Friday, November 11, 2005

meg's first snowfall of the winter... Ahh! It happened today as we headed up to drop Kristy off at her new home a few hours further north. It was awesome, blowy bright-white snow that stuck to the trees and the hills and made things look so magical that I thought my eyeballs and my heart might burst. We listened to Christmas tunes on the iPod and sang carols with evangelical glee. I love snow. LOVE. And winter? THE BEST. Mmmm! Emails and love always welcome! More blog later. 6:20:21 PM    well, yes, but...  [] the secret life of meg mitty. I have an iPod now. If you read my blog often -- or even just this post, I suppose, since I've gone and spilled the beans -- you know this to be true. Now that I can infuse the formerly silent moments of my life with sweet, sweet music (except those moments which should remain silent... like in restrooms and confessionals... if I went to confession...), I seem also to have cottoned on to a more directed form of daydreaming. I mean, I always used to daydream -- I always have been a daydreamer -- but now, my daydreams have taken a unique and dramatic turn. Soundtrack is everything. I love a kazillion different kinds of music: classical, opera, jazz, pop, folk, alt-country, rock, reggae, etc. The pure joy of transmuting melody, harmony and rhythm is something that is impossibly dear to me. My iPod is loaded up with such a variety of moods and sounds that a simple shuffle of songs can send me sprinting in a plethora of mental directions. I close my eyes (as long as I'm not walking across a street) as the tune fills my ear buds and, almost instantaneously, a scene is set. Sometimes the details are clear, sometimes not. Sometimes I can see everything, while at other times, I just have a vague idea or a feeling that slowly brings a picture into focus. I write little movies in my head. I have adventures. And I never quite know what will happen until my iPod chooses a song. Why, just today: Song: Can't Buy Me Love (Michael Buble -- quit your giggling, Eric) Location: Bus, 7:09 am Mood: Sleepy, but then... Meg -- clad in a cherry-red suit complete with obnoxiously high Manolosomethingorothers traipses through the lobby of an upscale NYC hotel, luggage trailing behind her on a giant brass cart navigated by a tall, quirky-looking bellhop (think Paul Bettany) who addresses her as "Miss! Miss!" in a delectable British accent. She is obviously on her way to the Penthouse, since the elevator they hop on just won't stop climbing to the top. As the song struts through riffing horns and hops along with a fabulous bass line, Meg enters the most expensive suite in the house, complete with gold fixtures and overstuffed velvet furniture. She wheels around to face the bellhop unloading the cart and fishes around in her Birkin bag for a $50 to toss in his direction. He sets the last monogrammed case down and steps forward to receive his tip. But suddenly, impulsively, she tosses the cash behind her and kisses him on the cheek. As she stands back with a grin, he winks mischeviously. "Enjoy your stay, Miss." And with that, he takes her in his arms, kisses her far more deeply, and says, "Undercover work is such a pain, darling. This suit is made of polyester, for heaven's sakes!" She grins, sighs, and says, "It'll be over soon, love. But I'll make sure to order plenty of room service until the mission is done...." And with that, she pulls him in for another peck and the elevator heads back down without him in it... Mmmm hmmm. Song: Easy Plateau (Ryan Adams) Location: Elevator up to actual job, 7:42 am Mood: Still a bit jazzed by the jazz... but what's this? A steel guitar? There's no use, Meg thinks, turning the key again to set the engine wheezing. I won't be getting out of here tonight! She pushes open the rusty old door and hops out of the cab of the truck, cowboy boots kicking up dust on the ground below. As she surveys the scene and notes the utter and complete lack of payphones on the main street of this hick town, she hears a voice behind her. "Excuse me, darlin'. I've been listening to you flood that engine for nearly half an hour and I'm pretty sure you've done it in. What's a fine thing like you doing driving a heap like that?" He is fortyish, craggy, and weatherworn (think Redford crossed with Eastwood crossed with Pitt), but about as fine a figure as any she'd seen for miles. The shoulders! But why was he smirking at her? "It's my grandfather's truck. It's a bit temperamental, is all. This town have a phone anywhere?" "Closest one is at the bar down the road, but it's a bit of a walk. It's a Sunday. Everything's closed around here that doesn't cater almost exclusively to sinners." His smirk made her squirm in her jeans. "Well, good thing I'm not perfect, then. Which direction should I head?" "It's a fair piece down the main drag. I can't drive you up, if you like." He gestured back at his huge old gorgeous boat of a convertible. She imagined herself perched on those beaten old butterscotch seats and smiled almost involuntarily. If she didn't fall in love with the car, she knew she'd fall for him if she got inside. "Why, that's mighty friendly of you, sir..." And with that, he held the door open for her and she stepped into destiny... Hey, listen. It was early. I can't vouch for quality before 10 am. Song: Ready, Steady, Go (Oakenfold) Location: Downtown street, headed for first latte of the day, 8:56 am Mood: Longing! Driven! The insistent click of her heels on the pavement formed a backbeat for the crazy