I wonder what John B is doing right now

 And then when you find yourself writing about something as seemingly simple as your first car, that magenta Saab that you've written about a million times, the lemon that dad insisted on because of the great deal he was getting for a foreign car perched for early birds like you on the corner lot of that used car place on Sawtelle that you named after Magenter from the Rocky Horror Picture Show and that broke down on nearly every hill, miraculously making it all the way to The Evergreen State College, only to die in the rain forest upon arrival

and when you are halfway through writing about this for the who knows how manyth time, you find yourself back there, in 1988, driving to West Hollywood with Susan to John B's apartment  and writing about all that went down, the dream and the tragedy, both as you now see it for reasons you never saw before, and somehow, you are liberated and brought back to life, long after the last time you saw John B, long after Majenter went unwillingly for a dollar into the arms of your exotically gorgeous roommate, your lover-not-lover, girlfriend-not-girlfriend who damn, if only I was into women... and the deeper you wrote, the more you began to wonder about her, and John B, and so many others you have wondered about during Covid: are they still here? 

really

 Stop being so hard on yourself   

read the hundreds of emails you sent, the countless you replied to

your lengthy, honest, intimate responses to friends, coworkers, family, the handyman, the stranger from the bank, the wrong address

Reread your own writing as though it was written specially for you, to you

Feel into your love of animals and try as hard as you can to take in what goes out like the way you  do on a walk when you pause to really feel the sun shine beneath your skin

Look around: love what loves you   allow what you love to love you back

Right now, that is the most political thing you can do.

Please, please, stop breaking the house.

Today might be a good day to write about holding hands

 Because writing is time travel. And writing is space travel.

Because today I felt my grandma's hands again, the ones I miss so much, the ones that sliced the watermelon, baked the brisket, wrapped the gifts, held open the big Jaws towel for me after the pool, unlocked the enormous garage door, put down colorful, smiling tiles in Rummikub, pointed past the lemon tree toward the Palm Springs mountainside, just outside her winter trailer park she said we could climb, brushed the hair out of my face so I could see what she saw and love what she loved

If there is no hand to hold onto but your own

 

which is also one way

And you can also write about a time when you held someone's hand and they held yours. And it felt safe and like love and even a little scary because what happens when you feel, really feel, the edges and the softness, the rough and the smooth, support and surrender, curvy planets, someone's hand in yours, both holding and being held? It's a little sweaty, maybe, but that's okay, because it is love.

And writing is time travel. And writing is space travel.

Because today I felt my grandma's hands again, the ones I miss so much, the ones that sliced the watermelon, baked the brisket, wrapped the gifts, held open the big Jaws towel for me after the pool, unlocked the enormous garage door, put down colorful, smiling tiles in Rummikub, pointed past the lemon tree toward the Palm Springs mountainside, just outside her winter trailer park she said we could climb, brushed the hair out of my face so I could see what she saw and love what she loved

Thank you Writer Readers!

Dear Writers and Writing Family,

Thank you so much for coming to the Pendemic 

Student ZOOM             Reading on Saturday 

night! I am so grateful for all of you. I think it really well, don't you? Love, Rox

 

5 stars

Sometimes you can tell the question is coming:  Will you hold please after the call for a brief survey to tell is how we did?

at which point I like to head it off at the pass and say, if moved to do so, "hey, thanks a lot for your help. I won't hold, but I want to tell you directly, in person, so you know how much you've meant to me. Thanks so much. I appreciate it." I'll do anything to avoid that false, fishing for validation exchange for a little customer service that does nothing for anyone's integrity. It's hard enough to weed through the phone tree,  take the time and energy to call in the first place, set aside an age to do, let alone earn my right to customer information without having to reflect on the experience and take a post call quiz.

Of course sometimes I am indifferent and other times I'm quite appalled at just how poor customer phone service can be, often leaving me wondering if I misdialed or woke someone up, ultimately feeling guilty for my reasonable questions.

But sometimes relief can take you aback. Today was the day you took the after call survey. Maybe it was her accent reminding you of happier times in far away places. Maybe it was her telling you to stay safe. Maybe it was just the great information. But she earned her five out of five. I would told of her so ditectly, but I didn't see it coming.

Out Front (on all the lawn I never knew I had)

And that last Friday after class, Amber came by bearing very Amberesque quality, homemade gifts of plantain leaf salve for those pesky no-seeums and other such bug bites and Writing Nature Nearby handmade journal and we sat crosslegged on towels 8 feet apart or more on the moss-lawn out front. We had planned to sit in the back, but there was no shade to be found, which I didn't know since I'm not much for sitting outside at 2 PM.

We used to stand by the door after class and talk for a while. There was always something. For more than 8 years, we stood by the door and talked, first at The Loft, then at the Xerxes Beach, and now here. About a month into the pandemic, we talked about getting together at a distance, so much missing our in-person ritual after class, but we both became immediately tearful at the thought of not hugging so we pushed it under, set it aside. Why add more to more? But then on a whim, she and her son dropped by after painting a mural in Uptown and, you know, you remember, it wasn't so bad after all. It wasn't so hard. And the next day she dropped off 4 tomato plants, which are going crazy in that backyard that gets no shade. And after that we said, you know, we can do this. We can get together and not suffer. And we did.

I've never sat on our front lawn before, but I've been thinking about it lately, ever since we sat on a friend's sloped lawn back Xerxes way on the 4th and had such a great time distantly clustered on a hill, wondering why we'd never done this before. We've been seeing fewer people out front these days, fewer neighbors tucked into their driveways screaming at each other requisite feet apart. It seems like it's back to abandoned Adirondacks poised perfectly on candy green lawns, waiting for a photo shoot, advertising, "Someone was here!  "Back when it's over."

I'm not sure if I ever would have sat on my front lawn, given how vast it is, akin to being on the moon, had Covid not happened. Well, actually, had Amber not happened, happened into my life. And I'm grateful every day for countless reasons that she did. Remember how she hugged that tree?