I argued, and I lost.
Before I explain much further, you must know I am world class arguer. I hold titles in three separate divisions, have broken almost every record for endurance, speed, and distraction. Also, I’ve been known to continue arguing long after my mouth has closed and words cease expelling. Very recently, in fact, I founded my first eponym. It happened like this:
“Do you know who I’m talking about?”
“Oh, her? Yeah, she’s Carable.”
“I know, isn’t she?!”
Who do I argue with, you ask? Mostly myself. And occasionally my husband. Speaking of that dear soul . . .
My husband, he rarely demands his way. It is quite possible he is the most agreeable person on the face of the Earth. If you do not like my husband, there is something wrong with you. He’s not just nice, he’s niiiice. I’ll save singing his praises for another post, as I tend to be discursive when blogging. Something about sticking to the point is extremely difficult for me. Go figure.
Anyhow, Michael is not particularly stubborn — at least not when it comes to holding ground over the trivial and petty. Moral issues, black and white, good and evil — yes. My days as a movie-hopper ended when I met Michael. I tried to corrupt him. Didn’t work. The little stuff, though, where to eat dinner, what T.V. show to watch, who gets the last of the left-over chow-mein — not so much. The answer is always the same, with some variation. “Whatever you want.” or “You can have it.” Easygoing, amenable, perennially calm; this is Michael.
What is it that they say about the quiet ones? “It’s always the quiet ones.” Right? Well, it is. It’s always them. They have this thing they do. A magical power, if you will. They have the ability to take the loud ones much larger, bigger, bolder opinions and SQUASH THEM. If they want to, that is. The reason I am world-class arguer is because Michael lets me be. He allows it to happen. For when — and it is rare, mind you — he decides something is important . . . Well, it’s all over for me and my records and titles and blabaddy, blah, blah.
Michael has decided I should — will — share the prologue of my book with you. I didn’t want to. For one — and I know some of you will appreciate this — I am a mollusk; my feelings are hurt far too often and needlessly. I have spine; I just have less fluid than the rest of you thicker skinned mammals. I’m not calling you walruses or anything, just to be clear . . . I just hurt. I’m fragile. Again, another day, another post.
My first response to him when he “suggested” I share was: “But this isn’t my ‘writing’ blog. This is my ‘everything else’ blog.
Like taking the dairy out of milk, was the look he gave me.
He’s right. I cannot not write. (Sorry about the double negative. Me grammar ain’t so well.) Even when I’m not writing, I’m writing in my head, trying to take the moments around me and figure out how I would make them work on the page. It’s maddening and awesome, the writer’s quandary. Upon thy spouses’s request, it is without further ado, (Blissful Adventurer, I stole that from your post yesterday, I hope you don’t mind.) I give to you the prologue of Awakening Foster Kelly.
I flexed my fingers, and spread them over the ivory keys. Chopin’s Nocturne in F Major pulsed through my finger tips, whisking me away from the dissonance of the day, to a place of pure tranquility and relaxation. Within moments my spine had softened—a reed bobbing with the cadence of the piece. I embraced the dark, feeling my way through the song without any need for sight. The song began as somewhat of a lullaby; sweet leisurely notes gently depicted tranquil moments. The high belling overtones danced, rising and falling like a bird painting the sky with its flight pattern. Beneath the unmistakably beautiful notes, there remained a constant and much lower melody – another bird – barely spreading its wings, but enough so that it didn’t tumble to the earth or drown in a lake. This little bird, ordinary in shape and color, flew in a steady line just above the ground, hardly daring to look above her and not really having the desire to ever do so. She was careful not to disturb the other creatures of the air, letting them spin and flutter, and do all the lovely things that birds are supposed to do. A beautiful butterfly took pity on the pathetic bird, trying to coax and nudge her higher in the sky, flapping her vibrant stained-glass wings to show her how it’s done. With one last appeal she fluttered high and dipped low, flagrantly expressing her disapproval. This was no way for a bird to live. She had wings; she should use them. Getting nowhere, the butterfly disappeared, leaving the little bird to her dull and perfunctory life . . .
. . . until she could no longer control it.
Stormy notes, beastly in temper, rioted in rebellion. Where there was once peace and predictability, there was now chaos and danger, and it was all the little birds fault. With her head down, she had not been watching where she was going and collided with something – a beautiful black bird with eyes like the royal sky – never expecting to find another creature this far below the trees. In her few years of life, she was certain she was the only one who sought out this deserted existence. This mistake would cost her everything. Plummeting the short distance to the earth, she succeeded in frightening, and then enraging the more extraordinary bird. He made angry noises, leaving the little bird terrified and confused. She questioned herself, wondering if it would be better to live her life on ground, or find a nest away from anyone who could be bothered by her presence.
There was a decision to make.
I hope you enjoyed it. If you have any thoughts, I would truly love to hear them. Just, please be gentle. Words cut much deeper than knives. Thank you 🙂