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Thursday, March 18, 2010
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Expectations
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?"
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?"
Thursday, June 4, 2009
.85616438
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!”
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!”
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Afghan
"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."
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
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."
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."
Thursday, January 15, 2009
December Blind Date
[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!
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!
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas Morning
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!
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!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
It's All Greek to Them
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Close Encounter
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?
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?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Making the Bed
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?
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?
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Dream Sequence
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.
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.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
The Magazine Experiment
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.
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.
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