Weird but true

When I am in the middle of writing a novel, I find it most helpful to tape picture of my characters around my desk.  It makes them feel more real and it also makes it easier to remember their physical appearances in the beginning, before they become full-bore people in my life.

I come across these characters in magazines or I will attribute their looks to say a movie star and then kind of morph them from that.  But Walter, Walter was in a magazine, in some ad I guess, because he's not a face I've ever seen before or since.  But the moment I turned the page and saw him, I knew it was Walter.

Walter has been on my wall for quite a few years now.  This particular book has been slower than others I have written (or am still in the process of writing) to flesh out and quite frankly, I have gotten to a certain point and had no idea where to go.  So I stopped.  But as of the past month or so, I have been going gangbusters with it, and once again Walter is a part of my daily life.

I love Walter -- he is a rich character and it has been challenging to write from a perspective of an older man.  Walter spans in age in my story from about 40 to his late 60s, and the story also includes his wife who is 20 years his junior.  It also includes another character who is 20 years the junior of his wife (I don't come up with this stuff, it wants to be what it wants to be!)  I have struggled with the second story line because I am able to put myself in that position and the question would I want to be with someone 20 years younger than myself is a most resounding no!  And then I wonder if it is believable.  And of course that invites questions and then I question myself and wonder what the hell am I doing writing a book on this bizarre topic anyway?

But this book wants to be written.  For one, it is the sweetest experience thus far in that it is not all-inclusive.  I don't have to sit down and write and write and write and write and then write some more because I am worried I will forget.  There is nothing frenetic about this particular process.  It is a book that knows that it mellows with age (and I am not going to do a fine wine metaphor here because that is so B O R I N G.)    I can sit down for a few hours and write.  And it flows.  And then I can get up and go do something else and when I sit back down again, be it a few hours later or even a few days later, it flows again, seamlessly.  And while the characters are in my head, and they often talk to me, they only do so when beckoned.  It's been a lovely experience.  But that is not all.

The day I was seriously questioning raising the age of the young college student that my 40+ heroine was not only dating, but was like in love with, I was shopping at a local market and this young (college age) guy was all over me.  At first I was wondering what is his problem was ... how many times was he going to accidently bump into me in the aisles?  How many times was he going to ask me if I needed any help.  How many times was he going to try to catch my eye?  Then it hit me!  This was just a message from the universe to let me know that all is possible.  Now, I was not at all attracted to the kid, don't get me wrong, but the message was that he COULD be with me.  That of course did not come at the time, but when he gave me this bizarre look when he handed me my bag and brushed my fingers with his, I walked out of there somewhat dumbfounded.  But by the time I had climbed into my car I got it.  And laughed out loud.

So I scurried home and let Cooper (I don't like the name either, but for some reason that is his name) stay his age.  But then ANOTHER character jumped into the fray, and so help me god I was ready to quit.  I stepped back and thought, what is this story about and why does it need to be told?  It's ridiculous.  It is complicated and hard to remember what is going on when and how and what and there is a brain tumor and if you think it sounds like a soap opera, well, you ought to have it in your head!

But then I went to a party.  The hostess is in my book club and of course I knew her.  But I had never met her husband.  I did, however know, that her husband is 18 years older than her.  No, the book has nothing to do with her, it was well under progress by the time I met her.  But I thought it was interesting, just another one of those "coincidences" you run into ... all the time!  So I had that on the back burner, where it has been simmering (I think I need to have a long chat with the both of them for perspective, and how nice of the universe to provide that, huh?) but I am not there yet ... I am still fleshing out the last major character and further plot lines and flashbacks and journals that are kicking my butt.  When all of a sudden her husband came up to me and introduced himself and my mouth dropped open and ... HE WAS FUCKING WALTER.  I am serious, almost the spitting image.  I was beyond dumbfounded,  I could hardly speak.  I shook his hand and I swear to god, it was like meeting Walter in the flesh.  He had the same .... he was Walter, plain and simple.  He was who Walter would be if he was actually alive and well, at that moment in time it felt like that was the case.

