A Streetcar Named "Overwhelmed"

I must admit that lately, I've been overwhelmed. Not "rolled-up scroll" to-do list overwhelmed. Not forgetting to wear a bra overwhelmed.

Indecisive overwhelmed. Agitated overwhelmed. Lethargic overwhelmed. Flustered by the good weather, my Sims 2 expansion pack, a home improvement project involving planning meetings with a contractor and the Historic District, a teetering book queue, obligations, unpainted toe nails, and a dirty refrigerator.

An "overwhelmed stew" with odd ingredients that mix together and taste like cigarette broth. This reminds me of the time when I put too much gruyere in the broccoli cheese soup--initial taste was fine, but within seconds, it felt like someone had wiped the damp armpit of their gym shirt across my tongue. Not nice.

Blech.

I think that good things come from discomfort. Whenever I feel the need to claw at the collar of my shirt and tug it away from my neck, I recognize that I am the cusp of change (transition to camisoles, tanks, or v-necks?). If cat litter grains stick to the soles of my barefeet when I walk across the floor, I realize that I need to grab a scoop and and change the litter (plus vacuum, lest you think I am truly a filthy pig). When ideas are weighted june bugs holding a convention in my mind, I have to get to my notebook and scribble them down--tentative sentences at first, then sprinting, bounding ones, leaping the hurdles of narrative, plot, and characterization. June bugs tossing off their heavy shells and becoming lady bugs, higher, faster, and finally, the plunge through the finish line.

I am learning to accept that my pace in this process is not steady. I do my best to live an artful life, but sometimes, all this means is that I take time to enjoy the paintings that I have hung on the walls. Sometimes, an artful life is only me, perched in my red chair by the window, scrutinizing the birds that fight and fidget on the fence as I drink my morning coffee. Me and the birds and the coffee. Memorizing feather patterns, wondering why and where and who. Somedays, it is even worse than that: it is appreciating the ingredients on the yogurt container, or hearing the fistling that the toilet paper wrapper makes as it is balled up and tossed away.

I am learning to lie down in my discomfort and feel it in its entire "jimmy leg" glory. I am learning to look in the direction where anxiety dares me to go. I am learning that, although this is ultimately my show, I must be humble enough to ask for guidance, secure enough to slow my pace, and brave enough to dart when the time is right.

Overwhelmed, right now, is exactly where I need to be.

Notes To Myself, Written At A Conference

Notes to myself, written at the Speech and Language Conference I attended over the weekend. Stubby-legged insect hand writing with curvy, spiral antennae. Wrinkled notebook pages. Coffee blot and corn bread muffin crumb memorabilia. Mood on Friday was upbeat. Saturday was tired and timeless and subdued. Pride in this field that used to be mine, longing for it, but also a sense of isolation, irritation. Here are my "notes:"

things to learn: learn to make exploded potatoes (boil in chicken broth, scallions, garlic, bacon, add ranch (how much?)?. practice spanish. wear my glasses a lot. play sims 2 and successfully run business: Angel will have a flower shop. finish "Capote" and "Letters To A Young Poet." buy paperbook copy of "Write to Right." buy poetry of e.e. cummings and julia alvarez. buy Mary McGarry Morris. Menzel. happy birthday a month early. I am lost without writing in the morning. I feel insecure, anxious, agitated, fragmented, inadequate. I don't belong here. I feel at such a word jumble, spilled out, loss of control. I feel stupid and slow and thick. I feel consumed with the need to impress. These are not my people anymore. excited about autism info. need to finish certificate from Johns Hopkins--Fall? bloated. i feel tired and gurgly and hungry and cold. my hands are cold. more coffee. bathrooms stink. do they know what I'm writing? WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY WRITING? i can't wait to hug my children. i will scan activity pages and do w/boys. M-read. J-speech. I am a piss poor mother.

Thanks, Cubicle Reverend!

I am honored to have had Cubicle Reverend publish a flash fiction story of mine, "What Isn't," on his site on Friday. Click here if you are interested in reading it.

Thanks, CR! I appreciate the kind words,the honor, and the press!

Go. Buy. Many. Books.

