Sunday Scribblings: Why I Live Where I Live

I saw the topic for today's Scribbling, went a bit wild (in my normal, impulsive way), then realized that I hadn't followed the directions.

Yet again, I have done it wrong.

I don't tell you how I arrived where I did, but I tell you where I'm at, physically and spiritually. For me, the "getting here" is almost too complex to describe--a lot of quick decisions, accerlerating then coasting, spinning, falling, and finally, accepting. In the end, however, I have created a home that is similar to "me," and to discover that, through this writing, was a very satisfying thing.

For more Sunday Scribblings, click here.
__________________

This house where I live has dusty baseboards and hardwood floors. In some spots, the floors have worn smooth--easygoing, slippery strips of pine. In other places, the wood is warped--a sharp forest of splinters.

Some of the rooms in my house are nearly empty--a window sill for a cup of coffee, an oversized chair for writing, a patterned rug. Other rooms are cluttered, pretty things like a kaleidoscope of manic thoughts; something to think about everywhere you look--picture frames, Belleek pottery, colorful plastic toys, crumbs, Winter jackets, baskets, puzzle pieces, and books.

There are mirrors in my house, mirrors to look deep and examine the pores and fine lines of my spirit, to see all of my faces, to apply cranberry lip liner, concealer, and black mascara. There are also walls without pictures, uninspired canvases waiting for a handprint or bold, quirky art.

The walls of this house are cracked. I try to cover the plaster canyons with paint, but they contract and expand with the seasons, just as the stretch marks across my waist line do, too.

Sometimes, the shades are down and my house is sealed up--a dollhouse with non-working doors and windows, stale air and stale thoughts trapped inside.

But sometimes, there are daisies on the table, brightening the cheekbones of the house as a new shade of pink blush might complement a pale complexion.

Sometimes, the back porch is like a bar in the Keys, strings of twinkling, Shangri-la lights, a relaxed Jimmy Buffett drawl on the CD player. Sometimes, the bathroom disguises itself as a spa--luxurious towels, a tub filled with water so hot that my thighs bake sun-burn red.

And sometimes, the windows are left open, inviting sunlight, an enthusiastic breeze, mosquitios, and the rumble of the busy street inside.

Poetry Thursday: William Carlos Williams

I feel like I'm regressing. I try to write something simple and I can't think of the words. Like "regressing." I sat here for a few minutes, flipping through my brain's rolodex: backpedaling, sliding, tiptoeing. I finally said to Lou, "What's that word for going backwards? The one you usually use for children?" And then I snapped my fingers and said, "Oh, never mind. I've got it. 'Regressing.'"

My Poetry Thursday selection is a famous one by William Carlos Williams, just because I think that he is so flippin' cool and because I love that he was busy, but made the time to write his poetry in his prescription pads. He is the kind of doctor who wouldn't doubtfully ask, "Are they any good?" when I hauled stack of books into his office, for me to read while I waited for my appointment. He's the type of doctor who would plop down onto the exam table beside me, and we would flip through the books together. He might even scribble in the margins.

So, I've picked William Carlos Williams because he was committed to his poetry (and his regular life) and because, though his words are simple, they are the grandest of exhales, menthol-scented, hurricane sighs that could just blow you over. I'm eager to read more of his work.

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

To participate in this celebration of poetry and read other fabulous poems, visit Liz Elayne's Poetry Thursday site.

Julia Cameron Is Releasing A New Book In May

We were all sick today (except Soap-y). I spent the afternoon on the couch, picking at my new baby, directing my boys, and watching DVR programs ("The Real Housewives of Orange County," my new favorite show). I am soooooo behind on email. I am sooooooo behind on blog reading. My house is filthy. I haven't been back to the gym in over a week.

On the good news front, however, I read that Julia Cameron has a book coming out in May! For the link, click here Funny how May seems far away to me right now.

The Lint Between My Ears (Not My Toes)

Before Julia Cameron, for me, there was Natalie Goldberg, and right now, I'm rereading Writing Down the Bones, one of Natalie's most famous books, and relishing quotes like:

"So perhaps not all obsessions are bad. An obsession for peace is good. But then be peaceful. Don't just think about it. An obsession for writing is good. But then write. Don't let it get twisted into drinking. An obsession for chocolate is not good. I know. It's unhealthy and doesn't help the world the way peace and writing do."

Or:

"It is very painful to become frozen with your poems, to gain too much recognition for a certain set of poems. The real life is in writing, not in reading the same ones over and over again for years. We constantly need new insights, visions. We don't exist in any solid form. There is no permanent truth you can corner in a poem that will satisfy you forever."
_____

Last night, I finally finished Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. It was brilliant, I thought. At first, it seemed matter-of-fact, analytical; after a while, however, the chapters shed skin and became pulpy, oozing layers of raw material, urgent emotion. Didion communicated a frantic desire to fix problems before they became unfixable. To rewrite. To remember precisely. And finally, to navigate without one's other half. It wasn't the kind of book I would cry over; it's the kind where I felt the proverbial lump in my throat expand and swell until I felt like I couldn't breathe. I couldn't talk to Lou about it when I was finished because my throat ached (that feeling that if you start blathering about it, you're going to wake up in the morning in your bed with an entire box's worth of balled up tissues surrounding you, sort of like those styrofoam pellets that UPS uses for packaging).

Next in the queue is a true crime, about a millionaire from Texas who is murdered by his trashy, young wife.

What's next in your queue?

