The smallest story on a hot rooftop

The point is just to make things. We learned that last summer from Rachel, picking cherry blossoms out of our hair and watching a rusty carnival set up its pieces.

The point is just to make things, and here are some things that have been made lately.

1)  An art gallery opening and show with WRITE CLUB and Paperish Mess.  Featuring strawberry Moscato cocktails. Featuring custom roasted coffee. Featuring sister power. Featuring holy-hell-we-actually-did-it.

2) A bunch of bad websites through my beginners’ class at the fabulous web dev school Starter League.  I am re-learning crap that I half-taught myself in high school, when HTML was the only thing you could use to make anything, unless you wanted to insert an applet which pretty much no one did.

3) Bouquets and bridal wishes for dear close friends. This is the summer of love.

These are good things. Great things, even; but there are lots of fragments being made, too. Weird little sprouts of essays and fiction, that grow in my brain and then I find them there, lurking, like those long random neck hairs that seem to come out of nowhere. (What, you don’t have those?!)

These fragments haunt me. Each one seems like an unfinished thing. They beg (forgive me) to be plucked. Ok, neck hair analogy = over.

So I’ve decided to try and find the smallest, complete story that I can. A story with a beginning, middle and end. And what comes to mind is Katie emailing, “can you call me?” and me emailing, “Yes, like in junior high!” and both of us finding outside spaces. Her on her hot silver rooftop with a cigarette, and me leaning against the warm brick of the cafe. And we talked about finishing things and starting things and how if there’s too much pressure, it’s easier to do nothing and throw up your hands and then jump off the nearest roof, cigarette or not.

And when we hung up, it was clear, again, that the point is just to make things.

Thank goodness.