I'll be out of commission until Sunday--off to a speech and hearing conference to gather continuing education units. Fortunately, it's being held in my town, and a good friend, who is also a speech pathologist, will be attending with me and spending the night here on Friday. A day figuring out the mysteries of language (i.e. imagine us all sitting around diagramming sentences--JUST KIDDING--I wish--I feel that we are the "poor man's linguist"), followed by dinner out, a little wine, and some scrapbooking (hopefully, putting vintage photographs that my grandmother gave me into an album)--it should be good!

Hope everyone has a restful, relaxing weekend--lots of words, books, art, and music, as well as good company and good food (and the occasional cocktail)!

P.S. If you have any sort of connection to education (i.e. tutor, teacher, paraprofessional, therapist, etc), Borders Stores are having their biannual Educator Appreciation Weekend--25% off most everything. Go. Buy. Many. Books.

Poetry Thursday

When 'Underneath It All' Isn't Good Enough

It was a friendship of overlays,
like the "frog" entry in an old World Book Encylopedia,
where the body is made up from layers:
organs
under bones
under muscles
under skin.
Just flip the page.

There was love, of course,
but it was obscured by other things:
judgement
under insecurity
under jealousy
under fear.

It was a worn encyclopedia of a friendship,
some pages ripped out,
some stuffed back in,
missing pages-
miscommunication-
misunderstanding-
and missed opportunity.

It was a history lesson buried
in the bog of a shelf
like a weathered, stale encyclopedia:
damaged,
useless,
eventually

forgotten.
____________

For Poetry Thursday links, visit Liz at Be Present, Be Here.

The Things That Speak To You

On the verge of a new day here, one that will be cold and fierce, yet confident with potential.

I've been working on a short story--a flash--about a girl on a school bus. Many of my stories involve school buses, such a prominent entity in my early life. I still remember the kids who rode mine, the route, the big fight between the Hovis boys and the Komaris at the corner of Mohawk and New Roads one Spring afternoon. I remember learning the word "prick" and arriving home to ask my mother what it meant (:o). I remember scrunching down in the seat with my friend, Jodi, and pretending that we were riding in Kit, the car from Knight Rider. I remember reading Christine and Cujo and The Jungle (and many others) on that dusty, hour long bus ride to and from the school, and I remember loving Randy, the boy across the aisle.

I lived in the country. We were caught, us country kids, between a harder life--less sentimental, it seemed--and an academic one. We lived on the outskirts of a college town and of course, there was a class system. When I spent the night at my friend Chrissy's split level in town, we played in her yard on her trampoline, watched PG videos, looked at her mom's yearbook, and ate fajitas with corn succotash for dinner. At Tammy's trailer only a mile from mine, we had water fights while we washed the dishes, consumed R rated horror movies, practiced applying heavy eye liner and curling our hair into those huge flowery bangs, and went cow tipping/deer spotting with some neighbor boys following pathetic games of Sexual Trivial Pursuit.

The recurrent theme is my writing is that of the underdog, usually a person who is a victim of circumstance--the poor elementary school girl abused by her dad and neglected by her mother, struggling to feel of value, which she considers to mean "beautiful;" the sixth grader who gets an education during her bus ride, learning about the things that people will do for "love" or attention; the Mexican immigrant making salsa at the restaurant and waiting on privileged girls who think that she is nothing. There is justice in words, even if only for myself. It is power to give these people little dignities--to make them smarter than the bully, make them tougher, make them better--even if they don't realize that yet themselves.

If you are any sort of artist, what kind of recurring themes fuel your creations? Do you have a social agenda? Do you like the power of imagination, lighting an idea and following its swirling scent? Are you drawn to certain colors or subjects? Do you prefer linear or convuluted; patterns or an eclectic mix? Are you a realist or a dreamer? Concrete jungle or forested one? New Mexico or Manhattan? Corn field or beach?

What are the things that speak to you?

I Want . . .