Sunday Scribblings: Chocolate

This theme of this week's Sunday Scribblings is chocolate. To read other Scribblings or to submit one of your own, click here.
_________

Of course, she's wearing fuschia and black, because, after all, its 1989 and that's what you wore to the prom then. Ostentatious yet sophisticated. Don't you see her whimsical, fish-net gloves?

On her feet, there are stiletto heels and when the video zooms in--his dad coughing in the background--you can get a glimpse of the beaded, clip-on tassels. She couldn't afford those tassels but wanted them in a desperate way, so he'd said, I'll buy them for you, both of them knowing how grateful she'd be. She worked at a donut shop. He was the doctor's son. There was no comparison. She took the packages--peasant skirts, Italian dinners, flaming red cowboy boots, cartons of cigarettes, vacations on the lake--that he tossed her way.

He hadn't been allowed to park in her parent's driveway, had to pick her up beside the mailbox on her dusty road. Her mother couldn't tolerate his controlling ways, and her father--well, he backed her mother, 100%. So, she'd stumbled down the incline of her driveway in her heels and climbed into his car, and he'd revved the engine at her parents, watching from the porch, as he'd peeled away. She'd seen her parent's faces crumple and wanted to cry, but didn't; it might ruin her makeup. Besides, she didn't want to make him mad.

But at his house, they'd been greeted like Charles and Diana, and they'd stood, at the bottom of the stairs in the foyer, being filmed. His mother told him that his older sister coudn't make it for the "send-off," and he'd started chewing on the inside of his mouth, something he did when he was agitated, right before he hit. He fiddled with a camera, holding it to his crazy eyes, and for a second, you could see the monster pull off his mask. But just as quickly, he put it back on, and then he reached over and slid the corsage onto her wrist, the same one he'd bruised the month before.

Before they left, he handed her a long, thin, white box, and for a second, as his parents applauded, she thought that there was a gun inside. He'd threatened to hurt her often, for little slights (she'd talked to a friend) and for big ones (she'd smiled at a customer as she handed him his change), and she imagined him pulling out a rifle and shooting her, his parents, and himself--I'd rather see you with your face through a windshield than with anyone else. But inside--and she noticed them breathless--there were chocolate roses from Pulakos, a dozen solid bulbs.

I know you love chocolate, he told her.

Chocolate for guilt, and she mistook his attention for love.

The video doesn't show the motel room, cold and bare, that he took her to after the prom. Nor does it show her crying and asking to go home. It doesn't show the way she wanted to open the door of his car as they flew down the highway, and hurl herself out, onto the pavement, under the wheels, and she could almost hear the crack and the crunch of bones being crushed but that was okay, much better than the slow grinding that occurred when he opened her all up and pressed his insecurities into her soul.

The video doesn't tell the story of the later, but it tells of the now. It is reel-to-reel tension, the wincing at the sudden flicker of a hand, the chasm between a smile and tears.

It is chocolate roses mistaken for a gun. It is contempt and fear, mistaken for need and love.

It is tassels on stilettos, mistaken for sophistication, when everyone knows that going to the prom is just playing at dress-up, anyway.

Showing Up In My Pajamas, Clutching My Notebook and Feeling Rageful

I pinched myself this morning--twice--because if I didn't, I thought I'd just scream in frustration and resentment. I hate it when real life intrudes on writing, but there's a part of me that knows that this is "stinkin' thinkin'"; you can't have one without the other.

I was hunched over my morning pages, describing the nudge from Lou that happened while we were still in bed at 7:23 this morning, his sleepy panicked: "Soap-y'll be here in 7 minutes!" I barked that it was Saturday and that Soap-y and I do not enjoy companionship today. We went back to sleep. Or tried to. We are becoming like our grandfathers: with the passing of each year, the benchmark for "sleeping in" creeps earlier and earlier.

Coffee downstairs later, but of course, we were out of milk, so Lou scampered off happily in pursuit of that and donuts. I started to write. James woke up. I dug my pen into the page and carved these words: I feel very angry right now. This was subdued. I wanted to write "RAGE," and I should have. I felt a headache the same color as the overcast sky. Dull, lifeless, pelting. I had not found a flow before James woke up and I most certainly wouldn't find one now, with him tromping around the room screaming, "Whazzat?" or "Pay 'puter?"

Lou comes home and presents the donuts to the children the way Vanna White might present a new puzzle or a car. They trade me in for the crullers and I am grateful. I go searching for my rhythm again, but it must be sleeping off a wild night out at the club. I write something about feeling pushed and pulled, egged on, rag-doll sprawled defenseless.

And then, it hits me. The positive side.

I've written two pages of morning pages. Two more than I wrote yesterday. My child and I enjoyed a leisurely discussion about the names of our pets as I changed his diaper--not our usual rushed, "Soapy's gonna be here," hold-still-now diaper changing. I was able to look out the window and enjoy the dull wooden fence and sort of play with that image in my mind: I want to knock down fences before they go up. I want to fix fences before they are broken. Drenched fences. Drowning mind. A pent up soul. A bull busting from behind bars: tossing energy and ideas and emotion into the stands.

I realized that on some days, I've gotta take what I can get and appreciate it. Coffee consumed while it is still hot. Clean teeth. A single page in a really good book. One shiny window in the whole house. An organized refrigerator in a chaotic kitchen.

One good sentence. A kicky phrase. A blind date between a couple of words on a page which results in a shotgun wedding.

