The Best Laid Plans
Indonesia has many things—some which can be found no where else in the world. Other things, which may be available every where else in the world, can not be found in Indonesia… As it happens this is the case with the one mandatory medication on my list. And, because my doctor is in Singapore, this also means that I have to go to Singapore to get my medications. This isn’t such a problem—especially as I fly back and forth to the US fairly often. There are several pharmacies in the Singapore airport and they are happy to refill prescriptions—without a prescription—as long as you show your passport and a ticket on a flight departing in less than 24 hours. It’s common practice among expats in Indonesia to ask friends to bring back med—not always comfortable being the one doing the asking (especially when the meds you’re asked to “pick up” are for man/woman issues)…but that’s another story. Unfortunately, this time around, I didn’t have a friend conveniently stopping in Singapore and my medication isn’t readily available. And so I fretted about having enough to last until my next scheduled trip to Singapore in March.
One night, the solution to my medication lack woke me. Duh…..I had booked a late flight to Singapore so I would spend as little time in transit as possible before catching the 2 am flight on to Houston. Why not just schedule an earlier flight? Singapore is an easy country to enter and exit, my bags would be checked all the way through, so all I’d have to do is rebook onto an earlier flight, catch a cab to the doctor, pick up my prescription, have it filled right there at the hospital, cab it back to the airport and wait around in the lounge with my computer, drinks and eats for a few extra hours….problem solved! I called the doctor, organized the prescriptions, called the airline and rebooked my flights, packed my bags and flew off to Singapore.
The problem with tight schedules—even not so tight schedules—is that delays happen, and did happen today. For undisclosed reasons, my flight from Jakarta left late, which got me to Singapore late. As preplanned, I called the Doctor’s office when I got of the plane. However, instead of the usually harried receptionist voice answering, I got a message saying the office was closed. That’s when I looked for a clock and saw that it was past 5—closing time. Remaining calm, I assured myself that my doctor is always at the office late. I have been there much later than 5 pm, 7 pm even and still waited. So, I pressed on—on past baggage claim (because I didn’t have to worry about bags) on to the Immigration (with no lines I whizzed through) on to the Taxi queue (which meant one other man and me) and onto the highway, all the while reassuring myself that the doctor would be in his office and I would get my prescriptions, or if worst came to it, I’d take my almost empty box to the hospital pharmacy and beg them to call the doctor for a refill. But somewhere in the back of my mind, even while reasurring, I was worrying. That’s the only reason I can find for what happened next.
I had the nicest cab ride ever. My driver, Kao, a nice-looking chatty Singaporean in what I thought was his mid-30s but was actually his 40’s, with 2 daughters and a wife, dropped me at Mount Elizabeth hospital. I rushed inside, attacked the elevator button and it uncharacteristically responded by delivering an Up elevator immediately. I speed walked down the deserted hallways to my doctor’s office—which was, thankfully, relievedly open! I rushed in, said “hi.” The receptionist said “hi.” The nurse said, “her prescription is in the box.” The receptionist fished it out. Wee exchanged “See you in March! Happy New Years!” and I started for the door. That’s when then the other nurse, Betty, came out pushing a wheelchair in which a woman about my age, with bed flattened hair and an anguished face sat. The woman didn’t look up, just rode past clutching her plastic bag of medications. The woman’s husband followed behind. And behind him wheeled a computer bag that looked exactly like my computer bag….My Computer Bag!!!
My Computer bag, packed to bursting with make up and medications and jewelry and camera and my computer and my files and my books and my presentation materials had been with me throughout the flight, the airport, immigration, taxi queue. I distinctly remember my delightful cab driver—whose name I wish so desperately I had asked, whose receipt I wish fervently I had taken—deposited in the boot of the taxi…
Heart racing, blood pounding out Morse code “idiot idiot idiot….” I hurried back downstairs hoping my driver was stuck in the taxi line waiting for a fare…after all, it had only been a 15 minutes at the most. He wasn’t.
I rushed to the first blue cab I saw and motioned for him to roll down the window. I explained what had happened and asked if he could call the dispatcher as quickly as possible because the cab driver couldn’t have gotten far. The cabbie did not look at me—refused to turn his head, but did shake it. No he couldn’t/wouldn’t help me.