I want:
to allow myself to be tickled; to have long wavy Gisele Bundchen hair; to refuse to bury myself in memories; to eat at a restaurant on the waterfront once a month; to read with the intensity I did as a child, as a beginner; to write many, good short stories; to dress up when everyone else is dressed down or dress down when everyone else is dressed up and feel confident about my choice; to be my version of a "perfect mother" for just one day to see if it really lives up to my/their expectations; to learn to listen; to teach someone to read; to get involved with issues instead of just blathering on about injustice and inequality and indignity.

I want:
to be forgiven; to write more frequently than I watch TV; to care for a garden; to plant herbs; to eat tomatoes that I have grown on a vine; to see Capote; to attend The Dan Band concert; to meet Mick Jagger; to have a Summer tradition of renting a cabin by a lake or the ocean; to take a bubble bath RIGHT NOW; to help shape my children into happy and responsible and kind boys; to make a large ceramic bowl at I Made This; to eat at the Indian restaurant tomorrow night; to pay more attention; to have a new washer and dryer and a Dyson vacuum; to be able to run a mile without getting winded; to sit outside on a hot night and drink a beer while the citronella candle flickers; the war to end; to see some of my work published; to believe what Rilke said to the young poet; to learn to like silence; to be smart enough to pause more often; to be the wife that my husband deserves; to live a life that is graceful and poetic, yet flawed and real; to drive across the United States with my family in an RV; to watch my children try new things; to only say things that are genuine; to only do things that are genuine; to paint my bedroom; to paint the town.

(Inspired by Megg, who reminded me that it's okay to want things for myself. While some of my "wants" are impossible (see Gisele Bundchen hair), others are attainable, and many are already in the works. Y' gotta name it to claim it!).

How I Feel While Reading "Capote: A Biography" By Gerald Clarke

There is nothing better than being consumed by a book. There is something amazing about occupying that space in which you forget about your surroundings, those zombie-like moments when you don't notice the hangnail on your thumb or the bright plastic toys scattered across the carpet. You don't hear the click-click steps of the dogs, pacing the hardwood floor. You don't see the gauzy sunlight through the window--you are in a brightness all your own.

This book is a privilege. It is a 551 page carnival--sweet, dusty tents in the South filled with oddities and medicinal tonics; a World Fair bursting with inventions and crowds and a gigantic ferris wheel; a masquerade ball, with feathers and dancing and slashes of rouge and drunken groping. I have seen the scuffed foot, gritty South. I've been to Connecticut and watched at the train station with wives waiting for their husbands to complete the daily commute from Manhattan. I've been a fly on the wall at the office of the New Yorker--its flat, irritable interior saving passion for the pages of the magazine.

What I like about this book is the fact that Clarke is meticulous in his inclusion of detail. He includes quotes from many players and this helps to develop the character of Capote, a man not always likeable but certainly recognizeable. I feel Capotes's quirkiness. I feel his imaginative but difficult childhood. I feel his passion for writing. I feel his need to be known. The reward in this book lies in my new understanding of the man who gave Perry, one of the criminals in "In Cold Blood," a voice, a man who, through the words that made that book, portrayed the complexities of all that is part of being human, the fine lines between loveable and deplorable, excuseable and responsible, and moral and wicked.

I am only on page 77 but I understand that in the words to come, we hear about a feuds with Gore Vidal and Jacqueline Susann; a friendship with Babe Paley, C.Z. Guest, and Joanna Carson. We will dance at The Stork Club and El Morocco. We will be skinny and fat. We will be worshipped and we will be hated. We will drink much wine and we will write about it and we will publish.

I feel like I am in line for a ride on the biggest roller coaster at the best amusement park. I will see the world from a great height--nothing between me and the sky except this experience.

I can tell you right now: 551 pages are not nearly enough.

P.S. Apparently, while a young, unknown Capote worked as a copyboy at the New Yorker, he submitted a couple of stories to the fiction dept. They were rejected. Flippin' snobs.

Tin Can Explosion of Words

I haven't done Morning Pages in two days so what you have here is a garbage can of words. They erupt, blowing the top off my shiny lid. They fall like ashes, knee deep snow that becomes soot when smudged. Words, like ashes can be deceiving. The can be hot. They can appear clean. They can be messy. They can be soft.

