Poetry Thursday: A Reading

Last night, all of us--Lou, my mother, and me--sprawled in the middle room of our house (oversized chair, a virtual skyline of books and magazines--what normal folks might choose to use as a "dining" area), searching for a poem for me to share on Poetry Thursday.

We read the poetry out loud, and for about an hour, time was measured in rhyme and pentameter. Tick tock seconds rivaled syllables. Oh, he said. Yes, she sighed. How about this one, we each suggested, our voices our elbows, edging one another out of the way. Comma, explanation point, run on/drag on sentences. The dogs were the critics, the roar of the central air was the applause, and the scent of M&M brownies swirled among us like cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, as intoxicating as a sniff of Wild Turkey; I've been drunk on those fumes. Words were intoxicating, too, more so, in fact. We tried to top each other--a lyrical shout off, and the middle room changed outfits again--smooth, jazzy club ensemble to tattered street scene from West Side Story.

Here's what I finally decided to share, though it was not the People's Choice: Page 22/ oh lucky me by Frances Chung. What a find I consider this poem to be.

Frances Chung's work, to me, is simply worded yet bursting with heavy emotion: the weight of being pre-judged, the weight of being stereotyped, the weight of representing a country or a culture, the weight of being seen yet ultimately dismissed as invisible. I will be buying this woman's book.

For more Poetry, click here to visit the Poetry Thursday website.

Misc. Cocktail

A few things which, when combined, create the current Cocktail of My Life:

-I just responded to the comments from my last few posts. Sorry that I've been so neglectful. I always read and enjoy them. I just don't return the love promptly.

-I'm planning to update my sidebar soon. I've got many new links to add. Please bear with me. For some reason, I find the "dashboard" intimidating and need to work up some confidence before messing with it. Soon . . . very soon.

-Book queue: Walter the Farting Dog: Trouble at the Yard Sale (I love this one as much as the kids do); My Latest Grievance by Elinor Lipman (latest acquisition from the library--it joins the skyscraper of books on my ottoman); Barbra: The Way She Is by Christopher Andersen (finishing this guy up); and The Pistachio Prescription by Paula Danziger (love rereading favorites from late childhood--read this one on the beach last weekend)

-My mom's in town, visiting us. She's still knitting socks.

-wine-garlic-and-herb baked fish for dinner, plus creamy mashed potatoes, wine-and-tomato rice (wine seems to be a recurring theme in the menu), sweet corn on the cob, and a lovely Spinach leaf salad (sprinkled with jalapenos . . . and drizzled with wine--KIDDING!)

-My kid was tested for speech and qualifies for therapy. The irony of this is not lost on me, being a speech-language pathologist and all. At least I'll be able to help him with his "homework."

-Considering going back to work one day each week next school year. Gotta examine the logistics, but when above-mentioned child was getting his speech tested, an opportunity was hurled at me.

-Looking forward to continuing my pursuit for a poem for tomorrow's Poetry Thursday. I've missed the past few weeks and feel a bit of a cavity over that. If you haven't participated, please consider. Liz and Lynn have done an amazing job in encouraging everyone to celebrate/familiarize/reacquaint themselves with this art form.

We're Baaaaack!

Bartles and James

We're home, back from a long, tourist-y type weekend in Edinboro. We did all of the usual vacation stuff--drove around the Peninsula, spent an afternoon at the beach, wandered the Erie Zoo, had a bonfire in my parents' backyard and roasted marshmallows and hotdogs, ate at Taki's, ate at Serafini's, ate at the VFW Club, ate too much, were eaten by mosquitos, had a drink at the Edinboro Hotel Bar, etc.

Spent a little while clicking at blogs last night, catching up on all of the things that I've missed: some beautiful Sunday Scribblings, passionate artwork, funny stories. I'm eager to curl up in a chair and immerse myself in all of them . . . but not today . . . too many appointments.

Maybe tonight?


Our Family With Lou's Beautiful Grandma

Me and My Dad

If Short Stories Were Songs and I Was A Singer . . .

Was it just me or did Katherine McPhee look like she was going to burst into tears anytime she wasn't singing last night on American Idol?

I thought that it was a mediocre finale. They each sang songs that they had sung during the season. Maybe they were supposed to. Maybe I missed that. Katherine's "Over the Rainbow" was pretty incredible, but there's something about her that irritates me. Taylor, I've loved since his first audition, but I felt that he became forgettable in the middle of the season. It will be interesting to see who wins. Pulling for Taylor, but there are no guarantees.

