PDX Writers Workshop Writings

Hipster Dude

2010-06-17T17:24:00.000-07:00

The thirty-something man wore those mid-60s glasses that only looked cool when Malcolm X wore them,a too-tight thriftshop orange knit shirt,a brown soul patch on his chin,and a bored expression.

I sat a across from him at a writing workshop,where people are supposed to participate and say what they like about the writing others share. Although there was ample opportunity,he said nothing,didn't even smile or give someone an encouraging nod. Maybe he was so used to being ironic and sarcastic that the idea of providing positive feedback was alien to him. Maybe he was too busy thinking about zombie vampires--he mentioned vampires twice when he read aloud--to tune into regular people.

I thought about what he'd look like if it really were the mid-60s. If he were a company man,he'd be clean shaven and neatly groomed,wearing a dark suit and white shirt like all the other middle-class,middle-management men with whom he worked. No doubt he'd have a pocket protector and a white handkerchief. He'd shine his black shoes regularly. He'd be mildly polite but condescending to the secretaries in his office,even though they were the ones who did most of the work. He'd come home to his wife,2 children,a dog,the evening paper, and a martini with a green olive.

If he were a beatnik,he'd have a goatee,and perhaps a black turtleneck and black pants. He wouldn't be bland like Company Man; he'd have an opinion on everything from West Side Story to Dr.Strangelove,from Under Milk wood to On the Road. Beatnik Cat would be ready to discuss Ginsberg or Rimbaud or Sartre,would gladly attend a Brecht play,and could tell you what Mario Savio and the Free Speech Movement were up to. His circle of friends would be other non-conformist white men like himself,and maybe a woman who wore a black leoptard,admired his poetry, had a rent-controlled pad,and could play chess like a man. They'd go to jazz clubs,discuss records they read about in High Fidelity,and talk contemptuously of conformist Company Men.

So 21st Century Hipster Dude: wake up and smell the soy caramel latte. Get away from your laptop and zombie vampires. Have real conversations with people. Ask questions. Read books by Howard Zinn and Alice Walker. Listen to Democracy Now! Develop a passion for something,and maybe you'll learn something,and not be so bored with life.

From Participant Zhyra Palma's Prompt at 2010 AWA Training

2010-06-05T22:37:00.000-07:00

The summer I learned Jesus was Everywhere
from the well intentioned Sunday school teacher
I lay night after night
with my flannel gown
and one piece long johns
and socks
and refused to let my fingers
find my tiny nipples or run down the smooth inside
of my thighs, rub the fuzzy soft hair
growing between.

It embarrassed me that He would see me
so vulnerable,
so full of myself.

That he would see me rock on my pillow
on the palm of my hand
one finger pushed deep inside
two fingers
my silly mouth
growl from my chest when the
orgasm washed me clean
the new ocean smell spilled into the room.

How dare He sit on this bed uninvited,
spy on my girlhood,
steal something pure and right?

2010-05-30T18:42:00.000-07:00

The more I fly, the less I get done on planes. I used to read up on current events, finish up all the mid-19^th century novels floating around the living room. I'd write a card to my grandparents, then fill out all 20 postcards that I dutifully send from every adventure. Of course, I always send them from home, it's cheaper and more reliable. I used to think about my to-do list, make a grocery list, write a cover letter, stare at my resume.

But lately, I stick in my industrial orange ear plugs, pop some Benadryl and Dramamine, down a mini-bottle of Sutter Home Cabernet or two, and enjoy the blackout. No screaming kids, no yelling, no complaining, no thinking. It's no place, no time, no reason or rhyme. Not even a french mime. Just clouds and green circles of crops, and little rivers no one can even reach by jeep. I feel all that, I don't see it. In my mind is a confusing stew of celebrities coming over for a sandwich, a talking bunny, soothsayer honey bees, trying out for the high school volley ball team--whatever strange labyrinths the medications and the alcohol wish to wander.

Oddly, a 3-hour flight can seem longer than a 13-hour one to me. I can't explain that one.

When I land, I always try to track down my husband, but he's always re-booking irate people or pulling away the ones too drunk to board. Amateurs. You don't swallow any drugs or alcohol until you're ready to board. It times just right that it doesn't hit until you're pulling up into the air. Don't pull tantrums at the gate. Have dreamy sleep in the sky.

The Corner Place

2010-05-16T16:03:00.000-07:00

The called me Gil Mok ddahl. Gil Mok daughter.
My family owned Gil Mok,a restaurant in Los Angeles.
That's Korean for The Corner Place.

People come there for the house specialty: dong chi mi gook su.
It's been called "a party in your mouth."

Did my parents create that dish?
Do you like to cook?
People always ask.

No,a big woman named Yang Soon Chi is the creator.
I heard she came to Los Angeles from Korea
with a wok
a killer recipe
and a dream for a better life.

And no,I don't like to cook.
I want to be a forest ecologist.

Why you want to do that? my relatives demand.
Get accounting degree,get good job,buy house.
Marry nice Korean boy,have beautiful children.
Make parent happy,have good life.

No,I say.
No. No way.
No how.

Natasha Beck
Portland,OR
August 2009,revised May 2010

Richmond, VA

2010-05-06T22:33:00.000-07:00

Myth goes there are seven doors out, only then
escape without return.
Mine of course was Churchill, sleeping with one arm
still tied to the bedpost
a draft on my face
a man at my legs,
while my true love lay alone on Grove Avenue
wondering where I'd got to.
Digging his own way out with broken spoons.
Yours, then,
was the final door- easiest door-
the needle that bruised the skin,
the bubble to blood
the rise to unbroken flight.
My fingers grip your ankle,
release the man.

Licking Her Wounds

2010-04-25T14:14:00.000-07:00

Licking her wounds

New found freedom of bare chest

Heartbeat so close, delight

A woman without her breasts

Newfound freedom of bare chest

As a girl child, born again

A woman without her breasts

Is fully sensual, free of weight, liberated

As a girl child, born again

Without shame, openly exuberant

Fully sensual, free of weight, liberated

Memory of suckling baby, objects of infatuation

Without shame, openly exuberant

Fetish exonerated, "boobs" they are called

Memory of suckling baby, objects of infatuation

No longer a sex object, freedom

Fetish exonerated, "boobs" they are called

Heartbeat so close, delight

No longer a sex object, freedom

Licking her wounds

Boston

2010-04-25T12:55:00.000-07:00

Swan Boats in the Public Garden,
Quincy Market, Faneuil Hall.

Taxis take sidewalks,
dart around double-parked

cars. Drivers follow the rules: horns
first, sign language second, breaks

a last resort. Cobblestone streets,
Cambridge across the Charles.

A city where the word sure is five
syllables long and Can I park your car?

doesn’t translate to the page. You must go,
experience the language, accents, attitudes,

see potholes in winter large enough
to house a family of five. North End,

South End, Italian, Irish, integrated,
segregated, Boston.

Flashbacks

2010-04-25T11:38:00.001-07:00

The memories arrived in little staccato notes, lingering in the air, in front of the window of her eyes, un-scheduled, interrupting. She had tried to censor them, to re-direct them, but they seemed to obey some higher order, some greater regulation.

