The Writing (?) Week

Monday—I could wait ‘til Tuesday
If I make up my mind
Wednesday would be fine
Thursday’s on my mind
Friday’d give me time
Saturday’d be great
Sunday’d be too late

--“Seven Days”, Sting

Thursday—being that the Creative Writing Class is on Wednesday nights, my writing week begins on Thursday mornings. I am chock full of brilliant ideas, creative thoughts, and eagerness from the night before and I face the blank page with no hesitation. I call Wednesday nights my “therapy night” because it is a great excuse to over analyze everything—stories, life experiences, TV shows, family, you name it. Joe never wants to over analyze anything, and the kids just kind of “uh huh” in my direction when I start being profound, so this is big fun for me. So, Thursday morning, I am bursting with thoughts that just want to be written. Problem is that there are just so many ideas—where do I begin to sort through them?

I start a story, edit, and then delete. I start another. Edit. Delete. Hey! None of these are quite flowing the way I want them too! That isn’t good. Where do I want this one to go? Too wordy. That’s dumb. Who cares about this? Oh, that’s digging deep into my “black box”. Don’t want to be in a funk again. Lighten up. Like Bev says—“Butterflies. Rainbows. Unicorns.” All the barriers are coming up and blocking my creative mind. Damn. I look at the clock and realize I am burning house cleaning hours, and I shut the computer down for now.

Friday—The kids are off to school and the house is quiet. I can write for the whole morning--the whole day if I wish. I check out all of my favorite websites and blogs for ideas and get caught up in stuff that drifts my mind in a non-writing direction. Mah Jong doesn’t really get a story going, but I clear the first board. Yes!

Once again, I gather some story ideas, but nothing is grabbing and pulling me in the direction of something productive. It isn’t writers block—it’s writer’s ambivalence. I want to write, but then I don’t want to write. I check the class blog to see if anyone else is posting. Crap! Nothing. I find comfort in knowing that I am not alone. This goes on for awhile before laundry, a good book, lunch, or talking to the fish becomes much more important.

Saturday—Joe and the kids are home. I get the computer early in the day, but their presence somehow stifles any creativity I have. Maybe it is their banter about what SpongeBob episode is on or who is leaving the toaster oven out that distracts me. Maybe it is Joe reading me the sports page out loud or the fact that they all chew like cows that I can’t form a complete thought. I give up. I can’t write when they are home—I call it “family block”.

Sunday—Day of rest--nuff said. Like all of this writing is exhausting me.

Monday—A new week. The kids are off early, one cat is stalking a cardboard mouse in the living room, and the other is outside having a stare-down with the chipmunk that visits our yard. I am excited to begin writing something today and prepare the work area with the creative necessities—coffee and reading glasses. Coffee is needed to get heart pumping and the ideas flowing; the reading glasses are so that I can at least see my great ideas if I write them. Neither is helping.

Did you ever notice how important laundry is when you have to write something? Or the dishes? Or how dirty the fish tank is?

Tuesday—I am in panic mode as tomorrow is class and I still haven’t written anything for the blog or for class. I will write something today. I will.

The phone rings and caller I.D. says that it’s my mother on the phone. The dilemma? Sit and stare at the blank screen for a while longer or answer my mom’s call and deal with that for an hour. I guess I’m desperate for an escape because I actually pick up the phone.

“Did you write anything for class yet?” It’s the first thing out of her mouth.

Geez, the woman knows. I suck my breath, but I don’t think she heard it on her end. My mother takes personal credit for everything in my life, including this class. She saw it in The Center flier and told me about it. Now she takes credit for every aspect—from me signing up, writing stories that might or might not be good, continuing my quest to be a writer, and probably for even creating the class itself. That woman’s gall amazes and horrifies me at the same time. It is a long conversation and it drains me. I am forced to put my writing on hold, again.

Wednesday—Ok, this is serious. I have nothing for class. NOTHING!

After numerous tries, I settle on thoughts of stories that I have put on hold. I think of people, things, songs, and almost anything that will start a thought. Sting, my Oreck, and I do the morning dance, and miraculously, I have a story! There is something about vacuuming that gets me going. (Has anyone ever credited a book to their Oreck? Note to self.) I am relieved, as I will have something to show for my week between classes.

I spend the next couple of hours typing away. I edit, copy, delete, somehow end up with something, and I think it might be good. I print it out and head off to “therapy”. Whew!

