Today's poetry prompt is a color. I chose green.
Green is a Sybil color
With a plume of personalities
Lost in frightful jealousy
And inexperienced love regrets,
Envious wished plights
And supple virginal forms,
Golf grounds shorn short
And currency in stacked wads,
Environmentally friendly intentions
And immature devotions,
Campus lawns sunbathing
And budding minds lost in thought.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Join The Club
Tonight was the monthly book club and I have been a bit of a book fiend of late, when I’m not watching LOST and playing with puppies. This month’s choice was The Sunday Wife by Cassandra King. This was one of those books that I was in no way interested in reading, especially after I read the first few chapters, but being as it was a book club selection I had to at least try. It wasn’t so bad. Instead of being gripping, like some books are, this one was a nice way to wake up and go to sleep. After taking care of Finn and Polly and making coffee, I would indulge in 30 minutes of reading each morning (a habit I hope to continue). Each evening, when I was alone, I would crawl into bed with Misha and Lassie and read a bit more. It also is a nice break book to kill 15 minutes or so.
This book will also hold a dear place since it was the first time I could give the library the excuse of “My dog ate the book.” Polly made quick time of the cover and first few pages when I left it on the patio table one evening. On my return she was so proud of showing me what she had done. So now, $12 later, I am the owner of one destroyed, but still content-filled book. I would recommend this one to those ladies who like nice stories.
Our book for next month is How Starbucks Saved My Life by Michael Gates Gill. I just started it this morning. So far I am drawn in. I bent back the pages as I sipped my double espresso with sweet cream (homemade.) I am not a big fan of Starbucks. In fact, I will drive past an over-priced cup of coffee to find a mom-and-pop place or Dunkin Donuts. Once I was smitten with the novelty of the ordering and the term barista, but now I just want coffee. Witnessing the cult-like wonder of both camps (Chris and Bill from Portland are Starbucks freaks while Angelique and Shay from Boston would have nothing less than the double D.) I grew up with Cuban coffee and that is still my favorite. Made like espresso with heavy sweet leche – oh divine.
This is one of those non-fiction, man has everything, loses it all and gets in return a true sense of self respect and a newfound view of the world. Plus, Tom Hanks wants to star in the movie (ugh.) But with all that aside, I think it will be a good read and a quick one so I can move on to my other 14-day books.
Which starts my quest to continue reading and hopefully expanding my mind, spirit and funny bone. For my spirit, there is the always youthful Michael J. Fox and Always Looking Up. I read the first blurb of this book in a magazine one hard-won morning. I felt the world was collapsing (in my own self-centered way.) The washer had overflowed throughout the garage, the puppies were acting up, I had friends coming to town and I felt like the put-upon single mom. I read about how Michael struggled each morning just to brush his teeth, get dressed and meet the day with optimism. What the hell was I whining about? I put it on my library list right then and even suggested it for the next book club list (this one will make it since it is safe, not like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.)
I am currently listening to Denis Leary’s Why We Suck. I love it. I am on disk three and at this rate I should be done by the end of the week. I have never been much of a Leary fan, but after I heard about this book (when he was a guest on Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me) I got interested. He makes sure to offend everyone and does it with a refined sense of wit sprinkled with sailor speak and sarcasm. Renee said she wanted to hear it and I warned her that he talks kids, women and such. She said she’d probably agree. I do agree with a lot of what he says, though he does go off on some story-telling tangents and I like them too. I have suggested this for the book club, but I think all the cursing may put it back on the shelf, plus the anger factor may rub these ladies wrong.
Next to be read before the month ends is Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher, another find thanks to NPR. I can’t stand the gossip of today’s celebrity elite (elite is used loosely), but the 40s, 50s and 60s is just the right thing to take to the beach or the park. Even though most things happened before I was born I just can’t get enough of these beautiful people. Plus I think Fisher is pretty damn hilarious. Her spin on growing up in Hollywood and being in three of the biggest movies of all time is just as funny as Leary’s take on being working-class Irish American. I read the opening excerpt and if it lives up to this (which it should since this is taken from her one-woman show) then I will be laughing and crying for days (only a few since it seems like a quick read.)
Due back to the library on April 27th (I’ve already met my overdue limit according to the book lending gods) is Fool by Christopher Moore. I don’t know much about it except it’s about King Lear and the artwork is great. So the expectations are low, but the intrigue is high. We’ll see.
Lastly, for now, is a book Renee recommended and even let me borrow so there is no actual due date. The Last Templar by Raymond Khoury was a miniseries for NBC (though I think the book came first.) Reminiscent of those Dan Brown books (which I admit I liked) this is one of those pieces that probably pisses off the Catholic Church, inspires conspiracy theorists and wastes a few hours for the rest of us. I should get to this in a few weeks.
Next month we’ll make the choices for the book club and we’ll see what the ladies pick. There is a closer book club that meets on Tuesdays and I may check them out too since they have a wider variety of books on their list – I think it’s because there are also men in the club.
This book will also hold a dear place since it was the first time I could give the library the excuse of “My dog ate the book.” Polly made quick time of the cover and first few pages when I left it on the patio table one evening. On my return she was so proud of showing me what she had done. So now, $12 later, I am the owner of one destroyed, but still content-filled book. I would recommend this one to those ladies who like nice stories.
Our book for next month is How Starbucks Saved My Life by Michael Gates Gill. I just started it this morning. So far I am drawn in. I bent back the pages as I sipped my double espresso with sweet cream (homemade.) I am not a big fan of Starbucks. In fact, I will drive past an over-priced cup of coffee to find a mom-and-pop place or Dunkin Donuts. Once I was smitten with the novelty of the ordering and the term barista, but now I just want coffee. Witnessing the cult-like wonder of both camps (Chris and Bill from Portland are Starbucks freaks while Angelique and Shay from Boston would have nothing less than the double D.) I grew up with Cuban coffee and that is still my favorite. Made like espresso with heavy sweet leche – oh divine.
This is one of those non-fiction, man has everything, loses it all and gets in return a true sense of self respect and a newfound view of the world. Plus, Tom Hanks wants to star in the movie (ugh.) But with all that aside, I think it will be a good read and a quick one so I can move on to my other 14-day books.
Which starts my quest to continue reading and hopefully expanding my mind, spirit and funny bone. For my spirit, there is the always youthful Michael J. Fox and Always Looking Up. I read the first blurb of this book in a magazine one hard-won morning. I felt the world was collapsing (in my own self-centered way.) The washer had overflowed throughout the garage, the puppies were acting up, I had friends coming to town and I felt like the put-upon single mom. I read about how Michael struggled each morning just to brush his teeth, get dressed and meet the day with optimism. What the hell was I whining about? I put it on my library list right then and even suggested it for the next book club list (this one will make it since it is safe, not like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.)
I am currently listening to Denis Leary’s Why We Suck. I love it. I am on disk three and at this rate I should be done by the end of the week. I have never been much of a Leary fan, but after I heard about this book (when he was a guest on Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me) I got interested. He makes sure to offend everyone and does it with a refined sense of wit sprinkled with sailor speak and sarcasm. Renee said she wanted to hear it and I warned her that he talks kids, women and such. She said she’d probably agree. I do agree with a lot of what he says, though he does go off on some story-telling tangents and I like them too. I have suggested this for the book club, but I think all the cursing may put it back on the shelf, plus the anger factor may rub these ladies wrong.
Next to be read before the month ends is Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher, another find thanks to NPR. I can’t stand the gossip of today’s celebrity elite (elite is used loosely), but the 40s, 50s and 60s is just the right thing to take to the beach or the park. Even though most things happened before I was born I just can’t get enough of these beautiful people. Plus I think Fisher is pretty damn hilarious. Her spin on growing up in Hollywood and being in three of the biggest movies of all time is just as funny as Leary’s take on being working-class Irish American. I read the opening excerpt and if it lives up to this (which it should since this is taken from her one-woman show) then I will be laughing and crying for days (only a few since it seems like a quick read.)
Due back to the library on April 27th (I’ve already met my overdue limit according to the book lending gods) is Fool by Christopher Moore. I don’t know much about it except it’s about King Lear and the artwork is great. So the expectations are low, but the intrigue is high. We’ll see.
Lastly, for now, is a book Renee recommended and even let me borrow so there is no actual due date. The Last Templar by Raymond Khoury was a miniseries for NBC (though I think the book came first.) Reminiscent of those Dan Brown books (which I admit I liked) this is one of those pieces that probably pisses off the Catholic Church, inspires conspiracy theorists and wastes a few hours for the rest of us. I should get to this in a few weeks.
Next month we’ll make the choices for the book club and we’ll see what the ladies pick. There is a closer book club that meets on Tuesdays and I may check them out too since they have a wider variety of books on their list – I think it’s because there are also men in the club.
Redo and Recycle
Today's prompt is to take a favorite poem and retitle it and write it to suit the title.
There are many poems I love to recount and reread as time justifies. My heart is open to all kinds of words that spiral in short and long meaning. However, I first poem I completely memorized was “The Duck” by Ogden Nash.
The Pug
Behold the pug,
She’s not a thug,
A cold heart she lacks, she loves.
She is especially cute,
In her fawn fur suit,
And when she runs and plays,
It makes happy days.
Ogden Nash was a very witty rhymer,
Though not much of a social climber.
He punned poems in jest,
About liquor no less,
And was never called a two-timer.
Another one of my favorite Nash poems is
Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.
There are many poems I love to recount and reread as time justifies. My heart is open to all kinds of words that spiral in short and long meaning. However, I first poem I completely memorized was “The Duck” by Ogden Nash.
The Pug
Behold the pug,
She’s not a thug,
A cold heart she lacks, she loves.
She is especially cute,
In her fawn fur suit,
And when she runs and plays,
It makes happy days.
Ogden Nash was a very witty rhymer,
Though not much of a social climber.
He punned poems in jest,
About liquor no less,
And was never called a two-timer.
Another one of my favorite Nash poems is
Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Farewell to Marilyn
I was a fan of Marilyn Chambers the porn star. There I said it. Not because of her sucking and fucking everything in sight or because she was once the Ivory Snow girl. I adored her for her fame at a time when that was all she got (instead of money) and her willingness to go on. The story behind the infamous Behind The Green Door was better than the movie itself. Slow and dull, this was done at a time when porn films only used dialogue for filler and expelled anything that was real writing. Like Linda Lovelace and Georgina Spelvin, Chambers reconciled her demons and took a giant leap into the seedy world of adult film, only to be made a legend.
Found in a mobile home in southern California, she died as many right-wingers will say, as she lived; worthless and weak. Of course they won’t bring up that most of those idiots who toss dollars their way are most stupid and inane. It was a sad day and we still don’t know the whole story.