Showing up and trying. And being okay with it not working out.

I'm not happy with this post but it's done. Maybe I'll do better tomorrow. Maybe not. I wrestle with that adage that it's better to have tried and failed than to have not tried. I want to try and I want it to be perfect and I want to trot off on my merry, accomplished way.

There will be no trotting today. Meandering, maybe, but nothing faster.

Down But Not Out

So, here's the thing.

Big changes at the Hamilton house, starting today (which is Wednesday, but you'll probably be reading this on Thursday, so maybe I mean yesterday . . . damn . . . the days, they seem to run together).

We have added a new ingredient into the stew that is our family.

Her name is Sophie.

She is three months old.

She is the reason WHY I will never have any more children.

Let me clarify. I'm babysitting. For a month. For a friend of mine who has to return from maternity leave to finish out the school year. I had forgotten many things about tiny babies, namely, how needy they are.

Soap-y, as my youngest calls her, is a jewel. She dazzles and she knows it. She does all of the typical things that three month olds do, and she does them with Gap-baby style. My other charges, my own offspring, are the problems. They want to be hands-on. They want Soap-y to play catch. They want her to stampede over the flowers in our backyard alongside them.

Soap-y cannot walk, nor can she hold things, with the exception of another person's index finger, which she enjoys hinging her small fist around. I would guess that stampedes and football are out of the question.

We make do by surrounding her, as she reclines on a blanket on the floor, and offering her stuffed toys while poking all of the body parts that comprise her head (i.e. "Wook, eyes!").

I have been "the babysitter" for one day, and I am exhausted.

So, I write this and I tell you that if you have emailed me, I probably will not be able to respond to it until Friday night, when the week is over and I can enjoy your words, as well as a nice bottle of Riesling or case of beer. At that point, I will enjoy my other addiction: reading your blogs.

Soap-y does not like the computer. The clicking annoys her.

I cannot even BELIEVE that I was bitching about not feeling "inspired" yesterday!

Dirty Laundry For Sale

Today, I do not feel like writing. Haven't felt like writing for the past couple of days. I feel like pursuing other art forms, sure I do, ones that I'm not invested in, like scrapbooking vintage pictures, woodworking, and home decorating. I do not want to work on anything that will make me feel like a fuck-up if it doesn't turn out right.

If you want a Froot-Loop encrusted, personal shrine today, I'm your girl.

It's all about investment and identity, for me, here. I think of myself as a writer, so if I try to write something and it doesn't come out well, I feel a little like a cockroach, scrambling for food or his purpose. If I paint a wall in the house a wrong color, I don't feel that my mistake is a statement against me as a purveyor of interior design or good taste; it was just the wrong color for that particular wall.

It's all in the mindset. Today, I'm feeling egg-shell fragile in terms of ego. Arms-locked-in-front-of-my-chest protective. Noticing the ground instead of the sky.

Inside. Not outside.

My mindset today is yard sale frenzy: decluttering, scrubbing, sorting, tagging, pitching, arranging. This morning, I want rid of all of our junky stuff--extra office supplies, a dusty expresso maker, pots, pans, sippy cups--to make room for empty space. For air. To breathe.

I've gotta do the same with my mind. I've gotta clear it--send all of the krumpers in my internal street dance down to community rec. center so that they can organize a benefit to save all of the kids' programs--to make room for new ideas to start stretching. Then tapping. And shimmying.

Dirty laundry for sale! Who'd like to buy some?!

P.S. Shameless plug #2 (a necessity, because, in the corporation known as "me," I am the PR person as well as the writer): story of mine available this week at: Thieves Jargon
I've read the other pieces over there, too--poetry, essays, fiction--it's an honor to have my work appear in such good company.

Sunday Scribblings: When We Were Wee . . .

A Sunday Scribbling based on what I think my children would write after they are grown--right now, they are just a couple of boys with dirty feet, ages four and two.

For more Sunday Scribblings, go to Sunday Scribblings and click on the links. There is a lot of excellent writing out there, just waiting to be read!


When We Were Wee . . .

When we were wee, we ran barefoot in our city backyard, all fenced-in grass and Pine and concrete walkway. We squatted and inspected--rocks, grubs, an army of ants conferencing on a dandelion.

Scoldings that seemed the size of boulders--let's break it down--tears into crumbly rocks, rocks into sandy, dry soil; tears to meet the ground and become lunch for the marigolds and petunias that bordered the lawn.

We watched our father leaning over his sketchbook; we wanted to be artists--we drew Spongebob with sidewalk chalk. We watched our mother scribbling in a notebook; we wanted to be writers--we scratched the grafitti of our names onto flat stones. We listened to a planes roar overhead; we wanted to be the pilots who trampolined onto clouds--we leapt off the top of the sliding board and into the mattress of grass. We could be all three, y'know, and other things, too: soccer stars, builders, chefs, and farmers.

We worked as a team, gathering pebbles and grass for sand stew--but there was always more to be done, a tent to be built, plastic toys to be hauled, some weeds to be cleared, the dog to be chased, then mounted, and ridden like an untamed pony. We declared war on one another over a shovel (James, clocked in the right eye, Mac, shoved down, face-first onto gravel), and we declared war on our parents, too, demanding a steady supply of cold beverages.

