Friday, May 2, 2014

No One Addresses the Pope as Frankie

Being Bipolar can be so weird and frustrating.

On the upside, when I'm on a creative roll nothing can stop me. Not the endless chatter or pleas from my 8 year old nor the prospect of watching an independent movie staring my favorite actor while sipping on a hard cider. 

The downside comes when my brain won't turn off and let me go to sleep. My eyes are sore, achy, and dry. My wrists have feel spikey and my butt has become one with the kitchen chair. I've taken to writing in a yellow spiral-bound mini notebook, words spilling out of my head, and pages rapidly filling up.  

I desperately want to sleep but fear that if I put down my pen in favor of slumber I'll lose the muse.

I have the plot story-boarded across my bedroom wall, so I realized the other day that I could write chapters independent of each other. While soaking in the tub or as I like to call it the "Writer's-Block-Away-inator" I came up with the name and back-story for an integral character.

So for a exerpt into Chapter (Number TBD) "No One Addresses the Pope as Frankie"

    I woke up days later. Or was it hours? I tried to piece together what had happened. It turns out when you come into a hospital unconscious with a head injury standard protocol demands that all clothing is cut off ensuring your last shred of dignity won’t stand in the way of all the diagnostic tests to be run. Sticky monitoring pads are Krazy-glued to your chest, neck, and scalp while various tubes are inserted to either pull out or push in fluids.
   I appeared to be in a private room. The shades were drawn but a dull light filtered under the door. A toilet flushed and the running tap suggested that someone was in a bathroom connected to this room.
    The light extinguished and the door swung outwards slowly. This person was taking great pains to be discreet, but the shrill squeal of the hinges gave it away.
    “I’m so sorry. I’ve woken you.”
    “No. . .it’s. . .it’s. Wait, am I dead?”
    “Why would you think that?”
    I looked at the man standing next to me. His voice was like warm butter, sliding across the top of a fresh baked biscuit. Stubborn auburn curls tumbled across his forehead. He attempted to tuck a stray ringlet behind his ear, but it bounced free like a naughty child escaping the confines of a smothering hug.
    His eyes. Those eyes alone I could talk about for hours. Magazine articles said that his eyes were slate blue. In TV interviews his eyes seemed to be green. But as I stared up at him, I realized his eyes were like the color an angry sea. I thought about the summer afternoons I would watch the afternoon showers roll in across the Gulf of Mexico. As the waves churned and pounded the sea wall, I could see colors of grayed sand, purple bruised waves, silvery minnows, and green mermaid foam.
    What?
    What the what?