I was thinking about singers last night and I decided that I want to write the way Stevie Nicks sings. I want gravelly, husky prose with just a hint of sweetness. I want unconventional--words that prompt someone to say, "Well, now, that's different . . . but it works . . . hey, I like it." I want writing that is lusty with emotion, satiated with detail; I want to make it all come together in a culminating scratchy moment that gets under the reader's shirt and makes them fidget and itch and think about what bit them. Writing which is edgy enough to be unforgettable.

Easier said.

Which singer would you want to "write/paint/draw/sew/etc like? Or give me a song that represents the mood you are in with your art.

My New "Friends:" Fluff and Grit

I can't find my favorite barrette and I've been ripping the place apart, trying to find it, which leads me to admit something here.

I haven't cleaned my house in at least three weeks.

I'm not kidding. Yes, I have done some maintenance activity: dishes, wiping of counters and kitchen table, toilet brushing, sink rinsing, and tub splashing

but,

I have not: dusted, mopped, washed windows, wiped down cupboards, Windexed a mirror, made a bed, or scrubbed a baseboard.

I vacuumed twice.

Twice in 21 days. And we have dogs.

The only reason that I say this is that I was horrified, horrified at the state to which things have deteriorated, when, flattened on the floor with flashlight in hand, I peered under the couch, looking for favorite barrette.

Substances that one could only describe as Fluff and Grit (the dirt version of Bonnie and Clyde) were hiding out there, along with their partners in crime: Puzzle Piece, Bingo Chip, Rubber Band, and Paper Clip.

I realized that we have several "camps" of these types of substances scattered throughout the house. A "compound" under the bed, another under an oversized "chair." A virtual "confederacy" below the dresser.

Today, I continue search for favored barrette . . . while I disinfect the place.

I mean, I'm a dirty-nasty pig . . . but I do have a breaking point.

It's A Gusher

I am, simply put, a gusher.

Not a gusher as in a "flesh wound." Not a gusher as in "dammit, my water broke . . . I'm gonna have this baby NOW!"

Not a gusher like an oil well or a volcano.

I'm a gusher in terms of praise. And I've finally learned to accept it. My writer friend, Justin Crouse (go to his site, read his work, you will be charmed and changed), mentioned it to me just last week, after I scribbled out a reaction to one of his short stories.

Cate, he said, you can stop with the gushing.

I snapped back: I'm a gusher. Take it or leave it.

It's true. If I visit your blog or you show me something pretty, most likely, you will receive any of the following comments from me:

-I loved this
-love, love, love this
-I adore this
-brilliant
-resounds with me
-resonates with me
-marvelous
-amazing
-incredible
-you are generous
-you are talented
-you are fabulous
-spot on (Thanks, BB, for calling me out on that one. 'Preciate it.)

Oh, and then there's my old favorite stand-by: "wonderful"

My dull, overused (dare I say "trite") synonyms are not, at a deeper level, a commentary on your work. I mean, they are in that I struggle to use them to express my admiration, but "wonderful?" You and I both know how watered down that guy is.

Yes, my dull, overused synonyms are a commentary on me--that I cannot think on my toes (see, I'm reverting back to cliches), I am so overwhelmed by the post that I have just seen or read that I feel grossly inadequate, I am intimidated by you because I think you are much cooler than I am and will laugh at what I write in reaction.

Now, I'm not saying that I don't have good days. Sometimes, the planets are aligned, my hormones are balanced, and the house is quiet. Sometimes, I am able to formulate an inventive response to a post, something that fits the magic that I have just read. Sometimes, words hurl themselves at me like sharp spitballs: kicky, bittersweet, poignant, lucid, ethereal (love that one), haunting, jazzy. Sometimes, I've gotta consult the doctor: thesaurus.com

Most days, however, I revert to the stand-by list because that's my initial translation from what my mind is telling me. My mind shouts: Damn, this is good. This person is so talented and I'm thrilled that they are out there, pounding the keys and sharing their ideas and imagination, via words, with the rest of us. I would never have thought to put this word with that, but look at how it works, check out the emotion that oozes from the screen. I wonder what inspired her to write that? I wonder what her life is like and if she writes poetry in her head when she scrubs out the bathroom sink? And look at that picture, how does she do it? Such innocence. It reminds me of my granny's house and the blackberry bushes that lined the sandy road and the orange salamanders that we caught and housed in Folger's cans and oh, how young we were, all scabby-kneed, and how the world was only about pine trees and waking up early and being tucked in my someone who loved us.