I use words the way a makeup artist uses different colored eye shadows during a makeover. I paint on adjectives to increase the lengths of my lashes and my sentences. Sometimes, however, simple is more. I can be classic or edgy. I can be studious or street smart. I can be a teased up beehive of ratted out, hairsprayed subjects, my predicates dangling like tendrils, bouncing like curls.

This is what you get when you haven't done Morning Pages. The words and ideas rage like torrents of possibility. The books in the queue all beckon, but there is a manic quality to the consumption of them. The need to write supercedes the need to read. There is a breathless attraction to the words of someone else, but it is the "tug at your collar" wish that they belonged to you.

I grab my pen and start to write. Without expectation. Without consideration. A crazy, careless, quixotic desire to release, let go. Sending my words out into the world like stray oranges that have tumbled out of a grocery sack, rolling just out of reach, into the oil puddles under a car.

Poetry Thursday: The Poets

If you have come here wanting poetry, I offer you links to a few of my favorite poets, people from my sidebar. In the past few weeks, thanks to Liz at Be Present, Be Here, I have had the privilege of reading some incredible poetry written by bloggers who participate in Poetry Thursday. The poets that I am including here are not Poetry Thursday partcipants, but they are gifted writers with a commitment to the marriage of emotion and language.

Rita (frequently shares her poetry)
Pearl (word chains and poem drafts and pictures of food: is there anything better?)
Michelle (a few days ago, she posted a beautiful poem about Spring)
Christina (I recently-thankfully-discovered her talents)
Andrea(artist and poet--this woman has been blessed with gifts!)

Late Fees

I am a late bloomer, late being the operative word, but I have a penchant for punctuality. Not that I'm not late occasionally, but I find tardiness to be a sign of ultimate disrespect--disrespect towards the time and priorities of somebody else. A breaking of the contract, if you will. Actions should be as good as words.

I struggle to get my boy to school by 8:30 each day. He wants to point out holly berries and howling dogs. I am thinking, we're not going to make it. We usually do. We rarely stop in the office for a late slip and an accusatory glance from the secretary; we seldom have to interrupt Mac's class so that he make a grand entrance and unpack.

There are a couple of late things that I cannot conquer, however; I cannot return library books and movies on time. The irony of this is not lost on me here: First, I frequent the library because I cannot afford to buy all of those books that I want. Second, I actually worked at a video store, Knight's Movie Store in Edinboro, Pennsylvania (nod to the hometown), in my late teens and early twenties, and was frequently called upon to dispense late fine retribution.

A little reminder of late fine retribution occurred two weeks ago, at the counter at Hollywood Video, where I attempted to pay for my selections of "Domino," "Spanglish," and "Melinda and Melinda."

The cashier, a kid, punches my information into his computer and says, "There's a balance on your account. You wanna take care of some of your late fines?"

I rummage in my wallet for a couple of dollar bills and a few quarters. "Yeah, sure, how much do I owe?"

"$74.25."

Coins jangled onto the floor. "Are you kidding me?" I asked. "Did you say $74?"

"Yeah," he answered, unimpressed with the me, the fine, and our exchange.

I put $5 on my bill and he let me rent the videos. I nearly cried on the drive home. At Hollywood Video, if your movies are a day late, they just charge you the flat fee of 3.95 (or something like that) for a whole new week. At Knight's, we charged 2.12 per movie per day. If my overdue movies--say there were seven of them--had come from Knight's and were fourteen days late, I could've, according to 1992 standards, owed $207.76.

I obviously did not learn from this experience. The videos are on my kitchen counter. They are nine days overdue.

I watched Spanglish yesterday and just loved it.

Pulling Meself Up By Me Bootstraps . . .

This is what my wise mother says that you've got to do when you are faced with adversity:

pull youself up by your bootstaps.

Truer words were never spoken.

The "adversity" that I encountered today was a privilege. I need to remember that.

I cannot express how grateful I am to all of you, and how great-full each of you are. So much wisdom and encouragement that you shared through comments, emails, and conversation. I felt grounded by your thoughts, ideas, and support. I felt that I had been on a long trip and finally walked in the front door of my destination, greeted by

hugs, beer, cheesecake, and flannel sheets on a soft bed.