She had read that the great successes in history had controlled their thoughts - with meditation, with focus, with directed and determined thinking: no space or time for guilt, regret, or memories of tender scenes with those now gone. A practiced art, a determined skill, mental muscularity. You could call it 'concentration', and 'linear thinking', and 'compartmentalization'. But those words were not true. The truth was throw away those dragging, clinging weeds of memory and exist in the here and the now.

There had been times when she was sure she had mastered this, at last, her mind finally maturing, taking command of her reality. But then, suddenly - boom - a flashback would thrust its way into her sight to show her the power of her non-control: his chin as he threw his face back laughing; a smiling man laying in the hospital bed, rapturous with the powerful drugs, yet aware of the miracle of his life - before the true trials began.

She thought of them as flashbacks and did her best to move them off her inner screen as quickly as possible. Click, she would think, delete. Then click again, and again.

She dedicated her mind to seeing the bees and flowers - today, only, and the soft feel of rain - today, only, on her skin, and the soothing sounds of frogs, and distant city traffic, and running water and the peacefulness of the breeze moving the top of the red maple tree - today, only. To be a perfect instrument to experience the wonder of the world.

And then, renewing her instrument, breathing in the clean air, she felt her breath enriching her blood with oxygen, which rose to feed her brain, wherein the complex gray tissue sat, the tissue that had taken millions of years to invent and refine. The tissue where savored former flowers and bees and trees resided, alive and fresh. And real.

And she saw that she was her memories and that they were her.

Winnemucca

2010-04-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

We broke our roadtrip rule that day:
Off the road by three o'clock at a motel with a pool.
We were ready to get home.
After the ticket in Yankee Blade
You swore you would never complain again
When I told you to slow down.
Promises are made to be broken.
Black thread of road in blackest night
Connecting mountain to mountain
Through long prairie grass.
We almost killed a cow.
Couldn't see her in the road.
When we stopped at the restroom
And I ran in
I understood what trust was--
You in the running car behind the wheel,
Me with my pants down in nowhere,
Ten miles out of Winnemucca.

Odd Jobs from Jenn's Tues. memoir

2010-04-19T22:54:00.000-07:00

I really don't remember how long it was before I removed my head from the sand to take a peek at the wonderful world of telemarketing again but believe it or not, I wound up answering another tiny classified ad for magazine sales.

They'd been quick to point out that these were popular, reputable magazines, I guess just in case anyone was worried they might end up selling porn. In retrospect, maybe that might have been an improvement.

The office was located just outside of downtown LA in what might have once been a cool building. Now it was just another faceless run-down low rise. I don't remember what the actual outfit was called and I'd be amazed if they were still in business.

It wasn't much of a workers paradise, but the guy showing me around seemed pleasant enough even if he was a little gung-ho. After the Leukemia lady gung-ho was fine with me. And as far as truth in advertising went, they did actually sell magazines. I'd only heard of a few of them like “Jet” for instance. They were all geared towards different minority communities with names like “Asian weekly” or “Chicana”. Okay, so far so good.

After filling out the requisite piles of new employee paper work I was shown to my little area, one of a handful with a battered second hand desk and a simple black telephone. There was a long legal size 'cheat sheet' with a suggested rap that was supposed to be a real crowd pleaser. Where it started to get confusing was the list of suggested names we were supposed to use for each magazine. Apparently we were supposed to use an alias for each one. A matching 'minority' alias.

It went some thing like

Hello Mr/Ms /Mrs---------- this is-- (see below right)* from-- ( see below left)

*Adrian Gonzalez
Chrissy Chung
La Shonda Williams

*Chicana
*Asian monthly
*Jet

Eeeeyew. How totally humiliating for all of us.

Looking around me, none of my fellow workers seemed to have a problem with it. Seasoned hustlers, I watched in amazement as one woman not only hopped from name to name but accent to accent as she racked up the sales. She looked like the girl next door, if the girl next door weighed 300 pounds.I sit with my black telephone and my leads dialing for dollars and counting off the minutes 'til it's time to leave.

2010-04-17T19:57:00.000-07:00

I remember driving to Oklahoma with the Oosterwijks to camp for a long weekend. It was October, not really the time anymore. The mornings in Dallas were hard-edged with frost. Layered in my standard grunge flannels, for once the uniform would be functional. Dad got a dusty sleeping bag from the garage. I took my Walkman with my stash of favorite cassettes: Cure, Pearl Jam, and U2. The Oosterwijks were Dutch and considered quite scandalous, disseminating Harlequin books to the neighborhood girls. However, they were Catholic, and this was a Catholic-Jewish neighborhood, united against the Baptists.

We drove out to Indian country and pitched our tent in the woods. We roasted apples and bananas in the fire. I hear a lot of waxing poetic about skies choked with stars--but I tell you, when you are a child of light-polluted megacities, the first time you behold that explosion of diamond lights against the velvet coal, you will freeze in place. It was the most frightening thing, all those stars. They vibrated, they were hot and cold, they were hurtling at me from the past, their light would suck out my eyes. And it was quiet, so damn quiet. The horrible stars, like beautiful demons. I’m thirteen, I don’t get scared. But I want to cry, all this darkness, this eerie quiet, the stars blazing in expectation. What the hell do they want from me?!

The Writing Process

2010-03-25T14:22:00.000-07:00

I write daily. Sometimes it's answering emails,contributing to an online community forum,and sometimes it's writing in my journal. When I'm on a roll it's all of the above. It's like physical exercise: the more you do it,the faster and better you get.

I need to be mindful of my hands,to take frequent breaks so my hands don't throb from arthritis and carpal tunnel. Yoga releases the tension in my hands,neck and shoulders.

When I'm working on my novel,I may stay focused for 4 or 5 hours; the time zips by as I'm absorbed in my work.

Meanwhile,the laundry and the dishes pile up. Clumps of fluffy black cat hair dot the carpet in the computer room,gifts from Jasmine,who sheds so much I joke about collecting the fur and making a sweater.

Jasmine and her partner in catnip,Oreo,are my writing companions. Sometimes one of them will leap into my lap as I click away on the computer. Other times they curl up on shelves or on the braided carpet,silent witnesses.

To keep moving forward,I need to camraderie and support of writing groups,both on-going and drop-in. I love the sheer joy of writing and then sharing our words on the page.

Write on!

A Postcard

2010-03-21T09:09:00.000-07:00

Dear Marian,
Buenos Aires reminds me of Depot Bay--the seafood restaurants, the fishing fleet, the sidewalks filled with vendors.

We have much to talk about.

This morning, the salt spray woke me up from my dream about you. I was riding you like a seahorse. You were galloping me around the ocean floor.

Do you miss me? Do you remember the day I left you?

It was two Tuesdays ago, and you were sitting at your desk, paying bills. We were done with fighting by then, I think. You had already crumbled my heart like a stale cookie. I think the moment you stopped listening to me was the afternoon before, when Carla called you, when Carla betrayed me.

I can hardly breathe in Buenos Aires, air perfumed with cigarette smoke and anorexic Argentinian women. I like my women like you, Marian, solidly placed on the ground, unafraid of food.

My uncle sends his greetings, asks me why you are not travelling with me. He thinks a wife and husband should be together. I tell him you hae a visa problem. I hope it will make him dislike you, but it only seems to intrigue him more.

Damn you, you are an intriguing woman, but your intrigue has destroyed me. I do not wish my best to you. I wish us to share the misery equally, as we have done with everything else.

