How do you feel about cold weather?
Nope
Spring Photos
I’ve been capturing a lot of flowers lately. We’re still waiting on the Calla lilies, the daisies, the clematis and the hydrangea. Everything else is blooming or almost done blooming. Special bonus photos at the bottom.
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved
Heartbreak Is Worse
Do I answer this prompt? Are they data mining? Do they want to know if we’re using a certain brand of calcium to prevent bone breakage?
Yes, I’ve broken my tailbone, though I have no idea how. I may have broken a toe, but I never had an x-ray. Other than that, I don’t think so.
Have I broken my own heart? Several times. Will I try again to break it? Statistically, yes.
Let’s segue into my song lyrics for the day:
Don’t Get Me Wrong (2007 Remaster)
The Pretenders
Don’t get me wrong
If I’m looking kind of dazzled
I see neon lights
Whenever you walk byDon’t get me wrong
If you say, “Hello”, and I take a ride
Upon a sea where the mystic moon
Is playing havoc with the tide
Don’t get me wrongDon’t get me wrong
If I’m acting so distracted
I’m thinking about the fireworks
That go off when you smileDon’t get me wrong
If I split like light refracted
I’m only off to wander
Across a moonlit mileOnce in awhile
Two people meet
Seemingly for no reason
They just pass on the street
Suddenly thunder, showers everywhere
Who can explain the thunder and rain
But there’s something in the airDon’t get me wrong
If I come and go like fashion
I might be great tomorrow
But hopeless yesterdayDon’t get me wrong
If I fall in the mode of passion
It might be unbelievable
But let’s not say, “So long”
It might just be fantastic
Don’t get me wrongSource: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Chrissie Hynde
Don’t Get Me Wrong (2007 Remaster) lyrics © Hipgnosis Songs Fund Limited
Here’s A Spider
How do you balance work and home life?
Actually, here are a few spiders. Happy Saturday.
We All Have
What sacrifices have you made in life?
“Some things look better, baby, just passin’ through.”
I’ve got nothing for this prompt, except for this song, which I’ve always liked, even though it’s not a happy tune. Have a great day, everyone.
Sacrifice
Song by Elton John
It’s a human sign
When things go wrong
When the scent of her lingers
And temptation’s strongInto the boundary
Of each married man
Sweet deceit comes calling
And negativity landsCold cold heart
Hard done by you
Some things look better, baby
Just passing throughAnd it’s no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It’s two hearts living
In two separate worlds
But it’s no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It’s no sacrifice at allMutual misunderstanding
After the fact
Sensitivity builds a prison
In the final actWe lose direction
No stone unturned
No tears to damn you
When jealousy burnsCold, cold heart
Hard done by you
Some things look better, baby
Just passin’ throughAnd it’s no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It’s two hearts livin’
In two separate worlds
But, it’s no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It’s no sacrifice, at allCold, cold heart
Hard done by you
Some things look better, baby
Just passin’ throughAnd it’s no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It’s two hearts livin’
In two separate worlds
But, it’s no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It’s no sacrifice, at allNo sacrifice, at all
No sacrifice, at all
No sacrifice, at all
No sacrifice, at all
Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Elton John / Bernie Taupin
Sacrifice lyrics © Hst Publishing Ltd., Rouge Booze, Inc.
I Will Not Give You Up
I like this question. Shocking right?
I’m not going to answer with a controversial response. Freedom for me has taken on a new definition since early March. I would call it unsolicited liberation. But here it is: freedom. Freedom can look like a lot of things. To me it looks like autonomy and a new start.
And I’m not going to lie, probably my first reason for liking this prompt is the song it made me think of: Freedom! ‘90 by George Michael. The song was my jam when it was released, and believe it or not I like it even more now. With life experience comes a different understanding of certain song lyrics. I can’t say I know what it’s like to be George Michael, and I know this song was for him a personal statement, but putting those two facts aside, I feel it in my gut (and I sing along) when he belts out, “I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me.” That line gets me every time. When the song was first released, that line didn’t stand out to me. I was more interested in George Michael‘s take. But now that I’ve lived and experienced much more than I did when this song was released, I’m understanding his lyrics in a different way. Freedom. Yeah, yeah. You got you gotta give what you take.
