It’s a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant on Davis Boulevard. Just to get in the place is a bit of a trick because you have to drive all the way around back to get to the parking lot.

So there I am, ten till three in the afternoon, ordering myself a couple enchiladas with rice and beans. Mexican food’s been my default since moving down south, and my default off a Mexican menu is always chicken enchiladas with queso. The cashier kindly accepts my request for cheese instead of the traditional red enchilada sauce.

I settle down with my Pepsi in a booth near a window. (I’ve always got to be by a window. I think it’s something about me and daydreaming… it doesn’t work as well when all you have to look at is brick-shaped floor tile and Formica tabletops.) Someone said this place used to be a Dairy Queen, but the windows are now bordered with thick burnt-orange paint. I realize I could never bring my family here. Maybe my husband, but never my family. It’s too personal. Too much like the dirt roads on which I used to drive home from work. Now, in the city, it’s a new place to get away. No one’s going to talk to me here. I might get a few stares, maybe a hello or two, but mostly just privacy… a place to relax.

But not today. Because I’ve just remembered I’ve got to be to work in ten minutes, and — “no thanks I don’t need salsa” — I’ve just gotten my food. I barely dig into one enchilada — burning my mouth in the process — when I realize I’ve gotta fly if I’m not going to be late. I scarf down some rice and beans.


on rain

What is it with people, that they complain so adamantly about the rain? I love the rain, performing a symphony outside my window, accompanied by the rumbling bass of thunder.

“Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” -Langston Hughes

Rain is like a healing balm, blanketing the dry brown grass.

“Many a man curses the rain that falls upon his head, and knows not that it brings abundance to drive away the hunger.” -Saint Basil

I love how rain announces the sovereignty of God without reservation. No one can silence the thunder or mellow out the lightning.

“Rain! whose soft architectural hands have power to cut stones, and chisel to shapes of grandeur the very mountains. ” -Henry Ward Beecher

So you can look at me like I’m crazy when I say I hope for a storm, or when I admit that I wouldn’t mind another shower. It won’t change my mind.

“Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.” -John Ruskin

trying to be honest

written on 09.august.2004 in my writing journal (as opposed to my personal journal):

I think that perhaps I do not love writing enough to make a career of it. This is a very scary thing to write because for years, I’ve been telling myself that that is what I’m going to do. Perhaps it’s just the grueling word-count requirements I set for myself that [make] me want to throw away the pen forever. I get to [sticky] places, boring places in my fiction, and I just can’t go on.

But now, NOW! I’m enjoying this, pouring out my thoughts and even sounding halfway intelligent (though perhaps not logical). Maybe it’s just the goal, the aim, that intimidates me. Maybe it’s just this whole, bustling career-minded world that has confused me into thinking I have to have a career — one specific thing I’m physically or intellectually good at — to keep me busy.

Maybe I just can’t keep up with the world of today. Maybe my call to write comes sporadically and occasionally… like right now.

Maybe someday I can use these thoughts, and arrange them into something that can benefit others.

Or maybe what I’ve been experiencing isn’t that silly theory of writer’s block. Maybe there is no writer’s block. Maybe it’s just that sometimes I get the writer’s itch, the writer’s call, something. And when I don’t have that, maybe God wants me to be doing something else.

Like cleaning house.

Like loving others.

I may be going through a change. For all these months — and years — I’ve been telling people I’m going to be a fiction writer. But maybe I’m something else altogether.

There may be a fragment of fiction writer in me. But not always. Not right now. Because right now, I’m a journal writer, a thought writer. And some days, I’m not a writer at all.

a dream

I want to be a writer. I really do. My next blog may seem to speak in direct contrast to that, but you’ll just have to deal with it. That’s how I am.

getting myself out there

Blogging is so public. It’s like setting a piece of myself out there for anyone to snatch, tear to pieces, cry about, or… perhaps… sympathize with. I realize my imperfections will be glaringly apparant. (Oh, there’s an unnecessary adverb against which Stephen King speaks so furiously [oops, there’s another] in his somewhat vulgar yet helpful book, On Writing.)

In spite of the implications of “getting myself out there,” I’m going to do it anyway. And I’m going to try to be honest.


passage <pas’ ej> n. 1 a passing; specif., a) migration b) transition c) the enactment of a law 2 permission or right to pass 3 a voyage 4 a means of passing; road, passageway, etc. 5 an exchange, as of blows 6 a portion of a book, musical composition, etc.

:: Webster’s New World Dictionary. Pocket Books: NewYork, 1995 ::