Stacking Apples

I'm not sure why I'm writing today. I don't have a clear direction but someone who I read recently said write, even if it's shitty. Nothing new, but maybe seeing it written in such a stripped down way made me trust this piece of advice more than I normally would. The only writing I do these days is this blog, which consists of eleven paltry entries after nearly a year. Although I did recently begin writing a novel (ha) and gave myself a year to finish. My deadline is June 2008. I haven't touched it since the day I started.

See...even right now, I'm thinking stop. This sucks. You're not saying anything of worth, just useless babble. But I'm going to continue because I've been advised to write, even if it's shitty. Only I wonder if shitty is the same thing as useless? I guess shitty could encompass a myriad (thanks, D) of adjectives which I will now attempt to list: shallow, pointless, drivel, rambling, uninspiring, boring, childish...I don't think this is helping nor does it qualify as a myriad. This isn't very clever or inspiring which does however, remind me of a poem I wrote in college when I was raging against writing a villanelle. I will now post this poem for my one lonely reader's viewing pleasure.

On an assignment to write a villanelle

Try to force the words, like square pegs into a round hole,
into the right place, the right spot.
Make sure they lay just right, apples in a bowl.

That's not the right metaphor, apples in a bowl.
Apples are dying. You can almost smell the rot.
The trick is to use words, pieces of the whole, stacked in a bowl.

Or maybe it's like trying to bake a cake, only being told
you can only use one cup of everything, organic or not.
And don't forget the secret ingredient, apples in a bowl.

I'm really getting tired of this, it's not original or bold.
This villanelle is killing me and I'm not
reeling in images, like apples in a bowl.

And what can I fill this tercet with? Something new or old,
something borrowed or original, or flecked with polka-dots?
No matter. Just make sure they lay just right, apples in a bowl.

So technically I've done it, though in the process I've grown old.
And these flimsy words begin to rot
because even though they may be stacked just so,
they lack the feel of something real, these apples in a bowl.

darkness has a hunger that's insatiable...

and lightness has a call that's hard to hear. that line is from "closer i am to fine" by the indigo girls. dino is learning that sacred song from our days of wine and roses and it's been in my head for a few days. when i get to that line, i'm mesmerized by it's simplicity and truth. the next line says "i wrap my fear around me like a blanket"...also true. when i come to a place in my life that i don't know what to do next, i sometimes become immobile. i wrap my fear blanket around me and drop anchor and sit for awhile. sulking. meditating. eating. i pull away from my family because they want they what i can't give. i crave silence. i rebel and only do the necessary things to get through each day. i wallow. i feel like a failure.

and then, i begin to hear the call of lightness. God knows me so he always sends the light in the form of a book. anne lamont is my light lately. she writes about life and god and motherhood with more raw honesty than any writer i've ever known. what courage that takes. to say your deepest, darkest thoughts without any fear. and yet, i know she has fear because she writes about that, too, yet she does it anyway. and because she is brave and shares her angst with me, i feel less alone and crazy.

there are mothers out there who would die for their children and also want to kill them at the same time. women who struggle with outbursts of rage when their cup runneth over. women who doubt themselves and every decision they've ever made. women who desperately try to find the beautiful in life in an effort to pull themselves out of the darkness.

"there's more than one answer to these questions, pointing me in a crooked line. and the less i seek my source for some definitive, closer i am to fine." amen, indigo women.

i am always learning to be content.

Shreveport Lives....

I grew up in Shreveport and for the most part, have had a love/hate relationship with this town. Loved it because this is where I have spent most of my life and I know it like the back of my hand, hate it because there's nothing to do here. Okay, so maybe it's not New York with broadway plays and lights and chinatown and museums. But tonight, I was reminded that every town has something...you just have to look. Because the really cool events, the art events, the free concerts by the river, aren't splashed across the front page of the newspaper, or even the middle pages. But they're there...on the back pages, tucked away...

Tonight, I came home from a busy day of carwash fundraising for my daughters, sunburned, tired and older. A friend called me and said she and her mother, grandmother, daughter and nephew were heading downtown for an end of the year Shreveport Symphony free concert on the river. I was tired but I went anyway. I'm so glad I did.

I was reminded of what I love about this city. The weather is always changing. Even in May, when it should be flamin' hot, we had a beautiful evening with temperatures in the 60's. My dear friend, Crystal, was there early with a blanket, fruit, cheese and wine. Perfect. The conducter was brillaint, somewhat Hugh Grantish in appearance and characteristics (BONUS!), and the evening was beautiful. While the symphony played a medley of American classics, little girls with big, pink bows and little boys with striped shirts and khaki shorts, were running up and down the small hill in front of the stage. No reason. Just being kids. Running...for the heck of it. I remember when I used to run everywhere. And even more magnificent, just at dusk, bats began to swarm (fly? rustle? shriek?). I didn't even know we had bats here.