Freedom! ’90
Song by George Michael
I won’t let you down
I will not give you up
Gotta have some faith in the sound
It’s the one good thing that I’ve got
I won’t let you down
So please don’t give me up
Because I would really, really love to stick around
Oh, yeahHeaven knows I was just a young boy
Didn’t know what I wanted to be (Didn’t know what I wanted to be)
I was every little hungry schoolgirl’s pride and joy
And I guess it was enough for me (And I guess it was enough for me)To win the race, a prettier face
Brand new clothes and a big fat place
On your rock and roll TV (Rock and roll TV)
But today the way I play the game is not the same, no way
Think I’m gonna get me some happyI think there’s something you should know
(I think it’s time I told you so)
There’s something deep inside of me
(There’s someone else I’ve got to be)
Take back your picture in a frame
(Take back your singing in the rain)
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the manAll we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don’t belong to you and you don’t belong to me, yeah yeahFreedom (I won’t let you down)
Freedom (I will not give you up)
Freedom (Gotta have some faith in the sound)
You’ve got to give what you take (It’s the one good thing that I’ve got)
Freedom (I won’t let you down)
Freedom (So please don’t give me up)
Freedom (‘Cause I would really)
You’ve got to give what you take (really love to stick around)Heaven knows we sure had some fun, boy
What a kick just a buddy and me (What a kick just a buddy and me)
We had every big-shot goodtime band on the run, boy
We were living in a fantasy (We were living in a fantasy)We won the race, got out of the place
Went back home, got a brand new face for the boys on MTV (Boys on MTV)
But today the way I play the game has got to change, oh yeah
Now I’m gonna get myself happyI think there’s something you should know
(I think it’s time I stopped the show)
There’s something deep inside of me
(There’s someone I forgot to be)
Take back your picture in a frame
(Don’t think that I’ll I be back again)
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the manAll we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don’t belong to you and you don’t belong to me, yeah yeahFreedom (I won’t let you down)
Freedom (I will not give you up)
Freedom (Gotta have some faith in the sound)
You got to give what you take
(It’s the one good thing that I’ve got)
Freedom (I won’t let you down)
Freedom (So please don’t give me up)
Freedom (‘Cause I would really)
You got to give what you take (really love to stick around)Well, it looks like the road to heaven
But it feels like the road to hell
When I knew which side my bread was buttered
I took the knife as well
Posing for another picture
Everybody’s got to sell
But when you shake your ass
They notice fast
And some mistakes were build to lastThat’s what you get
(That’s what you get)
I say that’s what you get
(I say that’s what you get for changing your mind)
That’s what you get for changing your mind
(That’s what you get)
(That’s what you get) And after all this time
I just hope you understand
Sometimes the clothes do not make the manAll we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow
All we have to see
Is that I don’t belong to you
And you don’t belong to me, yeah yeahFreedom (Oh)
Freedom
(My) Freedom
You’ve gotta give for what you take
Freedom (I’ll hold on to my)
Freedom
(My) Freedom
You got to give what, to give what, give what you take
Yeah!
You got to give what, give to what, to giveMay not be what you want from me
Just the way it’s got to be
Lose the face now
I’ve got to liveSource: Musixmatch
Songwriters: George Michael
Freedom! ’90 lyrics © Robobuild Limited, Songtrust Blvd
By A Poet
Although I do have many favorite quotes from Zora Neale Hurston, I’m going to try to follow the rules for this prompt. I know, you’re probably thinking, “Why start now?” It’s because I have a favorite quote that I really don’t think of that often but for this prompt, I thought of it.
Years ago, I bought this book:
I don’t recall why I purchased the book, but if I had to venture a guess, it would be because the book is pink, has a heart on it (your girl is obsessed with hearts and collects them – not anatomical hearts, dear reader), and it also has a pink bookmark built right in.