I was interest in Chambers when I was in my 20s. Not much of a porn freak and without the Internet, I discovered her through the old tabloids and in reference to Lovelace who was the mega star until she quit and then went on Donahue to tell her story. Chambers still remained an anomaly choosing to continue in the film business and even making guest appearances in “regular” shows and films. In the late 90s, the brothers Sheen and Estevez made a movie about the brothers that made the original film. Rated X was so much better than the film that made the brothers big names – well not so big, but made Chambers both a household name and a national scorn.
When I saw the original, I actually fell asleep with how slow it moved and how neo-artistic they were trying to be. Later I saw her in Insatiable, a film from 1980 which showed that even though the young ones were out in full force this 30-year old could give them a run for their money. It also has John Holmes in it, which once again made for greater subject matter in Wonderland, than he did in any of his porn roles.
The wife of Chuck Traynor, Lovelace’s ex and the man she said pimped her out and made her do those naughty films, Chambers never acted the victim. She may have been , but we will probably never know. For now, she can rest in peace.
Found in a mobile home in southern California, she died as many right-wingers will say, as she lived; worthless and weak. Of course they won’t bring up that most of those idiots who toss dollars their way are most stupid and inane. It was a sad day and we still don’t know the whole story.
I was interest in Chambers when I was in my 20s. Not much of a porn freak and without the Internet, I discovered her through the old tabloids and in reference to Lovelace who was the mega star until she quit and then went on Donahue to tell her story. Chambers still remained an anomaly choosing to continue in the film business and even making guest appearances in “regular” shows and films. In the late 90s, the brothers Sheen and Estevez made a movie about the brothers that made the original film. Rated X was so much better than the film that made the brothers big names – well not so big, but made Chambers both a household name and a national scorn.
When I saw the original, I actually fell asleep with how slow it moved and how neo-artistic they were trying to be. Later I saw her in Insatiable, a film from 1980 which showed that even though the young ones were out in full force this 30-year old could give them a run for their money. It also has John Holmes in it, which once again made for greater subject matter in Wonderland, than he did in any of his porn roles.
The wife of Chuck Traynor, Lovelace’s ex and the man she said pimped her out and made her do those naughty films, Chambers never acted the victim. She may have been , but we will probably never know. For now, she can rest in peace.
What's Love Got To Do With It?
Well it’s Tuesday so this is another two-fer prompt; either write a love poem or an anti-love poem. This is going to be hard. I have to be in the mood to write about love. I am not in the mood. Love is something that escapes me. Let me put it this way, romantic love doesn’t escape me, only the men who profess it escape me (or I escape them.) But I am not bitter. I still believe in love and that it is out there for me. I guess my anti-love thoughts would be about patience and waiting. I really don’t love either one of them.
So here goes:
In Love With Love
No man has suited me as my imagination does,
Human fault and whims blemish the common joe,
Where romantic and esteemed imagery smiles on.
To dream with book and poem in hand,
He can not give me what I need in real time,
A spirit too frail and selfish, he resides below.
So my quest continues in mucky marsh,
A knight to reign above all others,
Found only in my wistful erotic dreams.
Do you even exist in flesh and blood,
Breathing promises you will keep into my ear,
And begging for my heart in return.
Go on in the dark and shadowed world,
Ethereal, yet natural to my needs,
I am in love with love and that is all.
I am really the last person to talk about love, except of course a serial killer. I have been in love twice and have loved many times. I loved my first boyfriend, Mark who was a blond, Arian, republican (how did that happen??) He was my first boyfriend when I was 17. We broke up since I had to stay home for two weeks thanks to mono (which he probably gave to me) and he just couldn’t handle it. Then there were guys in college, but they didn’t count.
Sean was the next and the worst. An abuser and all-around idiot, this skinny pussy had anger issues since he hadn’t come out of the closet yet. Then came Lee. He was the rock-n-roller who was a fabulous lover and an even more fabulous sociopath. These were all men I loved, but was never in love with. That was left to understand in my 30s.
In love to me is that cohesion, that desire to give of ones self and find even great fulfillment as two more than one. I guess I am still looking, but like that lady on “Britain’s Got Talent” I may still have the chance to find my dream, even now. Love you all.
So here goes:
In Love With Love
No man has suited me as my imagination does,
Human fault and whims blemish the common joe,
Where romantic and esteemed imagery smiles on.
To dream with book and poem in hand,
He can not give me what I need in real time,
A spirit too frail and selfish, he resides below.
So my quest continues in mucky marsh,
A knight to reign above all others,
Found only in my wistful erotic dreams.
Do you even exist in flesh and blood,
Breathing promises you will keep into my ear,
And begging for my heart in return.
Go on in the dark and shadowed world,
Ethereal, yet natural to my needs,
I am in love with love and that is all.
I am really the last person to talk about love, except of course a serial killer. I have been in love twice and have loved many times. I loved my first boyfriend, Mark who was a blond, Arian, republican (how did that happen??) He was my first boyfriend when I was 17. We broke up since I had to stay home for two weeks thanks to mono (which he probably gave to me) and he just couldn’t handle it. Then there were guys in college, but they didn’t count.
Sean was the next and the worst. An abuser and all-around idiot, this skinny pussy had anger issues since he hadn’t come out of the closet yet. Then came Lee. He was the rock-n-roller who was a fabulous lover and an even more fabulous sociopath. These were all men I loved, but was never in love with. That was left to understand in my 30s.
In love to me is that cohesion, that desire to give of ones self and find even great fulfillment as two more than one. I guess I am still looking, but like that lady on “Britain’s Got Talent” I may still have the chance to find my dream, even now. Love you all.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Voices
Today’s poem prompt is Hobby.
Voices
Hi there.
Banded together
We place our desires before us
Posting what everyone refuses to say,
We do our best to be intimate
And yet anonymous
Giving new meaning to the term “job”
Beginning a beautiful acquaintance
Lies to you
Lies to me
Acting like we really care
Selfish, alone and with a schedule,
The safest way to play and leave,
Virtualized passion quenches us
For a time in another world,
Computing fun with voice to ear,
We are an open source of lust,
With no power struggles
Or builded expectations.
Just a good bye and hang up.
I have many hobbies that I hope to one day be able to make a living at. Cooking is just one of them. I love to cook and have considered getting into the personal chef business helping busy, corporate people eat well. Right now may not be the time, but I’m always practicing. When I wasn’t working, I would cook continuously creating a plethora of soups and stews, salads, entrees and desserts that my friends would taste test letting me know what works and what doesn’t.
I would spend many nights perusing cookbooks and magazines, as well as the Internet looking at my own kind of porn – recipes and techniques. I still get a chill when one of my cooking magazines comes in the mail or when I get the drive to go to the library and stack my arms with cookbooks from all over. When traveling, I always pick souvenirs of food and food stuffs. I am an addict.
If it wasn’t for my weight, it would be a harmless addiction, but I just love food. So I took the challenge of taking my favorite treats and making them fit into plan. I have also decided that for my birthday instead of new shoes or jewelry, I am going to stock my pantry with food stuffs so I can cook pretty much anything at anytime.
This is the hobby that I can share and I am lucky I have so many willing guinea pigs to help. If I could, I would spend all day creating luxurious wonders and sharing them with those I love.
Recently I bought a Chinese cookbook magazine thing. It was $1 at the store so I had to get it and it was one of the best dollars I ever spent. There are easy recipes for pot stickers, soups, chow mein, orange beef and so much more. I think I may also take a day to cook and freeze for my birthday so I can treat myself well for the month after that. Oh how I love to chop, and shop and cook and sauté and bake and devour. Even cleaning is OK when one is satisfied. Like sex, cooking just keeps getting better.
Voices
Hi there.
Banded together
We place our desires before us
Posting what everyone refuses to say,
We do our best to be intimate
And yet anonymous
Giving new meaning to the term “job”
Beginning a beautiful acquaintance
Lies to you
Lies to me
Acting like we really care
Selfish, alone and with a schedule,
The safest way to play and leave,
Virtualized passion quenches us
For a time in another world,
Computing fun with voice to ear,
We are an open source of lust,
With no power struggles
Or builded expectations.
Just a good bye and hang up.
I have many hobbies that I hope to one day be able to make a living at. Cooking is just one of them. I love to cook and have considered getting into the personal chef business helping busy, corporate people eat well. Right now may not be the time, but I’m always practicing. When I wasn’t working, I would cook continuously creating a plethora of soups and stews, salads, entrees and desserts that my friends would taste test letting me know what works and what doesn’t.
I would spend many nights perusing cookbooks and magazines, as well as the Internet looking at my own kind of porn – recipes and techniques. I still get a chill when one of my cooking magazines comes in the mail or when I get the drive to go to the library and stack my arms with cookbooks from all over. When traveling, I always pick souvenirs of food and food stuffs. I am an addict.
If it wasn’t for my weight, it would be a harmless addiction, but I just love food. So I took the challenge of taking my favorite treats and making them fit into plan. I have also decided that for my birthday instead of new shoes or jewelry, I am going to stock my pantry with food stuffs so I can cook pretty much anything at anytime.
This is the hobby that I can share and I am lucky I have so many willing guinea pigs to help. If I could, I would spend all day creating luxurious wonders and sharing them with those I love.
Recently I bought a Chinese cookbook magazine thing. It was $1 at the store so I had to get it and it was one of the best dollars I ever spent. There are easy recipes for pot stickers, soups, chow mein, orange beef and so much more. I think I may also take a day to cook and freeze for my birthday so I can treat myself well for the month after that. Oh how I love to chop, and shop and cook and sauté and bake and devour. Even cleaning is OK when one is satisfied. Like sex, cooking just keeps getting better.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Play Date
Easter has come and gone. I didn’t do much on Easter Day since I was recovering from the night before. I spent an evening with Guy, which turned into an evening with Guy, Shawn, Mary and Geordie. It was a blast. Shawn, a chef by trade, did the barbequing, Guy made the cocktails and poured wine, Geordie shared tales of his upbringing as a gay Southern man and Mary told us about being a model in Milan and who is now a chef as well.
I brought the broccoli salad (that people didn’t appreciate since it was healthy salad and not laden with bacon and mayo – both of which I have nothing against.) I also brought stuffed mushrooms which went over well.
We ate cheese from all over the world, drank Rioja and of course laughed until we cried. Then came the Ouzo (which I did not drink) and the clean up. Puppies played and we all have a great time, but with morning (and after a night sleeping on a poorly cushioned futon) I felt not as thrilled. We went to breakfast and then I went home to sleep in my own bed and let the puppies run free in the back yard.
Ronn watched the Masters, I watched LOST and we decided to postpone the rising of the dead for Monday with lamb and spring veggies.
Broccoli Salad – well at least I like it.
