This once was a sculpture on Navy Pier, believe it or not. As I took this picture, a person walked by but looked down to the bottom of the cage rather than at the figure on the swing.
I wonder why ? What does this picture mean to you ? What feelings or thoughts does it evoke from you ?
Frank

The Restless Beast

The house is suddenly silent. After the flurry of I’m-gonna-miss-the bus racing, I’m sitting in silence. It’s not completely silent as the fish tank bubbles in the other room. The cats are playing “horses in the house” again. Their rampaging through the house like Clydesdales is stifling the quietness. I know once they have finished their reign of terror on sparkle balls and each other, it will be all day napping for them, and the din of solitude, which I both love and hate, will be upon me.

My identity, my life, for the past 16 years has been of a mother. I was thrust into this career unwillingly many years ago. I once had a career, I really did. I had a life. That’s what everyone else calls it. I never thought this life would be mine when I was young and idealistic. Roaming the college campus, I always dreamed that I would someday play the part of an executive or have some exciting career. I hoped to marry and have children, but my CAREER would be the focus. I wanted to be successful. I wanted the big house. I wanted it all. Never in my co-ed days would I think that I would spend my days doing doll hair and loving it.

Most times things don’t work out the way you plan them. It didn’t for me, but I don’t have any regrets. I was the product of a bad economy those years ago, and we decided that it would be best for me just to continue staying home with the children, if it was at all possible. It was a decision that would change me forever. I never thought the career for me would be stay-at-home mom--and that I would love it so.

I raised two nice kids in those sixteen years, and I continue to do so. I spent many days in the backyard sandbox and sitting on the swing set. We played Hot Wheels, Barbie, Hi-Ho Cherry-O, and listened to Raffi. I was the master creator of Play-doh animals, architect of Lego restaurants with drive-thrus, and beautician extraordinaire for the American Girls. I made up games to break my boredom. Character bowling was fun. We would collect every McDonaldland toy, set them up in 10 pin formation, and hurl the ball down the hall. Big hit with the kids. They loved it when Winnie the Pooh would go flying!

We didn’t watch much TV then, I always found the kids cranky after too much staring. We would take hour long walks around the block to count barking dogs or squirrels. We would pack lunches and go to the zoo for the day. Summertime was hanging out in the wading pool and winter was building igloos with the snow block maker until I couldn’t straighten my back. We put towels on the floor and played with kitchen utensils in a tub of water. We had play group on Tuesdays with the neighbor kids. I loved Barbie and her hip clothes. I hated Candy Land and the park.

It wasn’t all Donna Reed, mind you. I remember the days of changing clothes three times before 9:00 a.m., and it wasn’t just the kids’. I resented having to give other people’s children attention at the local pool while they sat in the chair with a magazine. I didn’t want to push children on the swings at the park. I was sick of making lunch. If I could make it through January, February, and March, I could make it through anything. Damn, Barbie, and those long, skinny legs. If one more parent tells me how they don’t have to be Room Mom because I “love it” so much…………………….

I reminisce fondly on those years. I love being a mom. I hate that my career is ending. It is ending. Slowly. And I don’t know what to do. They still need me, but not until 3:30 or so. I don’t want them to need me so completely now, as they did when they were younger. There is something weird in that. No, I am the mother bird who raises her young to watch them leave. That is my job. I want them to be young adults and to make their own way in the world. I don’t want them to live with me forever. I want them to go out and experience life they way that they should. But I will miss them.

I search for who I am now. I don’t like this silence of not being needed. I’m not sure of when my job is over completely. When can I go get a “real” job? When do they not need me anymore? What is my identity now? Even the working moms struggle with who I am—“So, what are you doing these days?”Is there anything more pathetic than a stay-at-home mom with no kids at home?

I am confident that my course will present itself when needed. I will wake up one day and know that I won’t have to drive somebody somewhere and then I will have to find something else to fill the day. Frilly part-time jobs will have to go on the wayside and some other adventure will arise. Until then, I wait to be needed.

The ruckus of the two beasts has subsided into sunshine-laden naps and I finally have quiet to reflect. I think of my children and family and realize that I am successful. They’re great kids. They make me laugh and I’m glad that I had those years with them. I’m not sure what having it all is, but I do know that I have a lot—only in a small house.

Retire: to go to Bed

     When they ask me if  I'm enjoying retirement, they want to her that I love it, that I don't miss work and have never been busier.  I hesitate with my answer.  I like it as much as I have ever liked my life.

     Sometimes I miss the getting ready rush, the short shower, quick comb, hurried lip-sticking of my mouth in the mirror;  the instant comradery of strangers at the gas pump: nice day, gonna rain, never can tell;  the big hello from the front desk, thank God you're here, looks like a tough day;  noon lunch in the lounge where we trade our simple household stories, show family photos and share a loud laugh;  the feel-good ride home, made all the lights, what's for supper, the rescue of the weekend, the certainty of Monday morning's routine again.

     

     Now, where's the rush?

     What is really worth doing today?

     Why get out of bed at all?                                                                                                                

Would anyone notice if the newspaper lay all day in the driveway, unread, never unrolled?  If flower bed weeds crawled rampant, dust left streaks on the piano, food molded in the frig?

     I would like to be missed, sought after, paid again for a job I thought no one else could do.  I met my replacement: pretty, barely out of high school, bright smile, lovely hair, no gray.  She was quick to catch on.  "Nothing to it," she chirped.  "I think I'm ready to take over.  Enjoy your retirement," she gushed as I pushed out the office door, into the world of appearing to be busy, useful, calendar full, the hard work just beginning.

