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!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
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
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
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, February 12, 2010
A Cold and Hungry Mountain
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.
“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
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.
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.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Imagine a pair of shoes...
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.
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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
If You Were Here
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?
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?
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