Tomas

I Did Not Start That Fire

2010-03-07T12:01:00.000-08:00

I did not start that fire, but I roasted marshmallows in its sunny flames. I didn't start the rumor, but I enjoyed telling it to others. I didn't lie, but I didn't offer you the truth. I didn't start the endeavor, and I'm not going to stop it either.

I did not start that fire, but I'll push you in and say you tripped. You are famously clumsy, everyone will believe me.

I did not start that fire. Wait, maybe I did--just so I could rush in and save you. I've always wanted to be a hero, even if it was only for 10 seconds on the local evening news.

I did not start that fire, but I'll mischievously fan its flames. I like chaos. I like to see men panic, all their fake bravado draining away fast like the blood flows from a big boar hung up on a hook after the slaughter. Oh, I like fires. They say they are necessary, cleansing, very healthy.

Everyone is very scared of flames, of snakes, of evil sneaking up on them, unaware, while they are scrubbing the sink. That's a funny image, thinking you have won the war on entropy when the fire--my fire--gets you by surprise.

A Cold and Hungry Mountain

2010-02-12T20:59:00.000-08:00

Raed called on Saturday while I was out.
“What did Raed's message say?” I asked my husband.
“He said it's urgent, I'll call him tomorrow,” he answered.
“Oh, do you think something's wrong?”
“No, he sounded cheerful, I think.”
“Maybe Simone is pregnant, or maybe they're finally coming to visit us?”

Sunday, coming back from a jog in the park, I heard muffled Skype voices from the study. When Chris came in he said, “Benjamin died.”

Benjamin, I remember meeting you and your girlfriend at the time at the little town in Switzerland. You were both accomplished skiers. Chris and I would only dare to try snow shoes. I couldn't understand your girlfriend very well and assumed my German skills were lacking. Chris later told me that nobody could understand her at times, she spoke a difficult dialect.

You were the kind of person who knew the use of every little thing at REI. You were a teacher, although I think you didn't like the rural area where you found a job.

You died doing something you loved, but what if you were cold? What if you knew the end was coming, and watched your fingers turn black? Did you think of your mother? But instead of that--I hope the mountain took you quickly.

A Real Charmer

2010-02-12T20:57:00.000-08:00

Nigel lived on charm, easy affability. He looked better with a beard and when he let his hair grow longer, into silky dark lustrous whirls. Men loved going to soccer games with him and dueling over an Xbox. Hearty slaps on the back greeted him at pubs. No one ever noticed he never bought his own cigarettes, but he was a voracious social smoker.

Women loved him, period. He had heartbreaking cheekbones and peerless ivory skin. Married or not, their greedy fingers fished out for his under tables. As the wives winked at him without actually winking, the husbands waited for Nigel's impeccably-timed punch lines.

Nigel finally went home to his basement studio off Littleham Avenue. It was spoiling and dirty, as he had left it. He set down his battered suitcase amidst the gray squalor. He ran his beautiful hands through his luscious hair and was startled to be alone with himself again, at his actual address, with no plan of action. What now, what now he obsessively thought to himself.

Slowly, he went through all five pockets of his worn North Face parka. A battered ticket to the Central Park Zoo. A wrinkled receipt for two lattes at the Kant Café in Berlin. A small stub of a receipt to The Naam in Vancouver, BC. Half a cigarette, the other half broken off and lost. A tiny blue notebook filled with phone numbers and a well-marked calendar. He was a duck who migrated to keep himself well-fed and amused. Red lint. Key to a forgotten door. Someone else's Nordstrom gift card. A San Francisco library card. A shopping list with the following items: mangoes, pink champagne, green olives, water crackers. A pocket-sized rendition of the Prague bus system.

He pulled out these fragments, he excavated pieces of his life, an actual lived life, but everything was askew. He held the latte receipt from Berlin for a long time. The once perfect white paper with clear black letters had become gray and smudgy and shiny.

If you really looked at him, over a long period of time, you'd have noticed the bags under his eyes were getting heavier. But he never stuck around long enough for anyone to notice his history.

Imagine a pair of shoes...

2010-01-30T06:52:00.000-08:00

They are square-toed black boots, the kind that would hurt you badly if they decided to kick you. I was that kind of man. My hair was black and bushy, my beard was unkempt, and I tended to stink. That's mostly because I worked hard all day, but partly because I drank most nights. I had no education, and living that life just makes you mad at everything.

I was bad to my dogs. I feel bad about that now. They were the ones who loved me, so they tended to always be around for me to kick them, which I did, with my big black boots.

I lived in Omaha, Nebraska, and worked at the slaughterhouse, so killing and hurting was as normal as breathing to me. I'm not saying I liked it--I didn't--but it's what I did every day and I didn't know any life other than the bawling of cattle and the stench of the entrails.

I married Polly when we were sixteen. I am proud to say I never laid a hand on her in violence. She was a good wife as wives go. She bore me six sons and a daughter, and she kept them out of my way, so I hardly ever laid a hand on any of them. That's a good thing.

We lived in a log cabin about a half mile from the stockyards. My father helped me build it. It was the last thing he did before he died. Polly made nice curtains for it and did her best to keep it clean, but it was still a dirt floor with a privy in the back and that constant stench of dying cows.

The biggest thing that Polly and I diagreed on was church. I know she worried about my immortal soul, but the last thing I wanted to do on my Sunday was listen with a hangover to that preacher drone on. She stopped nagging after a couple of years, but she never stopped asking. Of course, I made it to each child's baptism so I guess that was my compromise. I figured the whole household would be in position to pray that I wouldn't go to hell.

If You Were Here

2010-01-23T08:49:00.000-08:00

If you were here, Mom, I don't know what you would think of me. People have been telling me to find you for 12 years now, ever since I turned 18. Everyone is curious, and I am too, but I am more scared. I keep thinking of great excuses to not look for you. I heard a couple years ago that the Catholic Childrens' Home Services agency shut down, so I thought maybe they'd lost my file.

And I always think, maybe I'll wait until next year, maybe I'll do something impressive and you'll think “Wow, my daughter really has her act together.”

But maybe I don't have room for disappointments, no more room for more crazy family members.

However, all of my selfish considerations don't take you into account. Maybe you want to find me, the child that abruptly ended your childhood. Maybe my grandparents want to know me.

As for Chris and his family, they've always wanted to find a certain Claude Miller of St. Louis, a black American soldier, a quartermaster stationed outside of Stuttgart. But Chris' dad isn't interested. Let sleeping dogs lie. I don't want to bring up the ghosts of the past.

My own grandfather I've heard was a fair, blue-eyed German army doctor. How funny it is to think the two unknown grandfathers were on different sides in the war.

How many of us really know our parents, our grandparents anyways? One in every seven Americans don't really have the fathers that are listed on their birth certificates. A lot of us don't really know where we came from. But I guess it must matter, everything else in life is so uncertain, where do we stand if not on the backs of our ancestors?

Dead in the Russian Snow

2010-01-18T19:25:00.000-08:00

When we first moved here, mother took the blue mirror cross that hung over her bed in our old house and mailed a nail for it in the new bedroom of me and my sister. We had to leave the center of town because mother started hosting the black American soldiers. The villagers kept harassing her, so she found an abandoned farm farther from town and closer to the military base. Ever since mother got the letter that father lay dead in the Russian snow, my school mates grew distant from me. Irmgard and Ulrike used to be my best friends, but now they say they can't go pick cherries with me. They say mother is now a fallen woman. I am the oldest, and I help watch my younger sister, Yvi, while mother laughs all night long with the soldiers. I miss father, and mother says it's alright to cry as much as I want. The soldiers give me chocolate bars to comfort me.