                                      

Taking Down the Fiesta Ware

      The call came last night.  It was the Salvation Army lady.  Did I have anything discarded that was useful to give them?  I said yes and hung up the phone.  In the guest bedroom on a closet shelf rested for several years my treasured Fiesta Ware.  I was using it daily ever since my mother had handed it down to me.  It was her one purchase during the "war years" that had survived and needed to be preserved and protected, if only for its endurance.  But my son-in-law had cautioned me after a meal at my house that this was too valuable to keep using day to day.  I really should set it aside and use something else.  So I had wrapped the pieces in tissue to please him.

     Now I asked my daughter, she who lives in a Mies Van der Rhoe high-rise, if she would like the set someday.  "Well, I do have the Eva Zeisel collection," she said.  "I'm not sure we'd have the room."  I thought about their furnishings: the Eames chairs, the Macintosh table, the 1930s lamps.  Even Frank Lloyd Wright didn't make the cut.  I knew my Fiesta Ware couldn't expect to either.

     Just to remind myself of its value, I pulled the cardboard box down from the shelf and peered into it  Red, blue, green, yellow and aqua were the basic colors.  The set wasn't complete due to various mishaps over the years, but I slid the pieces out one by one, carefully turning them around to examine them.  The blue gravy boat was a favorite, along with the green round salt and pepper shakers.  I remembered them on my mother's table in the small bungalow house in Indiana.  She was especially proud of the red plate because they had stopped making red during the war.  I even had an old Polaroid photo of my parents sitting at the metal-edged table in the kitchen with the plates spread around, waiting for company.  The surface of each plate was marred with years of fork scraping but I liked that.  It was proof of their usefulness.  They had been faithful; they had served; they had survived.

      I couldn't part with them yet.  I made a note to myself to call the Salvation Army lady.  They would have to wait a few years for the donation. 

Summer Kill

     His mistress had killed before.  In fact, she had done the deed yesterday,  not just once, but several times.  The victims wore yellow and black stripes, veritable jail inmates.  She had set out a trap for them; "Attractant included, scientific formulation" it read.  But it was two years old and they hadn't taken the bait.   These guys were smart.  Better to wait inside for them, his mistress thought.  How did they make their way through the windows to cling to the screens?  She was sure she had cranked them shut and yet, here they were--buzzing across like tiny hoodlums on motorcycles.

     Her cat stared blankly at them.  What were they? Playmates?  Something to eat?  He didn't like how they hovered above his head and wouldn't meet him face to face.  He tried to bat one down with his paw but it only flew straight up to the ceiling as if to say, "OK, super-cat, reach me now!"  He lost interest and slunk back to his favorite warm spot on top of the VCR.  

      Let the big human deal with them.  He didn't like moving objects anymore.  Rather, he fancied neatly cut squares of salmon dinner waiting in his bowl twice a day.  No stalking, no pouncing, no flying feathers or squealing bunny sounds.  Just inert, orange blobs in the same spot in the kitchen day after day.   Life was simple; life was good.  He buried his nose in the crook of his paw and purred.  Then, wham!  Down came the fly swatter on the window pane above him.  He jumped off the VCR ledge in search of a quiet corner.  How about behind the bookcase?  No bees.  No swatter.  Perfect.  Nothing could reach him here.  He was safe, snuggled into a warm ball of fur, even his mistress with her weapon poised to kill couldn't come close.  Life was good again.  Prrrrrrr. 

A Sign of the Times

I found this sign in Downtown Frankfort. What could this mean ? Is it a sign of the End Times ?
What do you think ? I would like to know?

Small f, Big F

In the back of my address book, I keep small scraps of paper. Written or pictured on these scraps are things that meant something to me at one time—cute pictures, quotes that have personal meaning, small articles from the newspaper that comfort, intrigue, or otherwise inspire me in some fashion. I go through them sometimes, and it always amazes me how they still pertain and I can’t let them go. It’s kind of my Tomb of Tutankhamen that little address book. When I die, someone will go through my bounty at the back of the book, and hopefully, it will lend insight on the person I truly was and what had been going through my heart and mind all of those years.

One of the articles I have saved is one on friendship. It was relevant all those many years ago when I first cut it out, and it still is. I guess my theory on friends and friendship hasn’t changed, and my theory was also shared by at least one person. When pressed for thoughts on friendship, I turn to this article and reflect. I cannot take credit for the theory; I only adopt it as my own, and apply my own requirements. The theory of friendship is explained by capitalization--there are your friends (small f) and then there are your Friends (big F).

Small f friends are those that you see at the PTA meeting or the grocery store. These are neighbors you just wave to as you drive down the street, the moms and dads that you spend a whole baseball season sitting next to, but don’t get together with much for dinner. The girl doing sit-ups next to you at exercise class, the older lady at Weight Watchers, the one person you can actually tolerate at work, and the other car-pool moms--all qualify for a small f. They know you better than the mailman, but not much—they can name your children, know who your husband is, and might even know that you like lemon drop martinis, but they haven’t quite made the jump to Big F. You smile and say “great” when they superficially ask how you are today, they don’t press when you’ve said you had a bad day or that your mother is driving you crazy, and they never call to just chat. These people are more than acquaintances, but they aren’t truly a Friend friend--you know, like a big F.

