The Ginger Pot

Enough about the despicable job. Several intelligent friends have recommended that, because work is inherently work, I should focus on things outside my job that I enjoy. Here's the first assignment from my writing class. Many people have asked me, disdainfully, "Who even reads your blog?" as if it were defined by its audience. That's part of the point, the blog is out there, in cyberspace for anyone who wants to read it without imposing on those who aren't interested. The next question is, "What do you even write about?" Well, if they read it, they wouldn't have to stupidly ask that question. There is no point to this short rant, only that these people have made me think harder about what I want this blog to be. I'm still not sure but I would like any opinions/criticism regarding posts, content, creative writing, etc. Thanks.


The Ginger Pot

He didn’t stop talking and in her mind she rolled her eyes, more out of amused frustration with herself than with him. A common occurrence, the plight of the uninterested who ask questions out of courtesy and the desire to fill a potentially awkward silence. It was also easier than any other conceivable interaction. He turned the piece over in his hand, gazing at it fondly, rolling it from side to side, examining the intricate inlaid pattern, running his hand around it with an almost loving caress.

Her mind wandered. It was only natural, he had a soothing voice and rhythmic manner of speech and was saying little of interest to her. She contemplated his face. That stage in life between middle age and old, she concluded, but was unsure because his face was still very animated in a youngish, almost feminine way. From there, the scrutiny was drawn to his eyes. A clear, deep brown that was punctuated by a few asymmetrical flecks of some hue approximating gold that drew the gaze from one eye to the other and back again. She wondered if in the years to come they would succumb to time in the way that the body as a whole did. It seemed inevitable, that their rich color would slowly be tainted by the watery consistency that would slowly descend upon them. Would he watch them change as the years passed? she mused. Would the weak blue slowly invade from the outside in? Would it be an alarming progression or something that was simply accepted with the process of aging? Is it something that his wife would notice as she looked into his eyes on a bright, overcast day?

She shook her head slightly to return to the present. At least he was the type of explainer who didn’t ask for confirmation or look for listening cues. She just needed to supply a periodic nonverbal sound of assent and look in whatever direction he indicated and she could be left alone with her thoughts.

His hands played over the object, absentmindedly now, tracing the aperture of the pot. What was it again? She hadn’t been listening for a while, perhaps five minutes but she couldn't be sure. Should she just listen and try to piece it together? Or remember? Wait for an unlikely pause and ask questions to get the answer in a way that didn’t expose her inattention or set off another monologue? Think, think, she thought. That was it: a ginger pot, in the style of some kind of metalworking technique--some French word that was heard and quickly forgotten. What exactly was a ginger pot? A pot for holding ginger? She wished now that she had enquired at the appropriate time but it was several minutes too late. She tried to imagine how ginger would be kept in the pot and concluded that it must be powdered ginger to be stored in such a manner.

She tried again to focus on the thing and the accompanying explanation. The detailed pattern of vines and leaves over a brilliant red base with a green plant sprouting from the bottom--approximating a dandelion without the flower (were there dandelions in China?).

“It was our second trip to China. We spent most of our time in Peking but went to Shanghai for a few days. There is this most fantastic open air market in the center of the city that just goes on for blocks and blocks. So many treasures," he said, shaking his head in what she guessed was an intimation of fond memory. "I was so utterly torn between this and an antique vase!” He let out an undulating laugh and continued the oration. "I’m so very glad that Virginia convinced me to buy this gem instead. I try to limit the souvenirs to one per trip or there’d be no room to sit in this house!” He flapped his hand to indicate the cultural artifacts occupying a majority of the flat surface nearby.

He leaned forward and extended the pot to her on his open palm. "Isn't it exquisite? Open it!" he commanded with a conspiratorial wink.

She opened the pot. Inside, a small slip of paper, a fortune. It made a fluttering sound against the metal as she shook it onto her hand. In red ink and surprisingly correct grammar: "Sometimes when the grown-ups get all mixed up, you get mixed up, too." She smiled to herself and turned her attention back to the grown-up.