Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Saturday, December 27, 2008

I Can’t Spell You Can't Make Me

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It was the fourth grade. A day in early October. I remember we were making a list for my birthday party the day before and my sister laughed at me because I could not spell my friend’s name. I came home and as usual gave my mother my homework assignment.

These are the memories that stay with a kid forever.

She looked at it and then she looked at me. She had what I can now describe as a thoroughly perplexed look on her face. “Mommy,” I said, “ what’s the matter?” I felt fear in my throat and then in my stomach. She smiled gently and said, “What does it say honey?”

“What do you mean Mommy?”

She looked down at the paper on the kitchen table and attempted to stretch it with her left hand smoothing the wrinkles at the top and the right hand doing the same at the bottom. She blinked and smiled again then rose from the table looked out the window at the kids playing in the cement backyard and then turned to me, “Well, I really can't read it. You see, well, can you tell me what it says? Something about, well, does this say chapter?”

"Of course Mommy, it says chapter.”

“And does this say revolutionary?”

“Yes Mommy.”

Then, smiling brightly while caressing my shoulder she said, “Ok, now we have a start then!”

I spent my childhood daydreaming about a magical machine that would spell for me because I wanted to write stories and of course you can’t write stories if you can’t spell.

The world now has such a magical toy!



Fast forward to the present. I live with a dictionary by my computer and am rather fastidious when spelling even though I have a colorful ABC genie that lives in the upper right corner of my document . I am so obsessed that I look up words just for fun!

As in most cases, when you are engaged in an intimate relationship, you let your hair down. With me, implicit in that is not bothering to review my spelling. For the last four years you-know -who and I have shared thousands of emails, poetry, stories and because of my trust in said person and my assurance that said person understood my very being I believed that all was sacrosanct, and I let my defenses down.

On Dec 6th, in her last blog,
http://theunfoldingenigma.blogspot.com/ she alluded to my zero spelling skills. I guess she still has a problem when I text her something like. “cal b4 wen u r hom. it mite b 2 late 4 me 2 gab.”

I am quite well versed in the machinations of the mind having practiced this art for many a year, yet, said womans' remark cut me to the very core. Suddenly, I find myself encumbered with fourth grade spelling woes:constantly making mistakes. My fingers are going for the wrong keys. Typing has never been my forte' either but this is ridiculous!


What a miserable vicious cycle !

Yet, the cats are somewhat culpable as they are always tramping across the keyboard!

I know what is going on. I say to myself, “now look Sugar you know how to spell and even if you do not you have a program that will do it for you.” Things got better until I found another way to sabotage myself.

Oh, the power of suggestion is a merciless trap.

The other day while reading one of my pieces I noticed that I had written that I was greatful for something. Greatful? I went back a couple of times because the damn thing just did not look right, yea right? Then I reviewed things I had written in the last few days and found faux pas such as, here for hear, there for their, now for know. Me the college professor!

I went wild and took out everything I had written or edited since the beginning of December. You guessed it, all the mistakes started after Dec 7 when Margo Moon alluded to said woman and the trouble she would be in for mocking my spelling skills.

I have recovered, no self-respecting shrink would allow herself to be victimized by her own impressionable brain and the arrogance of a partner who says women for woman because that is how they say it in South Africa!

I have gone back to my nonchalant whhay of speling . It is ok because she understands me no matter how I right. When I publish somethin I take a minute and hit my magic buttom which has yet to flail me.

There are too many important ings to tink about such as the creative thrust of a story or, riting it in the correct poison. Should you leave such and such an idea in ore take it ouch?

Life is so serious. Too much energee goz into twivia! I thought I wood leaf you with a few chuckles four the haliday sesson.



"My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places." A.A. Milne

"It's a damn poor mind that can think of only one way to spell a word!" -- Andrew Jackson

I have a spelling checker
It came with my PC
It plainly marks for my revue
Mistakes I cannot sea
I've run this piece threw it
I'm sure your please to no,
It's letter perfect in it's weigh
My checker tolled me sew

anonymous

Monday, December 22, 2008

A leave taking

I am at my computer in the upstairs office. The light is off. I often write just by screen light. The room, which is about 14 by 17, is lined with bookcases, a couple of cat towers, printer, you know this kind of room.