"Let's be grateful for those who give us happiness; they
are the charming gardeners who make our soul bloom."
--Marcel Proust

When It Rains . . .

So, this is what I'm thinking*, just after clicking the email that tells me that one of my favorite stories is being rejected by a prestigious literary magazine.

(*many, many curse words follow: read at own risk)

Fuck. What the hell? Well, when it rains, it pours. Maybe if I didn't write in cliches, I'd be published. Now, what? Obviously I'm crap. No, they're crap. Who the hell are they to be the gate keepers? I don't write their way. Should I change it? Can I change my style? Maybe I need to write differently. Why would I want to write differently? What am I missing here? How can I think something is good and them not be impressed? Fuck all the people who say not to take rejections to heart (cliche again) because it makes you feel like your heart is getting ripped out (cliche). Fuck all the people who say that this is part of the job--it might be part of the job but it's a fucking unfair part of the job because first, you pour your heart (cliche) onto the page, then you send it out (the page, not your heart), then you wait three fucking months, then you get the form letter rejection telling you that they'll regretfully pass, and you think, if you people were so fucking regretful about it, you wouldn't pass. It's not even like they're paying for the fucking story. I'm giving away something that nobody wants. Maybe I should play The Sims 2. Or eat another bowl of soup. Or have a Coke. I don't feel like writing in my journal today. That's it--mass submissions! Self publish. Give up. Not, not give up. Try harder. No, keep the course. I mean, stay the course. Write everyday and accept that no one may ever read it. Put this in perspective. Re-evaluate. Maybe I should scramble up the magnetic poetry and take the message as an omen. Maybe I should have a Girl Scout cookie. Or a row. Where's "The Right to Write?" This place is a mess. What's the point? I need to mark this down on my submission sheet before I forget. Oh, another point towards a self-purchased consolation prize. Idiots. Whatever.

Let it go.

The Workbook Of My Life

Our house is coming down with workbooks: large, thick paperbacks with connect-the-dots and word families and patterns; small skinny books with sets and subsets and number lines. These are leftovers from the days when I worked at the school, and Mac has had the "good fortune" to inherit them. Since the moment that they were inserted into his able, four year old hands, they usurped the Play-Doh workshop which had previously occupied the majority of his attention; he now sits, often for hours, at the kitchen table, hunched over clean pages, studying, and writing with a Sanford American #2 pencil. His mannerisms are funny--tapping the eraser against his forehead as he thinks, fidgeting, double checking his grasp. This is his job, by God, and he takes it seriously; mom, could you pack me a lunch?

If I were to look for a workbook for my life, this is the information that it would need to contain: cooking (without overcooking) fresh fish, a short primer on wines, keeping poinsettas alive, the difference between lie vs. lay (how to conjugate, when to use), pronunciation skills, creme brulee preparation, how to be less judgemental, making the most of pale skin, oil checks/changes, mastering The Sims 2 Legacy challenge, reading in Spanish, tapas, welding, phobias (snakes, spiders, small spaces, overpopulation, dirt, flying), Dyson vacumm investment, cheerleading, effort and purpose, purpose and effort, confident analysis of poetry, multivitamins, chocolate sampling, pragmatics, dressing to hide a belly, belly elimination, Google medical degree, remembering to breathe, meteorology, Pixar film critique, and the psychology of reality TV.

Last year's workbook included tips on using a food processor, making a variety of soups, color coordinating a Christmas tree, submitting stories, optimal fun at Sesame Place, optimal caution in a filthy hotel room, compassion, preparing a country breakfast, volunteering, taking small children on long trips in a car or on a train, doing more with barley, success, rejection, entertaining, reading Truman Capote, coordinating a Chuck E. Cheese birthday, and bleaching my teeth. I also learned that you can burn up a cordless phone if you're on it for most of the day.

The Dad Who Invariably Teaches Someone To Bowl

Whenever I was a kid (and fortunate enough to be invited to birthday parties at the bowling alley), there was always a dad there who took it upon himself to teach the beginners how to bowl.
This was not what we had in mind. We were there to select colorful, flecked balls or cerulean balls that looked like giant marbles. The Dad would always insist that we haul our selections back to the stands and exchange our colorful balls for opaque black ones, where the triangle of holes were poised at a perfect distance for our small fingerspans.

