There is, evidently, only a finite amount of creativity to be had with me.  Apparently I can either draw or write but I cannot do both.  Lately I've done so much drawing that my hand has developed a lot of unusual clicks and pops and muscly pain.  I've become a slave to my drafting table, anxious and alarmed whenever I have to do something other than sit there and draw all evening while listening to British mysteries on Netflix or Audible.

I don't have much output to show for it.  I'm slow as well as single-minded these days.  But I am having fun.

I do miss writing.  I have eight or nine sketchy rough drafts lounging on the website, unposted.  It's driving me nuts and I'm determined to finish this post.

Despite not writing anything new, I recently edited a story I wrote for the blog last year and sent it in to a niche market online magazine.  They readily accepted my submission, published it online and made me extremely happy!

The story, which you can find here, was seen by someone at the diocesan office.  They gave me a shout out in the diocesan newsletter.  (How long after confirmation is one given before they are expected to be able to spell diocese without assistance?  Will there be a test at some point?)  I have since discovered that more people than I expected read the newsletter. I've been at several different churcy venues lately, and each time someone has come up to me and asked "are you Rachel?  I read your article!  You are so funny!"

My head is swole up somethin' fierce.

.............

Small things are making big noises around me at present.  One of those small things is this woodpecker.  He's become enamored with this security light in the alley next to my back fence.  Holy smokes, he can make a lot of noise with that aluminum housing.  Every stinkin' morning.  And evening.  And times in between.  He is a persistent little red-headed bastard.

Unfortunately, in order to appreciate the time I have for creativity and woodpecker wrangling, I have to work.  Work is busy, and that's good.  We are off to a good start with the new DA.  He's got an extremely dry sense of humor.  If you listen closely, he will slip a perfectly worded verbal dagger between the ribs of conversation and then twist it, ever so slightly.  That's my favorite kind of humor.

Court hearings had been few and far between for the last several months.  The previous DA was about to retire and was winding down her cases so the new guy could make a fresh start.  He's definitely done that, and we're spending more time in front of the bench recently.

And of course, fun stuff happens.

The first several hearings we had this week were pretrial motions, continuances and guilty pleas for prison time - things that I did not have any direct interest in.  When court is in session, in most jurisdictions, a probation officer sits at the prosecution table with the DA - especially if the case involves probation in some way.  My job is to keep a written record and to be witness to the proceeding so that I could testify to details like whether or not the defendant in a future hearing is "one and the same" person who participated in this hearing.  The Judge and attorneys occasionally ask me for information about probation during the case.

So, for the first half of the day, I didn't have much to do except listen to the proceedings and banter with people during recesses.  Naturally while court was in session I spent a lot of time doodling on my docket sheet.

I noticed the DA kept glancing over at my drawing.  He'd even chuckled once or twice.  Eventually the Court called a recess so the defense attorney could confer with his client.

As soon as the defendant left the courtroom, the DA addressed the Judge:

"I don't know what to think about her," he said, jabbing an accusatory thumb in my direction.  The Judge cocked an eyebrow at him.

"She's over here all smiling and acting nice and then I look down and she's drawing skulls and crossbones all over everything!"  He looked at me, "Where did that come from?!"

I just grinned.

The Judge started laughing.  "I know what you mean," he said with a heavy sigh.  "I keep expecting her to come in here one day with black hair and fingernails.  She's just the happiest goth you've ever seen."

I pointed out that I had, in fact, come to work with black nails once and no one noticed.  Or, at least, no one commented.  We all agreed that although my skin tone was sufficiently Wednesday Addams, we didn't think the coal black hair thing would really work for me.

This lead to the inevitable discussion of The Munsters Vs. The Addams Family.  The Judge and DA were both in the Munsters camp.  The court reporter and I were Team Addams.  The 27 year old deputy/bailiff stood at his post and looked confused.  This was followed by Bewitched vs. Jeannie.  We were all agreed we liked Jeannie better.  Darren and the nose-twitching thing from Bewitched were just plain irritating.

Just as things were getting interesting and the Judge was warming up a diatribe about how both Darren and Major What'shisname on I Dream of Jeannie were two of the most stupid humans ever, the defense attorney re-entered the courtroom, client in tow.

This particular plea bargain was for probation, so I straightened in my chair and put what I hoped was a more professional expression on my face.  I had my paperwork lined up in front of me so I could accurately record the Court's orders during the hearing, and surreptitiously add a bit of shading to my skull drawing.

The hearing started innocently enough and progressed smoothly.  The laughter was gone, but the atmosphere remained light.  The defendant made his guilty plea, and his attorney attested to his competency.  The DA presented the terms of the plea bargain.

The Judge then started his ruling.

"The Court, finding nothing in bar of why sentence should not now be pronounced, hereby sentences you to a term of six years in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, probated for a term of eight years -"

Both attorneys leapt to their feet.    The DA said, "Excuse me, Your Honor, but the plea bargain was for six years of probation, not eight."

The Judge glanced down at the file, "I'm sorry.  You're right."  He looked back at the defendant.  "I'm sentencing you to six years of probation."  A pause.  "Unless you want another two years."  He gestured vaguely in my direction.  "I mean, look at the probation officer over there.  Don't you want a chance to come see her for another two years?"

The air sucked out of the room.

Eyes widened en mass as the entire courtroom - the Judge included - was struck by the blatant sexism of the comment.  I wasn't particularly offended, just surprised.  The Judge seemingly vacillated between out-right apology and and mute shock at his poor choice of words.  For a moment, a long tense moment, everyone in attendance paused, silent, intent on his next utterance.

It was then that an as yet unheard voice spoke timidly from the far side of the defense table.

"Uh, I'm legally blind, Your Honor.  I can't see her at all."


........


He's just gonna do six years.