There is a window to my back right, I face the door in proper Feng Shui positioning, and there is a window to my far right across the room. I am actually in the cubby of two bookcases one at my left shoulder against which I occasionally lean and the other, a few feet behind me. A quick push and I am jettisoned to the back shelves.

I feel safe. The rolodex, thesaurus, dictionary and reference books are on the left. My favorites are behind me: women’s issues, death and dying, I Ching, myths, religions, world history and a shelf of endless vitamin bottles through which I rummage on Sunday morning while organizing the weeks supply of pseudo health and vitality.

The curtains are drawn apart at the far right window. A tall votive candle stands in the middle of the windowsill. Obviously, I don’t want to set the house on fire. Nevertheless, I do want to leave it. It is a St. Joseph candle, the patron of carpenters. There is a belief that if you bury a statue of St. Joseph head down in the ground that a house will sell immediately.

We know that nothing is selling here on Long Island. I need all the help I can get to sell this place in which I have lived since 1972 but, I will not risk the indignation of St. Joe by putting him head down in the frozen earth of my front yard. Personally, it would not be my choice. Therefore, it is a candle bearing his image which burns against the windowpane creating it's own aura. I believe that he is pleased with me for attempting to preserve his dignity.

He is facing south out to the frozen tundra. Whenever I walk into the room or glimpse over to the infinitesimal flame I say, "the perfect buyer comes to me now under grace in a perfect way." That’s how I approach things. Hey, it takes all kinds.

It is 9 PM, quite windy, 20 degrees. Outside the trees are knocking against the window, and the streetlamps, candle light and lights of the homes across the street are all in concert flickering into the crystals of ice, which coat the window. It has snowed and rained for a couple of days and the roads have been rather iffy. There has been great discontent. I had to break into my car yesterday when it was 15 degrees. Ah! Winter!

I have the heat down like everyone else-we are all still attempting to negotiate our fuel contracts from nearly 5 dollars a gallon down to something respectable like 2 bucks. I am chilly so I go downstairs for a bourbon.

The house is old and squeaks and creaks. There are four, five and six story oaks around this house. One hovers directly over the roof above this room. As I hear the tinkle of the glistening bourbon over the ice the swish of the wind around the entire house makes me quake with trepidation. Every so often, I look at the walls around me and shout out loud, "I fear that I will die in this house." At times, I believe that I am married to this structure and that one night in a bazaar secret ceremony of which I was not privy, it grew limbs and entwined its branches into the cerebral hemispheres of my brain as well as the ventricles of my heart.

I will only leave it when I am supine, ashen, and without breath.

One does not take this wind lightly. When six story trees are stirred by such high winds, well what can I say-it is impressive. The sound is such that you can easily envision Father Death whipping his cloak off with a bullfighter’s flare, ensconcing you in it, thus forcing you to collapse into his irresistible grasp.

The girl cat is sitting at my feet as I sip my Jack Daniel’s. Now and again she gets up, extends her paws up on my knees and yawns to signify that it is time for a treat. She gets too many treats when I ‘m in this room.

She is slight and wiry, and though remote, is simultaneously needy.

This has been bummer of a year financially and rocky with a couple of relationships. I have not been writing, I purport to be a writer. Joke! Everyone I know is in crisis. Thankfully, we have not had a major terrorist event here. In addition, maybe our new president will be the key to positive change as he promised. At least the present administration will be put to rest.

I have mortal decisions to make. I am a senior citizen, there I’ve said it. It scares the hell out of me. Yet, when I speak to the dead at night I call them mommy and daddy.

Truth be told!

The bourbon feels good coursing through me. I can feel the vessels and muscles of my circulatory system open wide rushing the delivery of blood to my head. Almost immediately I feel my face flush then my chest and arms warm, placing me in a soothing state, my eyes want to close and I begin to drift away. "Just put yourself down for a respite." I leave the computer headed for the good night.

The votive candle has finally gone out. Three days.

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