Big F friends are the treasured, hard-core, been-through-it-all friends. These are usually long term and you can’t imagine life without them. These are much better than family, as they aren’t required to love you—they just do. These friends are the ones who patiently listen to your millionth complaint about your “saintly” husband, who agree your mom is nuts, and remember your birthday even when you don’t want to. They can say you look like crap in that top, or say that you are hot in your new swimsuit, in spite of your bumpy thighs. They know your parents and siblings, and you know theirs. They send presents for your new baby when they’ve just suffered a miscarriage. They will sit for hours watching the ball game with you, because, they like baseball too. They can get mad at you, but still come back for your friendship in the end. These are the hold-your-hair-while-you-get-sick kind of friends. They know your ugliness, but love you just the same.

It’s lovely to have a lot of friends and I cannot imagine everyday life without their presence. They are the warm sunshine on a yucky day. But it is the Big F friends that I’ll take, no matter how few there are.

I am sorry

I have accidentally posted more of the story on are-now-writer blog. I meant to post it here. Sorry.
FRANK

Then

     I was the puppy dog who waited for the pat on the head.  "Good boy" I wanted to hear.  "Well done" would have sent my tail wagging.

     But instead you said we weren't friends anymore.  We had gone our separate ways.  You had other friends: sophisticated, educated, artistic.  They served you better.

     I was left behind to wonder why, where had I gone wrong?  Was it something I said?  Was I too simple, too devoted?  Too naive?  Too pathetic?  Just not good enough?  

     After all we had been through.  All the letters exchanged. All the ways I tried to help you.  It meant nothing?

     Maybe I knew too much, knew you too well, knew you past, your failings, knew your vulnerabilities, your mistakes.

     You wanted to start fresh, the new you, who had a new pet to do your bidding.  Come.  Sit.  Stay.  Now.

