Rock, Paper, Scissors

Days like today make me wonder what I'm made of.

When the going gets tough and I get tougher, I think I'm a rock. I'm strong. I'm granite. But then there are those scissors. They're sharp and when they come biting, I just don't have what it takes to crush them. I'm no rock. I'm no scissors either. I guess that means I'm paper.

I'm paper because everyone I meet who has survived the streets is a rock. The best I can ever hope to do is to cover them, not in defeat, but to share peace with them. Peace at last.

I'm paper because those scissors, when they come snipping, they get right into the meat of me and slice me up. I'm going to tell you I'm fine, but I'm not. I'm just paper, after all.

I'm paper because you can fold me seven times, but no one will get that eighth crease.

I'm paper because even ripped, torn, wet, and erased, what was written upon me became real when the ink dried, even though no one need ever read the words.

I'm paper, and that's all I would ever aspire to be.

A Well of Unspecified Hope

I am hopeful.

Ever notice how no one ever stops there? There's always something else, something into which the hope must be funneled, a cake which must be iced.

"I'm hopeful I'll hear back about that job."
"I'm hopeful my electric bill doesn't go up again."
"I'm hopeful the pizza turns out better this time."
"I'm hopeful I will find some time."
"I'm hopeful the tests will be negative."
"I'm hopeful this won't last."

Me?

I'm just hopeful. 

Hope within boundaries only allows us to hope for what we've already conceived. That's not hope. It's a wish.

Hoping to reach a goal isn't hope either. It's a plan.

Hope is a wild thing that grows and spreads without heed or permission.

It will sit on your shoulder and teach you patience, optimism, and kindness. It will sing you peace.

Hope will keep you alive and heal your wounds, but only if you don't look it in the eyes and tell it what to do.

Keep it ever before you and never be
too afraid,
too busy,
too fast,
too slow,
too smart,
too silly,
too dour,
too hungry,
too lonely,
too cold,
too bored,
too lost,
too comfortable,
too overwhelmed,
too indifferent,
too hurt,
too sure,
too loud,
too soft,
too hard,
too controlling
too helpless,
too anything,
too everything
to listen to it whisper in your ear.

I'm not hopeful for anything.
That means I'm hopeful for everything.

The Man Behind the Counter

He was slow. There was no denying that.

In the span of time my little battalion waited in line, his colleagues zoomed through the rest of the patrons in short order.

I don't know what held him up, but I didn't mind waiting. That's what lines are for.

"What on earth is taking so long?" grumbled a tiny woman in front of me. She was short enough that I could see right over her head, but she had a tone that said not to make a habit of it.

"It's the post office on Easter week," I said. "Probably a lot of packages to sort through." 

She looked up at me over her glasses, "Hmmm," she said, and kept on looking at me.

"And it rained yesterday," I added, thinking of the new hardcover book I had come after, and being grateful it hadn't been waiting in a puddle when I got home the day before. I hoped maybe she'd think of her own dry, safe package and wait a little happier, maybe crack a grin or at least blink a few times.

She huffed. That's all.

Another person joined the pick-up line and tapped her hard-soled toe on the scuffed tile. I guess that's how it got scuffed in the first place, waiters not wanting to wait.

"What on earth is taking so long?" she asked before I'd even had time to lean my sore back against the wall.

Before I could answer, the short lady leaned around me and said, "That man up there! He's so slow."

"What man?" she asked.

"Exactly," said the tiny woman. She finally smiled. The man came back to the counter and scanned the package he had finally located for the couple with the sleepy baby. He took a long time.

They grumbled and shifted their weight. They took turns huffing and toe tapping and counting people who came in the door after them and left before them. I waited. I didn't mind.

The man behind the counter went back for another package.

A guy came through the door and stood behind the toe-tapper. "What on earth is taking so long?" he asked, as soon as the door swung closed behind him.

The trio talked about lines and waiting and tapped and blinked and huffed. I watched through the blinds at what slivers of sky I could see, and I waited.

Eventually, another employee came and took our cards, four at at time, and rushed to the back to forage for our boxes. She was back in no time, and the short lady and the toe-tapper rushed forward to claim their packages.