I was a bit freaked.  And then I felt like I was at Walter and Margie's house as a spectator.  How many times had Margie talked about having had no friends other than Walter's?  (Margie is the heroine in the book if you didn't pick that up.)  The hostess of this party had invited the book club because she too had commented that she almost exclusively hangs out with her husband's friends.

It was a weird night.  But don't worry universe, I totally got it.  No need to give me further assistance.  In fact, I am not sure I could take anything more!

So now I must go join Walter and the gang before another character comes to life!!!

P.S.  I always listen to music when I write and there is always one artist that seems to put me in the right groove ... and I will essentially listen to the same album over and over and over.  Once I have done this, that particular album can never be listened to again (for obvious reasons!)  Such over-saturation needs to be applied to an artist that I am not madly in love with.  I have been seeking that particular artist and for three days in a row, every time I got in the car a song by Lady Antebellum was playing.  Same song.  Sometimes it would play twice.  No, seriously.  So I have my new list of songs ... and they are of course, perfect.  The universe is so helpful!!!

Born to drive

Yesterday I completed a milestone, and yet, I was in the background.  The milestone was Charlie going to get his license, but for me it was the last child I would ever have to take to the DMV!

It is such a great place to people watch.  There were loads of mothers and the occasional father, with their about to be licensed kids, and we sit on the chairs and wait.  We stand in line over and over, then return to our seats to wait.  We have a very small purpose -- we have to of course drive with them there; we have to be there to stand in as the "adult," but we're really not all that needed.  They take the written test while we sit and wait.  Then they too have to wait until their designated driving test time nears, and then the poor parents are discarded once again, we must vacate the car and let a perfect stranger drive off with them.  And we wait.

When Hallie went for her license, we drove down to Concord and stood in line (and waited of course) only to discover that we didn't have a heating bill.  Yes, that is what I said.  We needed to have some proof that she lived in the actual residence that she said she did.  They said a heating bill would work.  A HEATING BILL!  We had to drive home and find some stupid heating bill, and then, because we were so disgusted with Concord, we drove (I actually drove this time because this was no longer fun and games, but serious business, and speed limits could not be adhered to in order to get this job done!) like mad up to Lebanon.  Where she had time to put in her written test; but alas, they were closing and she was unable to get her driving test in.  OH MY GAWD.

Then we drove back up there the next morning and she FINALLY got her license.  I told everyone I knew, don't go to the DMV without your heating bill.  Not any of them that I can recall ever had any use for a heating bill.  But they had them!

Then Maddie and I went down to Concord, (with a heating bill of course) and she passed her driver's test, only to discover that there were no driving times available that day.  But our friendly DMV assistant kept at it, and there was an available time in Manchester.  Of course, Maddie didn't want to drive in Manchester  (they all have heard stories from friends who have gone to this DMV or that DMV and it is the BEST DMV to go to!)  As far as I am concerned, all of my kids were highly ready to get their licenses by the time I brought them to the DMV.  I have seen kids who didn't know their right from their left get their license -- I wasn't too worried about their passing.  And Concord is the CLOSEST and is far more interesting to people watch than some smaller office.  (Though they are all closing due to budget cuts, according to one woman I talked to.)

Anyway, she panicked that she had never driven in Manchester, so we went down and I had her drive what I suspected would be the exact route she would take (and it was) and after several healthy doses of waiting, she finally had her license.

Charlie was the most eager of all of them to get his license.  So eager, in fact, that he convinced the driver's ed. teacher to change the date of the class so he could get his license as close to his birthday as possible.  He has been driving since he was five-years-old.  This is not even an exaggeration -- says the mother who watched her near toddler son drive around and around and around in the driveway why the father said it was fine.  Fine!  He used to go to to work with Peter and drive around in an old pick-up truck on his back lot by the hour.  The kid loves to drive.  It was common for there to be regular activity in the driveway on any given day.  One car or the other would go by; then the Bobcat would start up and he'd be driving that around; then the Gator, then back to one of the vehicles.   I remember Hallie getting so disgusted at the amount of gas he was using driving around in the driveway! 