more of Sam Story

At this moment in time, I realize my storytelling involves a confusing
(for me) jumping around timeline - one minute were in a bar, then the
story shifts to the past and now I am in some vague future writing
this. I apologize to whomever is reading this in an even further
future. But this is the best way, okay not the best, maybe the most
logical - no, it is not too logical, wait . . . I've got it - the
easiest way to follow the story. Not that it is easy to follow.
So, anyway, this is the story so far: I am sitting in a bar drinking
beer with an old friend whom I have not seen in five years. He wants to
tell me what happened to him in those five years but he thinks that
this knowledge might somehow warp me. I think, 'should I trust him ? He
sounds okay and is as charming as ever' and somehow I remember a time
when we were very young when he tried to trick me.
The point of that memory is, well, actually, there are two points, so
they are one - that whenever people have tried to trick me, they do and
yet somehow it all works out for me. The second point is that Sam never
tried to do this again (have a laugh at my expense). That is not to say
that Sam never tried to fool me again or keep things from me - he did.
Sometimes not too well, like my 'surprise' birthday parties from ages
12 through 25 - I mean what is surprising about this : it is the day of
your birthday and somehow you can't be where you normally would be and
your best friend says 'hey, let's do something different, just you and
me, let's go walking on the beach.' and I say 'okay', because I know
this is a ploy to get me out of the way so that people can set up the
party and surprise me. Every year, I am surprised, surprised that these
people are trying to surprise me. Can't be done - at least not in such
an obvious way. But, on this day, Sam did surprise me and not just by
showing up.
He surprised me by being so cryptic and vague. Usually, at least up
until he disappeared, Sam would be gushing out details left and right,
leaving me to make sense to them.
"Fourteen dollars, can you believe it ? Parking, and it is so hot and
then this girl, maybe 16 or 20, and then two ice cream cones, walking
and fireworks, man, can you believe it - fireworks!"
That was Sam's description of the baseball game he had been to. I don't
even want to tell you what a hot date might sound like. Suffice to say,
listening to Sam required years of experience to know what really was
being said. The more excited he became, the less verbiage was used.
Considering the look in his eyes, that's what I was ready for - nonstop
details, flying out of his mouth. I imagined something like this -
"Tibet, old man, winter, clothes, robe, food, bending, meditation,
yeah, now you" with hand gestures thrown in to highlight some point or
direction depending on the words being spoken. I consider myself an
expert in the Samese language. I had years of experience picking up the
dialect and the idioms, I was ready.
Yet, Sam surprised me, speaking in clear whole sentences that I did
not have to interpret. 'What has happened to this guy?' I thought. 'Has
he been abducted by aliens and replaced by a clone?' Whole scenarios
leapt into my mind. 'That's why it has taken five years. They probably
needed that much time to try and figure out what was going on in his
mind. They should have abducted me because then that would have sped
up the process but they didn't. Stupid aliens content to think that
their superior science would solve every problem. They are so smug but
I have seen through their plan.'
"Hey," Sam was staring at me, "I could use your attention here. This
is serious. I am going to tell you about the guy." He emphasized the
last two words by speaking them with a hushed voice and an eye twitch
as if was quickly looking to his right without trying to be noticed as
if there might be someone listening. I couldn't figure that one out
because Papa's was a place where you could bring your covert lover and
not be seen since the booths were high and spaced far enough apart and
the noise was loud (not too loud) and the interior was dark (not too
dark). There were larger tables in the middle of the main room where
large parties (more than four people) would sit and drink beer and eat
pizza. Papa's served a large menu of mostly luck food, as in hope you
have the good luck not to order it and the better luck not to eat it.
Sam and I determined that with enough beer the pizza was 'good enough'
but the rest of the menu required more beer than an elephant could
drink to become 'good enough'. Papa's was a no nonsense, drink beer
kind of a place. And if you tipped the waitress enough she would let
you sneak in some decent food. For Sam and I, this place was thee
perfect spot to drink beer and talk away from the prying eyes of our
families. (More on them later).
"So tell me already," I said, "who and or what is this guy." I paused
for a moment and spoke in a whisper, "if you can tell me without them
(I made a twitch with my eye) knowing." Sam ignored my whisper.
"He is so hard to describe. I don't know where to begin. He shows up
out of nowhere, most of the time, and then he does what he does and
then after days or hours or even minutes, he is gone. Without a bit of
evidence that he was there in the first place."
"Then how do you know he's real ?" I countered.
"Because of what happens when he's around. He makes things happen. Big
things. And it rocks you to the core." Sam stopped, not unlike a
witness in a TV courtroom who has realized he has said too much. I
watched as Sam's consciousness pulled back into his head, his mind
running through ideas. Tick Tock. Thirty seconds pass. Bingo. His eyes
light back up again and he faces me.
"He wants to see you."
"Me?" I am shocked. That is the last thing I thought he would say. Not
to worry though, my ego takes over. Of course. This guy used Sam to get
to me. I am the real goal. My ego ignores the fact that 'this guy' has
been with Sam for five years. My ego reasons that out this way - it
probably took this guy five years to realize that I'm the prize. Hmm. .
. that doesn't sound right - Wait I know, this guy has used up Sam and
now he needs another person to use and abuse. Hmm. . . still doesn't
sound right.
What I don't realize is that my consciousness has pulled back into my
head and Sam is waiting for me to return. Tick Tock. Twenty seconds
pass. Sam has tired of waiting.
"He wants to see you tonight." That last word makes a whole new
scenario in my mind. Ego has given up and my deductive mind has taken
over.
"What? How? When?" is what I wanted to say but actually I said
something more like this: "Whaaa huh?" I sounded like a drunk woken up
from an alcoholic nap. To my surprise Sam isn't laughing.
"He'll meet you tonight, if you let him." This gets better and better.
Or creepier and creepier. I don't know anything about this guy and Sam
here is trying to fix me up on a date.
If I was a girl, I might have been totally freaked and none of the
strange stuff that followed would have happened. It also would have
been the end of this story, but I am me, a nearly reckless person, who
is willing to try nearly anything. Once. Besides, Sam is still alive
and seems okay - so I'll play along.
"Okay, how do I let him ?"
"Just say these words out loud"
"What words?"
"I've haven't said them yet."
"Well," I put emphasis on the next words, "say them."
"Promise not to laugh."
"JUST SAY THEM!"
"Okay, here goes," Sam hesitates, "are you sure you want to do this?"
"SAY THEM BEFORE I PULL THEM OUT OF YOU!" My blood pressure is
starting to rise - I feel the monster within coming out. Yet, I know
Sam is playing with me once again and I am still falling for his old
trick.
"Okay, you don't have to yell. I'll say them." Sam looks at me and
knows that my eyes are starting to glow red which means it is time to
release his words. "I allow Bashia to visit me."
He says really fast. They fly out of his mouth so fast that I don't
hear them because I am busy being impatient. I calm down.
"Say again. I didn't hear you."
"I allow Bashia to visit me. Tonight. You have to say tonight,
otherwise it is an open-ended invitation and you don't want that." Sam
looks pleased with himself as if he has accomplished something
significant. I look confused.
"So all I have to say is - Bashia come visit me and he comes?" I am
trying to work this out in my mind and when I do that I have a tendency
to think out loud.
"Tonight," Sam corrects, "you have to say tonight."
It is Sunday afternoon, about three-ish and I have had only two beers
- well one and a half. I am thinking if I had plans to do anything
tonight but no I don't. I had left the day open to see what would
happen with Sam. I figured that it would take at least a few hours for
each of us to catch up on what has happened to us in the last five
years. I had figured that I would drink about three and a half beers in
that time and I would need a ride home, but now it looks like Sam is
not going to tell me much and this beer probably would be my last so I
could drive myself home and then I would have nothing to do all night -
so yeah, I could see this guy. This whole train of thought runs through
my brain in a second or two.
"Okay, I'll do it." I straighten up and take a deep breath. "Bashia
come visit me tonight."
The words flow out of my mouth and strangely enough they send a shiver
down my back. "Whoa." is what I say and 'Holy shit' is what I am
thinking. What have I gotten myself into?

Bird on Cardstock Under a Plastic Sleeve

He is a watercolor bird, painted on cardstock and temporarily protected by a plastic sleeve. Though a small bird, I think he is an enlargement of a corner in a much larger painting. He is nested in the journal of other artistic endeavors, waiting for his opportunity to soar the skies of dreams.

His blue wings are pulled close to his sides, sitting and waiting for either flight or rest. I don’t think he has decided which yet, but is prepared for both. His face is turned, facing the other pictures on the page, staring in the darkness at lotus flowers, brilliant in color, and wolves howling in the moon’s light. He is not alone in this journal, as all of the photos are waiting, waiting, for something more to come. They wait for someone to open the pages and release them from their flimsy prison, out into the wide world of creative expression.

