I head to the Chinese restaurant when the blog idea well has gone dry; I use my latest fortune cookie as a prompt (hence, part of the origin of the blog title). This worked very well, initially, because we trained a lot more, and so could afford to eat the calorie bombs offered at the buffet. In our current state of fitness, however, this is not such a good idea.
Despite this fact, we celebrated my someday-in-the-near-future-son-in-law-to-be’s recent promotion by heading over to Wong’s Palace.
“Great,” I told myself. “Some new little white pieces of inspiration.” I might find inspiration to finally write something, after a long hiatus.
When dinner arrived, I dug my way through the starchy sweet greasy yumminess. Finally, my favorite part of the meal arrived on top of the dinner check—a whole pile of cookies, in their cellophane wrappers.
I split my cookie open. No fortune. I checked the plastic wrapper, the dinner check, the floor, Allen’s fortune cookie (in case he got two fortunes, somehow). No fortune.
This is a very weird thing.
Having no fortune in your fortune cookie cannot be good. It’s not like you’re going to have bad luck--- it’s like you’re going to have NO luck. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
The Universe, apparently, has not deemed you important enough even to send you some dire warning in your fortune cookie, telling you to be careful with a business deal, or that you have “challenges” ahead. As far as the Universe goes, you do not exist.
In reality, I am not much of a believer in fortune, or omens, or any of those shady superstitious things.
(Most of the time. I do have this weird superstition about throwing out old photos—I am afraid that something bad is going to happen to the subject of the photograph if it goes in the garbage- though this wouldn’t be such a bad fate for some of the subjects in my photos)
However, if I suspend my disbelief for a little while, and believe in the power of fortune cookie fortunes for a few minutes…. Just what exactly do you do when you have no fortune in your fortune cookie?
You are now invisible to the Universe. Since the Universe can’t see you, you can chart your own course through it. Your destiny is no longer bound to a little piece of paper.
What do you do when there’s no fortune in your fortune cookie?
You celebrate your freedom. You live your life to the fullest, not concerned with the consequences of Fate. You find your own meaning and purpose in life. You create your own destiny.
Or you realize that you don’t really believe in fortune cookies, and that you’ve gotten carried away with the Universe and Fate and Destiny—
And you remember that you think that fortune cookies taste great. And you pop yours in your mouth on the way to pay the check.
(P.S. But you also realize that you’ve one-upped the Universe, because you were able to write an entire post about not having a prompt for a new blog post. Ha!)
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Wednesday Ride
I've recently joined an online writing site, Writers Village . I've taken some good courses, both peer-reviewed and facilitated. I did one recently based on the book by Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way. One of this month's classes is "Writing the Memoir", based on Your Life as Story by Tristine Rainer. Since I love personal essay (like, duh, because most of what I post here is just that), I hope to get some good stuff out of it.
I thought I'd share my homework for this week-- nothing profound, just a few thoughts about The Wednesday Ride:
Allen and I ride bikes every Wednesday, after work. “After work” is a loosely applied term, which means “we hope to get out there and get some miles in before the road turns completely black in front of us because we never bring our headlights and the only light we get is the light that shines on our backs as the headlights run up behind us.”
The usual Wednesday ride take-off point has been at the intersection of US-1 and Swamp Park Road, parking in the grass beside the road in front of the train tracks. Sometimes, when we’re setting up our bikes, a freight train comes by, and we have to plug our ears with our fingers to muffle the deafening horn.
This parking area is where the Crazies hang out before and after the ride: a group of guys, cyclists, who spend an hour in a pace line at speeds in excess of 23 miles per hour, attempting to shake each other off the tail of the group. They stand around in the parking area in their flip-flops and spandex after the ride, swilling Gatorade and ribbing each other about their prowess, or lack thereof, in cycling—and elsewhere.
We don’t hang out much there lately. As much as I enjoy the trash-talk and machismo, I have never really been able to keep up with those guys, so I end up riding alone. It’s getting hard for Allen, too—and he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t want to keep up with them—it just hurts too much.
