"She laid across her bed, her cat was at her feet. She took the blue latched jewelery box that she had kept hidden under her bed and ran her hand across the battered top, sending dust motes fluttering in the streams of sunlight beaming through her window, twinkling like stars in a night sky. Leaning back against her pillows, she slowly sat the box in her lap, playing with the latch tentatively, her mind vexed with second thoughts. The young girl drew a long sigh and snapped open the latch. Opening the box, she reached inside, pulling out a stack of envelopes that were tied in a thin, dime-store ribbon. Then she removed a few photographs and fanned them across the cabbage rose comforter.
Glancing through the photos, a pensive smile graced her face. Choosing one photo from the rest, she traced the outline of a young man with her finger; the perfect chin, the strong arms crossed across his chest, leaning against a tree with a suggestion of wickedness flashing in his dark eyes. His smile betrayed his eyes, though. His mouth was gentle, caring...
The girl sadly laid down the photo. The memories of a lingering kiss never revisited pulled at her heart like a twinge. Her gaze turned to the bound letters. She began to carefully untie the ribbon, but the twinge in her heart stayed her hand. Instead, the girl took the letters, the photos, the memories and locked them back away in the box. She slid the box back under her bed, vowing never to release the memories again".
Now, let us rewind and play the scene and see what it might look like today...
"She sat at her desk, her mouse poised in her hand. She clicked on 'Start', then located her 'Documents' folder, opening it with a double-click with the right mouse button. Leaning back in her chair, she slowly scrolled down the page. The young girl landed the cursor over a folder designated 'Past'. Her hand left her mouse momentarily before giving the mouse button another double-click, bringing up another window, showing .doc and .jpg files. Then she clicked and dragged one jpeg from the rest, landing the file onto her paisley print wallpapered desktop.
Wishing for a closer look at the file, she sent it into a photo editing program. She zoomed closer to get a better look at the man's features, pixels rendering at each click of the mouse...his eyes, his chin, his mouth snapping into clarity.
The girl returned the jpeg to it's original size. Pinching the bridge of her nose to try and alleviate a slight twinge of eye-strain, she closed out the editing program and maximized 'Past' from the task bar. Her finger was ready to double-click once more to bring one of the .doc files to the front. The mild eyestrain of a few moments ago morphed into a migraine. Instead, the girl closed the file. So she would never be tempted to revisit the past, she selected 'File--->Delete' and sent the Past to the Recycle Bin.
Try and write a moving story about that.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Buzzards
My father and I were sitting outside the other day, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Summer had made an early appearance where spring had barely begun. The sky was as blue as my father's eyes I noticed as he watched a flock of geese fly overhead. Nearby, turkey buzzards circled lazily above the treetops, in twos and threes, relishing in the physics of aerodynamics.
Leaning back in his chair, taking a long pull from his beer, my dad announced skywards, "Go away, buzzards, you're too early. I'm not dead yet"!
My dad tends to have quite the gallows humor, but this was more a declaration of his pragmatic nature. It was nothing I wanted to hear, though.
He sought my gaze, I turned away. I'm still his little girl, and I want him to live forever.
I will stare down the buzzards. Better yet, perhaps I won't concern myself with the buzzards at all, for when they do finally proclaim victory over me, I wont be around to notice.
Leaning back in his chair, taking a long pull from his beer, my dad announced skywards, "Go away, buzzards, you're too early. I'm not dead yet"!
My dad tends to have quite the gallows humor, but this was more a declaration of his pragmatic nature. It was nothing I wanted to hear, though.
He sought my gaze, I turned away. I'm still his little girl, and I want him to live forever.
Dad and the blogger, 1963
On the topic of being over the age of seventy, my dad recalled when he was a young man, he would look at men in their seventies as they would slowly walked by and he would wonder how they made do...how did they get by. How difficult it must be to be at that time in life. He then shrugged his shoulders and told me, "Well, look at me. I'm those men now, and I'm doing okay. I'm still alive, I get around just fine. It's not all that bad, it certainly could be worse".I will stare down the buzzards. Better yet, perhaps I won't concern myself with the buzzards at all, for when they do finally proclaim victory over me, I wont be around to notice.
Friday, January 1, 2010
No Resolutions
www.freefoto.comInstead, I have hopes and wishes.
May all yours come true for 2010, and beyond.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas, Holidays, and New Years
However you celebrate, however you believe, may it be Happy and Merry, and may 2010 be *your* year.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The Piano
Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, we lose that random sense of play. An unoccupied piano sits, keys beckoning to be touched, tinkled. Children will usually walk past, stop, check to see if their parents are watching, and tentatively plunk a few keys. Some will pound the keys unabashedly, laughing at the tune they created before their parents whisk them away. Occasionally a pre-teen will shyly sit down and play the inevitable "Heart and Soul" quickly like it was a covert operation, then slip away with the echoes of the last notes.
Adults, for the most part will hurry by, oblivious to the fact the piano exists. Some may even long for the day when they had time to sit down and lose themselves in playing a piece, one they perhaps practiced for a recital as a youth. They may even pause at the keys, but then chide themselves because they have no time, and besides, just because the piano is sitting there, it doesn't mean you have to play it, or play with it. There are more important things to do.
And some adults understand that sometimes the most important thing to to at the time is play.
**Thanks to my sister for posting this on Facebook. You can find her and her husband's blog here
Adults, for the most part will hurry by, oblivious to the fact the piano exists. Some may even long for the day when they had time to sit down and lose themselves in playing a piece, one they perhaps practiced for a recital as a youth. They may even pause at the keys, but then chide themselves because they have no time, and besides, just because the piano is sitting there, it doesn't mean you have to play it, or play with it. There are more important things to do.
And some adults understand that sometimes the most important thing to to at the time is play.
**Thanks to my sister for posting this on Facebook. You can find her and her husband's blog here
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Old post lurking in my drafts
**Due to the fact that I can't engage my brain to write anything more taxing than "See Spot run", I have resorted to digging up a post that was left to linger in the edit pile**
I set up a Facebook account last week, because I'm such a busy and social person with my appointment book bursting at the seams. I have contacts all over the world, just dying to know every infinitesimal detail of my life. I fight off the paparazzi every time I step out my front door.
No, not really. Not even close. That's probably the reason I have a FB page.
I have three, count them 1-2-3 friends on my page..one who is related by blood, one who is by marriage, and the other who is "related" by the past. My brother-in-law tagged me last week with the "25 Random Things" meme. I capitulated. So here are my list of banal randomness.
1. I want to write a book someday. I blog instead.
2. I met my husband through a yenta-ish woman I worked with back in the '80s (wasn't everything back in the '80s?). I finally gave in after months of her telling me how wonderful this boy was and that I should really meet him. Actually it was my sister, who finally talked me into accepting a date from him. We will be married twenty-five years this November.
3. I am a hermit in real life.
4. I will eat an entire frozen bag of Brussels sprouts. After cooking, of course.
5. I have a huge collection of Marvel comics. Mostly X-men.
6. I have two daughters, 20 and16 17. In school I was considered the least likely ever to become a mother.
7. I have a deep-seated fear of clowns.
8. I write far better than I speak.
9. I thought "Waterworld" was a good movie.
10. In high school, I was looked upon as "snobbish". Actually, I was scared to death and I thought if I was really quiet no one would take notice of me.
11. I like the fact that I am going gray.
12. ???
13. I don't think of myself as an adult in that I-really-should-be-sitting-at-the-kid's-table way.
14. I am still waiting for my huge cardboard check.
15. "Oh, look! A bunny!!!
16. I sleep to dream. (I have no life...I have a Facebook account, remember?)
17. The only jobs I've had in my life was cooking at a hotel chain restaurant (I also bussed tables) and worked in the quality control department in a sewing factory. I also did a short stint at a family owned fast food place.
18. I don't like to cook, and I can't sew.
19. I wanted to play drums in the grade school band. My mom wanted me to play the flute. I ended up doing neither.
20. I almost lost my upper lip to a dog bite.
21. My teenage years were the worse years of my life.
22. I'm starting to read the books I never read in high school, although I may never tackle "Moby Dick".
23. I want Barber's "Adagio for Strings" played at my wake.
24. The Art Institute of Chicago, standing in front of the painting "A Street in Paris, A Rainy Day"...I wish I was there right now.