The tiny bird dreams of the day when he is free to escape his plastic sleeve. He longs to spread those soft downy blue wings, feeling each feather rustling in the wind, the sun warming his face. He wants to fly free, and experience the infinite heights in which those wings can carry him. He wants to look upon the world and all the other birds, and yell “Come with me! It’s beautiful here!” encouraging them to fly with him.

He dreams at drinking cool water from ponds and streams, and finding nourishment from the fields of flowers. He may stop at a feeder to two to take advantage of kind souls that welcome feathered friends. The other birds that stop there will welcome him to join their flock, banding together in their fight for survival--there is safety in numbers they say. They hope for a small puddle in which to hop about, flapping their wings, tossing droplets of water on their backs to wash away the day’s grime. It is a joyful experience, but also necessary to keep the oil of their wings clean and primed for soaring.

As much as he longs for the spring and summer, he also dreads the winter and the cold that comes with it, the deep snow when food is scarce, and hawks that prey upon he and his friends. Cover is limited in winter, and the only hope is to find an evergreen, full and thick, to protect him from freezing winds. It is the winter that he is most vulnerable, you see, and he may find himself wanting to give up. His only comforting thought is the memory of the warm sun, and it will keep him alive in the most bitter of winters. And spring will come again he knows.

I stare at the little bird on cardstock in the plastic sleeve, and know that we share the same dreams. I smile at him and silently wish him luck. He is a beautiful bird, full of life and hope. I hope he finds his warm sunshine, his wings, and his ability to soar.

start of chapter 2

Chapter 2 Taking a poison pill

You would think that since Sam was at one time my best friend, he would
be my most trusted friend but he was not. Let's just say that we had a
history. There was the time when he convinced me that I had magical
powers, not a hard thing to do. All my life, I was convinced that I had
something, some magic or some ability that would make me great. And when
I was six, I really believed I did. All I had to do was say the magic
word 'Scuzzbuzz' and I could make the garage door go up - yes, he had a
garage door opener in his pocket and yes this was in the days when one
garage door opener could open nearly all gargage doors. So I am going
down the block yelling 'Scuzzbuzz' making doors open and close, when I
hit the one that won't open.
"Maybe you didn't say it right," says Sam "maybe you didn't say it loud
enough. Maybe you need to say the full magic force power phrase." Which
of course was the real trick, getting me to yell at the top of my lungs
"YOU SCUZZBUZZ GET OPEN FOR ME NOW" at Mrs. Cravite's garage door. Mrs.
Cravite was the one adult in the neighborhood who never trusted us kids
and always thought we were doing some sort of gang trouble making. Her
garage was stuffed with newspapers and boxes in which there was
magazines and newspapers and smaller boxes filled with smaller magazines
and pieces of newspaper and tiny boxes. I am not sure how much further
this cycle kept on because I had to run away due to the police coming.
When Mrs. Cravite heard me scream for the third time, during which Sam
was rolling around trying hard not to laugh, she pressed her garage door
opener because she was convinced we street gang kids were going to break
the door anyway. This was not supposed to happen and Sam started to
wonder if I really had magic powers. I, of course, knew I did, and I
immediately went into the garage. Why ? Because I was convinced that
someplace this hard to get into was hiding something valuable like a
magic ring or a genii in a bottle. Sam followed and wondered to himself
what was going on.
It was at this point, Mrs. Cravite hit number 6 on her speed-dial - the
police. Numbers 1 through 5 were also the police but in her mind each
number went to a special part of the police. Number 6 was the
'streetgang police', number 5 was the 'roudy teenagers skateboarding
police', number 4 was the 'barking dog police', number 3 was the 'loud
neighbor police', number 2 was 'suspicious person walking by police' and
number 1 was the 'my newspaper is missing police'. To Mrs. Cravite any
group of 2 or more kids (not children, children wore proper clothes not
dungeries) standing around, walking by or running past her house
constituted a street gang. If said gang walked on her grass (perhaps
accidentally stepping off the sidewalk) they were counseled by her about
the error of their ways. This usually involved a few choice words such
as 'You kids get off of my lawn, right now or I am calling the police.'
Which is something she did often. Which is why the police were never in
a hurry to get there. Even if she had upped the ante by claiming the
gang had broken into her garage. She was known to have cried 'POLICE'
one too many times.
So what if the police are coming. I could handle them. I had the power
of Scuzzbuzz. I could open doors. I was drunk on power. Me, a small for
my age 6 year old, was now entering the deep dark forbidden land of
Cravite's Dread. Some where hidden in this dungeon was a treasure beyond
imagining. I would find it.
I started opening boxes looking for my prize or at least a clue to its
real location. It was Sam that became the voice of reason. "Arie, we got
to get out of here quick. Mrs. Cravite will call the police." I,
however, was having no part of reason or logic or sanity.
"Run away if you want to, little baby boy, I am getting the treasure." I
opened another box, filled with national geographics but not good ones
(the ones with space pictures or half-naked women). No treasure there.
Another box revealed its contents - old Family Circles. I was about to
reach for another box when Sam frantically grabbed my arm. He put a
strange object in my hand.
"This is what made the doors open. A garage door-opener. Not you. This.
Now let's get out of here." I looked at the object. It said 'GENII
Garage door opener' on the side with the button on the bottom. A GENII !
My treasure ! At that moment, I knew had to leave because that is what
Indiana Jones did when he got treasure - ran to get away from the bad guys.
So when the police came, there was a open garage, some open boxes filled
with magazines and newspapers. And no gang of ten or so heavily armed
street youths, ages 12 and up, some black, some hispanic and some white
trash which is what the police wrote in their report. There also was
nothing missing. Except two heavily breathing out-of-breath six year
olds who were several blocks away at the park, collapsed under an oak
tree, one of whom held a GENII in his hand.
>>>>>>>>Dear classmates <<<><<
How do you like this story so far ?
What confuses you ?
What does this story need ?
I need your answers.

