Muse Artesia
(as the
Deadline Approached)
The deadline was barely a week away for the State Library of North Carolina’s Accessible Books and Library Services’ writing contest. Goines was becoming desperate. His ideas for selecting some of his recent writings and shaping everything thematically into a cohesive narrative weren’t coming together. He needed to get organized, oil his brain, light a flame.
Goines suggested to Mrs. Goines that they have a pot of their favorite tea. She didn’t hear him, because she was sitting at the dining table concentrating on the large jigsaw puzzle of a Paris map she had brought back from France two months earlier.
“Shall we have some lemon ginger tea?” he repeated.
“Oh, yes!”
Goines started the electric water kettle and dug into their recycle basket for a piece of paper he could pencil notes on.
The water was nearing boil.
He had been thinking his story would start with his vignette about legacy.com’s reminding him of the passing, four years earlier, of an old friend and work colleague, and how hard it was to imagine the old friend’s no longer existing. It wasn’t a matter of wanting to return to those days, the two of them sitting at their desks in that tiny office working at writing technical manuals. It was just…those had been good times, and there was something sad about them having been so long ago…and now being long gone…no longer being.
Goines’ friend had passed away, and other friends as well, and his four sisters, and Mrs. Goines’ sister (she had been a high-school classmate of Goines). And their beloved poodles, too, had left them to wait at “The Rainbow Bridge” – or so read the velour pouch their vet had given them for the cartons holding their cremains.
And, among wild creatures, gone was the occasional song bird found lying on a patio or on the lawn, or a road-killed squirrel or possum or other creature with whom Goines felt compassionately akin (Goines favored “whom” to “which” for all sentient creatures). There seemed nothing to savor in any of these losses; each was tragic.
Goines continued penciling notes:
Below –the present? and –the past (memories)? Goines continued stroking:
Hmm, was the focus going to have to be somewhere else?
He carefully placed his wife’s cup next to her puzzle and set his own cup on a side table in their TV room. He collected his iPad and his sheet of notes and sat down in the lounge chair alongside the table. He positioned a large cushion on his lap and folded the iPad’s cover into a stand, positioning it on the cushion and feeling a burgeoning desire to write, hardly needing his notes, heady, nearly bursting, as stout a desire as any he had ever felt for writing.
Goines turned his head toward the dining room, where Mrs. Goines continued to puzzle with the Paris map, stopping often to sip her tea.
He smiled at the thought that his wife was actively engaged in puzzling, enjoying it intensely, and enjoying her tea, too. Surely she could be said to be savoring those activities.
And Goines was enjoying writing his contest entry so intensely he was probably savoring it more than she was savoring puzzling (although he hardly remembered to sip his tea). The writing was as savory for Goines as almost anything could be.
In fact, wasn’t being intensely engaged in a pursuit a higher-level form of absorption than relaxed savoring? Wasn’t intense engagement a supreme one of life’s presents? It certainly was for Goines’ life, and he especially savored the moment of his entry’s coming together for submission.
The deadline was barely a week away for the State Library of North Carolina’s Accessible Books and Library Services’ writing contest. Goines was becoming desperate. His ideas for selecting some of his recent writings and shaping everything thematically into a cohesive narrative weren’t coming together. He needed to get organized, oil his brain, light a flame.
Goines suggested to Mrs. Goines that they have a pot of their favorite tea. She didn’t hear him, because she was sitting at the dining table concentrating on the large jigsaw puzzle of a Paris map she had brought back from France two months earlier.
“Shall we have some lemon ginger tea?” he repeated.
“Oh, yes!”
Goines started the electric water kettle and dug into their recycle basket for a piece of paper he could pencil notes on.
Map where to position the selected writingsGoines had really wanted to write about finding chocolate and probiotic strawberry smoothies erotic, even aphrodisiac. But he wasn’t sure sex would be acceptable to talk about. He wanted to include that he was just a month away from being 80 years old, and even if the topic weren’t disqualifying, readers might not believe that an 80-year-old man thought about sex much, let alone “had” it – even if he also admitted to keeping a bottle of “personal lubricant” under the bathroom sink. Probably better to avoid this topic if he were to have any chance of his entry’s being competitive – if he managed to come up with an entry at all!