That doesn't really make for a very good (lucid?) comment.

SO, when I attack my own keyboard, this is what my fingers say:

-I loved this
-love, love, love this
-I adore this
-brilliant
-resounds with me
-resonates with me
-marvelous
-amazing
-incredible
-you are generous
-you are talented
-you are fabulous
-spot on

Please be assured that if I visit your site and leave any of the aforementioned comments, they come from my heart. I mean them. I may be a gusher, but I am incredibly honest gusher. If I don't have anything nice to say, I keep my mouth shut.

You got your style. I got mine.

Smatterings

While I'm grateful for all of the comments that I received for my "drama" post, I've taken it down, just because I've finally come to terms with my own emotional neurosis regarding the situation and realize that it was most likely a fluke (and I don't want the woman I was writing about to stumble over here and think that I'm a nut!). Simply put: massive, situational insecurity plus a dab of self-importance equals a neurotic spiral. Neurotic spiral over.

Weekend recap:

-rented several movies, including Woody Allen's Match Point (sucked; not only shoddy plot, but also, I think "trite" and poorly acted) and The Family Stone (also sucked, but in a different way; although depicted great, fun family with Craig T. Nelson as dad--automatic "snaps" for that--very sad storyline and difficult-to-believe twists).

-library: return some books, borrow a bunch more. Just picked up Barbra: The Way She Is by Christopher Andersen; fabulous so far, just like Barbra! Am jockeying between it and The Bell Jar (nod to BB!). Sylvia Plath is brilliant. 'Nuff said.

-stories submitted to a couple of online literary magazines; feel like I'm climbing back in the saddle. The horse still ain't moving, but at least, I'm ready to ride.

-We ate in. This is big for us, esp. lately. Last night, I made vegetable barley soup. Tonight, we had frozen pizzas. Apparently, 1/3 of California Pizza's White Pizza is only 280 calories. Who knew?

-Lou's making brilliant progress on his ability to use Photoshop. Click here to see how he restored a house in the neighborhood. Click here to see his Illustration Friday drawing (which has nothing to do with Photoshop but I find flippin' hysterical).

-Soap-y's visiting tomorrow. For the day. This will be good. I've started taking my daily routine for granted. I'll betcha on Tuesday I'll appreciate it again.

-big news of the weekend: Tommy Hilfiger kicked Axl Rose's ass. I think that this shows Tommy Hilfiger to be a classless man and I can fully see him frothing at the mouth while administering the beatin'.

Sunday Scribblings: Three Wishes

Three Wishes, Circa 1987
Also Known As Donut Shop Dreams

Wishes hang
like paper-carved snowflakes
on strings
from a water-stained, coffee shop ceiling.

Amid the persistent clatter of service
donuts in boxes
coffee sloshing in cups
cups slipping on saucers,
there is the warmth of belief,
like peppermint schnapps,
Vick's Vapor rub,
candy cane heat.

Pause to wipe a counter,
make a wish:
to be beautiful,
or not so much to be beautiful
as not to be ugly:
erase washed-out complexion,
frizzy hair,
short lashes framing
dull eyes.

Extra attention to
a stain of glaze,
knead, scour, scrape,
wish number two:
Manhattan, a poet's life,
reams of paper, lug a typewriter
up the stairs of a walk-up,
words racing,
a trail of exhaust, like emotion,
across the avenue
of a page.

Tuck wisps of hair under visor,
toss the rag in the sink,
tread slowly back to the register,
and wish number three:
to be young, stay young, feel young
Remember what it was like
at 2 a.m. beside the Christmas tree
the night before--
rinsed in the bath of light,
cleansed by joy--
wrap that moment,
and believe that it was only yesterday,
five, ten, twenty years from now.

Take money,
change jangles into the drawer,
peel back bills
and hand them away,
write stories inside a head,
transactions printed on receipts
more tangible than hope.

Dream of making it all real
someday.
Hold it close,
like a child clutching a cinnamon stick,
the night cook, ripping open his paycheck,
a baby, reaching high from her father's arms,
to grab a paper-carved snowflake,
which dangles, as delicate
as a wish.

For more Sunday Scribblings, click here.

