Salvation

Working on a house is a lot like going to therapy. You go in with one little issue (troublesome, but manageable)--and the expert discovers hidden ones: aging wiring, a foundation flaw, a plumbing complication, surface cracks.

And so, you agree: now is the time to refurbish what's shabby and correct the flaws. A sixty-one-year-old house (like her sixty-one-year-old owner) has plenty of flaws. Some women at this age choose a face-lift on their actual skin faces; me, I chose to lift the face of my beloved little house.

The projected two week project has turned into two months. I'm practicing patience--some days. And some days, I'm wallowing the juice of my own fatigue with it all. I'm crabby, and I want to get in my car and drive to Maine or Oregon, somewhere far away, then come back and see it's all done and the experts are nowhere in sight.

One expert is an electrician. Let's call him Bobby.

Bobby is mild-mannered and meticulous.

He takes his time. "That's just the way I am," he says, "I want to do it right."

("But you're taking MY time," I want to say. "Please hurry up. The painters can't paint until you finish.)

I don't say that--not directly.

Because I am a Southern girl, and I know that I can probably get further with honey than vinegar, as they say down south.

He tells me the sad story of his life. It takes forty-five minutes, and he's only up to age 12. I look at the clock on the stove while he's talking, while I'm eating my salad, and I want to be sure we're off the clock for this hour of biography.

The difference between writers telling their stories and Bobby telling his is this: writers go for connection and clarity. There are nuances. In the very telling, we discover things we didn't know before.

But Bobby leaves no pauses, no beats for interruption. I can tell that the story he's telling me is the same rote version he's told a million times. And I can tell he needs something from me. Since his mother "threw him out at the age of fourteen," I suspect that what he needs is what he never got: attention, understanding, admiration, and sympathy. Maybe I can give him that for an hour and send him on his way?

The more generous and mature part of me agrees to give him that for an hour, then send him on his way--though the paying customer part of me is balking. The more generous part of me must admit: if I had been thrown out as a child, I'd still be hungry, too.

One day, Mary Beth and I are looking at my ten patches of pink on the wall (for the painting that was scheduled for a week ago--and is now ten days from now, at the soonest.) Here comes Bobby to give his opinion: "Linda, when we get married, you're going to have to change the color of this house. I can't live in a pink house." Ha ha ha. Jokey jokey.

Mary Beth later looks at me with a very stern look, like a big sister who suspects that her little sister might be smoking pot or snorting coke. She warns me: I am never ever to consider so much as a cup of coffee with this man! Not to worry--I say to her: I am now remembering why I have no intention, ever, of dating again.

He brings his boom box, plugs it in on the porch. All day I can hear loud sermons, the kinds delivered with loud, authoritative, angry voices. Then, as he eats his sandwich, he listens to (and I do, by default) Rush Limbaugh. I'm losing my mind, I know I am. I can feel it unraveling.

If I ask a question, I get an hour-long answer, so I've learned to ask very few questions. His answers are punctuated by a patronizing "Do you understand?" (To which I want to say: I think so; this is the fifteenth time you've explained that; I get it.")

Besides, the answers rarely fit the questions. You ask "When?" and they tell you "how"--and it's like reading a long and tedious instruction manual. If you seem the slightest bit annoyed, he looks at you as if you're a petulant child. "This is the way I always had to handle my wife," he said, explaining his male-female teaching style.

If I were ballsier, I'd have said outloud what I was thinking: "And that really worked well for you, did it?" (The day before he had let it slip that he'd been married and divorced five times.)

The word, handling, keeps echoing in my mind, rankling me. I've heard it from his preachers on the radio, a word that helps men of that particular brand of Christianity believe that they are,always, on top, big and strong, in charge.

But here's the kicker:

The electrician--let's keep calling him Bobby--gave me a not-so-subtle hint yesterday as to why he may be taking his time. "The Lord sent me here to witness to you," he said.

What I said under my breath at that moment probably sounded like a little bit like a prayer, but it wasn't. It was the static from my unsaved wires.