“But, do you have the dispatch number?” I asked.
“No,” he said, motioning me away.
“Can’t you call them?” I asked.
“No,” he waved me away.
“What do I call?” I pleaded. “I need help.”
“Call 8-0-0” he instructed.
I backed away, pulled out my phone and dialed 8-0-0. I got one of those beepy, your call can not be completed signals…. I tried again. Same thing.
My computer, my jewelry, my books, my presentation were in the cab that left. And it had been blue….the same blue… I raced forward and planted myself in front of the shotgun window. I tapped and motioned for him to roll it down. He did. I explained that 8-0-0 had not done anything and I needed a number to call. He motioned for me to leave him alone. I repeated that I needed a number. He waved me aside, motioning that there were people the queue behind me who wanted a ride…
That was exactly what I needed to know.
I moved in closer to his window. “I am not moving,” I said. “I am going to stand here until you give me a card, a number, something, some place I can call to get my bag back…”
He motioned me away again.
I told him I wasn’t moving again.
He looked past me as a woman got into the cab behind him.
I repeated, “Give me your dispatcher number.”
He said, “It’s on the side of the cab.”
I looked. It was. If only he had said that to begin with.
So I let him go and went inside to the relative quiet and dialed the number. I was anything but calm as I punched buttons—and then repunched the buttons after having selected the wrong options. But finally, the operator came on the line. And I told him that I had left my computer bag on the cab. And he put me on hold and left me listening to music through one ear, with the other ear plugged because I wasn’t hearing very well—especially not over my thumping, pounding heart. And then the operator returned and asked my information, and asked me for a local number, which “I don’t have,” I explained, because I am a tourist in Singapore with only my Jakarta number, and only a few hours before my flight leaves (while I said this, I thanked, for the first time, rather than cursed the 2 am departure time of my Houston flight.)…Then the operator asked—in the slowest possible speak ever---what my bag looked like and what was in it?
And I considered understating the contents. But then thought, shoot, this is my bag filled with lots of really valuable stuff, which I could live without, and I could replace (as I had, thank you, Curtis, backed up my files before I left) but replacing anything/everything or going without to the States would be a hassle, to put it mildly, so why minimize this sitation? I spelled out exactly how important this bag was to me. And then asked why was he wasting time asking all this information—just put out the dang call to the Taxi cabs…now….pronto…. ahora-tita… before I lose it and start crying.
And he asked if there was a number where I could be called back and I repeated that I was a tourist, with no place to go and no number other than the Jakarta number…And he put me on hold.
I prayed as I listened to the hold music. Prayed for help. Prayed for strength. Reasoned with myself reassuringly, reminding myself of all I had, and that I could live without anything, everything in that bag if need be…but please don’t make me…..
And then another dispatcher clicked in. And I told her about my drive: that I caught the cab at Terminal 2 at about 5:05 exactly (because Singaporeans are exact) and all I could rememember about the driver: that he has with a wife and 2 daughters, is tall and thin with very close cropped hair, looks to be in his mid-30s and used to live in Ocean Beach, San Diego and work in the food and beverage industry, but returned to Singapore because his mother wanted him home and had been driving a cab for 6 years—and had dropped me off at Mount Elizabeth hospital about 5:20 and had not given me a receipt (although he had asked, and I, for the first time in my life, had refused—stupid, stupid) and I did not know the cab number… it was blue….
I think...
And she put me on hold.
And the hold music changed to an admonition “please wait for the operator…but if you would prefer immediate service visit our website. You can book a taxi on line…” And I waited, and fretted, and paced, and wished I could straighten this out on line, and watched out the window in hopes that the cab driver had noticed my bag and returned to return it…and waited…and prayed….
Then the music stopped and the operator voice told me they had, in fact, located my cab driver...Kao, and gave me his number.
Kao laughed when he answered and said we had “both forgotten my bag and he would return in 10-15 minutes.”