At school, the other children said they had no sugar and no flour and no chocolate. They ate cabbage. Just watery cabbage soup. They dreamt of cake and cookies and bread and butter.
“We have all that,” my sister told them proudly. “The black Americans bring lots of supplies to our mother.”
“That's because your mother is a whore. Your father probably wasn't even frozen in the Russian fields before she started being a nasty whore!”
“Shut up!” I shouted. “My mother's not a whore! And we eat cakes made with a dozen eggs and honey and half kilo of butter every day! We still have meat! You wish your house smelled of Thueringen sausages!”
The school yard was silent.
“I'm sick of seeing your dirty rags and of listening to your empty stomachs.”
I grabbed Yvi's hand and we marched home to the farmhouse full of food, laughter, and father's handkerchief still rests under my pillow every night.

Fear

2010-01-18T19:20:00.000-08:00

Prompt: A time when you felt fear...

Champaign, Illinois, Spring 2002, bitter cold, screaming wind outside, a turgid hothouse of jewel-toned sweaters inside the bar. It's another weekend night, I'm there with my gaggle of fellow grad students getting as fucked up as I possibly can. I'm so lonely, I hate this place. Even though I'm getting paid to work on my PhD, I've never been so unhappy. Everyone has let me know they assume I'm on scholarship for being Native American. This is the Chief Illini school. Most people here are assholes to me.

We've all had enough. I'm dizzy, I need air.

“Guys,” I say, “I'm gonna go wait on the cab outside.”

It's probably 20 below, but I'm on the deserted street sitting on the bench like it's a balmy Fourth of July.

I listen to the wind howl.

A black car pulls up in the alleyway.

I'm so wasted I can hardly remember my name. I love this feeling. I want to forget myself.

Four huge men step of the car. The exhaust pipe steams as the engine still runs.

Where the fuck is our cab anyways, I'm thinking with annoyance.

“Hey sweetie, why don't we go for a ride?”

“What? No. I'm waiting for my cab.”

“All alone, are we?”

“Fuck no. My friends are inside.”

I'm bluffing confidence. My friends are in the martini hothouse, it's loud, they won't come out until I go fetch them. I am alone.

“You should get in the car and party with us.”

“No fucking way.”

They are closing in on me.

I hate the Midwest. It's scarier than I ever felt in East LA, in the barrios of Tucson.

Being a tinge bulimic, I can vomit on command, and I do so. I spew all over them, their expensive shoes in the snow. The contents of a night out steaming like oatmeal on their pant cuffs.

The bastards curse me out, but they leave. I am laughing hysterically.

Now my friends are finally here.

“Where's the cab?” they ask.

Pantoum - Thursday class poetry exercise

2010-01-18T19:13:00.000-08:00

Pantoum – poetry exercise

I see traces of you everywhere

the apartment holds artifacts of your daily life

So many years we've now worked opposite ends of the clock

Sometimes you reach for me at night as we both sleep

the apartment has evidence of your activities

your soccer clothes lay upon library books

sometimes we reach for each other while dreaming

I eat dinner alone every night

your dirty clothes stink up the library books

we share a marriage, but not daily life

you eat breakfast alone every morning

our friends are all strangers to each other

we are married, but don't share a daily life

post-it notes and text messages are the glue

our friends are strangers to each other

they say distance makes the heart grow fonder

sticky notes and voice mail are the glue

all these years we've lived in separate hours

distance makes the heart grow exhausted

There are traces and proof of you everywhere

On the Edge

2009-12-31T09:45:00.001-08:00

On the edge, toes curled, she really didn't want to go there not ever, not once when he told her if she didn't she was nothing but a big chicken butt and she knew she wasn't a chicken butt but even so she was afraid of the diving board--she was afraid of diving backwards, afraid of not seeing and not hearing and losing herself in the air on the way down and she couldn't see how far down because she would be backwards and her eyes would be scrunched so tight because if she scrunched them tight enough maybe she wouldn't hear her heart thump thump thrump through her head to her earlobes and maybe she wouldn't notice that her lungs had stopped pulsing, that there was no air pumping in and out anymore, that everything was just paused like a photo, paused in the between spot, between the edge and the water.

Woman Writers' New Year's Resolution---Musical Prompt

2009-12-21T15:15:00.000-08:00

In two thousand eleven I could go to heaven.

So, in two thousand ten I'll pick up my pen. Again.

And again and again and again and again. And Again.

And again and again and again and again and again and again and again.

And then, I'll pick up my pen again. And again and again and again and

Again and again. And again. And again.

In two thousand eleven you might go to heaven.

So pick up your pen. Now.

In two thousand twelve the Aztec calendar will end.

Another reason to pick up your pen.

In twenty thirteen, write where you've been.

Write what you've seen

And in two-oh-one four

Just write some more.

Collective Sonnet

2009-12-05T05:21:00.000-08:00

In a shower of a sunny day
A bee alighted upon my arm
I had to test the warmth of May
And see if kind bees live at the farm

I bent down close with a whisper
Asked the bee of his need
He said he longed for his sister
It's her he wants to feed.

Entangled in the family life of bees
Surprised my sunny shower
I laughed and tickled his knees
He stretched with new found power

"Brothers, sisters, and love for friend
Life is about what we mend."

Another Collective Sonnet by the Friday Morning Ladies

2009-12-04T00:21:00.000-08:00

Oh lick! And shout! And lick! And shout! And lick!
Oh water my garden and eat my apple core.
Squeze and push and grab and kick,
Take all there is and want some more.

Trundle off sated, sedated, dazed,
Burrow into the comfort of down.
Bundle up warm, a comforting haze,
Curl around a new lover found.

Drive on through the snow, it sparkles like stars,
Her wet cherry red lips, the color of mars.
You've loved her so long, watched from afar,
Now tenderly yours, how utterly bizarre.

Sink deep into fresh love - a fantasy in real,
And prepare for the imminent break of the deal.

Collective Sonnet

2009-11-30T20:33:00.000-08:00

I will hand deliver you the moon

Ship it wrapped in silken hugs

Hold your breath, it will happen soon

And I will bring you liquid sunshine in jugs

For you, my dear, are the world to me.

And I cherish you as I do life.

I'll hold you lightly so you'll always be free

And do my best to banish any strife.

Silken hugs and poetry for hours

I want to tickle all your many senses.

With wine and chocolate and fragrant flowers

Smash all barriers! Burn your fences!

But with romantic liaisons comes strife.

I'll keep my solitary life.

Collaborative Sonnet

2009-11-24T20:22:00.000-08:00

Note: I've indicated the changes in writer with the font changes below.

The crown of fire pulled her on
She grabbed her stick and moved
Her flame tiara was like a dawn
Shouting out that she was proved
That she was valued, honest, pure
And should no longer have to endure
The harshness of the world
She could remain a sweet and innocent girl
And sing and dance and skip and play
And awake sweetly for yet another beautiful day
"So hark, oh crown of fire, heed what I say!
A phoenix I am, not a lump of clay!"
Honest, pure and valient I shall be
With my passion make a tempest of the sea!"