When I climbed out of the car to let the driving guy in, he asked me if I thought Charlie was ready.  I told him that he was born ready.  Oh really, the man said.  I am not even kidding, I said, as I watched as Charlie confidently told the man to climb on in.  There was never even the slightest doubt in my mind that he would get his license.  Even as we watched, minutes before his own test, a girl not pass and slam into the passenger side of her car and ignore her mother (it is always the mother's fault, is it not?)

The entire experience was probably the easiest out of the three.  Walked in, stood in a short line (they never looked at the heating bill, or in this case this time, the tax bill) he did his eye test, then his written, and back in line to find that the next available driving time was 1:40.  It was then 12:30 -- time for lunch!  We went to lunch, we were back in time; he took his test, he came back in, he got his license.  I was in the dressing room at L.L. Bean by 3:00.  Easy peasy.

The hardest part is that he has the longest drive of the three.  Hallie and Maddie drove literally five minutes down the road to school.  If there was bad weather, I drove them.  There was a forecast of snow for today (which did not pan out, thank heavens) and Peter was quite insistent that he didn't want Charlie to drive his truck with the bald tires in snow.  I thought to myself that it's a tough time to get your license -- right before snow season.  Will I ever want him to drive that distance in a lot of snow?

I am still waiting for him to text that he has arrived at school on his maiden voyage -- he drove to the gas station and the store last night, but this is really the first "big" trip on his own.  You can tell he is number three because I didn't actually notice the exact time he left -- so I can't really watch the clock and wonder.  But he will be fine.

As for me, I am somewhat torn between throwing a huge party or just absorbing this last milestone on my own, quietly.  It seems mind blowing that I never HAVE to drive a child to school again.  Seriously ... mind blowing.  We have been juggling the art of getting Charlie to one school or another (all very far away) since he was in fifth grade.  I could climb into my own car right now and not have to be back at a certain time to pick him up!  I guess we both picked up a little freedom at the DMV yesterday!  Thank Gawd for the heating (tax) bill!

It's not supposed to be work!@

 
I am such a disorganized person -- and truthfully, that rarely bothers me.  But then again, I am NOT really disorganized in most things.  Just when I write.  I am very careless and lackadaisical when writing, because it seems when I am in the middle of a book; it would be impossible to forget anything.

I have three novels that are in various states of flux.  One is completely written but I am incapable of believing that or something, so I leave that one in the belief it needs more.  Then there is another one probably more than halfway written, and that one grabs me from time to time.  But this one I am working on now has been the most compelling as of late.  The characters have not flooded my brain, as they have a tendency to do.  But instead, they are on the periphery, waiting.  They are waiting for me to finish their story.  They are so patient too ... and I have come to the realization that it is because those characters are patient themselves.


I sat down this morning to write where I left off yesterday.  But it doesn't feel right (write) and because I am clearly in the mood to write, I am writing here instead.  Somewhere there is a notebook with my notes on this novel.  I just can't find them.  There is a lot of confusion if I lose track -- as I am now going to start going back in time.  But I need to pick a timeframe and that just puts me off.  I don't do outlines, I just jot down notes and let the book flow.  But this one has never been like that.  It has asked more from me right from the beginning.  


The premise is hard for me too.  I am not sure where it came from, or why it even needs to be written, but I struggle with scenes (of the sexual nature for starters) between the main female character and one of the main male characters, who is 20 years her junior.  I have no business putting myself in the situation, because it is not about me, but still.  There is such a weirdness about it -- like really, it doesn't feel right.  And yet, why is it okay when older men hook up with women so much younger?  Why does that not seem predatory and wrong?  I guess that is part of the main theme of the book -- the coming to terms with that actual question.  (Why I am writing about it really confuses me, I must admit!  It certainly doesn't come from experience.  But that is the way such things happen I guess.  They sort of kind of be what they want to be!)


