Is that YOU, Nora Ephron?

Today, I shall write. 
There have been too many signs pointing me in that direction, lately, 
and I would be a FOOL to ignore them.
                                                   

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This morning, something woke me at a very early hour.

It sounded like some sort of animal on top of the roof, just above my bed.

A bird or a squirrel, maybe . . . hopping around.

But, then, it sounded like someone was repeatedly smacking the palm of her hand
     against the aluminum siding, just outside my window.

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It was not the woodpecker.

The woodpecker has woken me many times before 

     with that very fast banging sound against the downspout:

Da, da, da, da;  da, da, da, da;  da da, da, da, da.  

The woodpecker used to visit frequently when the kids were little, and, 

     like a mad woman (with no sleep), I  would leap out of my bed to try to scare him away 

before he woke them.     

And, yes, I did say HIM.  

After all, only a male creature would wake a sleeping mother.     

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 "Only teenagers to wake in this house!" I said to the noise.

Not that waking THEM is any less troublesome than waking a baby.     

The noise went away, and the house was quiet.

     But, I could not get back to sleep.

My mind started to wander, and suddenly, a story . . . maybe a possible screenplay . . .
      began to unravel in my mind.  


I reached over for my laptop.

Before I began to type, I checked my e-mail and my Facebook.   

I have to get that out of the way before I can let my creative juices flow,
     and sometimes, something said or seen on Facebook can inspire me.


That's when I was reminded of the news that I had heard, late last night -
              the very last thing that I remember, before I fell asleep:

Author and screenwriter Nora Ephron had died.  

I was very saddened by this news, as I have always admired her, 

     as a person, and for her work, 

and truly feel that she is irreplaceable.  

It makes me sad to realize there will be no more Nora Ephron movies.   

And then, a crazy thought came to my head.

Maybe that was Nora Ephron . . . banging on my house, 

              telling me to "get off my ass, and get back to writing"!

Okay . . . . . . that gave me goosebumps. 

Then, just as I began typing, my battery went out.  

The electrical cord was downstairs.

Is the Universe challenging me???

It was still early - before 6:30, and I could have easily given up, and tried to go back to sleep.

But, I went downstairs to get the cord, brought it back upstairs, and began to write.  

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A week ago, I saw the movie, "Love, Peace & Misunderstanding".  

There is a scene where Jane Fonda's character says to her inspiring poet granddaughter, 

     "You need a muse." 

And, in that moment, I said to myself, "I need a muse". 

A few days ago, I posted on Facebook about all of the weird dreams that I had been having.

"Friends" told me to write about them.   

While I felt the dreams were too creepy to write about, 

     the message "to write" rang loud and clear. 

My inner voice said, "It has been too long. Get back to what you love."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Do I really believe that was Nora Ephron banging on my house?

Who knows?

A very cool thought, one must admit.

 

A friend of mine recently wrote on Facebook,

    "That's why you are a writer. Insight is the by product of lingering upon ideas".

(Thank you, Rick!)

So, whether it was Nora Ephron, my inner goddess, or something else . . . 

      the important thing is that, for whatever reason, I rose out of bed early this morning, 

and got back to something that I love to do - 

to write.  

Nora Ephron, you will be missed.  

 

Something Small

Sometimes,
     my days and nights pass
without being able to write a single word.

I breathe in,
     I breathe out,

But . . .

I can't write.

Until,
     one day,
I just write about . . . something.

Something meaningless,
     something small.  

A few words
     on a few lines,
taking up space
     on a small page.

And,
     a funny thing happens.

A bottle of salsa turns into a story.

A small story, but a STORY.   

     Giving it breath,
giving it life,
     giving it wings . . .

And,
     even the smallest of wings

                                           can fly.      

 

Bottle of Salsa

Pork and lettuce; 

                            sour cream.

Red and yellow peppers; 

                                   one green lime.  

Tortillas, shredded cheese; 

                                       cilantro, red wine.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

     "Carnitas for dinner?"asked the cashier.

     "You bet!" was my response.  

     "I'm betting you already have salsa," she said.   

     I smiled and replied, "You read my mind.

           My bottle of salsa is waiting at home."     

She smiled, and said, 

"Sounds perfect."  

    And, it was. 

  
 

London in my Pocket

With the unseasonably warm temperatures we had been experiencing in the month of March,
     I had not been accustomed to wearing a coat. 
It was my "go-to" coat - the perfect weight and style for most occasions.  
Plus, it did not require dry cleaning.
I could throw it in the washer and dryer a million times ( which, I have),
     and it would come out unscathed.

