Two days of perfect balmy sunlit seventies. Last night a change in me, a change in weather. The winds are fast but gently moving on, and so must I.
Something has happened, sometime while the moon did ride the sky. A stronger gust of wind and then I see it; the five year cycle of a life. The need to cling is but the needed grieving time; precursor of the stronger need to blow away.
Knowing now, I will prepare.
Odd feelings coming through tonight of needed change. Maybe the cap and gown dress-up should be endured to mark the passing. Maybe, like white tulle marks you as a wife, the donning of the robe is a sign, and when you shed it, you have left behind the magician’s black velvet clothe, somehow transformed.
Tonight I feel the campus is no longer home. It too will be undergoing changes soon. Just like St. Mike’s the year I left, and Derby High the year after graduation, and all the lovers gone who bought new cars. I don’t belong here anymore. I am an anomaly in this environment.
What is around the bend and do I pause at picnic lunch before I take the journey up again? The sudden feasibility of taking one more summer course, and yet, shouldn’t I be elsewhere that much sooner?
Things quickly change behind me, and what I am in the space remains behind, the secretary, the archer, the student, the writer and then … what?
…is a computer that isn’t breathing. Blank and staring black screen, no flickers of light of life, no sounds, unresponsive. My office computer died sometime after two or three o’clock when I wasn’t around to save it.
I suspect it is the power supply, and I do have an extra one though I’m not sure it fits this case. Looks like I’m going to have to perform some open heart surgery and organ transplants this weekend, between the two computers that are now down.
WOW! The graphics are great. And see–I was right about the mouse! Didn’t know how to get back to the main menu. It said to scroll, but that didn’t work. I think I double-clicked.
Really have to remember to write things down.
Lord Almighty, I’m such a nerd sometimes.
Here I am with a couple hours of playtime and I’m reluctant to start the game up because I can’t decide if I will prefer to use the keyboard or mouse controls and I don’t know if I could switch that option later. By the way, it sure would be nice if they printed the little booklet in more than 2pt. pica. Don’t they expect older folks to play? I can’t imagine playing something even like "Silent Hill 2" with the keyboard controls so tiny I can’t possibly read them while those naked bloody things were after me.
And yes, of course I’ll rewrite them so they’re readable. As soon as I find a young stud to read them for me so I can type them up
I’m so excited. Two more things to do and I can enter the world of "Still Life."
I’ve been honest-to-God good about not peeking at it though it’s fully loaded in this laptop until some important things were done, deadlines met, and people fed their dinners. I’m almost ready to play.
Believe me, you’ll hear about it.
I’m thinking this morning of tricks, planned events to make someone laugh. Jim and I used to do this a lot. The log behind my rear tire that I merely gunned the engine and drove over. His getting caught in the men’s room at work, standing at the urinal with a penknife in his hand to cut the thread I’d sewn into the opening of his underwear.
And with our neighbor, Andy, when he was alive. The gaudy plastic ducks we placed on each other’s front lawns every time we’d be away on vacation. The 10-lb. zucchini Andy stuck within the leaves of my cucumber plants. The deer target I put in his corn. The monster pumpkin seeds I planted among his normal pumpkin plants. The ones unplanned, but wished we’d had: Andy complaining about the white wine he found in the back hall, then Barb telling him it was one of the water jugs for flushing toilets when the power was out. The gasoline-fiery cheese-stuffed jalapeno poppers I made and ran over to him because we didn’t know that some were so potent.
It’s been a while since we’ve played tricks on each other. It’s time, I think, to create some mischief.
Problems with endings, always had them. Missed my five p.m. deadline, but will sell my soul to the postmaster tomorrow to push the submission through the mail.
Need to do the next worst part–the cover letter, and we all know I’m not real swift at that element either. But I ended a story that was hanging in my files for a year and a half. Not thrilled with it, but have no time to polish it much before tomorrow. At least I feel that with my writing being better than it was last year, I’m a couple edits ahead of starting from that point.
And some good news: changed the title of A Seasonal Life that I have always hated to A Seasoned Life which I like a tad better.
On Brandywine Books, "Learning to Love Rejection" is another opportunity to understand the coping skills needed to be a writer that go beyond the skills of the elements of good writing themselves.
And, while we’re on the subject, may I as well make a few little suggestions to the publications whose mercy we are at?
1. Please, type out a new copy of that rejection letter. The one I received from a major literary journal was the too-many-times-copied and blurry version.
2. Don’t be overly solicitous with your praise when using a form letter rejecting my work. It makes me think either a) wow–you’ve really read my stuff but you were so backed up with perfection and experience that I quite understand your regret in having to turn my story down, or b) you didn’t read it, did you?
3. Be so kind as to wait a minimum of three weeks either side of sending me a rejection to send me a solicitation for subscription. When received prior to the eagerly anticipated yay or nay of my submission, all that comes to mind is "It is not necessary to purchase in order to win." When received immediately thereafter, well frankly, you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of my subscribing to your magazine after you’ve broken my heart.
Thank you.
By nature I am at my best when deadline driven. I make my framing customers very nervous as I work to a down-to-the-hour pickup of a finished piece. Most likely it is just a learned response to my dominant procrastinator traits, although at buying and storing food in bulk for a year ahead I am a genuis.
And in writing, my essays and papers always come together in the end. All I need is that opening line a day at least ahead (although Graves’ "Goodbye To All That" would be the single outstanding exception that nearly made me lose my mind and would not have been turned in had I not started it weeks ahead).