Collective Collaborative Sonnet

2009-11-23T17:14:00.000-08:00

She was a bride whose soul was shrinking.
The magnificent sunset of gold-orange left her feeling flat.
She pondered what it was she had been thinking
To marry a man who always dressed like that!
She chided herself-- so petty! So particular!
Why did she care what the poor man wore!
His sex appeal was more vehicular
the Mercedes coupe was a 4-door
His nose hair was a distraction
but knowing the Berkshires, a plus.
His invention of a new contraption,
and his large bank account a major bonus.
For lack of better choices, he'd do
Whatever the girl wanted him to

2009-11-23T14:15:00.001-08:00

Collaborative Sonnet
Nov. 20, 2009

I watch the hands of the clock go round
Touching each number, counting
The sound of each tick, tocking a new second found
Crouching in memories, of doing this rounding
Silver lilies breaking through the frost
Dripping blood puddles on the floor
There he lies his hands still crossed
His life brutally ended - his pain no more
And buried beneath this red strained corpse
an envelope stained red and crumpled in half
No one will know, now of course
What led him down this path
Only the frosted lilies know
Why, oh why, he chose to go.

The Winter Walk

2009-11-20T18:35:00.000-08:00

The Winter Walk

The clouds were misty and just out of reach over my head, and there was a ribbon of sand between the snow covered beach and the quiet, slush fringed river. Our dog, returning to her puppy-hood was running and circus jumping through the snow drifts, over the hidden slopes and rocks, then racing back across the empty strip of sand and into the warm river, to bark euphorically and begin all over again. Her black tail bobbed and rose, over each snowdrift, a bouncing flag commanding joy. My husband and I walked along slowly, watching her play, sometimes making footprints in the four inch deep snow, and sometimes on the pebbly grains, the three of us alone with the winter weekday Sauvie Island emptiness. Other familes were perhaps snug at their kitchen tables or cozy before their fires, but we faced into the frosty air and journeyed, hugging our back-packed picnics close, stopping to gaze into the mythical gray distance of the vanishing Columbia River. The familiar landmarks on the beach were hard to recognize beneath the blanket of bridal white, but the heaps of tiny crystals did not quite cloak the painful memories of that shore. The snow, like the veil of time, could only partly cover the sadness of past picnics and the absence of one dear picnicker. It was his childlike smile that still came unbidden to my mind, my big-sister eyes loving him as he toddled on another beach, so many years ago. But it was his man laugh that suddenly came into my inner ear, making me smile, before the crushing scenes of his last days turned my smile down. He would have loved to be here on that day, making footprints, sharing a little fire of twigs, throwing a stick for our dog. She loved that picnicker, too.
We found no remnants of other travelers that afternoon, except the chattering noises of the forest creatures, celebrating the space between the storms. Later, as we sat on a brushed off log, eating dark chocolate to spice the hushing cold, a blue heron rose and soared across our perch: elegant and graceful, a vision against a leaden sky. Like the snowy beach, its beauty caught our breath; until its harsh and bitter cry rent the freezing air.

Collaborative Sonnet

2009-11-20T18:26:00.000-08:00

Collective Sonnet
November 20th, 2009

The winter branch hides
Wings too big to hold
I find my heart rides
My wings make me bold
My song fills my throat
My feathers brilliant down
I shake my down coat
Look toward the sky and frown
A storm is brewing
The wind forceful and strong
I find my weariness accruing
My resistance stretching overlong
I bundle myself inside these wings
And pray welcome to what storm may bring

Collaborative Sonnet I

2009-11-20T17:59:00.000-08:00

Dancing shadows of leaves grace the windows,
The light blinking and waving.
Outside the maiden can hear the cows' bellows,
Can see the path, away paving.

She touches the doorknob, her hand trembling
Heart quick and sputtering.
Her feet take off to running,
Her mind muddy muttering

Down the path and past the cows.
She dances out to the shadows.
Her joyous moves arouse.
Methinks she is quite mad, though

Happy mad and madly happy.
This is what makes spring so sappy.

Animal Medicine Card Prompt

2009-11-04T19:15:00.000-08:00

Of two minds, Rudie was a conundrum. Sweet Blackbird, mama's boy, played beneath the starlit sky. Hopped along the grassy banks, perched high in the cherry tree, swinging his legs and sending white blossoms down like snow. He was his mother's delight.

She made the cave which was most of their home warm and inviting. Rudie was free as a squirrel; played all day into the night, then crawled in between blankets and furs to sleep soundly. Simple boy. Simple Blackbird boy sleeping soundly. Soundly sleeping, this sweet Mama's boy, tucked snug inside cozy cave, his mother humming.

Dreamtime was not so kindly to Rudie. Inside his mind was bleakness and malice of every kind. Inside, behind closed eyes, below his boy smile, demons sought entry and gained access to his tenderness. Rudie was a Blackbird in his dreams, flying over field, tree top, brook. He'd wave to his mother far below, she'd squint her eyes as though looking at the sun, fear upon her face, and go inside.

Blackbird Rudie boy was terrorized by the deeds he did in his sleep. Dragon claws on his hands sliced tender creatures, his mouth of fire brought destruction when he tried to speak. Locked inside this dragon form, his mother fled, the small animals ducked underground afraid of his willful violence.

The Horse Accident

2009-11-04T08:48:00.000-08:00

Prompt: Guilt

I was the archetypal horse-obsessed girl. I read every horse book in the library, had armies of model horses lined up across the shelves of my bedroom, made bridles from shoestring and jump ropes. When I was 14 my parents finally got me a horse, a tall bay mare we paid $500 for. I was to share the horse with my older sister, but she didn't feel it the way I did and was not a particularly skilled rider, not ever very confident or comfortable. We boarded the horse up the road at a ranch run by a stringy cowboy named Bill. A blind woman named Diane also lived there. My dad had represented her in a lawsuit. She had been kicked in the head by a horse as a child and lost her sight. She was a skilled horsewoman and trainer and rode her tall paint gelding all over the countryside even though she couldn't see a thing. Her relationship with the cowboy who owned the ramshackle place was unclear and seemed sketchy even to my 14 year-old eye. Attached to the decaying red barn was an outdoor riding arena, dusty and bare, baked hard as concrete in the summer heat. One day my sister and I were at the barn and took the horse into the arena to ride. Rather than put on a proper saddle and bridle I made a makeshift hackamore out of rope and climbed on bareback. When it was my sister’s turn I boosted her up. Her uncertainty and lack of confidence was immediately evident to the mare. She bolted away across the hard-packed arena, my sister bouncing unbalanced on her back. As if in slow motion I saw my sister fly off and land on her head on the ground. I ran to her side to find her barely conscious, moaning and rolling slowly in the dirt. She turned her head and there was blood in her ear. I screamed for help and Diane came running blindly across the yard. I told her my sister had fallen. She went directly to the horse to find my inadequate homemade bridle. It was instantly clear it was my fault that we had had no control when our mare bolted. My parents were called. Soon thereafter an ambulance roared down the road, lights flashing and circling in the dust. My grandfather wanted to get a gun and shoot the horse dead on the spot. To this day I feel bad about being more worried about that than about the fate of my sister.