The man behind the counter came back with his package, too. I took a good look at him, the rounded slump of his shoulders, the trenches under his eyes, the row of unruly hair that had defied his comb and ran up the back of his head like hackles. He was slow, there was no denying that, but there was no less work in him than any of the rest of us, workers and waiters alike. He wore a look that said he was sorry he was slow, but it was Easter week at the post office after all. And it had rained.

I wish I would have stayed there and waited in his line, just so he would know.

I didn't mind.

The Problem with Back Problems

Before I messed up my back, I took it for granted. There were so many little things I did everyday without thinking, and now I think about them VERY HARD before, during, and after. Here are a few:

1. Dropping my car keys in a busy parking lot. I can't bend over to get them. Well, I could, but there is a distinct possibility of becoming a knurled-up back-hating speed bump in the process (and I probably still wouldn't be able to reach my keys).

2. Petting the animals. No matter how much they beg for attention when I come in the door, I must harden my heart and avert my eyes. Cats are short.

3. Stairs. The world is FULL of stairs.

4. Driving. It seems simple enough. I always think so when I get into the car. Then I remember that car seats are not comfortable, and that changing lanes and reversing require turning around in the seat. My back doesn't like turning. It doesn't like it at ALL. I have to three-point turn things I should be able to do with a Mack truck in one go because I can't see behind me well enough without being able to turn all the way around.

5. Walking. Ouch. Just...ouch. Sciatica=I would gnaw off my own appendages if I was able to bend over far enough to do it.

6. Sitting. I like sitting. I can do that. I get all uncomfortable and squirmy after a while, but generally, sitting is about as good as it gets. Until I stand up after doing it too much. Then I have the kind of binge-regret usually saved for a tub of Ben & Jerry's. Sitting is a sometimes food.

7. Showering. The parts of me that I can't reach need to be clean too, and if I manage to slip in the tub, there I will stay until the shower spray water torture drives me mad and I go frolicking in the pain-free fields of my mind for all eternity.

8. Sleeping. On my back=pain. On my side=pain. On my other side=pain. On my stomach=pain. I'm out of sides, and I can't sleep standing up...I don't think.

9. Casual motion of any kind. Carrying anything, picking up anything, putting down anything, reaching for anything: all scary. I don't make a move without being acutely aware of the fact it will probably hurt. Even if it doesn't, I wince anyway. In this case, preparation always beats surprise.

10. Writing blog posts. Okay, this one has absolutely nothing to do with my back and everything to do with my calendar and my brain. I am wrangling those two ingredients currently so I can get back into the groove of things with my writing. Short of the water torture mentioned above, it is one of the only activities in which I can frolic in pain-free fields and live to tell about it.

Inspiration Monday: Keep on Truckin'

"Keep on Truckin'." We throw that around a lot, and we know what we mean. When the going gets tough, keep on going. You can't get much simpler than that.

I've said this phrase a lot lately (and had it said to me), so it got me thinking about how such a phrase became part of our everyday vernacular.

When I'm out driving on the interstate, I do think about the big trucks and the people who drive them. Much of the time, I'm trying to avoid being stuck beside them because, courtesy of my overactive imagination, I can just see my car getting swept up by one of those huge tires, leaving me and my car on the side of the road like a crumpled tissue. If cars were dinosaurs, a big rig would be a T-Rex and my Nissan would be something little and cute, like a prehistoric turtle. I'm not betting with those odds.

I also think about the people driving those trucks and what it would be like to have their job. It's a hard one, no doubt. Lonely, monotonous, exhausting, and a little dangerous. I imagine that sometimes life would feel a little surreal, since people in the transport industry definitely have to play fast and loose with time and space. You can't make a hot meal, you're stuck eating what you can find on your route. You can't curl up in your bed with your spouse, you have to crash in the sleeper or, if there's time, grab a quick night's sleep in a strange motel bed.

I can see some romance in it though. I would miss Husband way too much to ever hit the road like that without him, but the idea of driving on and on, all alone with my thoughts, is kind of appealing. There is so much to see in the world, and I keep saying I'll get out there to see it one of these days, but I never have the time. If this was my job, that is all I would have: time to drive and look and think. Interstate just looks like interstate, but there is life happening just off the sides, always.

