My Brain is Full

         This is how my brain feels:  when I pour dry dog food into a Tupper Ware container, it fills up and almost spills over, but I tap the container on the counter and there’s just enough room for everything to fit.

          My brain is full of new names, new faces, new stories.  On Sunday, after church, I went out to lunch with “the usual group.”  I know their names but am just now finding out details about their lives, their pasts, their opinions and ideas.  I’m noticing more details -their eyes, their hair, the way they move their hands when the talk, what they like to eat, how they eat it.  I was impressed that Leahanna’s napkin was neatly folded on her lap, in one piece, where mine was completely shredded by the time I’d finished by turkey-pastrami Ruben sandwich.

          After lunch I picked up Joan, the octogenarian poet who has been – oh, I shouldn’t say hounding me – telling me about the two poetry groups she belonged to in Houston. I told her when fall came I’d start up a group.  I submitted an article to the Kerrville Daily Times and got one call, from a fellow who said he was a retired cowboy. So I knew there would at least be three of us.

          When we pulled up there were people standing around. I said to Joan, “Who are these people?” then realized they were poets!

          I had set chairs up in a circle and made a sort of agenda: information on the Poetry Society of Texas, American Life in Poetry, etc. Plus, I had books and journals to give away, or share.

          It was an eclectic group -which is one of the things I love about poets and poetry, the variety:  a white haired couple, the man read a rhyming poem, the woman a serious, religious poem; wonderful Ellen who took my creative writing class read a short poem and one by Kay Ryan, US Poet Laureate; a fellow read from a small spiral-bound notebook, poems he’d written in 1978 and 1981 – I hope this group will inspire him to write again; funny Arzie from the Tuesday class we both take at the Dietert Center read a serious poem about a Marine dying in combat; George, the man who had called, moved to Arizona in 1949 to become a cowboy and also was a race horse jockey. I said, “You don’t sound like you’re from Arizona.”  He said, “I’m not I’m from Brooklyn!”; a fellow with an oxygen tank had a little booklet he’d compiled of the poems he writes every Christmas, humorous, rhyming and very entertaining.  Both Arzie and George had been Marines. Leahanna is a pacifist, her poem was about peace.  Lorraine didn’t share this time.

          I felt my body relax as I heard each poem and realize that I’m a poetry junkie, I need my fix of fresh, read-out-loud poems!  I love the intimacy of being in a small group and have faith that this group will grow, change, evolve.  We’ll meet the Second Sundays of each month.

          Monday I taught my first session of my ten-week class, “Writing Your Life.”  As always, before I let anyone talk about themselves we did a quick writing exercise. I wanted to see how comfortable everyone was with taking orders and reading aloud. They all did great.

          What I particularly enjoy is finding commonality between the students, who otherwise may seem so different. This time we have two men and eight women.  Frank and Fern are back, from my creative writing class. I warned both of them I may repeat “assignments” (which I should start calling “prompts” I suppose), but they didn’t mind.  Most of the people are retired but one is a dog trainer who has trained another participants dog.

          After everyone read what they’d written, based on five random words, they told why they were in the class.  There are all levels of writers, some new, some experienced. I handed out a list of twelve opening lines from memoirs I own and asked them to choose one that inspires them and just write a couple of pages.  I emailed the assignment to two who couldn’t make it.

          That evening I had a conference call with Libertarians from all over the state. As is my way, I took notes throughout the meeting and before I knew it, the next day I was agreeing to help manage a Yahoo group. I posted a photo and Laura the county chair of Bexar County (a Spanish word pronounced bear, which includes San Antonio) posted many helpful documents and data bases for us to access.  There were ten counties (out of Texas’ 250) on the call and I felt pretty good about what I’m doing here in Kerr County, which includes going to the Argument Group on Wednesday morning to hand out information. The three guys there asked me to come back next week – the Libertarian who had responded to my letter to the paper was not there. 

          Tuesday I interviewed the President of Wells Fargo Bank for the cover article of the Kerrville Business Magazine. I had no idea what to ask a banker but was impressed that his reason for wanting to go into banking was watching It’s a Wonderful Life, when he was young. I found out that Wells Fargo gives millions of dollars to charities, and recently gave $100,000 to the Red Cross of Bastrop County to help fire victims. Over 1,500 homes have burned there.

          The same afternoon I taught at Art 2 Heart – only three kids, but we had fun talking and writing about food.

          Wednesday I thought I’d catch up on my writing but after the gym and lunch I had long conversations with friends and family and was too tired to generate any new thoughts. 

          I have three close friends undergoing surgery in the next ten days. I know they’ll be fine, they’ll each get through it and be better afterwards, but I know from my own experience that surgery, and the drugs they give you, take a toll, not to mention waking up thirsty and only getting to suck on ice chips.

          I finished a nice Kindle Single called Animalish by Susan Orlean and have started Little Bride, about a poor, orphaned Russian Jewish girl, who becomes a mail-order bride, sent to America. The language is poetic and lush and has swept me back in time so that when I’m at the gym, reading while I ride the recumbent bike, when I stop peddling and look up it takes me a minute to remember I’m in Kerrville Texas not Odessa and it’s 2011 and time to hit the arm machines.

          And now, on Friday, it’s time for lunch. But I promise myself that after I’ve eaten I will get back to writing my memoir. Unless I’m sleepy, then I may take a nap.