The book contains different chapters, which delve into the many different types of love – requited, unrequited, grief, love for pets, etc. I’m not much of a romantic, but I am sentimental. So I tend towards more eccentric quotes about not just love, but everything.
I nudged this book off my shelf for this prompt and opened it up to the page with the pink bookmark. I never take this bookmark out of this page because this is my favorite quote in the whole book, and that’s not an easy feat to accomplish.
Without further adieu, Let me introduce you to my favorite quote:
When I read this the first time, I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. Then I realized there were many ways to interpret it. In fact, I have a new interpretation as I write this.
What is a superstition? (We all know, because we all remember the daily prompt from not that long ago.) Examples of superstitions include walking under a ladder is considered bad luck, opening an umbrella in the house is bad luck, breaking a mirror will give you seven years of bad luck, black cats are bad luck, knocking on wood so whatever you’ve just said comes true or stays safe (depends on the situation), and many more. Superstitions are misunderstood, mysterious, used as protection. In my mind, I always think about superstitions as hovering in the air in a cloud. Superstitions are not part of reality, but they are still given deference and respect. They are very real to the person who believes.
Having said that, I believe Monsieur Baudelaire is speaking here of unrequited love, a love that to him is so precious, he keeps it in the clouds just out of reach. The image of his love stays in his mind, and in his heart is where the cherishing blooms, but his love is so much more than that. He seems to be under a spell. To say you are more than an image I dream about and cherish, you are my superstition, means to me, that you are the very thing that I believe in, the idea of which makes no sense, but I love you more than I could ever love anyone else. And yet, there is a mystery about you. Are you bad for me? If my love were requited, would it be a mistake? Would it ruin everything? Superstition has to stay in the clouds, just out of reach, and so does the love. Dream of it, cherish it, hold it in the highest regard. Be also aware of its mystery and respect the unknowingness of it.
Monsieur Baudelaire was a controversial poet in Paris in the 19th century. He was part of the Decadent era. Knowing a bit about poets myself, I’ve been thinking: is the superstition the muse? Oui.
✨💫✨
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved
The Ice Queen
Perhaps – no – most assuredly, it is I who placed myself in this position. I do not speak of ruling the queendom. No. That is my birthright. That you don’t see a throne next to mine is my doing.
When I was born a girl I was expected to marry. And marry well. From the age of four, suitors were brought to me. Old men! Can you imagine? Vows were to be exchanged for titles given. Oddly, every single one of these suitors was deemed not fit by my father, or fate took them another direction. Some in not so pleasant directions.
When I was twenty years old and started refusing suitors, my father would not speak to me for three months. It was quite possibly the downfall of his health. You can blame that on me too, if you wish.
When I was twenty years old, there was a new stable lad employed to work with our finest horses – mine included. The lad was my age, and while he showed proper deference to me, he also showed me friendship, which no other servant had the courage to do. He would prepare my horse and sometimes we would have long discussions about life. Ha! What do two twenty-year-old children know about life? He treated me as a person, not as a queen-in-waiting. He did not let me get away with much. My attitude is often times haughty. I make no apologies for it. I am Queen and at that time I was queen-in-training. I must be strong at all times. I must not and will not entertain fools.
But when I was around him, I did not feel like a queen-in-training, and it was rather difficult to act haughty. I felt like who I imagined I always should feel like as a child, when I dreamt of having another life. A simple life, a life raising chickens and cattle and having a husband, friend and lover in one person, someone who could understand me, and would want to try. And children. We would have three children. They would laugh and play in the grass, their cheeks rosy from exertion, their tiny legs traveling as fast as they could to catch the chickens, and we would delight in the sight. My husband and I.
I began having the same fantastical daydreams when I was around this lad, not just when I was alone. I watched when he would interact with others, and I had people observe him when I could not. He never raised his voice in anger to anyone. He was as calm as the river on a late summer evening. The aura around him was yellow, just like the sunset on that late summer eve. His hair was flaxen and soft, I just knew it. I wished to touch it, but I dared not. It would be most improper, and dangerous for him. His eyes were dark blue and smiling. Always smiling. They twinkled with mischief more than not. When we were near the horses and I could freely be myself, I never felt more alive.
