Journal Entry: June 29, 2014
It was early. I was watering the lawn. The sun was still hiding behind marine layer and our street was quiet. It had been hot the last few days. Finally a bit of June gloom. The breeze cooled my sun-browned skin—you’re as brown as a berry, my Dad would say to me as August approached. I watched the grass drink. Here’s what I realized in that moment: I was in a rush to be done. In this gorgeous, perfect, feel-good moment in time, I was in a rush.
I rush. I rush a lot. I rush from one thing to the next. I’m not fickle. It’s not that. I’m loyal, sometimes to a fault. I’m loyal to my clients and I’m a loyal client. I’m loyal to my friends, my family and my husband. When I rush from one moment to the next, I’m not loyal to myself.
Sometimes, the journey is a good thing.
I like cleaning. I like making something go from dull to polish. I love bleach and I love being clean and having cleaned. Feet up on the coffee table, arms crossed, I survey the sparkle and shine of my clean wood floors, white whites and sparkling surfaces. (Geez, I sound like a friggin’ commercial.)
I love writing and I really love having written!
I enjoy editing too, but I love the finished product even more.
At the end of a good book I’m sad that I won’t be visiting that world anymore. I miss the immersion into another person’s language. I once had this friend who could speed-read. She made the biggest deal about it, she was proud that she could rush through a good book. Okay, if I could speed-read when I was at UCLA I would have maybe been ahead of the curve and caught up just once. Other than that I just don’t get it. I don’t want to speed read The Great Gatsby, The Poisonwood Bible, Memoirs of a Geisha or a poem by Richard Jones or Ellen Bass.
Sailing, now that’s all about the journey. Sailing is something you do to get nowhere. We’ll take the boat out for a few hours and go back and forth, towards Marina Del Rey, back towards Palos Verdes, tacking and jibing in and out of the wind. Still, after three, four, or six hours on the rough Pacific, (should have been named the Belligerent Ocean) I really want to get there already.
The ride to the orgasm is amazing. So is the orgasm. I’d like the ride and the orgasm to last as long as possible.
I want time to slow down and I want to slow down with time. I want to lick it, feel it’s texture on my tongue, taste the sweet thick syrup slide down the back of my throat. I want to savor each moment. Ahhhh the irony of the human experience—being in such a rush to grow up and get there that when we finally do, we want to go back.
*** This is an excerpt of something I’m working on for my next book.