5 Things

I was tagged by my friend, Susan at Soozphotoz. If you have not visited her site, I urge you to go there immediately. She is an amazing writer and photographer; you will be inspired and impressed!

5 items in my fridge:
leftover penne pasta from Macaroni Grill
Morningstar Farms sausage patties (staple of my existence)
asiago cheese
unsalted butter
Helluva Good french onion dip

5 items in my closet:
a laundry basket full of purses (just like Susan!)
a jacket that belonged to my grandfather
a scarlet button-down shirt that knots at the waist (which I cannot wear because I have no ab defintion, yet I cling to it, pull it out and admire it every so often)
a pink, polka-dot camisole (my favorite item)
my wedding dress (I eloped at the townhall in Martinsburg, WV, so I did not have the requisite white flowing gown; instead, I wore an ugly dress that resembles a tapestry. It is God-awful but I cannot bring myself to throw it away)

5 items in my car: (unlike my house, my car is generally meticulous)
"Maisy Goes Camping" library book
several Flair Felt-Tip pens in assorted colors
two luxury child car seats, complete with pillowed head-rests and cup holders
umbrella stroller (lodged in trunk)
home-made birthday CD (Rhianna SOS song, Black-Eyed Peas Hump song, Gorillaz Dare song, Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty Dragging Heart Around song, etc.)

5 items in my purse (not meticulous)
approximately 227 receipts
Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar (lovin' this book)
several Flair Felt-Tip pens in assorted colors
Fendi wallet that I purchased in my pre-kid days
coupons

and now YOU'RE it:
I can't remember who has done this one already. Please join in if you are so inclined! I'm thinking Deb, Kiki, Holli, Andrea, Painted Pear, Liz, etc.

New Notebook

A new notebook, with paint sample tabs, fork-raked paint, and discount yarn. I'm using it for daily writing prompts, inspired by The Painted Pear's art-a-day and Deb's Daily Art Thang. Yesterday's topic, my first, was "makeover." This is a very rough piece, written quickly, with only minor revisions made as I typed it into this post.
______

Sometimes the clients don't like the makeover--they believe that purple velour leggings makes their thighs look huge, that red lipstick is so Cruella DeVille. Carla would like to remind these women of what they looked like when they first walked into her shop--rooster bangs, pasty complexions, high waisted "mom" jeans--but she doesn't. If she were to be honest with herself, even after she works her Paul Mitchell magic, some ladies don't look much different. It's not the clothes, for they certainly are new, tailored to the correct contours of a body rutted with stretchmarks and cellulite. It's not the makeup, applied carefully with a sponge to conceal spider veins, adult acne, and fine lines. It's not even the hair, painted carefully with golden--never brassy--hightlights, then razored into a chic bob. It's what Carla can't makeover, a dish-pan hand spirit, the "lay still till it's over" sexuality, the despair that accompanies impending unemployment--the children are in high school--"we're gonna need to lay you off."

Carla believes in herself, as adept as she is with scissors, a blowdryer, and an oversized round brush. She believes that she could educate her clients, if only they would allow themselves to consider the idea of trading frosted lipstick for matte, or pitch the coupon caddy from the purse. She would say--go barefoot on a sticky sidewalk, swim in a man-made lake, try tampons instead of pads. What Carla does not believe in, however, are her clients, the ability of people to let go of something comfortable, no matter how unsatisfying it is. "Hack it all off," some of the women cry, and once she does, they immediately start calculating the months until it grows back. "I'll try some blush," the more daring ladies announce, but when she peers at them from the window of the shop after the appointment is over, most are sitting in their cars in the parking lot, rubbing at their cheeks with a Wet-Wipe from the glove box.

Carla closes the shop by flipping the sign, then lights a cigarette. She carefully counts the money in the cash register. Business is down; people just don't seem to want makeovers like they did in the '80s. Now, it's all about surgical enhancement. Only one fifty today; ten years ago, there would have been a dozen.

As she takes the last drag of her cigarette in her "smoke-free" shop, she thinks that it might be time to replace the wall paper. She wonders if she should go with stripes, and whether a Laura Ashley floral pattern would be too-old fashioned; maybe a solid color might make the shop look larger? She shrugs. What difference did it make? The clients would still be the same, the cash in the drawer at the end of the day would still be the same, and she would still be the same. The only thing different would be the view.