Crytal's mom, Sharon, said, "Those are bats," as she looked up at the purple, pink, evening sky. "No they're not, those are birds," I replied. "No," she said, "those are bats. See the way they're flying in a cluster of chaos, but yet, together. Those are bats. You don't believe me?"

"Yes," I said, "I guess you're right."

In the distance, just beyond the chaos of bats, was a new moon, the old moon just a shadow in the background, and next to that, venus...shining like a torch. And the band played on...the theme from "Superman".

I love my hometown.

secrets, best friends, husbands & futurama

Okay...it's getting late and I've had a glass of wine and I don't want to whine. But, I am. I'm not going to try to restrain myself. Because it's my blog, that's why. And yes, as a whole, I think our society is too self-involved. I feel we are too conditioned to the confessional, "let-me-tell-you-how-I'm-feeling" psycho-babble. Solution? I don't know. I'm a mess. So, let me confess. Because it's my blog, that's why.

I'm learning how to be content. In the midst of my life.

1. My son, his girlfriend, and her 7 month old baby (whom I adore) moved out today. Good, because they are young and stupid like I was at their age and need to dive into life and figure it out. Bad, because they have a seven month old baby and they are completely young and stupid like I was at their age and need to dive into life and figure it out.

2. I have two daughters who are 14 and 12. They think they are 20 and 21. Oy-vey.

3. I love my husband, but he is a man. I have a completely emotional day of my son moving out and ex-husbands coming to town and he's watching "Futurama". He says this is an episode that I will particularly enjoy because it's about cleaning, as he brushes his Dorito crumbs from my couch. Apparently, I have been reduced to a caricature of a cleaning woman that he finds slightly endearing. We have been married eight months.

4. My worst secret has been exposed this week. My best friend informed me that she has known for a long time and has never said anything. She never said a word. It's a pretty big secret. She never said a word. Never stopped loving me.

5. I challenged a thirteen-year old to "Dance, Dance, Revolution". I'm uncoordinated, very uncoordinated and extremely uncoordinated. I don't have a chance, but at the same time, I am very competitive and can't seem to stop the madness.


What is true...God sends people into your life that reflect his love. I am very competitive, even to my own detriment. I don't like teenagers. I have lost eight pounds. I love my "Futurama" loving husband but wish he were more like my best friend. She gets me.

Leaving

I read something today that talked about leaving. The author wasn't only talking about physically leaving, but about change. About leaving our comfort zones. He said that God wants us to constantly change, just look at the seasons. This feels true. So if it feels true, then why is it so hard for some? I've been thinking a lot about my purpose, how I want to make a difference. What is it that I really want do with my life? How can I make a difference? And can I make a difference doing something that I enjoy? Or am I being too literal, too self-serving in my effort to help others? Oh, how disgusting. My husband says that I think too much. Maybe he's right...maybe that's what God is trying to tell me. Enjoy...each day, every moment, each precious relationship, every sunset, every delectable glass of wine, each beautiful note of every song, each stroke in a beautiful painting...whatever it is, enjoy...take notice and give thanks. The same aforementioned author asked for forgiveness for being distracted by all of the things that reflect God's glory. He also asked for forgiveness for not noticing God's glory in everything.

Balance, grasshopper, balance.

What is true: I miss my first love sometimes...still. I've lost five pounds. Life is sweet.

A Day with Grandma

Today, I spent the day with my grandmother. I'm ashamed to say that I haven't spent any time with her, quality time, for about a year. Used to be, we were together at some point almost everyday. What can I say...life gets in the way of what's truly important (geez...what an oxymoronic, typically modern, meaningless statement). sorry, onward...

Grandma had a mastectomy two years ago and I took her for the yearly mammogram today. I realized how much I have missed her. Some stories need to be told...this is one of them.

Grandma is in a wheelchair. It isn't that she can't walk completely. She is fairly large, out of shape, bad ankles, bad knees, hip problems...you name it, she's got it. She is a product of the fifties. Fitness wasn't the trend. She woke up everyday, cooked a huge breakfast, complete with a pound of bacon, biscuits and lard gravy and whatever other saturated fatty foods she could cook. She worked at JCPenneys in the alterations department of the men's suit department for twenty some odd years. Her husband, Grandpa Elsie, died from heart failure at the age of 42 and left her with seven children.

What is true about Grandma....she truly doesn't care about what other people think.