25. I'm surprised I was able to come up with 25 things.
I set up a Facebook account last week, because I'm such a busy and social person with my appointment book bursting at the seams. I have contacts all over the world, just dying to know every infinitesimal detail of my life. I fight off the paparazzi every time I step out my front door.
No, not really. Not even close. That's probably the reason I have a FB page.
I have three, count them 1-2-3 friends on my page..one who is related by blood, one who is by marriage, and the other who is "related" by the past. My brother-in-law tagged me last week with the "25 Random Things" meme. I capitulated. So here are my list of banal randomness.
1. I want to write a book someday. I blog instead.
2. I met my husband through a yenta-ish woman I worked with back in the '80s (wasn't everything back in the '80s?). I finally gave in after months of her telling me how wonderful this boy was and that I should really meet him. Actually it was my sister, who finally talked me into accepting a date from him. We will be married twenty-five years this November.
3. I am a hermit in real life.
4. I will eat an entire frozen bag of Brussels sprouts. After cooking, of course.
5. I have a huge collection of Marvel comics. Mostly X-men.
6. I have two daughters, 20 and
7. I have a deep-seated fear of clowns.
8. I write far better than I speak.
9. I thought "Waterworld" was a good movie.
10. In high school, I was looked upon as "snobbish". Actually, I was scared to death and I thought if I was really quiet no one would take notice of me.
11. I like the fact that I am going gray.
12. ???
13. I don't think of myself as an adult in that I-really-should-be-sitting
14. I am still waiting for my huge cardboard check.
15. "Oh, look! A bunny!!!
16. I sleep to dream. (I have no life...I have a Facebook account, remember?)
17. The only jobs I've had in my life was cooking at a hotel chain restaurant (I also bussed tables) and worked in the quality control department in a sewing factory. I also did a short stint at a family owned fast food place.
18. I don't like to cook, and I can't sew.
19. I wanted to play drums in the grade school band. My mom wanted me to play the flute. I ended up doing neither.
20. I almost lost my upper lip to a dog bite.
21. My teenage years were the worse years of my life.
22. I'm starting to read the books I never read in high school, although I may never tackle "Moby Dick".
23. I want Barber's "Adagio for Strings" played at my wake.
24. The Art Institute of Chicago, standing in front of the painting "A Street in Paris, A Rainy Day"...I wish I was there right now.
25. I'm surprised I was able to come up with 25 things.
***
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Telling Tales
It’s all make-believe, telling a story, writing a novel. Do I think that Patricia Cornwell had to be a murderer to write murder mysteries? Well, she does know her way around a morgue like Kay Scarpetta does, the main character of her long line of novels, so that helps her story writing. One of Jonothan Kellerman’s major character is a psychiatrist, and Kellerman has knowledge in that field. But, then there is James Patterson does he know what it’s like to be a teenager who has wings sprouting from her back? Doubtful. Yet he wrote another very popular series of novels based on just that. Hence, they have the background to give credence to their stories, but popular writers can suspend reality and write the fantasical They know of which they write, but they can create other worlds, realms and situations.
“Write what you know“, I have always heard. So what do I know? Even in my almost half-century of breathing, I don’t think I really know much about anything in particular. Not any more than the next person, if I were to give myself some credit. What I do know is I want to write. I also know how to day-dream. Hell, I sleep to dream. I can have one vivid imagination at times. Is that enough backing to write a book?
Should I take a writing class? I may, but I fear it will deter me more that enlighten me. Maybe I’d discover how the sausage is made, really made, and it would grind up my fragile little dreams into piles of hot-steaming pulp. Besides, I’d like to think that the process of writing is more organic than having to learn that process in a classroom setting. I don’t want to find out that there a formula to successful writing.
I have written before, in high school English. I wrote a short story about a man who was fixated on the tale of Abraham Lincoln’s foreshadowing of his own death, and how at the end of the short story, that fixation save the man’s life. I was proud of the story. My English teacher found my dialoge “trite”. What the hell did he expect from a sixteen year old girl? I did end up receiving a “B”, but all I could take to heart was the unflattering comment.
Is writing one of those things that, “either you can or you can’t”, like playing the oboe, or shooting a round a golf? With golf, not everyone can pick up a nine iron and swing it at a ball, executing a natural arcing motion, but most people can at least swing at the ball in somewhat of an swinging action, even if they end up topping the ball. I have picked up a nine iron, attempted to swing at the ball in the so-called natural arc, and proceeded to slam the club head straight into the ground, as if I was driving a railroad spike home.
I fear writing would come just as un-naturally for me. Forget choosing a sand wedge, forget having to take a Mulligan, I’ll just take all my broken shafts and go home.
It’s easy to write “what I know” if what I know are the thoughts in my own head. In a way it’s safer to just write about my thoughts, since who is going to dispute my them? They aren’t implausible story lines with unbelievable characters executing impossible acts, speaking inarticulate dialogue. I don’t have to justify thoughts. They are mine, damn it, but they do not make for good reading material, only blog fodder.
“Once upon a time…” Telling a story was so easy long, long ago. But, isn’t that how the process starts?
“Once upon a tine there was…”
A friend of mine wrote about writing in his blog. He told how he had asked his mother if some day he could become an author. In one of the most profound answers I have ever heard, she said, “It’s merely a choice one made.”
“Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to tell tales.”
**This is a repost from a post a from a few days ago. Write when fully awake to avoid mistakes, such as attributing the novels to the wrong author**
“Write what you know“, I have always heard. So what do I know? Even in my almost half-century of breathing, I don’t think I really know much about anything in particular. Not any more than the next person, if I were to give myself some credit. What I do know is I want to write. I also know how to day-dream. Hell, I sleep to dream. I can have one vivid imagination at times. Is that enough backing to write a book?
Should I take a writing class? I may, but I fear it will deter me more that enlighten me. Maybe I’d discover how the sausage is made, really made, and it would grind up my fragile little dreams into piles of hot-steaming pulp. Besides, I’d like to think that the process of writing is more organic than having to learn that process in a classroom setting. I don’t want to find out that there a formula to successful writing.
I have written before, in high school English. I wrote a short story about a man who was fixated on the tale of Abraham Lincoln’s foreshadowing of his own death, and how at the end of the short story, that fixation save the man’s life. I was proud of the story. My English teacher found my dialoge “trite”. What the hell did he expect from a sixteen year old girl? I did end up receiving a “B”, but all I could take to heart was the unflattering comment.
Is writing one of those things that, “either you can or you can’t”, like playing the oboe, or shooting a round a golf? With golf, not everyone can pick up a nine iron and swing it at a ball, executing a natural arcing motion, but most people can at least swing at the ball in somewhat of an swinging action, even if they end up topping the ball. I have picked up a nine iron, attempted to swing at the ball in the so-called natural arc, and proceeded to slam the club head straight into the ground, as if I was driving a railroad spike home.
I fear writing would come just as un-naturally for me. Forget choosing a sand wedge, forget having to take a Mulligan, I’ll just take all my broken shafts and go home.
It’s easy to write “what I know” if what I know are the thoughts in my own head. In a way it’s safer to just write about my thoughts, since who is going to dispute my them? They aren’t implausible story lines with unbelievable characters executing impossible acts, speaking inarticulate dialogue. I don’t have to justify thoughts. They are mine, damn it, but they do not make for good reading material, only blog fodder.
“Once upon a time…” Telling a story was so easy long, long ago. But, isn’t that how the process starts?
“Once upon a tine there was…”
A friend of mine wrote about writing in his blog. He told how he had asked his mother if some day he could become an author. In one of the most profound answers I have ever heard, she said, “It’s merely a choice one made.”
“Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to tell tales.”
**This is a repost from a post a from a few days ago. Write when fully awake to avoid mistakes, such as attributing the novels to the wrong author**
Embracing the Palindrome
A weekend away probably wasn’t the best time to break an addiction. Yet, there I was, attempting to kick my dependence to Xanax, a crutch I had leaned on heavily now for over ten years. I had been addicted to not feeling, safe in the knowledge of knowing that squashing any feeling of fear was just a blue pill away, my bitter calm. My VIP pass into sleep at night.
I was special. I didn’t need to suffer a stomach full of butterflies or a fretful night, forever on the edge of sleep. I should have never had to rationalize myself out of irrational fear. But as I had distanced myself away from those feelings, those experiences, I had distanced myself away from humanity in some way.
We are not brought together by our strengths, but by our weaknesses.