Shortly after I turned twenty-one, for several days I did not see the stable lad. My concern was that he had become ill. I was mistaken and quite pleased to see him when he returned. My ladies-in-waiting helped me into my favorite dress: the light blue silk. It was far simpler than anything I would wear for official business, but it was perfect for talking with the stable lad. I made my way to the barn and saw him brushing the horses. I could feel my face light up as if the sun itself were grazing my skin. I greeted the lad and asked him if he was well. He said he was quite well. He had very recently exchanged wedding vows. That was why he was not at the stables.
This was the first time I had to use the Ice Queen façade. And I was yet to be Queen. I congratulated him and quickly made an excuse to part company. The façade wouldn’t hold much longer, and I could not bear to be seen as the soft creature underneath. As soon as I turned away, I could feel my countenance change into one of grief and broken-heartedness. My eyes shed tears even as I told them not to. He called out to me, but I wouldn’t turn around. I could not bear it.
I spent the rest of the day and night alone in my chambers. No one was permitted. Of course by now you must’ve guessed: I was in love with the lad. He had never once mentioned he was betrothed, and if he had, what could I have done with that information? I was meant to marry above him. Millions of my tears would not have changed anything. But knowing he was married made the realization that he could never be married to me more pronounced. I wished I were his wife. I wondered what she looked like. I never asked anything about her, even though I saw the lad often at the stables. We talked and joked after my initial heartbreak had healed a bit, but there was this thing in between us now, a barrier. I didn’t want it there, but a wife is hard to remove. A queen-in-waiting impossible to get out of. The situation was ill-fated.
I became Queen at twenty-five, just as the stable lad became a father for the first time. My father‘s efforts to find me a suitable match were unsuccessful. I decided no one was good enough and I held to that belief. I disappointed my father and I did it intentionally.
When I was thirty, his second child was born. I saw him still, at the stables, and we spoke as we always had. We never spoke of his wife or of his children. It is not that I didn’t care, it is because I cared too much. To know about his life would reopen wounds that were almost – but not quite – scars.
I have recently learned that his wife has run off with a wealthy man. The children are grown, the lad now a man of my own age. You may be asking yourself, Dear Reader, “What now will the Ice Queen do? She never married. She rules the queendom fairly, but suffers no fools. She surrounds herself with birds and other creatures, including her beloved horses, and she is old enough to make her own decisions regarding her own queendom and her own person.”
Let me tell you then. I am sure you want to know. And even if you don’t, I am going to tell you, because I am Queen.
One crisp morning, I walked alone to the stables. I found my lad filing the horses’ hooves. His expression was forlorn, as one would expect. He looked up at me with teary eyes that made the blue stand out even more. He was much older, we both were now. I could not stop myself from crying with him. He hunched over, embarrassed by his tears and apologized. He did not curtsy, and I was glad for it. I took his hand and held it between my own two hands. We had never touched in this way before. Yes, Reader, it was still not appropriate. But I am Queen, and I rule the queendom.
What do you think happened next, Dear Reader?
I will tell you. Not because I am Queen, but because I am a woman. And I know you want to know. But let’s keep it between us.
In the next moment, I saw yellow, like the sunset on a summer eve, I felt soft hair under my hands, and a gentle touch on my cheek. Right before I closed my eyes, I saw dark blue, like the blue of gently rolling river waves with a strong current underneath that cannot be seen, only felt.
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved
{This is my submission for No Theme Thursday (3/21/24) – thanks once again for the art inspiration, Kevin!}
I Battle Chronic Migraine
What do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time?
A tongue in cheek title, but it’s a serious post today, folks. I received a spam comment from a “life-of-the-party” type telling me that WordPress can easily access all of my information and surely I could make up some stories. Well, clearly this person doesn’t read my blog at all, which means I take little value from the statement. But they do have a point. Much to the spammer’s chagrin, today I won’t be making up a story or writing a poem. nor will I be performing interpretive dance.
