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Boats & Things
by Stephanie Flood {EXHIBIT A.} Discovered Old Notes from 2013 *Condition: crumpled, stained and torn out of a small notebook #1 It seems that I’ve been fighting this love of mind, choosing rhyme over reason, merely to get closer to the flame. I realize, I don’t want to lie, as a writer. I want to elaborate the truth. Lies come from meaningless debris, which much of the world is polluted by. I want to take real thoughts and set them free. #2 Love is in the labor. This writing has been a meditation and I’ve been fighting to sustain the zen. I am more extremely aloof these days, off and on for a while, so adamant at finding my way, knowing my source, knowing who I am, finding love again and never letting it go. #3 I’m also not doing very good these days. Sick as ever. Sleepless nights. Cough medicine doesn’t work anymore. Shaky these days. Really shaky. #4 There’s someone new in my life. He lives far away and it’s causing a huge depression. Or maybe meeting him is. He’s everything I could ever want and need, has a beautiful mind. He’s also outgoing, sociable. I don’t know why we work, but I feel like it does. I feel alive with him and now that I’m back, I see what’s been lacking, and I don’t know how to fill in that gap. Where can I find laughter? #5 A comedy club? I could try to write skits, something bizarre and unfamiliar to my nature. If I don’t do something new, I’m going to blow up. I’ve already decided to start swimming. Just feels like so much of life is scattered. Not contained. Not cohesive. #6 Writing is peace. It is my action to peace. It is my will in ink, letters. It’s all about feeling, I guess. There’s a lot that can be done with this action. It can become a medium, a vehicle, a train. I believe I am finding the magic in it after all. The smoke in the wheels I can wear these clothes. I can act this way. But it’s the stupa that matters. The ocean. The life within. We paint Spaces we want to Visit {EXHIBIT B.} Discovered Most Current Notes from 2015 *Condition: neatly bound in a cute, little notebook with vines, flowers and bird motifs on it February 9th On the Amtrak train from Flagstaff to Los Angeles late at night: “Yeah, did you all here any screaming over here?” Asks an attendant “No,” We all say together 2:00 a.m. The train hits something We’re stopped for a couple hours Inside the Bathroom on the lower level-- “Ja Rule” is scratched on the front door Someone knocks on each bathroom door-- “Yes, someone’s in here!” I yell 6:30 a.m A women on a loudspeaker saying the San Andreas Fault is close by Screaming children A drugged out girl asking for dope or pills 4:00 p.m./ Los Angeles Amtrak Station Older, well-off white woman wearing a black hat and sporty tennis shoes Middle-aged brunette woman with a walking disability and a cane Old Asian man wearing a white jacket and boyish sneakers Track 11/ about to board the train to Santa Barbara Being rudely interrogated by a harsh policeman wearing a badge as a necklace His minion asks me if I have anything embarrassing in my suitcase “Just my underwear,” I say really loudly Observation Cart “Sini valley, I think that’s the name of the place,” says a woman behind me A wall in front of apartments with vines covering an unused doorway, passing Los Angeles Ave NOTES Writing nonfiction is brutal game. You sacrifice living it to document it. Everything is a hyper-reality THE PLACE IN-BETWEEN I write on a train to Santa Barbara. There is everything I’m not describing as we head to the oceanside. I wonder what else to write about. There are religious fanatics killing people in the name of God in the Middle East. There are police officers harassing minorities boarding the Amtrak trains in L.A. There is both ugly and beautiful scenery passing me by, as I sit in the observation cart. There are so many people out there, with jobs, families, classes, as realities evolve in multitudes of shapes and forms. There is a musician playing a guitar. February 10th 7:00 a.m. Huge king sized bed Haash’ke makes a snorting noise and wakes up suddenly Continental breakfast Heat on THOUGHTS I want to make a living. Sometimes I wonder if I should find a mentor. 