Days, scalded, turned into nights, tepid, and we still believed, as our parents hoped, that all could be cured with the proper SPF sunscreen, insect repellent, a cartoon, and a kiss. Inside for dinner, mosquitos clicking like tap dancers, against the stark kitchen light, and we longed for a light that warmed. We ate our favorite food group--"yellow things"--then swam in pool of Mr. Bubble, watching our tub turn brown as our day merged with the bathwater.

When we slept, we dreamt of bumblebees and tomato plants, skittish dogs and orange cars. When we woke up, we asked to go outside again.

It's My Birthdaaaaayy!

"Thirty five is a very attractive age;
London society is full of women who have of their own free choice
remained thirty-five for years."
~Oscar Wilde

Alright. I'm thirty-five today. The word looks "old" on this screen. When my mom was thirty-five, she had a teenage daughter. Let me pick myself up off of the floor here. To be honest, the thirties have been the best time for me--I no longer obsess about my hair and I appreciate my husband for the man he is. On top of that, we had our boys. I think I'm going to take Oscar Wilde's advice and "stall" at thirty-five for the next 20 years!

I was thinking about my "birthdays past" and the one that stands out to me is such a surprising one; it's not my twenty-first, when I had a congo line party that flitted in and out of the bars in my hometown, and when a guy I went to high school with bought me my first shot-Wild Turkey--which I refused to drink. It's not my sixteenth, when I rented "Sixteen Candles" and "St. Elmo's Fire" and "Carrie" with my friends and basked in the knowledge that I would soon be a driver. It's my seventh birthday that stands out. And here's the thing. It's not that I remember a lot about it because I don't. I know that there was a birthday party with girls from school, but I only remember this because we have pictures of it, small snapshots of little girls wearing birthday hats and fancy dresses; me, in pink Garanimal pants and a matching shirt.

What I remember about my seventh birthday is getting a little ring, one with a cameo on it, and a pair of white sandals, and wearing them both to school. And I remember standing on the damp blacktop (it had just rained and was overcast so our recess was held in the parking lot instead of the playground), just feeling joyous and proud and grown. I remember going up to Miss Crow, the scariest first grade teacher (much older than the others, much stricter) who was on recess duty, and shyly showing her my ring, and I remember her grabbing my hand and leaning close and inspecting it, then telling me that I was a "lucky girl" and that my ring was "just beautiful." It was a bit like getting praise from Simon Cowell--it meant something because it came from someone who seemed so standoffish.

Oh, and I also remember getting a horse that year from my grandparents, which just makes me snicker because I was never a horsie kind of kid and I had no idea what to do with him other than ride him in a circle in my grandparent's yard (I was such an ingrate). I was more excited about the rabbit-shaped cake my grandmother made me. The horse was white and named Tinkerbell, by the way--I would've traded him for a motorcycle in a second (which is what I got two years later).

Today, I'm going to celebrate by doing all of the things that I love. I'm going to take a bubble bath and burn Sugar Cookie scented candles. I'm going to wrap my arms around my husband's neck and tell him how much I love him. I'm going to hold my two year old down on the floor and tickle his belly with my nose because he laughs really hard and deep when I do that and his laughter is contagious. I'm going to read with my four year old because the attention just delights him and he becomes absolutely giddy when I call out words and he can find them on the pages. I'm going to jump rope for a couple of minutes because it gets my heart rate up and it makes me feel like I'm on the cusp of being physically fit. I'm going to read all of my favorite blogs and feel grateful that I can call many of their writers "friends."

Oh, and one of the best gifts of all today? Matt DiGangi, an editor, is publishing my short story, "Take My Kids and My Ravioli, Too," in his quirky online literary magazine. If you're interested in reading it, click here!

Edit: Because I never messed with timer thing on Blogger, my posts were apparently off by many hours; I've fixed this. My birthday is really TODAY--your lovely wishes have not been belated at all! Thank you so much. I'm so lucky to know you guys! Thank you! xo

Poetry Thursday

No secret that I adore Sandra Cisneros. Here's one of my favorites from "Loose Woman," a collection of her poetry. It was a close call between this poem and these: "You Bring Out the Mexican in Me" and "I Am So Depressed I Feel Like Jumping in the River Behind My House but Won't Because I'm Thirty-Eight and Not Eighteen." If you haven't read Cisneros' work, I urge you to give it to a try because that chick is a boxer with words and she will kick your ass with her talent.

For more poetry, visit Liz at Be Present, Be Here and click on the links.


The Heart Rounds Up The Usual Suspects
by Sandra Cisneros

I sleep with the cat
when no one will have me.
When I can't give it away
for love or money--

I telephone the ones
who used to love me.
Or try to lure the leery
into my pretty web.

I'm looney as a June bride.
Cold as a bruja's tit.
A pathetic bitch.
In short, an ordinairy woman.
Grateful to excessiveness.

At the slightest tug of generousness,
I stick to the cyclop who takes me,
lets me pee on the carpet
and keeps me fed.

Have you seen this woman?
I am considered harmless.
Armed and dangerous.
But only to me.

The Things That We Do In The Dark

In the dark, in secret, I wear tight tank tops that don't fit my chest properly. I slather chalky cover-up over the tenacious pimple on my chin after I've squeezed the hell out of it. I sneak Lea and Perrins worcestershire sauce into the broccoli cheese soup to add the perfect amount of "je ne sais pas que." I listen to "Rhythm Is a Dancer" over and over as I mambo. I pause on "The Maury Show" to find out the results of the current paternity test. I wedge little pink packets for that "special time of the month" into the pockets of my purse. I sketch out elaborate plans for Sims 2 people and communities. I complain about bruised feelings while rapidly devouring six scoops of Tin Roof Sundae ice cream from a mixing bowl.