The Black Box

mmmmmbb I am sitting here thinking, which is never a good sign. I am thinking of writing a story about a black box. At first, this black box will be sitting on the table in front of me, between me and the computer screen. Yes, this black box is blocking my view of the story and as such it becomes my writing block. So I think that I will write a story about my writing block and I will make it a physical object that way I can visualize it much better. So I am sitting here writing a story about this black box that blocks me and the black box grows. The black box is now as big as the table itself. I guess it grew because I was thinking that this story is dumb and will take me nowhere (and I won't make money) and I stink as a writer and . . . a never-ending list of negative comments that feed the box. And the box grows and grows - pretty soon, the box has forced me out of the room and into the TV room.
So I take a break from writing and there are shows on in which contestants have to perform and please the viewers so they don't get eliminated. These shows are on almost every channel and I think how dumb: this is the same concept - someone wins, everyone else loses over and over again. I begin to think (another sign of the appocolypse - the end of the world due to bad spelling) that I could come up with a better show to watch. Some ideas come to mind and I think that there are bad things (things I hate) and good things (things I don't hate as much) about these REALITY (whose reality is like this?) SHOWS.
In the show "the Great Race" contestants fly all over the world and do crazy things just to win. This show is a geography lesson in disguise (I somewhat like this but don't ask me why). In the show "Beauty and the Geek", people spend time together and learn that even brainless boobs and awkward nerds are human (I can relate to this show because I am both beautiful and a mensa-kind). In the talent shows (American Idol, Dancing with the Stars. . .) the best does not win all time - the most popular does. (I like this concept because the idea of what appeals to people is a mystery - and I like mysteries). So I decide to come up with a premise for a new show using all these ideas.
It is at this point, that I realize that I am being creative and that I can write about this (Hurray!). So I head back to the computer and I find that the black box is much smaller now, about the size of a pea. (I know that a pea is round and that a box is cubic but visualize a pea with corners, okay). I begin to type in this story and I begin to realize that the creative process comes from dealing with what is at hand. Rather than trying to make something happen, why don't I just write about my life right now and sculpt it into whatever I want to write about. (I apologize for the vagueness of the previous statement - I am on a chocolate high - blame the pusher of this drug - calls herself the Easter Bunny). To me, the process of writing creatively is a mystery. What inspires me does not inspire you (sometimes) and might not inspire me tomorrow. So this is a mystery, a huge mystery, right up there with how did the universe begin ? and how do horrible politicians keep getting re-elected ?
BUT creative writing is an ADVENTURE. And like all adventures, it is chock full of challenges, setbacks, and dangers. There is also romance (you gotta love what you are doing) and the final outcome (in which the story is done and maybe published and maybe makes you lots of money).
And maybe the money you earn will help put an end to war and hunger or maybe you will blow it in Vegas. But the point is - creative writing can be fun except if you feed your pet black box TOO much and it gets big and starts bossing you around (hint: black boxes love to eat negativity especially self-loathing.)
Finally, I have reached the end of this piece (you might have thought this would never happen - I didn't either but I did promise a happy ending and I cannot think of anything that would make me happier than ending this). The moral of the story is take proper care of your pet black box AND make sure to not let it poop on you. (because that really stinks.)
THE END

Returning Son

     He was angry, I could tell.  Limping into the kitchen, he balanced on one foot while he peeled a banana,  grabbed a box of cereal down from the shelf, and mumbled something about how hungry he was.  "Could I help?" I asked.  "Yah, put my coffee on the table."  I almost said, I'm your mother, not your slave.  But I silently lifted the cup and set it on the table.  What was he angry about?  Hadn't he slept well?  Did he take his pain medication the night before?  Had he broken up with his girlfriend?  Was I really responsible for his mood?

     Dec. 20th he had suffered a serious ski accident on Whistler Mountain in Canada. Completely severed his ACL--anterior cruciate ligament--and had to be gondolaed off the mountain.  He was 40, unmarried, and cried on the phone when he finally called me the next day.  "Mom, I tore the ligament in my leg," he sobbed.  "I don't know when I'll be able to work again."  My heart was breaking.

     We got him home, that is, to OUR home, saw an ortho doctor Christmas Eve day, and scheduled surgery for the following week.  His own apartment was a three floor walk-up in Chicago back of the yards.  Not a place for a cripple to heal.  So, his father and I were it--his temporary rescuers.  We were glad to help but life would not be the same for quite a while.  I'm sure he didn't like losing his independence, any more than we did.

     It is now three months later.  I've gotten to know my son John, maybe better than I had ever imagined possible.   He is almost completely healed, with only a few more sessions left of physical therapy.  It's been tumultuous and unpredictable and sweet, all those feelings together.  As he healed, I was struck by his energy.  Putting dishes away is a cacophony of loud, crashing sounds.  The dish-washer drawer is yanked out, the plates slid forcefully into the cupboard, silverware tumbled into the appropriate partitions.  Slam, the coffee-maker is pushed along the counter; thud, the garbage can is kicked open; thwack, the dishcloth thrown against the sink.  Is he really trying to be helpful?  I'm tempted to hop up to intervene and save the lives of my appliances, but I stay put.  "Be calm," I tell myself.  Maybe this is a good sign.  He's ready to be in his own apartment, his own kitchen, where he can take out his frustrations on his own belongings.  

     I think about relationships, how much of a mix they are of love, hate, tolerance, impatience, joy, sorrow.  Always changing, and just when you're ready to say, "I've had it, I give up, get out of my life," the friend, lover, or child will do or say something that melts your heart and you're ready to try to make it work again.  John has told me more than I want to know about his girlfriend's failings, her scathing E-mails to him, their near-breakups.  I almost feel like I'm dating again myself--so relieved when she agrees to join us for Easter dinner AND bring her mother along, too.

     The latest crisis is John's purchase of a car on E-bay, exactly like his falling-apart vehicle, if one can believe the photo on the computer.  According to my son's information from the seller, it's in mint condition--what else?  But where does he need to pick up this beauty?  Tinley Park?Lockport?  Downers Grove?  Of course not.  Odessa, Texas!  Does this make sense?  But the price was right, he says.  How about the airfare, I ask, to get there?  What if it doesn't drive well?  Will you have to stay at a motel one or two nights on the drive back?  Loud noises follow.  "You never believe in me!  You keep telling me I should buy a different car, and now you're only negative about my choice!"  More discussion ensues; we calm down.  Then I tell him, if he needs a ride, I'll drive him to the airport.  He says, "Thanks," and we can both smile again.

     John is at the doctor's office now, anxious to get his release to return to work.  Then comes the call to his work.  Do they still have a job for him?  He hopes so. I hope so.  Now if only his Texas car can get him there!    

       

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[Fwd: Optional Class Assignment - what is your writing name ?]

In the book, "Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, the author has an
exercise about describing several of your secret selves - i.e.: Steve
Slate would be my secret self who is a detective. This is the name of
my 'psyche part' that is determined to find out the truth, no matter
what. This part of me will turn over every rock and look in every dark
corner; this is the part of me that likes to do that.
Lately,( five minutes ago), I have wondered why I don't have a name
for my writing self. Samuel Clemons did. His was Mark Twain. I think
that having a writing name will enable me to focus on writing better and
to give me shelter from criticism. For instance, if I am thinking about
writing something that I am not comfortable writing (dark stuff?) I can
use a different name, an alias, that gives me distance from people who
might be offended.
Also, a writing name can give one an affirmation. I take a sacred (to
me) writing name and I will honor it. Therefore I must be serious about
writing. (or silly enough to write). Therefore, I must have a soul of a
writer. Therefore I must be a writer. Yes, I am writer!! And I have no
blocks !!! (SURE, keep dreaming).
So if you take this assignment on try to create several writing names
and pick the one that feels best for you now. It can also be our secret
code name (used when amongst non-writers). If you want to go further,
write an essay why this name feels right for you or write about how you
came to choose this name.

That's all for now!
Frank

P.S. Give me feedback on this assignment - like? dislike? why?

Grace (Ralph) the Cat

It is inevitable when you own a cat. Accepting this part of my fur friend is like accepting the fact that she sheds or that she eats smelly cat food. People who do not own cats don’t understand. You get questions like “Is it a hairball?” or “Is she sick?” Cats eat. Cats drink. They poop in litter boxes and sometimes the neighbor’s garden. Cats groom themselves and rarely need a real water bath. Cats scratch things even if you have their nails removed. And cats throw up. A lot. And for no reason.

I have a sweet cat, Grace, that I have had for nearly 10 years. She has been my sidekick through raising my family and she is a dear companion. She doesn’t really like the kids, even now in their teenage years. She avoids them like she does dogs, quickly scooting around them hoping they don’t notice her entrance into the room. She sneaks around like a burglar, creeping along the baseboards, making a quick dash to the food dish, all the while avoiding their gaze. She lets out a scream when they pet her, alerting me to the fact that they dared to touch her. They never were mean to her, she just never liked them. She is a one-person gal, and that person is me.

Grace sleeps all day on my bed. She rarely leaves her spot unless The Evil Vacuum Cleaner makes its appearance, and then she goes under the bed. She waits for me until it is “our “time-- our quiet time when I pet her. She won’t tolerate being held (too confining) but she will sit close with the motor running on extra loud. She likes her back scratched and her head kissed. She doesn’t want her feet touched or her tummy rubbed. She likes to wrestle with me while I make the bed. She is the only cat I know that likes to sleep in on the weekend. She’ll go outside only if I go with her. She is a sweet kitty who all but ignores the rest of the family because she is devoted only to me.

As much as I love her, I do hate her stomach. Grace has an extra sensitive tummy and vomits nearly on command. She isn’t a long haired cat, so it isn’t a hairball issue. She isn’t allergic to her food. She just throws up a lot. She’s at it after going in the yard. She has a field day when we are on vacation. She seems to favor middle of the night and near the bed. She is at it when she eats too much. Or drinks too much. She hacks when it is hot or when it is cold. She recently threw up over the excitement of a snow day-- I found it only when I tried to crawl back into bed for a couple hours of sleep. She sat there looking at me like she usually does—“So, what’s the problem?” She doesn’t get it.

There is nothing as disconcerting as the sound of the cat hacking in the middle of the night. I try to ignore the sound, but I have to admit I am intrigued as to where the obvious has occurred. And does it need to be handled at 2:00 a.m.? Was it on the rug? Is it in the hall where someone will step into it? My mind and imagination are racing and I end up getting up. Why is it that nobody else hears this or is concerned by it? Why is it that my whole house has hard wood floors but that cat goes literally 3 inches onto the one rug we own and aims there? Why does she back up like a dump truck when she’s at it? The worst is when I hear the unspoken in my bedroom and I have to search for my special reward. Is it under the bed? Is it right where I step down? Is it on the husband’s side and can I get away with feigned surprise in the morning? NASA has never experienced a launching neither as high nor as fast as Grace hacking in the middle of the night on the bed. We’re talking complete sacrifice of the animal for the dry clean only comforter cover. I do have my limits.

Now I have to admit my patience has been tested more than once with my friend’s quirkiness, but for the most part I have accepted this part of her. I also dealt with it when my son was an infant and he, too, had a penchant for heaving. She accepts me for my quirks. She doesn’t get mad when I push her away. She understands when I’ve run out of her special weekend kitty food. I’ve learned it is just who she is and to be grateful that the other cat doesn’t share the same soft belly.

Welcome to my world

I wish I could say that everything is rosy here in WriterWorld - but it is not. It is morning the day after the class day and I wonder if life is worth living (again). I think that I do this every week the day after the class. This is the first day-after that I even feel like writing so I think I might be making progress. I hope that the new people are able to make accounts for themselves and use the Blog. My thinking is selfish - I want people to write more and to work through non-writing - perhaps they can inspire me or each other by posting writings (thoughts, ideas, comments. . .etc)
Right now I have grabbed a interface for the blogger and I am testing it out. It is supposed to allow me to go from text editor to blog without having to deal with the aggravating blog post editor. I say that because no matter how carefully I word my posts paragraphs, the blog editor takes things and posts them any which way - so I want up looking stupid with 2 word lines and no indentations to start paragraphs. I don't dare even try form poems.
But that is off the subject - I want people and this means YOU - to be gentle with yourselves. Writing creatively is tough, especially for adults. The reason is that by the time we reach adulthood, we have learned to turn off our creative processes. Very few adult jobs allow you to be creative. Most jobs in our society follow this path: do the job correctly then do it again and again and again and again with minor variations. the thinking and creativity is for higher ups. So therefore, the older you are the harder it is to access your creativity.
Our brains want to justify being creative so we tell ourselves that we can make money and become famous writers and drive big cars and get invited to Hollywood parties. We tell ourselves that our writing has to be a certain way and that is NOT how creative writing works. Creative writing comes from the place of PLAY. When you were a child, your mother did not have say anything else but go and play. You did not need INSTRUCTIONS. You just did it.
My hope is that everyone will go back to that play place in their mind and pick up a pen or crayons and see what happens. That is my real assignment for this week. See you next wednesday,
Frank

The Assignment

I guess I’m in a funk. My writing class assignment this week is to write my biography in a genre. I’m at a loss Wednesday night at the time of direction, but today is the following Tuesday and I’m still at a loss. I’ve mulled it, tossed around some ideas, but still, I’m empty. I’ve visited ideas of romance, mystery, and fiction.

Romance? “Are you kidding me?!” to quote my 15 year-old-son. I can’t even read about heaving breasts more or less write about them. Plus, the more I think about it, I don’t think mine have ever heaved.

Mystery baffles me as well. The only mysteries in my life lately are why is the cat licking her fur off her hind end and where is all the money going lately? Not stuff in which to write an exciting biography.

Fiction is my last hope and that too, isn’t going anywhere fast. I’d have to make something up and the gloomy weather is stifling my creative self. The only thing that keeps popping into the crevices of voided ideas is that of an obituary. I guess that says a lot about where my mind set is these days. I toss that idea out to Joe, who from the other side of the couch, just looks at me like I’ve lost it. Again. I guess that’s out. But why do I keep coming back to that as my biography genre?

There was a story on CNN the other day about a businessman in North Korea who is making a fortune taking people through their death. His theory is that we need to take time to appreciate our lives and the people in them and by going through death, we appreciate life. He leads a seminar in which you prepare your own obituary by candlelight and really think about who you are. You are then asked to write a will that includes messages to people in your life that you are grateful to, love, hate, or have the need to forgive. He encourages the participants to examine their relationships and address those around them with handwritten letters. Next, the “dead “are dressed in traditional burial clothes and laid into faux wooden coffins as the simulated burial begins. The lid is closed and a hammer is used to pound invisible nails, sealing the coffin for eternity. The participants lie there meditating life, death, and changes they need or want to make in their next life. They are released 10 or 15 minutes later, reborn, refreshed, ready to start again, appreciating what they have and the people around them and thinking about the changes in their lives that need to be made in order to lead a more fulfilled life.

I don’t know why that story stood out to me--maybe because I have been in a reflective mood since January. Who needs a fake funeral to reflect on his life? I’ve been doing it since 2008 began. Is it because I found 2/3 of my frog population dead this past week? It must be the weather. Cold--still. Gloomy--still. Heck, it snowed, again, yesterday. Even if it was sunny and warm, my biography is not written.

With the project still looming, I think about who I am and what I have done. I soul search. I wonder who I am, what others would say about me if I was gone (horrors) and I know that I am way over thinking this thing. I think of a song by They Might Be Giants that I taught my kids to sing at the top of their lungs when they were little. Most people teach their kids to sing “Oh, Susannah” or “Found a Peanut” or “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”. I taught my kids this:

Did a large procession wave their torches
As my head fell in the basket?
And is everybody dancing on the casket?
Now it’s over, I’m dead
and I havent’ done anything that I want
Or I’m still alive
and there’s nothing I want to do.

I think that says a lot about where I am mentally most of the time. I’m trying to be more positive. I am, really. That is my goal for 2008. Maybe that is why I don’t want to write an obituary biography--too depressing. Maybe I’m just tired of eye-rolls in my direction and being scrutinized. If I write about me, I put myself out on that rickety limb of judgment again. It’s hard to climb out on that limb when I am already feeling a little vulnerable.

I will try, so not to let down my creative self, my classmates, and Frank. I guess my biography, if I wrote a one, would include this: she lives, has some great kids, got fired from a job or two, loves a patient man, wishes for peace in her soul, fights “the man” at every opportunity, and drives everyone nuts with her passion for everything from caterpillars to her Oreck. She laughs at simple things, hates to cook, and is annoyed by just about anything her mother says or does. She wants a house outside of suburbia, a new career now that the motherhood one is fading, and a turtle for the pond. She likes opinions, Jon Katz, writing class, and red-winged blackbirds.

It’s all very odd, but all the same, it is me.

The Piano

Shrouded in white cloth, this basement its home for the last 7 years, I
said
good-by to my piano and moved to a new city.

Leaving behind memories of songs played, such as "Harbor Lights" and
"Amazing Grace", I wiped away a tear, knowing just how impossible it
would
be to move this heavy piece of wood and ivory keys up the many stairs
and out the doors of my in-laws house, which had recently been sold.

Not that it hadn't been done before. When my mom passed away, the only
thing I wanted to take with me was the piano. It had become, during
the last few years at my parent's house, a place to set photos and
knick-knacks on.
Its musical capabilities had been quietly forgotten once I had moved
out on my own. Sheer resolve and sentimentality propelled my husband
and I
to lift the piano into the moving van, drive it to his parent's and
with the
help of a strong neighbor, get it down the steps and into the basement.
Such great effort appeared to be wasted, though. Years went by, the
piano
stood neglected and quiet and out of key. When we finally covered the
piano with a white cloth for the rest of its stay there, I knew that I
was
burying a past that was becoming just a distant memory.

Before that, though, the living room had reverberated with tunes old
and new,
as I entertained my parents many a times during the supper hour.
I would make a game of it, playing a song and having my parents guess
what
it was. My dad, sitting in the lounge chair in the living room, would
sometimes
emit a muffled sob or let a tear escape down his cheek, especially when
I
played "Edelweiss". The haunting tune must have triggered something
in his German Roots or perhaps it was the depressive side of his
mental illness kicking in. Whatever the reason, the long term effects of
seeing that emotional display kicked up some deep blocks for me.
It has only been in the last few months that I can finally play that
song without
stopping and getting choked up or feeling memories of those days
envelope me. Now I can be more detached and in the "Moment" or
"Zone". Time heals, and the processing of some of these painful
emotions
was cathartic for me.

In so many ways, that piano was a therapeutic tool for me, and I was
able to lose myself
in the music and tune out the chaos of the family life I grew up in.
Sometimes, though,
my siblings would interrupt my trance into a universe only I knew about
and bully me and try to wrestle me off the piano. Perhaps it was
because I tuned them out during these times and they waned my
attention. Whatever the reason, it happened and often was a quick jolt
back into reality. When I was by myself, though, I would
dreamily imagine myself being a concert pianist someday. One of my
favorite memories was to open up the front door and blast out some
songs to the neighborhood, hoping someone would stop and be
an attentive audience for me. The piano became my friend and comrade,
and a way to let out some of my deepest emotions.

To be able to play this magical instrument, my sister and I took
lessons for several
years. I had an ear for music, I was told. My sister, on the other
hand, struggled a
little more, and did not seem to take the same interest I did in
playing. My first teacher
taught at the local piano store and showed me simple chords and
melodies from
a classical songbook. My first recital I played "SwanLake" and enjoyed
performing
for the small group who gathered there.
My second music teacher taught downtown in an older part of the city.
I had to
climb many stairs up a dim hallway to get to where my piano lessons
were given.
The teacher, an elderly man with wrinkled face and residues of alcohol
breath, played
in nightclubs and lounges when he wasn't giving lessons. I used to
wonder if he
was a bit tipsy when he taught me music, for he'd sway to the music
sitting next to
me on the bench, eyes closed and seemingly far away. But he had a
passion for
music, that was for sure. He taught me how to play waltzes, swings and
bluesy
rhythms by incorporating certain chords with my left hand. Ordinary
music transformed
itself into something uniquely special. These two piano teachers were
as different
as night and day but they both shared a love of the piano and that love
transcended
itself down to me.

When I wasn't taking lessons or practicing at home, I would spend time
"performing"
either for my parents or for my imaginary audience in some concert hall
somewhere.
Later on, in college, I stretched my boundaries and played the piano at
a nursing home. The residents there tapped their feet and sang along
to everything from " The Star
Spangled Banner" to "She'll be Coming Around the Mountain". It was one
of my
fondest memories, for I felt I was able to take something I loved and
share it with
others, perhaps bringing a little joyful distraction to their otherwise
rather mundane
lives.

I've been able to stay in touch with my piano playing since I have an
electronic keyboard that I can pull out when I feel so desired. I can
change tones
on the keyboard and it can sound like an organ, a flute, and numerous
other
instruments if I want some variety. I have been timid playing it for
fear of disturbing
neighbors. But lately a headphone has come in handy and now I can play
as loudly
as I want to and it sounds like stereo. Very nicely enhanced.

Well, that's the story of my piano playing life. It's been a great
outlet for my
creative passion and a healing, therapeutic vehicle as well. Though I
don't think
I'll ever be that concert pianist I had earlier envisioned, there is
the possibility
I might check out some nursing homes and see if I could play there. I
feel like
sharing my music with others and perhaps bringing some sunshine into
their lives.

Beverly Bronson March 2008

I am Henry, The cat with different color eyes

Hi - I am Henry, Lin's cat
with two different color eyes.
Can you write a story about me ?

A pup in a pickle

How did this happen? I was only thinking of whether or not I should chew this when a wave of warmth and comfort overcame me. Now I feel stuck and smothered. What is a poor pup to do?

Unboring Ninja Poetry

- One day, as I was eating nothing and drinking coffee, an unboring
ninja came up to me. I was a little surprised because this hooded figure
had snuck up on me. But I guess that is what ninjas do. The little
ninja, only about a foot tall, and clad in black handed me a note. The
note was written in english and kongi. I do not know how to read kongi
so I read the english part.I am jojojo, an unboring ninja - I am here to
spice up your stories and to make people laugh - I will come and go as I
please - my brothers and sisters and I will come when we think things
are boring and when you need us and when you call for us. Sometimes we
won't come right away but that is because we are on a cookie break. Just
say the word - bore-o-vo-to-ho-ho and we will appear. Signed, the league
of unboring ninjas united  (LUNU for short). The little ninja, waved
his arm, cried out "highah" and deftly took back the note from my hand
before I could react. One triple forward sumsersault over the desk
(where I was sitting) and was gone. I didn't even have time to say
goodbye (or even hello). So I sat and wondered and then I thought I
would write a story about unboring ninjas. I typed in the title "The
secret of the Unboring ninjas". I felt a tapping on my shoulder. It was
the unboring ninja and he(?) handed me another note. It said, you can't
write about us because we are ninja and ninja are secret little people
who no one ever sees. We will just appear in your stories when they get
boring. (Which is never because my stories are never boring !) So what
you are saying is that I can't write about you ? The ninja gave me
another note - it said - banana yellow sneakers. and I said "what does
that mean" and the ninja gave me another note and it had a poem on it :
Banana Yellow Sneakers
really high up in the tree
How they got there , I don't know
must have been meant just for me
right foot, left foot, up I go
Now they're right in front of me
slimy green and smelly wet
way too big, they don't fit - yet!
home I go with my booty
Mom is laughing, dad is too
where in the world did you get
those moldy old yellow shoes
back in the tree hanging high
this'll be a lesson for me
Not to look for something free
and Special Lee to teach me
something about Eddy Kett.

So I wrote it down and here it is. what do you think ?

Joe and the Coffeemaker

Few words strike a common cord amongst married women like the words “leg lamp”. Unless you were born a week ago, you know what those words mean. They are symbolic of the power struggle between the sexes. They stand for the many small battles that couples, over time, must learn to accept, engage in, and overcome in order to cohabitate for any amount of time. It is the dance of married people—the give and take, the deciding which disagreements are battles and which are Battles. Each must compromise, dominate, and accept defeat at various times for the benefit of the marriage, and when they don’t, the marriage fails. In our house, it is usually the most mundane of things that sends us into the gladiator arena—when the lawn should be mowed and by whom, where to hang the shed key, and the overstocking of various types of mustard in the frig. I think we are normal, as we pull together in the really serious trials of life, but we can drive each other nuts with the silly petty stuff. Thank god for love or I’d kill him half of the time. The other half, he’d kill me, I’m sure of it.

Joe decided to assert himself at, of all places, the high school band fundraiser night. We don’t get out as much as we should, so this is a great evening of fun, filled with adult conversations, cocktails, music, dancing, and raffles. There are the usual silent auctions (that we can’t afford), lame door prizes, and about a hundred raffle prizes. There are raffle prizes that I think are nice—like spa packages, restaurant certificates, or baskets of gourmet foods. There are raffle prizes that Joe likes—18 holes of golf, Ipods, and a bucket of car grooming products. Then there are raffle prizes that nobody wants—the 8 foot neon palm tree, the outdated CD player, the electric coin counter, or the Bears bean bag chair. Well, I think no one wants them, anyway.

We peruse the raffles prize tables, tickets clenched tightly in my fist, deciding what cup to honor their presence in. Joe makes a suggestion and I rebuff him. “We don’t need that” is the usual admonishment. He makes more suggestions, I think I’m compromising, and we drop tickets in various buckets. I inspect the prizes carefully, making sure we don’t end up with something silly and frivolous; completely unaware of the fact that Joe is miserable.

Joe has a Type B personality. Thank God. I am a very Type A and we balance each other most of the time. He is so Type B, that I think he is almost a B minus. Joe was the youngest of five kids in his family. He is the master of fitting in, the king of mellow, and the picture of passive-aggressive. He is usually quiet, pretty easy going, and tolerant of my latest escapades. When I’m yelling and screaming, he stands there waiting until I’m finished. I take charge, he takes orders. I’m a go-getter, he’s a let’s –think-about-it-for-awhile. He has earned the name “Poor Joe” because it appears that he just follows the Lin Bandwagon, which isn’t true, but it appears that way to onlookers. Poor Joe gets his way sometimes, but quietly, he just doesn’t make a whole lot of noise about his rebellion. Tonight was no exception.

I was talking to some friends, sipping a glass of wine, when the unthinkable happened. Joe politely interrupted the conversation to say that he bought just another $5 worth of tickets. He casually added that he would just take care of them while I was visiting. I never suspected, never saw it coming. He was an adult, he could handle this. How much trouble could he get into with $5 worth of tickets?

As we sat down at the table, Joe admitted that he had put all 6 tickets into the cup for a coffeemaker. We didn’t’ need a coffeemaker and I said so. I was about to give him crap about how silly that was when I realized that his eyes were sparkling with that stick-it-to-Lin kind of look. Worse yet, the other men at the table were all smiling and secretly envying his audacity. They too, must have had their raffle tickets reined in by the little woman, and were waiting to see Joe’s demise or perhaps, a victory. One guy actually admitted that he snuck in tickets for the neon palm tree.

Finally, Joe spoke up--loudly, I might add.

“The cup only had a couple of tickets in it. I figured I had a good chance to win.” He was so damn proud of himself I couldn’t say anything more. “It’s not about a coffeemaker—it’s about winning.” He started to look like the dad in “A Christmas Story” when he got the letter saying he’s won “a major award”. The similarity was scary.

Yeah, but you’re winning a coffeemaker. I gave up. I knew that once again, Poor Joe was setting me up to be the bad guy and I looked like the fool. Let him have his coffeemaker. Or not. He didn’t win it yet. I still had a chance if they didn’t draw his ticket.

The Durabrand showed up on the table with the flourish of Vanna White. Joe won the golden chalice of raffle prizes and it wasn’t even a name brand. The box boasted of its finest features—a water level indicator and an on/off button. It didn’t even have a timer! It pretty much was the leg lamp of prizes. But that didn’t matter to Joe or his cohorts at the table. Oh, there were high fives, and hoots of glory. There were handshakes and pats on the back. There were told-you-so smirks to the wives. Yep, they showed me. It was the dumbest prize ever won and you’d think he’d just won the Super bowl.

The Durabrand went up in the attic the next day. We didn’t need the thing, and Joe quietly stowed it away for Amvets or maybe next year’s raffle. He didn’t care that it was lame; all that he cared about is that he WON. I didn’t understand it, and I still don’t. I think it is a guy thing. I’ll let him have this one. Let him have his glory, his moment in the sun. If that’s what it takes to make himself feel good, I didn’t say a word. So what if he was acting like one of the kids?

Two days later, ( and I’m not making this up) I dropped the glass pot for my Krupp’s.

Hi, I am JAWS the talking frog. Welcome to my mini-blog, a blog within a blog. I have a few things to say today.

1) It ain't easy being green, in the winter I mean.
2) I don't like crickets with top hats and canes.
3) I am on a hunger strike until Hillary wins (a primary) Oh, well forget about point three.
4) When is lunch ? I'm starved.
5) Nothing is better on a hot day than a dip in the pond.
6) Pass the flies - I'm starved.

the TAO of YOU

What I believe
is nothing to you
unless of course
you believe it too.

I didn't think you
would think the way I
do and yet the
truth still comes through.

What it is to
me is not what it
is to you but
it is the same too.

Now I hope that
you realize these words
are but symbols
of a deeper view

One in which I
play no part of you
and one in which
you are you and to

be what you feel
you are you must be
true to the truth
that is known as you

there might be some
who say otherwise
Yet I for one do
believe in you too

A simple poem

What I believe

is nothing to you

Unless of course

you believe it too

Jaws - the Klller Frog (don't get too close)

Be very afraid !!!
(courtesy of LMK)
Frank

Minnie Lee

I woke up last night, unable to sleep, thinking about all the things in the world that aren’t so important when it is daylight. I hate it when I do that because everything at 3:00 am is so much more depressing than it would be at 8:00 or 9:00 am. I lay there a long time, tossing and turning, mulling the fact that my writing and pockets were nearing empty this week. Damn recession. What can I blame the writing on? That’s when Minnie Lee came to visit.

I met Minnie when my son was in kindergarten. She was a scrawny thing, dressed in hand-me-downs that had seen better days, and her hair was full of braids and mismatched barrettes. She didn’t stand out as being less fortunate because, god knows, there were probably 5 more in the class that had it as bad as she did. They were clean for the most part, spiffed up for the first days of class in whatever good clothes they owned. You didn’t notice the details when you walked in, they were all excited to start school and a new adventure. It took a few times of visiting to realize how bad off some of these kids were.