One bunch of broccoli cut into florets with the stems cut in small bites
Red onion, diced – ¼ cup or so
Red pepper, roasted and diced – ¼ cup or so
Walnuts – ¼ cup - chopped
Raisins – ¼ cup - chopped
Vidalia onion dressing – ¼ cup
1 lemon
I nuked the broccoli so as not to lose any of its nutritional value (about 5 minutes so it is still crisp and green)
While it’s cooking put the raisins in a coffee cup and soak in hot water for about 5 minutes so they get soft
While still warm add the onion, pepper, walnuts, raisins and dressing. I thinned out the dressing with lemon juice.
Salt and pepper.
Toss and let it sit on the counter for a few minutes so the hear breaks down all the flavors. Then refrigerate.
The Vidalia Onion dressing is from Kraft and even though I don’t usually use bottled dressing, it is becoming a bit more common since they are good for more things than drenching lettuce.
I brought the broccoli salad (that people didn’t appreciate since it was healthy salad and not laden with bacon and mayo – both of which I have nothing against.) I also brought stuffed mushrooms which went over well.
We ate cheese from all over the world, drank Rioja and of course laughed until we cried. Then came the Ouzo (which I did not drink) and the clean up. Puppies played and we all have a great time, but with morning (and after a night sleeping on a poorly cushioned futon) I felt not as thrilled. We went to breakfast and then I went home to sleep in my own bed and let the puppies run free in the back yard.
Ronn watched the Masters, I watched LOST and we decided to postpone the rising of the dead for Monday with lamb and spring veggies.
Broccoli Salad – well at least I like it.
One bunch of broccoli cut into florets with the stems cut in small bites
Red onion, diced – ¼ cup or so
Red pepper, roasted and diced – ¼ cup or so
Walnuts – ¼ cup - chopped
Raisins – ¼ cup - chopped
Vidalia onion dressing – ¼ cup
1 lemon
I nuked the broccoli so as not to lose any of its nutritional value (about 5 minutes so it is still crisp and green)
While it’s cooking put the raisins in a coffee cup and soak in hot water for about 5 minutes so they get soft
While still warm add the onion, pepper, walnuts, raisins and dressing. I thinned out the dressing with lemon juice.
Salt and pepper.
Toss and let it sit on the counter for a few minutes so the hear breaks down all the flavors. Then refrigerate.
The Vidalia Onion dressing is from Kraft and even though I don’t usually use bottled dressing, it is becoming a bit more common since they are good for more things than drenching lettuce.
I Decided To Start My Own Traditions
“We decided to” is the theme for today, but I wanted to make it more personal and change it to “I decided to.” I decided to celebrate Easter my own way. Not much of a family person, I have created many of my own holiday traditions. As a child, Easter meant chasing my anticipation for eggs around the back yard, dew covering my feet and nightgown. My father did his best to make it a special day when I was growing up, but sometimes it was just him and I with a canned ham.
My teenage years were failed attempts at Lent restrictions and my step siblings and their families. In college, I actually did better with Lent giving up chocolate and drinking for those 40 days and nights all the while feeling superior in spirit and body on Easter Sunday – a sort of rebirth. (I did find out recently though that technically Lent ends on Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper and not on Easter – thanks Renee who did great with giving up chocolate until that day.) Being as lapsed a Catholic as one can be, I no longer practice Lent, though it could be of value even on a secular level.
My favorite Easter was when Guy and I decided to go to Sunrise Service in Safety Harbor. We arose at o-dark-thirty (even before Jesus) and dressed in our Sunday best. After the service, we were wide awake and thought we would surprise Patrick, his roommate at the time with a wake-up call. No such luck. Patrick was awake, as was Diane, and they had already made a pitcher of bloody marys. We sipped the spiced concoction, ate chocolate Easter candy and watched Jerry Springer. Ever since that has been my favorite Easter tradition.
For this year I decided to lay low and do the food thing tomorrow since I am not fully risen myself.
My teenage years were failed attempts at Lent restrictions and my step siblings and their families. In college, I actually did better with Lent giving up chocolate and drinking for those 40 days and nights all the while feeling superior in spirit and body on Easter Sunday – a sort of rebirth. (I did find out recently though that technically Lent ends on Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper and not on Easter – thanks Renee who did great with giving up chocolate until that day.) Being as lapsed a Catholic as one can be, I no longer practice Lent, though it could be of value even on a secular level.
My favorite Easter was when Guy and I decided to go to Sunrise Service in Safety Harbor. We arose at o-dark-thirty (even before Jesus) and dressed in our Sunday best. After the service, we were wide awake and thought we would surprise Patrick, his roommate at the time with a wake-up call. No such luck. Patrick was awake, as was Diane, and they had already made a pitcher of bloody marys. We sipped the spiced concoction, ate chocolate Easter candy and watched Jerry Springer. Ever since that has been my favorite Easter tradition.
For this year I decided to lay low and do the food thing tomorrow since I am not fully risen myself.
We Decided To Keep Hoping
Cold white room cluttered with tears,
Itching, waiting and wondering what to do next,
We are escorted into a cold white office,
And told the news,
“Your test is negative.”
Hugs, tears and striking one off the list,
No way to celebrate since the agony is fresh,
Then what is it?
24 hours an X-ray,
24 hours more cut it,
24 hours later cancer.
Every day into every night,
We decide to keep hoping.
One year chemo and sick,
Two years gaining weight and wishing,
Three years living life again,
Four years we’re almost there,
Five years back in the hospital.
Six years chemo again,
Seven years watched more carefully,
Eight years forgetting regrets,
Nine years almost alive almost dead,
Ten years trekking in Alaska,
Eleven years we beat the odds,
Twelve years going stronger than ever.
Because we decided to keep hoping.
Itching, waiting and wondering what to do next,
We are escorted into a cold white office,
And told the news,
“Your test is negative.”
Hugs, tears and striking one off the list,
No way to celebrate since the agony is fresh,
Then what is it?
24 hours an X-ray,
24 hours more cut it,
24 hours later cancer.
Every day into every night,
We decide to keep hoping.
One year chemo and sick,
Two years gaining weight and wishing,
Three years living life again,
Four years we’re almost there,
Five years back in the hospital.
Six years chemo again,
Seven years watched more carefully,
Eight years forgetting regrets,
Nine years almost alive almost dead,
Ten years trekking in Alaska,
Eleven years we beat the odds,
Twelve years going stronger than ever.
Because we decided to keep hoping.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Fridge of Fame and Shame
Guy’s refrigerator is like a shrine to more than 10 years of parties, friends, weddings and other happenings. The front and sides are caked with pictures, cut-outs, phrases and magnets that define his life and his attitude about life. Though many have had the honor of being provided a spot on this Swingin’ Beach Pad Fridge of Fame, certain spots of memory stand out.Madonnaween 2002
Cathy (who we have also come to call Madonna) was in her crowning glory. There is nothing she doesn’t know about her idol. Growing up in the same town as the not-so-virginal one, Cathy is a kindred spirit taking on convention and casting it off like last week’s fur. The focus of this party was Madonna in any interpretation. Guy even made a movie about it (which recently went off to be screened at a prestigious film festival) and the memories linger like Madonna’s earlier porn films.We had in residence not only the material girl in all her incarnations, but also Guy Richie, backup dancers, security and, of course, Jesus who drove a gremlin. My rendition of this theme was a stretch since Madonna really isn’t my thing. I went with my boyfriend of the moment, Mic who was Andy Warhol and I was a factory girl. We figured that if Andy would have lived Madonna would have been part of his entourage, or him part of hers.
In the background is Heidi as the Erotic Madonna with vinyl and a whip – oooooooooh.
Another Halloween bash, the first one, say 1997, there was no theme, but that didn’t matter since this crowd only needs one prompting for a reason to dress up. This photo is Diane, a sprite English bird dressed in her prom dress, well not hers, but you know, and two delectable and well-built angels at her side. These parties condoned bare bodies, which were usually men or women with strategically placed pasties on certain areas. This year though I got my nickname of Wednesday, since I was a fabulous Wednesday Adams.
That same year the Tracy family topped everyone with the Wizard of Oz. Possibly conceived by Dorothy (Chris Tracy) the family went all out using their stage skills in makeup and costume to really show everyone up. Even the dog, that is really a pitbull. Just kidding. Unfortunately, a few years after this was taken, their brother died and Chris followed this past year. They will be greatly missed.
The ever hip music fan, Guy went all the way to New York to see his favorite band, after Blondie and Madonna, the Scissor Sisters. He couldn’t resist getting his picture taken with the band and wearing is SS cap for the next 4 years.
Another great band that performed at Guy’s house one Thanksgiving was Joan’s old ragtime group. They had come together for their last performance, sort of like the Beatles on top of Apple Studios, in Guy’s back yard. The party carried on into the wee hours and as you can see hip is cool at any age.
Sometimes people come to the Swingin’ Beach Pad all dressed up for not apparent reason except they can. This group of drag queens and pimp are an example. New Year’s is a time to celebrate and to start resolutions, including looking fabulous at all times. Don’t they look great???!!! I am envious though that men can look so much better than me.
This montage features Christmas done right with Guy, Patrick, Karalinda and Aimee. The one below is another Halloween themed Alice’s Mad Tea Party (where everyone were served cocktails in tea cups.) And of course, Liberace.
Getting ready to welcome in a new decade, this is from 1999 when the Whinzy Twins, Todd and Karalinda, covered their house in mylar and blue bottles. We spent days helping them set up and enjoyed every moment, though I missed the actual New Year’s Eve celebration since I was in New York.
The Object of My Obsession
Today's poetry prompt is to write about an object.
Svensk fisk
Swimming upstream in my veins,
Red 40 spawns a will to go on,
Consuming, devouring these friendly
Versions of the fish family.
Though not from IKEA
Or singing ABBA tunes,
My jellied friends greet me
Emblazoned with their home country.
A pure delight in red goo,
A mysterious cherry, or
Is that lingonberry,
Flavor tantalizing my taste buds.
Crack from the north,
In beautiful red translucence,
These tadpoles create such happiness
And go with almost anything.
Svensk fisk
Swimming upstream in my veins,
Red 40 spawns a will to go on,
Consuming, devouring these friendly
Versions of the fish family.
Though not from IKEA
Or singing ABBA tunes,
My jellied friends greet me
Emblazoned with their home country.
A pure delight in red goo,
A mysterious cherry, or
Is that lingonberry,
Flavor tantalizing my taste buds.
Crack from the north,
In beautiful red translucence,
These tadpoles create such happiness
And go with almost anything.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Frie - Day
Fridays hold a special place in my heart. As part of the working masses, I am lost until Friday and it is my beckon for time to myself. The work days seem longer, promise of happy hours or cook-free nights entice me. I long for the moment I am off the clock and wishing for the weekend to never end.
Fridays used to be the day I hopped a plane to NYC to see Patrick. The 6:10 flight from Tampa to LaGuardia was usually not on time and I didn’t get to his place until around 11. But hey it’s New York and 11pm is still part of the day. But he had worked all week too and the subway ride from Brooklyn into the city was not at all appealing to him. We stayed in drinking vodka and eating whatever he whipped up at that hour. No worries.