These are the things that I do in the dark, in secret. I do them BECAUSE no one's looking.

But there are things that I do because I want to be seen: I wear heavy eye liner. I wear flirty camisoles. I bleach my teeth. I sing loudly in the car, especially at stop lights. I strut. I blog. I put a wreath on the front door to correspond to the season. I dance at nightclubs and at concerts. I sit down on the floor in the magazine section at Border's, spreading my selections out and flipping through them. I write.

The question is: would I still do those things, even if no one was looking? Would I take time to draw on the eyeliner? Would I strut? Would I write?

You bet your ass.

Because the truth is: no one's looking half as much as I think they are. No one is interested in my business or my highlights or my odd body postures on the bookstore floor. And as much as it smarts, no one is really all that interested in my writing or my words.

So, I ask you this: whichever art form you love the most, whichever one you invest your energy in, would you do it if you knew that no one would ever watch? Would you do it without the acknowledgement of a smile or a buck or a nod? Would you do it knowing that you would never hear applause?

Would you do it, among other things, in the dark?

Gimme, Gimme, I Need.

"Gimme, gimme, I neeeeeeed."
-Bob, Bill Murray's character, in "What About Bob"

I've spent a lot of time lately, writing about what I want, but I haven't spent much time thinking about all that I have.

This list is a struggle today, on a morning when I don't feel particularly passionate about much; however, I think that it is on the days that lack "zip" when I MOST need to stop, reflect, and appreciate. I'm grateful for the house, health, freedom, income . . . obviously. Here's some of the other stuff:

I'm grateful for: vegetarian sausage that tastes like the real stuff but doesn't have gristle; potatoes (have never met a potato, particularly a breakfast potato, that I haven't liked); a gym schedule that has become part of our routine; nice weather; a phone conversation with my mom, who is in Northern Ireland for a month, visiting my Granny; a proposition from my four year old to "snuggle;" my husband, who is starting the coursework to turn his Associate's Degree into a Bachelor's; my husband, who "gets" me; French manicures; fresh paint, Joan Didion's "Year of Magical Thinking;" Kanye West's "Gold Digger" song; a plant, flourishing on the window sill; "The Real Housewives of O.C." on Bravo tonight; beer after "cheerleading;" my dad and his passion for Honda Goldwings; Jeff Barnosky's short fiction (Google search him--his stuff, particularly the "Wilford Brimley/diabetes testing supplies" story, is hysterical); my quick and nimble fingers flying over the keyboard :); good teeth (I imagine you inspecting me as a potential buyer might inspect a horse); Aleve; the protests that occurred around this country yesterday; a clean refrigerator; coupons; and Chipotle black bean tacos.

A Sigh Called "Compassion"

So, I've decided to work on my "compassion," much the way I might have chosen to work on my greasy T-zone, inner thighs, and SAT vocabulary in high school. I was inspired by Patry, whom I have gobs of admiration for, and she was inspired by Ben Franklin, who made a list of the virtues that he wanted to embody. If there was ever a chain to link onself to, this is it.

I am judgmental. If you complain about a bad marriage for three years and refuse to listen to any advice or to take action, I'm gonna feel a little irritated and assume that you deserve what you get. If you refuse to send your child to our neighborhood school because it's failing (which, indeed, it is) but won't visit the facility, talk with the principal or the teachers, and get the actual data that explains why it is failing, I'm gonna judge you. If, for the past five years, you have been making the exact same macrame plant hangers out of the exact same hemp twine using the exact same knot sequences, and you achieve some sort of fame based upon the originality of your art, I'm gonna judge you (and your fan base). If you can't speak two languages yet make ugly remarks about people who come to America, work exhausting jobs for low pay, and occasionally lapse into their mother-tongue, I'm gonna judge you.

I try not to judge based on appearance, religious or political preferences, or household cleanliness. I have been a zealot with a zitty chin and a moldy bathtub at times myself; that can be its own cross to bear. I do judge on restaurant preferences, treatment of animals, and knowledge of current events.

But I'm coming to realize that judging others is not my place. People do the best that they can with the information that they have. People are entitled to make mistakes. Sometimes, they are not go-getters. Sometimes, they do not want to enlighten themselves. That's okay. It's not my business unless I'm asked, and even then, I am not skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk in their shoes--they are. Besides, I know nothing about their personal histories, their insecurities, their issues, that have led them to the house where they currently reside.

Sometimes, the things that I believe are mistakes are NOT mistakes at all.

Whoa.

Judging people is an ugly way to live. It is full of meanness and insecurity and contempt.

I think I do it because I am so afraid of being judged.

I would much rather judge you first because that way, when you look down your nose at me, I won't feel inadequate because, in my book, you've already established yourself as an ass.

The person whom I judge the most is myself.

This weekend, I TRIED (really, I did) not to judge. I tried to take things at surface value and feel compassion instead. I tried to embrace instead of stomp. I tried to be a daisy instead of a cactus. I was successful at times; more often than not, I wasn't.

It is one thing to be passionate, but not about anyone else or their business. I must be passionate about my own quirky values, awkward appearance, and off-kilter pursuits.

The freaky whirl-a-gigs that other people use to decorate their world--well, that's their business. As much as I think that I know, there's more that I don't.

Compassion. It even sounds like a sigh..