But now I’ve got a 5 o’clock deadline to find an ending to a story that I wrote last year. It has been thoroughly reworked accorded to professional editing by the aforementioned good professor, and I’m hung up about three pages from the end, needing to rewrite the entire dramatic climax and a tenuous resolution. Shall I wait till 3 o’clock to begin?
It’s never been so strong a temptation to stick "Still Life" in the CD player of this computer.
Hot on summer plans that meander into autumn. The gardens, new curtains, cleaning inside and out, getting caught up on picture framing.
And learning. The writers conference in June, the relief of finishing the final science elective at Tunxis, getting back in Suttree, entering Still Life, starting left to right on seven feet of books, onlining otto and making it interactive, teaching myself Adobe Illustrator, Macromedia Flash and Dreamweaver, putting up my first multi-media flash narrative.
The world is open to me through the winter. By spring I’ll know the compass reading and the way.
This post was held up awaiting an answer, and today I received a response to my e-mail that had found its way to Dr. Cathryn Addy, President of Tunxis Community College to the effect that:
"On April 26th, the Community College system in Connecticut had a program at the Legislative Office Building in Hartford to celebrate its 40th anniversary. As a part of the celebration, each college was asked to nominate one or two faculty for an Impact Award–i.e. faculty who have demonstrated excellence in the classroom and who have contributed to the quality of classroom learning at our college. The Academic Dean and I nominated Dr. Fran O’Neil and Steve Ersinghaus for the award from Tunxis, and I got to provide a brief statement on each of them at the ceremony. There were several hundred people there, including many legislators, and it really was a very nice event."
Dr. Addy offered to as well send along what she had said of Professor Ersinghaus at the ceremony, but I’m going to wing it here and give you a student’s point of view.
There are some teachers who just seem to fit that Sidney Poitier "To Sir With Love" image. They go beyond teaching in so many ways; up on the latest methods, constantly supplementing their own knowledge of topic, reaching out into new fields, and, caring so much about what they do that they are dedicated to imparting and sharing what they’ve learned to those they instruct. Professor Ersinghaus is one of those teachers.
Oddly enough, back in high school, it was my senior English teacher, Mr. Raymond Nalewajk, who tried to push me into college as well as offered me a chance to follow my desires to be a writer. In my second semester at Tunxis, I had Professor Ersinghaus for Introduction to Literature, and at the end of the final class, all he said to me was,"Are you going to take the Creative Writing Course next semester?" To me, that meant he felt it was worth taking the next step.
I’ve had many classes with the professor, and it took me many years before I could call him "Steve" without stumbling over the lack of title. He is much younger, but there’s a respect that he has earned, and perhaps one I’m simply used to giving authority. I have learned so much about literature and writing in his classes over my time at Tunxis. He is willing to back you–without his enthusiasm and assistance there would be no Spinning, nor the Narratives Writers Group, nor the new otto. Learning to Spin is in response to his implementation of weblogs as class portfolios. Professor Ersinghaus’ own weblog, The Great Lettuce Head, I have referred to many times. I’m eagerly awaiting enough students having passed through the New Media Course he instituted with Prof. John Timmons and Prof. Bill Kluba that you all had to hear about constantly last year, so that the second level can begin. If I didn’t have to take the Nutrition course this summer to fulfill the final science requirement for graduation I would instead be taking the Interactive Fiction course he will be teaching together with Prof. Timmons. The fire’s been lit by their willingness to explore new territories for Tunxis.
Impact? Oh yes. Professor Ersinghaus has had at the very least, an effect, and on the majority of those lucky enough to participate in his classes a huge impact on many lives. We all move onward and away, but he has spread some crumbs of inspiration on the paths. The Wesleyan Writers Conference is just another step for me. For a few others, they have gone on to seek degrees in Creative Writing, Literature, and the exciting field of New Media.
The professor has a very understanding and supportive wife, and he’s a great daddy to his children, teaching as well as learning from them. When I sent Steve an e-mail in congratulations last week, his response was, "Thanks. Just doing the work. I love this job."
We can tell.
My congratulations to both Professor Steve Ersinghaus and Dr. Fran O’Neil for their well deserved awards.
Blue Herons feel like eagles circling the sky, taking a detour from hatchery to river for dinner tonight.
Just found these two sites that should keep me more aware of what’s going on around me:
Material things are supposed to mean nothing. But things represent people to me. My mom’s Smith & Wesson 12" sewing scissors cut patterns and fabrics for all my childhood clothes. My dad’s binoculars that provided me hours of invading the privacy of the valley below us, the hills across it. Betty’s wooden strawberry picking baskets. Chris’ "Friends Forever" bracelet that now touches mine on my arm. And Andy’s old yellow mower.
This weekend the neighbor’s kids and their families came to clean out his barn, garage and shop. I had borrowed the mower for my dad to use; the old mower easily navigated through the rougher spots on the property. I took it back when he died, saved for Andy’s daughter, and offered it back to her today. The story repeated again, how at sixteen she had backed over it with the truck and how mad Andy was. The kids still find it hard, going through his things, these six years later. Their mother, my neighbor, wanting only to know when my classes are done, anxious to get back to weekly lunches I’ve managed to avoid for four years now. With a degree in hand, and my father gone from my Mondays, I have no excuses left. I gloss over the question, reminisce with the kids, the ones with the tears in their eyes that match mine, held back only by practice and time.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology