Will write for yarn.
The wind dries our bones,
leaves hollows, marrow
sapped,
fallow no more.
Inside
in the paths,
circuits, neurons spark and
go
along sear,
synaptic lines.
What once lit and danced
now
sits shelled.
Lovers linger
under dying vines outside
cafes.
They hold no sway over us
Old Folk.
And the fair kiss
they trade
we know will fade
and pitiless winter
come again.
7KU39NQ4JJR6
There. Isn’t that fun?
I guess it’s not technically slumming if the blog you’ve written a guest post for is actually classier than your joint, but whatev.
Today, I’m over at Caveat Calcei, aka Law & Shoes, writing about my…you guessed it! Refrigerator.
It’s a fun show, even if you, like me, aren’t into shoes.
“I’m a starter, not a cleaner,” she said, pulling a cigarette out of the flattened pack she fished from her purse.
“I come in with the ideas, get things rolling, you know. I excite people, get them worked up.”
I bet you do, I thought; even from behind my cluttered desk the dame was getting me worked up.
“But,” she continued, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag, leaving a red kiss on the filter, “this thing I got going just ain’t for me. This latest…assignment, it’s not going where I thought it would, and I’m ready to quit. Thing is, the boss don’t want me to go yet. He says this time it’s different, that I need to stick around and make sure everything we need to get accomplished comes to fruition, you know? You get it?”
“I get it, toots,” I said, swinging my feet from on top of the desk and leaning forward. I wanted to smell her, this little sexpot that had strode off the sidewalk into my P.I. office in her Zombie Stomper shoes and legs that went as high as the highest legs I’d ever seen.
She smelled of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. And fire and rain and scarlet begonias. It was the smell of sex and candy, and it had me turning upside down, inside out. And round and round.
“So whaddya want from me? I’d love to help you with your…problem…but I don’t know that there’s anything I can do.”
“Oh, you can do plenty for me, sugar. Plenty.” She took another drag of her cigarette and bored holes in my head with her boring-eye stare. Her eyes were like Russian sediment borers, and dinner plates. Or something. I think.
The point was, she needed me and I wanted her. I knew we could work something out.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we take a walk to my place. We can discuss it over a nice eighteen-year-old Scotch, like civilized people.
She leaned in so I could see the rise of her breasts under her dress, could feel the warmth of her breath. She smelled like incense and peppermints, now. And Doublemint and double entendre.
“Look, Daddy-o. What I want takes time. Not one night or one week or even one whole month. The boss don’t seem to get it. You want something done right, you have to take your sweet time. You agree?”
“Oh, I agree. Yes indeed.” I felt like I would suffocate in this room with her heat, and I reached up to loosen my tie, but her hand beat me to it and she pulled me closer until I could feel the humidity from her moist, red lips.
Her tongue ran once over them, nearly touching my own, and then she let go, leaving me stunned and half standing, half sitting. She stood up straight, looking down at me and said, “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Here’s what I want you to do.”
She explained her plan, which involved time. Lots and lots of time. And a housekeeper, who may or may not be wearing a French maid uniform. And also, some lorikeets.
I listened, but my mind was elsewhere, with her in a smoky nightclub, a bottle of scotch between us, and nothing but time to figure out where the story would take us next.
***
This is my crafty explanation of why I’m quitting National Novel Writing Month. Some of you might not be aware that I’ve been attempting to write 50,000 words in thirty days. That’s right. Because, and I believe I’ve been clear about this, I’m mentally ill.
I started out strong, with a rough outline and some scene and character cards. Then I lost my way. And I’m just not a person who has time to waste writing crap so I can call myself a winner at the end of November. As anyone who knows me will attest, there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of me ever calling myself that.
I have learned some things though. In no particular order:
1. Coffee at 10PM for a 38 year old is BAD. Really bad.
2. I need detailed plans before I write a large piece of fiction. And also, more than thirty days. I have three kids including that violent one I believe I’ve mentioned, and a husband who works seven days a week. Need I explain myself further?
3. I should probably not write fiction. I’m good at essays, at lyrical prose, and humorous stories. But I don’t know that I can extend that into one cohesive piece.
4. I intend to find out. Just not right now. I’m setting aside the fiction and working on the thing I’ve wanted to do, which is a book of essays. It will be all the stuff you love about me, but if you want to leave comments you’ll need a pen or maybe a crayon, since I’m not sure you should have pointy objects.
5. I’ve developed the discipline to sit and write whether I fucking feel like it or not, which is my mantra now. Something like that anyway, and it does involve the word fuck amazingly often.
My apologies to all those from whom I’ve demanded support, pep talks, advice, shoes and drugs over the last three weeks. I will make it up to you by making you a character in my first novel.
You’ll just have to figure out which one is you.
“I’m a-thinkin’ and a-wond’rin’ all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I’m told
I gave her my heart, but she wanted my soul
But don’t think twice, it’s all right” -Bob Dylan
You ask me to tell you about myself, and I feel like screaming, or running, or crying.
I’ll start answering the question like this, so you’ll be the one who feels like doing those things.
I’m a girl who sings Cowboy Junkies songs in bed to her lover whom she will leave the next day. I let unattended, wandering neighborhood children eat my food.
Instead of washing dishes I make water balloons for my sons to throw out the windows. I have lived in the woods in a fort built by children.
I am mostly made up of a collection of memories belonging to other people. I am The Dead Milkmen’s Punk Rock Girl, I’m trouble for sure at only thirteen years old, I’m someone’s sweetie and someone else’s punching bag. I’m a first love and I’m a whore.
I’ll tell you my worst secret, the one no one else knows, then I’ll drive you mad until you leave me because I’m not worthy.
Obsessive people touch things because it’s reassuring in some way. It quiets a part of the brain that most people aren’t even aware of. But I touch memories that way. If I imagine losing my family, I reach in to see if there will be someone left who knows me well enough to hold me up without dragging me into madness. There is only one, but it’s enough.
If you love me, you will pay for it dearly. And you’ll believe it worth the damage.
I break people.
But love me anyway.
And I’m sorry for my sins.
For your viewing pleasure, I’m resurrecting some old posts that might have been lost in the literary action. This story is mostly true, and paints me in an odd light. Which is to say, completely accurately.
Years ago, I was invited to a party. I’m not saying it was the last time, but it might have been. I don’t remember. The host was a wonderful friend of my beau at the time and I enjoyed this friend’s company, so I believed I could only enjoy his friends’ company as well. This beau, I’ll call him D, believed, as I did, that the best social activity involved three, maybe four people at most, and could quickly be ended at a moment’s notice when necessary, by which I mean when we started to panic and became unable to respond politely to conversation. Did I mention social retardation?
The party, unfortunately, was three hours away from home, so we came prepared to stay at this party all night. Yes, all night. No escape route, no pre-agreed upon means of begging out when, not if, we began freaking out. The first few folks we met seemed nice enough. D and I parted ways, making our way around as guests arrived, being introduced and making brief eye contact before reverting to the floor-stare. We met occasionally as we circled the second floor apartment, giving a quick, “You okay?” and a restrained nod to each other in passing. Gradually this gave way to lingering moments wherein one of us would say, “Are you sure? You don’t look well.” We took turns sublimating our own mounting panic to console the other.
Frankly, I think we did quite well. It must have been a full hour into this shindig when our glances over the sea of heads began to acquire a wide-eyed look, the look one might see on the face of the horror movie star when he realizes the meth-fueled axe murderer is in the house. At this point, we understood that it was time. Time to find the way out. But how? How could we insult this dear friend and escape unnoticed from a second floor apartment in a hugely tall house? We had backpacks! A bottle of vodka to contend with! (A note to those of you who believe that alcohol subdues neurosis – you are mistaken. There are not enough greyhounds in the world to obliterate the fear that dwells within a true social misfit. Alcohol can only make escape significantly more challenging, and potentially illegal.)
D leaned his head towards the bedroom where our cumbersome packs were lying, unaware of their fates, and I followed with relief that he must be feeling like me. We needed out. NOW.
Quickly, we ran through the possibilities. We could just say goodbye to our host and go. That would be the reasonable thing. But we were supposed to be staying there, could hardly be that rude to a friend surrendering his bedroom, opening his home to us even while having to perform the tricks of party emcee. And besides, reasonable was not one of our strengths. We could sneak out, hoping he wouldn’t notice until much later when we would have some time to invent a plausible excuse without exposing our true natures. But how would we sneak? The halls and rooms were all filled with the creative folk of Charlotte, the haute-art and then us. A couple of hillbilly hippies, laden with back packs. Back packs of all things! We might have passed ourselves off as Appalachian Trail hikers gone astray, D in his overalls, I in my boots.
At the same moment, we noticed the window. We guessed it looked out over an alley beside the house, and slowly walked over to it to see for sure. D raised the heavy window and peered out through the screen-less opening.
“It looks like maybe 30, 40 feet. I think it’s too far for us to jump. But there is ivy and stuff growing up the side here…maybe we could climb down?”
I leaned out beside him, “Are you crazy? We’ll never make it. But our stuff might.”