This is not the point, we would try to tell him, but he didn't care. This was about him being The Hero. He didn't realize that we would be willing to roll a 2 ton bowling ball down the alley if it was made of gold or had a smiley face on it (Early signs of our value on appearance versus functionality--as adults, our take on this philosophy translated to shoes).

Once ball selection was finished, we would congregate around the score sheet at our assigned alley. The Dad insisted on filling this paper out, like it was an important Income Tax document. Using a stubby pencil (no eraser), he would scribble down our names, always misspelling them, then smooth out the sheet with it pleasing pattern of boxes within boxes, readying it to record essential scores.

And then, we would bowl. We would pick up our assigned muddy-colored ball (so hard to differentiate from anyone else's) from the ball return belt, advance toward the alley, squat, and wave the ball back and forth between our legs, dropping it on one final swing forward. The ball would begin its slow descent down the alley and we would step back, gesturing for it to turn left, giddy with the drama and excitement. The ball usually teetered on the edge of the gutter for about 3/4 of its journey, then suddenly rolled into that depressing canal. This is where the The Dad would hold himself back no more. He would throw down his stubby pencil and rush over to us.

"You've got to cup the ball like this," he would demonstrate, "then pull back your arm while you walk forward like this," more demonstrations, then, "Release!" Of course, he would actual bowl the ball, and his roll would be thunderous, culminating with an explosion of pins. He would pull back his fist and hiss, "Yessss!" oblivious to the fact that he had just taken our turn.

It would go on like this for the entire game. Apathy, instruction, acquiescence, rebellion, tension. Our final scores always seemed to him a personal affront. Margo-24; Amy-36, Melanie-29, Cathie-14. We left, feeling that we could have done better, if only we had used the prettier balls.

The reason I tell you this is because I took my four year old to a skating party yesterday. It was his first time on skates and he maneuvered much the way I remember boys from elementary school did on wheels--wild grasping, all skinny limbs, flailing like a bird poised for flight. When I finally got him out of the carpeted lobby and into the rink, we immediately collapsed as a Conga line of seven year old girls raced past us.

And then, of course because it's inevitable, we were approached by an older man, seemingly a dad, who was wearing a white button down shirt open to reveal a generous amount of black and gray chest hair.

"Let me give you a little advice," he began, and I thought a-ha, so we meet again, only this time, it's the Dad Who Invariably Teaches Someone To Skate.

Twice in lifetime. Two different skills. So very lucky.

Poetry Thursday: "A House Of My Own" By Sandra Cisneros

Another slap dash day (there's no time for proper punctuation) and I've been wanting to post a poem for Poetry Thursday and just haven't had the time yet I've had time to: go to the gym and walk at 4.2 mph on the treadmill for twenty minutes-eat hashbrowns and eggs and vegetarian sausage for breakfast-stock up on Crayola supplies at Target-revise my short story, adding references to Arthur Treacher's and Neil Diamond-watch Starting Over-eat a dark chocolate Almond Joy-drink a Coke-drink a Dasani-drink a beer-read a couple of blogs-anticipate Survivor-water my plants-feed my dogs-feed my children-pick up socks-pry a child off of monkey bars-Google Search Sandra Cisneros-envy Sandra Cisneros-use the word bullshit-squeeze my little guy's cheeks-clip a hangnail-take a nap.

So, here's the poem I'm paying homage to. It's by--big surprise--Sandra Cisneros--and it's kind of not a poem, and kind of is. She has a book of poetry out, Cisneros does, and it's in my shopping cart at Amazon right now.

A House of My Own
By Sandra Cisneros
(p. 108 of "The House On Mango Street"

Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man's house. Not a daddy's. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody's garbage to pick up after.

Only a house quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem.

Taking Notes During The Pauses

Today, I'm thinking about all of the things that require time to ripen.

Of course, there is the obvious: bananas, apples, strawberries, tulips. But what about the other things that bloom: a love affair, a friendship, ability, faith?

