Rumors Run Rampant
As if life isn't exciting enough, . . when I checked my email, this jumped out at me:
“Kelly is this alarming post about you true?”
And this:
“Harmful and damaging events from your past may have surfaced . . . ”
Then this:
“Things don’t look good for you Kelly”
"DANGER! Will Robinson . . . "
“Kelly, Deleterious Post About You About To Be Published”
I clicked over immediately. Horror of horrors! Could it be that someone is spreading rumors about little ole me?
“ +++++ Potentially Upsetting Information Posted About You ++++ ===========================================================================
Alert: JJ-P-1904127903
Kelly negative events from your recent past may have been posted to your online file
”
Someone is TRASH TALKING me!!!! Who? . . . Of all the nerve! . . . What were they saying???
You know I was temped to follow the link. Who doesn't want to know what they --those busy-bodies--are saying about us?
Of course, I know better . . . (But it was on my mind)
Haven't. . . (Maybe it wasn't even about me. There are lots of people with my name...like that basketball coach. . . and that realtor--)
Yet . . .
But then I got to thinking: That's what they want. For me to follow that link, right?
There are no doubt scads of folks out there who do follow the link. Where does it take them? What horrors are waiting at the bottom of that particular rabbit hole?
or . . . OR . . . (That niggly curious cat voice is what gets us. . . )
Sure, I know it's a ploy to get me to click on that link, leading to some sight. But, what if there's a really great PRIZE I missing out on by not following the link???
To think there are people out there who spend countless hours coming up with ways to SPAM us. What if these same folks applied their considerable creative talents to real problems, To paraphrase Dr. Suess, Oh the things they could think!
What did I do? . . . What didn't I do? . . . Does he-she-it like me? . . . What do they know? . . .
That got me thinking. Here's my thought: Let's give them something to talk about.
MAKE IT GOOD!
Click on SUBSCRIBE if you'd like to receive email notification when entries are posted on Kelly's Fishbowl.
CURSED with Call It What You Will!
“What is the daydreaming equivalent to flaneur?”
I asked my know-it-all friend Google.
“Flâneur (pronounced: [flɑnœʁ]), from the French noun flâneur, means “stroller”, “lounger”, “saunterer”, or “loafer”.Flânerie refers to the act of strolling, with all of its accompanying associations.”
—Or should I have written equivalent of flaneur instead of to flaneur—Halt! Scratch that! (Grammarian-digressions are not “writerly." They are more excuses to drift away. Write now, fix later . . . )
I guess the idea is to imagine listening while daydreaming about strolling into the blur.
Good old Google directed me first to Flaneur Audio. A fuzzy woodlands image and a playlist of “0 minutes; 0 titles.”
Why do I ask? You ask:
Because “daydreaming” is too passive, to harmless-sounding for this affliction.
The next Google link took me to page 133 of a treatise entitled “A Short Phenomenology of Flanerie” which was, I assure you even as I hyperlink, is no treat to read.
(And no, “Flanerie” it is not a misspelling of “Flannery.”) However, Flannery O’Connor’s Slow, deep, Suthun' drawling style is sort of what I mean in asking the question.
Maybe Flannery's prose read slowly because she didn't have A/C. Was the summer air was so dense it weighed heavily on her hand so she couldn't write fast? Did she go out to the porch to cool off before writing fast-paced scenes?
Why do I ask?
Because “daydreaming” is too passive, too harmless-sounding for this WHAT-DO-YOU-CALL-IT? Affliction . . . nay. CURSE!
A CURSE which most recently led to me being stranded in JFK airport at 6:02 am. It struck like this:
Right on time—albeit night time: 4:00 am—I revved up the Long Island Express Way toward JFK airport. Happy the forecast-ed snow hadn’t hit, I hit the almost empty highway with my mind tuned to nothing.
Then, I started thinking about that snow and like snow, my mind drifted . . .
ZOOMMMMMMMMMing along, thinking fluffy, puffy, snowy ideas . . . ZOOMMMMM . . . Past the exit—
Congratulating myself for coming to in time to catch my mistake, I flipped a U-turn, and circled back to the entrance. No worries.