Sunday Scribblings: Real Life

Oh, I should never attempt a writing prompt when my mood is wrung out. My post for this week's Sunday Scribblings is a Charlie Brown scribble, gum on the sidewalk, seaweed soup sort of thing: it is bitter and sticky and irritable. The topic is "real life." If you want Wheaties and fun lipstick the color of a baboon's ass, don't read on:

Channeling Arthur Schopenhauer As I Reflect About Real Life

"Real life" is the bully mentality disguised as a sorority of kindred spirits: a pack of girls with watery hair, straight teeth, and expensive jeans, rolling their eyes and laughing at fat Tina, who lives in the dorm room down the hall. Girls who grow up to be women who refine their laughter to smirks, but are still ugly beneath the pretty. It is the old man in the line at the grocery store, digging for crumpled bills and exact change with shaking, gnarled hands; milk and bread and Velveeta and a pear lined up on the conveyer belt beside him. "Real life" is barn cats--Jennifer, whose missing tail is an entity without being present (horse stomped on it), Billy, with the snot globules in his eyes, and mangey Cora, whose belly is always full of babies and mice. "Real life" is the dog that gets off of the leash and darts into the busy road--in one second, the world is inverted, folded inside out from life to death--this tiny dog, still, on the road. "Real life" is the marriage of a treadmill and the heart--shoes thumping, heartbeat thumping--and yet, my cheeks aren't flushed. "Real life" is felt tip pens that dry up too quickly, ideas that dry up too quickly, dreams tucked into a pocket and forgotten until its time to do laundry, and then, it's too late. It is a legion of people whose niceness is artificial sweetner, grainy one minute, sugary the next, but ultimately, rat poison, a heart attack waiting to happen. "Real life" is child swappers, politicians that stink like anchovies, and the telemarketers that call every night, probably picking their cuticles as they ask if they can count on you for a small pledge of 30$. It is finishing the sentences for a person who stutters because you've got soccer practice at 5; it is complaining about being hungry when your last meal was a Big Mac, only a few hours ago. It is the luxury of being uninspired and believing that finding oneself creatively is critical, as important as finding a good potato during the famine or a toddler missing after the flood. "Real life" is paying the minimum on a credit card but booking that necessary knitting cruise to Mazatlan. "Real life" is whatever you want to slap on your canvas, depending on your perspective or mood--today, my picture is solid blue, but tomorrow, it could be stick people holding hands and yellow. "Real life" is realizing that inaction is as much of a choice as paying bills, writing a poem, and making enchiladas smothered in salsa verde for dinner.
__________

For more Sunday Scribblings, click here and following the links to the participants. Consider joining in--the more, the merrier!

Poem with an Apple in its Mouth, Offered on this Poetry Thursday

This poem, offered up by me (imagine a volcano, rhythmic drums and chanting, and tiki torches) to Poetry Thursday (the brainchild of the beautiful and talented Liz Elayne), was found in a book called "100 Great Poems of the Twentieth Century," edited by Mark Strand. Great book. It gives little tastes of the works of many well-renowned poets; appetizers, if you will, like exotic cheeses or broccoli and dip.

After nibbling at this book, I would like to read more poetry written by Louise Bogan and Elizabeth Bishop. The poem that I share is by Blaise Cendrars (tranlated from the French by Ron Padgett). It reminds me of my talented poet friend, Pearl, and her succulent blog posts.

Menus

I.
Truffled green turtle liver
Lobster Mexican
Florida pheasant
Iguana with Caribbean sauce
Gumbo and palmetto

II.
River salmon
Canadian bear ham.
Roast beef from the meadows of Minnesota
Smoked eel
San Francisco tomatoes
Pale ale and California wine.

III.
Winnipeg salmon
Scottish leg of lamb
Royal Canadian apples
Old French wines

IV.
Kankal oysters
Lobster salad celery hearts
French snails vanillaed in sugar
Kentucky fried chicken
Desserts coffee Canadian Club whiskey

V.
Pickled shark fins
Stillborn dog in honey
Rice wine with violets
Cream of silkworm cocoon
Salted earthworms and Kava liqueur
Seaweed jam

VI.
Canned beef from Chicago and German delicatessen
Crayfish
Pineapples guavas loquats coconuts mangoes custard apple
Baked breadfruit

VII.
Turtle soup
Fried oysters
Truffled bear paws
Lobster Javanese

VIII.
River crabs and pimento stew
Suckling pig ringed with fried bananas
Hedgehog ravensara
Fruit
_________


To read more poetry today, go to Poetry Thursday and click on the links.

A Bountiful Farmer's Breakfast, Plus 20 Dark Chocolate Peanut Clusters

Still thinking about Meg's "I want" list from a couple of weeks ago. My mind is popping with the things that I want right now, because I firmly believe that you've got to acknowledge your "wants" in order to make them a reality. But I also believe that a lot of times, like Meg mentioned, we don't know what we want, that the idea of saying them aloud is scary, that the thought of failing is too painful. Crawling into the cardboard box and pulling the flaps shut instead of bursting out, exploding with confetti. Before I started submitting stories, I was convinced (with no evidence to prove otherwise) that I could be a literary genius. Once the rejections began arriving, however, I realized the protective value of ignorance--many times, I missed the "not knowing," felt that it had been better than the empty, quiet, cheerless truth of failing. But then, I tried to redefine "failing," and this helped. That, and multiple, simulataneous submissions (thanks, Justin!) and chocolate.