So we park at the State Park down the road, which has actual bathrooms and a real parking lot. We get there in the evening, and the pavilions and playground that surround the lake are deserted. It’s quiet, and we have the whole park to ourselves.
We have our Wednesday Ride ritual: we pull the bikes off the rack on the tailgate of the truck, and complain about how much our bike rack sucks. We air the tires on our sleek carbon road bikes, the tires making a quick “pop” when you pull the pump from the tire valves. I pad around in my socks, trying to avoid the rocks in the parking lot, as I collect my (very smelly) bike shoes, glasses, and helmet with my (also very smelly)gloves tucked inside. I put my shoes on next-- I love the sound the hard cleats make when they strike the pavement. I check my water bottles, bike computer, and the tires one more time. I buckle my helmet and slide on my gloves, and then hop into the saddle.
If you’re not a roadie, you probably don’t know about clipless pedals, bike pedals which attach to the soles of your bike shoes, this rendering you one with the machine. I do not particularly like to be rendered one with the machine, because I hate to fall over like a bug when I can’t unclip my shoes fast enough, but they do allow you to ride strong and fast. So-‘click’- we’re clipped in and on our way.
The Wednesday Ride must follow this exact route: it’s the law. We must take a right out of the park and onto the road. We wind past the lake and over the dam, past the bass fishermen, up the hill and around the Camp for the Blind. We coast down the small hill to the golf course—if I’m very lucky, we stop in to the pro shop and pick up some tokens so we can hit a bucket of balls at the driving range later.
Then the ride begins in earnest. By now, the afternoon has started to cool off, and we speed up, past the pine trees on either side of the road. The Wednesday Ride always smells like pine trees.
Then we get to the hairy part of the ride: crossing the four lanes of US 1, with its fast-moving tractor trailers barreling towards the interstate a few miles away. I shift down to the little gear so I can stop if I have to. Allen rides circles at the side of the road while he waits for the trucks to pass—I think he’s nuts, and I worry about him falling into the road. I breathe a sign of relief when we’re across the highway, across the train tracks, and onto Swamp Park Road.
Swamp Park Road is named, appropriately enough, after Swamp Park, the little Okefenokee tourist attraction, with its boat tours of the swamp, and its abundance of alligators. We love Swamp Park Road because it’s devoid of cars, flat, and fast. If you are so inclined, you can haul butt, rocket to the entrance of the park, spin around, and rocket back- unless, of course, there’s a head wind.
But, sometimes, we don’t rocket through the place. The Big Fire, which burned in the Okefenokee Swamp a few years ago, and nearly took the town with it, burned the pine trees down. The smoking trees were horrible, but what grew in their place is strangely beautiful. You can see for miles—nothing to impede your view but grass and bushes and the occasional lone Georgia Pine. So we stop, and just look, and are thankful we’re in the Okefenokee Swamp on a Wednesday evening, and watch the blue herons and the red-tailed hawks.
By now, the sun is starting to get very low on the horizon, and I am beginning to get nervous, because I hate riding in the dark. So we pick up the pace, dodging the odd snake crossing the road.
We work together now, intent, and silent. I draft off Allen so I can ride faster, and therefore get back to the truck faster. We spin past the park entrance, down to US 82—the route that must be followed; it’s the law, remember—and then swing back.
Now it is most definitely getting dark, and I am cursing under my breath and swearing that this is the LAST time I will ride this late—EVER—and I can’t believe how stupid this is and try to see the road using the last of the light coming from between the trees.
Finally—we coast back into the parking lot, and do our ritual in reverse. Helmet off, gloves off… but this time, it’s in the dark, and I sometimes can’t see my hands in front of my eyes.
And then we’re finally in the truck, cruising down those same roads that we just biked on, headlights on, back into town, to the Wal-Mart, to the house, to dinner, onto the couch, and then into bed, very tired.