Even the vegetable barley soup that I made today will improve as it thickens. Time is required for the broth to absorb everything that the vegetables have to offer. The barley flexes, grows bulky with confidence and presence, as the hours progress.

It is difficult to button my jeans when they first come out of the dryer. They need to give way to my shape. My haircut, so edgy the first day, is a field of wayward weeds by days two and three--I need to learn which products suit the the different lengths, and the landscape of my complexion.

A child's abililty to put together a puzzle improves--and with it comes the trust that the pieces will all be there.

Illness that begins as scratch in the throat, a slight ache in the back, eventually explodes into a wind ensemble of sneezes, the drumbeat of coughs, and the big band bass of a fever.

There is something to be said for patience, for allowing each moment the space that it needs. There is something to be said for sitting back and watching events unfold without a vested interest.

That is what I hope to do today. I want to listen and see. I want to do it without judgement.

And during the pause that is named Waiting, I want to take notes.

Scribble Over My Head

Today, I wrote a short story, but I'm still in a "scribble over my head" sort of mood, just like Lucy from the Peanuts. I am scuffing my feet in a house that explodes with dirty dishes and puzzle pieces and smudged windows. I am a run-on sentence, which is my favorite thing to be, and I take comfort in words, no matter how awkward, that tug and stretch and buzz and tumble, like lottery balls, in the hot air chamber of my mind. When I was a teenager, working the 6am shift at the donut shop, I would draw a skull and crossbones on my styrofoam coffee cup. I would like to draw a skull and crossbones on my face today.

I went to a parent-teacher conference this afternoon and was told that my child is observant. He makes connections and can identify question marks and commas within tiny texts. He told the teacher that after the dish ran away with the spoon, a chicken laid some eggs on it. I thought--yep, that's my boy. He's gonna be a writer. But he might not be. He might work at Wal-Mart, in the cafe, and he might delight in the way that the nachos that he prepares are covered with equal amounts of Cheese. That's okay, too.

After the conference, I went to Borders and picked up a copy of "Letters To A Young Poet" by Rilke, and from the first letter, I have already gathered that there is a purpose in pauses. I have gathered that fuel is important. I feel fueled by the people who visit this site. I feel fueled by my favorite cashier at Borders, a lovely teenage boy, who, upon ringing up my Writer's Digest magazine, offered to critique my work.

I have company coming tomorrow--the sock lady and her lunch box carrying husband. They will wine and dine my children and I will sneak away with my husband for a meal, perhaps (hopefully) Mexican, out.

Hopefully, my scribble mood will replaced by little idea bubbles that float, float, float.

Just like the bubbles that my children blow, as they stand outside in their puffy jackets.

Float, float, float.

P.S. In the middle of "outside time" today, my two year old knocked on the door. When I opened it, he handed me a cigarette butt that he had found. I felt grateful, at least for a moment, that he wasn't smoking it.

Block Party

Alright. So, I'm blocked.

I mean, maybe not. I'm showing up at the page, I'm taking it one word at a time.

But they're not coming out the way I'd intended them to.

This has been going on for about a week now. I blamed the blog. I blamed the telephone. I blamed my twitches. I blamed everyone and everything except for myself. Then, I began doing that, too.

I think I started trying too hard. I was making writing a big deal when I don't think that writing has to be a big deal at all. I think it can have the lackluster passion of a gameshow consolation prize, yet still occupy a place on the shelf as a formidable force (like a year's supply of Turtle Wax that keeps your car oh so shiny).