Twenty-four hours in and without, I was finding myself feeling as if I had consumed a full pot of coffee over breakfast. Jittery, foot bobbing, knee-jerking. I was trying to turn the feeling into some kind of high, a rush. The "fight or flee" response was taking me for a roller-coaster ride, over and over.
I waited for the inevitable derailment, the tidal wave of panic, the sudden urge to rush to the nearest emergency room where I would beg and plead to be hooked up to an EKG machine, positive I was suffering a heart attack. Feeling that I was about to die, I would be witness to the whole scene.
Not that I was afraid of death. I just didn’t want to be around when it happened.
Short of breath, drenched in sweat, feeling as if the world was swallowing me alive, I would rush to the almost empty bottle. This is the game I would play as I was nearing the bottom of the well. How far could I stretch out my prescription before I would end up sitting pitifully in the doctor’s office, feeling like Oliver Twist, asking for “more soup, please”, fearful of being denied. This was just yet another round.
I’ve talked myself into this, could I talk my way out? Or would I succumb to the crutch leaning in the corner, borrowing another Dickensonian image.
What was I really addicted to? I was addicted to quick relief. But, aren’t we all, I wondered as my husband shook two acetaminophen into his hand to ease his pestering headache? Just make it go away…pain, discomfort, all the stings and arrows of life, as so commonly mis-quoted. I paced with indecision. Just go take a pill, will you? I needed to drive into town soon. Would I take the bottle with me, just in case, or would I pull up my big girl britches and leave my blanket at home? I so dreadfully needed to take a nap, since sleep had not graced me last night, my first night without help in ten years. I know what would happen, as it had happened before--I would be wrenched from my mid-day dream, if indeed I had gotten that far, taken by a wave of panic so strong, it would cause me to rush to the bathroom mirror to see if I looked alive, if I still looked like myself. I would be drowning in the undertow like I had so many times before.
This highly addictive substance, it took away my panic attacks, but it had also stole away aspects of my short-term memory. Time tends to pass by without notice, and before I would know it, it would be the fifteenth of the month and my water bill would be over-due. Had I taken out the garbage to the curb, or had I only thought I did?
In a cruel twist, this tic-tac sized panacea would also remind me by its absence as to why I have kept it in my life for so long. The panic that I would experience could be far worse than the panic that caused me to hook up with this nasty palindrome in the first place. I knew this from past experiences in attempting to walk without the crutch. I could slowly wean myself of this substance, but as in the words of King Baby, “I want it, and I want it NOW!” I wanted relief from the drug as quickly as I wanted relief from the panic. Couldn’t there be a drug I could take when suffering from Xanax?
After the three day mark, I will have most likely dove head first into admitting defeat. Right now, the referee is pounding on the mat next to my head. Ring the bell, declare the winner. I know it’s not me. It never is.
But in twenty minutes, I won’t give a damn.
I was special. I didn’t need to suffer a stomach full of butterflies or a fretful night, forever on the edge of sleep. I should have never had to rationalize myself out of irrational fear. But as I had distanced myself away from those feelings, those experiences, I had distanced myself away from humanity in some way.
We are not brought together by our strengths, but by our weaknesses.
Twenty-four hours in and without, I was finding myself feeling as if I had consumed a full pot of coffee over breakfast. Jittery, foot bobbing, knee-jerking. I was trying to turn the feeling into some kind of high, a rush. The "fight or flee" response was taking me for a roller-coaster ride, over and over.
I waited for the inevitable derailment, the tidal wave of panic, the sudden urge to rush to the nearest emergency room where I would beg and plead to be hooked up to an EKG machine, positive I was suffering a heart attack. Feeling that I was about to die, I would be witness to the whole scene.
Not that I was afraid of death. I just didn’t want to be around when it happened.
Short of breath, drenched in sweat, feeling as if the world was swallowing me alive, I would rush to the almost empty bottle. This is the game I would play as I was nearing the bottom of the well. How far could I stretch out my prescription before I would end up sitting pitifully in the doctor’s office, feeling like Oliver Twist, asking for “more soup, please”, fearful of being denied. This was just yet another round.
I’ve talked myself into this, could I talk my way out? Or would I succumb to the crutch leaning in the corner, borrowing another Dickensonian image.
What was I really addicted to? I was addicted to quick relief. But, aren’t we all, I wondered as my husband shook two acetaminophen into his hand to ease his pestering headache? Just make it go away…pain, discomfort, all the stings and arrows of life, as so commonly mis-quoted. I paced with indecision. Just go take a pill, will you? I needed to drive into town soon. Would I take the bottle with me, just in case, or would I pull up my big girl britches and leave my blanket at home? I so dreadfully needed to take a nap, since sleep had not graced me last night, my first night without help in ten years. I know what would happen, as it had happened before--I would be wrenched from my mid-day dream, if indeed I had gotten that far, taken by a wave of panic so strong, it would cause me to rush to the bathroom mirror to see if I looked alive, if I still looked like myself. I would be drowning in the undertow like I had so many times before.
This highly addictive substance, it took away my panic attacks, but it had also stole away aspects of my short-term memory. Time tends to pass by without notice, and before I would know it, it would be the fifteenth of the month and my water bill would be over-due. Had I taken out the garbage to the curb, or had I only thought I did?
In a cruel twist, this tic-tac sized panacea would also remind me by its absence as to why I have kept it in my life for so long. The panic that I would experience could be far worse than the panic that caused me to hook up with this nasty palindrome in the first place. I knew this from past experiences in attempting to walk without the crutch. I could slowly wean myself of this substance, but as in the words of King Baby, “I want it, and I want it NOW!” I wanted relief from the drug as quickly as I wanted relief from the panic. Couldn’t there be a drug I could take when suffering from Xanax?
After the three day mark, I will have most likely dove head first into admitting defeat. Right now, the referee is pounding on the mat next to my head. Ring the bell, declare the winner. I know it’s not me. It never is.
But in twenty minutes, I won’t give a damn.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The book which haunts me
Back in the early seventies, I read a book that would change my life. It wasn't a self-help book, or a deep theological thesis. This book was meant to be distributed to schools and libraries, to be read to and by children. I don't think it was for sale in book stores. At that time there were actual book stores, owned by people with first and last names, neither of them being Amazon or Waldenbook. The shops were dedicated to selling one thing...books. Not having money to buy books because I was ten years old and I was buying bags of toy soldiers and balsa wood airplanes from the Ben Franklin at the time, I found myself at the town's old library in search of a different way to occupy myself.
The library was brick with a terra cotta roof. Two lions stood in a petrified watch on either side of the concrete steps. If they weren't really there due to a faulty memory caused by the passage of time, then they should have been. Inside was full of wood and dust and the smell of old paper with a hint of mildew. The sun would shine an amber glow through the high windows. The floors creaked, the chairs squeaked, but soon the almost reverent silence took over. I walked towards the children's section with its tiny chairs and small, round tables. I almost tip-toed across the aged floor as if there was a spell hovering over the space, and I did not want it to break.
As I ran my finger along the spines of the books stacked on the shelves, the varying thicknesses and heights of the books reminding me of a city skyline, I came across one that was a little thicker, a little more squat than the rest of the thinner books. It looked like the size of one of the books that lined the shelves of the adult section of the library. I never did like the fact that I was only allowed in the children's section. I so wanted to be able to check out a book from the other side of the library, with the long oak tables and high backed wooden chairs. I knew there had to be many secrets hiding in the shelves I could never reach. Excited, thinking that a book had been mis-cataloged, I pulled the it from between two slim, colorful books that held more pictures than words. Being young and still under the belief that books were to be judged by their covers, I turned the book over in my small hands. The book's plain grey cover showed a line drawing of a cat, curled up in a tight ball, napping.
"It's about a cat", I surmised, so it must be a good book, since I liked cats. There was no title printed on the cover, so this made the book that much more intriguing. Curiously, I turned over the book again to look at the spine where I knew the title would be.
If indeed the book was about a cat, that cat was dead because I noticed the word "ghost" in the title. Not being sure if I wanted to read a story about a cute little napping cat that was deceased, I started to place the book back on the shelf, taking one last glance at the title embossed on the spine.
"The Ghost of Opalina...well, 'Opalina' is a pretty name for a cat, alive or dead", I thought, and once more I pulled the book from the shelf. There wasn't a dust cover for the book. Knowing that the books my parents had at home had dust covers, and the dust covers had a paragraph or two outlining the story, I had to go on faith that a story about a cat named Opalina would be something I just may find interesting, even though she was a dead cat.