And I waited and watched. And he did. And I took my bag and thanked him. And gave him some money to compensate him for the trip back and his honesty. And then we said goodbye and I went inside to finish my business with the doctor, which had in fact been finished while I was waiting for him to come back with my bag.
So all I did was go inside to use the restroom in hopes that he ( the cab driver, Kao) would leave while I was gone, because I was suddenly very embarrassed.
But he was still there—first in the queue. So I climbed back in his cab. And we laughed and chatted. And when I left, he reminded me to “keep a watch on my bag” and I replied “I’m buying handcuffs.”
And so it goes with the best laid plans: they can sometimes are waylaid…
An Accidental Diarist
"If you want to write for yourself, get a diary. If you want to write for a few friends, get a blog….”James Patterson told Jonathon Mahler, author of the Jan. 20, 2010 New York Times Magazine article, “James Patterson Inc.” Patterson, the corporation, the Guinness Book of World Record-holding author of more New York Times Bestsellers than anyone, whose books, since 2006, sell at the rate of one in every 17 novels sold is a writer’s E.F. Hutton: when Patterson speaks, we listen.
And so I am considering his words. I don’t keep a diary, because I am not just writing for myself. I actively seek publication. I want my stories to be read by the multitudes, hoards, even. I do keep various on-and-off journals, what some might call “diaries.” My travel journal keeps me company on holidays. In it I record where I’ve been what I have done and seen and eaten, where I laid my head and if it’s worth going there again. My creative journal is on when the GGs, my creativity group, is meeting. We are currently, not meeting, so that journal is currently off. And I keep writing journals, one for each long project and an idea journal for snippets and starts—that one is always on and often switched off.
Jan 1st, 2009, I began this blog for exactly the reason Patterson said people should blog, because I wanted to write for a few friends. I didn’t set out to writing a blog. It began in 2005, as e-mail vignettes about my Jakarta life. I had only just moved from Houston to Jakarta. So many odd, exciting, new experiences were happening and I wanted to share them, so I did. My friends and family obviously enjoyed reading Jakarta News because they shared my notes with friends who shared them with other friends and before long, my list had grown to spam size—which is exactly what was happened! E-mails from me where re-directed to spam boxes. My Jakarta News was Spam??? Horrors!
That’s when someone suggested I start a blog. I know the person (who shall remain nameless) suggested a blog because then a wider audience could easily access my Jakarta News. It was supposed to take Jakarta News out of the Spam box and solve my delivery problems. Instead it practically Stopped. Me. Cold.
I became acutely, consciously and social-consciously aware that my notes were no longer intimate or semi-private. Anyone could read them! Gulp... And so, no longer comfortable writing about my Jakarta life, I began writing what I felt comfortable and free writing about—my writing life.
Turns out, my writing life isn’t nearly as interesting as Jakarta News. While before it seemed that everyone was reading, or wanted to read my stories, it now seems that no one is or wants to read what I post. But still I go on, and on, week after week, posting a blog entry. The irony of it is that while I never intended to—or wanted to—keep a diary. It seems I am. I have become an Accidental Diarist.
The last part of the Patterson quote I opened with continues: “…But if you want to write for a lot of people, think about them a little bit. What do they like? What are their needs? A lot of people in this country go through their days numb. They need to be entertained. They need to feel something."
For me, figuring out what I like, what I need, what I feel, what entertains me, happens as I write. And the confines of a blog give this rumination process boundaries. My hope is that anyone reading my diary might recognize similarities between their journey and mine, my discoveries and theirs. And so, with Patterson’s definitions in mind, the diary—or blog—goes on. Read it or not. Comment if you will. Regardless, I’ll be writing…
N1W1-SEEKING A CURE
My friend, children's book author and fellow VCFA grad, Barb Crispin sent the following note in response to our weekly group check-in:
Does anyone else notice the "no writing" virus that has infected us? N1W1 spreads through the ethernet. I'm sorry I gave it to Sharry and Kelly. Seems like Trinity has had it lately. Who's next? There doesn't seem to be any way to protect yourself.How wonderful to have friends here who will hold our hands as each of us suffers the pain of N1W1-- fear, avoidance, guilt. Once it is past, each writer picks up a manuscript thankful to be able to focus on some cherished story idea once again.