The radio station was replaying the same set it has been playing for the past week. I knew all the words, so I sang along as I drove. Until somehow, I wasn’t singing, I was thinking. Thinking through my stories…about Vampire Baby . . .
Her poor brother. . . and where his unsuspecting parents would make him take Tootie next . . . and what’s she could bite—
WHAAAA WHOP WHOP WHIRRRRRRRRR Sirens! Flashing lights!
I clutched the wheel, scanned traffic, focused as I rolled passed the 1 ambulance-3 squad car-2-car smash-crash
Which got me thinking about boys . . . how they are born with car noises BUBBBBBBBBBB. . . . Max had been . . . Then I got to thinking about Baby no-teefers-yet Ben, and how pretty quickly he’d have teeth. Will he be a Vampire Baby? Then I got to thinking what Ben might bite. . . . what kind of stories will Ben make up and will I imagine stories for him . . . lah lah lah . . .
Monsters….and trucks….Mickie Knudsen’s brilliant, funny, don't-I-wish-I'd-thought of it Big Mean Mike.
About how it reminded me of Visitor for Bear
And why? Because Mike and Bear are grouches?
I'm a grouch! Could I write about a grouch? What kind of grouch?—
--WIZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
I glimpsed a sign for the Mid-town Tunnel as I zoomed past . . .
I hit the pause button. I didn’t remember signs for the Mid-Town Tunnel on my way to the airport? I didn’t think so, anyway—
I took the next off ramp, which also happened to lead to a gas station, which made me feel more smart than stupid as I was going to have to fill up the rental car anyway, so really, this was a fortuitous overshot (overshoot?) as I could now double-checked the route on Google Maps while fueling--I couldn’t have gone tooooo far past the airport turn off--good thing I’d left so early. . .
Determined not to make any more mistakes, I flipped a U-Turn. This time, paying strict attention to each Google Map lady instruction, I drove straight back to the airport, to the rental car return where a robot recording told me to go inside. So I did, and waited for the attendant to stop kvetching with her colleague and pay attention to me, which she eventually did, and after a quick comfort stop clomped purposefully to the Air Train station where I responsibily checked the directory, found Jet Blue’s location and boarded the next train .
Maybe it was the chug-chugging that got to thinking about trains, and train books, and what if my story—the story I didn’t know how to fix—what if I put a train in it—lah-lah-lah . . .
. . . I came to in front of the Caribbean Airlines desks with nary a Jet Blue desk in sight. Why? Because I was in Terminal 4, not 5—
I wasn't phases. (OK, I was, but just a little bit.) The swirling ideas had infused me with wonderment and possibility even this detour couldn’t dispel.
All the way on walk back to the Air Train and the ride back to Terminal 5 and the longer walk to the check-in counters I held tight to the feeling and the ideas--a mind stuffed with BRILLIANT MUST-DO ideas!
In hearing this account, some—not my family—might applaud this . . . this. . . Imaginitis. A gift! They might call it. This kind of dream thinking is vital! Imperative! It’s what makes writers WRITERS. It’s the path to going deeper to our best stories!
That's certainly what I was thinking: “What a gift!” as I waited in the correct queue at the correct terminal, “What a gift!” as I made my way to the check-in desk, “What a gift!” even as upon hearing my destination the airline rep checked her watch. If she had smiled and said “welcome” I might still be thinking "What a gift!"
But she didn’t.
Now, instead of a head-full of insights, solutions to my story problems, brilliant ideas, what I have to show for this latest bout of whatever the correct term for this daydreaming equivalent to flaneur is is a bill for another flight, a day-long wait in the airport, another flight to Miami followed by another wait, and a sore tailbone.
This is NO gift . . . .
So I ask again, WHAT IS IT?
Is it OCD/ADD? Is it a writer-itis? Is it that hormonal stuff? Or that aging thing that can be cured with heavy doses of Sudoku and crossword puzzles?
Whatever it is, help! Help! Cure me from this daydreaming equivilent-call-it-what-you . . .
. . . Wait!
I just thought of something . . .
Click on SUBSCRIBE if you'd like to receive email notification when entries are posted on Kelly's Fishbowl.