Tuesday, April 26, 2011

How come ...

I began my writing this evening with a small frozen daiquiri from a drive-through window. We have those here, in southern Louisiana. I actually never had to leave my car. I drove right up to the window on the side of the bar and told the girl at the window, whom I have known since before she was out of diapers, that I wanted a Margarita flavored frozen daiquiri. This was served to me in a styrofoam cup with a straw for convenience. A fast-food drunk on the road. I don't get it either. The whole business seems to me to be a recipe for disaster, but I am responsible enough not to take even one sip until I am back at home, out of my car, and comfortably ensconced for the night.

And I always try to sip slowly, as I imagine one would have sipped a mint julep out on the veranda of an overly large plantation home. Thinking about the plantation home necessarily creates images of slavery and abuse, spoiling the taste of the julep and breaking me unpleasantly free of reverie. As I strive for a more appropriate image, comes the pondering.

... after I have had just the right amount of an alcoholic beverage, words I have been searching for all day, all week, maybe for months, begin to tumble and roll and literally drop from my fingers. Forcing me to struggle to keep them from spilling all over the floor and oozing out the door and across the patio and plunging into the bayou, streaming inexorably to the ocean, exposing every thought I ever had not only to the gator and that awkward looking bird looking back at me from the water's edge but to every living thing on this earth.

How come?

How come words can't find me when I am already sitting at the keyboard, coffee cup comfortably close by, when I'm feeling lazy and at ease with myself and the world? How they can't line up, obediently, and stand there without moving until I can get them in their proper places, with time to check the hemlines, and the dirt behind the ears, and make the necessary adjustments?

I want to write sort of slow and southern with a little bit of sassy. I tend to believe more words are better than less - as long as there aren't too many more. Just enough to temper one's progress across and down the page, allowing time to savor the journey and encouraging the reader to sit back, settle in, stay awhile.

How come my words can't fall like that? Why does it always seem as if there were a pendulum swinging relentlessly between rush and struggle and absolute dearth of ideas? What do I do when my glass is empty?

2 Comments:

Blogger Ossian said...

Well the words there sound the way you said you would like them to be, pretty much, though maybe it is other words you are thinking about. I've just dropped in and had a read of several posts that I see I've missed. Liking the pictures below as well. I'd like to try a daiquiri some time and a margarita for that matter - never have yet. Though I finally managed to try a Cuba Libre about a year ago. I'd like to try a few more classic cocktails. Meanwhile I'll settle for your descriptions. I like the sound of mint julep - always did like the sound of that.

6:11 PM  
Anonymous mickiemichele said...

Thanks for stopping by, Os. I actually wrote about the drive through daiquiri because of you. I think, perhaps, it is unique to southern Louisiana. Most places have 'open container' laws that won't allow you to have any liquor of any kind in your car unless it is still sealed in the original container.

6:42 PM  

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