Today, I want: to be creative all of the time. immediate results. a jewel-encrusted social life. a farmer's breakfast. a generous portion of home fries. to be polygamous and marry the page. a scalp massage. to continue to be practical and $wise and sensitive. to be made of non-stick teflon, with criticism, lost opportunities, regret, and dead friendships sliding off of me, like a couple of fried eggs or a roasted red pepper omelette. a fire bowl in my backyard and the chance to stretch out with my feet propped on a lawn chair, roasting marshmallows and watching the sunlight click off and being embraced by citronella. to go to the Florida Keys next November with my girlfriend and her husband and Lou and really feel like we're participating in a Jimmy Buffett song. people who feel that I am a receptacle for their racist views to shut the fuck up because I am not interested in their verbal garbage. to know what would happen if a "tour of duty" actually consisted of going to a famine plagued country and providing it with manpower and economic resources and education. to have a stable definition of success that I can aspire to daily. to send my Irish granny a nice present for her eightieth birthday. to navigate the post office without getting yelled at for using the wrong box or kind of tape. to eat 20 dark chocolate peanut clusters. to be able to run for longer than 5 minutes without getting a stitch in my side. a really kicky pair of open toe sandals. to plant a garden. well defined upper arms. the fat between my armpits and boobs to disappear so that I can feel pretty in a tank top. someone else to mop my floors and clean out my refrigerator

Overactive Imagination: I Think NOT!

I'm mobilizing my crew so that we (I) can head off to "cheerleading" practice. No, you did not read that wrong, and yes, the hamster has passed out on the wheel (yet you knew that, didn't you?). "Cheerleading" is synonymous, in my book, for aerobics (we actually clap when we're finished, so why the hell not?), and for a woman unable to coordinate leg and arm movements, it often proves to be a real challenge. However, I dreamt of being a cheerleader (or flag spinner, or a baton twirler, or a ballerina) for many, many years, and in some small way, this fulfills the need.

Anyhoo . . .

that's not why I'm writing this post. I'm writing this post to give you even further evidence of my unsteady clutch on sanity. Y'see, there's this train upstairs, a little remote control "Thomas the Tank Engine" toy, that is currently driving itself (YES, ITSELF) around on my hardwood floors. The sound of its little wheels just spinning and scraping pine rendered M and me frozen amidst an aggressive game of Bingo this afternoon; chip poised, midair, and we heard it . . . chug, chug, chugging along. Revving. Prowling.

"What's that?" M asked.

"I think it's The Train," I said. (Notice use of caps.)

We climbed up the stairs to the kitchen, where the train was speeding circles around the dogs.

"Who's driving it?" M whispered. I eyed the remote control, sitting, untouched, on the counter.

"Maybe it's a ghost?" I encouraged.

His face lit up, "Yessssss," he breathed, "A ghost."

When the train "ran out of gas" temporarily a bit later (after a ten minute break, it took off again), M suggested that perhaps the little ghost boy who had been playing with it was now eating an invisible snack of carrots (love how the spirit has to make healthy choices; try giving M carrots for a snack).

But, here's the kicker. Went upstairs (cautiously, I might add, pressed against walls) to retrieve J from his nap. Opened the door and the child's first words to me. "Hi, Mom. Ghost!"

Arrgggghhhh.

I really hadn't planned on going to the gym this afternoon, but I think it's a better place for all of us. At least until the Ghost Busters arrive.

P.S. Last October, had a similar situation with the doorbell chiming constantly--a grand "ding dong ding donnnnng, ding dong ding donnnnng." Called my husband at work, sobbing. Told me to remove batteries. Ripped them out of the speaker, relaxed, then had breakdown when it started again. Called my husband at work again, screaming and bawling and collapsed in a corner by the front door (think Julia Roberts in "Sleeping With the Enemy": the scene where the husband finds her). Turns out that the outside button has batteries, too. Tore them out. Doorbell stopped. I sometimes overreact.

P.P.S. This is an old house, built in 1910. I have waken up, I shit you not, at least ten times in the past six months to the sound of a baby crying, yet when I poke my husband to go check on the kids (yes, you read that right), everyone is fast asleep. SPOOOOOOOKYYYYYYYY!

Thank You, Peter Brady

So, I'm back at the video store on Sunday (where apparently, the fines have now reached $97.23, and no, I am not interested in taking care of them at this time), clutching "Capote," which I have been dying to see, when a man sidles over and thrusts a "Fantastic Four" DVD at me.

I used to watch this when I was a kid, he says.

Hmmmpfff, I say, I don't remember that show.

Well, how old are you? he asks, all eager and about a quarter of an inch away from my face. I'm not kidding. This man was practically on me.

I'm in my thirties, I say, all vague and mysterious and such.

Well, I'm 43, he says triumphantly. We had the Fantastic Four cartoon when I was a kid.

We had Smurfs, I tell him.

I wander down aisle a bit, but he is right there with me, rubbing shoulders.

You see this one yet? he asks, pointing at House of Wax.

Uh, no, I say, with two neon words blazing in my mind: SERIAL KILLER.

It's pretty good, he says.

Is that so? I say back.

You see this one? he asks, pointing at Jarhead. I know a lot of Jarheads. Got to be a Jarhead to join the Marines. Met a girl the other day. Real pretty, tiny girl, about your size-(suddenly torn between the compliment and fear)-She was a marine. I just looked at her and said: WHY.

Loud guffaws and wipe of nose with sleeve.

