E.J. Eisman's Blog, page 5
August 21, 2014
Look Ma! No Numbers!
As I mentioned before in Grass, the apartment complex has taken it upon themselves to repave the parking lot. It took about two weeks, and how I looked forward to having my numbered parking spot back. I coveted a little place to call my own, even though others occasionally felt the need to inconvenience their neighbor to be a little closer to home. There have been several memos from the management, as of late, in regards to people parking erroneously. In an empty parking lot, it would be only mine singled out for this special honor, and it really pissed me off, leaving me plotting my revenge with tacks, or maybe an ice pick to their tires. Of course, I would never do that, because, after all, it’s only a parking space. My parking space; the one I pay for in my rent. The place I’ve had for six years now. Well, not the entire six years, several years ago a re-pavement had my numbered space moved two spots up the hill. The trauma of that still etched in my memory. With bated breath, as I watched them pave, I waited and hoped that my number wouldn’t wind up in another township by the time they renumbered.
Numbering parking spaces gives you a sense of community. I knew my neighbors cars. I knew their routines. I knew that if there was a foul smell coming from their apartment, and their car hadn’t moved in months that perhaps someone should look into it. No one had a spot right in front of their apartment. That was just a given. Everyone was inconvenienced a little, and that’s what made it fair. It sucked for friends coming over, because they had to park out in left field, wishing a tram would come pick them up. If my parents arrived, I would give up my spot for them, so they would have to walk up or down that hill. It was a comfort knowing that there was a little piece of macadam my own. Asphalt. Road. Pavement. Surrounded on two sides by white lines, when the neighbors didn’t get too greedy and territorial. Oh, the joy of having to sandwich between two parallelogramed cars running askew to the rest of the world.
The paving was done and the parking lot was still closed. The lines down, the words (no parking and fire zone) brightly reflected from the dark surface. The smell of new parking lot filled my nostrils with happy thoughts of having my spot back. The lot remained empty for two days, like an empty sea in search for its boats. The neighbors walked on, and children laughed and played in this fast emptiness. All wondered when the numbers would be painted as the days ticked by. I was at work, when it opened. As I drove home, I could see that cars were parked there. There was light at the end of the tunnel. No more wet feet from trudging across the field. My own little spot back. I felt a tear well in the corner of my eye, as I pulled in. My tires road on the new pavement, and I thought I heard, “Ahhh.” I looked around, but there were no numbers? But I knew my place. I knew where I had parked for the last six years, and I pulled in. The lamp post, located at the front of my parking spot, was always my guide. I stepped out of the car triumphantly. New pavement! No more potholes left from the bitch of a winter we had past. I didn’t have to keep my head down now, fearing stepping into an abyss. Chin up! It’s all good. The pavers will come back. They’ll mark my spot again. And that is when I found the note on my door. No more numbers. Park anywhere. The management takes away one more perk.
August 8, 2014
Grass
August 7, 2014
Grass
I never really thought about grass. I never really had to since I moved into my apartment, and I just assumed all that will be taken care of. I could smell it when it was cut. I used to cut my grandfather’s grass when I was a kid; used to get $20 bucks to trim his yard. When I had a home I was inclined to chop my grass, do the weed wacker thing, etc. But, something has changed at my apartment complex. They are repaving the parking lot and also they are digging out the concrete sidewalks as well. So, in my dress shoes on the way to work, I am forced to trudge across a grass filled hill. Now, I think about grass every day, having to navigate this bumpy, overgrown, dew ridden field. Now I have wet shoes and socks in the morning as I hover around my 55 barrel drum of coffee, soaking feet under my desk. Grass has been come the evil in everything.
I stepped from the field this morning, my shoes shinier than they’ve ever looked; grass and dirt hugging to the tops and sides, like it was trying to escape some prison of their own doing. I find myself having to bend over and wipe them off with my fingers, trying at least to pretend that the tie, and dress pants are part of the ensemble. I’m trying to look nice. I’m trying to look decent. But it’s the grass. It has a long history of being bad.
My parents would complain about grass stains on my jeans as a kid. Mom, they are jeans! I’m a kid! What do you want from me? Grass as an adult, “Aren’t you going to cut your grass?” And this I could never get; what is the perfect timing for grass cutting? I was never able to achieve it. It was either too much or too little; not to mention when it rains. WTF! Suddenly, it grows four inches overnight, and seeds pop out. Anyone that knows about grass, that is not a good thing. It means you will be spending your weekends putting down new seed or sod down until you are exhausted, and with a broken back.
The field I cross is not level. It’s part of a hill that slopes from the main road. It’s great to think that if it rains, I won’t be washed away, but because of that, there are all these drainage holes that you could step in and twist your ankle. Oh, they aren’t marked. It’s a crap shoot walking across. You have to be a psychic in order to navigate these forests of grass. Most of the troughs are over grown, so you never know how deep they go. Sending out sonar might not reach back to you before you step. I’ve noticed not even animals will cross this place without assistance; crossing the Les Miserables barricade would be easier with the French troops firing upon you would be easier.