Now my Fridays are usually spent one of three ways: by myself to recoup for the week, out with friends usually Guy to happy hour at Georgies, or spending the evening with Ronn.
Last weekend, I went out with Michelle, which is a strange occurrence on its own. Very rarely does she get a chance to hang out on a Friday and even rarer is her desire to leave her home for the evening. But she did and we had a great time. We met up with Guy and Shawn and tagged along to a comedy show.
Not my cup of tea usually, this show was headlined by a hilarious woman Guy met when he was mentoring kids. It was also at this great historic hotel in Gulfport. We laughed and drank more nibbling on fruit and cheese. Mich had to get up early so she went home as me and my beaus continued on the merriment at Bellinis. If you are in this area, you have to try Bellinis and its sister restaurant, La Fogata. Bellinis is sort of South Beach feel with fancy fruit drink and sample plates that will leave you wanting more. It also is like most great places around here, open to anyone and everyone. The table to our left propped up the cocktails of some young trendy and chic Spring Breakers who couldn’t afford the luxury of the real South Beach and made do with this eclectic community. To our right the table propped up the patrons, an artsy couple with a visible age difference. She was at least 20 years older than him, but you could see the admiration in his eyes. I just love that kind of “breaking the norm” thing.
What wasn’t so great was the filling of never fully recovering the next day. I usually don’t have the mega hangovers of headaches and puking, but I usually just get foggy and can’t seem to rest right. That’s when I make promises to not do that again, and I kept it since I had a relaxing evening at Ronn’s this week. Knowing I didn’t really feel like cooking and taking into account the cast on my ankle, he fed us leftover pepperoni pizza and salad (Ok I made the salad since it is just one of those things I need to have at each meal.) He also humored me by watching 4 episodes of lost Season 3. He has never watched the show and I figured we would only watch one or two, but we watched the whole disk as I filled him in as best I could about what the background stories were for the different characters. I thought that was nice of him.
I’m not sure what future Fridays hold since there are a ton of fun things to do in this town. Maybe next week I’ll go play shuffleboard with Chris, or fly a kite on the beach at sunset, or maybe stay home and lose myself in Season 4. I know it sounds dull and boring, but sometimes one just needs that simple freedom of a Friday.
So Friday is the prompt and what better prompt than on Good Friday. Not being a practicing Catholic anymore, I eat meat on this day and still have the urge to look outside at 3pm to see if the sky has darkened. Good Fridays used to mean tuna fish sandwiches and benediction following the Stations of the Cross at school. God I hated all that, not the tuna, the Stations.
Every Friday can be Good
To go to work or not to go to work, that is the question.
Whether tis nobler to not shrug ones duties ,
The slings and arrows of an office job,
Or to take a paid day off to romp and play,
And by opposing, feel the stress of making it worthwhile.
No more, I brave the traffic and arrive still asleep,
The heart-ache of knowing only two days are mine,
The flesh and spirit wanting to see the sun,
Devoutly to be wished. I work, I yawn,
To write, perchance to be commended,
For in my sleep so broken at sunrise,
When I have shuffled from bed to desk,
Must give us a coffee break. There’s the respect,
That brings calamity of happy hour
For who could bear not celebrating our release,
From the oppressor and bask now in neon,
The pangs of Saturday’s fangs and knives,
The insolence of office, and the spurns of the morning after,
That patience leaves us making promises,
When I, myself only long for the next good Friday.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Dr. Zhivago in My Eyes
A happy memory to balance-out the poem. I once worked at one of those shopping channels Americans are drawn to. I was a floor director and had the task of putting microphones on the guests, giving camera cues and getting water for those not so shining bright starts who didn’t have personal assistants.On one such occasion, I was putting a mic on Omar Sharif. He had to have been about 60 years old to my 20 and yet his charm had the strength of a Russian weightlifter. As I stood in front of him, asking the control room if they could test his mic, he spoke in his luxurious tongue saying “You have the most beautiful eyes” instead of the standard “1,2,3,4.” I was taken aback and smiled a shy grin. He then took my hand and kissed the top. Whatever happened to charm and class like that??
My Imaginary Ex-Boyfriend - Day 9
My Imaginary Ex-Boyfriend
Silence
For more than a week
Silence.
Pink Martini playing on
While I wondered where he’d gone
And all I heard was silence.
One week to go
Fear sets in
He gives me silence.
Years spent knowing him
A stranger in one week
Crying in silence.
Let’s never stop falling in love
Going insane and back
Silently loving him.
Where did he go
My imaginary boyfriend
Never saying “I love you” again.
Silence
For more than a week
Silence.
Pink Martini playing on
While I wondered where he’d gone
And all I heard was silence.
One week to go
Fear sets in
He gives me silence.
Years spent knowing him
A stranger in one week
Crying in silence.
Let’s never stop falling in love
Going insane and back
Silently loving him.
Where did he go
My imaginary boyfriend
Never saying “I love you” again.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Routine for Routine Sake
I thought it was sort of cool that the prompt today was about Routine. I figure that topic had already been shared, so no need to rehash and break my routine.
A Writing Routine
Have topic discussion with everyone’s two cents,
Research topic for hours on end,
Write outline from what next editor suggests,
Research some more on a different path,
Coerce interviews with one word answers,
Scatter expertise among the paragraphs,
Rewrite and self edit,
Turn over to editor.
Get their two cents and bite tongue,
Research with a topic stretch,
Write another outline per suggestions,
Research exhausting Google,
Finagle more interviews,
Make them sound articulate,
Rewrite again and self edit again,
Turn over to editor.
Another excuse to rewrite,
Put back in what was replaced,
Write my suicide note,
Research other job opportunities,
Rant to my cube mate,
Rewrite again skip edits,
Turn over to editor.
Next editor has his opinion,
Like a**holes we all do,
Chief asks why I miss deadline,
Next rewrites article,
Since I suck as a writer,
Let it go with Friday,
Read his rewrite and give up,
Ask for next topic to suck on.
A Writing Routine
Have topic discussion with everyone’s two cents,
Research topic for hours on end,
Write outline from what next editor suggests,
Research some more on a different path,
Coerce interviews with one word answers,
Scatter expertise among the paragraphs,
Rewrite and self edit,
Turn over to editor.
Get their two cents and bite tongue,
Research with a topic stretch,
Write another outline per suggestions,
Research exhausting Google,
Finagle more interviews,
Make them sound articulate,
Rewrite again and self edit again,
Turn over to editor.
Another excuse to rewrite,
Put back in what was replaced,
Write my suicide note,
Research other job opportunities,
Rant to my cube mate,
Rewrite again skip edits,
Turn over to editor.
Next editor has his opinion,
Like a**holes we all do,
Chief asks why I miss deadline,
Next rewrites article,
Since I suck as a writer,
Let it go with Friday,
Read his rewrite and give up,
Ask for next topic to suck on.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Doin' It Clean - Poem Number 7
Today’s prompt is a twofer. The inspirations were either clean or dirty.
For today’s blog entry, however, I will voice my frustration about how dirty my house is and how unclean I feel. Having to keep my feet up makes me notice even more the dust on the cabinet, on the TV and in the rays of sunshine that filter in.
I’m not supposed to be on my feet more than necessary, but it is driving me mad. Someone suggested I get a house keeper to do a quick run through, but I hate the idea of a stranger seeing all the lingering filth. Plus, it’s spring and the urge to clean the nest is second only to the need for other more carnal desires.
From the stuffed up gutters to the baseboards in the kitchen, I am being driven mad with this seasonal OCD episode. I suppose I could start from the bottom up and sit down to clean all that catches my eye in the long daylight.
I have never been called a neat nut or even tidy, though what I feel is a mess right now is truly just average living standards. Having pets and working makes it hard to keep a pristine environment, especially since I love to cook and to enjoy those moments nestled among my kids.
Guy has a theory that when we die we come back to clean our homes (why else would an unforeseen force move things about) so why should we spend those valuable hours of life wasted on chasing dust bunnies.
But I will find a way. I have heard a few comments about my lack of housekeeping, but they general come from those who don’t have actual responsibilities and who lack the couth to either help or shut up. For them, I long to rub their noses in dust and entice their allergies to come on full force. But there are many others who generally don’t care and either offer to help with little things or ignore it all for something more inspiring to do. To them, I pour another drink (I assure you the glass is clean) and welcome them in with loving arms.
For now, I will do what I can without washer, or standing, or help and ignore the rest.
Cleaning up a Dirty Situation
Newly laundered Egyptian cotton sheets
Slithering between her legs
As the fresh scent of her hair
Lingers in his imagination
With closed eyes and open desire.
A blank slate of lust fills her mouth
Bright dreams made real intertwined
And washed away of all guilty remorse
As she cleanses his waking moments
Immaculate and graceful
For today’s blog entry, however, I will voice my frustration about how dirty my house is and how unclean I feel. Having to keep my feet up makes me notice even more the dust on the cabinet, on the TV and in the rays of sunshine that filter in.
I’m not supposed to be on my feet more than necessary, but it is driving me mad. Someone suggested I get a house keeper to do a quick run through, but I hate the idea of a stranger seeing all the lingering filth. Plus, it’s spring and the urge to clean the nest is second only to the need for other more carnal desires.
From the stuffed up gutters to the baseboards in the kitchen, I am being driven mad with this seasonal OCD episode. I suppose I could start from the bottom up and sit down to clean all that catches my eye in the long daylight.I have never been called a neat nut or even tidy, though what I feel is a mess right now is truly just average living standards. Having pets and working makes it hard to keep a pristine environment, especially since I love to cook and to enjoy those moments nestled among my kids.
Guy has a theory that when we die we come back to clean our homes (why else would an unforeseen force move things about) so why should we spend those valuable hours of life wasted on chasing dust bunnies.
But I will find a way. I have heard a few comments about my lack of housekeeping, but they general come from those who don’t have actual responsibilities and who lack the couth to either help or shut up. For them, I long to rub their noses in dust and entice their allergies to come on full force. But there are many others who generally don’t care and either offer to help with little things or ignore it all for something more inspiring to do. To them, I pour another drink (I assure you the glass is clean) and welcome them in with loving arms.For now, I will do what I can without washer, or standing, or help and ignore the rest.
Cleaning up a Dirty Situation
Newly laundered Egyptian cotton sheets
Slithering between her legs
As the fresh scent of her hair
Lingers in his imagination
With closed eyes and open desire.
A blank slate of lust fills her mouth
Bright dreams made real intertwined
And washed away of all guilty remorse
As she cleanses his waking moments
Immaculate and graceful
Monday, April 6, 2009
Something's Coming
Today’s writing prompt is about Something Missing.