Ice Skating on Creme Brulee

Today, my belly is round from all of the eating out that I did over the weekend; the highlight was the creme brulee (sugar ice over a pond of custard--I always tap my spoon against the hard top and imagine an ice skating rink) at McCormick and Schmick's in D.C.

My boys gave me a stack of cards, complicated ones with folds and springs for that 3-D effect. They piled on top of me--a mommy sandwich--and argued over who would get to hold my hand during our walks downtown (a hand that is usually held in limp contempt, I might add). We traded off back tickling, the summation of which, of course, was me balancing a boy on each of my knees, sketching fingernail pictures against small, pale backs.

It was a weekend of books--I received an Amazon order on Friday morning, and from there, I was consumed by A Dangerous Woman by Mary McGarry Morris (brilliant characterization), Floor Sample by Julia Cameron (oh, the honesty about her life), and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (just beginning to make a dent in her graceful yet razor-sharp prose). Apparently, I do not know Limit (he and I are acquaintainces, but we can pass by each other in a crowded room with as little as a nod; at least, when pressed, however, we will speak to one another, which is more than I can say about his sister, Patience); at the library, I paid my most recent fines and checked out a pile of 14 new books (Carson McCullers: A Life; The Friend Who Got Away; Girl Sleuth: Nancy Drew and The Women Who Created Her; Ava Gardner (a biography); Edgar Allen Poe & The Juke-Box (poetry, drafts, and fragments by Elizabeth Bishop); The One-Minute Meditator, etc). On Sunday, I chose a dewey, windshield-wiper drive to our local, used book store, where for once, I just browsed, then the hazy trip back home where I ran a hot bath and climbed into it with a few of the books I'd already acquired. A spa for books, a few of whom lounge on the edge of the tub, wrapped in fluffy towels, discussing politics and existentialism.

Happy Mother's Day!

If I were able to select a mother, the way one might select an apple at the market, I would look for similar qualities: solidity and shine, something delicious beneath the surface.

I appreciate my mother because she:

-has been an outstanding role model, living her life proactively, pursuing her passions, taking joy in what she has instead of focusing on all that she doesn't

-knits me lovely, cozy socks

-is a phenomenal storyteller, keeping me entertained on a daily basis

-is absolutely beautiful

-instilled in me a love for books and reading: trips to the library and donut shop each Saturday, then she sat quietly and drank her coffee while I read and ate my two double chocolate donuts

-sacrificed trips to Northern Ireland to visit her own mother so that she could save to pay for my college tuition (two trips in 18 years, one to help take care of her dying father; now, she is able to go annually)

-has created and maintains the most beautiful yard

-never cried when I got on the school bus for the first time or left for college ("Why would I cry?" she said, "You were about to begin an exciting new time in your life! How could I be sad? I was too busy thinking of all of the great new things that you would be experiencing!")

-never offers excuses: either takes action or honestly explains why she won't or can't

-loves my husband and encourages him in everything that he does; I must admit that I sometimes feel a twinge of jealousy when they return, laughing, from Sam's Club, their favorite store

-adores her grandchildren, which she shows through listening to everything that comes out of their mouths, bathing them, reading to them, and walking with them to the park and the bagel shop every day that she stays at our house

-listens patiently as I read my writing to her, offering kind advice or toe-curling praise

-complements my father and is willing to go on state-to-state motorcycle rides with him

-makes me proud to be a mother and inspires me to function at the same level that she did

Happy Mother's Day everyone!
I hope that you realize how much you are appreciated!

"Mother's love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved." ~Erich Fromm

The Soundtrack Of My Life

Inspired by Meg at More To Me, I have compiled a Soundtrack Of My Life. I could only come up with six cuts. I feel like Tommy Mottola.

Call Me by Blondie: I grew up with limited phone access. Our house was a quarter mile from the "good phone number" cut-off ("good phone number" meaning "town" phone numbers, which every single one of my friends had); consequently, everyone we called was long distance. As a grown-up, I am obsessed with the telephone. I talk to my mother, best friend, and auxiliary girlfriend at least five times a day apiece. Thank God for AT&T Friends and Family.

Money For Nothing by Dire Straits: Imagine boxy school bus chugging through the early morning fog and darkness of the countryside. Imagine the middle and high school students inside, quietly staring out the icy windows. Imagine someone bringing a "boom box" one day and playing Dire Straits "Money For Nothing" over and over again at top volume. Imagine everyone on the bus feeling all puffed up and energized over the opening bass sequence, almost like we were in a John Hughes movie. I still enjoy this song. As an adult, I continue to see the value of money for nothing, although I don't need no chick for free.