In my leisure time I enjoy battling migraine. In my workday, I battle migraine. When I’m writing a story, I battle migraine. It’s a war, made up of many battles. Some battles migraine wins, and some I do.
I’ve suffered from migraine since I was 12 years old. I’m going to scream this from the rooftops: migraine is not a headache, although that is the most commonly known symptom of migraine. Many symptoms accompany migraine. And there are many types of migraine. I started out with the headache type when I was 12. And then progressed to the aura which is followed by headache as a young adult. Then I got slammed with the shadiest, dirtiest, low down piece of crap migraine I’ve ever had: vestibular migraine. Vestibular migraine is characterized by vertigo, which is the sensation of spinning. It is also characterized by a rocking boat sensation, where you don’t have balance and you walk funny. A headache, sweating, stomach upset, vomiting, tinnitus, and a host of other unusual symptoms are also seen with this type of migraine. This migraine seems to be chronic for me. I live with it every day, all day. Migraines are often genetic. They can also be traumatic brain injury induced. Migraine is a neurological condition, not a headache. There are several types of migraine, and some of them are quite shocking. They are all beasts.
I consider myself a bad ass for dealing with this shit every single day of my life, continuing to work and trying to live a somewhat normal life. Having vertigo for over 24 hours and throwing up nonstop, ending with a trip to the ER, where they can’t help, is not something I would wish on any enemy that I would ever have – infinitum. Many of my family members have migraine of varying types, severity and chronic states. If you line up my family members next to each other, put on a blindfold, move to the side, wave your arms around in front of your face, you will poke every single one of my family members in the nose and yes, you will have poked a migraineur.
What causes or exacerbates it? Having a brain. Also, the barometer rising, the barometer falling, the barometer being too high, being dehydrated, not getting enough sleep, getting too much sleep, too much stress, not enough exercise, turning your head wrong, these are all things I can bring on a vestibular migraine for me which, as I explained is chronic. It’s running in the background in my code. It comes to the forefront when it wants.
I have medication, but they don’t work quite as well as they should, and it’s always about tweaking the medications for us chronic migraineurs. You cannot cure migraine. Migraine is a neurological condition. It is controllable. For me, medication is essential. CBT and other types of behavioral therapies help. Vestibular rehabilitation exercises help. Getting up out of bed when you feel like you’re going throw up yet again and you can’t stop spinning helps. But imagine having to do that every day.
I don’t expect to ever be cured of this, and I don’t expect anyone to understand how you can be completely disabled at times by something you can’t see. But people who have an invisible condition or disability will understand what I’m talking about. What I do in my leisure time is I fight migraine. It is a war. I will fight to the death.
In my other free time I poke fun at Blahganuary, because I can create. I write stories and poems because I am a creative. There’s a section of my brain that isn’t filled with misfiring neurotransmitters and conductivity overstimulation or hypersensitivity. The calm area is where I get into the writing zone and chill.. I just also happen to have a chronic neurological condition that at times is disabling. I never let it win, and I never will.
While I was writing this piece using dictation, WordPress heard me say vestibular wrong. It typed out “Mr. Buler.“
(“Buehler? Beuhler? Buehler?” anyone?)
So to WordPress, thank you. I now have a nickname for my condition. When it acts up, as it is known to do, I will tell Mr. Buler he can kick rocks. I may even say it out loud in public, just for fun. “Mr. Buler, could you not have stayed home today? I mean, you didn’t even bring your battle gear. I have mine. And I’m going to use it.”
©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, All Rights Reserved.
Bert Pinkfoot
If I started a sports team, it would be racing pigeons, and their mascot would be Bert Pinkfoot.
Bert Pinkfoot was a racing pigeon who absconded a race and somehow ended up in my backyard. I knew he was a racing pigeon because he had green bands on both ankles. He was also rather tame. He arrived several Septembers ago, and I knew he wasn’t from around here, because we don’t have many pigeons where I live. That and the bands, as I mentioned. There are plenty of mourning doves, but no pigeons.
