Day 191

It's t-minus a few days before my new Macbook arrives. I have been craving a new laptop for months but I finally bit the bullet. I mean, after dropping $500 for no reason last week, I figured it's now or never to splurge. Ameer was going to get a new Mini with his Elsie discount so I figured maybe I could get in on the action. Thanks to both of them, my new Macbook, juiced to 4 gigs of RAM and 320 gigs of hard drive space, will be here shortly.

I'm expecting my life to change. It probably will.

In its final days, my old iBook is really starting to put up a fight. Crashing randomly, battery draining after thirty minutes, refusing to connect to wireless. It's like deciding you're going to break up with your girlfriend and then she gives you a thousand more reasons to do it. Never look back, never waver. She's making it really hard to even be nostalgic because I'm mostly just frustrated with how slow she is. Ex to the next, hurry.

Tonight's random writing group, brought to me once again by Craiglist, was really great. It was held at a stranger's actual apartment and I was worried that maybe I'd be abducted or something. I was also worried that they'd so freely give out their address and phone number -- they clearly weren't concerned for their safety. It turns out the host was a very pleasant English girl, with a charming accent and a very interesting living space, including paintings of the ocean that reminded me of David Attenborough's nature documentaries. She informed me that not many people would be showing that night, and apologized, but that was just fine with me. A few minutes later, another guy showed up, full of frantic energy and short quick laughs. He had a tattoo of a heart on one arm and a cartoon rocket on the other.

My greatest fear jumping into these groups is being terrible. That wasn't much of a problem the first time out last week (for a different group), as I arrived late and didn't have anything to share. I just sat down and started reading/critiquing other people's work. This time, we did a few writing exercises. Part of me fell in love already. I mean, people sitting around doing writing exercises? This was a dream come true right?

Then I sort of got it in my head that whatever I was writing/typing was going to be dull and tired. There's this moment where you're not sure what your co-writers are going to be capable of writing, and that makes you kind of afraid to share. Our first exercise was to pick up one of the books on the couch, find a sentence we liked, and then write for ten minutes starting with that sentence. I started with a line from Margaret Atwood's Moral Disorder. "After the murder of his wife, the peacock started behaving strangely."

I found out that while I wasn't necessarily terrible, I didn't write great either. I mean, for one, I wrote really slowly. Like the other two writers cranked out a good amount of stuff in such a short time. They had this sort of effortless way of describing things. I found myself self-editing a lot in my head. And I wrote really straight forward, without much spin or spark. I think it just takes practice. This is the closest to anything creative writing I've done since maybe grade school?

I have another meeting with the critique group on Thursday. I've discovered I suck at critiquing. Well, discovered is the wrong word. I knew I sucked at it, I just hoped I'd be a little better than I actually am. It's a totally different skill, writing versus critiquing. I'm excited to both write something for the meeting and try to be a bit more active with my opinions on other people's pieces.

After the murder of his wife, the Peacock started behaving strangely. On routine trips canvassing the city, he took to flying too low and was often seen weaving in and out of the tree line. Photos in the next day’s Daily Thunder were accompanied by op-eds that wondered if he’d actually been out policing the streets, or if he’d just been flying around aimlessly, fully costumed, and thus still getting paid, wasting everyone’s tax dollars.

It’d been a week and our reputation was taking a hit. Plus, it was getting on my nerves, having to avoid the issue, everyone saying that he just needed some space.

“David, I think we should talk a moment,” I said, as he landed at the furthest edge of the Aviary. As I walked over, he kept quiet, looking out into the sky, eyes focused into the distance.

“I think you forgot these.” I opened my hand to display a dozen inch-long metallic feathers. “They’re being found all over the city. People have been sending them back addressed to you.”

Turning his gaze from the horizon to my hand, David carefully picked up one of the feathers. He ran his thumb along one of the razor edges, drawing a thin smear of blood. He flicked the blue feather over the edge, watching it twirl down and away.

Leaping off the edge, I raced down to catch it, and then floated back up to face him. “Look at me, damn it. You can’t do that. You could kill someone from this height.”

“Is that so? Could I?” he said, his eyes finally flickering to life.