuel and Alina had become friends during her sophomore year in college. He was in Houston studying abroad for a year. He'd told her all about his home in Barcelona, describing the art and architecture that was everywhere you looked. The sounds of the street musicians and how they had the best hot chocolate--nothing like the watered down stuff she'd had all her life. Hot chocolate and churros. She wanted to taste it. She felt she could. Imagined what it would be like to fly away with him back to his home to experience all the wonderful things he'd described all those nights they were studying together or out drinking together. But she knew she couldn't go. Not then. She had classes to take and grades to keep up and scholarships to keep so she could graduate with her useless degree.

She'd thought about it from time to time and then email Manuel. He'd write back and they'd half-heartedly plan a visit. Then life would happen and the dream would fade like the tide going out to sea until the next nostalgic email from Manuel. "Saw this and thought of you."

Then three weeks ago. Typical email exchange except the idea took hold. It didn't fade away. She even checked flights and her bank account.

And then two days ago. Georgianne said, "we need space."

5,245 miles seemed like the perfect amount of space.

She finishes packing her grandmother's suitcase. She shoves the Spanish-English dictionary into her messenger bag and leaves.

I Got a Dog

Joy finally relented to my pestering and said yes to getting a dog as long as it was a German Shepherd Dog. Yea! I like big dogs and... well, you know the rest. I researched German Shepherds and found two rescue groups in Houston. I ended up going with the Greater Houston German Shepherd Dog Rescue. From the time I turned in the application to when we got Gabriela was about three weeks. It took a little longer because she was undergoing treatment for heart worms.

We met her at her foster mom's house first to see if we both liked each other, and it went well, so we moved forward with getting everything set up. She came to live with us on July 4th. She was very shy and skittish. The only tail wags she gave for the first week were for Percival. She so wanted to be friends with him. After that first week, though, I finally got a tail wag. That made me so happy.

Now she is really coming out of her shell. I love that she has a loud bark and uses it anytime she sees a stranger near the house or when someone rings the door bell. She's a pretty good walker unless she sees what my friend Meredith calls a "morsel", a small yappy dog or a squirrel. Then she wants to take off after it. I've also figured out she is not too fond of male dogs as those can set her off too. We are definitely going to have to work on that. Despite all that I love her! She is the best dog ever. And she's pretty smart. I'm trying to teach her the names of all her toys. We're still practicing, but she always knows what I mean when there's one toy out no matter what I call it. She's also helped get me out of the house more, which is nice. I never wanted to go walking by myself before, but now I have Gabs to go with me.

Transgender and Grammar Rules

In recent years I have met more and more transgender people in various stages of transitioning. I understand why some people have issues understanding it as I myself have some difficulty understanding why anyone would want to be any gender other than female. Alas, there are men who do like to be men and feel they are male. Crazy if you ask me. ;)

Seriously, though, for a while I did have some difficulty truly understanding what it would be like to be born in the wrong type of body. I think I still do. For a while I thought my issue was based on cognitive heuristics, a need to know the gender of the person I am talking to in order to know which box to put them in. Today, though, I think I finally figured out what my hang up is. Grammar...and a complete distaste for making mistakes--especially when it comes to grammar.

I've heard the different pronouns out there to be used instead of she or he. I could get behind that. Language changes with the times, but it wasn't until just this month that I actually heard someone use these new pronouns, and I felt like a kid on Christmas morning, excited with something new to play with. But what really made me understand my hangup was an email I received today where a person included under his signature line and contact information another line that read "Pronouns: he, him, his". A light bulb lit up over my head. Ah ha! I now feel completely comfortable speaking to this person because I won't make the mistake of using the wrong pronoun and inadvertently offending him. Awesome!

Oh, I Loved That Book!

I love books, and I love talking about books. There are times when I see someone reading a book and I want to stop them--a complete stranger, mind you, and gush about how much I loved the book they're reading, but I don't usually. I hate spoilers, and I wouldn't want to ruin the book in some minor way for that person. So I have mixed feelings about reading in public. I don't want someone to ruin the book for me in any way, like when I was reading one of the Harry Potter books at about 12:30 in the morning of its release and someone walked by and said, "Oh, I heard so-and-so dies in this one." WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!? unless you're some sort of sadist. I mean, come on. So that's an obvious breach of etiquette...but the seemingly harmless "oh, I loved that book!" gush can be just as annoying. There are some books where if you'd really read the book you just would not do that. Instead, knowing how traumatic the book was for you, how treacherous some books can be just to reach the climax and ultimately the finale with your heart still in one piece...you wouldn't be so exuberant and bouncy with words like "love". You would gently lay a hand on their forearm or maybe their shoulder and look deep into their eyes with strength and understanding and maybe not say anything at all. Just nod in understanding. Maybe your eyes would tear up a little. But you have to be careful with that. The reader might be just at that breaking point and the teary eyes might push them over the edge and you might have to sit there with them for a moment as they grab hold of you in a bear hug and sob uncontrollably. And you'll know because you'd been there before.

The Color Run 2013

At the starting line, color free

I ran my very first 5K today. A friend in my neighborhood and I had tried to start walking at night together, but we were not as consistent as we would have liked, so Meredith decided it would be best if we had a goal for running--well, walking really, in a 5K, so she started a team for us for the Color Run. 

I've always wanted to be a runner, to just step outside and take off running for fun. I've had dreams where I could fly, and while I enjoyed those, my favorites were the ones where I was running effortlessly. I guess I appreciated those dreams more since that is something possible in my waking life. To be reasonable, it is possible if I train. So I started training. I've been working my way through the C25K app. I have been going through a series of sessions where I walk for so long and then run and then walk and then run and so with increasing time increments. I appreciate that I'm not in nearly as much pain as I was when I started C25K, and I do feel like I'm getting faster. I also appreciate that I have energy afterwards--well, if I run in the evenings, I do. I may be a morning person, but I am absolutely not a morning runner.

Me, Meredith, Kristie with downtown skyline in background

Back to the Color Run. It's called the Color Run because at several points throughout the race, there are color stations, I guess you could call them, where volunteers throw dry powdery paint at you. It's a very fine powder that gets everywhere. The day of the race was cold and very windy, so the paint made clouds the runners could see from some distance. I got my sister and my niece to join me in the run and my niece would ask throughout the race, "what color's next?" She's nine and not tall enough to see over the crowds.

That was something to see, though. All the people running and walking and dressed in white and tutus and crazy socks. I'd seen a marathon before (in Naha) and all the crowds of people running, but I'd never been in the crowd, so that was really neat--to be involved in something that so many others were doing just for fun.

Me, Jennifer, Savannah at the finish line

At the end of the race you were supposed to open the bag of color they had given you at pickup and then throw it all around in celebration for having finished. I was able to throw part of three different bags since Jennifer couldn't get hers or Savannah's open. I opened mine and started celebrating but then she handed me hers saying she couldn't get it open, so I gave her mine and opened hers and started throwing it around in celebration but then she handed me another. It was funny. The best part besides finishing with what I think was my best time so far--which is amazing considering the number of times we stopped to take pictures or get really covered in paint, but it was that my mom and Joy were there at the start of the race and at the end. They had to sit in the cold and the win to cheer us on, but I'm so glad they were there to share in the experience of my very first 5K.

Mom and Joy rooting for us