I immediately called the local bird sanctuary, and asked about this racing pigeon in my backyard, who had attracted a local flock of doves. As a matter of fact, all the female doves were quite impressed with Bert and tried to get his attention. Bert was a working man, he was a racing bird, and he was not interested in any female attention (this is when some doves cried).
The woman at the bird sanctuary told me that Bert likely left a race. My understanding is these birds race from point A to point B and back to point A, as pigeons are trained to do. She told me it was likely if I tried to return the bird to its owner, the owner would likely kill the bird because he absconded the race and lost the owner money. She also said that there had been a race about 300 miles north, and that he probably was from that race.
I wasn’t sure what to do with Bert. I had already been feeding and giving water to the “normal” birds, so he had a bit of an all-you- can eat buffet and sanctuary in my backyard. The woman also told me that he’d be likely to be eaten by hawks because he was raised to be a racing pigeon, and had no true exposure to the outside, natural world. At least not while he was trying to sleep.
Bert hung around for several weeks, though he never joined in with the doves. He tolerated his distant cousins, and maybe he found solace with them. We’ll never know why he left the race – whether he was seeking freedom or he got lost – but after about two weeks, Bert was no longer in my backyard. I didn’t see him again. I like to think he found his freedom and flew to a nearby city to be with his brethren city pigeons. I don’t think of the alternative.
©️2023 itsamyisaid.com, All Rights Reserved.
Little Miss Tennis Fan
What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?
This should be self-explanatory. Yes, I play. Am I terrible? Also yes. If you’re looking for a new read, find my novel here. It’s got tennis in it.
Don’t miss out on the interview I did with Rafa and my thoughts on Rafa’s return to tennis in 2024.
Breakfast With Rafa
©Amy J. Bates, 2006, 2023
As tennis fans celebrate the return of Rafael Nadal to the game in 2024, for what is expected to be his final season, we look back to the year 2006. Rafael Nadal was ranked Number 2 in the world, and had just turned 20 years old two months’ prior. Rafael joined me for an informal interview over breakfast in the restaurant of a hotel in Mason, Ohio, home of the Cincinnati Masters (as it was known at that time).
Many thanks to Rafael Nadal for this interview, and I wish him well in the next phase of his life.
Thursday, August 17, 2006, 9:20AM
This morning I had breakfast with Rafa. Well, he had breakfast, I had water. Originally, we had planned to do a brief question and answer session last night in the atrium of the hotel where we are both staying here in Mason, Ohio, but plans got a bit muddled and a new time of 9:20 a.m. was established.
I arrive at the atrium at the designated time, with my pink notebook, digital camera and Micro RC Racer pen in tote (I demonstrated my mini race car pen for Rafa later. “Yes, I see your car pen,” he humored me.) Minutes later, Rafa ambles down the hall, lugging with him a large cardboard box and chatting on the phone. He points in the general direction of the restaurant, indicating I should follow.
My short legs struggle to keep up with his long strides, but we make it. We are seated at a table near the front and Rafa takes off for the buffet. I sip my water the waitress brings and wait patiently, a bit nervous because I’ve never interviewed anyone before. Rafa arrives with a box of Frosted Flakes and is no longer on the phone. The waitress returns to take Rafa’s beverage order and he surprises me with his answer: hot chocolate. “Funny!” I tell him.
“Read my shirt!” (The print of my shirt reads Yeah, yeah…just give me the chocolate!) “I saw that,” he smiled and laughed. The waitress returns with the hot chocolate and there is no whipped cream. I frown. “You can’t have hot chocolate without whipped cream…” Rafa agrees and asks nicely for some whipped cream. Following Rafa’s consumption of the now melted whipped cream, he then proceeds to pour the entire contents of his Frosted Flakes box into his hot chocolate.