It was quite chilly when we left the restaurant,
     and when I put my hands in my coat pockets, I felt it there.
Almost three weeks after my return from Europe, a little reminder was left behind.
Like a favorite wallet, the edges were slightly bent and worn, from the amount of use.  
It molded in my hand, as I squeezed it, and I could feel the coolness of the plastic, outer sleeve.

Before I pulled it from my pocket, I knew what it was, and I smiled.
My backstage pass, my golden ticket, my ride on a "magical mystery tour" . . .

      it was the Oyster.

The Oyster Card is an affordable way to travel around London,
     and can be used for most forms of public transportation. 
We used ours primarily for the buses and the Tube ( underground Metro ),
     and we did not step foot on the streets of London without it.    
Mine was always kept safely inside my right-hand pocket of my "go-to" jacket -
     the one that does not require dry cleaning. 

And, there it was . . . . . . still. 

When I pulled it out of my pocket,
     I read the words on the front of the sleeve for the very first time:  
 

London in your pocket : Priceless

 

I couldn't agree more, I told myself.

And, with a smile, I put it safely back inside my right-hand pocket, 

     where it belonged.  

Flow

I left all of my electronics behind.   
I did not bring my laptop or my cell phone,
     and since I do not own an ipad (or iphone or ipod ),
that pretty much covers it. 


I DID bring a hair straightener, but I will leave that for another story.

I figured, if a story came along,
     I would jot down a few words in a notebook.


Which, I did. 

It looked something like this:

Trying to get to our seats on the airplane (French foreign exchange students) - 

 "go that way, go this way, go around, go over".

Sponge Bog Square Toilet

Speaking of toilet . . .  "To Let"

Voice in the elevator . . . my Rosetta Stone for learning a British accent - 

"Going Down" , "Floor Four" . 

Man at the pub who "let a loud one loose".

etc., etc., etc.

I wrote two full pages of this. 

The problem was, I missed my laptop.

I was . . . I AM accustomed to writing my stories almost immediately 

      after they come to me.  

The inspiration hits, and like a bad case of the runs, 

     I RUSH to my laptop before it's too late.   

The only difference is, if I wait too long, there is nothing there . . . nothing left.  

The opposite of ( pardon my English ) "shitting one's pants".    

Sometimes, if I sit long enough (at my computer), 

     I can bring some of the thoughts and words back.

But, it is not the same.   

It is not as good . . . not as real . . . not as RAW.  

Not only that, but there is a "flow" between my brain and my fingers, 

     as they tap the letters on the keyboard -

a flow that allows me to type my thoughts

               just as quickly as they fly into my brain.  

And, though I enjoy writing by hand - the "art" of a pen or pencil, as it etches across the page, 

     it slows down my thoughts, impeding my progress.    

So . . . 

     on my next trip, 

          I will definitely be bringing my laptop, 

so that I can type up my stories, as they happen.   

So that I won't miss 

     a single thing. 

 

No Yappy Dogs In London

There are no yappy dogs in London.

There are short dogs, and long dogs;

     scruffy and smooth dogs.

Low dogs, and tall dogs;

     lean dogs, and stout dogs.

Black dogs, and white dogs,

     and brown dogs, and gray dogs,

and work dogs, and play dogs,

and "dogs at high tea" dogs,

     BUT,

there are no YAPPY dogs . . .

      in London.   

Stiff Upper Lip

Sitting in a cozy little restaurant by the bar,
     where the bartender measures each drink before pouring it into a glass,

I suggested we play a game. 

     "Find ONE person that will make eye contact with you," I told my partner.  

Since we had arrived in London, I witnessed, first hand, the expression "stiff upper lip".  

Stiff Upper Lip:  Remain resolute and unemotional in the face of adversity, 

or even tragedy.

But, what's so tragic about walking down the street, or into a pub?  

One, after the other, after the other . . . people walked past, looking straight ahead -
             no awareness or concern for others around them,
and no interest, whatsoever, in making a . . . CONNECTION.     


     "Kind of cool, actually, " I said.  "I feel like I am invisible. 
                                                              Like some sort of super hero."

I had this overwhelming feeling to stand up and perform some strange display of behavior.

But, I didn't.   

Being the only American in the bar, I did not want to end up on YouTube.