Prompt - Lost & Found

2009-11-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

Lost and found, like a box under the desk at the office, full of children's coats and mittens, all unmatched of course. Like the woman who sists there, her legs tucked under the desk that hides the box. She is the gaurdian of lost things. When a child comes in, like with his mother standing annoyed and impatient behind him, but also with that look I am teaching you a lesson here, the woman, the guardian takes out the box, reaching down past her pantyhosed legs to her boxy, comfortable shoes. She takes out the box and goes through it with the boy. What color did you say that hat was, hon? Red? Is this it? Often she was the reuniter. Often she bore the sad news.
Maybe you left it on the bus? You could ask your bus driver. Which do your ride? The Thumpuer bus? Well, you ask Mrs. Peters, dear. Maybe she's seen it.
And, always, the child looked dejected. Even if they refused to wear the hat which is why it was lost as the mother reminds him as they leave the office.
Carol is always sad after these encounters. She wants to run after the boy, take his soft, warm hand in hers and say: Child, you will lose many things. There will not always be a box to come looking in. Hold tight to the things that matter.
But the mothers are there, their impatient, efficient heels clicking down the hallway.
Instead, Carol pulls out her calendar and flips the pages backwards and tries to remember what she's misplaced.

Oct. 30, Alida's Friday morning workshop

Prompt - FROG

2009-10-31T16:15:00.000-07:00

Frog. Prince. Frog. Prince. Frog. Prince.

When you're young it's possible to love someone madly one day --- he's a prince! And to despise him the next --- the toad. Ideally your man will become a frog prince. Not because he's been transformed with a kiss and some careful instruction into what you want him to be or think he should be. But because you have learned to see him in his entirety. As a frog prince ---

warts and all.

Prompt: Lost and Found

2009-10-31T07:34:00.000-07:00

"I once was lost but now I'm found," Carla sang, not loudly, at the back of the church. She stopped, let her mind travel from Uncle Bob's funeral. She thought about God's Lost and Found, wondered if He had a big box sitting next to Heaven's door, a box full of things people had forgotten, had left behind. What would you find there? Lost souls, of course. She imagined these must look like Peter Pan's shadow: flat and flimsy as silk, easy enough to scrape apart from a body, and then there's no telling whose is which. What would happen, she wondered, if somebody accidentally picked up someone else's soul, didn't realize it, just draped it on and went on living. Of course if you took someone else's soul on purpose, that's different. Of course you'd go straight to hell. But what if it was an honest mistake?

Carla looked down at her scrawny body, covered in black out of respect for her dead uncle. She wondered if this was really her own soul, or if a wild wind one night had blown hers off and down the road, if that wind had slammed her neighbor's soul right into her insides while she dreamed at night. Maybe that explained her naughty thoughts. Maybe that explained her confusion.

--Alida Thacher

Prompt- Most Scary Experiences

2009-10-29T12:30:00.000-07:00

Laurel Canyon. Just the place itself -it's full of history, myth, legends, stories. And right across from the old Houdini mansion, right off Lookout Mountain- was the house. It was owned by an old man-Parker Cole, who let all us Hollywood juvenile delinquents hang out there. We called it Cole's Hole or just Parker's. I'd always wanted to live up there. And now, just a year or two after I would have graduated, we had the opportunity to rent it for like- nothing. It was up a winding, dark path. Not really a street and the path was filled with rocks and stones planted by a mean old woman-the only other person who lived on the path. It wound around 'til there was about a thirty foot drop right onto Laurel Canyon Blvd. No fence, no lights, it was perfect. We moved right in- me, my two best friends and my boyfriend. And found that we had roommates. A young boy named Craig and his boyfriend, a very clean cut ex-marine. Very straight looking, kinda scary.

The house was huge, log cabin style, stone fireplaces-all wood. At least 5 bedrooms. Craig's boyfriend was apparently suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and he had a gun with a bayonet. Craig didn't seem in the least bit fazed......

Herbs and Salt - Adolescence

2009-10-16T10:58:00.000-07:00

Sam tugged the edges of her blue, one-piece bathing suit down a little farther to cover her butt cheeks and smoothly rolled over onto her stomach. Her red Coca-cola beach towel was hot and rough against her cheek and through it she could feel the prickle of the grass against her sun-tender skin. It was the height of summer; one of those long, lazy days where there's nowhere to be and it doesn't matter what time it is.

The muggy air seemed to cover her like a blanket, and she felt a little surge of joy at being comfortable outside with naked limbs. The still, summer air was so close to her body temperature that it almost felt like part of her. She flexed her hands and feet for a moment just to feel the distinction between herself and her environment.

A neighbor was running a sprinkler, and the steady chick-chick sound coupled with the heat was making her drowsy. She began to wonder if Marcus would call her tonight and whether they'd have another chance to go to the beach together this summer. She thought for a moment about his lanky brown hair, how the fuzz in the middle of his chest smelled like herbs - clean and spicy, and the salty taste and softness of his lips. Sighing she turned her head, aware that the towel had likely carved a pattern into the side of her face.

Prompt: A Compass

2009-10-16T07:51:00.000-07:00

It was dark enough now that sight was irrelevant, probably inhibiting because she was trying to see, putting so much effort into willing to see what was in front of her that she was ignoring her other senses. This was dangerous, for smell, touch, hearing, these were things that could help her. The compass had long since failed her, or her it. It was trying to tell her where to go she was just too inexperienced and scared to understand. As the dark pressed in making her eyes ache she had the wisdom to simply shut them. Shut them and rely on other things. The sound of water bubbling over rocks, that was to her right, the bird to the left, the rustling behind. Or was the water on the left? It seemed like the harder she tried to make out where sounds were coming from the more impossible it was to determine. She started breathing more quickly now, just a bit, and once that seemed OK, once she convinced herself she wasn't panicking, her breath came quicker still. The ground beneath her feet rose and fell unevenly. What in the daylight were irregularities on the path became mountains and valleys. She stumbled, started to reach out to grab something but thought the better of it. Was this a joke? Was this really happening to her? It was cold and she was sure she was no longer on the path, but she could hear the water. The water. Keep following the water.

Water of Love

2009-10-11T12:04:00.001-07:00

Alida Thacher's Erotica Workshop

I swim with you in the dark water,

entwined,

sliding beneath the waves,

drowning.

I love you in the steaming water,

moisture like glass beads,

floating in shadow,

slippery as a seal.

I love you in the alley rain,

face to the wall,

teeth to the brick

your words like a dark river.

I love you eye to eye, thirsty,

breath the hot liquor, the water of love.

The Cold Winter has Come

2009-10-03T14:19:00.001-07:00

The cold winter has come.
Rose hips red, bejeweled,
dip in the wind, blood on snow.
Firs dark on white
cast snowy mist upon the wind and
icy panes, crystal ticking glass
in the morning light.
Deer step lightly through the frost.
Birds press shoulder to shoulder on the wire.
But you are warm my love,
breath on my ear,
your whisper.
Your heart at my breast,
the hot blood,
my lips at your brow,
enfolded against the winter's cold.

By Amy Holmes Hehn

2009-10-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

Jennifer's Thursday Evening Group
Short free-write

FALL

Autumn light angles amber through the blinds,
striping rumpled sheets,
warming floor for dozing cat blinking, stretching,
dust drifting like snow.

