free write

I want to write so badly. It aches inside me. My laziness is a dam holding back a flood of words and life and hope. Laziness the Dam. Damn Laziness. Write first, edit later. Write what? Edit what? Words. Which words? There's a lot of them. Take one: desert. Desert. Place it next to another: town. Desert Town. Two more: and here's the hard part, because settings are easy -- we see them all the time, but we refuse to see stories, because we're looking at ourselves in every situation -- but here we go anyway: old man. Desert Town, an old man, stumbling from an old car, carrying an old crutch. Is it windy? No, that's cliche. Well, nothing is rather boring. Ok, it's raining. In the desert? Sure. It rains in a desert? Don't you think that's a little unusual? Isn't an old man in an old car in a desert town a little unusual? -- he is stumbling. Why is he stumbling (I concede the rain)? He's dying. Of what? He's only one leg, amputated, he's dying because there's a cancer eating at this other leg. He'll soon be without any legs. That sucks. Yea, he's limping on one crutch and a bad leg. Don't take your fingers off the keys: you'll never start again. Relax, I know where this is going. He's from the West, and he's heading East. He's from California, San Joaquin Valley, 93, One legged, with cancer eating the other. He stumbles on one leg in the rain. He reels as he slams the door: it's an old car with heavy doors. What do you mean by reels? I mean he sort of hopskips, like someone just shot at his foot. He uses the crutch to prop himself, but it takes a few hops to get it right. Ok, now he's... standing in the rain? Yes. He's looking at the closed gas station. And? And the rain drips off his silver hair, onto his face. It channels through the wrinkles on his face, and runs down off his chin. It looks like he has a water beard. It's raining that hard? It rains hard in the desert. How long does he stand there? Not long. There's an elderly woman who yells at her daughter to get that man out of the rain. She's in a house behind him. The daughter looks out the large plate glass window, the one streaked with rock chips from the highway that's only been there 20 years. Does that matter? Yes. This is a story about letting go. Oh. So what does the daughter do? Gets the man inside? Yes, of course. He turns slowly. Then limps a few hops in her direction. When she sees his leg, or lack thereof, she runs into the rain. It soaks her obviously, soaks her cashmere sweater. Sweater? I thought this was the desert! When's the last time you went to Arizona in the winter? It snows in Arizona. More than it snows in Seattle. You're crazy. You're ignorant. I'm you. Not right now. Fine; so she gets soaked. And... Helps the grandfather into the house. It takes them a few minutes, and they're both shivering when they get inside. The old woman has a walker, one of those metal ones with tennis balls on the feet. She lifts it and sets it down with a clunk, steps twice and does it again. It takes her almost as long as the man to get into the kitchen. She smiles at the scene, but he hasn't seen her yet. Do they know each other? Is this a lucky coincidence? No, they don't know each other. He wasn't looking for her. Do they end up in love? That's so predictable. No, no, not in love. But love. You'll see. You know where this is going? Yes, sort of. Can you tell me? Sure, the joy of this sort of story isn't the suspense, but the process. Ok, then what happens? The man came to the town, the desert town, in search of an old brother and sister, who'd lived their whole lives in this town. They're both older than him, and had left when he was still a boy... That'd make them in their hundreds. Yes, and he's angry that they left him behind in Mississippi. He's come to finally confront them about the bitter life they condemned him to when they left him with their alcoholic father. Another cliche! No, no, not this time. This time it's true. This really happened. It did? When? About 5 years ago. To whom? My Grandfather, and my father, and me, and to you. Me? I was there? Yes, the critic is always there. You are the whole reason the brother and sister left this boy behind, and went west. Me? Yes. Criticism is potent. Now the grandfather has come searching for his siblings, to confront them, but he won't ever find them. Why not? They're dead. I knew it! You were right. So end of story? Nope. He finds her instead, and her daughter. He'll stay there for a few days while he searches for his siblings, and during that time, they'll love on him, and compliment him and encourage him and make sacrifices and he'll be loved. And love will erase all wrongs, blah blah blah, blah blah. Yes. He'll be loved, and he'll let go. And end of story? Still no. He'll work his own magic. The old woman has clung to her dear old house for the 20 years since the highway came through. It's getting busier and busier as evidenced by the every multiplying scratches on the window. The daughter keeps telling her to move. It's too noisy. The old days are gone. But the house is where her husband lived with her for 49 years. She'd almost given in, when the man arrives. She'll die at the end of the story. In the house? No, she'll have sold the house and moved to California with the man. Aren't they a bit old for... that? Not everything is about sex. Somethings are about affection and love. Love. It's an amazing reality. Reality? Yea, it's more than a concept. It's enough to teach him to let go of his bitterness, and her to let go of her memories. Instead of letting these anchors drown them, they'll cut the chains and be able to truly love their dead relations, instead of loving -- or hating -- their memories. It's about forgiveness, about forgiveness for the abandonment they both experienced. They're starting over. They're kind of old, don't you think, to be starting over? No, and that's what this story is about. It's never to late to forgive, and to let go.

Starting over