We’ll be back again the next Wednesday, and I will have still forgotten the headlights. So we’ll ride until it’s dark, through the summer and into the fall, until the darkness falls so early that we won’t even have time to get the bikes off the rack before we won’t be able to see. We’ll wait out the winter, and when it’s finally light enough after work, we’ll be back for our ritual Wednesday Night Ride. And my riding will be slower and more tentative after the winter, I am sure, but the road and the Swamp will still be there for us.
I thought I'd share my homework for this week-- nothing profound, just a few thoughts about The Wednesday Ride:
Allen and I ride bikes every Wednesday, after work. “After work” is a loosely applied term, which means “we hope to get out there and get some miles in before the road turns completely black in front of us because we never bring our headlights and the only light we get is the light that shines on our backs as the headlights run up behind us.”
The usual Wednesday ride take-off point has been at the intersection of US-1 and Swamp Park Road, parking in the grass beside the road in front of the train tracks. Sometimes, when we’re setting up our bikes, a freight train comes by, and we have to plug our ears with our fingers to muffle the deafening horn.
This parking area is where the Crazies hang out before and after the ride: a group of guys, cyclists, who spend an hour in a pace line at speeds in excess of 23 miles per hour, attempting to shake each other off the tail of the group. They stand around in the parking area in their flip-flops and spandex after the ride, swilling Gatorade and ribbing each other about their prowess, or lack thereof, in cycling—and elsewhere.
We don’t hang out much there lately. As much as I enjoy the trash-talk and machismo, I have never really been able to keep up with those guys, so I end up riding alone. It’s getting hard for Allen, too—and he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t want to keep up with them—it just hurts too much.
So we park at the State Park down the road, which has actual bathrooms and a real parking lot. We get there in the evening, and the pavilions and playground that surround the lake are deserted. It’s quiet, and we have the whole park to ourselves.
We have our Wednesday Ride ritual: we pull the bikes off the rack on the tailgate of the truck, and complain about how much our bike rack sucks. We air the tires on our sleek carbon road bikes, the tires making a quick “pop” when you pull the pump from the tire valves. I pad around in my socks, trying to avoid the rocks in the parking lot, as I collect my (very smelly) bike shoes, glasses, and helmet with my (also very smelly)gloves tucked inside. I put my shoes on next-- I love the sound the hard cleats make when they strike the pavement. I check my water bottles, bike computer, and the tires one more time. I buckle my helmet and slide on my gloves, and then hop into the saddle.
If you’re not a roadie, you probably don’t know about clipless pedals, bike pedals which attach to the soles of your bike shoes, this rendering you one with the machine. I do not particularly like to be rendered one with the machine, because I hate to fall over like a bug when I can’t unclip my shoes fast enough, but they do allow you to ride strong and fast. So-‘click’- we’re clipped in and on our way.
The Wednesday Ride must follow this exact route: it’s the law. We must take a right out of the park and onto the road. We wind past the lake and over the dam, past the bass fishermen, up the hill and around the Camp for the Blind. We coast down the small hill to the golf course—if I’m very lucky, we stop in to the pro shop and pick up some tokens so we can hit a bucket of balls at the driving range later.
Then the ride begins in earnest. By now, the afternoon has started to cool off, and we speed up, past the pine trees on either side of the road. The Wednesday Ride always smells like pine trees.
Then we get to the hairy part of the ride: crossing the four lanes of US 1, with its fast-moving tractor trailers barreling towards the interstate a few miles away. I shift down to the little gear so I can stop if I have to. Allen rides circles at the side of the road while he waits for the trucks to pass—I think he’s nuts, and I worry about him falling into the road. I breathe a sign of relief when we’re across the highway, across the train tracks, and onto Swamp Park Road.
Swamp Park Road is named, appropriately enough, after Swamp Park, the little Okefenokee tourist attraction, with its boat tours of the swamp, and its abundance of alligators. We love Swamp Park Road because it’s devoid of cars, flat, and fast. If you are so inclined, you can haul butt, rocket to the entrance of the park, spin around, and rocket back- unless, of course, there’s a head wind.