Autumn light on entangled limbs,
dozing,
quiet breathing,
sounds of passing cars and mowing lawns,
goldfinch busy in the turning leaves.

Afternoon light the color of change,
the great wheel turning
garden fading, resting the eye,
your hand in mine, heart beneath my ear,
summer winding down like an old clock.

By Amy Holmes Hehn

Girlfriends

2009-10-02T10:12:00.001-07:00

On a dark and stormy night, back when the market was screaming hot (so I frequently worked into the evening), I ducked in to Sungari Pearl to order Chinese takeout. A while-you-wait Grey Goose martini with olives and a twist seemed like a good idea too. There was one other woman at the bar, but the tables were all full.
My girlfriend lived across the street. I could see her office light glowing in her third floor condo and I decided to give her a call to join me in that Martini. I dug for my cell phone in the pockets of my bag. “I’m across the street at the bar in Sungari Pearl. Come over as you are; there’s no one here who cares. I’ll have a perfect Martini waiting for you in three minutes.”
As I tossed my phone back into the abyss of my working shoulder bag, I felt the woman on the next stool considering me. Turning, I said hello in a friendly way. “I can’t believe you could just dial the phone number of a friend from memory!” she said. And then, “I don’t know anyone’s phone number by heart; just my home number.”
I smiled at her. This I know for sure. You have to have a few phone numbers that you know by heart, and one of the most important ones is for your best girlfriend. You might have an emergency broken heart, or you might need advice on whether or not to spend a third of your next commission check on a single pair of shoes with heels so high you can’t walk in them. Someone in your family might have died, your dog might be diagnosed with cancer or for that matter, you might need a friend to pick you up from your doctor’s office after some really unsettling news. Your best girlfriend is who you call for a quick drink, no agenda. She is the one who, in thirty minutes, can listen to your worries, give you her worries in return, tell you not to spend that money or to go ahead and blow your entire wad on something totally decadent. She will invite you to a meet up at the art museum, remember your special color of lipstick and call you when she sees it in the gift with purchase bag at Saks. Your best girlfriend sends you clippings from “O” that laugh at your on line dating experiences, and comics from the New Yorker that remind her of the road trip you took last summer. Your best girlfriend knows who your children are, and how to interpret the ultimatums from your daughter or a loan to your son.
Just then my girlfriend blew in from the cold and settled on her own barstool. She thanked me for the drink and scanned the bar for someone she might know, or someone she might want to know. And then, we did what girlfriends do. We laughed and talked and enjoyed our drinks, and thirty minutes later, we split the bill down the middle and waved good bye. The woman at the bar was still considering. I think she was concentrating on improving her memory.

Musical Prompt: Bela Fleck, Flight of the Cosmic Hippo

2009-10-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

Sneaking behind pillars in a camel-colored trench coat, collar up, tan brimmed hat down over his eyes, Mr. Sasso stalked Mrs. Bettle. He knew she did not have his best interests at heart. He had overheard her in the telephone booth, speaking in Finnish--which he just happened to speak--telling Rosco she would meet him ten minutes after sunset at the beach. She would be sipping absinthe in a red-feathered hat.

Who was Roscoe? Mr. Sasso wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he suspected he was the jeweler. There were rumors of some hot rubies entering the market last week, and corresponding rumors that the prince was a few jewels short of a crown.

How did Mrs. Bettle fit in? She always seemed to have her long gloved delicate fingers into everything nefarious in this town. How she stayed out of prison had everything to do with her Olympic gold medal in fencing.

Men were fascinated by her biceps, her triceps, the rhythmic sway of her hips. The government felt an enormous debt to her for putting their little country into six billion livingrooms during last year's games in Madrid. For this, she expected protection for life, and if there was ever any question, her stilletto was still razor sharp, her perry quick and fearless, her lunge silent and deadly.

But how Mr. Sasso got into the espionage business was frankly a much more interesting story....

Alida Thacher, Friday Mornings, Summer 09

2009-09-30T08:27:00.000-07:00

The Ordinary Day
by Gayle Seely

It is an ordinary day today. Tomorrow will be much the same as today. Here in my everyday life in the northwest it is all about the usual getting up early, in time to review the homework before class, and then getting into my too-large car and rolling down the too-steep driveway to the not-so-quiet suburban street that is usually wet, not looking up at the house that needs painting and the gutters that need cleaning out, aiming towards the major road at the edge of my area that will take me past the large empty park and the complexes of office buildings that are half vacant, though you can’t tell unless you look closely, and out onto the thoroughfare of Cornell Avenue, which my neighbor tells me was recently widened but this is hard to believe because the traffic still creeps along until 185th, and then I go over the 26 freeway, looking down at the flow of cars heading towards the beach, which is only an hour and half from here and I could go that way and skip class, could skip the whole day, could stay down there and walk on the beach but it wouldn’t be any fun without my dog, who is at home in the kitchen with my husband and was sitting and watching me with sad eyes as I left yet again, was probably wondering if I was going someplace with good sniffs and not remembering her, but I DO remember her as I slide into my parking place at Rock Creek and rush to the business office to pick up my parking permit that I should have come over and gotten last Friday but I was too lazy or too tired, most likely because my sister came down from Seattle and we sat up and talked until late and then I could not sleep even though I only drank water, but just lay there in the dark as so many memories came shoving back up into my brain that I had to take each one of them and look at it, and soothe it, and put it aside, put it away, back down where it belongs, and then I began to feel less sad, and finally I wiped my tears for the last time and looked at the crazy stupid clock which read 2:50 a.m. and turned my pillow over to the dry side and finally went to sleep.
I get to my Spanish class early and sit near the man who is here from Arizona for only a few months until he can go back and who aches from our cold weather that is the first hint of global cooling – no, not global warming – that the NASA scientists and the veteran predictors at Farmers Almanac have recently decided to believe. He is a nice man and he has lost his acceptance of the cold, which is perhaps the best kind of protection against it. In Spanish we get to go around the classroom and describe ourselves and I get to say I am ‘vieja’, which is old, and ‘gordita’, which is plump, and some classmates laugh and I am glad because I am happy to be here, old and plump, and not young and stupid with all those hard years ahead of me. The teacher does not ask us to describe our joy or our sadness or even our money worry and that is good because I do not have the vocabulary, the ‘vocabular util’ in Spanish, to tell about these things: not in Spanish, not in English, maybe not in any words.
But on the way home from class as I cross back over Highway 26 the sky has opened and the clouds have slid to the sides like the drapes on a theatre stage and the sun begins to shine down its slowly warming light and the blossoming trees come into bright focus: kinds and kinds of pinks, like babies fingers, and puppies noses, and the colors of dresses of little Mexican girls going to a Posada. And there are whites too, fluffy outlines which are lacy if you stop under them and look up after you have parallel parked your car, and the tiny flower fragments fall onto the closed sunroof and you can imagine them swirling up and behind you as you drive away, like a stream of fragrant snowflakes, a fragile proof of life that is such a strong contrast to the fortress-like structure of my steel, air-bagged, anti-lock braked, officially safe, road-warrior car. And it comes to me as I cruise through the flurries of petals that long after this vehicle and I are rust and dust, these fragile petals will come back again and again to cover the landscape with spring.