I dream in poetry

I
dreamed
I walked out
of the
ocean
and stepped
onto the
beach.
Dry now,
my dress
flowing to my
ankles,
I looked up...
you stood there
underneath the
huppa
waiting, hands clasped
in front,
a bright purple
kipah
on your
head.
yellow and lavender
flowers,
a tiny garland,
ringed my
hair.
Seeing me there,
you said,
I knew you'd
come.
I never left, I
replied.
You kissed me
then,
and we danced
under the
huppah,
under the
stars
in the
sand
that night.

Yearning

Oh, Sleep,
why do you evade me?
What is it I've done
that you avoid
my bed?
I long for you, night
and night and night.
My desire takes me
into others’ beds,
where I see you
curled up next to them.
They, whom you favor with
dreams, wake up
and forget
you all day.
Yet, I,
who yearn for you
and dream of you
always,
you ignore.

Cool news!

Hey Y'all,

I got an email yesterday from Chicken Soup for the Soul, telling me that I'm one of the 5 % of finalists for their September Miracles edition. I had written the story of the time my family was stranded in a flood downtown probably 6 or 8 months ago and submitted it just for grins. I'd forgotten all about it until now. Anyway, there's one more round before the publisher chooses the entries, but if they choose mine, they actually will pay me for it AND send me 10 free books. I've had a few other things published, but I don't think I've ever been paid for anything...whoohoo! I wanted to share with my writing sisters because it's you who make me a better writer- THANK YOU! And I love you!

Snails

I’ve declared war
On snails
Those innocent looking creatures
With their coiled delicate shells
Hang on my house like petite acrobats
Without a peep
They silently lurk

For so long
I refused to
Blame them
When all around I heard
The chant
It’s the snails
It’s the snails

Who could believe such
Tiny
Sluggish
And quiet organisms
Could create such atrocities
Or possess such appetites
I plant
They eat
We have our own ecosystem

These slugs are a gang of thugs
They mark their turf with a
Graffiti trail of glistening goo and lacey leaves

Well
This turf is mine
And
They can’t have it
Enough petunias gave their lives
While
I tried to keep peace

No more
No more will I stand on the porch
Sip my coffee
And watch them lazily and incrementally move across the floor
No more
Will I believe they are harmless
And
Leave them be

From now on
I will stomp on every snail I see
And
Send them to Buddha

August Marathon: Yellow Rose

New Member Update

Just wanted to say farewell to all my

new writing friends before I head off

to Virginia to be fitted with wings.

Revision Below

Below is my completed "If I Lived" piece, to the extent that anything I do is complete. 

If I Lived

If I lived in the house across the street the sun would come up over my breakfast room. There would be a gentle light inviting morning into the bedroom, just enough to overcome any trace of seasonal affective disorder, but the breakfast room would be bright and welcoming, and I would love getting out of bed to make coffee, just so that I could sit in the breakfast room and drink it while I read the morning news, surrounded by the rainbows created by crystal prisms that I’d hang in the windows. The light would be perfect for growing herbs just outside the window, and I would contemplate which of them would scent the room later in the day, perhaps the thyme infusing flavor into a roasting chicken, perhaps the Thai basil brightening a sizzling wok of glass noodles. With the right start in the day, I could move mountains; we would never run out of pesto and our April 15 would come and go without anxiety, our taxes having long since been filed.

If I lived in the house around the corner, the one with the rock garden and fountain in the shaded back yard, I would sit in that yard in a comfy chair with my laptop and a book by my side, inspired by the xeriscape I’d create, calmed by the sound of water, enchanted by the koi in the pond I’d build. I would write, and read, and occasionally re-fill my iced tea, freshen it with mint that I’d pinch from my plants in the rock garden, keeping them full and bushy, never letting them go to seed. There would always be fresh flowers indoors, artfully arranged in just the right vase, be it exquisite or funky depending on the flower inside, the season, the mood. Music would fill the house, and I’d easily access just the right tunes from my iPod, or perhaps Pandora.