But, sometimes, we don’t rocket through the place. The Big Fire, which burned in the Okefenokee Swamp a few years ago, and nearly took the town with it, burned the pine trees down. The smoking trees were horrible, but what grew in their place is strangely beautiful. You can see for miles—nothing to impede your view but grass and bushes and the occasional lone Georgia Pine. So we stop, and just look, and are thankful we’re in the Okefenokee Swamp on a Wednesday evening, and watch the blue herons and the red-tailed hawks.
By now, the sun is starting to get very low on the horizon, and I am beginning to get nervous, because I hate riding in the dark. So we pick up the pace, dodging the odd snake crossing the road.
We work together now, intent, and silent. I draft off Allen so I can ride faster, and therefore get back to the truck faster. We spin past the park entrance, down to US 82—the route that must be followed; it’s the law, remember—and then swing back.
Now it is most definitely getting dark, and I am cursing under my breath and swearing that this is the LAST time I will ride this late—EVER—and I can’t believe how stupid this is and try to see the road using the last of the light coming from between the trees.
Finally—we coast back into the parking lot, and do our ritual in reverse. Helmet off, gloves off… but this time, it’s in the dark, and I sometimes can’t see my hands in front of my eyes.
And then we’re finally in the truck, cruising down those same roads that we just biked on, headlights on, back into town, to the Wal-Mart, to the house, to dinner, onto the couch, and then into bed, very tired.
We’ll be back again the next Wednesday, and I will have still forgotten the headlights. So we’ll ride until it’s dark, through the summer and into the fall, until the darkness falls so early that we won’t even have time to get the bikes off the rack before we won’t be able to see. We’ll wait out the winter, and when it’s finally light enough after work, we’ll be back for our ritual Wednesday Night Ride. And my riding will be slower and more tentative after the winter, I am sure, but the road and the Swamp will still be there for us.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Fortune Cookie
I have to confess: I am not a big fan of Chinese restaurants. Especially the kind of Chinese restaurants that proliferate here in the South. Buffets laden with fried-whatever layered in sweet or salty-whatever sauce and served up with a big bowl of starch. Although very satisfying after the hard Ironman workout, the Chinese buffet, for a not-currently-in-training triathlete like me, is poison.
However, I do like fortune cookies. I reason that fortune cookies are the healthiest choice on the Chinese food menu. And unlike many people, I do actually eat the fortune cookie. And I usually eat everyone else’s fortune cookies after they get their fortunes, too. They are probably flavored pieces of cardboard shaped into a “C”, but they taste just fine to me.
I am usually more concerned with eating my fortune cookie than actually looking at the fortune inside. They rarely seem insightful to me. I do, however, enjoy the adult party game of adding “… in bed.” to the end of a fortune cookie fortune.
But I have been thinking about the fortune that I saved recently. It ended up in the pocket of my shorts and, amazingly, didn’t get incinerated in the dryer.
“You could prosper in the field of entertainment.”
If you add “…in bed” to the back of that one, I suppose it suggests that I should make a career move to adult entertainment.
The fortune is tacked up on my desk at work. I don’t even remember when I tacked it up. I noticed it when I was attempting, with little luck, to think of a name for this blog. I wasn’t getting anywhere. But I looked at my bulletin board and, there it was, pinned on top of all of the doctors’ phone numbers and other notes that I keep handy.
“You could prosper in the field of entertainment.” For some reason, the stupid little piece of paper with the winning lottery numbers on the back has caught my attention.
So, as all good scientists do, we will place this fortune under a microscope to ascertain its hidden meaning.
One of the definitions of “entertainment” in The Random House Dictionary is “an agreeable occupation for the mind.” Well, for me, the most “agreeable occupation for the mind” is writing.
I have been writing ever since I could hold a pencil. I wrote my first “Dear Diary” entry at the age of seven. January 1st detailed that I was happy to receive the little white leather diary, with “Diary” written on the cover in gold letters, for Christmas. (I was really more excited about my new white figure skates, though, because I believed that I was destined to be an Olympic figure skater like my heroine Dorothy Hamill.)
