Hitting the Triangle at the Right Time

I'm in the dining room, the warmest room in the house, back on Blogger, tapping the keys, attempting to hit something, anything (maybe it's the coffee pot—which I've already too often hit—or, maybe it's the pavement that beckons me, walk! or, it might be—or should be—the books, or maybe it's my damn forehead) at the right moment. Smack. Harder. Smack. As it turns out, I hit my forehead more than anything else. And it hurts. 

This snippet, from a paper cutout taped to a black and white photo found on Bennington alum Mary Ruefle's website, was this morning's flash moment:

Mine is like the role of a triangle player in an orchestra. 
Every once in a while, I have to hit the triangle at the right time. 

British musician/producer/composer Nitin Sawhney's answer to How does the orchestra's triangle player earn a living? (From The Guardian):

No one in an orchestra is paid by how many notes they play. They're paid, and rightly so, for the amount of time they spend in rehearsal and on stage. You might think a triangle player's job was pretty easy compared to, say, a first violin, but just think of counting all those bars' rest and what happens if you come in wrong.

Sometimes, I experience extended moments wherein the weight of time flattens me. The brows are thinning, people! I don't want to come in all wrong, I haven't the time! Jesus, how long do I have to wait before hitting it? And can you imagine if a writer were paid for the number of hours she put in sitting at her desk? Rehearsing? Waiting? Smacking her head with the palm of her hand. Repeatedly. Rehearsing some more. Waiting, waiting, waiting. To hit it. Smack, smack, smack. It might actually be worth all those hours of self-flagellation.

I'm going for a walk...



I'm back. Wait. Wait. Waiting... Rehearsing... smack.

- - - - - - - - - - - 

I'm going to pick up the kids at school...



I'm back. Wait. Wait. Waiting... Rehearsing... smack.

On Bennington:

Here's the best thing about a writing workshop: You cannot escape from what you've failed to include. There's an (rhetorical) inquisition: Why has the shell hardened? Are you rich? You have kids(!)? Is it dead or gone? Are you ok? Are you wearing snowshoes to write? 

Mute answers: I'm not sure (maybe I used the wrong adjective—or the wrong WIP altogether). Hell, no. Yes. Both. Yes. Hahaha... um, bad metaphor. Really bad metaphor.

Writers are reading between the lines. They are scrutinizing the subtext. This is good, yes, but I'm thinking, They are all so much smarter than me. How did I get here? Perhaps I hit the send button, with my writing samples attached, at the right time. Yes, that was a triangle at-the-right-time moment!

My two essays were workshopped on the last day of the ten-day literary vortex that was my first residency at Bennington. Pretty easy compared to, say, a first violin. From there, I lunched and vortexualized with my new writerly vortexees (and, boy, do you ever bond quickly with writerly vortexees), and then set out (a little weepy) for my three plus hour drive back home. Counting all those bars' rest. Lulu kept me company on the phone for the last half hour stretch through Rhode Island, right to my front door. What happens if you come in wrong? There, she waited for me with a great big zealous embrace. 

I waited a long time for that hug.

(Lulu knows precisely how to come in right.)

Happy, happy I was to be back home with the orchestra. Waiting, rehearsing, even smacking the head. You see, what I've discovered is that, as impatient as I am, I can wait. And don't I enjoy being a triangle player.