Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Quickwrite: There's A Place...

Surrounded by 3&1/2 mauve, wall-like structures. I sit at the Dell keyboard and complete today's task. The screen at which I gaze is flat and stands upon a beige, speckled, desk-like surface attached to 2 of the "walls."  Joining my virtual page on this surface are many different items I either need or should discard: mounds of papers from years of assigned tasks; organizers containing pencils, stickies, tape, scissors, markers, and more; outdated pictures of the two for whom I come to this desk each day; videotapes memorializing an initiative, reclaimed from someone's trash in hopes they'll be needed again; Mrs. Dash to flavor occasionally meals I bring; a mug for coffee rarely brewed; my purse, work bag, iPhone...

My thoughts begin the litany of reprimands I daily pile upon myself for continuing to exist this way in this space. Before I can go too far down the slippery slope to Why-Am-I-Still-Here-Ville, my internal conversation is interrupted by sound a couple cubicles behind me. Tuning in, I hear the secretary question my colleague to respond to a caller's request. Another colleague sneezes to my rear left, and 2 versions of blessings are called over other "walls."

As my brain, thirsty for some problem to delve into, begins looking for the files containing everything about the rituals surrounding sneezing, a message interrupts it's effortless flow. The vent diagonally above me is blowing a little more than my bare forearms appreciate. The hands at each end are growing cold; but, a glance down confirms thoughts that the nails aren't blue...yet. I wonder if the extra effort of lifting my nails higher than normal creates enough energy to prevent my fingers from growing too cold; my fingertips barely touch the keys due to my nail-length.

While I ponder the naked growths and edge close to a mild verbal pop for not taking the time to polish any of my exposed nails, I feel the beginning pangs of hunger. No odors have instigated this physical response. I haven't eaten since yesterday and need to refill. Not too much, though. Why take in more energy than I'll expend sitting here, entombed in this office-like structure?

Monday, June 4, 2012

Ma Weeze's Kitchen

Picture it, Jersey City, 1976. (Yeah, I'm a typical product of the tele-sthized generation.) Looking back it couldn't have been more than 8'X10'. Even as a preschooler, I knew it was small. Ironically, I can't recall feeling hugely special anywhere other than that room - Ma Weeze's kitchen, where love was poured into me like sweet, rich hot chocolate on a bitterly cold winter day. Ceramic and metal pots and pans were tools used there to create edible tokens of love for me.

Ma Weeze, or my great-grandmother Louise, was my caregiver before I entered formal schooling. Under her skillful manipulation, dough would form into perfect texture, becoming clean circles with the aid of her deftly wielded drinking glass. Cooked to a golden brown and plated with syrup made by someone's aunt, the biscuits yielded every ounce of their buttery goodness to my waiting taste buds and warmed my belly in a manner only done at home.

Concomitant to the filling of my belly was the filling of my heart. Under Ma Weeze's adept execution of her love recipe, my world-worn tank would reach capacity, becoming symmetric and whole with the aid of her soft caresses and honey-coated words. Satiated to capacity and edified with wisdom made by decades of nurturing, my heart thrived under her care and elevated me from peon to princess in a manner only accomplished when the sole recipient of concentrated love.