Then I saw the second half of the title. The full title of the book was The Ghost of Opalina or "Nine Lives". Always wishing that cats really did have nine lives, I decided that I truly did want to read this book written by someone named Peggy Bacon.
Carrying the book to the librarian's desk...not only was there book shops back then, there was also The Librarian, the one I thought actually lived in the library, just like I thought teachers lived at the school and nuns lived in the church basement...I approached the large desk with my book, wearing a somewhat smug look on my face because the book I was checking out didn't have a colorful cartoon cover like the other childrens books. On tip-toe, I reached up and gently sat the book down on her desk. She would certainly be impressed by my choice of reading material, how wonderful that a ten year old child would pick such a work of fiction. I wondered if she imagined me curled up on my bed, or some corner of my house, sun streaming picturesquely through the window, dust motes floating though the air like stars, the light illuminating my angelic face as the sun bounced off the page.
The echoing sound of the date stamp hitting the inside cover snapped me out of my quiescent scene. Looking up at the stern, crinkled face of the library-dwelling woman, she peered down upon me, nonplussed. She slammed the cover closed and handed me the book. I will never forget what she said to me.
"Back in two weeks."
I shuffled home, disappointed that the librarian was not as impressed with me as I was with myself. My book was held tightly to my chest, for one must never drop a book, my teacher had told me one day. She explained it would hurt the book, and at my young age, I tended to humanize inanimate objects frequently. It wasn't a long walk to my house, but it seemed so that day. I couldn't wait to find just the right place in the house where the sun would stream through the window, illuminating the pages and my face.
I finally reached my bedroom, closed the door behind me, curled up on my bed and opened the book to the first page to my first "novel". Being that the day turned cloudy, instead of warm sunlight shining on the pages, I settled for grey somber light, diffusing everywhere but the pages. Despite life not following my script, I read the book in less than a week, I was so transfixed and bewitched by the story. Maybe the librarian would at least be impressed by prompt return of the book, if not by my choice of reading material.
Almost forty years later I find myself scanning rummage sales and flea markets for this book, the book that forever marked me as one who becomes lost reading. I have read many books since then most regularly, except for a short stint in high school where "required reading" was foisted upon me. To me, nothing ruined the idea of reading more than having a teacher instructing the class that no college would accept a child who didn't read Moby Dick.
This book I read so many years ago is special. It is a touchstone...a very expensive touchstone, I have discovered after much searching. Alas, my beloved Opalina is the subject of a rare book. Perhaps someday I will be in an antique store, glancing at a bookshelf, and there the book will be, nestled between a copy of Valley of the Dolls and a service manual for a '72 Chevy Impala. Above the bookshelf will be a sign reading, "All books, five dollars". If so, maybe someday I will find myself sitting in a sunbeam, like Opalina sat in a moonbeam. Opalina recalled her nine lives in the light of the full moon, shining through the bedroom window. In the sunlight through my bedroom window, I will be recalling my childhood.
I could check the book out at the library where the librarians are young, and they no longer stamp books, they electronically scan them. I could very easily do just that, but memories shouldn't have to be borrowed and returned two weeks later.
The library was brick with a terra cotta roof. Two lions stood in a petrified watch on either side of the concrete steps. If they weren't really there due to a faulty memory caused by the passage of time, then they should have been. Inside was full of wood and dust and the smell of old paper with a hint of mildew. The sun would shine an amber glow through the high windows. The floors creaked, the chairs squeaked, but soon the almost reverent silence took over. I walked towards the children's section with its tiny chairs and small, round tables. I almost tip-toed across the aged floor as if there was a spell hovering over the space, and I did not want it to break.
As I ran my finger along the spines of the books stacked on the shelves, the varying thicknesses and heights of the books reminding me of a city skyline, I came across one that was a little thicker, a little more squat than the rest of the thinner books. It looked like the size of one of the books that lined the shelves of the adult section of the library. I never did like the fact that I was only allowed in the children's section. I so wanted to be able to check out a book from the other side of the library, with the long oak tables and high backed wooden chairs. I knew there had to be many secrets hiding in the shelves I could never reach. Excited, thinking that a book had been mis-cataloged, I pulled the it from between two slim, colorful books that held more pictures than words. Being young and still under the belief that books were to be judged by their covers, I turned the book over in my small hands. The book's plain grey cover showed a line drawing of a cat, curled up in a tight ball, napping.
"It's about a cat", I surmised, so it must be a good book, since I liked cats. There was no title printed on the cover, so this made the book that much more intriguing. Curiously, I turned over the book again to look at the spine where I knew the title would be.
If indeed the book was about a cat, that cat was dead because I noticed the word "ghost" in the title. Not being sure if I wanted to read a story about a cute little napping cat that was deceased, I started to place the book back on the shelf, taking one last glance at the title embossed on the spine.
"The Ghost of Opalina...well, 'Opalina' is a pretty name for a cat, alive or dead", I thought, and once more I pulled the book from the shelf. There wasn't a dust cover for the book. Knowing that the books my parents had at home had dust covers, and the dust covers had a paragraph or two outlining the story, I had to go on faith that a story about a cat named Opalina would be something I just may find interesting, even though she was a dead cat.
Then I saw the second half of the title. The full title of the book was The Ghost of Opalina or "Nine Lives". Always wishing that cats really did have nine lives, I decided that I truly did want to read this book written by someone named Peggy Bacon.
Carrying the book to the librarian's desk...not only was there book shops back then, there was also The Librarian, the one I thought actually lived in the library, just like I thought teachers lived at the school and nuns lived in the church basement...I approached the large desk with my book, wearing a somewhat smug look on my face because the book I was checking out didn't have a colorful cartoon cover like the other childrens books. On tip-toe, I reached up and gently sat the book down on her desk. She would certainly be impressed by my choice of reading material, how wonderful that a ten year old child would pick such a work of fiction. I wondered if she imagined me curled up on my bed, or some corner of my house, sun streaming picturesquely through the window, dust motes floating though the air like stars, the light illuminating my angelic face as the sun bounced off the page.
The echoing sound of the date stamp hitting the inside cover snapped me out of my quiescent scene. Looking up at the stern, crinkled face of the library-dwelling woman, she peered down upon me, nonplussed. She slammed the cover closed and handed me the book. I will never forget what she said to me.
"Back in two weeks."
I shuffled home, disappointed that the librarian was not as impressed with me as I was with myself. My book was held tightly to my chest, for one must never drop a book, my teacher had told me one day. She explained it would hurt the book, and at my young age, I tended to humanize inanimate objects frequently. It wasn't a long walk to my house, but it seemed so that day. I couldn't wait to find just the right place in the house where the sun would stream through the window, illuminating the pages and my face.
I finally reached my bedroom, closed the door behind me, curled up on my bed and opened the book to the first page to my first "novel". Being that the day turned cloudy, instead of warm sunlight shining on the pages, I settled for grey somber light, diffusing everywhere but the pages. Despite life not following my script, I read the book in less than a week, I was so transfixed and bewitched by the story. Maybe the librarian would at least be impressed by prompt return of the book, if not by my choice of reading material.
Almost forty years later I find myself scanning rummage sales and flea markets for this book, the book that forever marked me as one who becomes lost reading. I have read many books since then most regularly, except for a short stint in high school where "required reading" was foisted upon me. To me, nothing ruined the idea of reading more than having a teacher instructing the class that no college would accept a child who didn't read Moby Dick.
This book I read so many years ago is special. It is a touchstone...a very expensive touchstone, I have discovered after much searching. Alas, my beloved Opalina is the subject of a rare book. Perhaps someday I will be in an antique store, glancing at a bookshelf, and there the book will be, nestled between a copy of Valley of the Dolls and a service manual for a '72 Chevy Impala. Above the bookshelf will be a sign reading, "All books, five dollars". If so, maybe someday I will find myself sitting in a sunbeam, like Opalina sat in a moonbeam. Opalina recalled her nine lives in the light of the full moon, shining through the bedroom window. In the sunlight through my bedroom window, I will be recalling my childhood.
I could check the book out at the library where the librarians are young, and they no longer stamp books, they electronically scan them. I could very easily do just that, but memories shouldn't have to be borrowed and returned two weeks later.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Why I Blog #87
...because I can't juggle cats.
In all seriousness, this question has been popping up a lot lately.
"Why do you do it? What's it all about, this blogging thing?"
"WHY?"