But my frustration right now is that I can't find this notebook that contains all my notes.  I just flipped through six -- and they were all something I am working on.  But not this one.  Which makes me wonder, am I supposed to be re-thinking it?


I feel like the girl in the picture above.  In fact, that is exactly what I did when I realized I wasn't going to be able to just fly through and type like a maniac this morning.  Sigh.


I can't even find a fancy new notebook to use.  Which may mean I have to clean my office.  GAH!

A picture is worth a thousand words (though of course I added those too!)

 I come from a family of photographers.  To be one, you have to have an eye.  Or have some creative juice flowing through your veins.  When I was a child, my father would take pictures of us, telling us to lay on the floor with our heads together, or do something -- ANYthing -- other than pose.  To this day he will not pose for a picture.

 I go through stages.  There are times when months will pass without my touching my camera.  And then I will pick it up and take pictures for just as many months as I did not.  I have gone through a LOT of cameras -- mostly because I was so drawn to the little ones you could throw into a pocketbook or backpack with ease.  But, as I have discovered through experience, those cameras do not last when used on an almost daily basis.  I called once to complain that my third camera had died, and the person on the other end was aghast at how many pictures I was taking with it, along with an expectation that it was up to it.  Apparently those cameras are made for the photographer who takes it out for vacations and the occasional sunset.  Oh, and they hate the beach!

 I have photoshop, which is a very challenging program -- if only because it is SO easy to ruin a perfectly good picture! (I guess the challenge lies in not overprocessing!)

Here, you can see I did not heed such advice, and went a little nuts.  But I don't worry about color so much (or even light) when taking a picture any more, because those things are easily dealt with.

 This picture was taken with a telephoto lens halfway across the (albeit narrow) part of the lake while I was sitting on my dock.

This photo is the same as above, with a little tweaking.  First off, fall foliage in the first one was dull.  No problem!  Back in the day when you had only natural light to make a great photo, the upper picture would have seemed acceptable.  But there is so much altering to pictures going on these days, there is no such thing as real -- all memorex!

 

Sometimes I just prefer a natural photo.  This one is untouched and I find it very calming.  There would be no need to have the browns be browner.   I find this very calming in its simplicity.

 I am not sure who took the above.  Over the weekend, there were photographers everywhere!  Maddie, Charlie, my nephew Zach, my sister and myself.  Snap, snap, snap!  My guess would be that this was Maddie's doing -- she has an eye for the unusual.  I think I probably would have tried to get the entire flower in -- but she saw it this way, and it totally works.

 The kids also know when a picture is going to be fun.  I was on the dock while they were on the public dock, and Maddie called to me to take pictures of their action.  It is always fun to fly through the air, and I love how Charlie is pointing at her.

 Here, Zach looks almost as though he is leap frogging Maddie!

 I took lots of pictures of the kids out on the boat and kneeboarding -- but I thought this one captured it best.  Thumbs up!  I often wonder if these children have ANY idea, whatsoever, how lucky they are.  I am guessing the answer is no.  Charlie has been driving a boat since he was a little kid -- to him it just is.  Now this picture would benefit from some tweaking to give the background a lift in color.  Oh well.

At first I was going to crop this so Zach was the only subject in the frame, but then I realized that the car gave the added benefit of the motion of speed.  Both Maddie and Charlie were using my camera, so I am not sure who the official photographer is.  But good job!

Here is a photoshopped rendition of one of the above photos. (You can spend hours and hours playing in that venue, believe me!)  I just don't know what to do with everything!  My walls are full of pictures already, so I thought this would be a fun way to bring some out of hiding.

P.S.  Click on any of the above photos to get a larger, cleaner version!

24 Things

I was going to begin this thing on October 1 called 24 Things.  Each day, for 24 days, I was to remove one thing from my house -- give it away, sell it or throw it away -- in order to create space for creativity to flow.  Space.