Magic Man by Heart: I have spent a lifetime trying to convince my friends and family of the value of my romantic choices. This time, we all agree--my man is pretty damn close to magic. He's one good guy.

Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones: I've seen the Rolling Stones in concert four times. The first time was with my wacky, violent boyfriend who was angry at me for some silly transgression (eating? stating an opinion?). On the drive home from Cleveland, through an industrial area, a local radio station played a medley of Stones' music. During Gimme Shelter, I remember feeling desperate and hopeless. As a grown-up, I still appreciate this song, though purely for the "shelter" aspect. I love a good house, and one of my favorite shows is "House Hunters" on HGTV.

Get Down, Make Love by Nine Inch Nails: I would like to be a more sexually liberated person. Maybe I should add Erica Jong books to the queue. I first heard this song in college, at Big Ed's house, where my girlfriend, Deena, and I congregated with Big Ed and his hot fraternity brothers. As Deena and I sat quietly in a corner, just enjoying our access, the sharp, preppy boys smoked weed, drank, and acted like fools. It was around this time that I actually purchased my first Erica Jong book at a yard sale. It was a compilation of her poetry. I thought that the words were pretty but I really didn't "get" what she was talking about. Still, just owning the book made me feel worldly and sophisticated.

Baby, It's Cold Outside by Leon Redbone and Zooey Deschanel: I grew up in the Siberia of the snow belt, so believe me when I say it: I know cold.

Rhythm Is A Dancer by SNAP: Love me a song that incorporates a synthesizer. When I hear this song, I think of a hard, aggressive little dancer in a gray, nameless city, just sashaying her way to the top. The song might actually be about drugs. Or prostitution. I am an awful dancer but I will dance anytime, anywhere. If you take me to a club, within minutes, you will find me in some sort of cage or on a stage. I've been known to dismount when the time is right (or fall, depending upon how you look at it).

Random Post-ItsTo Myself, Scattered About

-I have nothing to say but if I start writing, maybe I will discover a gem, a twinkle of insight, a glittery snail path to inspiration

-maybe not

-I need to get out more

-buy Mother's Day cards and mail them a.s.a.p.

-new notebook=new motivation? stop at paper store

-as the yard sale pile stretches and teeters, I feel a lightening, a sense of freedom, an appreciation for the things that I choose to own; I don't feel owned by extraneous, useless items, such as: decorative pilsners, ugly Christmas tree ornaments, scratched saucepans, character-themed cups from Burger King, extra clothes pins, long black stretch skirt (circa 1997), pewter trumpeter-angel pin, etc.

-time to get rid of the "crystal" kitten candle holder on my dresser, given to me by ex-boyfriend's sister in 1993

-kicky wooden-soled sandals as Summer shoe purchase?

-explore shoe storage options

-use the word "trite" to describe as many things as possible today: trite advice, trite praise, trite fashion, trite TV programming, trite concern in the anchorman's voice, trite list of stuff that is "trite"

-commit to Spanish; reward self with more books by Hispanic authors. Look for Don Quixote at library. Who wrote Don Quixote? Will it be boring?

-brag about homemade pasta sauce in post: perfect combination of peppers, tomatoes, garlic, wine, crumbled asiago cheese, and seasoning. Commit to avoiding jarred sauce because homemade seems to taste better and is cheaper. Don't become a sauce snob, however.

-write a word portrait today about the passel of elderly veterans who met at the library on Sunday in their uniforms of powder blue jackets, navy slacks, and tassled fez hats. Write about two of the men squinting on the steps in the sunlight while discussing their "brother," Chip, who called to ask if Stan had brought the guns for the ceremony.

-remember to stretch, dance, pause, prioritize, reflect, and appreciate

Sunday Scribblings: My Shoes

To read other Sunday Scribblings, click here and follow the links!
_____________

When she was four, she discovered that if she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she could create a sound that resembled a footstep. Rapid, high pitched clicking, like water dripping, made her think of a lady in a gauzy dress and high heels, running through a parking garage. Less intense plopping created a clomping sound--heavy, rubber-soled shoes--the shadowed man who was chasing the delicate woman. There was no in-between click--no sturdy loafer or double-knotted sneaker.