If only there was a vaccine!
Ahhhhhh, so that's what this is...
Help! Someone out there must know a cure!
TRUTH IN PROGRESS
“If you support the founding document [The Constitution of the United States of America] then you must also support giving equal rights to all U.S. citizens”--Marilyn Alexander and Gil Caldwell, founders of Truth in Progress, a national project created to promote cross-cultural understanding around issues of race, sexual orientation, and religion. The struggle for equality often gets pushed to the background when personal issues demand our time and attention. Pushing equality to the background is especially easy to do if you are Caucasian, straight, and gainfully employed, easy to do if you—by law—are receiving the benefits and the rights you deserve as a tax-paying U.S. citizen BUT…
That BUT is huge. And like all HUGE butts, especially when our own, we want to ignore it, we try to ignore it, it’s easier to ignore it, because doing something to change it requires honesty, effort, and commitment.
Fortunately for us, for the United States of America, a country founded on the principle that all people have certain purportedly “self-evident” and “unalienable rights” BUT where—for reasons of economics or bias or non-separation of church and state—all of our tax-paying citizens “unalienable rights” are not recognized, Marilyn Bennett and Gil Caldwell are not ignoring that huge BUT. The team, long-time friends and activists, have launched a three-year multi-media educational project, Truth in Progress, which aims to link gay rights and civil rights through a common interactive platform. “The fight for civil rights, and acknowledging equal rights, is always the same story,” Caldwell notes.
Truth in Progress continues what began in 2003 as an “extensive email exchange” during which Montana-based author Bennett and Caldwell, a retired United Methodist minister, shared “their personal life experiences of being black/white, straight/lesbian, older/younger, with cane/without cane, and male/female.” With the help of a $15,000 seed grant from the Rhodes and Leona Carpenter Foundation and the Montana Human Rights Network, their conversation is expanding to include interviews with activists and community leaders in cities significant to the Black Civil Rights and LGBT Rights Movement. (A feature length documentary will be released in 2013.) “Their common fight is a push to realize the full potential of the U.S. Constitution. It’s a document, they agree, that grants equality to all people regardless of race and sexual preference.”
“BUT we are the United States of America” we say, popping our heads out from under our cozy king-sized comforters. “Here, everyone is created equal. It’s written right there in our Constitution. Everyone is “...endowed by their Creator the same unalienable Rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” Isn’t that enough? Can’t we all just go along and get along? Live and let live?”
Sure we could, if this were the case BUT…
As a nation, we pledge allegiance to the Constitution, we support its tenets civically and fiscally, with our lives and our tax dollars, BUT we apply it selectively. We deserve the capital letter E brand of Equality, granting the same rights for every citizen to lawful union; rights to benefits; rights of survivorship; rights to dignity and respect.
We need this conversation to continue; support Truth is Progress.
*In 2007, some of these exchanges were published in a limited edition, Truth in Progress: Letters in Mixed Company.
2009 Recap-Redress-Review-Resolve
I'm delighted to be back home in Jakarta. It was an eventful, joy filled holiday season. I relished the time with family and friends. I am ready for some this-is-my-space-my-time-is-my-own-and-I-can-do-whatever-I-want time. (And, frankly, I was sick of every thread in the five+ mix-and-match outfits I had been lugging around for the past month and was perilously close to jettisoning the whole mess and buying new when the truth is more winter clothes are definitely not what I needed to cart back to my muggy close-to-the-equator, fabric eating/molding/decimating cupboards.) And I am eager to be where I have the time and space to write more than blog postings. Although I am puffed up proud to report that I, Kelly Bennett, kept my 2009 New Year’s resolution to begin a blog and to post at least one blog posting each week. My official posting count as of Dec. 31, 2009: 65 notes: 8 announcements: 4 drafts; some photos (not enough, but I’ll fix that in 2010). I not only met my goal, I surpassed it. Yeah!!!!!