It doesn't bring me money, or fame, or even a large amount of notice. My reader base is small, my subjects range from the inane to the personal. Some may even say I'm somewhat "glurgy". Mostly, my blog is words, ideas, pictures in my head that need a way out, or the filing cabinet that is the contents of my brain will topple over, spilling out all it's misfiled information onto my cerebral cortex, where they will short out my neural pathways, causing a fire.
Spontaneous combustion is never a good thing.
In other words, blogging is an outlet, somewhat artistic since I take a thought and flesh it out, like dabbing on details to a painting or adding a few spices here and there to a stew. I may take liberties, but not in a James Frey kind of way. My blogging is more literary (I dare say) that an "Oh, by the way, I bought a new pair of Jimmy Choos today" fashion.
See what I did there? I took liberty in that last sentence because me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like me laid up in the hospital in a body cast. No, wait, that is exactly what me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like because that would be the end result.
So, short of said money-fame-notoriety, I do get something out of blogging. It's the little kid in me, stomping my feet, sticking out my lower lip and demanding, "Look at ME!"
You are looking, aren't you?
Also, it possibly may be little baby steps towards a writing career. At this rate, I'll be that ninety year old lady just publishing her first book. But that way, maybe the editors will be kind to me.
*This is number 87 in a series of "Why I Blog" post, which may or may not have 86 previous entries.
In all seriousness, this question has been popping up a lot lately.
"Why do you do it? What's it all about, this blogging thing?"
"WHY?"
It doesn't bring me money, or fame, or even a large amount of notice. My reader base is small, my subjects range from the inane to the personal. Some may even say I'm somewhat "glurgy". Mostly, my blog is words, ideas, pictures in my head that need a way out, or the filing cabinet that is the contents of my brain will topple over, spilling out all it's misfiled information onto my cerebral cortex, where they will short out my neural pathways, causing a fire.
Spontaneous combustion is never a good thing.
In other words, blogging is an outlet, somewhat artistic since I take a thought and flesh it out, like dabbing on details to a painting or adding a few spices here and there to a stew. I may take liberties, but not in a James Frey kind of way. My blogging is more literary (I dare say) that an "Oh, by the way, I bought a new pair of Jimmy Choos today" fashion.
See what I did there? I took liberty in that last sentence because me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like me laid up in the hospital in a body cast. No, wait, that is exactly what me in a pair of Jimmy Choos would be like because that would be the end result.
So, short of said money-fame-notoriety, I do get something out of blogging. It's the little kid in me, stomping my feet, sticking out my lower lip and demanding, "Look at ME!"
You are looking, aren't you?
Also, it possibly may be little baby steps towards a writing career. At this rate, I'll be that ninety year old lady just publishing her first book. But that way, maybe the editors will be kind to me.
*This is number 87 in a series of "Why I Blog" post, which may or may not have 86 previous entries.
Heart and Soul
I was thinking about the house, the one I grew up in, and the fact that soon it will no longer be "mine" in any sense. Many times I have gone over there when my dad was away for the summer, just to look around. There are a lot of memories in the house I would recall as I haunted the rooms. Some were mere shadows, others were as clear as a photograph.
Memories of Christmas and birthdays were clear and crisp and good. Mom liked to see our faces as we opened presents and soaked in the appreciation we showed her. Vacations were also a joy. We usually went to historical places like Boston or places of natural beauty like Niagara Falls. There was no knowledge or wonder in theme parks. We also spent time in Wisconsin many summers to visit with my dad's family. Leaving my home back then, just for a few weeks made me sad as I imagined the house empty, its large glass paned eyes watching us drive away. I would lie in the back seat, hiding my tears from my sister. I didn't want her to know that I cried for the lonely house. It seemed such a silly thing to do, but I could not help myself. The empty house looked melancholy.
See, I felt that the house had a presence, a soul. It was more than wood and glass and limestone. We even believed it to be haunted. Or maybe it was a playful little sprite who shone lights in the darkened attic, or made sounds of footsteps walking up and down the wooden stairs. Most likely it was just the fact the house was built in 1900, and its old bones were creaking, though the lights I could never explain. I have come to realize that the presence in the house wasn't ghosts, or sprites, or the soul of the house itself. It was the family who resided in it. It was us. The fact was made painfully clear, the first Christmas spent without my mom. The house echoed, even though it held our remaining family. My sister and I had left years earlier, but always returned for the Holidays and other family events. When we came back, it was if the house kept a place for us, and we slipped right in, like slipping on a well-worn kid glove. Our absence was temporary, and somehow the house knew that. Death, though, left not only an absence, but a deafening silence, never to be quieted, never to be appeased.
My dad is finally moving from the home I've known all my life, from it's converted coal room in the basement where his wine bubbled away, to the cluttered attic two stories above. As I walk around his new house, the house right next door to mine, I unlock the back door and walk into the kitchen where boxes of his kitchen supplies are stacked on the counters, one thought wafts through my mind.
"Welcome home".
For a house is just four walls, a floor and a roof. A home is much more.
Someday, the house I have known for over forty years will be sold and the new inhabitants, perhaps a family, will fill its rooms with bits and pieces of their lives. Maybe the ghost or the house sprite will entertain them with flashing lights in the attic and tease them with footfalls on the staircase. I am sure I will drive by and look to see how the old place is holding up. Will I feel a tug, a pang in my heart, a rash desire to run up on the porch and ring the doorbell, ask if I can have a glass of lemonade? Or will I just drive on by?
I will go to the place here my adult life resides. I will kiss my husband on the cheek, walk next door and have a beer with my dad, and go on the computer and find a silly cat picture to forward to my sister. I'll call my one daughter in Nebraska, and joke with my younger daughter who is still in school. I will hug my dogs and ruffle the bed-head fur of the cat. I will look fondly at the photo of my mom, the one I took one summer in the gazebo and realize that my mom is still here. For me, I have discovered, home is the people who inhabit your heart, not the structure that keeps the outside at bay.
Memories of Christmas and birthdays were clear and crisp and good. Mom liked to see our faces as we opened presents and soaked in the appreciation we showed her. Vacations were also a joy. We usually went to historical places like Boston or places of natural beauty like Niagara Falls. There was no knowledge or wonder in theme parks. We also spent time in Wisconsin many summers to visit with my dad's family. Leaving my home back then, just for a few weeks made me sad as I imagined the house empty, its large glass paned eyes watching us drive away. I would lie in the back seat, hiding my tears from my sister. I didn't want her to know that I cried for the lonely house. It seemed such a silly thing to do, but I could not help myself. The empty house looked melancholy.
See, I felt that the house had a presence, a soul. It was more than wood and glass and limestone. We even believed it to be haunted. Or maybe it was a playful little sprite who shone lights in the darkened attic, or made sounds of footsteps walking up and down the wooden stairs. Most likely it was just the fact the house was built in 1900, and its old bones were creaking, though the lights I could never explain. I have come to realize that the presence in the house wasn't ghosts, or sprites, or the soul of the house itself. It was the family who resided in it. It was us. The fact was made painfully clear, the first Christmas spent without my mom. The house echoed, even though it held our remaining family. My sister and I had left years earlier, but always returned for the Holidays and other family events. When we came back, it was if the house kept a place for us, and we slipped right in, like slipping on a well-worn kid glove. Our absence was temporary, and somehow the house knew that. Death, though, left not only an absence, but a deafening silence, never to be quieted, never to be appeased.
My dad is finally moving from the home I've known all my life, from it's converted coal room in the basement where his wine bubbled away, to the cluttered attic two stories above. As I walk around his new house, the house right next door to mine, I unlock the back door and walk into the kitchen where boxes of his kitchen supplies are stacked on the counters, one thought wafts through my mind.
"Welcome home".
For a house is just four walls, a floor and a roof. A home is much more.
Someday, the house I have known for over forty years will be sold and the new inhabitants, perhaps a family, will fill its rooms with bits and pieces of their lives. Maybe the ghost or the house sprite will entertain them with flashing lights in the attic and tease them with footfalls on the staircase. I am sure I will drive by and look to see how the old place is holding up. Will I feel a tug, a pang in my heart, a rash desire to run up on the porch and ring the doorbell, ask if I can have a glass of lemonade? Or will I just drive on by?
