Random Acts of Writing [+ art]

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2010-03-18T17:16:00.003-04:00

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Expectations

2009-08-15T07:47:00.001-04:00

I thought it would be different. There are a number of people traveling to Austin on the 6:20 flight this morning, more than I imagined as I drove through Hartford at four and pictured myself alone and waiting quietly in the terminal.

The man across from me wears snakeskin boots, but I am certain he is not a Connecticut line-dancing cowboy. His skin is too leathered for such foolishness, too wrinkled with worry about the ranch, the cattle, the injuns. Or so I like to imagine. Perhaps I do that too often--judge books by covers and weave stories before I know the full truth.

At first glance, the cowboy seems gruff, but I catch a smile on his face when he waves to the little girl across from him as she asks a million questions.

"Is that our plane?"

"Can we go inside yet?"

"What if it crashes?"

She's asking the questions we would all ask if we were young and unfettered in our anxieties. To ask them out loud would be inappropriate, so we sit in quiet unease.

Her pointed finger leaves a mark on the frost-coated window. The radio station this morning said 27 degrees. My sister says it's 75 in Austin.

"Is that sock weather?" I asked her.

"Should I bring a jacket?"

"Jeans or shorts?"

It's hard to know what to expect when you're someplace else.

There is a hodge-podge of folks waiting here this morning, young students and older couples, corporate types, and that one character who stands out just enough that we all glance at him with suspicion from time to time. Some read books with necks tilted this way and that. A woman near me works on a crossword puzzle, while her daughter stares into a cell phone, its screen casting a zombie-white sheen across her face.

The man I saw in the food court earlier sits next to me. His hair is a bit thin at the top and I notice a hint of gray--he is about my age. He wears dress pants and a pale blue button down. Is he on business or traveling home for the holidays? I picture both and wonder.

His cologne is familiar, and I think of my lover yesterday, smiling down as I rested my head against his thigh. It was a broad smile that caught me off-guard, and I laughed as he pulled me towards him for a kiss.

It is the first time I have thought of him this morning and I think I miss him. I want to think I miss him.

Would this man in the button down have seen me off this morning?

Kissed me passionately as if we were parting forever?

Shooshed kindly at the tears I cry whenever I leave something familiar?

A line is forming now in this corner of the terminal. First class is boarding already, and the rest of us gather our things and wait, single file.

In line at the coffee shop last night, my friend turned to me and said, "You expect too much of people." My blush of surprise was as evident as if she'd slapped me across the face.

"You are very loving," she continued, "but you expect people to love you the same way in return. It disappoints you when they can't."

"I thought it would be different," I said with a half smile, then change the subject. "I hear it's 75 in Austin. Can you imagine?"

.85616438

2009-06-04T08:11:00.001-04:00

For Christmas, in 1993, I received a stapler. A sturdy, black metal Stanley Bostitch stapler, model B660. While it may seem like one of those regifting kind of gifts to some, to me it was special. It was the year I started my business, and the stapler was a “you're on your way, go for it!” gift that said “I know you can do it!”

I don't know if anyone, myself included, imagined this business would still be going strong some 16 years later! Or maybe we did. Either way, it seemed important to note that I used my last staple from that original gift this morning. The 5,000th, according to the box. That's an average of .85616438 staples per day.

We don't often note these small, inconsequential things. We staple away for 16 years in the same way we put a key in the front door or eat a meal at the kitchen table or pet the cat in the morning. But there are small blessings in each...a roof over our head, nourishment that sustains us, good companions on our journey, and people who knew all along “you can do it!”

The Afghan

2009-03-29T09:17:00.001-04:00

"This," my friend says, "is lovely."
Lovely is never a word
I use to describe the ugly afghan
crocheted by my grandmother
and dragged out of storage
when guests sleep on the sofa.

It is avocado green and orange,
milk chocolate brown,
and amber gold,
like the yellow my parents
painted the kitchen
of our new house.

"She picked each color herself,"
my friend explains,
as she carefully runs her fingers
up and over the zigzag pattern
with awe and affection,
though she never
met my grandmother.

It is the color palette
of my seventies family,
when Mom and Dad
were almost-happy still,
my sister played with Barbie
by the sliding glass window,
and my bangs were
appropriately feathered
away from my face.

"She thought about
you and your family
with each stitch."

I could see her then,
sitting in her green recliner,
counting stitches like
the beads on her Rosary.
"Love Boat" on the Sylvania,
drinking instant iced tea
while a cigarette smokes
from the ashtray.

It was after her husband died,
and Grandmom traveled
with her dog Coco,
bringing Shoo Fly Pie and
Moravian Sugar Cake from
Pennsylvania to our house
in Connecticut.

That Christmas,
she crocheted ponchos for us, too,
and took me to Hawaii
to see my Grandfather's name
carved in marble at the
Pearl Harbor Memorial.

The same deft hands
that crafted this blanket
raised son and daughter
independently in the fifties;
folded in prayer
for neighbors and friends;
prepared feasts
with love
for grandchildren.

"So much thought went into this,"
my friend continues,
as we carefully fold the afghan
and place it on top
of the antique hope chest
in the corner.

"Each stitch, each row,
holds love and memories."

March Long Weekend

2009-03-29T09:16:00.000-04:00

It's barely 6 a.m.
and I'm busy.
Thankfully busy
with last minute laundry
and suitcase selection.
The outfits I will wear
hang on the curtain rod
in the bathroom--
Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday.

In a flurry,
I pass by the list
that sits in the
dining room:
Journal - check.
Books - check.
Pens - check.
Half-finished story
that needs editing,
and a red pen - check.

The car is cleaned out.
The cat food is stacked
on the kitchen counter
with instructions for
how to and when to.
The extra coat,
ice scraper, boots,
and umbrella--
sentinels at the door:
"are we there yet?"

The laptop glows,
plugged in and humming.
The charger says the
camera will be ready soon.
The cell phone is attached
to the kitchen outlet--
when the light turns green
we "Go!"

So this is what they mean
by "recharging your batteries."

December Blind Date

2009-01-15T07:05:00.009-05:00

[A Series of 100-Word Stories]

MY MOTHER THE SHADCHEN
Yiddish finds its way into my vocabulary at random. Words I heard as a child from grandparents of veiled decent--chachkas, kvetch, babooshka-sneak in like hiccups. "Fishstay?" Grammy would ask. "Do you understand?" I understood my Mother's intentions clearly. "He's a nice man," she told me. "He works at a bank and drives a nice car. You should meet." "Yenta," I thought. It hissed in my mind like a curse. But yenta, in Yiddish, is a talkative, gossipy woman. Shadchen (shadkhn) is a matchmaker. My mother, apparently, is both. It's how he became interested in the first place. Oy vey!

THE PIRATE GETS ME EVERY TIME
"Luke Skywalker or Han Solo?" asks the quiz in the magazine I flip through in the waiting room. I forgot my book and am left with this dreg of pop-communication to bide time. I have an eleven o'clock with Leon. Hair. Eyebrows. Let the preparatory date rituals commence! Luke Skywalker was nice, I think. Jedi Knight is a good job. He drove an x-wing fighter. "So, why is 'nice' a bad word?" I wonder, imagining my date sitting stoically across the table. Nice? Or swashbuckling renegade space smuggler? "Han Solo" I check the box emphatically. He had me from hello.

"I DO BELIEVE. I DO BELIEVE."
If I seem disenchanted, Mom, I apologize. "What do you look for in a man?" you asked me. Before I could answer, you filled in the blank yourself. "Is it his clothes? His job? The car he drives?" These never occur to me, but I can't explain that to you. "You never know," you said with a sparkle in your eye, while visions of nuptials and grandkids danced in your head. You want me to believe. Close my eyes and hear reindeer on the roof. I'm too old for that now, but I'll play along and leave my stocking out.

WISH LIST
"What do you look for in a man?" her question pokes at me. I search my brain like rummaging through my purse for keys. "Red Sox fan," was too specific for my sister. "If I get stuck watching baseball, at least I'll like the team," I explained, rather ambivalently. A blank page stares back at me. "Just toss words out," a friend told me, "like spaghetti on a wall. Something will come to you." "Easy laugh," I write. "Common interests. Creative. Likes to travel." I suspect my sister would say I was asking for too much, but I keep tossing.

A HUNDRED WORDS FOR SNOW
"You are alone," my mother's Greek boyfriend says, with great emphasis on the final word. He and my mother have been giddy and giggling since I agreed to the date. "You meet this man," he encourages me. "You like each other. You get married." "You are happy," he finishes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. He winks, as if we are sharing a secret. I wink back, but he misses my "just kidding" interpretation. Likewise, I am sure our definitions of "alone" and "happy" would get lost in translation, though I wish I understood his enthusiasm.

VISIONS OF...DRAGONS?
"I'm slaying dragons," I told a friend as D-Day approached, mocking my apprehension. I wasn't afraid when Mom escorted me to the formal introduction of my date--bemused, actually, as I imagined myself in ankle-length white cotton dress for this slightly archaic ritual. We met and shook hands. He had a kind face and we talked easily--through tea with the matchmakers, lunch and a walk at the beach. We shook hands again, and exchanged phone numbers. I didn't see any dragons, and a nice time was had by all. Or so he told me when he called last night!

Christmas Morning

2008-12-25T08:00:00.001-05:00

Despite the two-week vacation, my internal clock remains on work-time, so I am awake while the stars are out and the wind sings through still-hidden trees.

Sometime before seven, the sky turns a pale purple and edges of the neighborhood begin to emerge from the night. The week's frigid temperatures have given way to comfortable cool and the wind has softened to a quiet whisper. Too early for the day's activities, the morning is calm and peaceful, so I set out for a walk--down the driveway no longer covered in ice, past my neighbor's house where I'd enjoyed Christmas Eve just hours before, around the corner to the cove that sits to the east of my house.

It is a breath-taking view when you turn the corner--a hidden surprise, there around the bend and just off the main and busy road. A sliver of golden light outlines the horizon, reflecting softly along the shore of the small beach at the base of the hill. A gull or two dot the morning sky, quietly soaring above.

A small collection of cottages sits to the right of the beach, and I walk here often-in the off-season, when it is empty and still. At the edge of the property, where the last few cottages stand sentry along a cliff near water's edge, there is a wooden bench and I sit down.

Clouds the color of lavender and peach stretch out across the sky like brushstrokes on a pale blue canvass. The wind tickles the water and shoots goose bumps along its surface. A cormorant swims by, then disappears under the water, emerging out near a lone sailboat, moored and rocking gently back and forth. Gulls land effortlessly on the rocks the locals call "The Mermaids," while a giant wave crashes up with great fanfare.

And then, the sun bold and bright, rises up from morning shadows and casts a broad banner across the harbor, warming my face. Fall leaves dance in a circle behind me, and a flock of gulls sing out in unison from the cliff below--Merry Christmas!

It's All Greek to Them

2008-10-09T14:58:00.005-04:00

My mother--
not content
with "grandcats"--
tries to set me up.

A nice man, she says.
Goes to church.
Works at a bank.
Drives a nice car.

"Does he write?"
I ask.
"Paint?"
"Travel?"

"I don't know,
you'll like him,"
she insists.
Hopes.

"I have enough,"
I tell her.
"My work, writing,
the house, friends."

"Think about it,"
she says.
"I have,"
I respond.

She asks again,
a week later.
Three weeks later.
"No, Mom."

"He doesn't understand,"
she tells me.
"You don't understand,"
I reply.

"You meet, no?"
says her boyfriend,
the older Greek
from upstairs.

"You talk.
You like.
You get married.
No?"

"No,"
I think to scream--
but am polite
to my elders.

"Honey," he says,
"You are alone.
You get married,
you are happy."

"I am happy,"
I insist,
no doubt in
Swahili.

Close Encounter

2008-09-23T10:36:00.002-04:00

It had been six months--almost to the day--since I saw him last. Saw him in such close proximity. Close enough to touch. Instead of love, I offered up a friendly "hi," and we exchanged that colloquial hi-how-are-you-fine-and-you-good fast and without eye contact. Midway through I realized he wasn't alone and turned away before we'd finished, stepping to the counter--a thousand words in hand.

The shock swelled slowly--as it does with those sudden unexpecteds. Disappearing knees, shaking hands as they attempted to insert card here. Deaf and dizzy with pounding pulse, my eyes pleaded silently to the cashier…hurry, I am naked and about to explode!

I grabbed my bag and raced to the door wishing I'd put on make-up or pants that actually fit my ass. Was he watching as I pushed the automatic doors to open?

Keys, where are my keys, trembling, searching crazy in my purse across the parking lot without looking don't let me drop this get me out of here is he there? Don't look back. Though a pillar of salt would be better than this.

Keys. Door. Sit. Hold on. Reverse. Drive. DRIVE! What stop sign? Is it over yet I wonder as tears blur my vision.

Isn't it over yet?

Making the Bed

2008-08-27T16:25:00.004-04:00

Wednesday,
2:00.

A crystal’s rainbows
dance about
in southern sun,
as I fluff pillows
and straighten sheets.
Its intention:
new energy
in this space we shared.

Why is it then,
I think of you, still?

Dream Sequence

2008-08-19T15:16:00.006-04:00

Technicolor,
full-length feature—
he comes to me
each night.
Every night.

In patchwork scenes
from waking-life…
across the table
in a diner,
by the water
near the beach,
in an elevator
at the museum.

Extras walking
back and forth,
standing, waiting.
I don't recognize them—
or him.
He is the news anchor,
the clerk at the store,
Bill Clinton?
I laugh and turn over
in my sleep.

"Where are you?"
I ask.
"Are you OK?"
"Are you safe?"
He responds
as if reading a
script I wrote myself.
My words, my answers...
drop meaningless
on the pillow.

I can feel him—
his hand in mine—
and smile
before waking fully.
Small comfort
in the quiet
of this empty stage.

The Magazine Experiment

2008-06-29T11:15:00.009-04:00

One of my favorite magazines used to be Martha Stewart’s Living. The photos, the tips and ideas, the recipes—I loved it all. What I loved most, though, was the illusion that if I owned this or bought that, my house would look like her house—color coordinated furniture and linens, flawless design, perfect accessories.

The antique, sterling silver tray that housed my olive oil and balsamic vinegar? A Martha tip. The cobalt blue bottle to store my dish soap? Martha. After all, who would want those offensive condiment and soap bottles sitting out on the counter without accoutrement?

Those little domestic embellishments were paving the road to my ideal—so beautifully laid out in the pages of Living. Those little domestic embellishments were costing a fortune. The silver tray? $75 to creatively display $10 worth of condiments. The blue bottle? $35 put the $1.39 bottle of Joy to shame.

The truth is, it wasn’t her house I was looking to emulate, it was her life. In the back of my mind, I thought that if my house looked like her house, certainly my life would look like her’s as well—joyful holiday dinners, warm and intimate family gatherings, copious friends celebrating around feasts for kings.

I can’t blame Martha for the illusion of the life I was striving for. The promise of its possibility was presented to me at every turn—on television, in newspapers, on billboards and the internet. Seducing me from the magazine racks prominently displayed at the checkout stands—“Create Your Dream Home,” “Give Life to Your Living Room,” “Bedrooms Like the Stars.” At one point, I was the proud subscriber to Living, Cottage Living, Country Living and Better Homes and Gardens. As a bonus, I was automatically added to mailing lists of catalogs from near and far—two dozen at last count.

Each month, these glossy tomes of dreams would arrive in my mailbox, reminding me that I wasn’t quite there yet. To achieve that life, there was more to do. More to do, and more to buy.

And then, something happened.

I can’t remember why or when. There was no watershed moment, just a feeling. A realization. I loved my little house. I loved my random knick-knacks collected over the years, the photos of family and friends in mix-matched frames, the worn-out quilt draped over the thrift store sofa. And yet, it kept feeling like it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough because each month there were these reminders that I needed more. I needed the trendy kitchen appliances. The curtains and carpets and pillow and throws in this year’s “hot color.” The beaded chandelier for the bedroom. The decorative soaps for the bathroom. And when I got too much of the stuff I needed more of? Purchase decorative—but functional—storage containers, of course.

Purchase this. Buy that. I was caught up in an unending cycle of getting more to have more, with very little satisfaction. The cobalt blue bottle did look pretty next to the kitchen sink, but it didn’t make life any more joyful or fulfilling. No one noticed the silver tray with the condiments, it just collected dust and needed to be polished every month.

And so, one day, I stopped. I canceled my subscriptions to the magazines. I resisted the urge to buy them at the grocery store. I tossed catalogs in the garbage without even looking at the covers.

It has been three years since those books of dreams cluttered my life, with interesting consequences. I rarely have the impulse to get and to buy. I don't go shopping every weekend, or keep a wish list of things I need to purchase for this room or that. I’m not seduced by sales fliers or advertising promotions—I simply throw them out. My credit card balance is near zero. My house is not fit for the spread of a magazine. But when gathering with family, or celebrating with friends, my house—my home—is filled with things I love, things that have meaning and memories. Filled with the life I was looking for all along.

Beautiful Foolishness

2008-05-03T10:30:00.006-04:00

Bursting from the confines
of appropriate
and polite
and compliant,
I exploded!
Ran down the street
with arms and legs flailing.
Did a pirouette in the
produce aisle.
Stomped my foot
and yelled with a roar.
Rolled in the grass
like a playful pup.
Jumped in the ocean
fully clothed.
Sang wicked loud
in a crowded room.
It's not chagrin
this pink on my cheeks.
But flush
from the rush
of beautiful,
unrestrained
foolishness.

Discarded

2008-04-22T15:23:00.016-04:00

She wonders if he remembers the night they found that cat? Left to fend for itself in the winter woods, it died by the trail--as if it waited for someone to come back. Collar with its name, no address or phone. Alone.

He carried it to the vet, along with his warped sense of humor. "Were you attached to it?" she mocked. "Yes, and then I abandoned it," he replied--each of them poking fun at the intimate confessions they'd shared. Achilles heels, laid bare.

Ironic, how easily they laughed at the inevitable.
In his absence now, she remembers . . . poor discarded "Love."

Letting Go

2008-04-02T17:08:00.008-04:00

Every week, via email, I get my horoscope courtesy of Rob Brezsny (www.FreeWillAstrology.com). His words are wise and wacky and wonderful. I think they appeal to me most because they are symbolic, rich in analogies and mysteries you have to think about for a while.

This week, for example, he bid those of us born under the sign of Cancer "to make 'in the buff on the holy mountaintop' your power metaphor of the week. Blend sacredness and nakedness in any way that appeals to your imagination, especially if it's in high places or makes you high."

At first, I didn't get it. I thought maybe this was one of those weeks when my orbit just wasn't in sync with the rest of the planets.

And then, today, in a series of events that made me definitely "out of orbit" in an angry and I've-had-enough sort of way, I got it. Because, in the process of angry and I've-had-enough, a small whisper of realization got louder and louder.

"It is time to let go of this."

To be honest, it has been whispering it for many years, I just chose not to listen. I was afraid to let go. I was afraid of the consequences. I was afraid of what I might find, or not find, if I sloughed off yet another layer of something I'd been holding on to.

"It is time to let go of this," I heard myself say out loud.

And then I called my friend Martha to verify.

"Well, it's about time!" she said with much enthusiasm.

Apparently, she'd heard the same whispers and was wondering when I would get around to it.

About an hour or so later, a friend emailed to say she was trying "put faith in front of fear" today, and I breathed in her words, deeply.

"It is time to let go of this."

There is a certain synergy happening here, and I feel it. With that one simple, powerful sentence--there is change, and validation, and release.

I feel…lighter.
Naked, one might even say.

Kismet

2008-03-30T19:10:00.005-04:00

In Nashville, she bought a rock star coat--black leather with sequin-flowered sleeves and a rhinestone, mid-calf hem. In the dressing room, she laughed--it was a perfect fit; "I'd never wear it," she told the saleswoman, "back home, we're all L.L. Bean and Talbots."

She bought it anyway and hung it by the door--her alter-ego, set in wait.

Then she met her new neighbors, Zach and Joe, walking their dogs. "This is Amy and this is Pacho," Zack said, "they have a cabaret act."

When they invited her to their house warming party, she knew exactly what to wear.

Unrequited, Perhaps

2008-03-30T08:25:00.006-04:00

Identity Theft

2008-03-23T16:33:00.009-04:00

I looked
in the mirror
and saw nothing.
Pieces of familiar fall away.
Sticks poke at what's left.

Start from scratch
or use a box mix?
Put square peg
in square hole...
that's never been my style.

I took a walk
to get answers.
Insert A into B, get C.
But all I saw was ocean.
Vast and unresolved.

IT doesn't seem
to need answers.
In. Out. Back. Forth.
Up. Down. [Repeat.]
I take my cue and leave.

It's OK. Really.
I was bored with her anyway.
If you please,
may I see something
in a polygon?

Tea Ceremony

2008-03-16T11:51:00.007-04:00

We're sharing a cold this week, comparing our symptoms daily.

"Are you sneezing yet?"

"No just coughing. And I'm cranky."

"Yup, me, too."

I take her recommendation and make a cup of green tea with honey. Quietly, I stand at the kitchen counter, following the instructions.

1. Bring fresh, filtered water to a boil.

2. Place one filterbag in your cup, mug or gourd.

3. Pour 8 fl. oz. of water over filterbag.

4. Steep for 3 minutes while contemplating your favorite eternal mysteries.

I close my eyes and silently ponder, "Who the hell drinks out of gourds these days?"

Gone the Familiar

2008-03-06T15:40:00.011-05:00

She arrived in '97 at the age of 10, after her first "Mom" died. After my Dad died, and life felt suddenly empty.

We needed each other, I think. I needed her, certainly.

"She's grieving," said a Reiki Master, a few months later, as she held her hand above CJ's tiny six-pound frame. "Here," she said, then slowly eased her pain.

Later than night, CJ scaled the loft-wall above my bed and landed with enthusiasm on the pillow next to my head. It was the first time she came to me, uncalled.

Each night thereafter, she would come to bed with me, sitting by my head as I relaxed, tossed to the right, tossed to the left and began to fall asleep. She knew the routine. It was only after I'd tossed one final time that she would tap at the blankets for me to let her in, and curl into my stomach for the night.

In the morning, she'd get impatient. Four hits of the snooze button was enough for her, and she'd begin pacing up and down the bed as if to say, "OK, it IS time to get up now." When I didn't listen, she'd stick her face in mine--"Hello?"--her whiskers making me sneeze awake.

They say cats are either born from jungle cats or desert cats. If there were ever a species of water cats, those were CJ's ancestors. She loved to drink from the faucet, or neglected glasses of water. She took her place on the rim of the sink when I brushed my teeth or washed the dishes--looking ready to pounce. In later years, she began taking showers with me. At first, I thought she was being silly and senile. And then I realized she'd stopped grooming herself--no doubt the arthritis made it more difficult than a brief stroll through the tub. She even seemed to enjoy the morning blow-dry!

In the summertime, CJ would sit on the screen porch, watching the birds fly by and lounging in the sun for hours. In winter, she took to the warmth of the computer monitor and slept all day above me as I worked. She cursed the day the flat screen arrived--work hasn't seemed the same since.

When the day was done, I'd turn off the TV, shut off the lights and head upstairs--with CJ no more than two steps behind me, every night.

It's difficult to talk about her--and her sisters Emily and Crystal--without sounding like the stereotypical single woman, the "cat lady" and all that. But she was--they are--my constant companions.

CJ, though, was special. She and I shared a bond that seemed, at times, almost human. Familiar. Often, when we sat together, she would stretch herself out and rest her paw on my hand. When I was sick or sad, she'd pay special attention and snuggle in just a little closer.

On her last day, she went out on the screen porch. It was a warm March morning, and she sat for a while, under a blanket I draped over her. She seemed to enjoy the sun, bright in her face, and the sound of the birds making ready for spring. So, we stayed there a while, and I rested my hand on her paw, snuggling in just a little closer...one last time.

"As strong as you were,
tender you'll go.
I'm watching you breathing,
for the last time.
A song for your heart,
but when it is quiet,
I know what it means
and I'll carry you home."

- James Blunt

In Transit

2008-02-29T13:45:00.004-05:00

They made love in his cabin on the train from Boston to DC. The jostle of the cars lent assistance to his old, tired body as he tried to please her. Later, she rested her head against his shoulder; he combed her hair with his fingers while she stared out the window. "I could love this man," she thought. In the food court at Union Station, she read his recent short story, relishing in the intimacy of the moment. "Do you like it?" he yelled above the din. "What happens at the end?" she asked; it was over too abruptly.

She Was My Daughter

2008-02-28T18:17:00.006-05:00

I was there the night he raced home to welcome his new daughter. I was there when he got divorced; we toasted with champagne. And then she was mine--on weekends and school vacations for four years. I barely recognize her now. Her MySpace profile paints a picture hard to look at. She calls herself a loser, and worse. "Rebellion" inked large in the tattoos she boasts about. But it's more than that. She is angry and unabashedly telling the world with every self-destruction. It is my fault. I should have saved her instead of trying to save myself with him.

The Things We Do

2008-02-27T10:05:00.012-05:00

She wasn't surprised, really. Like a feeble handshake, he'd made a poor first impression. A car salesman now starring in the role of entrepreneur. She could tell from the fake intonations and extraneous praise. She hadn’t heard from him since Jack was born a year ago. She'd gone into labor early and he hired another contractor because he couldn't wait. They needed the money, though, so she didn't hesitate. "Of course, we'd be happy to help you with that, Mr. Roman," she said, trying not to smirk as he handed her his credit card. It wasn't even his real name.

Can I Have My Technology on the Side, Please?

2008-02-10T16:00:00.001-05:00

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I like my technology in small doses. A little bit of convenience here and there doesn't hurt, but I just don't feel the need to be plugged in all the time.

Sometimes, it doesn't make sense. Case in point: on Thursday, I needed to make a change to my checking account, so I called the direct line at my bank and this is how things went...

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service woman.

"I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

"Do you have access to our online banking?" she asked, which was not the yes or no answer I was looking for.

"I don't know." I responded.

"Well, give me your account number and I'll find out for you."

I gave her my number, and she put me on hold while she went to access my account.

"It looks like you set up online banking in 2005," she said, some five minutes later.

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Do you remember your User ID and Password?"

"No."

"Ok, well, if you can answer your security question, then I can give you your User ID and Password."

Security question asked and answered correctly, she gave me my online banking info and explained, in detail, how to go to the website, which buttons to click, which numbers to enter where and so forth.

"Thank you," I said as I got online and hung up the phone.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password." read the screen.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password."

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but there have been too many attempts to access your account. We have now locked you account for security reasons. For the unlock key, please enter your email address here."

Apparently, "If at first you don't succeed..." does not apply with online banking.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter email address. Press return.

"Thank you. Your unlock key will be emailed to you shortly. DO NOT CLOSE THIS BROWSER WINDOW until you receive your unlock key."

So I sat and waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No email. No unlock key. BROWSER WINDOW OPEN.

Elapsed time since initial phone call: 35 minutes. I closed the browser window and called the direct line at the bank.

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service man.

"I was trying to make a change to my account online, but I seem to have entered the wrong information and now I'm locked out. It's been 15 minutes, but I still haven't gotten an email with the unlock key."

"Sometimes it takes a while." he said.

"Is this something you can help me with?"

"No, you'd need to call our Online Banking Customer Service Department and they can walk you through the process."

"OK, well, let me go back to my very first question then. I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

He laughed. "Sure, give me you account number."

Tap tap tap, I hear in the background. Two or three questions asked and answered. Tap tap tap.

"You're all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Elapsed time since second phone call: 3 minutes.

2008-02-10T15:59:00.001-05:00

Women, Poets, Artists

Metamorphosis

2008-01-24T15:33:00.004-05:00

Safely
wrapped
inside
the chrysalid.
Cloaked in
appropriate action
and matching
predictability.
Drone.
Dispassionate.
Dormant.

Until your ignorance—
of magic
and second chances
and love—
shattered
the false refuge.
And I,
laid bare
and fetal-curled,
with
old life seeping
from my eyes,
enough
to drown.

Choking, thrashing.
Retching words
of sorrow and
confusion.
Grasping helpless
in the murky
residue
of memory.
What light?
What life
beyond all this?

Until…
Colors
bold and strong
unfurled.
Beating in
singular cadence.
Defiant
in the face
of ordinary.
Hungry for
exultation.
Rising!
Reborn!
Resplendent!

What Sound, Change?

2008-01-11T09:16:00.001-05:00

I remember
sitting on the front porch
that August night
my father died
thinking surely I would know.
Surely there would be
some sign
some sound
to note the if and when
of his passing

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

I remember
leaving you
two years ago
this day
thinking
“I will never see you again.”
No fanfare.
No crescendo.
Wet gravel beneath my tires,
winter rain against the window--
change’s only notes.

I remember.
Its aftermath
still echoes
like the tempest
that brews
overhead
this morning.

I want
the thunder to
crash loudly.
Rattle the roof
and windows.
Mark the anniversary
with ferocity

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

Joy Song

2008-01-05T11:36:00.004-05:00

2008-01-05T06:03:00.000-05:00

Every child is an artist.

Five Things

2007-12-18T06:21:00.001-05:00

"Are you taking your vitamins?" asked my naturopath.

Why did I suddenly feel like I was going to confession? "Bless me father, for I have sinned, it's been three days since I've taken my vitamins." Even the giant pill container labeled Monday through Friday sitting right in front of the coffee pot--which I worship daily--has not inspired me.

The story goes like this...several years ago, my neighbor Marty told me she aspires to do five creative things a day. It was that comment that inspired me to try to add a little creativity into my own life--with pretty good results. Better results than the giant pill container, that's for sure.

I was thinking about the "five things" this morning, as I'm beating myself up for not taking my vitamins, not walking more, not eating better...not...and not...and not...all, of course, prompted by my naturopath's simple, gentle question.

My response to her question was this, "You know, in my ideal life, I would remember to take my vitamins, and walk more...."

In my IDEAL life? Who am I kidding? The only difference between my "life" and my "ideal life" is me! Right? There's not really much getting in the way of the ideal besides me.

And so I got to thinking...how hard would it be to remember to do five things a day? Five simple, don't take a lot of time, fill up those idyll moment in between work and dinner and dinner and sleep? Five things? How hard could that be?

The Five Things:

1. Take Vitamins
2. Move (walk, exercise, just move)
3. Drink Water
4. Put lotion on
5. Read or Write or Do Artwork

That's it. Those are my five things. It doesn't sound too hard, does it? Certainly manageable.

I figure if I post a few little reminder notes around the house, I may just be able to do this! Ideally, anyhow.

Will you join me? Can YOU do five things a day that you want to but don't seem to get to? And if so, what are YOUR five things?

2007-12-18T06:02:00.001-05:00

Wise Reminder

2007-12-18T06:01:00.001-05:00

Avocado Tuna Salad

A Good Book

2007-11-30T18:16:00.001-05:00

What is a good book? For me, it's the one that grabs you, right on that first page, and makes you want to stay a while. "Nevermind the dishes, the laundry, the list of things to do—stay here and read some more," it says.

In a basket next to my sofa is a stack of good books. Or so I like to think. I haven't read them yet. To be honest, I haven't been much for reading lately. I'm too antsy. I can't sit still that long, right now. It's a phase.

I'm not sure what made me even think about reaching for a book yesterday, but I did. A well-worn John Steinbeck hardcover from 1961. I've never read Steinbeck, but I found it at the annual library book sale on the Green and it looked kind of fun. It's called "Travels with Charley" and is the telling of his travels cross country with his French poodle Charley in a pickup truck camper called Rocinante.

I wasn't sure what to expect. But, a dozen or so pages in, I was laughing so hard my cats looked at me with some concern.

"I thought I might do some writing along the way," writes Steinbeck. "perhaps essays, surely notes, certainly letters. I took paper, carbon, typewriter, a compact encyclopedia, and a dozen other reference books, heavy ones. I suppose our capacity for self-delusion is boundless. I knew very well that I rarely make notes, and if I do I either lose them or can't read them. I also knew from thirty years of my profession that I cannot write hot on an event. It has to ferment. I must do what a friend called 'mule it over' for a time before it goes down. And in spite of this self-knowledge, I equipped Rocinante with enough writing materials to take care of ten volumes. Also I laid in a hundred and fifty pounds of those books one hasn't gotten around to reading—and of course those are the books one isn't ever going to get around to reading. Canned goods, shotgun shells, rifle cartridges, tool boxes and far too many clothes, blankets and pillows, and many too many shoes and boots, padded nylon sub-zero underwear, plastic dishes and cups and a plastic dishpan, a spare tank of bottled gas. The overload springs sighed and settled lower and lower. I judge now that I carried about four time too much of everything."

I couldn't help but think of the giant red suitcase I carted with me to France last year, packed to the brim with all of the useful things I would need (and of course did not exist in a place like Paris)—enough socks, paper, pens, t-shirts, Q-tips and Zantac to last six months I think!

And then, while I was laughing and remembering that whirlwind vacation and being glared at by my cats, something very interesting happened. I sat still. Sat still for two hours, as a matter of fact!

A good book indeed.

The Walter Cornell Theory of Observation as It Applies to Pablo Neruda

2007-09-17T10:02:00.002-04:00

I have a story for everything. Just ask anyone who knows me. I've been telling stories since I was little...perhaps that's why I've been a writer most of my life.

The tricky part about stories is that you have to remember them in order to tell them. I do that by naming the small moments and minutia after people. For example, Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" will always be known as the "Norman Kraft Song." Norman was the first boy who ever asked me to dance...to "Stairway to Heaven," of course. When I write, I often use the "JKL Method of Writing," named after my high school English teacher, who impressed upon his students the importance of good and well-organized writing. (My sister, as a matter of fact, now teaches the "JKL Method of Writing" to her students!)

These names help me capture the essence of the story, filing them away neatly for use sometime later. Like "The Walter Cornell Theory of Observation."

There are two parts to the "The Walter Cornell Theory of Observation" story. The first often gets included in the "How I Started My Own Business" story, in the Assistance Usually Comes with a Price Tag chapter. The second, and by far the more interesting part, is the "Theory of Observation" story.

"The Walter Cornell Theory of Observation" story goes like this. Walter was talking about the importance of paying attention to things. "Look around the room," he said, "and count all of the things that are blue." And so I did. "Now, he asked, "how many are brown?" I had no idea how many were brown, because I'd been paying attention to blue.

I often think about "The Walter Cornell Theory of Observation" when something begins to appear in my observations with alarming regularity. You know what I'm talking about, right? You overhear someone talking about puffins, and the next thing you know, they're all over the place--an Animal Planet special, the cover of the magazine you happened to pick up, the bumper sticker on the car in front of you. An invasion of puffins!

The funny thing is, the puffins were probably there all along. You've just been paying attention to them more because they're right there, at the front of your brain, center stage in your consciousness. You see them because, like blue, you were paying attention to them.

Paying attention to...Pablo Neruda. A while ago, I read Sue Monk Kidd's book The Mermaid Chair. In the opening pages appeared a quote by Pablo Neruda:

I don't love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire;
I love you as one loves certain dark thing,
Secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

His words were so beautiful, I used them in a collage I was working on at the time. "I love you...secretly, between the shadow and the soul." Who was this Pablo Neruda?

Turns out, Pablo Neruda is a Nobel Prize winning poet from Chile. "You know, I've always wanted to learn Spanish," offered a friend of mine without prompting, "so I can read Pablo Neruda's original poems." There he was again.

"Movies You'll Love," read the Netflix button. At the top of the list? Il Postino, in which "Mario Ruoppolo (Massimo Troisi), the mailman on an Italian island, pines from afar for a beautiful waitress. When exiled Chilean poet Pablo Neruda (Philippe Noiret) comes to live on the island...."

And then, last week...I was wandering around the library, looking for inspiration. I stepped aside for a woman to pass me, turned around, and there--at eye level: Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda.

Like Walter's request, I had taken the time to pay attention. I allowed space for the suggestion to roam around in my brain for a while. And in return? Perfect words for a collage, an interesting conversation with a friend, a good movie, and a book of poetry I can't put down.

Paying attention is critical for a writer. You never know where those small moments will lead you, what you'll discover along the way, and where the story might go from there.

Finding Emily

2007-07-30T09:15:00.002-04:00

A long time ago, a friend of mine gave me a book called "The Book of If." Subtitled "Questions for the Games of Life and Love," it's a collection of hypothetical questions like "If you found out for certain there was a Heaven and Hell, would you change your life?" and "If you were to perform in the circus, what would you do?" The questions are sometimes funny, sometimes thought-provoking, and always good conversation starters. It's a fun little book to have around for parties or road trips or idyl nothing-to-do moments.

It was during one of those rare, idyl nothing-to-do moments that I flipped to page 300 something and read, "If you could recite a poem to your lover, which would you choose?"

“Hypothetical indeed,” I thought to myself. The only poem I can confidently recite is Lewis Carroll's "Jabberwocky"--not exactly lover material, but an impressive party trick!

And then, slowly, I remembered. I remembered Emily.

It's been years since I read Emily Dickinson's work, a constant companion in college. And so, I ran upstairs and dusted off a small, well-worn hardcover collection of her poems and found...

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port--
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

Home = Mom and Pop

2007-07-23T17:32:00.001-04:00

As I write, my favorite local “department store” is having a Going Out of Business sale. It was the kind of store where you could find just what you were looking for. Special event? Big date? Vacation? You’d find the perfect blouse or skirt or pair of shoes, with accessories to match. Not only that, but you’d recognize the materials they were made out of--good quality materials, made to for last years, not just this season.

A friend of mine says it was the place folks used to go for Girl Scout and Boy Scout uniforms. We had one in the town where I grew up--it’s where we bought our gymsuits (does anyone remember gymsuits?) It was the kind of place where they took the time to say hello, to ask how you were and mean it. The kind of place where they’d ask if you needed help not because they were afraid you were shoplifting, but because they really could offer assistance if you asked. And all you had to do was ask.

But, despite the crowds of people pouring in for the department store’s big sale, despite the lines in the three small dressing rooms and the “record sales” reported by the owner, the store will be gone by mid-August. In its place? A cookie-cutter Coldwater Creek, I hear. Good cheap clothes that everyone within driving distance of their 300 stores across the country is wearing.

Soon to follow, no doubt, that tsunami of chain stores apparently necessary in any growing community. A Starbucks for $10 coffees. A benign Barnes & Noble. An Applebee’s for “homecooked” processed foods. A Payless Shoes and a payless hardware store and a payless gift shop.

In a time when “shopping” has become a pastime, I suppose “payless” is the key. Those colorful flyers that come in the mail each week have become the “calendar of events” for many. “Did you hear they’re having a huge sale on giant glow-in-the-dark Buddha statues this weekend? I have to get some of those!”

Who cares if the giant glow-in-the-dark Buddha statues were made in China? Who cares if they’re made of materials that will congest our landfills when we throw them out--and we WILL throw them out, next year, when giant glow-in-the-dark giraffes are all the rage. Who cares if the store pays their workers minimum wage without healthcare? Who cares if the store does nothing to support the community in which it does business? Who cares?

YOU should. Because downtown, next to the Starbucks and the Barnes & Noble and the Applebee’s are a host of small, locally owned “mom and pop” businesses maintained by members of your community, your neighbors. Businesses that support local events, local organizations, local charities, and local school programs. Businesses who have done so for years, if not generations.

They are businesses that are part of the fabric of your community, part of its unique character. Afterall, you don’t see your town’s tourism brochure promoting the great dining experiences of the local Olive Garden and Taco Bell. The “Where to Shop” section of the local website rarely touts the charm of the town’s Wal-Mart or BJ’s.

Who cares? We must. Because, in our enthusiasm for dirt cheap, ON SALE, glow-in-the-dark whatchamacallits that we have to, got to, need to have NOW...we’re losing the very essence of what makes your town and my town HOME-towns.

Perhaps we don’t need a place where you can purchase the latest in gymsuit fashions, but we certainly need the people and places that support our communities, that speak to the character and tradition of our towns, that make our towns the places we want to call home.

A Random Act

2007-07-05T11:33:00.000-04:00

They have told me, for years it seems, that I need to have a cell phone. That I need to have caller ID. No one ever said I needed to have a Blog, but in a concerted effort to get myself up to 21st century speed, I now have all three.

Many (many) years ago, I published a zine called "The Latest News." It was a hodgepodge of writings about this and that. In its heyday--before the internet and blogs--"The Latest News" had more than 300 subscribers and was featured in several publications and zine exhibits. And then I got busy.

Busy for 14 years, while I acted like a grown-up and worked really, really hard.

And then one day I woke up and realized there was a part of me that had been neglected. The part of me that could do something like "The Latest News." That could find the time to be creative, to spend time thinking and writing about things besides work.

How I got from that day to this blog is a really long story. Suffice to say, I feel like I am coming home. And I'm excited by that!

So, welcome! I look forward to sharing more "Random Acts of Writing" with you soon.