SURRENDER

Not by choice, I have become a loner. No, I don’t like it but it is now imbedded in my guts, guts that have tied me, strangled the years, the joy from my soul. That is, if I ever had a soul. If I did, it has evaporated, disappeared, leaving me with pens, paper and my computer to whom I am devoting my mind, my sanity. Sanity is still a surety but something, something big, is clouding my electric impulses to write 15, 16 hours a day. I had better listen to myself before it is too late and adjust my wires.

O.K., Self, go slowly, cut down to 12 first. Clock your writing time and stick to it down to 10. As a creature of habit, a lot of my ‘writing’ time is filled with thinking. Don’t try to wheedle out, count the time ‘at work.’ Tomorrow go for a walk, get outside, stop for lunch, tomorrow. Stop that. Not the next day–tomorrow. Do it!

Dragons breathing fire trample me. I try to get out of their claws and run, run to my wife waiting in the far off castle. The dream is an omen. Get out, get out from under. Live, you may find happiness. It’s possible, but not likely, a new love.

I do my usual in the early morning, have coffee, toast heaped with butter, a bowl of Shredded Wheat. Every time I eat that straw I think the same thing. Am I crazy? This is as bad as eating dried up hay must be. Who are the other idiots who keep General Mills in business producing this crap? I laugh at myself and finish the shreds, the cold milk and every last blueberry.

And there he is, my very best friend, Mr. Computer, ready to send me to Word Perfect by rocket ship. Yesterday’s notes seem to float on the screen. My internal clock has no alarm but my watch does. 11 A.M. already. I do one more page and send my friend to Hybernate Land. So far, so good. I shower, rub myself briskly, shave dress comfortably, good walking shoes that have not yet walked and I’m out the door.

The fresh air invigorates me. Blue skies excite my imagination and I turn back to the house to get my pent up feelings into print. An hour flies away. I grit my teeth and leave the house again. My shoes feel great and the blue sky is even bluer. I walk to Le Chaise for a rare, leisurely lunch. ‘ My waitress has on a yellow starched blouse with ‘Daisy’ embroidered on the pocket. ‘ Lox/ eggs and onions–Nova, lox, onions well sauteed, a bagel with everything on it and good, strong, hot regular coffee.’

‘Stupido! Why didn’t you bring your writing book? This place is a gold mine of characters.’ As I search the faces, I realize the table next to me has all the flatware for four diners on top of paper place mats. I ask nobody to do my dirty work, stand, move all the flatware to the middle of the table and confiscate the place mats I can write on both sides and accomplish a lot. Slyly, at least I think unobtrusively, I study some of the faces, moving mouths, outlandish caps and my pen moves on its own volition. I am almost, but not completely, unaware that others think I’m insane.

My lox/eggs and onions arrive. Miss Daisy takes me to task. ‘Why did you mess up the other table? If you needed paper for your scribbling, I would have given you some.’ ‘Daisy, I apologize. I’m really sorry. It was a spur of the moment foolish act.’ As she stood there I folded my two word covered pages and sat on them, handed her the two unused. It was ‘shut up’ time and I attacked my lunch before the eggs would be cold and tasteless. Daisy’s eyes burned thru my back as I neatly returned the salt and pepper to their place of honor, put my used fork, spoon and knife on my almost empty plate and set my wooden chair straight.

The walk home, combined with over-eating, made me sleepy. Was my hot coffee drugged? I put the messy writing next to my computer, waved so long to it and went upstairs for a few minutes rest. My walking didn’t stop when my eyes closed. A big, black bull was standing in a field of yellow daisies, snorting, pawing the earth. The bullfighter in the yellow shirt dropped her skirt and ran screaming from the charging beast. My heart was racing so fast, I woke up, a little dazed. The dream didn’t die as fast as most do. Was it a premonition, an idea to put into practice? Was the bull my bruised ego? Did the yellow bloused Daisy send me an invitation by dropping her skirt?

The digital clock blinked and changed to 3:35. ‘Go write,’ I told myself and myself answered, ‘Not now. I’m taking a vacation.’ The walk did me a lot of good. On the dining room table for tomorrow, I left my writing book, two published articles of mine from last week’s Niagara Star.

Under the chair, I left my walking shoes and clean sox, ready for a corned beef on rye, fries and a smile at Le Chaise.