Well I am back in soft cast and in a crap load of pain. They don’t have the pain killers at the pharmacy so I have to wait until tomorrow for them and this doesn’t help my psyche much, and neither does thinking about what’s missing.
I work hard during times like these to think of what I have more than what’s missing. Surgery may just be around the corner and I thought about how my friends and sisters could take turns taking care of me for a couple weeks until I will be able to get back on my feet.
So that is something I already have. I have two wonderful, and now healthy dogs; two great felines; a job to help me pay the bills; a house to keep me safe and warm (or cool for that matter); a sort-of-working washer that gives me clean clothes; food for the kids and me and a bunch of other good things. I also have loneliness and a bit of pain from inside and out, but I know this too shall pass.
I used to relish feeling sorry for myself, but it really doesn’t fit me anymore. So I could weep over being alone and hurt, of not having a significant other to take care of me in my time of need, and missing a piece of my heart. But it’s not me. I know if I called one of my friends now they would help me, if only to take the dogs out or help me fix the variety of things that need fixing in the house.
I lack nothing, except from time to time, appreciation for all that I do have. I am blessed and enjoy every minute of it, when I can remember.
Well I am back in soft cast and in a crap load of pain. They don’t have the pain killers at the pharmacy so I have to wait until tomorrow for them and this doesn’t help my psyche much, and neither does thinking about what’s missing.
I work hard during times like these to think of what I have more than what’s missing. Surgery may just be around the corner and I thought about how my friends and sisters could take turns taking care of me for a couple weeks until I will be able to get back on my feet.
So that is something I already have. I have two wonderful, and now healthy dogs; two great felines; a job to help me pay the bills; a house to keep me safe and warm (or cool for that matter); a sort-of-working washer that gives me clean clothes; food for the kids and me and a bunch of other good things. I also have loneliness and a bit of pain from inside and out, but I know this too shall pass.
I used to relish feeling sorry for myself, but it really doesn’t fit me anymore. So I could weep over being alone and hurt, of not having a significant other to take care of me in my time of need, and missing a piece of my heart. But it’s not me. I know if I called one of my friends now they would help me, if only to take the dogs out or help me fix the variety of things that need fixing in the house.
I lack nothing, except from time to time, appreciation for all that I do have. I am blessed and enjoy every minute of it, when I can remember.
Missing a Poem - Day 6
The Missing Link
Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch
Is a phrase my friend uses ever time he leaves the house.
Just in case he doesn’t miss the most important pieces.
By following the hand movements,
He makes the sign of the cross.
A blessing a day may keep the demons away,
But the luster of true church lacks this appeal.
The incense and vibrant robes of sorrowful priests
Paired with the devotional confines of doctrine,
These embodiments of the one true God
Leave us wishing for more.
No compassion, no doubt, no will of their own
I am left missing the truth that God is.
But traditions die hard and
A simple four points suits me just fine.
Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch
Is a phrase my friend uses ever time he leaves the house.
Just in case he doesn’t miss the most important pieces.
By following the hand movements,
He makes the sign of the cross.
A blessing a day may keep the demons away,
But the luster of true church lacks this appeal.
The incense and vibrant robes of sorrowful priests
Paired with the devotional confines of doctrine,
These embodiments of the one true God
Leave us wishing for more.
No compassion, no doubt, no will of their own
I am left missing the truth that God is.
But traditions die hard and
A simple four points suits me just fine.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Attack of the 100-Foot Drag Queen - A FABULOUS Landmark
In 1997, Guy and I set out on a 17-day road trip. Our travels would eventually take us to Washington D.C., New York City, Albany and Pittsburgh. But our first short stop was at South of the Border, appropriately named since it sat just south of the North Carolina border.
It was a blast traveling with Guy, because no matter where we ended up, I always felt safe. When we left his house we agreed on two things: No matter how much I told him I hated him during the trip, I really loved him; and he agreed that he would always love me even when he abandoned me at the closest truck stop.
So our first argument began when I begged to stop at South of the Border. I had been enticed for miles (about 293 of them) and just wanted to get some crap. I had no idea about what the monument held or even why it was there, but all the media hype inspired me.
He fought me good until he saw the giant silver high-heeled shoe. Then all hell broke loose and he acted like he had seen the Promised Land. Many kitsche photo ops and trashy high-priced shops gave us our fill of souvenirs as we devoured this landmark to all things tacky. I just loved it. We only spent an hour, but I got my picture taken on a super long hot dog dog and Guy, of course, in front of the slipper. I don’t know where the photos are, but it was wild.
Nothing else on our trip seemed to compare, though there were several memorable moments, such as watching the 4th of July fireworks on a bridge in downtown Pittsburgh; going to my first Pride parade in NYC and babysitting drunk Julie afterward, when I wasn’t much better off; and Shawn and Laura’s groovy warehouse apartment overlooking the river in Albany. But what could stand up to a giant silver-speckled high-heel drag pump?
It was a blast traveling with Guy, because no matter where we ended up, I always felt safe. When we left his house we agreed on two things: No matter how much I told him I hated him during the trip, I really loved him; and he agreed that he would always love me even when he abandoned me at the closest truck stop.
So our first argument began when I begged to stop at South of the Border. I had been enticed for miles (about 293 of them) and just wanted to get some crap. I had no idea about what the monument held or even why it was there, but all the media hype inspired me.
He fought me good until he saw the giant silver high-heeled shoe. Then all hell broke loose and he acted like he had seen the Promised Land. Many kitsche photo ops and trashy high-priced shops gave us our fill of souvenirs as we devoured this landmark to all things tacky. I just loved it. We only spent an hour, but I got my picture taken on a super long hot dog dog and Guy, of course, in front of the slipper. I don’t know where the photos are, but it was wild.
Nothing else on our trip seemed to compare, though there were several memorable moments, such as watching the 4th of July fireworks on a bridge in downtown Pittsburgh; going to my first Pride parade in NYC and babysitting drunk Julie afterward, when I wasn’t much better off; and Shawn and Laura’s groovy warehouse apartment overlooking the river in Albany. But what could stand up to a giant silver-speckled high-heel drag pump?
Circle of Life - Poem Day 5
Today's prompt was about landmarks. So for those of you who don't drive I-275 in St. Pete, you may be unfamiliar with the metallic sculpture of a lizard eating a fly on the top of the St. Pete Police garage at 5th Ave. There are several metallic lizards in the area, but most are of futuristic (or maybe our ancestry) lizard men. This was just a natural lizard doing a natural thing like eating a fly. If I get a picture of it soon I will post it so you can see how fascinating it is.
Shining silver-flecked reptile
Poised in the sky
Savoring his replicated fly
In the heated sunlight.
Gray and bitter lizard
Grasping over the edge
As multicolor cars race past
On the intertwined highway.
One metallic insect
Feeding one metallic lizard
On a metallic warehouse
Home to replacement cop cars.
A symbol, a sign, a metaphor?
Or just a recycled way of using cars
No longer housing criminals
Dimming the fuzz buzz.
Shining silver-flecked reptile
Poised in the sky
Savoring his replicated fly
In the heated sunlight.
Gray and bitter lizard
Grasping over the edge
As multicolor cars race past
On the intertwined highway.
One metallic insect
Feeding one metallic lizard
On a metallic warehouse
Home to replacement cop cars.
A symbol, a sign, a metaphor?
Or just a recycled way of using cars
No longer housing criminals
Dimming the fuzz buzz.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Dog Gone Crazies!!!!
Today was puppy day. Tuttie hosted a shindig for me, the other McGovern girls and a friend of hers. It was delightful mayhem as I brought my two terrors, Patty brought her 4, Janet the single Shaggy and Sandy brought Daisy, Finn and Polly’s sister. 
The weather couldn’t have been better, and it was great to see the MGs. I don’t get to see Janet too often or even Tuttie for that matter. We used to get together a few times a year for the State Fair, Green Thumb Festival, birthdays, a picnic now and then, and Busch Gardens. Schedules change, as do dynamics, and now it is only once in a while. One particular reason we don’t hang much is a weirdness known as the new girlfriend. 
M, my ex, introduced me to his sisters and when we broke up (which was all pleasant) I kept hanging out with the sisters. Years later when he started shacking up with this new chick all of that changed since she doesn’t like me. I was taken aback when I found out that he has requested I don’t join in for family things like the Fair and birthdays, but I accepted that she was their fa
mily now, and I was a distant cousin. So it was nice to be with the pack, if only for a day.Tuttie has a cool house a bit north of here and she was kind enough to host this puppy party even though she is sans canine. The puppies romped in the back yard playing with one another and their daddy, Duncan while the older (and bigger) dogs chose to hide out in the shrubs. We shared stories and laughs along with the simple pleasures of pizza and beer.
Lazy days. Which was good since I was still recovering from the night before with Guy, Shawn, Lu and Michelle.I would like to schedule a couple more of these doggie soirees since by backyard is now fenced in. Keep it small and casual with lots of puppy love.
Here is the poem for the day appropriately prompt to be about animals.
Snails
Prized for luminescent mobile homes,
Snails bring to life the virtue of patience.
Striving not to go far, but leaving a mark,
They slither through my garden.
The trail they leave illuminates their path,
Over step and stone to leave and limb.
My outdoor brethren tease the puppies,
And spur me on to stop and think.
What I most love about snails,
Is the lustrous flavor they bring to my tongue.
Whether swimming in garlic butter or
Floating in a sea of gorgonzola sauce,
They make their presence known
In such wonderful ways.
Prized for luminescent mobile homes,
Snails bring to life the virtue of patience.
Striving not to go far, but leaving a mark,
They slither through my garden.
The trail they leave illuminates their path,
Over step and stone to leave and limb.
My outdoor brethren tease the puppies,
And spur me on to stop and think.
What I most love about snails,
Is the lustrous flavor they bring to my tongue.
Whether swimming in garlic butter or
Floating in a sea of gorgonzola sauce,
They make their presence known
In such wonderful ways.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Problem with Cougars
I was recently came face to face with Cougar Barbie. In her tanned and bikini-clad glory she strutted her stuff around the clothed patrons grabbing attention from every angle and begging for more with a swan song of “I am so drunk.” Never since my college days, have those words echoed so much desperation that I felt pity for their speaker and her plight. I realized the 12 times I changed to find a decent outfit, the time pondering shoes and eye shadow and the pep talk to make me even go were signs of only slight craziness compared to this desperate creature.
Now I am the first person to dress up in blue hair and cleavage, but when it is appropriate like a fashion show or a Halloween party or even downtown on a Saturday. But at a family party with kids and others it just seemed to be a scream for meaning.
An observation like this spurred on my mind as I noticed the bikinied one’s half sister (figuratively) at the Home Depot. Black skinny jeans with strategically placed slits along the front and back from hem to belt loop (very strategic as you could tell she was going commando and I only glanced for a couple seconds.) her bleached-blond mane with frizzy ends and her “Barely Legal” t-shirt gave it away that she was far from barely and had been legal for some time. Maybe it was her daughter or granddaughter’s shirt.