This won't be a long stay in Jakarta as I return to the states Feb. 1st. I'm presenting at the IRA regional conference in Oklahoma City and spending a few days after in Tulsa with friends (Lexi is meeting me there.) The Bright Sky folks are supposed to be setting up promotional events for my picture book Dance Y'all Dance in the Houston area from the 10-18th, but I haven't heard a word— so no clue what is happening with that. I'm not going to sweat it; what will be will be. My mom isn't feeling well, so if worse comes to it, I'll use that time to go to Reno and visit her. The hardest part about this being a published author biz is this constant pressing feeling that I am supposed to be promoting/visiting schools/organizing all the time--while I enjoy sharing my books, the organizing takes so much time and energy, and even more of both is spent coping with the worry that I am not doing "my part." Now here is where I lapse into my version of the “in my day we had to walk 7 miles to school" bit: Back in the 80s and early 90s, when I was first published, aside from autographing at stores on occasion, authors were not expected or encouraged to do promotional stuff--because childrens' book publishers primarily sold to school and library markets--sales reps did the work. The author's "job" was to write more books. What luxury compared to this market or perish publishing world of today....Enough already.
2011 Resolution:
Be grateful I am physically able to write. Be grateful I am mentally capable of stringing letters into sensical order. Be grateful I have the time and support I need to write. Be grateful others want to read what I write. Be grateful that on some certain days, when the mood is right, the muse is willing, and the stars are just so, I write magic.
Singapore's Can-Can-Can Do Attitude
I am just back from Singapore. Curtis and I stopped off on our way home to Jakarta from the states to visit our doctors. Singapore, this tiny, progressive country clinging to the southern tip of Malaysia rivals any other—Germany, Switzerland, France—when it comes to being clean and well-organized. Their medical care is phenomenal. In the morning I stop in at the lab to give blood and urine for analysis, zip over to radiology for my mammogram and bone density, grab a snack, and by the afternoon my doctor has the results and is ready to take charge of my health management. More often than not, I leave the doctor’s office with several months’ worth of maintenance meds and an appointment for my next visit—having spent about a third less money and countless weeks less time than I would have in the United States! (Health Care reorganizers: take note!)
And to think that Singapore has only been an independent nation since 1965!
Singapore hasn’t always been so well-organized or clean. When independence was declared, it was self-admittedly (so the tour guides proclaim) a smelly, festering, disease-riddled, tropical eyesore. Then, in the mid-70’s Singapore began a mega clean-up campaign. And now, a mere 30 years later, even the reclaimed gray water is pure enough to drink. Why has Singapore been able to accomplish so much in such a short time? What do they have that others do not? I think it’s attitude.
Westerners use “sure,” “fine,” “all right,” “Okay,” “that’s a plan" and various other seemingly positive but not definitive phrases to say “yes.”
Indonesians (and native of some other Asian countries) say “yes” or “hai” to everything, whether they mean it or not, because to do otherwise is to lose face.
To give an affirmative response, Singaporeans answer “can” at least three times, quickly, strung together in affirmation: “can-can-can,” while vigorously nodding their heads.
When I informed my doctor's receptionist that another doctor's appointment was running late and could she squeeze me in later she said, "can-can-can" followed by a 7 pm call later that night saying Dr. Nair was just finishing up for the day and if I could rush over he would stay to see me.
Our cab driver answered the phone, listened and muttered before finishing with "can-can-can, okay, bye."
Waiters asked to substitute this for that, add this, do that answers, "can-can-can." There is no hesitation. There is no beating around the bush. It’s can-can-can and they do-do-do and keep on doing until a thing is well-done.
I am going to adopt this Singaporean Can-do attitude—maybe you should, too. Who knows what we can accomplish by deciding we CAN—not just once, either, or twice while we dance around the subject, but at least 3 times! Toulouse Lautrec watch what I can do when I CAN-CAN-CAN!
Nothing is Something
Henry David Thoreau wrote: “A man has not everything to do, but something…” I get so caught up in getting through my to-do lists that sometimes, like today, I get mad when I catch myself doing nothing. But doing nothing is something.