Dee Story by Karen Kunz

     As I sat by your side last night, I sensed your fear, I can see it
in your eyes, I can hear it your voice. Nothing I can say can quench
the fear you have right now. You are facing death in a way most people
are uncomfortable with, which is cancer. I was working on a story for
my writing class, another story and pulled out my stamp collection. In
it was a stamp of the four chaplains from world war II. I went on the
internet and read a beautiful story of how these 4 men, 2 Protestants a
Catholic and a Jew who gave up their life preservers on a sinking ship
so that others might survive. They were last seen arms locked together
praying and singing as the boat slipped into the icy waters off the
coast of Greenland. What does this have to do with you, you must be
wondering right now. Well, I thought what if I wrote a story about your
cancer and comparing it to the sailing I've done over the years. As you
go through your chemo and radiation you can read it and will be like a
life preserver for your spirit. So here it is, many a times I have sat
on a ships deck and listened to the crew tell how they know someone who
sailed the horn or want to sail the horn themselves. They hold these
sailors in great reverence Cape Horn is considered to be the southern
tip of South America. For many years it was a major mile stone on the
clipper route by which sailing ships carried trade around the world.
However the waters around the cape are particularly hazardous, owing to
strong winds, large waves, strong currents and ice bergs. These dangers
have made it notorious as a sailors graveyard, and just imagine now
your this tiny boat named Dee; the horn your sailing through is chemo
and radiation, a dark passage. Don't worry that your small, the first
small boat to sail around Cape Horn was a 42 foot yacht Saoirse, who
rounded it during a circumnavigation of the world between 1923 and
1925. Don't worry when the strong winds give rise to large waves
crashing tossing your tiny boat. You are strong and will "luff up"
which means to turn the boats head right into the winds. Remember
sometimes you have to use a winch which is a metal drum turned by a
handle to give the "crew" more help tightening a line. In those times
you can rest assured your family and friends will "steer" and guide
you. Sometimes you will feel this cancer is "in irons" to head into the
wind and refuse to fall off. It's ok to be nauseous even the best of
sailors get seasick. Try to keep down something anything as these waves
beat all fury against you. Remember sometimes God calms the storm,
sometimes the sailor. They built the Panama Canal in 1914 a safer
passage replacing the long treacherous route via the drake passage and
Cape Horn. If you take the first three letters of both, it is pan can,
which could stand for Pancreatic cancer. Only you have to travel the
horn first, unfortunately, you can't take the safer route, rounding
cape horn is considered the yachting equivalent of climbing Mount
Everest. The little boat Dee will be a might proud vessel as she pulls
into port. Traditionally a sailor who rounds the horn is entitled to
wear a gold loop earring in the left ear the one that has faced the
east bound passage and to dine with one foot on the table. Years ago
you gave me gold hoop earrings for my birthday. I will wear them the
day God is at your helm, removes your port and declares you are cancer
free, I am giving you a horn with a crucifix on it to remember your
journey. After the storm the sunshine will be glorious. The Captain
will give the signal and far away the sound of amazing grace starts up.
Quietly at first the bag pipes barely audible. The bag pipes louder
now, the canvas unveiling a little at a time. I can feel the music
getting louder and louder each time a little of the canvas is exposed.
Not due to fear, for once but for ultimate joy. We are the only ones
who can hear this reverie out in the middle of no where. The canvas
touches the sky, now she hits the wind as if speaking to an old friend.
They embrace the wind and her, and the ship tips to the side in a
greeting. The beauty of the massive canvas touches the sky as if its
beckoning for God to reach his hand down and begin to paint, and he
does, for he has charted her course all along.

a picture from winter

Not all of Winter - this past one - was horrible. I did get a chance to go to Milleneum Park in Chicago and see some ice paintings they had called "the Museum of Modern Ice". I thought it was an interesting exhibit. It was Feb. and the sun was shining when we went so there was a BIT of melting going on but not much and it changed the 'art' into something more dynamic.
Here is a link to more photos taken then. Just click on the picture below.