There are some things in this world that should not be, like murder or rape or incest. Children growing up in poverty has to be one of the worst and Minnie Lee was my introduction to that heartbreak. These kids were raised in a poverty stricken neighborhood that fed into our school district and I never knew how bad these kids had it until I saw it for myself when I would volunteer in the class. They had coats that did not fit. There were no hats on their heads or gloves on their hands on the most freezing of days. They ate whatever the lunch lady served—there were no finicky eaters amongst this bunch. They didn’t have shoes that fit or pants that reached the ground. One little girl shared with me the bite marks on her finger tips that she said came from “the rats”. It broke my heart, but these were things I could not fix. I could only give them love and attention for the time that I was there, and pray that their lives would get better.
Minnie stood out among the crowd only because she fought her situation. At five, she knew she was different, and she didn’t like it. She wanted attention, and because she didn’t know how to get it, she acted out. She poked girls in the washroom line, wiggled during story time, sang at the top of her lungs in music. She wouldn’t sit in her chair. She wouldn’t share crayons. Minnie’s name was constantly being yelled, and she would smile a silly grin as if she was just awarded Student of the Week. Bad attention for Minnie was better than no attention at all. Fortunately, Mrs. Applegate was a veteran and understood her need. Minnie was given a lot of positive attention as well, but she was never as proud as when she misbehaved.

Time went on and it was a common sight to see Minnie out in the hall or visiting the principal’s office. She had a permanent spot in the chair outside the office door and she sat there proud as the Queen of England when she was there. I would stop and chat with her, ask her what she was doing, but she had no shame, no remorse. This was still better than what she had at home. No yelling, stern lectures or cajoling could convince Minnie that this was no way to get through school. She was so determined in her quest for attention, so strong willed, that most of the staff had pretty much given up on her. They wrote her off by the end of kindergarten.

I was at school the very first week of first grade and I was in charge of sharpening the kids’ pencils from their supply boxes. Every desk was lined up neatly and their colorful name tags taped to the top of their desk. Each child had their supply box on the top corner of their desk, ready for the tasks ahead. They were full of brand new pencils and pristine erasers. There were shiny new scissors, a new box of crayons, glues sticks and rulers ready for eager hands. What potential lie in that small box on the desk. Everyone except Minnie Lee.

Minnie had no box. She showed up for the first day of school with a Ziploc bag of broken crayons and a couple of chewed up pencils with the erasers worn off. I don’t remember if she had a glue stick, but I do remember that Mrs. Durbin had given her an empty Kleenex box to put her collection in. When I came to her desk, my heart sank. How do you start the school year with the lame remnants of last year? How can you be creative with broken crayons that you have to strip the paper off to reach any color? How do you learn math and not have an eraser? There is such hope and excitement in new school supplies. Do you remember how excited it was to shop for them as a kid?! A new year, a new pencil, a new start. This poor kid was just continuing her already pathetic start.

I went home and shared my finding with a good friend, and we both cried. How can hope be snuffed out in someone so young? How do we stand by and not help? And how far do you help? We couldn’t solve Minnie’s poverty problem, but we could give her a fresh start in school. Maybe a fresh start will give her a fresh attitude. We put together supplies from our overstock at home, and found an extra box to put them in. My friend painted Minnie’s name on the top in rainbow colors, the kind that first grade girls love so much. I stopped at the school when the kids were at lunch and replaced her sad little box with the new one. Mrs. Durbin knew who did it, but I don’t think Minnie ever did, and that wasn’t important. What was important is that little girl felt special for one tiny moment in her life. I only imagine her face when she came back from lunch.

Minnie never changed. She struggled with her lessons. She wore clothes that were too small for her. She paraded a worn polyester nightgown with Cinderella’s picture faded on the front for her Halloween costume that year. She sat on her thrown by the front office far too often. Things weren’t going to change anytime soon for Minnie and that broke my heart. I wanted to grab that kid, throw her into a warm tub of overflowing bubbles and dress her in the finest dress. I wanted her to wear party shoes and paint her fingernails. I wanted to braid her hair and put in matching barrettes. I wanted to fill her tummy with good food and sweet candies. I wanted her life to be different. I wanted. I wanted.

Minnie’s family moved late in the year and I never saw her again. I was hopeful for her until I learned that her young parents were having yet more marital problems and mom took the eight kids to live with family in Ford Heights. She went from the frying pan into the fire. My heart sank. What will become of Minnie? I couldn’t even begin to think of what she was experiencing and I couldn’t help her.

So, in the dark, I dream of Minnie. What became of her? Is she in school? Does she eat well? I hope she isn’t on drugs. Why do I think the answers to these questions are as scary at 8:00 a.m. as they are at 3:00 a.m.? Minnie haunts me.

the snow man by wallace stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

What is the poet trying to say ?
Why is the title 'the snow man' ?
Something to think about and perhaps write about...

FRANK