In the few days leading up to October 1st, I have been on a thing frenzy.  And not disposing of, but obtaining of.

This is who I am.  If even **I** tell myself that I am going to do something, I do the opposite.  I can NOT be told what to do -- even by myself -- without a negative reaction!  It is as though I unleashed some purchasemaniac within me -- and I just want to BUY BUy Buy buy.  So wrong.

It is October 2 and I have only bought things because the rules are you have to purge one thing -- and NOT purchase ANYthing for 24 days.  Clearly I do not like rules.  Even self-imposed ones.

Such amazing and total self-destruction of my own potential goals.  The rule not to purchase stuff has rekindled a complete and total love of stuff.  I want stuff.  Pretty stuff.  STUFF and things.  GIVE THEM TO ME.  NOW!

Yeah, I know.

It kind of freaks me out too.

Epiphany. (not a good one!)

Need.

Greed.

Confusion.

Self-loathing.

Wonder.

Anxiety.

Churning stomach.

Mind blowing.

Wrong.

Unfortunate.

Evasive.

Pathetic.

Astonishing.

Unexpected.

Amazing.

Foolish.

Pitiful.

Upsetting.

Disappointing.

Self-discovery.

Not that big of a deal.

Recoverable.

Faddish.

I may not have begun to purge 24 things.  But these are my 24 words to describe this.  Now as Scarlett would say, Tomorrow is another day!

This is a story about books!

This is a post about books.   I went to Amazon.com to check on their daily kindle deal, and the same as it has been the past few times I've gone, the book didn't appeal to me.  But today I asked, why does it not seem like a book you would read?

It is called Brain Rules, and it is written by a doctor who is a molecular biologist who studies the brain.  Why wouldn't that interest me?  So, I decided that regardless of the topic, I am going to download the Kindle deal of the day, and read them.  This one cost $1.49 and well.  It would have to be pretty bad not to be worth that amount!

I don't know what my favorite genre is, not really.  When I first started to read, you would get those things from school where you could order all of these books, and I would check ALL of them!  They all seemed so fascinating!  Since they were relatively cheap, my mother always said yes.  To ALL of them!  I would read with delicious delight the descriptions of the books, and I would add up the cost, get money from my mother, cut out the small order form, and then take it to school the next day.  And then I would wait.  Oh, those things took so long to come in!  I used to drive the teacher nuts, is the book order coming in today? 

When I was old enough to ride my bike to town,  Tracy McDonald and I would walk into the young adult room at the library, and I swear, I would swoon!  Such a sacred place.  I can still picture the row of Happy Hollister books, in the bookshelf to the far left corner.  Oh.  There was nothing as exciting as that day the librarian led me to them.  Tracy, who was older than me, had already read them, and had gone on and on about how much I would like them.  Oh, and how!  The only sad thing was that I went through them so quickly.  And they were an old series, with a dead author.  It was quite disappointing.  I remember asking the librarian if there would be any more.  And she shook her head.  I am sorry, but no.  But then I went on to Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew.  And then when I was in sixth grade, I read a naughty book.  I have always been a voracious reader, and one Sunday afternoon I was bored and in the downstairs TV room.  There were bookshelves filled with "old people's" books, that I'd never really examined.  I indiscriminately pulled one from the shelf and started to read.  Soon, I had closed the door to the room, because I didn't want anyone to see me reading it.  Then, when the babysitter started sleeping with the father, I hid behind the green chair!  My greatest fear is that my mother or father would take THE BOOK AWAY FROM ME.  And thus grew a new passion ... reading smut in the living room behind the green chair.  Ahhhhh.  But alas, my mother didn't have a lot of smut, just a small collection.  So then, I started to read the classics, which my father had these old versions of, and we were told not to touch them.  (I figured they had to have some serious stuff in there if I wasn't to go near them.)  Well, let's face it, Mrs. Haversham rotting in her wedding dress was creepy.  Not my great expectations of sex in a closet or whatever the hell I was reading.  But interesting.