We removed the bottle of Bowman’s from his bag, and with only the briefest hesitation, dropped our bags into the darkness. With a satisfying whap they hit the ground. At least our stuff was safe, even if we were not.
At this point, there was no turning back. We emerged into the frippery once again, this time as a united front of anxiety and borderline panic, seeking out our host. We slunk up to him, telling expressions on our bloodless faces. His eyes slowly rose from his conversation to take us in: the crazy leading the inept, and with his face falling he nodded. “You are leaving. Thanks for trying.”
We ummed, cleared our throats, and bowed awkwardly to those who might have heard, making our way to the stairs. Once safely in the truck, we sped towards downtown Charlotte, to a nice, orderly hotel room, towels untouched by any people with faces we might have to deal with, neat white tile, and not an artist in sight.
This post is actually over at Breastfeeding Moms Unite, written for Melodie upon her request.
It was an honor to share it with her, and I hope you’ll pop on over and read it.
It concerns – you guessed it! Breastfeeding. So don’t say I didn’t warn you. But it’s also about me, and might prove interesting. Or horrifying. Hard to say.
This is the time of year when a young man’s fancy turns to…mossy oak.
Years ago, when I first returned to the south-ish after a stay in the wilds of North Jersey, I met a fellow we’ll call…aw hell, we’ll call him Ed, because that’s his name. He was a true southern gentleman, but I’m sure it was the big truck and the drawl that got me. I’m a sucker for a country boy.
He invited me to go hunting with him on Thanksgiving morning, and I accepted. That’s right – I said I’d go.
Let’s not pretend that you haven’t done anything foolish just to be near a particular member of the gender of your choice, mmkay?
On said morning, I awoke at the crack of two a.m. because hunting is one of those things that one begins before normal people are awake, since you look so freaking ridiculous in that getup. Seriously.
I showered so I would be fresh for the object of my affection, and plastered deodorant under my flowery, delicate underarm area.
Do you know where this is going?
At no time did Ed inform me that deer can smell! How was I supposed to know that they liked hippies and would flee from anyone who tried to gussy herself up a bit??
Needless to say, the trip was a wash, despite Ed’s spraying me with something I can only describe as “Deer Funk” and putting his own layers of scent-lessly-washed camouflage on top of my cute outfit. Let me tell you, I was glad I’d put on that deodorant.
But we sat under a tree, back to back, in the still hush of pre-dawn. The fog gave way to the bright golds and reds and rusty browns of a southern forest, and I was there to witness it. Only an hour from Washington D.C., I sat in utter stillness and quiet, keeping the company of a man who knew the language of his place.
And I still smelled pretty.
I helped bore holes into the body of the truck that we would later make love in, in a field by a pond with tall grasses and moonlight.
It made me feel big and important, the way a little girl might feel working beside her father, but I understand that’s not the right way to feel.
Perhaps the right way is to feel proud to be included in the piecing together of something bigger, in the grinding of metal into metal,
The gluing of bolts, attaching of parts.
We built something, and you never questioned my skill or adeptness,
Neither with trucks
Nor people.
But all these years later
As I put myself together from the shards
of memory
I see I might have been better
equipped to deal
with trucks
than men.
The house I grew up in is now a store. A running and walking shoe store, to be exact. The point is, you can walk in whenever they’re open and see the dining room where I played piano and made up songs about my brother’s stuffed animals, the kitchen where I learned of my parents’ fears about this new scourge, AIDS, and whether my dear uncle would be safe, the bedroom where I first dreamed I loved a boy, and the living room where I was shaken, not stirred, for being such a bad, bad girl.
Of course, it’s all shoes. And Lycra-bearing athletic wear.
But I ran into an old friend the other day who said she’s been in there, just to see the house where I lived when she knew me. Which makes me wonder if other people do the same thing.
Does my best friend from those days still try the front steps tentatively, afraid she might fall in again when the rotting wood gives way?
Do kids who grew up in that neighborhood rush by the house, worried that the huge St. Bernard might still be there, lurking in the bushes?
Does the boy down the street, who is the father of one of my best friend’s children, still come to climb the big magnolia tree? Does he go all the way to the top the way we used to and make the tree sway and dip and almost let him go?
Does the boy I loved but not enough sometimes drop by in the night to throw pebbles at my bedroom window?
I only live a mile away from that house now. And at night, sometimes, I hear the little tap of pebbles and rise up and go out into the dark quiet of my town to walk the abandoned streets.
I walk to the Chinese gardens where I’d meet my friend to perform the secret, sacred rituals of growing up in a place so circular, I can still see myself, way back there.
In a house filled with running shoes.
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