I’ve filled notebook after notebook with journal entries, poems, short stories, essays.
That stuff was mostly for my amusement. Few eyes other than mine ever saw it. It’s been an avocation for thirty-odd years now.
So, obviously, this “entertainment” business must be about writing. Ok. We have it half figured out now. Back to the dictionary.
We now analyze the word “prosper:” “to be successful or fortunate, esp. in financial respects; thrive; flourish.”
Another confession: it is my not-so-secret wish to quit my day job and make a gazillion dollars writing for a living.
So, obviously, this fortune is good news for me and I should send in my resignation and get comfortable in my pajamas at my desk at home.
However, being a scientist, I am a skeptic. I’ll keep the day job for now.
My belief is that fortune cookies, like Tarot cards and horoscopes and palm reading, are little windows into the psyche. Through them, we view our wishes and our worries.
“You could prosper in the field of entertainment.” I really don’t want to be a gazillionaire novelist. I just want to put the words out there. Thrive and flourish in my “agreeable occupation of the mind.”
Here is my fortune cookie.
However, I do like fortune cookies. I reason that fortune cookies are the healthiest choice on the Chinese food menu. And unlike many people, I do actually eat the fortune cookie. And I usually eat everyone else’s fortune cookies after they get their fortunes, too. They are probably flavored pieces of cardboard shaped into a “C”, but they taste just fine to me.
I am usually more concerned with eating my fortune cookie than actually looking at the fortune inside. They rarely seem insightful to me. I do, however, enjoy the adult party game of adding “… in bed.” to the end of a fortune cookie fortune.
But I have been thinking about the fortune that I saved recently. It ended up in the pocket of my shorts and, amazingly, didn’t get incinerated in the dryer.
“You could prosper in the field of entertainment.”
If you add “…in bed” to the back of that one, I suppose it suggests that I should make a career move to adult entertainment.
The fortune is tacked up on my desk at work. I don’t even remember when I tacked it up. I noticed it when I was attempting, with little luck, to think of a name for this blog. I wasn’t getting anywhere. But I looked at my bulletin board and, there it was, pinned on top of all of the doctors’ phone numbers and other notes that I keep handy.
“You could prosper in the field of entertainment.” For some reason, the stupid little piece of paper with the winning lottery numbers on the back has caught my attention.
So, as all good scientists do, we will place this fortune under a microscope to ascertain its hidden meaning.
One of the definitions of “entertainment” in The Random House Dictionary is “an agreeable occupation for the mind.” Well, for me, the most “agreeable occupation for the mind” is writing.
I have been writing ever since I could hold a pencil. I wrote my first “Dear Diary” entry at the age of seven. January 1st detailed that I was happy to receive the little white leather diary, with “Diary” written on the cover in gold letters, for Christmas. (I was really more excited about my new white figure skates, though, because I believed that I was destined to be an Olympic figure skater like my heroine Dorothy Hamill.)
I’ve filled notebook after notebook with journal entries, poems, short stories, essays.
That stuff was mostly for my amusement. Few eyes other than mine ever saw it. It’s been an avocation for thirty-odd years now.
So, obviously, this “entertainment” business must be about writing. Ok. We have it half figured out now. Back to the dictionary.
We now analyze the word “prosper:” “to be successful or fortunate, esp. in financial respects; thrive; flourish.”
Another confession: it is my not-so-secret wish to quit my day job and make a gazillion dollars writing for a living.
So, obviously, this fortune is good news for me and I should send in my resignation and get comfortable in my pajamas at my desk at home.
However, being a scientist, I am a skeptic. I’ll keep the day job for now.
My belief is that fortune cookies, like Tarot cards and horoscopes and palm reading, are little windows into the psyche. Through them, we view our wishes and our worries.
“You could prosper in the field of entertainment.” I really don’t want to be a gazillionaire novelist. I just want to put the words out there. Thrive and flourish in my “agreeable occupation of the mind.”
Here is my fortune cookie.
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