I will go to the place here my adult life resides. I will kiss my husband on the cheek, walk next door and have a beer with my dad, and go on the computer and find a silly cat picture to forward to my sister. I'll call my one daughter in Nebraska, and joke with my younger daughter who is still in school. I will hug my dogs and ruffle the bed-head fur of the cat. I will look fondly at the photo of my mom, the one I took one summer in the gazebo and realize that my mom is still here. For me, I have discovered, home is the people who inhabit your heart, not the structure that keeps the outside at bay.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Collections
My mother was a collector. She loved old jewelry, mostly old pins, which she would wear with great panache on coats, blouses, and even the occasional sweatshirt. There was hardly a day when she would leave the house when she wasn't wearing a large sash pin, or a small cluster of scatter pins. One of my last memories of mom was helping her pick out which one of her Christmas pins she would wear on the day she never lived to see.
In preparing to empty the house, which is somewhat like preparing to eat a herd of elephants, let alone one, with the help of my dear aunt and uncle, we bagged and inventoried her pins for auction.
We have counted over one thousand pieces of jewelry as of yesterday.
My mom never impulsively bought anything, for the most part. To think that over the years she inspected each and every piece she acquired is boggling. I can imagine her, standing in front of a glass case in some antique store, holding a pin or brooch that caught her eye. Not only would she examine the piece, turning it around in her hands, looking for hallmarks, noting the style of clasp which was a good indicator of age, she would envision where she would wear said pin; would it look nice on that denim blazer hanging in the back closet? The one that she planned to wear when the leaves turned the same amber shade as the stone in the piece in her hands?
She would then look at the price tag, question whether or not to but the item, as to which my dad would say to her, "Buy it." Dad would have never told her otherwise. Trite as it sounds, if my mom would have asked for the Moon, my dad would have found a way to give it to her.
This happened over a thousand times. I'm not even counting the other collections...the art deco jewelry caskets, the Nippon, the milk glass, the platters...
I have talked amongst family and friends, the torn feelings over dispatching with these items, how in some way we are selling pieces of my mom. Family member and close friends have been able to take some pieces home, pieces that spoke to them in some way. I have more than a few myself. Every time I hold them in my hands, I think about how my mom held them in hers, imagining the compliments she would gather like yet another collection.
But, practicality wins over sentimentalism, and as each piece of jewelry gets tucked inside a cardboard box, I imagine I am releasing a bit of my mom, for as much as she personified the jewelry she purchased, she was and is far more than a sum of all her things.
In preparing to empty the house, which is somewhat like preparing to eat a herd of elephants, let alone one, with the help of my dear aunt and uncle, we bagged and inventoried her pins for auction.
We have counted over one thousand pieces of jewelry as of yesterday.
My mom never impulsively bought anything, for the most part. To think that over the years she inspected each and every piece she acquired is boggling. I can imagine her, standing in front of a glass case in some antique store, holding a pin or brooch that caught her eye. Not only would she examine the piece, turning it around in her hands, looking for hallmarks, noting the style of clasp which was a good indicator of age, she would envision where she would wear said pin; would it look nice on that denim blazer hanging in the back closet? The one that she planned to wear when the leaves turned the same amber shade as the stone in the piece in her hands?
She would then look at the price tag, question whether or not to but the item, as to which my dad would say to her, "Buy it." Dad would have never told her otherwise. Trite as it sounds, if my mom would have asked for the Moon, my dad would have found a way to give it to her.
This happened over a thousand times. I'm not even counting the other collections...the art deco jewelry caskets, the Nippon, the milk glass, the platters...
I have talked amongst family and friends, the torn feelings over dispatching with these items, how in some way we are selling pieces of my mom. Family member and close friends have been able to take some pieces home, pieces that spoke to them in some way. I have more than a few myself. Every time I hold them in my hands, I think about how my mom held them in hers, imagining the compliments she would gather like yet another collection.
But, practicality wins over sentimentalism, and as each piece of jewelry gets tucked inside a cardboard box, I imagine I am releasing a bit of my mom, for as much as she personified the jewelry she purchased, she was and is far more than a sum of all her things.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Traveling Show
The husband calmly walks around the motor home, the one with the curtains drawn closed across the windsheild. Shirtless, and still wearing the same jeans from yesterday, his fifty-something torso is sagging over his belt and the sun shines off his tanned bald pate. He tucks his head inside a storage compartment and pulls out the tow bar so he can prepare to hook his car to the back of larger vehicle. He looks as he is preparing to leave after spending only one night in a campground nestled among the landscape of rolling hills.
The light sound of crunching gravel catches his ear and he looks over his shoulder. Obviously uninterested by what is causing the sound, he sets the tow bar down along side the car and continues back to the storage compartment to fetch more tools. The wife, also in her fifties is dressed in the pastel shades of one much younger; a pair of crisp cotton shorts and a matching blouse. Her honey colored hair is caught up in a lacy white ribbon. The ribbon floats behind her as she hurries towards the campsite. The wife's arms are reaching out in surprise, then they convey a question. As her feet touch the grassy carpet, she falls to her bare knees, hands coming together, culminating in a plea. Her husband glances toward her dispassionately as he prepares to attach the tow bar to the car's frame.
The wife, still in a position of prayer, cries to her husband. She tells him to only take the car. Leave her behind with the motor home. Unmoved by her lamentations, he walks towards the back of the car and pops the trunk, retrieving more tools. The husband looks toward her, shaking his head, smirking at her request. She finally rises from her supplication and wearily sits down on the picnic bench, placing her head in her hands. She looks at him beseechingly, wisps of hair coming loose from the child-like bow. Through tears she cries that she is having fun, that she hasn't enjoyed herself in years, and now he wants to leave. Don't take my vacation away, she implores. The husband says something to the woman, his face dark with fury. The woman leaps from the bench and runs to the door of the house on wheels, appearing to clench the hem of a skirt as if fleeing some hideous insect. Left in the wake of sobs and tears, the husband walks over to the tow bar laying on the ground and replaces it back in the storage container. He gathers his tools and sets them back in the trunk of the car. After closing the trunk lid, he proceeds to open the door to the motor home, and as if it were just another day in July, steps inside and closes the door behind him. Silence swallows up the dramatic scene and replaces it with the wind blowing through the willows, sparrows darting through the pristine blue sky.
From my darkened vantage point, I am left to gaze at the drawn curtains of the motor home. I feel like I have been watching a stage play, full of tumult and turmoil. Will there be a second act, or was this merely a one-act production, I wonder. Will the troupe set up stage in the next town, the next state? As I am left with fingers grasping the cliff's edge, I am haunted by the image of a woman in pink praying to her god who gives and takes away as easily as sparrows catch gnats on the fly. What haunts me more is my shameful reaction to the tableau.
"Woman, have some pride!"
The light sound of crunching gravel catches his ear and he looks over his shoulder. Obviously uninterested by what is causing the sound, he sets the tow bar down along side the car and continues back to the storage compartment to fetch more tools. The wife, also in her fifties is dressed in the pastel shades of one much younger; a pair of crisp cotton shorts and a matching blouse. Her honey colored hair is caught up in a lacy white ribbon. The ribbon floats behind her as she hurries towards the campsite. The wife's arms are reaching out in surprise, then they convey a question. As her feet touch the grassy carpet, she falls to her bare knees, hands coming together, culminating in a plea. Her husband glances toward her dispassionately as he prepares to attach the tow bar to the car's frame.
The wife, still in a position of prayer, cries to her husband. She tells him to only take the car. Leave her behind with the motor home. Unmoved by her lamentations, he walks towards the back of the car and pops the trunk, retrieving more tools. The husband looks toward her, shaking his head, smirking at her request. She finally rises from her supplication and wearily sits down on the picnic bench, placing her head in her hands. She looks at him beseechingly, wisps of hair coming loose from the child-like bow. Through tears she cries that she is having fun, that she hasn't enjoyed herself in years, and now he wants to leave. Don't take my vacation away, she implores. The husband says something to the woman, his face dark with fury. The woman leaps from the bench and runs to the door of the house on wheels, appearing to clench the hem of a skirt as if fleeing some hideous insect. Left in the wake of sobs and tears, the husband walks over to the tow bar laying on the ground and replaces it back in the storage container. He gathers his tools and sets them back in the trunk of the car. After closing the trunk lid, he proceeds to open the door to the motor home, and as if it were just another day in July, steps inside and closes the door behind him. Silence swallows up the dramatic scene and replaces it with the wind blowing through the willows, sparrows darting through the pristine blue sky.