10:00 a.m. Cue tips littered randomly on the sidewalk Plate tectonics moving the land Butterfly on a piece of wood at an intersection-- makes me stop and wait Smooth rock nestled on the ocean sand Dragonflies Walked to the Santa Barbara zoo Picked up a brochure on the way about a trolley Passed an Asian woman and her family feeding a chipmunk-- her eldest daughter records on an iPhone Haash’ke explores the sea life capsized on the beach 6:00 p.m. Haash’ke gives corn powder and prayers to the ocean at sunset February 11th Sometimes the worlds we build are full of illusions. Especially love. People are never as perfect as you want them to be. I wonder, why is it so hard to get close to anyone these days? Why is it so hard to get close to one’s own self? I now believe that I have to choose something to do with my life. I feel a set of drama clicking in with me and Haash’ke. It feels like it’s all revealed this morning; maybe I asked for the perspective last night, maybe I finally wanted to poke the holes of this paper lantern and see the source of our burning engines. If it’s love, it should find a way, it should lead us to the right place, no matter if we stay together or not. What people make is art in all shapes and forms. Maybe that word, “illusion,” is better termed as “art.” But the heart of it, lies within the painter. And each story belongs to the writer. We are wheels turning the engines on, bringing the train forward. We go through tunnels, under sea life, graveyards and industry, and open pastures, and rivers. We think, the things people do, the people we’re with, the place we are “now” is real, but it isn’t, because it all changes. The nouns. The verbs. What doesn’t change is the element of change. Falling in love is like falling into the biggest illusion of all. I’m coming up for air and I feel delirious, exhausted, startled. A little sad. Last night deteriorates and I accept it all the way I accepted that accusatory cop at the Amtrak station. It all leads us to growth if we let the opposite in. It just may be, the truth to our human existence lives in poetry, beauty, ugliness, pain, but not confusion. Not in writing “what is,” but by making impressions in these transitions. ROOM SERVCE Knock Knock. I think I left my card in your room. Knock Knock. I think I left my socks on your nightstand. Knock Knock. I think I left my kidneys in the fridge. It’s a long story. Knock Knock. I think I left a purple vase. It’s about five inches tall. There it is! Sorry about that. 10:23 a.m. Asked an attendant at the Amtrak station about new security procedures--explained the incident in L.A., he doesn’t know anything about that. They don’t do anything like that here. L.A. could be different. Suggested I talk to customer service. 11:00 a.m. Back at the sea. Sitting on the sand, as Haash’ke plays in the water with red boxers on. I see him and my heart gushes, and the mystery happens all over again. I feel a new dawn approaching in me, and it may be that the ocean has awakened a part of myself that needed this. Revival. Release. A sucking in. A holding. A mesmerizing dilemma. I feel the warmth of the sun blanket my legs, arms, face. It makes my skin gently burn and turn browner. “It isn’t what we ever think,” I write. “It’s more, always more than we could ever hold in our minds.” On a whale-watching boat oil rigs a couple of dolphin fins the Channel Islands in the distance Tecate beer A whale guide I can’t use because I’m too seasick Rocking everywhere Whale blowing water out of their blow holes 11:00 p.m. Thai restaurant at night electronic music sex February 12th Anxiety attack @ 2:00 a.m. last night Charmed on a digital television in our hotel room Divination from The Book of Change Collecting sea shells Amtrak Pacific Liner--membership idea Haash’ke wants to get a haircut IDEAS FOR HAASH’KE Go to college for a degree in biology, horticulture, Native American restoration or conservation subjects, live near the Channel islands, although this may take a period of waiting. IDEAS FOR ME Get my profile up and started for writing freelance. I’d like to try memoirs, biographies, historical pieces. Have thoughts on travel, have thoughts on finding a mentor, have thoughts on Southern California. Should I try multimedia? $50 a piece? Freelance ideas regarding he past? Abandoned mansions? A timeline of events? There’s Jerome. Can’t get inspired in Arizona. So, where else? Shipwrecks? Need to seek out new material. A hyper Amtrak attendant on the loudspeaker-- it’s her last time working for them February 13th Back in Flagstaff Haash’ke goes to work and says, “see you later,” as I walk to Natural Grocers “See you,” I say, unsure of myself PBS documentary about a sloth named Velcro Laundry all day Funeral procession on the road to the Police Department Fingerprinting for substitute teaching Two months of waiting Created Writer’s Profile on Elance.com Finished Personal Website February 14th Edited a photo of boats at the harbor in Santa Barbara Boats & Things complete { THE END } |
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