So, I got myself together in all regards. Like Julia Cameron suggests, I husbanded the things that needed husbandry. I made a vegetable soup wild with sliced potatoes, baby carrots, diced tomatoes, shredded spinach, fresh Bella mushrooms, Bay Leaves, and pearls of garlic, and beads of barley. I unloaded the dishwasher and paid attenton to the Melmac plates with their rosebud pattern, our heavy flatware, mismatched Coffee mugs, plastic spatulas, tongs, serrated knives, and whimsical bowls adorned with cartoon characters. I took a hot shower and shaved the parts of my body that society deems shave-worthy. I washed my hair with mango scented shampoo. I slathered a grainy scrub over my knees, feet, and elbows. When I was done, I slicked cranberry nailpolish on my toe nails. I organized piles and receipts. I ate a dozen peanut butter eggs and they hatched inspiration on my tongue. I took my child to the library and when we came home, our arms were stocked with books. I rearranged the queue. I danced the mambo to an Audioslave song. I paid the mortgage. I massaged the baseboards with a damp, lemon scented washcloth. I took my child to play group, where we, the mothers, were sequestered into a private room and offered a small workshop about preconception health (which segued into a discussion regarding the merits of smoking cannabis versus tobacco while expecting).

In other words, it began to rain into my empty well.

But I'm still not there. I'm still careful with my bucket. I'm afraid to run too fast, for fear that some of the water might slosh out. So, today, I'm bundling my boys in their puffy jackets and urging them outdoors. I'm preparing myself a literary cocktail of prayer, Julia Cameron books, Natalie Goldberg books, Sandra Cisneros books, PoemCrazy, Woody Allen movies, the latest issue of Poets and Writers, my notebook, and a small logging camp of colorful felt-tip pens.

Any suggestion about the inspiration cocktails that you prefer to mix when you are hosting a block party? I'm waiting . . . and I'm thirsty!

-3

I was tagged by two amazing and talented women--Melanie of Navylane Studio and Liz of Be Present, Be Here--to particpate in a Three Things Meme. I had a lot of fun thinking up this list, and I'm so grateful that they both thought of me!

3 Things You Wish For (Just for you…):
1. convert the balcony upstairs into a long, window-lined sunroom where I could go to write and read
2. a great babysitter so that Lou and I could have a weekly "date night" out
3. an inground pool in the backyard, and lush, professional landscaping

3 Things You Would Do To/For Yourself If There Was No One To Judge You (…or if you had the guts to do it!) NOTE: am changing this--I am usually like a bull in a china shop and charge into things without worrying about being judged--often to regret later; I'm making this Things I Would Do If I Was Guaranteed A Good Outcome:
1. Fly
2. Go on Survivor
3. Drive in the downtown of a major city

3 Bad Habits You Have:
1. Talk too much
2. Get obsessive about the computer
3. Buy books when I already have a zillion things to read

3 Insecurities You Feel (all, ironically, related to speech--in previous life, before children, was a speech therapist):
1. I worry that I mispronounce words (know what they mean because I'm a reader, but say them wrong; i.e. andouille, vellum, Reisling, matte)
2. I worry that I talk too fast (which I do)
3. I worry that I'll be misinterpreted

3 Talents/Skills You Wish You Had:
1. to be bilingual
2. to be able to sing well
3. to be coordinated enough to do aerobics

3 Things That You Would Do If You Had More Time
(can't answer; I really try to make time for the things that I want to do)

3 Things That Bring You Peace/Relaxation:
1. hot bath
2. Xanax
3. sleep

3 Things That Spark Your Creativity:
1. reading anything by Julia Cameron or Natalie Goldberg
2. traveling by myself
3. cooking

I tag:
I'm not going to tag anyone because I just did a meme where I tagged seven people and I feel that the list of those who might want to "play along" is dwindling*. HOWEVER, I would love it if you all "tagged" yourselves, if you feel comfortable sharing!

*also, this nearly started a brawl on Cubicle Reverend's website.

Poetry Thursday: "Forgotten Language" By Shel Silverstein

For PoetryThursday:

Forgotten Language
by Shel Silverstein

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?

From: "Where The Sidewalk Ends," written by Shel Silverstein

Kick Your Heels Up And Shout

Gotta go write. I have an idea for a story and am afraid that if I don't commit it to the page sometime soon, I'll lose it. I'm driving 100 miles per hour down a lonely road . . . but I'm in a convertible and I've got my wind bonnet and Jackie O. sunglasses on!

P.S. Pictures of my boys in the new socks that my mother knitted for them Matching socks, no less. We're all kicking up our heels and shouting around here! Shhhhh . . . a little bit softer now! But only after American Idol!