I guess it is the illusion of freedom that appeals to me, but I am smart enough to know that it is just that: an illusion. That is why we say, "Keep on truckin'," after all. No matter what happens, they have to get where they're going, intact, and do it on time.

I could see a story in that. Maybe you can, too. Imagine you're the one in the driver's seat. You're high off the ground, the biggest thing on the road. You're controlled; you have to be. Those tiny cars just keep zooming around you like a swarm of gnats, and it is your job not to squish them. You're tired, your eyes are dry. There's a cramp in your neck. The cab of the truck smells like onions. You want a hot shower in your very own bathroom more than just about anything, but there's no use worrying about that. You've got a job to do.

Your trailer is special. This isn't just another load of Florida oranges coming up for a high school fundraising sale. This load, you're told, means something. You don't know what it is, and the boss isn't telling you. The rig is locked tight with a special combination lock, and you don't have the code. Whatever this is, it has to reach its destination, and it has to be there on time. They're waiting.

This is not a smooth run. You've lost a re-tread and your gas gauge doesn't seem to be working right. You hit a familiar truck stop to refuel, only to find it closed and boarded up. Then there's something about the way that State Trooper is tailing you that you just don't like.

Blue lights. Big surprise.

What's in the truck? Why is it so important? Where are you going? Where have you been? What's with all the bad luck, and is there a reason for it? Why does the cab smell like onions? Fill in the blanks and see where it takes you. Just make sure you reach your destination on time.

Tools of the Trade: Ink Review - Noodler's Dragon's Napalm

Sometimes, you just want an ink that makes a statement.

When that mood hits you, this is your ink:

Noodler's Dragon's Napalm

When you hear a name like "Dragon's Napalm" you should already be prepared for an intense, unique color. This ink definitely delivers in that aspect.

The man behind Noodler's Inks, Nathan Tardiff, has stated that he wanted to capture the unique color of Mercurochrome, a popular antiseptic in the 70's and 80's, known for the fluorescent red/orange stain it applied to everything it touched.

This is the real deal:

Photo courtesy of Kevin Vreeland via Wikipedia

And this is Dragon's Napalm:

I'm a little too young to remember ever having used Mercurochrome, as it was already falling out of fashion in my youth due to concerns about its mercury content, but there is no denying that it is a unique, vibrant color that probably invokes memories for a lot of people.

Personally, I went after this ink because I wanted something fun to write with when I felt I needed a little pick-me-up. Sometimes a little novelty goes a long way with me. Anyway, this ink doesn't get to come out of its cave too often, but when it does, I really enjoy it.

I haven't noticed it staining any of my pens yet, but I don't know if that is because it isn't as stain-prone as I would think given the high dye content and color, or if I have just confined it to pens that are pretty resistant to staining anyway. Noodler's inks are a polarizing topic in the fountain pen community since some of the zany ideas that work their way out of those Noodler's bottles can be a little finicky if you aren't sure what you're getting into. Personally, I'm a Noodler's fan and use their inks widely. That said, this is one I handle with care, much like Noodler's Baystate Blue (which is about as controversial as the Affordable Healthcare Act). I haven't actually had any reason to believe this ink would harm a pen--repeat, it has never harmed any of the pens I've used, including my husband's beloved Pelikan m800--but I do tend to confine it to pens I know I can take apart and clean easily and ones I do not believe will conspicuously stain. I do not have to be burned by a dragon to know that fire is hot.

I have to admit, I long to see this ink sitting in a clear demonstrator, like my TWSBI Diamond 540. That color can really wake you up, and I think it would be fun to see it sloshing around in a crystal clear pen.

As for performance, this ink is on the dry side. I tend to like the smoother feel you get from more lubricated inks, but dry inks are not inherently bad. If you use finer nibs, you might notice a little more scratch when you write than with some other inks, but it is not a deal-breaker. Dry inks do tend to make me a little paranoid that my pen is going to clog, so that is sometimes a distraction for me.

This ink is certainly dark and clear enough to use for regular writing, though you might want to put on sunglasses if you're reading back a full page. It is also great contrast ink, and I can see myself reaching for it to underline or edit. You would certainly not miss any margin notes written in this stuff.