More sidling. More inching closer. More invasion of interpersonal space. More horror movie recommendations (as well as "Hidalgo"). More spittle on my cheeks, warm breath in my ear. And I'm still flippin' trying to extract myself politely. What the hell. Mental note to start counseling immediately.

Finally, I've had enough. I run to the register. He is on my heels.

Do you have your membership card? asks Peter Brady look-a-like cashier.

I dig through purse, but of course, I can't find it. Horror movie affecianado hovers and peers into my bag.

I like your wallet, he says.

I flash a panicked look at Peter Brady. Take mental notes, I will him with my eyes. When I go missing, I want you to tell the detectives all about this fellow.

Horror Movie Guy now informs me (and Peter Brady) that I can just use my phone number to access my account.

Uh, no, that's not accurate Peter Brady says. We only take official identification here.

ThankyouPeterBrady.

I pay for my stuff and bolt for my car, where I immediately roll up the windows and lock all of the doors. Horror Movie Guy pulls out of the parking lot as I do. He's driving a cream colored Lincoln with a "Proud To Be An American" bumper sticker slapped across its rear. I wonder who's in his trunk. He waves.

That's it. I'm getting Netflix.

Sunday Scribblings: The Acme Guide To A Literary Free Fall

Thanks to Meg and Laini, who have come up with Sunday Scribbling's, a website that encourages creative writing through the use of weekly prompts. This week's task involved writing about something that you would do, if you weren't scared. I have huge fears of flying--imagine bursting engines, flimsy wings, drunk pilots. I put a little spin on my fear and merged it with all of my writing neuroses. It's rough piece, but it was fun to try! I can't wait to read the entries from all of the other participants--it's always a pleasure to see how different people interpret/execute the same topic.


The Acme Guide To A Literary Free Fall:

Parachutes Available For An Additional Fee

Let’s talk about guts and glory, okay? Are you ready? Ready to take the dive of a life time? Ready to throw your innards out for the world to see, writhe naked in the moonlight after you leap from a Cessna 182? Make sure that your pockets and fanny packs are full of poetry and motivational quotes, and double check to ensure that your dictionaries and thesauruses are firmly attached to your arm splints.

And don’t forget: The Acme Literary Guild is NOT responsible for lost or stolen articles. Or injuries accrued during the jump.

Now, let’s begin.

To be a writer, you must begin with one foot on and one foot off of the plane. Like this. No, Esmerelda, a toe doesn’t count. LIKE THIS! See my foot dangling. See how there is nothing underneath it except for a cloud? Yes, yes, like that. No, don’t look down, Connie. You will forget to breathe if you look down and then we will have more problems than we already do, and at this point, we have more than enough.

Now, back to “foot in, foot out.” What you will need to do—yes, Gus, did you have a question? Why “foot in, foot out?” Well, Gus, I would have assumed that with your post-doc on literary theory and extensive journal credits, you might have already deduced the rationale for this requirement, but obviously, I’ve overestimated your skill set. You do “foot in, foot out” for one reason and one reason alone. Because it’s the way you write. A good writer has one foot firmly on a solid surface, but the other foot must be flighty. It must be weightless. It must be willing to step where there is no ground. It must be willing to trust that the clouds will cushion, that the imagination will lift, and that opportunity is invisible and just might take the form of Wonder Woman, zipping past in crystal clear jet. Is your Harvard brain able to process that little jewel, Gus? Alright, then, let’s proceed.

Number two. We have equipped you with thesaurus and dictionary splints for rapid flapping. Yes, after the plunge, you will be responsible for the Phoenix Maneuver. Hal, Connie, please pay attention. The Phoenix Maneuver is quite similar to treading air. You will sweat. You will get tired. But you must, must keep flapping. You must be a magical bird. This key technique has worked for legions of writers over the years and it is critical to success. You flap and you flap and you flap some more. Even though you are falling. Even though it is not working. You just keep flapping. If you don’t flap, you will immediately plummet to the ground and you will lay there, crumpled up, like a dirty paper towel. And don’t forget to use your guide words.

Number Three. While air born, you must toss your words out for the world to read. Yes, Connie, I realize that this is the difficult one. I know that it is a hard balance, flapping the Phoenix and digging in pockets and trying to hurl words. Reflect on your days as the pitcher for your college softball team and you will be just fine. Sling hard, but remember: some of your words will end up in the garbage can, like a Chinese takeout menu dislodged from under a windshield wiper. Some will only receive attention from the dusty sole of a shoe. Some will be glanced at. Some will be criticized. Some will laughed at. This is not the point. The point is to keep tossing. The more you toss, the bigger the chance that someone with impeccable taste and a kind eye will stumble upon your page, your words, your naked heart, and let you know that they have faith in your talent, and if that happens, at that point, you will forget you are tired and you will flap harder and faster than you ever thought you could flap.

Number Four. I often get heckled when I read this one, but it is very, very important. As much as the faith of others is important to your free fall, it is your faith in yourself that is critical. You must believe that the poems in your fanny pack will heal the paper cuts from the thesaurus. You must believe that your steady Phoenix flapping will sustain your flight. You must believe that the words that you have written are worth more than a muddy footprint, even if that is the only kind of attention that they ever get.

Now, let’s review. Foot in, foot out. Leap. Phoenix. Flap. Toss. Any questions?

Yes, Esmerelda?

Landing? Who said anything about landing?

Free fall, baby. That’s what this literary life is all about.