Thieves

2009-09-29T16:37:00.000-07:00

There are two
No, more than two: three at least and maybe four
Not four, we would have noticed,
heard them
heard them at the car doors
heard their breath when they were searching.
We were blindfolded at the same time--I watched your face--
Black gloved hands
Other hands pulled at the upholstery
Under your seat, too
I don't know
You do think
Yes,
yes I felt them, their hands between my knees I thought--
They found it.
I don't know
You do
Yes
It's over then.

Our beach house at Hatteras: the hurricane Andrew?
Hugo
The windows like black wide mouths sucked the glass in and
spit the shards
On our backs we hunched in pajamas under the secretary
Glass crept out of your skin for months, you slept on your stomach
The ocean at the second balcony, the house sliding away sliding
But we made it
Yes

Where have they gone?
They'll need to see if it's real show it to someone
This duct tape rips the skin on my wrists.
My ankles are knotted cords.

Seven long months
Please, not this
We did everything we could for him: you awake all night, the doctors
All those tubes all those tubes stuck in his tiny body
And he'd look at us like
I wanted to nurse him I really wanted to nurse him and there was no reason
You were strong
We made the right choice the only choice
Yes

Coming back, listen,
Those two, the same
No, more than two, all the gravel crunching, at least three
Here they are
Yes
It's over then
Yes.

Prompt: This is what happened to you...

2009-09-25T17:30:00.000-07:00

This is what happened to you; your phone rang at 6:02 am and woke you up. Then it rang again, two minutes later. You rolled out of bed and checked the caller ID: Mom. Then Dad. In 34 years since their divorce, this had never happened. You called Mom first. "Hi, Son. Something terrible has happened. Mack called to say that little Craig didn't wake up this morning. We're on our way up to Trenton now to see him."
It was The Call everyone fears.
You called Dad. "Well, it looks like he was sleeping with the boy. Mack got up to feed him at midnight, then the he fell asleep on Mack's chest. Sometime in the night, the boy rolled off him. When Mack woke up, he was pinned between Mack's arm and the corner of the futon mattress."
You called Mom back, "Is anyone with Mack?" "No." "I'm calling him and staying on the phone with him. I don't want him doing something awful to himself."
You called Mack. "Hey, man." "Hey, bud." "Well, I've done something awful, man. It's pretty bad. I killed my boy, Bill." "No, you didn't, Mack."

Mom said, "I've struggled with him all these years. First, it was the principal calling once a week to say Mack had shut everyone out of the bathroom during recess, or picked a fight with the class bully. I'd step into the living room and there he'd be, sitting on Hop's chest, choking him, Sam beet red going toward purple.
Your father would come home from his sales meetings and do nothing to help me. Half the time, he'd dismiss what I was saying. In retrospect, I realize he wanted to undercut me and any authority I had. Just to win favor in the situation. Favor from whom? Mack? Sam? He ruined them to me.
When Mack got up to be 13 or so, I'd finally had enough and divorced your father. Mack started drinking and smoking dope that first summer. He was sent off to the Marines instead of jail when they caught him with dope. Then rehab, after rehab. I begged the last place to keep him there until he sobered up. The man in charge told me Mack was the toughest case he'd ever seen. He stayed pretty clean for the last 5 years or so. Then she moved down here unannounced, he moved her in, and she got pregnant almost immediately. I'd held out hope for them and the little girl. Then the boy came along and she left like she did with the first one. Trenton is 50 miles away. I never did trust her. She knew he was drinking again. Why would she drop off the two kids with him if she knew the state he was in? And now here we are.
Driving up to Arkansas to bury my grandson in the family cemetery. A little boy only three months old. The prettiest child I'd ever seen. Just beautiful. But all I can think is that we have to keep Mack out of prison. Whatever we do, we have to keep him out of prison.
I've been through a lot with this boy. By 47 I hoped he'd have it together by now, but what more can I do than what I've done? He'll lose everything he's worked so hard for: the land, the house, maybe even his truck. How will he get back and forth to work, then? What will happen to the little girl? It breaks my heart to think of her up there in Arkansas repeating the same pattern we've been stuck in for so long. What can we do?

"Get your ass down here," Dad said on the phone, "You may be the only one who can help us."
I sat in meditation the whole plane ride down to Dallas. "
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
"Just remain upright," my inner voice said.
I saw a buoy far out in the ocean during a storm.
"Just remain upright."
I have to stay upright, not get pulled under by the riptide.
Be there for him. Stay with him. Don't leave his side.

So for five days I sat outside the therapist's office, hauled bag after bag of beer bottles to the dump, talked and listened and cried, then hid the guns from sight.

Prompt: A photograph from the 1960's of a woman in a bright floral dress seated, smoking, on a bright floral outdoor rocker

2009-09-25T09:51:00.001-07:00

Hilda always wondered what people did without any color in their lives. Those people in the tract houses all painted the same shade of khaki from the outside and ecru after the front door. Were their dreams in a washed out palette, too?
Then there were the opposites: the dictocrats, the matchy-matchy's as she liked to call them. The ones who dressed all in black all the time. To avoid having to make a decision she supposed.
Why couldn't color run rampant? Why couldn't pattern scream from the heights, shake down the mysteries, reveal the hidden agendas of the soul?
Howard had always appreciated her bohemian vagaries. Her "nerve" he called it. Too bad he'd found the nerve to sleep with that tart and enact the free love he'd always yammered on about. At least he'd left her the Art, and the books, her bound beauties lined up in a row. Those and the 24 year-old Macaw were all she had left from her time with Howard.
Things grow, leaf, die and fall she thought. Trees, people, relationships. Yet, here she still stood, hot as fire on the inside, burning embers waiting to extinguish, or set aflame, or tear through the ideas of Romantics and misty-eyed fawns who showed up every fall for her Introduction to Modern Literature course.
How could these soft-shelled, pasty little figurines ever see the passion? What kept her going were the surprises. Even 40 years later she was still taken aback that her first assessments on the first day of class turned out to be only half right. In the still of the semester, on that rare occasion, a lone purple orchid bloomed from an otherwise wan little child and a beauty unbeknownst to anyone revealed itself.
Those moments, stark in their clarity, showed brightly. Their contrast bemused her, fueled her passion to continue on, to drudge through the oblique reasoning with yet another group of children. All for that moment of discovery, a revelation. A spark revealed.
Yes, that is what I'll say, Hilda thought, as she lit another cigarette. That's what I'll tell them when they ask how I've lasted this long. As the Deconstructionists have been abandoned and another Postmodern truism becomes the faddish catchphrase, my Beauty will throw them. "A Romantic?" they will think, "Old Mrs. Rubicon, a Romantic?"

Prompt: Why I Write

2009-09-22T07:04:00.000-07:00

Why I write is beyond words. It's a scratch to the bottom of my soul, it's my unconscious leaking out of my body, it's stuff arriving from places that surprise me, images from the gods, dialogue from those I do not know (but somehow I know them), jokes and animals and achy breaky hearts marching across my beat up old notebook. It's powers that be from another plane crossing this metaphysical barrier to visit me.

Sometimes that doesn't happen. Sometimes I am locked in reality--flat, drab, confining, boring reality. At those points I am so grateful for 10 minute prompts, for words that evaporate as soon as they drop onto the page, words that get plowed under with the next prompt.

Alida Thacher, Friday Morning Workshop, Summer 2009