museum of modern ice in Chicago

Showtime with Tim

It’s raining out, overcast and gray. Kind of like clockwork the weather becomes this way when I have to lug photos or paintings to a show. But they are ready to go, packed in a crate, newspapers protecting them from each other and the elements. The big photograph in plastic bags, frame edges already ripping holes in the thin covering. We arrive at the gallery, several minutes ahead of time. Don’t want to get there too early or too late, don’t want to spend any more time than we have to there but surprisingly, Tim the curator pulls up just ahead of us by the front entrance. He nods to us and, armed with several of his photo creations, he disappears into the gallery. Frank and I have rehearsed our strategy. I will go inside with my photos,
quickly write down the relative photo information, and after telling Tim thank-you, say I have an appointment and leave. Tim is a nice guy, an older guy with graying long hair tied in a ponytail. He either reminds me of an aging hippie from the 60’s or a farmer just coming in from the fields. A heavyset man, who always seems out of breath and redfaced, even when not moving. My past interactions with him, well just last year, have pegged him as needy or lonelyor something because you can never just have a few words with him. Out of his mouth comes a story, and it doesn’t stop at one, and hours can pass before you realize it. I myself know, as an aspiring writer, that Tim has a wealth of material that could be transcribed into written word. But today I am in a hurry, that’s why the plan for the quick getaway and I hope the strategy works. I wait for Frank to park the car and come in but he never does. I guess this
was more my part of the plan than his. Thought Frank would come into the gallery, divert Tim's attention for a minute or so, while I did the appropriate paperwork. Then we’d both make a quick bolt for the door. No, I guess Frank figures I’ll be quicker if he waits outside for me. And besides, I reason, it is my show so I’ll deal with the details from here. Frank’s already helped me out so much with the framing, he’s probably tired. So, I stand in the gallery main area watching Tim come ambling slowly towards me. He is carrying my crate filled with photos, huffing and puffing. I had left the crate at the front door, figuring Frank would carry it in. It was too heavy for me. Now Tim has the task, and he is sweating profusely, trying hard to catch his breath and I want to grab a seat for him. Instead, he sets the crate down and turns his head this way and that, mumbling that the director has changed everything on him. The photos he’s
arranged just so on shelves and in cases have been rearranged. He shakes his head in an aggravated way. Walking by the office desk where four small photos sit in a row, he mutters that on a chaotic day with people milling around, those photos won’t have a chance and they’ll get knocked down like dominos. Apparently, he and the director have some control issues. I, myself, think the gallery looks rather nice, and thank heaven that I am left out of whatever issues the two of them have. After a few more looks around, he decides to focus on the task at hand, namely me and my photographs. Tim wanders around, looking for tools, looking for a ladder, muttering again under his breath that someone has moved everything on him. He says to me, “Wish I had some of those carpenter overall things with pockets, then I could just put all my tools in them, keep better track of them”. He then tells me to assemble all my photos and lean them against the wall. After getting his equipment together, he asks me to draw on paper diagrams of the photos as they will be on the wall with numbers to correspond with the list I am writing, photo name, price, etc. I realize that my quick getaway is becoming a distant memory now and the clock in my mind ticks oh so slowly. Realizing I may be here for the long haul, I settle as best I can into the plastic chair. The hammering of nails in wall echos loudly in the empty room, Tim misses the nail several times, blessedly escapes finger injury, continues doggedly on. Every so often he includes me in his project, asking if the photo’s location looks right, or if its crooked and other minor details. I am agreeable, everything is fine and I nod and smile pleasantly, figuring if I behave in this way the whole thing will go much faster. He climbs on a ladder, slowly again, so slowly. The ladder wobbles to and fro and I want to rush to hold it steady. He wheezes as he moves up the ladder. In my mind I see the framed photo he’s holding slip out of his grasp and go crashing into a million pieces. Instead, as ungraceful as he seems,
a big giant, he succeeds in putting up photo after photo in small motion, assembly-like fashion, and the wall fills with images of flowers in every color of the rainbow. I am mesmorized by my garden wall and am always surprised and pleased how the photos look in a group, in mass quantity. It’s almost overwhelming, but in a good way. While I sit in cool comfort, lost in my accomplishment, sweat drops continue making a path down Tim’s face, which is now red as a beet. I envision puddles of sweat building up on the floor and him slipping and falling, scenarios not at all pleasant. Finally, five gaspy breath lately, with five photos hung, he says he needs a
break and wanders to the office area, sitting down and taking a long swig from some bottled water. The moment I have really dreaded and hoped to avoid, has arrived.

The break. Here is where the real talking begins. Our interactions up to this point had been businesslike and efficient, all focused on task at hand. But this will change and conversations will become personal. I am trapped now, I am his captive audience. As I stand in front of him,
not walking away, he seems encouraged by my somewhat attentive nature. I am cursed by my training in psychology, which fine tunes us into being a good listener and having unconditional regard for the client. I shake my head, this is Tim, he is not paying me for therapy, just needs someone to lend an ear. My thoughts are interrupted as Tim’s voice seems to grow a bit louder, and he proceeds to tell me about anything and everything. As he discusses the biographies of each photographer who is exhibiting, my attention stays focused and interested. But when the topic veers to his diabetes and other aches and pains, the warning signals go off. I know I’m sunk in quicksand when he says he’ll have to check out the cute new girls in the class upstairs later on. The subject matter for Tim is irrelevant, what is revelant is his release of spoken word to a captive audience, me. I cringe, feeling trapped now, and put on my passively resigned clinical face.

Twenty minutes pass, it seems an eternity. He is still talking, I think he’s covered 20 different subjects and does not yet seem ready to face the reality of hanging the rest of my photos. In addition, I realize I have not gotten a word in edgewise, just an occasional nod. Finally, when he stops talking long enough to take another of his endless swigs of water, I say “You know,
I really need to check on Frank, make sure he’s okay and all”. As if Frank is my pet dog outside and I need to make sure the window is rolled down enough so he can get air. Tim nods and I dash out the door to the car. Frank is sitting inside, actually in a rather mellow mood. I expected him to say, “what the hell’s taking you so long? Let’s go! We had a Plan!” and I’d run frantically back in, say bye and hit the road. Instead I tell him that Tim wants me help hang the photos for a few more minutes, it’s gotten a little more involved than I thought. I had hoped
Frank would come back inside and we could work together on a new getaway plan, but Frank just nods and says “That’s okay, the White Sox have come from behind and tied up the score” and he turns his attention back to the radio announcer. It’s the first game of the season, always special no matter who you’re a fan of. I’m relieved Frank is in a good mood, but resigned that only I can get myself out of the situation that waits inside, so with a determined stride, I walk back in.