When I was in Hungary, they didn’t cut their grass. This was a revelation. Not that there was a lot of it, but it was foreign for them to even think about the trim. Grass there wasn’t lush and green, it was just another weed that lived in a yard, and you need to machete through to get to your overpriced, Communist made car that had no air conditioning.
Now some have their minds in another place when I talk of grass. With the advent of many states making “grass” legal so smoke has created a whole new culture out there. Well, it’s been there, but it’s been underground. Now, like others, they can smoke the stuff out in the open. I have to say, when I was a child, I knew the difference between that and a tobacco cigarette. When I was at Great Adventure in the seventies, waiting in line for the log flume, I smelled it. When I was at a late showing of Pulp Fiction, there were two guys in the front of the theatre smoking. I really think the management waited for them to get over the munchies before they called the cops to have them taken out. Business first!
Well, hopefully the parking lot gets finished soon, the sidewalks get poured, and things get back to normal again. My shoes will appreciate that.
August 1, 2014
New Adventures of the Old Interns
July 31, 2014
New Adventures of the Old Interns
As I’m looking through the resumes of potential applicants for intern this coming school year, I am reminded of interns past, the specter of them still haunting my writing room, filling my senses with wit, charm, and way too much perfume. I thought this would be a good time to get you caught up on what they have been doing, and to make those applying feel vastly inferior, and tremendously insecure, although perusing these pathetic pages of prose it doesn’t seem that I need to try that much. So, to catch you up on last year’s crew of three, Miss X, Mister Y (the man-slut), and Miss Z, all English students at a local college, you might remember that Miss X and Mister Y were having a thing. Well that didn’t last. I know, SURPRISE! But I did get a high five for bringing them together. They were happy while it lasted, but they remain bitter enemies. Like cats and dogs, they have their politeness for a few moments and then like a scene out of Wolverine, out come the claws. I guess that’s what happens when you date a man-slut. Here is a update to their status.
Miss X: Still in college, looking to graduate with a Bachelors of Arts in English, in 2015. She’s on to dating someone new. She’s changed her hair color to dirty blond, and she still likes to read James Patterson and Jodi Picoult, and writing poetry. She misses the time she spent here, and is looking forward to hearing about the next group of people coming in. I remember her as the organizer for the group. She had a plan for everything, and was very organized. Took great notes, and made me sound better than I should.
Mister Y: Still in college, looking to graduate with Bachelors of Arts in Communications. He has a job working for the Fightin’ Phillies (AA affiliate of the Philadelphia Phillies), in the main office (getting coffee, donuts, etc.), but sometimes appears in costume on the diamond. His band, Kudos, broke up, but he’s looking to start another, soon, before he loses the calluses on his fingers. He is into the Robert Ludlum Bourne series, Tom Clancy and Tony Gilroy. His times here will always be remembered, so he says! We shared a love for whiskey, and the way he can put it down, I don’t think he’ll have many brain cells left. I know I don’t have too many left, either. LOL! I miss the music jam sessions we had when we couldn’t think of things to write.
Miss Z: Graduated this year with a B. A. in English and is looking for a job (any takers?) She keeps up her blog site on cheese making, and is spending her down time writing her first novel, about nineteenth century French monks who developed specific cheeses. I’ve given her all the encouragement I could, about the novel, and she still asks me all kinds of questions! She reads historic novels and has some stories (I hope none make it to her cheese blog), about her intern time here and researching Malaise and (what became the) Mariline novel. She was an excellent researcher, and the fastest Googler in the west. If you needed an answer for something, she would have it before you could even ask. I’d like her on speed dial if I ever made it to “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”
I wish them well. I miss them writing the blogs for me, organization, and researching, but with a new group, there is new blood, and that brand new car smell. So if it seems like I’m not myself, well, you’ll know why. Here is to the new interns! See what you have to look forward to?
July 25, 2014
Goodreads’ Questions
July 24, 2014
Goodreads’ Questions
Being a Goodreads author, they’ve invited me to answer questions of my fans and dissidents. To start the ball rolling they’ve provided me with the following to shake the cobwebs:
How do you deal with writer’s block?
I try to avoid it as much as I can. I keep to my scheduled time of writing and if I’m not working on my book, I blog, I work on short stories, or plot out something I’m already working on. I have lots of ideas. Just because I’m not putting them down on paper doesn’t mean I’m working. Playing out scenarios in my head helps later when I sit down at the keyboard. Steven King says something like just suck it up and do it. You want to be professional? You have to act professional. “Sorry, boss, I don’t feel like doing that today,” will get you where? I go to a number of writing circles, and they offer that you pick a number of words you could write in a day, say 200 words. You ask yourself with the worst day you could image (dog dying, cat eats the fish, kid breaks leg, flat tire, etc.) could you write 200 words? 200? Sure? Set that as a goal and stick to it. It exercise for the mind, and like other exercises for it to have an effect, you need to keep at it. Write? RIGHT!
Where did you get the idea for your most recent book?