Good shoes were a priority, but they never seemed to fit right. Shiney, patent-leather shoes, coveted because they looked like the ones that Dorothy poached in The Wizard of Oz, were a size too small. Suede pumps from her mother's younger days, made a pleasing snap against the marble hearth during dress-up, but were many sizes too big. Wader boots, ideal for stamping in ditches while scooping tadpoles, were a good size, yet tight in their damp, rubbery, rain forest humidity.

When she was grown, she relinquished shoes for handbags, though she still appreciated the protection of a good pair of flip flops, the vine-like beauty of a clingy espadrille, the heavenly lift of a wedge. And still, however, she appreciated the sound that her tongue made when she popped it the top of her mouth, and she daydreamed about the woman running in glassy stiletto shoes, who, this time, was no longer the one being chased.

After Hours

Last night, Lou and I watched the Scorsese movie, "After Hours," which is one of my all-time favorite films. With persistent tick-tick-ticking in the background and a dreamy score, it tells the story of Paul, a word processor in Manhattan who meets a pretty but odd woman at a coffee shop late one night, then later decides to go down to Soho to meet up with her to buy a bagel-and-cream-cheese papier-mache paperweight from her artistic friend, Kiki. Many events ensue after his only money, a twenty dollar bill, flies out the window during the wild cab ride there. The movie, which follows him as he tries to get home, is quirky and funny and almost painful to watch, but it reminds me of being 20 again, in college, when my views of sophistication and art were the opposite of who I was.

When I was twenty, I was invited to live in a gorgeous apartment over a dry cleaner store. This was a real coup as far as I was concerned; after all, I was in college, and college towns are generally not known for their abundance of spacious, clean housing. This apartment overlooked the main street (which was dotted with a couple of fun bars) and was located only a a block from the best pizza joint in the tri-state region.

I moved into the apartment at the beginning of August, weeks before the other college students infiltrated the area. I set up house in the front bedroom, with its two large windows that opened to the street. I learned that the place ran a constant low-grade temperature, what with the steam from the cleaners. I learned that it is hard to keep a white apartment, with its gray carpeting and black and white bathroom, clean, but I felt grown-up, sophisticated. I played a lot of Michael Bolton music and waited for my girlfriend, Grown-Up Life, to sweep in and tell me what to do.

I had broken up with a boyfriend earlier that Summer, and he was coming back to start classes in the Fall. I was tired, tired of drama, tired of needing someone to complete my identity, and I took the time in my new apartment to get back to who I was. Unable to drop down to the bar for drinks, my roommate on vacation in Arizona visiting her mother, I spent five to six days of my week working ten hour shifts at the video store, but when I came home, I had the after hours to contend with.

These are the things that I did, late at night, as street lights glowed: I began to decorate my room. Mick Jagger post here, decorative potpourri there. I wrote poetry about ice cubes and being misunderstood and an abusive ex-boyfriend in a marble-composition book (which was later stolen). I hauled my heaping laundry (leggings, flowery dresses that stretched to my knees, tee-shirts, rolled up jean shorts) to my '85 Chevy and took it on a half mile joyride to the 24 hour, "clean" laundromat, where I hunched over newly purchased textbooks, taking notes and trying to get a head-start before classes began. I went for long walks along the lake, swatting mosquitos and smelling sycamore and mulch; I sang aloud to whatever was on my Walkman, usually Sisters of Mercy or U2. I brought home movies, films that I wanted to watch, and called my friend, Jeff, another lonely soul, asking him to come over for late night screenings: we ate chips and dip and Sara Lee cheesecake as we made our way through a montage of horror movies.

And one night alone, I watched "After Hours" for the first time, which reminded me that I was young and full of options, and that there was a world beyond my country-college town; there was New York with its loft apartments, crazy cabbies, beehive wearing women, artistic souls, and all-night diners. I did not know people or places like this--we had Maurice, the rangy guy who slinked around the laundry whenever we were folding our panties, and Richard, the crazy college professor who wore slippers to the bar--but that was not fun to me. I wanted real life, real art, real quirk. And I immediately began formulating a plan to find some. "NYC or Bust" is what I scribbled in my journal, big block letters like the Hollywood sign, shouting the dream.

