844. The Real Meaning of Words

When I haven’t written for a while, my brain starts to do dolphin flip somersaults in the waters of anxiety.  I tell myself I will have time for what I love later today, or tomorrow, or most definitely by next Tuesday.  I predict that work will slow down, or the house will clean itself, or the kids will make their own dinner. 

Somehow, none of those things happen.  I want to open up my calendar and split the days into layers, unearthing secret days within the others, like a scientist splitting the atom.  If only there was an extra 24 hours camouflaged behind the standard-issue Mondays, maybe a day just for me:  MOVday. 

I would take this clandestine day and hug it tightly to my chest.  I would whisper gratefully, Now I will write.  The day would smile back at me, knowing that writing would give me back what the dishes and the errands and the must-attend-meetings had stripped away: sanity. 

I would sit at the computer and let my fingers tap away merrily at the letters, the imprints of my fingers worn into humanized divots on the hard plastic keyboard.  I imagine myself as a concert pianist, practicing for an audience of one—tap-tap-tippety-type-tap.  The music of my typing soothes me as I lose myself in my words. 

I recount a recent funny incident, or make up a story, or just ramble.  It doesn’t matter.  What matters is I am here, seizing this minute, this hour, this day for my own radical purposes.  I no longer abandon my inextinguishable desire to write into the recesses of the laundry hamper, like a forgotten sock.  This time is for me. 

And when I finally stop, I re-read my story, correcting a word here, adding a sentence there, polishing and finessing until the story tells me I am done.  The words blink up at me, it is their turn to be grateful.  The completed paragraphs temporarily blind me, like fluorescent diamonds sparkling in the sun. 

MOV

*****
trifecta writing challenge.  the required word is:  "radical", exactly 333 words

778. Muse Returns

I went to get the rest of my groceries out of the car, and there she was. 

“Muse!  WOW!  I am so glad to see you.  Where have you been?” 

She stepped out and regarded me with a look that could only be called disdain. 

“What’s this I hear about pose-it notes?” 

“Pose-it notes?  You mean post-it notes?” 

“Oh, they’re called post-it notes?  Huh.  That doesn’t make much sense.  Okay, anyway, someone told me you’re not writing in your nice journal from Paradise?” 

“You mean Paris?” 

“Isn’t that what I just said?” 

I stepped a bit closer to find out if I could smell any alcohol this time.  Nada. 

“Muse, if I write in the leather journal, I might mess it up.  But a pose-it note, who cares?” 

“Pose-it?  So that is the right word?” 

“Stop.  You know what I mean.  I can throw a post-it note in the trash.” 

I smiled wide, revealing teeth that were not magazine model perfect, but orthodontist passable. 

“Are you telling me now that you don’t recycle?” 

“What?” 

“You throw my extra ideas away?” 

“No!  I mean, I save them all!  I would never throw your ideas away.  Your ideas are brilliant!” 

She stared at me for a very long time.  “You are really hard to read, MOV.” 

“I could say the same thing about you, Muse.  I never know when you are giving me a real idea or just messing with me.” 

“Why would I do that?” she demanded, her eyes suddenly wild with rage. 

“Oh, Muse, I know you have a wicked sense of humor.  Hey, are you going to be here for a minute?  I can go grab my new red journal, but this ice-cream’s melting.  Let me go stick it in the fridge.” 

“I’ll tell you where to stick something,” she mumbled. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I said, I’ll wait right here.” 

“Promise?” 

“Sure.” 

“Okay, be right back!” 

I was away less than a minute.  Of course she was gone. 

But so was my car.

767. Muse Gets Arrested

Honestly, I can’t say I was surprised.  I hadn’t heard from her in days, and when she did make a brief appearance, she was hung-over.    

Still, when my phone rang at 3 AM, I wasn’t quite prepared. 

“MOV, don’t hang up,” she said, as if I would ever hang up on the source of my inspiration, “you are my one phone call.”  I heard sirens in the background.    

Of course I zipped right down to the police station to get her out.  The Husband wasn’t happy about my late-night rendezvous.  “Geesh, MOV, there are other people she could call!”  He refused to go with me.  “What did she do this time, kill someone?”    

Turns out, she had been arrested for resisting arrest. 

“How can you be arrested for resisting arrest?” I asked the policeman at the desk. 

“Well, technically, we pulled her over on suspicion of DUI, but then her blood alcohol level tested clean as water.  But she did seem drunk.  She’s an enigma, that one.”  He shrugged, then went back to scribbling down important police notes. 

“I posted your bail,” I said to Muse as a different policeman unlocked her cell, “you owe me.” 

She guffawed.  “Let me get this straight:  I have inspired every word you’ve ever written, yet I owe you?  Ha!” 

I did not like this bitchy side of her.  The policeman suppressed a smile.  Even messy, Muse titillated men and women alike.  She was like a magnet, a beautiful and defiant magnet.           

I took a deep breath and stated calmly, “Muse, I called an attorney.  You’re paying for that, though, I don’t care how many good ideas you have.  I am running out of patience and money.” 

She sauntered over to a small mirror hung on the side of the office and studied her reflection.  She puckered up her lips provocatively; I thought she might kiss the glass.    

“That’s okay, I think I’m going to stay here.” She winked at me, then went back in her cell. 

**********

654. Restraint

I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again really.

Oh, good, it’s locked.

I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t check the door again I won’t.

645. 33 words

The nurse handed him to me, so tiny and perfect, the blue blanket wrapped around him tight. His older brother leaned in to kiss his tender head, whispering, “Let’s leave him here, Mommy.”


(A note to my regular blog readers: I stumbled upon this cool website called trifecta writing challenge and todays’ challenge was to write a “love story” in just 33 words. I suppose it is my kooky family's version of a love story, anyway—ha!  You should totally check out the website and participate in future writing challenges, it’s super-fun.)

MOV