That led to a very early interest in romances.    Danielle Steele, Kathleen Woodiweiis, anything that had a picture of a big strapping man with his muscles popping out of his shirt and the poor woman clasped in his big strong grasp.  Bodice rippers is what my friend called them.  We read those through high school, but let me tell you, I read them way earlier than I should have!  We didn't have google back then, but I figured out what a blow job was through wily research.  "DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT A BLOW JOB IS?" I asked anyone around.  Anyone.  Finally Barb, the older sister of a friend, filled me in.  I of course, did not believe her.  First of all, did she not hear me, I said BLOW job.  There was no blowing in her description, none at all.  We discussed this enough to make her doubt her own knowledge!  HAHAHAHA.   Finally, she went out and asked her mother.  She came back to the bedroom to report that she did have it right, and she was now grounded for the weekend.

Sorry, Barb.  My life would have been ever so much easier with google!

Books can certainly have an impact on your life!  I remember reading The Yearling.  I was in junior high, and I know this because I was home alone with my brother and sister, theoretically babysitting them.  But I was really in my bed, all cozied up, with my book.  I was being interrupted, so I pulled out the trundle bed and had them curl up near me.  My brother had our cat Chippy in bed with him.  I had reached the part where the deer needs to be shot, and I was sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.  At that moment, the cat started to dry heave and my brother tossed him at me.  Just in time for it to expel a skull of a chipmunk all over my chest.   You can't make this stuff up you know, it wouldn't make sense!

My parents came rushing upstairs and into the bedroom where I was still sobbing over both the deer and the trauma of having a skull first on me, and then in my bed.

And then there was Eric.  By Doris Lund.  This is not a very long book, but it just so happened to be the ONLY book I brought with me on a spontaneous trip to Newfoundland.  That is how my parents traveled.  They would keep it all a secret and then wake us up in the middle of the night and tell us we were going somewhere.  I innocently grabbed the ONE book that I happened to be reading, and off we went.  To the MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.  I of course, finished the book in no time, but not without sobbing and sobbing and sobbing.  You see, Eric had leukemia and he died.  And he died about 14 times for me, because it was the ONLY book I had so I just kept re-reading it.  And re-living the traumatic end!  Every person in that car remembers that book!

Right now I am reading on my iPad a novel, and a book about weather shamanism.  And when I am in the car, I am listening to a Lisa Gardner detective/murder/mystery type series.  Sometimes it is confusing to remember what is going on, but I have always had multiple books going.  That trip taught me to keep any number of books in the car in the event of such a thing ever happening, and whenever I was in the car, I would read those books, while still reading another book before bed.

I have a tendency to devour an author and then criticize him or her after ten or so books.  I will accuse then of being formulaic and repetitive, and I will wonder why I liked the earlier books so much!  I know this is not fair, to the authors anyway, but I can't help myself.  I am currently doing this with Lisa Gardner.  I just downloaded a third book by her today.  Even when I said to myself I should break it up with another author.  Oh well.

What started this was the Kindle deal of the day.  Apparently, this is how my brain works!  I'll let you know if I am right!

There is this place ...

When I drive to Charlie's school several times a day, I have to drive through a small Main Street of a town that is really failing.  Not that it has ever been a burgeoning example of prosperity -- but it has gotten much, much worse in the few years I have been passing through on a regular basis.  Gone are the small shops, replaced by soaped up windows and FOR RENT signs.  On the main portion of the street, the only businesses that are actually in business are two banks, a donut shop, a furniture store and an auctioneers store front.  Oh, and two gas stations, one a Cumberland Farms and the other that has the cheapest gas but the people that hang around it are too creepy to imagine ever stopping there.  (I do stop from time to time at the Cumberland Farms, as their gas is the next cheapest, but let's just say I would rather not.)