From my darkened vantage point, I am left to gaze at the drawn curtains of the motor home. I feel like I have been watching a stage play, full of tumult and turmoil. Will there be a second act, or was this merely a one-act production, I wonder. Will the troupe set up stage in the next town, the next state? As I am left with fingers grasping the cliff's edge, I am haunted by the image of a woman in pink praying to her god who gives and takes away as easily as sparrows catch gnats on the fly. What haunts me more is my shameful reaction to the tableau.
"Woman, have some pride!"
Monday, June 8, 2009
Internal Dialogue
I mentioned way back in time on this blog that I had started taking Paxil for depression, and as a result, I felt that it had really dampened my ability to write. Talking this over to one of my aunts over breakfast the other day, she asked, "Is it worth it?"
I have really given that question a lot of thought.
I would say if I were an author, one who made a life from writing, then unequivocally no. Definitely not worth not being depressed if a paycheck or a publisher were in play. Obviously in my case, that isn't the case. I'm just a lowly blogger in a sea of many other bloggers in the vast water-covered world that is the Internet.
Recently, I was reading an article on the Internet which asked the question, "Where does your blogging voice come from?" Which of course I then asked myself,
"Lisa, where does your blogging voice come from?" Quickly the answer came..."From my internal dialogue, of course."
And, of course, it was my internal dialogue that came up with the answer. The one that was always there...when I'm depressed, when I'm feeling neutral. When I'm drunk. When I'm sober. It's always there. It's there when I am singing made up lyrics to the songs playing on my iPod. It's there when I'm sitting outside, watching the birds and bunnies in my yard. It's even there when I'm falling asleep at night.
Although I will not ever share those here.
Anti-depressants never shut off the my internal dialogue, I've discovered. If anything, they may have shut down that part in my brain that feels the need to exclaim on a public forum, "Hey, there's bunnies in my yard! I wish you were here to see them with me!"
Because, isn't that what a blog is about? Inviting *you* to see what I see? Feel what I feel? Even if it's only one person who happens to stumble by?
And, yes, the bunnies are really cute! One is digging in the clover...
I have really given that question a lot of thought.
I would say if I were an author, one who made a life from writing, then unequivocally no. Definitely not worth not being depressed if a paycheck or a publisher were in play. Obviously in my case, that isn't the case. I'm just a lowly blogger in a sea of many other bloggers in the vast water-covered world that is the Internet.
Recently, I was reading an article on the Internet which asked the question, "Where does your blogging voice come from?" Which of course I then asked myself,
"Lisa, where does your blogging voice come from?" Quickly the answer came..."From my internal dialogue, of course."
And, of course, it was my internal dialogue that came up with the answer. The one that was always there...when I'm depressed, when I'm feeling neutral. When I'm drunk. When I'm sober. It's always there. It's there when I am singing made up lyrics to the songs playing on my iPod. It's there when I'm sitting outside, watching the birds and bunnies in my yard. It's even there when I'm falling asleep at night.
Although I will not ever share those here.
Anti-depressants never shut off the my internal dialogue, I've discovered. If anything, they may have shut down that part in my brain that feels the need to exclaim on a public forum, "Hey, there's bunnies in my yard! I wish you were here to see them with me!"
Because, isn't that what a blog is about? Inviting *you* to see what I see? Feel what I feel? Even if it's only one person who happens to stumble by?
And, yes, the bunnies are really cute! One is digging in the clover...
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Be Careful What You Ask For...
I've been asking my youngest to start a Blog. Well, she did today, I guess as a Mother's Day Present. A twisted, warped Mother's Day present.
I present to the blogging world, my kid.
http://www.captainbond.blogspot.com/
Actually, this is one of the most delightful Mother's Day presents I have ever recieved. Thanks, Rachel!
◘◘◘
◘◘◘
I present to the blogging world, my kid.
http://www.captainbond.blogspot.com/
Actually, this is one of the most delightful Mother's Day presents I have ever recieved. Thanks, Rachel!
◘◘◘
I needed a new laptop. Being very impressed with the free customer service my oldest received when her laptop BSoD'ed three days after the warranty expired, I ordered myself the same brand, you know, the one that starts with a "Dell".
I know I am not the best typist in the world, but I do know when I am not causing the cursor to appear somewhere else in a document I am attempting to type, like I sent it through some short-term memory time warp. Due to the fact that I so hate/loathe/despise to talk to Tech-Lack-Of-Support, I emailed Dell and am waiting with baited breath for a reply. Since Google is my friend, and conferring with my brother-in-law, I have determined that this brand of laptop has had issues with wonky keyboards in the past (go Google "wonky keyboards"and Dell will most likely come up in the top ten search replies).
So, we shall see what transpires. By the way, I've had to retrieve my cursor at least fifteen times while typing this post.
◘◘◘
My sister tells me one needs to be very specific when asking the Universe for something. Perhaps I should request a codicil.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A Child's Bouquet
When Spring came to my childhood home and May finally appeared, our yard became flush with violets. Islands of purple amidst a green grass sea. Blooms bowing slightly on long stems. Along side the stone foundation sprouted clumps of Lily of the Valleys, the small white, perfectly formed bells hung like fragrant dewdrops from the strong green reeds. Nature worked Her magic by placing these two flowers to bloom at just the right time in the life of a child. Simple flowers that grew in such a way that they could be easily plucked by little hands. Violets, so vibrant in color, so subtle of scent. Lily of the Valleys, simply white, but complex in perfume and quietly exquisite in formation. Flowers in perfect balance, joined together at the right time to make a delicate child's bouquet...a tussy-mussy to be excitedly given as a token of love.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Are you sure typing when the easier, I mean when they, and and I mean when being that that that that the audit deduct up to if?
Technology is wonderful, if not funny in a "pull-your-hair-out-by-the-roots" kind of way. My new computer has voice recognition, where you can dictate emails, documents, and whatnot. It's not perfect, though, although I am sure the computer would blame my voice and lack of diction for any and all mistakes. So I thought I would dictate a blog entry without adjusting for what the computer thinks I am saying, just to showcase how wonderful and helpful this this may be in my life.
I thought this would be a good program for my daughter to use in writing reports. My dad would find it convenient in reading emails because e really hates to type. I think he would find it frustrating bill, I know I do because the computer thinks when I say the word told, it types of other words, such as bill, and told. Maybe I have a speech impediment where I had difficulties with mike T ages, like Cindy Brady did. So if my daughter were to use speech recognition in writing reports for school, at which sure hope she would perforated before handing in the finished product, or what she thought she said, was a really what she meant to say. Or type. I don't think that blame Nina the speech recognition program would be a good enough excuse. Next paragraph
The commands are hard to pick up on two. Although you can say anything you want and Dick station, you have to tell the computer what to do in a Pacific way for the computer to understand what you wanted to do. Spelling is project early selling, as I tried to spell out an e-mail address. My father's e-mail Eddie ended up being "jay Len Kelly a at hotmail that com". It's just far easier to point and click, then to scream at the computer, quotation mark De Ahmed that's not what I meant to say!!! Quotation mark.
I also don't like the idea that the computer is listening to me all the time. I'm sure won't be long or it will start ignoring me all the time, or look at me with this compassion eight digital eyes, wandering, what the hell are you talking about?
I'm also discovering that my strengths do not live in speaking, or as I feel far more confident writing of my ideas and thoughts. It feels like having writer's block of them Alf. Besides, I feel incredibly ridiculous speaking two and inanimate object. Almost like sitting in a shrinks office… Like, what am I supposed to say?
And heaven forbid if the dogs were to bark, for the clockwork turn to tactic to chime, or if the TV were on that debt that.
So I guess this whole speech recognition thing really doesn't make life easier unless I want to talk three words at a time, very slowly, with dictation soul crisp and clean, I could Cleve through paper. But even that has its flaws.
I kind of liked that "soul crisp and clean" line, though. I wished I would have come up with that one.
I thought this would be a good program for my daughter to use in writing reports. My dad would find it convenient in reading emails because e really hates to type. I think he would find it frustrating bill, I know I do because the computer thinks when I say the word told, it types of other words, such as bill, and told. Maybe I have a speech impediment where I had difficulties with mike T ages, like Cindy Brady did. So if my daughter were to use speech recognition in writing reports for school, at which sure hope she would perforated before handing in the finished product, or what she thought she said, was a really what she meant to say. Or type. I don't think that blame Nina the speech recognition program would be a good enough excuse. Next paragraph
The commands are hard to pick up on two. Although you can say anything you want and Dick station, you have to tell the computer what to do in a Pacific way for the computer to understand what you wanted to do. Spelling is project early selling, as I tried to spell out an e-mail address. My father's e-mail Eddie ended up being "jay Len Kelly a at hotmail that com". It's just far easier to point and click, then to scream at the computer, quotation mark De Ahmed that's not what I meant to say!!! Quotation mark.