I was dating a nanny I met on Match.com in 2009. One day, we were lying in bed, and the idea came to me; what if she was working as a nanny for my estranged ex-wife, didn’t know it, and the child went missing? I played out a number of scenarios in my head and in 2010 (she abruptly dumped me in March, and was doing the single thing at the time) I wrote in the NaMo thing and wrote a version of the book. It’s changed many times since then (5+ drafts), but it still follows the themes about personal security on the internet, giving second chances, and everyone has baggage.
How do you get inspired to write?
I find my relationships are what inspire me to write. Not that I write directly about them, but they sometimes provide genesis for ideas. I try to keep a schedule to write at work over my lunch time. I put on Mozart and let the music take me. I can usually bang out ~1000 words in an hour, but I plan out and think about what I’m going to write before I do.
What are you currently working on?
The book is called Mariline. I like to call it a paranormal thriller. It’s a tri-angle between two brothers and a nanny. The one brother, Kevin, is an ex-cop, ex-heroin addict. The other brother, Aiden, is trying to rehabilitate Kevin. Carol, the nanny, is dating Aiden, not knowing she’s working for Kevin’s estranged ex-wife. Mariline is the ghost of the drowned daughter of Kevin that appears when Kevin gets out of rehab, and sets things into motion.
What’s your advice for aspiring writers?
Read and write often. Believe in your work. Every day is full of learning and living experiences, use them wisely. If the work is personal to you, it will be to the reader.
What’s the best thing about being a writer?
All the frequent flyer miles you rack up in your brain. I’m out of my body so much, being other people and seeing other places, all in my mind, sometimes it feels like a vacation. It’s fun to go away, with old friends (my characters) and make their lives miserable. My problems don’t seem so bad after that.
July 21, 2014
Ode to Coffee
Ode to Coffee
Monday mornings are more than a reason for coffee. I don’t know what you experienced over the weekend, but mine I really try to get as much out of them as I can. I know changing kitty litter doesn’t sound like a “wild wacky weekend” but to each his own. I won’t judge you, if you don’t judge me. I was sitting at work this morning with a with a my droopy eyes sucking closed. A waft of coffee comes from the kitchen, I know, high class that we have a kitchen in our department, a co-worker is grinding beans to make the first pot of ‘wake-up’ of the day. Soon the drip, drip, drip of black gold seeps through the carefully crafted paper filter and a full carafe is available. The smell is wonderfully strong. It does wonders to my bleary eyes still kicked in the head with sleep. My body floats like a cloud, blowing by as I get up from my chair and go to the upstairs cafeteria for some other coffee. Like a lot of things in life, convenience is just too damn convenient.
The elevator took me to the first floor and my apparition was passing by others in the same zombie coma. Not a “Good morning” or even a “Hello” can be heard, just the grunt of acknowledgement from a kneejerk response of the cerebral cortex. Cro-Magnon would have spoken in a greater literary prose than could reach my tongue in this stage. Even baby talk would be more recognizable at least as a form of speech. I am embarrassed that I can write and yet nouns and verbs are unknown to me before coffee. The morning pox has taken hold and the remedy is a good stiff cup of Joe.
At the counter, I am presented with multiple choices; stong, decaf, flavored, bold, light and plain old hot water for those wusses that drink tea. I drink tea in the afternoon or in the evening. Tea is not made for breakfast unless you are sitting in a tea house with starched linens, dainty tea cups, classic English scones, and you have your pinky available for being poked into the air. I grab a cup and start work on creating the perfect cup. First 2% milk. Why 2%? Because I don’t want 5% milk fat and half and half is way too much milk fat in the morning. I want my stomach to be excepting of my breakfast meal, I don’t want it to think the coffee is the meal. Then, two Splendas. I don’t use sugar. I know I’ll be dead before you, I’m aware of that fact, you don’t have to tell me how bad inverse sucrose is bad for me, with all the aluminum and other by-products that appear in the fake sugar. I used to use three Splendas. I started to feel sick during the day, so I cut back. It was easier to stop smoking.
OK, milk and sweeteners are in, now for the coffee, flavored; Jamaica Me Crazy. It has a nice flavor and it doesn’t rip a bigger hole in my ulcer. My parents learned to drink coffee black after years of cream and sugar. I just can’t do it. Like doing a shot of Irish whiskey, more liquid would wind up back in the cup. Coffee is meant to be savored, so I have a sip. The caffeine goes to work on the rest of my head and I’m starting to recognize signs, people’s faces, and holy shit, I’m at work! It’s amazing the things you can do before coffee. It’s kind of like waking up in your bed, in your pajamas, after a night of heavy drinking, thinking “how did I get here?” but not really wanting to ask or know the answer to that question. I have another sip. I’m able to order my breakfast from the cook. Wow! This stuff really works! I see a co-worker and say, “Hey!” They say “Hey!” back. I can tell they’ve had their coffee also. The brain activity is now in full steam. I’m really in a delusional state now thinking I can begin work. I might even be able to get through the day.
I grab my food, which I finish at my desk, read my emails and the day begins again. I look at my calendar and see that I had scheduled the day off. DOH! Well, maybe I can move it to tomorrow.