I do a mild shift in my chair. “That’s interesting…” I say. Rafa assures me it is done like this in Spain all the time. The only difference, he says, is that the hot chocolate is made with milk, not with water. We both agree that would taste much better. I’ll have to try the Frosted Flakes/hot chocolate combination when I really need a sugar rush. As Rafa eats his breakfast, the “real” questions begin.
“Do you like this tournament? Do you feel this tournament is helpful to your preparation for the US Open?” Rafa nods, “Yes, I am happy here. I did not play that well in Toronto. My goal is to play well in the US Open.” He mentions to me later on that he has been practicing three and a half hours each day since before this Cincinnati tournament began. I then ask him what his favorite tournament is. He tells me he likes many of them and can’t choose just one. Just about that time, the first fan comes up for an autograph and Rafa diligently signs. “Does it bother you when people ask you for your autograph when you are eating?” I ask. He shakes off my question. “No, it does not. It does not bother me.” Next question: “What’s the weirdest thing a fan has ever given you?” He does not understand me, so he enlists the table of Spanish-speaking men next to ours for help.
The answer: “A rock.” I stare at him. “A rock. Somebody gave you a rock.” One of the men at the table piped up to Rafa, “A rock, just like you.” They all laughed. Rafa let out a small chuckle. He didn’t understand my next question either, and I felt badly that I didn’t know enough Spanish to help him. (My goal: learn Spanish for next time.) But it was an important one, I thought, so again, our friendly neighbors assist. “I want to know what makes him laugh. What kinds of things does he find funny?” Rafa responds, “A lot of different things.” I think he said he likes to laugh and I gave him the universal thumbs-up sign for that response.
“So, when you win a tournament, is it the same feeling each time, or is it just a bit different?” Still munching on his Frosted Flakes concoction, he says, “No, no, it is not always the same feeling each time.” And that was that. “Rafa, this is my first visit to this tournament and I notice sometimes it can be…well…a bit boring when there is no tennis to watch. What do you do for fun during tournaments?” Rafa replies, “I have my computer, I play golf…” I ask if he will go to King’s Island Amusement Park.
He scoffs a bit. “Oh, well, maybe if I lose I will go there.” Cleary his mind is on work, not play. My last question before the interview ended was a bit odd, apparently. “Rafa, can you wiggle your ears?” He stared at me blankly. I lifted my hair to demonstrate. Wiggle, wiggle.
He looked down to his cereal, almost disturbed, and clearly flustered. “No, no, I cannot do that.” Oops. I hope I haven’t violated some kind of ear conduct code. Sorry, Rafa! Then the interviewee asks the interviewer some questions. “Where do you live?” he asks. “About nine hours from here, in a place that looks very much like this place – boring! And here I travel all this way to end up in a place that looks like my home.”
He seemed sympathetic. He lives in Mallorca – he should be sympathetic. He is also sympathetic of my severe sunburn, telling me, “Well, it’s hot…” It’s getting close to the time when Rafa needs to leave for practice. One more fan walks up to the table and Rafa grapples with spelling out personalized autographs using English names for the letters.
He perseveres and gets it right. Rafa asks for the check, signs for it and we’re off. A hotel staff member takes a photo of Rafa and me (I poke him in the back and whisper for him to smile – he does), and he says, “Okay, Amy, see you soon,” or something to that effect. He was already on the move, eager to work off those Frosted Flakes on court, I’ll bet.
©2006, 2023 Amy J. Bates, itsamyisaid.com. All rights reserved. No part of this interview and/or photograph may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of Amy J. Bates.
September 27, 2033
Do you believe in fate?
“Why do you keep looking at the time?” my colleague asked with squinted, suspicious eyes.
I thought about it for a minute before I answered, knowing how bizarre my answer might seem. I continued typing as I pondered my response. “I’m supposed to meet a guy at the park today,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, really,” she replied, suddenly interested and rolled her chair up to mine. “Do tell.”
