Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

shock at 6:30 AM

Shock and a dim sense of foreboding is when you wake up in the morning, use the toilet and then go to wash your hands…and no water comes out of the faucet. It was 6:30 and so I crawled back into bed, contemplating what to tell Jeff. One part of my head just wanted to doze till 6:45, another part was Freaked Out. Somehow Jeff was partly awake and turned to look at me.
“What is it?” he mumbled.
“The faucet isn't working,” was my sleepy numbed reply.

No and the faucet isn't going to work anytime soon. We stumbled down two flight of steps and landed in a watery basement. Oh, it wasn't so bad. The sub-pump was doing its part and chugging it all out. But there was a hole in the wall, about the size of two quarters and water was just gushing out. It was quite fascinating and the more I watched it, the more fascinating it got. There was a very serene sort of sound to it. Quite like those fountains or waterfalls people rig up in their yards. The soothing sound of water, you know. It was very soothing down there- in between times when the sub-pump switched on and off.
We hustled around and got our boxes off of the ground- we don't think anything was hurt, really. One box that we got down to the bottom, hadn't even got wet through the cardboard. Good old moving boxes. So everything is perched on high, or in the section that must be a bit higher than the rest- a sort of peaceable land, where wet and damp does not prevail.

The story is, our water is turned off. The City of Batavia obligingly arrived at about 7 (they don't fuck around) and used their strength and sinew to turn the water valve off. Apparently, when someone laid the concrete sidewalk, they knocked over the box underneath that controls the valve that turns our water on and off. So…the City did not look pleased (the city took the form of two brawny men. The young one looked pissed as hell and the older had great manners and a rather sad look). The pipe has two breaks in, they told Jeff later as I had already left for work. One is for the City to repair and involves ripping out the sidewalk and the other is for the owner to repair. It will require a backhoe and cooperation between the City and the plumber.

Hmmmmm…so to make a huge long story shorter, the owner was Finally reached through a very sick relator and got the plumber. The plumber arrived and turned sick as well because he realized the pipe Had busted in the ground and that required calling JULIE. For those who don't know, JULIE is an Illinois mandate. And a real bitch. It's required by our state that we call JULIE whenever we intend to make any sort of hole in the ground. Garden, backhoe, putting in shrubs, trees, whatever. And JULIE calls everyone- the electricity company, the cable guy, the gas guy, the water guy and la-di-da. These people from various companies come out, use their little machines and figure out where electric lines are underground, cable, water mains, etc. This is, of course, for everyone's protection from hitting dangerous things in the ground. However, JULIE is notoriously slow and rather slack. And they give you a date when you can start digging your holes. For us, this time, it's Wednesday. Wednesday without water. And who knows? Given JULIE's ineptness (and the companies we pay bills to), it might take longer than that.
The owner's wife was very sweet and they offered to pay to put us up at a hotel. That's tempting but grim. I hate hotels (they're so bland and so utterly depressing and boring!) and while running water and toilets ROCK, we just thought we'd wing it. Gallons of water, refilling the gallons at neighbors (to make the toilet flush) and running over the Library to use their facilities, will the be the name of the game these next few days. Wish us luck (and sanity).

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment

 

Pocket-Sized Photo Diary

There are small moments that must be filled. They open and expand while waiting in doctors’ and dentists’ offices; in long, slow moving grocery check-out lines; or in those few, empty moments before leaving the house or office for another destination. Staring into space is my favorite pastime and generally fills up all the minutes given (and much more), but there are other waiting times when my spirit needs a gentle pick-me-up without doing much conscious work.

That’s when I open the Photo Album on my phone and start scrolling. I discovered this delight quite by accident while lounging in my therapist’s waiting room one afternoon. I was feeling flattened by living with PTSD and other health issues, and I wanted muster up a little hope before I went into my session. So in a despondent, weary way, I opened up the photo album app. To my surprise, I was greeted by pictures of flowers, landscapes and book excerpts that I had busily taken days ago and had already forgotten. I scrolled back farther and it was much the same, mixed with pictures of friends, family, pets, and friendly dogs I had met on my walks.

I discovered my photo diary which had been my pocket all this time. “I never travel without my diary,” Oscar Wilde wrote. “One should always have something sensational to read in the train.” It still holds true; nothing is so interesting as what we took notice of days ago, weeks and months ago, be it written in a journal or snapped with a viewfinder.

As days spin into weeks, months, and years, it is hard to catch hold of any kind of underlining rhythm or purpose. A photo diary offers a kind of consolation. There’s nothing sublime there, it simply marks changing seasons, interests, travels, and friendship. But perhaps on the difficult days where everything is too much including our own thoughts, a photo diary is a moment of gentle release. The lightness of ephemerality eases the heavy load of living.

 

“But life itself is short, and so you are terribly agitated by everything that is eternal.”

–Eileen Chang, On Music