Both of these instances seemed so out of place while a large woman covered in only blue paint and a blue G-string at Madonnaween a few years back received more cheers than jeers and the thong-clad biker chick on the back of her boy’s hot rod got looks, but with only exclamations like “Damn” (and a “Ronn please pay attention, you missed our turn while you were ogling the tanned ass of the Ho” from me.)
I fear that I will one day become desperate like these ladies who probably had it all together at one time and yet, now seem to be falling apart for all the world to see. Married or single at that ripe age, I wonder if I will fall prey to youth and grab it from the hands of its rightful owners begging for a couple good years left.
Now I am the first person to dress up in blue hair and cleavage, but when it is appropriate like a fashion show or a Halloween party or even downtown on a Saturday. But at a family party with kids and others it just seemed to be a scream for meaning.
An observation like this spurred on my mind as I noticed the bikinied one’s half sister (figuratively) at the Home Depot. Black skinny jeans with strategically placed slits along the front and back from hem to belt loop (very strategic as you could tell she was going commando and I only glanced for a couple seconds.) her bleached-blond mane with frizzy ends and her “Barely Legal” t-shirt gave it away that she was far from barely and had been legal for some time. Maybe it was her daughter or granddaughter’s shirt.
Both of these instances seemed so out of place while a large woman covered in only blue paint and a blue G-string at Madonnaween a few years back received more cheers than jeers and the thong-clad biker chick on the back of her boy’s hot rod got looks, but with only exclamations like “Damn” (and a “Ronn please pay attention, you missed our turn while you were ogling the tanned ass of the Ho” from me.)
I fear that I will one day become desperate like these ladies who probably had it all together at one time and yet, now seem to be falling apart for all the world to see. Married or single at that ripe age, I wonder if I will fall prey to youth and grab it from the hands of its rightful owners begging for a couple good years left.
The Problem With ... Day 3 of the PAD Challenge
Here is my two cents for this challenge. Not one of my best, but it will do in a pinch and pretty much encompasses my current mood.
The problem with Fridays
Work day is too long
Evening, too short.
Excuses run wild
Load stands still.
Aging shines through
Youth needs a nap.
Boredom tediously passes
Daydreams unremembered.
Wishing brings sorrow
Hope hides away.
The day is almost through
Monday comes too soon.
The problem with Fridays
Work day is too long
Evening, too short.
Excuses run wild
Load stands still.
Aging shines through
Youth needs a nap.
Boredom tediously passes
Daydreams unremembered.
Wishing brings sorrow
Hope hides away.
The day is almost through
Monday comes too soon.
Back on Track
I am so thrilled it’s Friday. I have been having one heck of a week and the weekend looks like one of recreation and relaxation. Plus, the stress at work will be waylaid for a few days.So far my plan of taking care of myself is working. I am writing more, reading more, getting more done around the house and playing with the puppies more. And I have been eating very well and back to exercising. My addiction to LOST is actually working in my favor as I use each episode as a reward for completing my listed daily tasks. As a seasoned procrastinator, I love to dance around what must be done and skip to the worrying phase when it nags at me. This has now given me quite a bit of chores to do to catch up and get back on track.
Last evening I played in the garden with my new grow boxes. I had to fill them with dirt and get my plants in place, though I need to get more PVC for the watering holes. I have two green and one purple box (I will get more with each paycheck) and am growing two types of tomatoes (little cherry ones and yellow plums), two kinds of peppers (one pepperocini and the other orange), and 8 different kinds of herbs (basil, lemon basil, Thai basil, curly parsley, flat leaf parsley, mint, rosemary, cilantro). Ronn came up with the design and constructed these three, but I think I can make the rest. I want to grow cucumbers, beans, squash and maybe even melons. I also have considered arugula and other lettuces so I can have a whole salad.
I love working in the garden and the fruits of my labor are much appreciated when they all get moving. I had a garden the first year I lived in the house and it was so much fun. I planted everything in the ground and though the back neighbor told me it wouldn’t work, it did. (It was a different neighbor, but with the same know-it-all sensibilities.) Then it all got out of hand, but with the new boxes and Ronn providing inspiration on farming, I am excited to frolic among the fruits and veg.My father is a fabulous gardener, growing lots of trees, vines and earthbound species on his little plot of land. Retired, he has all day to make his special concoctions (all organic) and grow his lot of onions, tomatoes, herbs, oranges, grapes, figs, greens and such. I envy his diligence and green thumb. I may not have inherited my father’s prowess at working with plumbing, but maybe a touch of the gardener rubbed off.
Also working in the yard gives me a sense of accomplishment and pride. Afterward I had a perfect meal cooked just for me (it’s sometimes hard to cook for others since the critique can be brutal) of chicken, broccoli and couscous. All healthy and within points. I actually feel so much better being in control of my eating again and with my newly sprouting plants, I can feel even better.
Next on my list, plan the front yard and recruit volunteers to paint the house.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The Eagle Has Landed
One of my most dramatic outsider moments was in a gay bar. Now I have been going to gay bars for years. In fact, Georgie’s is one of my favorite places in St. Pete. This one was different.
The Eagle was part a local resort called Suncoast. Since torn down to be replaced by a never-constructed Home Depot, Suncoast was not only a ratty hotel, but a multifaceted venue which housed a plethora of shops and a cornucopia of bars to suit all different kinds of tastes. There was a dance bar where people could just hang in Florida casual attire, a posh nightclub to suit those of a more well-dressed persuasion, a lesbian club for lipsticks to butch and a leather bar, which I later learned was a “no girls allowed” establishment.
Usually gay bars don’t frown on hags tagging along with their fags, but the Eagle was different. My neighbors (two biker bears) convinced me to go with them one Saturday night and I dressed for the role in a vinyl corset, school girl plaid and knee-high boots. I left my hair down and flowing, and would have made Chrissy Hynde proud with my eyeliner application.
Dale, Dan, Max and I sashayed our way among the burly, leather-clad clientele and I noticed the distinction this did not share with the other clubs. There weren’t any women. In fact, instead of getting a smile or wink from gays who just can’t help but flirt with anyone, I was met with scowls and once-overs that hinged on hate. Later I would flash back to this moment when I went to my first tranny bar, but that’s another story.
We got our drinks, vodkas all around, and made our way around the close confines of the crowd. Max kept begging for me to protect him, which was humor in itself since he is about 6’6” and strong as an ox. The grinding forwardness of some of the men really had him acting nervous, though I knew this was all an act to seem virginal.
In the back room, I lost my bearings since it was incredibly dark with even darker corners and a few tables. Men in various states of disrobe lingered with their eyes upon my companions and used their hands for more meaningful self-gratifying exercises. Some were helping each other out and I couldn’t help but stare at such live porn. I told Dan I didn’t mean to stare and he said, “Honey that’s what they want you to do. Well maybe not you per se, but they want to be noticed for the next fuck.”
After getting an eye full, we went back to the main room where a little twink was doing his best to strip raw. He offered Dale the option of doing anything he wanted for a dollar. He really didn’t need another dollar since the bulge in his tighty whiteys revealed more than a bank roll, but I think he had the hots for Dale’s long mane. So Dale asked me what I wanted him to do for a dollar. The barely legal boy expect a demand for a quick peek at his package or maybe the disquieting reveal of other said anatomy pieces, but I decided on doing my dishes.
Not amused, the stripper gave me a dirty look and went back to dancing for the men more than three-times his size and twice as old. That’s OK, we got our laugh and went about exploring the outside options of the resort, finally ending up at the neighbors doing a West Side Story sing-a-long which annoyed the hell out of Dale, but that’s also another story.
The Eagle was part a local resort called Suncoast. Since torn down to be replaced by a never-constructed Home Depot, Suncoast was not only a ratty hotel, but a multifaceted venue which housed a plethora of shops and a cornucopia of bars to suit all different kinds of tastes. There was a dance bar where people could just hang in Florida casual attire, a posh nightclub to suit those of a more well-dressed persuasion, a lesbian club for lipsticks to butch and a leather bar, which I later learned was a “no girls allowed” establishment.
Usually gay bars don’t frown on hags tagging along with their fags, but the Eagle was different. My neighbors (two biker bears) convinced me to go with them one Saturday night and I dressed for the role in a vinyl corset, school girl plaid and knee-high boots. I left my hair down and flowing, and would have made Chrissy Hynde proud with my eyeliner application.
Dale, Dan, Max and I sashayed our way among the burly, leather-clad clientele and I noticed the distinction this did not share with the other clubs. There weren’t any women. In fact, instead of getting a smile or wink from gays who just can’t help but flirt with anyone, I was met with scowls and once-overs that hinged on hate. Later I would flash back to this moment when I went to my first tranny bar, but that’s another story.
We got our drinks, vodkas all around, and made our way around the close confines of the crowd. Max kept begging for me to protect him, which was humor in itself since he is about 6’6” and strong as an ox. The grinding forwardness of some of the men really had him acting nervous, though I knew this was all an act to seem virginal.
In the back room, I lost my bearings since it was incredibly dark with even darker corners and a few tables. Men in various states of disrobe lingered with their eyes upon my companions and used their hands for more meaningful self-gratifying exercises. Some were helping each other out and I couldn’t help but stare at such live porn. I told Dan I didn’t mean to stare and he said, “Honey that’s what they want you to do. Well maybe not you per se, but they want to be noticed for the next fuck.”
After getting an eye full, we went back to the main room where a little twink was doing his best to strip raw. He offered Dale the option of doing anything he wanted for a dollar. He really didn’t need another dollar since the bulge in his tighty whiteys revealed more than a bank roll, but I think he had the hots for Dale’s long mane. So Dale asked me what I wanted him to do for a dollar. The barely legal boy expect a demand for a quick peek at his package or maybe the disquieting reveal of other said anatomy pieces, but I decided on doing my dishes.
Not amused, the stripper gave me a dirty look and went back to dancing for the men more than three-times his size and twice as old. That’s OK, we got our laugh and went about exploring the outside options of the resort, finally ending up at the neighbors doing a West Side Story sing-a-long which annoyed the hell out of Dale, but that’s also another story.
Poem-a-day - Day 2
Today's theme is outsider. This one isn't as sappy as the last. Enjoy
Everyone shines-on above the frayed weave
And I watch their mating dance.
Ignited by the techno rhythms we sway
Sideways potential for pain and glory
Talking to no one but my own silent voice.
Data drops in and out with each swell
About to be swarmed by an unknown crowd
And no tears come, no fears revealed
What is next for a voyeur of life?
Sparked by a need to be in and out
Games shock my system in a fizzy kind of way
With big, picture dreams expanding my quotes
A genius alive in a lazy body.
