I 
I 
I 
I 
I
I
I
My head is officially empty. I can hear the
beginnings of thought in there, rattling around like marbles on a vast tile floor. Some have
argued that these marbles were lost long ago. To quote Bart Simpson, "Au
contraire, mon frere." They are in there – but are unable to connect
with each other in any meaningful way. It was that kind of December.
For the past couple of days I’ve been trying to come up with my word for
2006. It’s a tradition that I lifted from the Austin American- Statesman’s Michael Barnes, who I used to have lunch with on a
fairly routine basis as part of a group of area arts writers. Each new
year, Barnes and his partner write down the word that they will focus
on in the coming year. Since I know a wonderful tradition when I see
it, I co-opted it as my own. Given the sorry state of the inside of my head, I can’t quite remember
what all of my past words have been. I know I have written about this
before but can’t even begin to remember where. The Internet is no help,
nor are the piles of crap I have on my desk. If my current state of
empty continues, I’ll need to leave a bigger trail of breadcrumbs in
the future. If I recall correctly, 2004’s word was “patience.” Patience went OK,
frankly. I finally began the process of being patient with myself –
something I suspect I’ll be relearning every damn day until I drop
dead. Some demons were calmed via patience, not so much by actively
fighting them but by accepting them for what they are. Metaphorically,
I knitted little sweaters for my crusty, scaly demons and made them
objects of both affection and mockery. While I can’t recommend this
course for everyone, it worked for me. This year’s word was “create.” I am certain about this, because I
suffered from a rare case of good sense and wrote it down. I’ve had
more success with this one. In 2005, I made a whole new person, who is
now starting to show us who he may be underneath the uncoordinated and
helpless baby costume. So far, he’s a lot more mellow than his sister
ever was. That’s not to say that he’s a breeze – I mean, he’s still a
baby – but all of the things that ticked the Diva off as a babe just
roll right off of our Dude’s back. He abides, mostly. The one exception
seems to be travel. The Dude detests being strapped in the carseat,
much less being forced to sit in it for longer than 30 seconds. We are
hoping that he will overcome this or that we will all learn to not hear
the screaming.
I also made a book this year, which is actually going to be published
by a real live publisher in the summer of 2006. This is something I
never, ever thought I could do. While I can craft a moderately amusing
essay, the prospect of connecting over 50,000 words -- much less adding
a beginning, middle and end that anyone would give a shit about -- was
terrifying. But a little heart-stopping fear is an excellent motivator,
as are deadlines and contracts. Only a few know what is between the
proverbial covers at this point. This baby, so to speak, has been
delivered, and now we are cleaning it up before it gets introduced to
the world. It’s a weird, thrilling limbo. Like any good mom, I think my
baby is the prettiest baby ever. The world, however, may disagree.
Also on my list of things to create was another book, one of fiction of
the space opera sort, complete with vast alien landscapes and feats of
derring-do. This didn’t happen, what with the new baby and the new book
and the old day job. Frankly, I look back on what did get done and I am
amazed. The trick, I’ve decided, is to just not stop to examine the
daily chaos too closely. The muse likes to visit those who are moving.
One day, this philosophy may bite me in the ass. It may not, though,
and that’s what keeps me content. I’m at a loss, however, for what this coming year’s word will be.
“Restore” tempts me, especially given my current lack of intelligent
thought and deep unwillingness to go look for it. But I know me too
well. If I try to focus on restoring for too long, it will become utter
lassitude, where even leaving the couch becomes too great an obstacle.
Some would argue that that is what my body and soul need, if that is
all it wants to do. It isn’t. There are just a few short hops from
melting into the couch to collapsing into a full-blown depression. That
much free time gives me too much room to wander. I start imagining all
of the bad things that can happen and am convinced that my children
have some dread illness. I don’t do down-time with any grace. I am a Doozer, not a
Fraggle. That said, I've taken the last few weeks to do nothing more
complicated than baking a few cookies and knitting a few gifties. By
February, I’ll be itching to move again. My restoration periods don’t
seem to last more than a few weeks. If I try to extend them longer than
they want to be, nothing good will result. Committing a whole year
would be silly. There is just too much I want to do. My hope is that I’ll know what to do next by the time I’m actually
ready to do something again. The idea for the book I just wrote came to
me in a flash and felt inevitable. This may be a once-in-a-lifetime
thing. But I’m waiting for another flash, where the universe (or, more
likely, my subconscious) tells me what to write next. I have four or
five ideas that I like equally well. I’m waiting to know which one will
finally be ripe enough to bonk me on the head like Newton’s apple. I
have to trust that this will happen. I’d like to pick “trust” as my word but that would be too easy. I’m
already pretty trusting – not gullible, but trusting. I’ve also been
tempted by ‘purge,” but that is something that I already do. I don’t
like to be a slave to my stuff and know that if I have too much of it,
I can’t find anything, which renders everything useless. Really, I’m
pretty good at chucking things that don’t add to my life. What I save
are pictures, books, warm clothes and yarn. The rest is just in the
way. As I type this, the word “listen” wanders through my empty head. It
echoes, a bit. “Listen.” It has promise. I don’t listen enough – to
my
kids, to myself, to silence and to chaos. I think you learn more when
you listen, even if it feels less rewarding than talking. Up here in
the vast wilds of upstate New York, we are entering the quiet season,
where the sound of snow falling has its own aural texture, one that
can’t be duplicated in any other climate. Yes, listen seems like the
way to go. Perhaps the sound can help fill the emptiness.
____________________________
About the Author:
Adrienne Martini has been a theatre technician, apprentice
massage therapist, bookstore bookkeeper and pizza joint waitress. Eventually,
someone started paying her for her words and an editorial mercenary was
born. She has written theatre reviews and features for the Austin
Chronicle, blurbs about tofurkey and bottled water for Cooking Light and
a piece about knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. She is
a former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee's Metro Pulse and
recently picked up an AAN award for feature writing. In July 2006, her first
book Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood will be
published. During the day, she fields freelance gigs and crams
knowledge into the heads of college students in Upstate New York. At all
hours, she is mom to Maddy and Cory, and wife to Scott.