“There’s not much to tell. I received a text about ten years ago and it’s stuck with me. The guy thought he was texting someone else. Once he realized I wasn’t the intended recipient, we continued texting with playful banter. It was fun. He was fun, and smart. Also really quick-witted. You know how that hooks me every time. He said we should meet at the park on September 27, 2033. As a joke, of course. But then I started to think about it – and I’ve had ten years to think about it. What if it’s like, some kind of serendipitous experience or cinematic romcom situation?”
She sat there, staring at me blankly. “You’re saying you received a text ten years ago from a guy you don’t know, and you are going to meet him at a park today? Because he said to show up at the park on September 27, 2033? I have questions. What if he’s a stalker? Or a creep? Or 78 years old? Or 17 years old? What if it’s a catfish? And let’s say it’s not: it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he’ll have forgotten your text exchange by now? And since it was said in jest, he’s not going to show up, even if he recalls. Finally, how will you know who this guy is when you see him at the park?”
I shrugged off the first thousand questions. “I won’t,” was my response to the final one.
Her face scrunched. “This is clearly a joke. If you didn’t exchange photos, and haven’t texted since that one mistaken identity thing in 2023, then no, this is not happening. Like, at all.”
I turned back to my screen and continued typing. “I’m going to the park at lunch, sitting on the bench, and I will see if there are any guys loitering around looking at me.”
She ran her hand down her face in a sweeping motion of clearing out the annoyance that was me. I was not dissuaded. “What you are describing is a normal occurrence at the park. Do you know how many random guys loiter around and look at us every day as we walk through?”
I kept typing, keeping my eyes on the screen. ‘Yes, I know, but those are weird guys.”
“What separates this guy from those guys?”
“This guy told me to meet him at the park today.”
She sighed heavily. “I sure hope you have your Suspicious Persons binder up to date before you head out on this bad chick flick adventure of yours, because there are so many ways this can go south. You don’t know who you’re looking for, you don’t know what his intentions are, AND it’s been ten years since this occurred. He may not even show up, and I hope for your sake he doesn’t.”
The sky started taking on a strange darkness as we sat there, our cubicles next to the large window. She kept talking, mostly telling me not to do it, with me mostly thinking about what I could grab for lunch to take to the park. When I defiantly told her I was going, regardless of her lecturing, she waved me off dramatically. “Do what you want, but I’m going to send the police in an hour, and you know I mean it.”
I headed out at around 11:45. I stopped by the sandwich shop at the corner, ordered a croissant – because Paris is always a good idea. I could pretend that this was a Parisian park, and the guy would show up in a raspberry beret, the kind you buy from a secondhand store.
I took off my shoes and walked my way through the soft grass to the bench where I could see everyone in the park. There were kids playing nearby, giggling. There was an older woman sitting on the nearby bench. She smiled and nodded, and I returned her kind acknowledgment. So far, no weird guys had appeared, and no normal guys, either. The sky continued to darken, and I recalled the text exchange from ten years prior. “That’s right, there is a solar eclipse today,” I whispered to myself as a squirrel stared at my croissant, tiny arms pulled up to its chest.
I’d been at the park about fifteen minutes when my phone rang. It was my coworker. “What is happening? Are you insane? Are you safe?” She was bordering on hysteria.
“I’m fine. I’m sitting here talking to a squirrel actually. I’m eating my lunch, and if he doesn’t show up, I’ll just—”
It was at that moment I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Gotta go,” I said slowly, and ended the call. With a deep breath, I turned slowly toward the direction of the tap. I looked up and I felt a wry smile form. My smile was returned to me tenfold. The sun was blocked out, but not by the eclipse.
The shadow spoke.
“Hey, kiddo.”
©2023, itsamyisaid.com, All Rights Reserved.
You’re Looking At It
Hi. It’s me. I’m the things.
I’ll never be this young again, but this is the oldest I’ve ever been. I don’t know how old my soul is, but it is greater than or equal to the age of my body.
I didn’t make the rules. I simply live in the skin bag with all of the accessories.
Squirrel Mom Life
Yes
Are you a leader or a follower?
Flower update soon
Watch this space…
Getting Out Of Bed
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
Today’s the day.
“It's Amy,” I said. 