This ink is so hard to photograph. I did the best I could with the review, so hopefully it is close enough to give you an idea. Probably not, though. This stuff really burns out your eyeballs in person.

This ink is pretty magical stuff. If you're suffering from a case of the writing blahs, Dragon's Napalm will cure them. If you don't believe me, check out this Youtube video from NoodlersFan:

Parable of the Peanut Butter

Consider for a moment that you are a big fan of peanut butter. You are more than a fan, you are a connoisseur of peanut butter who can explain the merits of both crunchy and creamy varieties without bias, and you know the answer to the age-old spreading question: spoon or knife (but you're not telling).

You've tried peanut butters far and wide, and you know quality. For some foods, the generic store brand might taste just as well as their name-brand counterparts, but not peanut butter. With peanut butter, you have to suck it up and go with the good stuff.

You're perusing the grocery store shelves one day to find that last jar of honey-roasted Peter Pan amongst all the Jiffs and Skippys (Skippies?), when your eye falls on one jar in back. It is glass, not plastic, and you know that label. This is not your regular store-brand peanut butter. This is imported, superbly creamy, impossibly delicious, and--whoa. Expensive. Very.

You can't pass it up. You are a peanut butter connoisseur, remember? This is the kind of peanut butter you've been looking for. You're buying it, even if it means you have to put back your copies of Writer's Digest and the National Enquirer. There's only this one jar, and you're not likely to find this stuff again. You tuck the jar in safe next to your bananas and eggs and head for the register. You cock a disdainful eyebrow toward the jelly as you pass. No way, jelly. Not this time. This peanut butter doesn't need your help. It is special. 

You get home and pull out a slice of Wonderbread for your ultimate sandwich. You look at it on the plate, so plain, so white, so boring. This peanut butter can do better than this. It doesn't need any plastic-bag loaf training-wheels bread. You pull out a giant baguette and slice it open. You've broken out the good bread and that means you're putting a lot of pressure on this peanut butter to be able to turn your expensive baguette into the biggest, best peanut butter sandwich you've ever seen, that anyone has ever seen.  You open the jar of peanut butter and take a whiff. Your mouth waters. In goes a spoon and you taste it.

Wow.

You weren't wrong.  This peanut butter is the real deal. This peanut butter actually wants to make you happy; you can feel it in all your taste buds.

You set to work spreading the peanut butter on the baguette. At first, you put down thick creamy blobs. It spreads so well, so smoothly. It is certainly well-behaved; it would spread just as well with a spoon or a knife. The bread is coarse and bigger than it looked at first, and now that you're noticing it, there isn't as much peanut butter in the jar as you thought. As you push the peanut butter over the surface, you realize you have to rethink your peanut butter sandwich making strategy. This is no chintzy white-bread peanut butter sandwich, this is an epic mega-sandwich! You are determined you will succeed, so you push and push the peanut butter, spread, spread, spread until you have a thin layer over the entire baguette. Very thin. You scrape the bottom of the little glass jar one last time for good measure and then...it is time. You take a bite.

It's...okay.

It's...bready.

It's...bread. Mostly.

Where's the taste? You think back to the way the peanut butter first hit your tongue straight out of the jar: strong, fresh, smooth, plentiful. Where has that magic gone? Where has the freakin' peanut butter gone?

You open the sandwich and have a look at the pitiful smearings of your expensive PB-no-J hanging on to the surface of the bread. It's there. It's all there, but it's not enough. The bread is too big, the jar too small. There is more to a dish than the presence of right ingredients, and there just isn't enough peanut butter to turn this bread into a sandwich no matter how far you've spread it, because there's not enough of it to be what it is supposed to be.

You scrape your knife over the bread, trying to reclaim some so you can have half an epic sandwich at least, but it's no use. You really smeared that peanut butter in there. It's smashed down into the bread, an irretrievable done deal. You go back to the jar, but there it sits: empty, only a few sad daubs clinging to the glass. There is no more. There will be no more.

You have your sandwich all right, but your ingredients are wasted just the same.

So, tell me. Where are you wasting your peanut butter?