spiral of thoughts in her head. Where was the damn briefcase, anyhow? She'd seen him carrying it, but when he'd been taken into custody, it was nowhere to be found. And now the agents were working on him. Hoping to crack his steely resolve. Hoping to find the answer before the clock ran out. And where was she going? Back to the place she'd met him first -- that smoky, half-lit place in the bowels of the city where angels feared to tread and fools rushed in. Not to mention bomb-building master thieves. Suddenly she heard a voice in her earpiece. "Meg?" Her heart stopped. It was Lennox, but something was wrong. Even in a single word, she felt her heart and mind connect with his -- and the transmission was dire. "Jake? What's wrong?" She hissed a response into her lapel, trying not to attract attention to herself -- beyond the obvious gawk-appeal of the stiletto boots and short black trench she wore, a siren-red scarf at at her throat. Men looked at her interested, appraising. But that voice (think Clive Owen) was her only concern now. "We're running out of time and we can't crack him. Are you headed for the Den?" "Of course... that's where the Intel leads. But we've got nothing else? Nothing to tell me how to get back into the secret offices once I get there?" "No." The gravity in his tone made her heart skip a beat. "And Meg -- we think the entrance to his lab could be rigged." "Rigged?" "I want you to stop where you are right now and tell me how to find you. I won't let you go in alone." Okay, clearly someone's been watching a bit too much Alias. Song: Maybe God Is Trying To Tell You Something (Mississippi Mass Choir) Location: In line for latte, 9:05 am Mood: Jubiliant. Coffee is in the air. She'd always managed to blend in, never attracting attention to herself with the showy hairstyles and talonesque nails favoured by the most flamboyant of the choir members. They would step up for their solos and bring down the house, jabbing a hot pink finger into the air to punctuate their praises. But Meg? Nah. She was the quiet type, not the solo type. She filled in the alto section with her deep yet moderate tone and stayed out of the gossip and choir politics that seemed to keep everyone else constantly occupied with drama. Today was her first solo, though, and suddenly she was thrust into the limelight. And it was oh-so-unforgiving. "You know, girl, I would not have thought you ready to do a solo. How long you even been here, a month or two?" Doris looked her up and down with a mean little twist of her lips. "Three years, Doris, three years last month." Doris sucked in her breath. "Damn! Well, I guess you just ain't that memorable. But good luck with the song." She walked away, leaving Meg standing there, dripping dark tears onto her black music folder. Why could no one take her seriously? Was she destined to always perform a back-up role? Her director appeared and shot her a look when he saw that she was crying. "Shape up, Fowler -- you're up in this song. You ready, or do I have to get Doris to fill in? She knows this solo fine." That was all she needed to hear. The piano started off with a gorgeous crescendo of notes and she felt that chill up her spine that she always did when she was going to sing something marvelous and holy. As soon as she opened her lips to sing, the chill became a fire and her voice broke into the stale air with a lightning crack of soul. Doris may know how to sing, Meg thought, but you can't fake passion... And with that, she showed them how a real gospel girl gets it done. Before long, the crowd was on their feet and the pews were rocking and the Spirit was raising hands all over the church. Even Old Rev. Simpson was swaying in his seat and as she closed her eyes to belt it out above the choir, she thought she caught him smiling at her. It was that smile that let her know that, while this may have been her first solo, it most certainly wouldn't be her last... The coffee was awesome, by the way. Song: Concerto in D Major for Flute, Oboe, Violin, Violincello, Theorbo, Strings and Continuo (Dresdner Baroksolisten) Location: At my desk, working on a draft. 10:13 am. Mood: Oddly giddy. The air was so crisp that Meg was tempted to take a bite. How would it taste? How would it sound? She imagined the cold, juicy snap of an apple picked early in the morning. It was an apple-cold day, for sure. Icy flakes swirled in the trees like wedding confetti and the snow-covered willow served as a lovely bride. But where was her groom? And speaking of grooms... "Are you sure it's not too cold to get married?" His wry smile was almost as warm as the steaming coffee in the cup he handed her (I'm not even telling you who to think of in this one. That's just for me...!). He kicked a bit of snow off the deck and put a sweatered arm around her. She settled into his embrace, but not before giving him a quick jab with her elbow. "It'll be a cold day in hell before you get out of this one, buster!" With that, she looked into his gentle brown eyes, completely certain that about the only thing that stood in the way of their wedding was a snowbank on the way to the Christmas light-strung, hay-scented barn in the back field. For that was where they would create a makeshift chapel with family and friends to get the rest of their life together underway... complete with a banjo-picked Wedding March... Heh... and they say technology is robbing us of romance... 1:45:42 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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