I never made it. But for a while, I thought I would. I imagined a cramped, sunny apartment, writing, a cat, a plant, but beyond that, my daydreams never coalesced. I wasn't far-sighted enough. And I was scared. Scared to be lonely, scared of being unable to pay my rent, scared of failing. I chose a predictable path: degree, job, husband. When I looked to escape from the town where I grew up, I flew to Rock Springs, Wyoming and interviewed there. NYC wasn't even on the list, thought still, it was where I imagined that I would end up. But the mistake that I made wasn't in the dreaming. It was in the stereotypical, unimaginative dreaming. It was in the not recognizing that life is whatever you make it, regardless of where you are. There is always material in front of you--you just have to sift though the crappy goods to find the designer ones.

My present house is on a busy street, and sometimes, I pretend that I live in The City. Last night, as I crawled into bed (the windows face the road), I heard the engines rev, and for just a few seconds, I was back in my apartment over the dry cleaners--pretending that it was a loft in Manhattan--eating cheesecake in bed, watching horror movies, and waiting for life to grab my shoulders and shake me hard.

Let's Discuss

Thinking a lot about artistic pursuits and my own approach to them.

I work better with prompts (maybe because I spent so much time in school where my only, I'm ashamed to say, motivation, was the completion of assignments?). Oh, but I'm also positively prolific when I have an object of envy.

I write what I want and let the chips fall where they may (back to the cliches again--damn): sometimes, this pays off, sometimes, my words languish, homeless.

Finally, I try to create something daily, whether it be morning pages, an essay, a poem, a story, a grocery list, soup, or a nice, clean, visually intriguing (hahahaha) space in the room.

Tell me something about your art or your approach to it. What do you try to create in your everyday? What motivates you? How much of your cognizance re: your audience impacts your final product?

Poetry Thursday

This is my contribution to Poetry Thursday this week--it is the only creative writng that I've done in ages. I'm feeling sort of quiet, like I've been erasing who I am and trying to re-draw it, only now, I'm surrounded by rubbery crumbs and the picture's still not turning out right. Everything is forced or awkward or wrong, and if I don't watch out, I'm going to rub a hole in the paper (which I will probably make worse by attemtping to piece back together with spit). I'll eventually figure it out, I suppose.

In The Seams of My Pocket, There is Courage

Fierceness
folded

like eggwhites into a ribbon of batter,
heart among the creases of an origami flamingo,
between the damp handholding of fresh love.

A delicate inhale
as bravery builds
into the sigh of action.

Hurting hands that continue to do the mending.

A pretty house
that keeps out the rain.

Bump On A Log

When I was in graduate school, doing a "clinic," I had a nasty supervisor who was supposed to teach me how to write evaluation/porgress/status reports. Her approach to doing this was to sit beside me and bash each word that I scrawled onto the page, up to the point where I was nearly paralyzed, hesitant to write anything down or even suggest a phrase, for fear that she would instantly pound it to bits. After a few minutes of working on one sentence (which probably ended up being something like this: "Pt. oriented to own name, family, time, and environment."), my supervisor screeched into me: "Don't just sit there like a bump on a log."

I tell you this because, right now, I feel like a bump on a log.

I have nothing to say. I could tell you about my hoarse voice, the result of a flu virus that has swept through my family. I could tell you about my morning pages, interrupted three times today, most importantly, for Mac to show me the sliver of paper he pulled out of the Chinese fortune cookie from last night's dinner (he was so proud of it, he immediately squirreled it into his wallet for safekeeping). I could tell you about last night's episode of Wife Swap, where the Cowboy Dad punched the Italian Dad in the final meeting (showdown?) between the couples. I could tell you that there are no birds on my window sill today, but there is a song in my heart, a pride in my step, a joy over the privilege of navigating through the minutes that make up today.

I'm not fooling myself. It's not interesting. But it's me, for right now.

I'm a little hoarse, but step by step, I'm finding my voice.

P.S. Re: the supervisor at the beginning of this post, after two hours of working on the same paragraph, I went berserk at her, screeching right back: "If you didn't roll your eyes and yell over every word I wrote, I might have some suggestions. What's the point? You make me change every word pick. Why don't you just write the damn thing yourself." Then, I shoved the paper and the pen at her and stomped away. In all of my clinical experiences, I never encountered another supervisor who felt the need to sit beside me and write reports word-for-word together. I ended up with an A in the clinic, but only because she was doing me "a favor." I'm still bitter over this woman. She often got angry at me if all of the pens in the pencil cup on her desk weren't leaning in the same direction. She had no business working with students. If I were ever to make a voodoo doll of anyone, she is the first person on the list.