Fit usable paragraphs onto the map
How to shape the story, plot it?
What will kick off the action?
Include the bits about chocolate and sex and embracing my whispering muse?
The water was nearing boil.
Definitely include the theme of savoring life’s presentsGoines’ tentative title had been going to be “Goines Vows to Savor Life’s Presents.” He had deliberately chosen “life’s presents” as a layered phrase: life as presenting opportunities, life’s present moments, life’s presentation of gifts, being fully present and attentively enjoying life.
He had been thinking his story would start with his vignette about legacy.com’s reminding him of the passing, four years earlier, of an old friend and work colleague, and how hard it was to imagine the old friend’s no longer existing. It wasn’t a matter of wanting to return to those days, the two of them sitting at their desks in that tiny office working at writing technical manuals. It was just…those had been good times, and there was something sad about them having been so long ago…and now being long gone…no longer being.
Remains of the dayThe water kettle dinged and Goines poured water into the teapot to warm it and then from the pot into their cups, and then dropped the teabags into the empty pot, poured in more water from the kettle, and set the 5-minute timer on the hood of the stove.
What today remains of days gone by?
Goines’ friend had passed away, and other friends as well, and his four sisters, and Mrs. Goines’ sister (she had been a high-school classmate of Goines). And their beloved poodles, too, had left them to wait at “The Rainbow Bridge” – or so read the velour pouch their vet had given them for the cartons holding their cremains.
And, among wild creatures, gone was the occasional song bird found lying on a patio or on the lawn, or a road-killed squirrel or possum or other creature with whom Goines felt compassionately akin (Goines favored “whom” to “which” for all sentient creatures). There seemed nothing to savor in any of these losses; each was tragic.
Goines continued penciling notes:
What can a person savor?Goines could savor living memories of people, creatures, things, times long gone, but the sadness of their loss could overwhelm the joy of remembering. And could he savor memories of experiences that he had not really savored at the time, not absorbed enough of to endow their memory?
–the present?
–the past (memories)?
Below –the present? and –the past (memories)? Goines continued stroking:
–ongoing projects, keeping busy?But isn’t savoring supposed to be relaxed, concentrated on one thing? Keeping busy is active – the opposite of savoring?
Hmm, was the focus going to have to be somewhere else?
Finding a balance between savoring and being passionately active?The 5-minute timer sounded, and the scrap of paper was full of scribbles. Goines removed the tea bags from the pot one by one, squeezing each one’s liquid into the brew, and then he emptied the warmed cups and filled them from the pot.
Doing and resting? Daytime activity / nighttime sleep?
Write a whole new story??
A story about producing a contest entry!
He carefully placed his wife’s cup next to her puzzle and set his own cup on a side table in their TV room. He collected his iPad and his sheet of notes and sat down in the lounge chair alongside the table. He positioned a large cushion on his lap and folded the iPad’s cover into a stand, positioning it on the cushion and feeling a burgeoning desire to write, hardly needing his notes, heady, nearly bursting, as stout a desire as any he had ever felt for writing.
Goines turned his head toward the dining room, where Mrs. Goines continued to puzzle with the Paris map, stopping often to sip her tea.
He smiled at the thought that his wife was actively engaged in puzzling, enjoying it intensely, and enjoying her tea, too. Surely she could be said to be savoring those activities.
And Goines was enjoying writing his contest entry so intensely he was probably savoring it more than she was savoring puzzling (although he hardly remembered to sip his tea). The writing was as savory for Goines as almost anything could be.
In fact, wasn’t being intensely engaged in a pursuit a higher-level form of absorption than relaxed savoring? Wasn’t intense engagement a supreme one of life’s presents? It certainly was for Goines’ life, and he especially savored the moment of his entry’s coming together for submission.
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