I stopped at the grocery store that is at the edge of this town last night and because I had been noticing the decline overall, I was struck by the clientele in the store, and walking into it.  There is a high percentage of teenage mothers and even teenage fathers, filling up their carts with the most disgusting junk food, with these unhealthy looking children kind of just there.  They have no life, no spark.  None of them do.  It was hard to see.

Then as we were walking out, I saw this young mother and her little boy walking towards us.  The mother had a cigarette and she was tugging the little boy along as she looked for a place to store the cigarette while she was in the store.  As I was watching what she was doing, the little boy caught my eye and he just stared at me.  He made me catch my breath.  He was extremely pale with huge shadows underneath his big blue eyes.  He too, was devoid of the life spark that so often fills small children, and it took all I could do not to scoop him up and take him home with me.

"Why do you look like that?" Charlie asked, as we continued towards the car.

"Like what?" I asked him.

"You look so sad."

I motioned toward the little boy, who was still watching me.  "He just made me sad."

Charlie wondered if it was because he reminded me of him and if it made me sad that he was so grown up now.  I had to laugh at that one.  "No," I said with great vehemence, "that little boy did not remind me of you at all."  And that was because my little boy had always been full of life.  He may have been screaming and yelling and demanding my life's blood from me.  But he never, ever, ever had those eyes.

That was yesterday evening, and I can't shake those eyes.  That face.  And I wondered.  If I went up to that mother and said to her that I would help her -- that I would take that little boy and watch him so that she could go to school, would she accept it?  Or is she too far gone, like the rest of that town, and committed to sitting on the stoop of their dilapidated apartment buildings, smoking and sitting next to their lifeless children?

Such hopelessness and decay, 15 minutes from my own house.  Why do the rich people go to Africa?  I don't get it.  I don't mean to take away from the African people -- but what about our own?  Born Americans, starving for hope in a small town, which has so many police cars that one only has to imagine how much trouble goes down there.  (It was in fact on the news last year when a couple was arrested for cooking heroin in a building across from the high school.)  It's not a good place.

But how do you get away from it?  Every time I drive through I am treated with a snapshot of their lives that makes my heart ache.  A young girl, walking towards the high school, covered in tattoos, earrings all over, no book in her hand.  No backpack.  She is just showing up.  Going through the motions. 

Or the woman in the doorway, obviously just out of bed, her hair all over the place, cigarette dangling from her lips, as her young daughter waits for the bus.  And I look at this girl.  Messy hair.  Dirty clothes.  That empty face.

The group of teenage boys who are clearly not going to school that day, riding around on their skateboards.  Smoking.  Their pants falling down to their knees, their dirty hair sticky in their faces.  They are, of course, going to be magnetically attracted to their like, and they are going to have sex, and they are going to have babies who will carry those lifeless faces around until they too skip high school, because what is the point?  WHAT IS THE POINT?

The town itself is addressing its problems by adding more cops.  The cops are tough too.  There are several stationed around and they stand with no smiles on their faces.  As I often go by in a convertible jeep, I will smile or try to engage them into some type of human contact.  Nope.  This morning I wanted to yell WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO OFFICER FRIENDLY YOU DICKHEAD.  But I thought that might not be smart.  He was standing in front of the high school, lights on, in a stance of authority.  I have no idea what he is supposed to be doing -- he pays no attention to traffic or human, for that matter.  He just stands there.  I guess he is supposed to be scary.  Personally, I think he has it all wrong.  I think he needs to be reaching out; putting on a face of humanity.  Not being a dickhead.

But I am sure he spends his days and nights arresting young kids for drugs and what have you, and probably countless domestic disputes.  He is hardened, as are the ones he polices.

It is a very sad place and makes me wonder how many other places around the country are in the same predicament.  It is really too much, sometimes, to see the great disparity in wealth and lifestyle.  From a small New England college where parents would do anything for their child; to a small New England town where the parents don't know what to do for their child, because nothing was ever done for them.  It is too much, I tell you. 

But if I ever see that boy again, I will reach out to his mother.  There is no way I could walk away again.  I am not even sure how I did it last night.