Everyone shines-on above the frayed weave
And I watch their mating dance.
Ignited by the techno rhythms we sway
Sideways potential for pain and glory
Talking to no one but my own silent voice.
Data drops in and out with each swell
About to be swarmed by an unknown crowd
And no tears come, no fears revealed
What is next for a voyeur of life?
Sparked by a need to be in and out
Games shock my system in a fizzy kind of way
With big, picture dreams expanding my quotes
A genius alive in a lazy body.
Mend Again
Yes, I know yesterday’s poem was sappy, but the wound was still very fresh. Each day helps a bit as I work in my yard and play with the puppies and realize that one day I will be truly happy again.My routine has a hole. I picked up working out again, writing everything down, playing with puppies and making my house a home, but there is still something missing. So I wrap my arms around the poetry project and force my words to come out. I also have this book that shares 366 prompts for other writing projects inspiring at least 30 minutes of pen to paper a day. So now I will not only write a poem (hopefully not too sappy) each day, but I will journal other notes to dust of the cobwebs of my creativity.
It’s interesting how a bit of heart break can create something so dynamically new and different. A few years back (the last time my heart was broken) I continued on my journey for something new and found it in Portland, OR. I love that town. I explored for five days all by myself, meeting new people, enjoying great food and letting my heart fill with joy as it mended. There were the most dramatic waterfalls, afternoons at the Chinese Gardens, strolls through the Rose Gardens, wanderings along the Columbia River, hours awakened in Powell’s Bookstore and the constant companionship of my friends Chris and Guy over the phone line. I ate the best tomato bisque, drank only the Pinots of the region and ate artisan cheese with seasonal apples. Only once did I fall apart, and it was in my hotel room 3 days into the trip when I felt both lost and alone. But even then, 4,000 miles away from anyone who loved me, I let it out and had another day of adventures. This time I lack funds for a big trip and have too much responsibility to leave, but I know that I can mend again. But I always need a plan.
It’s all about staying busy. That was my intention in the first place when I was curbed. Thankfully work is plentiful and tasks at home, with two puppies, are always busy. But those moments when there is a drop of quiet or a lonely Beatles song playing in my head (For No One) I get all teary-eyed and feel that familiar pain in my chest. It is like having an illness. You know you will get better, you just have to go through all the painful treatment to get there, like cancer. You may want to give up from time-to-time when your head pounds and all your mind’s eye can see is loneliness, but you have to trust the love docs when they say that this too shall pass.
It is funny though how certain songs are the soundtrack to my heartache. With Brian it was “The First Cut Is The Deepest” and this reiterated for years afterward. Even now, when I hear it on the radio or in a movie, I am dramatically regressed to a bawling mess. This time it is “For No One” since that was playing in his truck for weeks and each time it bounces around my brain I just want to curl up in a ball and let the world pass me by. Yet that album also has “Here There And Everywhere” a love song like no other, and “Good Day Sunshine” to balance out the pain of the first. Even now I wish it would stop.Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Songs To Listen To When You're Blue
I Feel Loved – Depeche Mode
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_lZP0MPLRA&feature=related
David Gahan singing Martin Gore’s words of feeling loved. What more is there to say?!
We Don’t Need this Fascist Groove Thang – Heaven 17
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yjPGDZIGkM
The retro 80s beat analyzing the politics of Reagan throws me back to the times when spiked hair and day-glo clothes could brighten any day. As you shake that fascist groove thang, you can shake away the blues.
Superman – REM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7N3IypQVYg
College angst had nothing on this. “You don’t really love that guy you make it with now do you?” I wonder if anyone asked Michael Stipes that. It’s a love song with an angry indie, stalker kind of feel. Just what I want.
Shoot the Runner – Kasabian
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-n584fbl5LU
Yes I am in love with the lead singer, but that aside “I’m her king and she’s my queen, bitch.” The driving beat and catchy chorus always gets me moving even while in my seat at work. The song along can make one feel better, and his Ewan McGregor good looks don’t hurt.
Kiss Off – Violent Femmes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gproa6vzgws&feature=related
The title pretty much covers this one too; a touch of anger and pain with the throbbing guitar and easy repetition. Plus there is counting and I love that. “I forget what 8 was for.”
Blitzkrieg Bop – The Ramones
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=htR14DZ-O-4
A touch of sadness since I will always remember the morning I heard about Joe Ramone’s death. But you have to admit, the way he says “Bop” is just plain funny. Add on the powerhouse of guitar and bass paired with a crazy man on drums and you have one hell of an upbeat tune.
Like a Virgin – Madonna
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-k3sMC1l4Y
In what I consider her hay day. This song’s Minnie Mouse-voiced muse is just too good to not want to wear a wedding dress and dance on a gondola.
Not Big – Lily Allen
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zarl1kTCjco&feature=PlayList&p=0084B6D8C6BB96CE&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=18
Just mean. I love it in a way. She says things I wish I could, but then again …. Even if they aren’t true. “I’m gonna do what you did to me, gonna reciprocate.”
Radio Radio – Elvis Costello and the Attractions
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j7JFP6ZOCI
The beauty of “I want to bite the hand that feeds me” is just sublime. The barrage of guitar and drums with his angry-young man whine brings a smile to my face.
She’s So Modern – The Boomtown Rats
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPKWTJSuRFM
Frantic rhythm with an indescribable voice (ok to describe Bob’s voice – snarly, wiry, sarcastic and unmusical) is all I need to want to dance on the furniture. I love Sir Bob and the Rats, especially for tunes like this that balance the dark nature Mondays and their appeal.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j_lZP0MPLRA&feature=related
David Gahan singing Martin Gore’s words of feeling loved. What more is there to say?!
We Don’t Need this Fascist Groove Thang – Heaven 17
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yjPGDZIGkM
The retro 80s beat analyzing the politics of Reagan throws me back to the times when spiked hair and day-glo clothes could brighten any day. As you shake that fascist groove thang, you can shake away the blues.
Superman – REM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7N3IypQVYg
College angst had nothing on this. “You don’t really love that guy you make it with now do you?” I wonder if anyone asked Michael Stipes that. It’s a love song with an angry indie, stalker kind of feel. Just what I want.
Shoot the Runner – Kasabian
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-n584fbl5LU
Yes I am in love with the lead singer, but that aside “I’m her king and she’s my queen, bitch.” The driving beat and catchy chorus always gets me moving even while in my seat at work. The song along can make one feel better, and his Ewan McGregor good looks don’t hurt.
Kiss Off – Violent Femmes
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gproa6vzgws&feature=related
The title pretty much covers this one too; a touch of anger and pain with the throbbing guitar and easy repetition. Plus there is counting and I love that. “I forget what 8 was for.”
Blitzkrieg Bop – The Ramones
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=htR14DZ-O-4
A touch of sadness since I will always remember the morning I heard about Joe Ramone’s death. But you have to admit, the way he says “Bop” is just plain funny. Add on the powerhouse of guitar and bass paired with a crazy man on drums and you have one hell of an upbeat tune.
Like a Virgin – Madonna
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k-k3sMC1l4Y
In what I consider her hay day. This song’s Minnie Mouse-voiced muse is just too good to not want to wear a wedding dress and dance on a gondola.
Not Big – Lily Allen
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zarl1kTCjco&feature=PlayList&p=0084B6D8C6BB96CE&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=18
Just mean. I love it in a way. She says things I wish I could, but then again …. Even if they aren’t true. “I’m gonna do what you did to me, gonna reciprocate.”
Radio Radio – Elvis Costello and the Attractions
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j7JFP6ZOCI
The beauty of “I want to bite the hand that feeds me” is just sublime. The barrage of guitar and drums with his angry-young man whine brings a smile to my face.
She’s So Modern – The Boomtown Rats
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPKWTJSuRFM
Frantic rhythm with an indescribable voice (ok to describe Bob’s voice – snarly, wiry, sarcastic and unmusical) is all I need to want to dance on the furniture. I love Sir Bob and the Rats, especially for tunes like this that balance the dark nature Mondays and their appeal.
An Original Written Piece
I thought what may be fun, since I think in prose more than poetry, is to take the Poem-A-Day prompts to write a blurb in my blog. So today is origin.
My origin as a writer. I was an early reader with my mother encouraging me to sound-out the earthly fringed words of National Geographic books. As I got older I wanted to do my own thing so I started my own newspaper for the neighborhood kids. Using reams of computer paper my dad had stolen from work, I would write and rewrite (not even a mimeograph machine) synopses of TV shows (Happy Days and Charlie’s Angels), my original works and copied Peanuts cartoons (I was addicted to them.) No one took my writing seriously, including me, and the paper faltered after only 3 issues.
By high school with my best friend, I had found the power of the letter, specifically as an outlet for words, as well as art. Even though we only lived a few miles away and spent countless hours on the phone each day, our creativity never allowed a dull moment as we penned letters back and forth with stories of our imaginary lives as rock-n-roll princesses. In these double-sided pages filled with marker drawings and Rolling Stone photos, we drew on our lusts for The Who, Spandau Ballet, James Dean and the Police. I still have these letters saved for posterity, as well as the journals where I confessed my teenage angst.
Tedious tasks like book reports never stopped me, as I convinced my teachers throughout high school of my writing genius and instead of writing traditional book reports or term papers, I wrote my own stories. I even got away with writing epic poems about works such as 1984 and Animal Farm. This would later come back to bite me in the butt.
In my teens, I was allowed to play with this side of me entering numerous poetry contests and winning a few awards along the way. My creative writing teacher didn’t believe I had too much to offer, but her drab Getty Lee hair and wardrobe left me cold for what she called originality. I convinced my father to send me to a two-week workshop at a local college in my junior year. This was my first time living away from home and also experiencing a more mature form of literature (sex). I wrote openly for class some of the things I only shared in my postal confessions and was not chastised, but instead revered by teachers and classmates alike for my wit, intrigue and honesty.
This is when I finally felt like a writer and plugged myself into the yearbook and newspaper staffs at school my senior year. I continued on with letters, but life got in the way with boyfriends, dances and Friday night football games. I wanted to fit in as an average kid, missing my own charm of pen and paper. I was told I was too smart since I used big words and this continued on into my late 20s. It hurt me to not have an outlet, and when I did express myself I was distracted by being too different.
The ease that my high school English teachers allowed me to flow through their classrooms put me in remedial English in college. My entrance test wasn’t written in proper form with a subject sentence through a close. My freeform wasn’t appreciated, though my teacher saw I knew what I was capable off and even asked if I wanted a pass. I declined letting this be the time to hone my skills and learn more about the rules of grammar, as well as the creativity. This suited my personality and helped me grasp the intricate workings of my language making me appreciate it even more.
