Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

The decay of anxiety

It has been another wonderful end-of-the-summer day. I went out on a two block walk and the thing that most caught my attention was the wind rustling the leaves. Now, most of the leaves are green though a few forlorn apple trees have lost their dressings, but most of the green maples just shift their leaves in the wind and I look up, catching the underside of seeds yet to twirl down on us.
The wind does move. It is definitely time when feelings are changing and the maples and the oaks and the cottonwoods are anticipating the upcoming autumn. For when the wind passes through the trees, it sounds like all sorts of dryness and I expect a dozen leaves to come lazily catching in my hair after a descent- but they don’t. So it’s some sort of secret that all of us are hiding, this anticipation of the upcoming cold. We whisper it between ourselves but no one says anything outright about it yet. Except the apple trees and they look very bare and quite neglected. They rushed to the party and now they’re burrowing into their darker thoughts, sitting the evening out.
I took another walk this evening, this time, a very short walk. I can’t walk very far still but that’s okay. I can still roam around a little. In my thoughts were possible avenues of escape when a sort of soft-edged anxiety comes bumbling around in my head. It’s not a large sort of panic, really. It’s the grandmother-ly type, the type my mother’s mother and my mother’s grandmother were notorious for. Their mantra was “oh dear, oh dear, oh dear”, in soft sweet chiming tones. My own form of anxiety is something akin to it. It’s the side glance of everything around me. The possible diminish and demise of toilet paper is peril fraught, the cat fur in the carpet is a growing outrage. The dvds taken out from the library cease to be entertainment and turn into duty and the delightful books, that promised so much when I took them from the shelves are now heavy tomes bound around my neck. The simplest, the nicest things turn into chores and it seems that so often, I go around with ashes in my mouth. I throw away so much energy towards work and then stumble around, frantically cleaning and sorting and cleaning and reading and knitting and watching and…everything is a chore. Ashes in the mouth.
And now, it seems, that recovery is like recovery always is: telling yourself something else very distinctly and sticking to it. For me, it is something like…”everything is just fine. Everything has a place.” and pointedly thinking of something else, like a funny line from a book or a particularly nice flower I saw. It’s almost maddening how simple it is to fight anxiety. There’s no artillery, no flying bombs, no helicopters with black suited people getting out with state-of-the-art rifles. It’s just thinking differently and being stubborn about it. And already, just from a simple walk and a simple plan, I was reading an old addition of my favorite magazine and it hit me: “It is pleasant knowing that there are things to do.” It is pleasant knowing that I have to prune the rose bush, sweep the kitchen floor, figure out what to do with my mini shelves that sit out in the rain. It’s not like anything is going anywhere- the rose sure isn’t and the dirt on the kitchen floor is resolved to stick around and the shelves don’t scream in the rain.
If I feel this way tomorrow I don't know, but it is a start.

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How to Get Through a Big Book

How to get through a Big Book and have a little fun too.

  1. Make and eat food mentioned in the book (big books always include food, usually in meticulous detail).
  2. Read a little bit each day.
  3. Make a soundtrack.
  4. Dress like a character from the book for a day. Or a week. Or a month if it really grabs you.
  5. Ten minutes to kill? Daydream about the landscape or what the characters are seeing as they move through their day.
  6. Read passages you enjoy out loud. If you’re in the right mood, record yourself reading passages and share it (Instagram is great for this). Include illustrations if you like (thank you, Shirin).
  7. Whip out a highlighter or some sticky tabs for those great parts.
  8. Pace yourself and remember, reading gigantic books isn’t a race. It’s about the journey. Might as well bring along snacks, good drinks, great lighting, and enjoy the ride.

How to Search for Story Settings

A big city not far from mine has a casino. I’ve heard a few stories from friends that have worked there. Most center on being treated badly by a customer and revenging themselves by throwing the customer’s car keys into the Fox River. Karma is enacted on a regular basis at the casino.

There’s something about that river, flowing by, murky green during the day and black at night, a bottomless pit for car keys.

The river divides the city in half, east to west. The Fox flows along the old warehouses, limestone and brick, built back when the city had manufacturing plants and industry. Now the warehouses sit sturdy and silent, crumbling ever so slowly. Their roofs are flat and give the illusion of brick walls running straight into the sky. Some were built like prosaic wedding cakes, higher and higher, until the final topping is small square with tiny windows. Industry has never been about aesthetic needs and wants.  And yet by some miracle, these old turn of the century warehouses have achieved it just the same.

I observed the warehouses from the back deck of the riverside café, clutching my cup of earl grey and wishing I had put sunscreen on. It was the first time I had ever been to this café and I came because I needed a new setting for a fiction story I was working on. None of the cafes I remembered from the past were working for me. I needed this kind of café, one that hung out in an old manufacturing city where there wasn’t much industry left. There was, at least, a casino and many local businesses and this café hung on, here at the water’s edge.

A little further up was the casino where my friends had thrown those keys into the water. From my point on the deck, I could see the grimy metallic white heel of the building jutting out. Another friend told me that he goes there regularly to play black jack. It relieves stress and earns a little extra cash for his family.

The wind picks up a little and despite the sun, it’s chilly. Spring plays these tricks on us.

There is no sign of life in the warehouses all around me. We’re all boxed in together and the light plays off their empty windows, open and blank to the sun. I sip some tea and play “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin just to see if this café will work for my story. It only takes a few bars of listening to the song and I know that this place is perfect. This spot on the river is perfect for many stories. It’s  been perfect for all the stories I know nothing about and the ones that I’ve caught the smallest glimpses of.

A mallard suns himself in the weeds that line the water’s edge. The river moves fast and sure and I turn off the music. No need to for further noise. The song is already there.