Tim is still sitting in the chair, almost Buddha-like, relaxed and looking as if he has all the time in the world. It appears he’s on his second bottled water. His face has turned a paler pink now and his breathing is more even toned. Still, I just want to go.......Why cannot I be direct and tell him? I wail to myself. Because I am nice and have been taught to be a good girl and to be polite. These thoughts fill my mind, it’s my mom’s voice, dictating Miss Manners rules of etiquette.
Rather than taking my previous stance of marble statue in front of Tim the Buddha, I go back into the main gallery, hoping that magically all my photos have been hung by a magic fairy or something. No such luck. Four photos still sit against the wall. Tim lumbers up, almost reluctantly, to the area where I am standing and is deep in thought. Apparently he is trying to visualize how the photos will all be able to fit on the wall. “I can take the rest home, they don’t all have to go up”, I speak up, wanting this to end now. I feel so tired and all I’ve been doing is just sitting, waiting, listening to Tim. He’s done all the physical labor. But I am so drained, emotionally fatiqued. I have taken on too many of Tim’s stories and now they whirl in my head.

With my last ounce of energy, I assert myself. “Tim, I’ve got to go. You’re doing a great job,
I think you’ve got it under control”. Of course he does, I mutter to myself. I had earlier offered a few opinions of where the photos should go, he had nodded and proceeded to do his own thing anyway. He really just wanted an audience. So why did I still feel some guilt, a sense of feeling sorry for him? He has a wife, two sons. In fact, a photo of his son smoking a cigarette looms largely between my two walls of flowers. Tim could talk to his son’s portrait if I wasn’t there. Yet he acted as if I was the only person he had ever been able to talk to, and was only allowed out for two hours in the day for social interaction. I snapped out of my emotional wallowing, looked him in the eye, said firmly, “Thank you much” and packed up my crate and walked to the door. He said “Can you manage the stairs” I said I could. My last words “See you at the reception” trailed behind me as I walked outside. Tim nodded and turned back into the gallery. I slowly walked to the car, feeling drained of any artistic passion I had had only hours before. I got in the car, Frank turned on the engine and said “I got some gas while you were in the gallery”. I had been gone a while. He probably could have gone home and watched the game on TV and still come back and gotten me. I nodded to him and sank into the car seat. I had two weeks to recover from this encounter, my headache would dissapate soon. At the opening reception, I know Tim will be there, but there will be lots of people for him to latch onto and
his cooler of beer will keep him company. I think I’ll be safe from him. But just in case, I’’ll have a plan!
(P.S. I changed the main character's name to Tim to protect the innocent).

Marlotus O’Keefe 2008

The End has Come

Dear Writing Class People:
I have wrestled with this for quite awhile. For weeks, no even months I have been trying to beat my own depression by leading these writing classes at the Center. Sadly, I must now admit defeat. I am exhausted and depleted. I no longer have the strength to go on. So I am ending my classes at the Center - at least my being in charge of them. I have talked to Beverly and she will run them with Ruth whom you might know as the Poetry Lady. They will now be held in the barn as all rooms are booked for this week. I hope you don't mind. Bring a portable chair and a rosy attitude.
I will return in a few weeks, as soon as the ProZac begins working. I hope you will be patient with me. In my absence, I expect that you will use the writing classes to make chit-chat and to gossip about me. Try not to be cruel to Beverly because she is evil and will cast a jinx spell on you. I have given Ruth permission to borrow your work for her own uses. So I hope that you can at least write something worth stealing. I know you can.
The nurse is coming now and I do not want her seeing me using the computer - she has threatened to lock out YouTube and MySpace if she caught me looking at the blog. I do not want that to happen because I know that the Cat of a 1000 faces is looking for me. I feel that something clawful will happen soon. I hear the voices in my head and I want them to stop -
They keep shouting the same refrain over and over again:
APRIL FOOL
YOU ARE AN APRIL FOOL
bye for now
Prozac Mouse (formerly Taomaster)

Finally, The Thaw

A pink ice sculpture, my heart
has remained cool to the touch
afraid to share who it wants to be
hiding deep in freezer of self

A pickax of reassurance
chips away at frozen barriers
but years of heartbreak
have solidified the wedge
impenetrable it has become

Trust yourself
a faint voice calls from afar
Too many winters
your heart has withstood
lonely shivers of desolation

Courage now, voice implores
as passion's heat kisses
solid coolness, liquid drips
slowly, so slowly
thawing frosty layers
years in the making

Rosy streams
meander downward
heeding soul's call
longing for embrace
while rocks of doubt
stand in way, and

Breathe of coldness,
foggy swirls of fear
desperate to keep
icy fingers intact
fight warm invasion

Love's glowing embers
threatens chilly demise
as bonfire builds,
crackles, snaps,
licking drops that sizzle,

Fizzle, evaporate into
distant dreams
Heart soft with love now,
pink glow glimmers
reflecting soul's smile.

Finally, the thaw.

Marlotus 2008