I spent my time writing for the college paper critiquing music and journaling in my own books. By this time, I was alone in my quest for writing companionship and delving deeper into my lust of men. The poets and authors of my younger days just weren’t flesh and blood enough to suit my tastes as I delved into other valleys.
Upon graduation and after, I explored my own style and wrote everything from horror to expressive fiction to erotica. Work and life got in the way and every time I set about to write the “Great American Novel” the weight of such an endeavor stung my sensibilities and I shut down. I took on the task of becoming a marketing writer for fashion and jewelry and loved the chance it gave me to learn and to express myself to more than a million readers.
Now I am here, writing by day about technology and using my creative talents to change the world, one computer at a time. By night, I currently am taking the time to share with you my musings in said blog. MissChris inspired me to write this blog, again prompting wandering compositions all these years later. My hopes and dreams of the novelist persona aren’t dashed, just put aside as I discover more about myself and you about me.
My origin as a writer. I was an early reader with my mother encouraging me to sound-out the earthly fringed words of National Geographic books. As I got older I wanted to do my own thing so I started my own newspaper for the neighborhood kids. Using reams of computer paper my dad had stolen from work, I would write and rewrite (not even a mimeograph machine) synopses of TV shows (Happy Days and Charlie’s Angels), my original works and copied Peanuts cartoons (I was addicted to them.) No one took my writing seriously, including me, and the paper faltered after only 3 issues.
By high school with my best friend, I had found the power of the letter, specifically as an outlet for words, as well as art. Even though we only lived a few miles away and spent countless hours on the phone each day, our creativity never allowed a dull moment as we penned letters back and forth with stories of our imaginary lives as rock-n-roll princesses. In these double-sided pages filled with marker drawings and Rolling Stone photos, we drew on our lusts for The Who, Spandau Ballet, James Dean and the Police. I still have these letters saved for posterity, as well as the journals where I confessed my teenage angst.
Tedious tasks like book reports never stopped me, as I convinced my teachers throughout high school of my writing genius and instead of writing traditional book reports or term papers, I wrote my own stories. I even got away with writing epic poems about works such as 1984 and Animal Farm. This would later come back to bite me in the butt.
In my teens, I was allowed to play with this side of me entering numerous poetry contests and winning a few awards along the way. My creative writing teacher didn’t believe I had too much to offer, but her drab Getty Lee hair and wardrobe left me cold for what she called originality. I convinced my father to send me to a two-week workshop at a local college in my junior year. This was my first time living away from home and also experiencing a more mature form of literature (sex). I wrote openly for class some of the things I only shared in my postal confessions and was not chastised, but instead revered by teachers and classmates alike for my wit, intrigue and honesty.
This is when I finally felt like a writer and plugged myself into the yearbook and newspaper staffs at school my senior year. I continued on with letters, but life got in the way with boyfriends, dances and Friday night football games. I wanted to fit in as an average kid, missing my own charm of pen and paper. I was told I was too smart since I used big words and this continued on into my late 20s. It hurt me to not have an outlet, and when I did express myself I was distracted by being too different.
The ease that my high school English teachers allowed me to flow through their classrooms put me in remedial English in college. My entrance test wasn’t written in proper form with a subject sentence through a close. My freeform wasn’t appreciated, though my teacher saw I knew what I was capable off and even asked if I wanted a pass. I declined letting this be the time to hone my skills and learn more about the rules of grammar, as well as the creativity. This suited my personality and helped me grasp the intricate workings of my language making me appreciate it even more.
I spent my time writing for the college paper critiquing music and journaling in my own books. By this time, I was alone in my quest for writing companionship and delving deeper into my lust of men. The poets and authors of my younger days just weren’t flesh and blood enough to suit my tastes as I delved into other valleys.
Upon graduation and after, I explored my own style and wrote everything from horror to expressive fiction to erotica. Work and life got in the way and every time I set about to write the “Great American Novel” the weight of such an endeavor stung my sensibilities and I shut down. I took on the task of becoming a marketing writer for fashion and jewelry and loved the chance it gave me to learn and to express myself to more than a million readers.
Now I am here, writing by day about technology and using my creative talents to change the world, one computer at a time. By night, I currently am taking the time to share with you my musings in said blog. MissChris inspired me to write this blog, again prompting wandering compositions all these years later. My hopes and dreams of the novelist persona aren’t dashed, just put aside as I discover more about myself and you about me.
I Need A Routine
Being a creative person, it is a bit of an oxymoron that I can not create when everything is up in the air. Messy desks don’t bother me, using sloppy ink and paper have never stunted my prose, but not living some semblance of a routine just drives me batty. Over the past month, I have lost any routine I have tried to grasp leaving me feeling empty when it comes to all that creative-mind mumbo jumbo. Babysitting puppies, Finn becoming ill, having friends stay with me, Finn getting surgery and recovering, having my laundry room broken, going off the Weight Watcher’s wagon, the article I have been working on changed at the last minute, and parties, parties, parties.
April will be the month of reflection and getting back to basics. Finn will be all puppyish again. He and Polly can keep each other company so Mommy can have some time for herself. I can read again. Cook good meals again. Take care of myself again. And go back to writing, again.
But it was fun. Babysitting Fiona and Angus was a blast and it was the spark that triggered Finn to start reveal his illness. With my back yard finally fenced in, I had piece of mind to let the dogs run and be free in the confines of my own personal jungle. Plus, now I can be outside and in peace without the neighbor interrupting me to share tales about things I couldn’t care less about. (In fact, when I was walking Polly a few days ago he commented on my new fence saying that it gives him such a nice view. What a rude bastard. I could have gone off, but I have more couth than he could ever hope for --- I wonder if that is a West Coast thing.)
It also gives me the perfect spot to entertain as I did when Paul, Heidi and Connor came to visit. It was great seeing them and sharing my home with them. They brought one of their puppies, Zoe, along for the ride and also Maridell (Nana). We hung out in the back yard and I cooked for days; ribs one night with coleslaw and paella another night to satiate the cocktail party crowd of Michelle and Guy. I drank too much, ate too much and felt very loved with all my friends around.
Then came work struggles, a stitched up hound and things falling apart at home. On top of that was a birthday bash (I made the cake), friends from NYC and the annual kite party. All great fun, great friends, great food and lots of dancing, singing and drinking.
This month has quite a few things going on, but I think I can think again. A couple of puppy parties (I had no idea that having dogs was such a social thing), a few days off after the rush of this season, maybe even spend time with the family to catch up. But mainly I want to work on my lovely yard, watch LOST and get back to living, take care of my hair, nails, body and such (otherwise I will have to be a single mom forever) and just be for a while.
According to the MBTI, I am an INFJ, the rarest of personality types; a mixture of the spastic artist with the quiet scientist. That explains my discomfort about the past month. I don’t do change or absence of routine well. I like to schedule my creativity and have tasks that show a beginning and an end. My flighty nature of wanting to learn anything new and not allowing myself to get bored is paired with lists, schedules and numbers. Odd, but me.
So now I can create. The dishes are done, my menu is planned, the puppies have been walked and the start of my first rough draft is on its way. I can now find the inspiration to pen a few notes, play with a few pictures and daydream again.
Heavy sigh.
As a new beginning to being on my own again, I am taking on a new project: Writer’s Digest’s Poem A Day Challenge http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/.
Here is day one, apropos that it is about origins and I am starting over, yet once again. (Hey it’s better than cutting my wrists.)
April will be the month of reflection and getting back to basics. Finn will be all puppyish again. He and Polly can keep each other company so Mommy can have some time for herself. I can read again. Cook good meals again. Take care of myself again. And go back to writing, again.
But it was fun. Babysitting Fiona and Angus was a blast and it was the spark that triggered Finn to start reveal his illness. With my back yard finally fenced in, I had piece of mind to let the dogs run and be free in the confines of my own personal jungle. Plus, now I can be outside and in peace without the neighbor interrupting me to share tales about things I couldn’t care less about. (In fact, when I was walking Polly a few days ago he commented on my new fence saying that it gives him such a nice view. What a rude bastard. I could have gone off, but I have more couth than he could ever hope for --- I wonder if that is a West Coast thing.)It also gives me the perfect spot to entertain as I did when Paul, Heidi and Connor came to visit. It was great seeing them and sharing my home with them. They brought one of their puppies, Zoe, along for the ride and also Maridell (Nana). We hung out in the back yard and I cooked for days; ribs one night with coleslaw and paella another night to satiate the cocktail party crowd of Michelle and Guy. I drank too much, ate too much and felt very loved with all my friends around.
Then came work struggles, a stitched up hound and things falling apart at home. On top of that was a birthday bash (I made the cake), friends from NYC and the annual kite party. All great fun, great friends, great food and lots of dancing, singing and drinking.This month has quite a few things going on, but I think I can think again. A couple of puppy parties (I had no idea that having dogs was such a social thing), a few days off after the rush of this season, maybe even spend time with the family to catch up. But mainly I want to work on my lovely yard, watch LOST and get back to living, take care of my hair, nails, body and such (otherwise I will have to be a single mom forever) and just be for a while.
According to the MBTI, I am an INFJ, the rarest of personality types; a mixture of the spastic artist with the quiet scientist. That explains my discomfort about the past month. I don’t do change or absence of routine well. I like to schedule my creativity and have tasks that show a beginning and an end. My flighty nature of wanting to learn anything new and not allowing myself to get bored is paired with lists, schedules and numbers. Odd, but me.
So now I can create. The dishes are done, my menu is planned, the puppies have been walked and the start of my first rough draft is on its way. I can now find the inspiration to pen a few notes, play with a few pictures and daydream again.
Heavy sigh.
As a new beginning to being on my own again, I am taking on a new project: Writer’s Digest’s Poem A Day Challenge http://blog.writersdigest.com/poeticasides/.
Here is day one, apropos that it is about origins and I am starting over, yet once again. (Hey it’s better than cutting my wrists.)
Heart break to heart wake
From being dumped to bumped
Up to a more appropriate position,
Above it all.
Regrets and tears to rebirth
Both painful like a sloppy surgeon
But getting the job done,
A cry to begin breathing again.
The agony and the ecstasy
Badminton back and forth
A volley of pain and hope,
Striving to come alive.
Alone, broken and damaged
With smiles, dreams and friends
Love for me is nonsense,
Yet I know it does exist.
This is the origin of my species
Woman with a fortune cocktail
Twisted with tears and sorrow,
I pray to live again.
From being dumped to bumped
Up to a more appropriate position,
Above it all.
Regrets and tears to rebirth
Both painful like a sloppy surgeon
But getting the job done,
A cry to begin breathing again.
The agony and the ecstasy
Badminton back and forth
A volley of pain and hope,
Striving to come alive.
Alone, broken and damaged
With smiles, dreams and friends
Love for me is nonsense,
Yet I know it does exist.
This is the origin of my species
Woman with a fortune cocktail
Twisted with tears and sorrow,
I pray to live again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)