Years ago, at an SCBWI Conference in Los Angeles, E.L. Konigsburg discussed creativity and how we need negative space—white space, blank space—in our minds, in our lives, in order to allow new ideas to emerge. The only author to win the Newbery Medal and a Newbery Honor in the same year (1968), with her 2nd and 1st books respectively: From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler and Jennifer, Hecate, Macbeth, William McKinley, and Me, Elizabeth, and then 27 years later win a second Newbery Medal (The View from Saturday, 1997) Elaine Konigsburg is my hero. She is who I want to be when I grow up: a brilliant, accessible, prolific writer. All this being said, you would think that I would take her advice to heart and embrace the white space, allow myself to make nothing that something—sometimes, anyway.
Occasionally, when I consciously try, I give myself that nothing space…really I do. But often, like today—right now—instead of giving my mind time to empty, and the extra time needed for my imagination to kick up to high gear, and even more time to see where it leads me, I take over and get busy doing something—say writing a blog entry.
Earlier, when I was supposed to be doing nothing, I stumbled upon this passage by Brenda Ueland. I believe Julie Larios shared it at a Vermont College residency:
Long, Happy Dawdling
The imagination needs moodling--long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering. These people who are always briskly doing something and as busy as waltzing mice, they have little, sharp, staccato ideas, such as: "I see where I can make an annual cut of $3.47 in my meat budget." But they have no slow, big ideas. And the fewer consoling, noble, shining, free, jovial, magnanimous ideas that come, the more nervously and desperately they rush and run from office to office and up and down stairs, thinking by action at last to make life have some warmth and meaning.
And so, on this the 31st day of the old year, at the dawning of a new year, 2010, with the hope of allowing for plenty of "moodling" I make this bold and italicized resolution:
The next time I catch myself daydreaming or look back after an afternoon spent…how? and I feel those raging Puritan Ethics Monitors shaking their scabby heads over the wasteful way I spent my day I'm going to set them straight: “Nothing is something! It is what we are supposed to do. ..Elaine said so! ”
I opened with Thoreau, so it feels fitting to close with his blessing. And now, as soon as I post this, I'm going to get busy doing nothing, promise!
"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you have imagined.”
Happy Moodling!
Have Ourselves a Hope-filled Holiday and New Year!
Max, my son, graduated from Prescott College, Sunday, with a Bachelor of Arts degree in Environmental Studies with an emphasis in Research Ecology and Studio Arts. A long hoped for, joyous occasion for which 16 family and adopted family members gathered. Prescott College is an extraordinary college, peopled by students, staff and faculty oozing purpose. And, as befitting the school, this was no ordinary listen-for-your-name-march-across-the-stage-take-a-diploma-shake-hands-leave….throw-your-mortarboard-you-did-it-yeah! graduation. This was a weekend long celebration. Forty one students officially graduated Sunday; 37 attended the ceremony. Each of those 37 students was honored with a one-minute speech by her or his faculty adviser and then spoke for one-minute. You can share a lot of information, experiences, reflections, gratitude into a minute. It was a long, emotionally-charged ceremony. I left feeling the way I did after watching It’s A Wonderful Life for the first time—and I sooooooooo wanted to be a student again. During his welcome speech, Prescott College President, Dan Garvey, said (and I paraphrase):
“We can live about 3 weeks without food, 3 days without water, 3 minutes without oxygen...but we can’t survive for even a second without hope…”
HOPE: It is why we do….everything! Because we have hopes for the next second, the next minute, the next day, the next year and after that…
As mothers, we hope to see our children grow up to live the lives they dream for themselves. I am blessed to see my children, Max and Lexi, doing exactly that.
As writers, we write with the hope of transferring our ideas into words on a page. Some hopes are simple: let me write it down so I won’t forget. Some are complex: let me arrange these words in a lyrical, provocative, entertaining order. Many go beyond: after I dredge up the best words to convey my ideas, set these words on the page, arrange them and rearrange them, pleeeeease let someone else read them and understand and feel and connect with the thoughts I am hoping to convey. Some are even loftier: let an editor connect so strongly with my writing that she/he wants to publish it and thus make my ideas accessible to others.
We breathe, eat, drink, strive, because we hope to live. We write because we hope to make connections. To twist a phrase from my family’s favorite holiday movie: Hope is all you need!
May ours be a joyful holiday and hope-filled New Year!