Flashbacks

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.