Today, she dropped hints about how she hasn't bought a nice blouse in years. She's also a product of the depression and holds onto money like they've stopped making it. After her mammogram, where she proudly revealed she wasn't wearing a bra, I decided to take her shopping. Not completely altruistic on my part, I'm afraid. I was thinking I could make up for a year of neglect with a shopping trip and a nice lunch of fried chicken, her favorite.

She had a gift card from a very nice department store. Unfortunately, it was only for twenty-five dollars. This was unfortunate because in order for her buy anything, period, she would have to add a few dollars to complete the purchase. I was doomed. It could take her all day to part with a few dollars.

This is the part of the story where I need to mention that she is mostly blind. This is fairly recent, a couple of years at best, so she mentions this at least every five minutes. Things like, "I'd have hugged your neck, but I didn't know it was you because...I can't see," or "I don't know if my clothes match or not because...I can't see." Before you get all sentimental on me, let me mention the words selective eyesight. This is the same woman who notices I've gained weight...or "gotten big", as she so delicately calls it, or that I'm wearing jeans with a hole in the knee, or that I've colored my hair...an ever- so- subtle lighter shade of blonde. When you come near her, she feels your face like a desperate Helen Keller. I can't criticize her, though, because when I'm eighty-four, I'll probably milk it for all that it's worth.

Anywho, we're in the fancy department store and she's grabbing and touching everything in her path as I wheel her down the cluttered aisles.

"What's this?" she asks.
"A silver platter," I reply.
"And this?"
"A digital alarm clock that plays soothing sounds like the ocean or a thunderstorm and displays the time digitally on the wall with a laser," I answer.
"Thunderstorms aren't soothing," she says.
"Some people think so."
"What about this?" she asks, pulling a petite, pink, rhinestoned sweater from the hanger as we roll by. The hanger spins around the bar a few times before it thumps to the floor.
"Nothing, grandma, nothing," I say.

Finally, we arrive at the plus sizes. Polyester is in the air. Grandma wants to know the price of everything and is that the price after 40% off? She asks about the fabric blend and the washing instructions. "Too silky," she says, "Too bright," she huffs, "Too much trouble to wash," she says. I'm exhausted. Finally, I spot a blouse that has her name written all over it. Ninety-seven percent polyester, three percent spandex, red and black floral design, three quarter sleeve, button up the front, built in pseudo-tank top...a perfection of a blouse!

She agrees...yes, yes, she shouts! This is perfect! She even decides that she might buy two in different colors. "Amen! Live a little, Grandma! Want to try one on?" I ask. Instead, she grabs the arms of her wheelchair and heaves herself up to stand. Good idea, I'm thinking, I'll just hold the blouse up to her shoulders to see it if fits when I realize that she's unbuttoning her blouse.

"Grandma? What are you doing?"

"Just watch...you'll see."

"No, don't! Stop that! Not another button, I mean it! It's illegal! Grandma, for the love of God, please stop!" I throw down my purse, her purse, and various items of clothing I'm carrying in my arms but by the time I turn back around (maybe five seconds...who knew the woman could move that fast?), the blouse is unbuttoned and she lifts her hands up to her shoulders and says, "You better hurry and drop that blouse over my head, I'm about to be naked."

She drops the blouse down over her shoulders.

I can't see the front of her, but I know there is one low-hanging breast exposed on her right side and on the left, nothing but a scar. She looks so vulnerable that I want to cry but at the same time, I want to choke her for stripping in the middle of the department store. I drop the blouse over head and pull it down over her arms delicately, dressing her like a child.

"How does it look?" she asks.

"Beautiful," I answer.

prufrock rocks...

all day long, all i can think about is a line from what i've come to realize is my favorite poem..."the love song of J. Alfred Profrock" by t.s. eliot.

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...

I love this poem. it expresses so many things, but most of all, for me anyway, the beauty of everyday life...the mundane things. if we stop and think about it, there is a beauty, an art even, in our daily routines. maybe the word "coffee" sums it up...every day as a child, the first thing that greeted me every morning was first, the sound of my mother's percolator and then, the delicious, dark smell of coffee. that was morning...everyday brimming with hope and new beginnings. and even today, the first thing i do every morning, after my obligatory trip to the bathroom, is head straight to the kitchen to start the coffee. only after i've poured my first cup and had my first sip does the day feel official, hopeful.

there's more to say about this peom...maybe tomorrow after i've had my coffee...right now, duty calls. how mundane.

what's true...i need to, want to, should, lose 15 pounds. i have no patience for pets...even dogs. i feel like there's been a mistake in the fact that i've aged. i love barry manilow. i hate "csi"...any version, any city.