You're Supposed To Write This

I used to think nothing could top my fear of dying. On most nights after I've tucked myself in, I lie awake staring at the shapes on my ceiling, or sometimes I stare into darkness, not being able to differentiate open eyes from closed. Either way, I'm imagining nothingness. Emptiness. Loss of purpose. Loss of presence. Loss of memory. Loss of soul. Loss of thought. What comes after? What if there's nothing? But I can't recall a "before." Reasoning. Rationalizing. Questioning my religion. Terrified. For years, these nightly thoughts shook me to near-tears. Until recently. The fear of my end got bumped down to the second slot. What about my father's? What will I do when... I try not to think about it. But I know one day, he'll have to leave me, and knowing that hurts. Growing up, all of my closest friends had fathers. Dads. Whether I met them or not, heard fond memories of them or not, the male parents were all there . Between picking us up from sch

I always found it interesting how much people care for the fictionally wounded on the big screen and shed tears when an actor dies, but when a life is in jeopardy in real life, in real time, nobody knows how to do anything but stand still. I never thought I'd witness that first hand, staring incredulously at onlookers watching a scene straight out of a daytime dramedy. All they needed was the popcorn.  A convulsing individual is laying right there on the ground on the Broadway Junction Station platform and everyone's standing around watching -- some shocked, some amazed -- wondering what happens next. Folks that just got off the Manhattan bound J train stare at the person on the ground (I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman), then at each other, their faces all reading: "So... who's gonna move?"  But the reality is that if anyone moves, they'll miss out on the action. The drama . As if there's a scripted ending prepped and packaged for th

I'm still  practicing: Love, Hurt, Release. Laura's usual spot was occupied today. The booth directly by the door allowing her to slip out just as quickly and quietly as she crept in was currently filled with a couple and their teething toddler, but the waitress had a better option available for her. "Right this way, Ms. Banks," Bethanny offered. "I think you'll like this spot just as much." Bethanny always waited her table. She was perky, flashing warm grins as she took orders from customers about a tenth as joyful as she was. With a polite smile, she followed her cheery waitress across the old diner -- without admiring the sweeping walls lined with portraits, records and autographed napkins of ritzy clientele per usual -- to a roomy, corner booth. The early afternoon sun bathed the toffee brown leather seats, warming the spot where she sat. She removed her scarf and coat and tossed them on the other side of the marble table.  "Ooh, I lov

Live. Be. Write. Go. Laugh. Live. See. Smile. Write. Then live again. That's the rolling agenda for this new year. This 2014 that I'm trying my damnedest not to plan from top to bottom. Because c'mon, we all know that when we swear by resolutions and make sweeping promises to change, things don't always go as planned. I'm not trying to chastise the "New Year, New Me" crew, trust me. I'm learning to just go with the flow with things and let life unfold organically. It's just better that way. Organic. For me at least. And I'm the most important part of this equation. I've learned that this year. Well, last year now. Just let life happen, and be present to record it as it does. Go with it. Make it work. My happiness was controlled by so many agents. So many hands were in the pot, trying to give order to a life that I haven't even experienced to the fullest yet. And I'll admit, some of that was my doing. I'm a compulsive planner