I also don't like the idea that the computer is listening to me all the time. I'm sure won't be long or it will start ignoring me all the time, or look at me with this compassion eight digital eyes, wandering, what the hell are you talking about?
I'm also discovering that my strengths do not live in speaking, or as I feel far more confident writing of my ideas and thoughts. It feels like having writer's block of them Alf. Besides, I feel incredibly ridiculous speaking two and inanimate object. Almost like sitting in a shrinks office… Like, what am I supposed to say?
And heaven forbid if the dogs were to bark, for the clockwork turn to tactic to chime, or if the TV were on that debt that.
So I guess this whole speech recognition thing really doesn't make life easier unless I want to talk three words at a time, very slowly, with dictation soul crisp and clean, I could Cleve through paper. But even that has its flaws.
I kind of liked that "soul crisp and clean" line, though. I wished I would have come up with that one.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Fashion-not-sa
Out of sheer boredom the other day, I picked up a copy of a woman's fashion magazine so I would have something to read as I waited in the school parking lot for my daughter.
It took me all of five pages to realize why I quit reading womans fashion magazines. But, because of aforementioned sheer boredom, I continued to read on...or at least look at the pictures.
The magazine showed me clothes I could never wear, jewelery I had no place to wear, shoes I had no business to wear if I wanted to walk without the aid of a cane. Make-up in colors that did not occur naturally on a human being...eye shadows in shades of decay, blushes in tones of the other side of severe sunburn. Lips tinted in the same hues of blues I had last seen gracing a stiff laying in Ducky's morgue on NCIS. Why was I still flipping through the pages of this rag?
I found a perfume sample towards the middle that smelled nice, and gave myself a paper cut when I tried to rub the scented page across my wrist.
The last time I attempted make-up, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I gave up lipstick years ago after the my dog rearranged my upper lip. Blush...who needs it when one has Rosacea? Hair styles? My hair is giving up on that one all on it's own every time I watch it sluice down the shower drain like black and white blood from the movie Psycho.
Dressing up? I wore sneakers to my sister's wedding. My heels have not been elevated since the Stacked-Heel Sandal Incident of '02. It is very difficult to appear sober to a group of high-brows leaving a wine and food pairing dinner that one is not inebriated as one is trying not fall off her heels.
So, I have established that fashion mags speak to me no longer. But, there are alternatives for the almost 50 female set, full of articles that sing, "Yes, you CAN be flirty, feminine, fun, even as your body falls into the disarray and disrepair of decrepitude.
And who do I find gracing the cover of such magazine? Sally Field. Perky Senior Citizen Extraordinaire. Former Gidget and Ex Flying Nun. Ageless Freak Of Nature. She poses on the cover, sitting like a pretzel, beaming as if too say, "Look at me! I can still bend at the knees and look fashionable doing so!"
I give up. I think I'll stick to Field and Stream. At least I can still fish.
It took me all of five pages to realize why I quit reading womans fashion magazines. But, because of aforementioned sheer boredom, I continued to read on...or at least look at the pictures.
The magazine showed me clothes I could never wear, jewelery I had no place to wear, shoes I had no business to wear if I wanted to walk without the aid of a cane. Make-up in colors that did not occur naturally on a human being...eye shadows in shades of decay, blushes in tones of the other side of severe sunburn. Lips tinted in the same hues of blues I had last seen gracing a stiff laying in Ducky's morgue on NCIS. Why was I still flipping through the pages of this rag?
I found a perfume sample towards the middle that smelled nice, and gave myself a paper cut when I tried to rub the scented page across my wrist.
The last time I attempted make-up, I poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I gave up lipstick years ago after the my dog rearranged my upper lip. Blush...who needs it when one has Rosacea? Hair styles? My hair is giving up on that one all on it's own every time I watch it sluice down the shower drain like black and white blood from the movie Psycho.
Dressing up? I wore sneakers to my sister's wedding. My heels have not been elevated since the Stacked-Heel Sandal Incident of '02. It is very difficult to appear sober to a group of high-brows leaving a wine and food pairing dinner that one is not inebriated as one is trying not fall off her heels.
So, I have established that fashion mags speak to me no longer. But, there are alternatives for the almost 50 female set, full of articles that sing, "Yes, you CAN be flirty, feminine, fun, even as your body falls into the disarray and disrepair of decrepitude.
And who do I find gracing the cover of such magazine? Sally Field. Perky Senior Citizen Extraordinaire. Former Gidget and Ex Flying Nun. Ageless Freak Of Nature. She poses on the cover, sitting like a pretzel, beaming as if too say, "Look at me! I can still bend at the knees and look fashionable doing so!"
I give up. I think I'll stick to Field and Stream. At least I can still fish.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Benched
When the trees turn green and the wind blows warmly down the river valley, I will most likely find myself back to this place.
I have sat at this bench many times, for many reasons. Reflection, boredom, escape. I've sat, watching fishermen situated under the bridge, hoping for the big Walleye. Maybe they sit in their boats for the same reason I sit at this park bench, using a fishing pole as a prop so as to not seem purposeless.
I watch as barges float by, impossibly silent and serene. They look unoccupied, save a solitary figure walking against the flow of the river as he makes his way to the cabin. He looks like he is going nowhere, as if he is strolling in the opposite direction on an automatic walkway. I figure it probably isn't a very good idea to jump up and down in one place on a moving barge, especially if standing by a large object. Would they fall over it or crash into it on the way down?
I have sat at this bench a few times, daring myself not to leave the bench until way after sundown. Maybe a argument or a bruised ego found me here, and this bench is as far away as I will come to ever running away from home. The chill of the coming evening and the sting of mosquitoes, plunging their needles into my skin tells me my passive-aggressive nature will not win out.
I am always alone at this park bench, except for the constant companion of high frequency ringing in my ears, not unlike the sound of the mosquitoes zeroing in to steal my blood. The river draws me in, not physically, but emotionally. It is the ultimate "road not taken". I watch the river forever flowing within the boundaries of its shores until it finds freedom in the wide expanse of the oceans.
In comparison to the river, I am a mere creek, twisting its way out of existence before it can ever merge with the sea.
Monday, February 23, 2009
In the name of pride.
I noticed that my youngest daughter was unusably quiet this weekend and was not her normal quirky self. Knowing what time of year it was, I had my druthers as to what the culprit was. So seeing that I had her full and undivided attention in the van this morning, heading for school, I asked her if she tried her best on her essay paper, which is her second attempt.
"Mom, I enjoy essay writing", she cried, "and I wanted to be able to express myself the best that I could. But the paper I was going to write I can't anymore because it ended up so big of a project I would have never gotten it done, so now I'm writing a new one so I can hand it in, so the teacher doesn't think I'm a slacker. It'll be late, but I don't care."
To do this, she has put her other classes in jeopardy.
I tried to explain to her that there will be other times in life where she can express herself outside of the confines of the Department of Education's layout for high school English essay papers. It isn't worth failing the rest of her classes for this one paper. Her English teacher isn't going to care that she didn't give up...he will just count the paper null and void because she turned the paper in late. Again.
"I just want to do something I can be proud of", my daughter sniffed, as she exited the van.
"I'm proud of you." I replied from the recesses of my heart.
I don't think that counts though.
"Mom, I enjoy essay writing", she cried, "and I wanted to be able to express myself the best that I could. But the paper I was going to write I can't anymore because it ended up so big of a project I would have never gotten it done, so now I'm writing a new one so I can hand it in, so the teacher doesn't think I'm a slacker. It'll be late, but I don't care."
To do this, she has put her other classes in jeopardy.
I tried to explain to her that there will be other times in life where she can express herself outside of the confines of the Department of Education's layout for high school English essay papers. It isn't worth failing the rest of her classes for this one paper. Her English teacher isn't going to care that she didn't give up...he will just count the paper null and void because she turned the paper in late. Again.
"I just want to do something I can be proud of", my daughter sniffed, as she exited the van.
"I'm proud of you." I replied from the recesses of my heart.
I don't think that counts though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)