If I lived in the house down the street, the small one-story, I’d clean out all my closets and finally get organized. I’d have nothing that I didn’t really use, use nothing that I didn’t really need. I’d finally give up the Kitchen Aid mixer, because I prefer mixing by hand anyway, and all those spare towels? They’d be given to Goodwill and put to use by people who really need them. I’d appreciate the things I have, and take better care of them. I would finally hem the skirt that’s too long, polish my shoes and repair the soles, fix the earring that broke, re-upholster the chair that the cats ruined. I would always know where I’d put the cheese grater, which would double as a lemon zester, because I’d have eliminated anything redundant.

If I lived in that downtown condo I’d never be lonely, because I’d be up in the morning using the shared gym facilities while getting to know my interesting neighbors, with whom I’d hang out in the evenings on the rooftop terrace while we shared drinks and tapas and watched the sunset. I’d take walks down the river and people watch, chat with the locals walking their dogs. I’d get to know the old woman down the street, the tiny one with the white hair whose city trash cans in her front yard are as large as she is. She’d tell me the stories of the neighborhood before it became condos, and I’d feel a part of the revitalized community.

If I lived in that house downtown, it would always be clean. Dust wouldn’t settle in that beautiful stairwell, drips would not stain those gorgeous floors. The screened in porch would always be fresh and cool in the summer, and I wouldn’t leave it cluttered and strewn with shoes and the Sunday paper or piles of paperwork and receipts. Instead, I would learn to keep plants alive and be surrounded by lush, healthy flowers and exotic plants – maybe a bonsai. Toothpaste spatters would never mar the bathroom mirrors, and I’d teach the cats not to shed indoors. I would never leave laundry draped over the dining room chairs, and would always have freshly ironed linen napkins. I would write my book in the study overlooking the street corner, and illustrate it with the photographs I’d collected and preserved over the years. I would never step on crumbs in the kitchen, even though there would always be freshly baked bread. Kitchen knives would always be sharp; light bulbs immediately replaced. The small pantry would be ever stocked with delicious foods, easily prepared into a creative snack or light meal.

Here’s the rub. I live in this house. The sun comes up over the study, damn sun in my eyes. In this house, the breakfast room is dark, and looks out over a parched back yard, where I’ve killed herbs of all variety, leaving me to overpay for them at the grocery store, and then forget they’re there until I eventually toss them. I do own a crystal prism, and it sits on the sill of the bathroom window where I meant to hang it years ago, but never bothered to get the right hook. Sometimes it falls off the sill into the tub and makes a god awful noise that scares the hell out of me. In this house I have a comfy chair in the bedroom which is usually covered with dirty clothes or a stack of linen napkins that I might get around to ironing someday. In the meantime, they’re covered in cat hair, because in this house live endless cats, one of whom is diabetic and has started to pee inside. In this house I drive to the mailbox; when I do walk I keep my head down, lest I run into a neighbor who might want to complain about socialism, or ask me how my son is doing. Bitch. She’s referring to my teenaged daughter's former boyfriend, who practically lived here one summer. In this house I have a Kitchen Aid Mixer, but the last time I wanted to use it I couldn’t find the right attachment, so I left it where it was collecting dust. I found the attachment later, next to the lemon zester. In this house my favorite snack is a handful of chocolate chips thrown into a jar of peanut butter and picked out with a knife, washed down with a Coke Zero, if I have one. In this house, there is an abandoned yellow plastic hummingbird feeder hanging from a backyard tree limb. It practically screams “I tried, I really tried”. In this house, I look at the calendar and see that it’s April 15. Oh well.

Still, it’s this house that I come home to. It’s this kitchen I mess up feeding and entertaining my family; this breakfast room where I sing the junior birdman song with my daughter; this bathroom where I take bubble baths; this living room where I doze off reading; this study where the cats keep me company; this dining room where I laugh with friends; this yard where I get my hands dirty planting the occasional flower; this bedroom where I dream and where my dreams come true. It’s in this house, this home, that I live.

sky's composer

Late last night
Rain's soft music
lulled me to
sleep.

Thunder mumbled;
then
Burst the quiet,
a revival preacher
drumming his
message
into my
Soul.

Lightning soon
took up the
Baton,
flashed her
notes across
the bedroom
Wall:

No dreams
tonight!

WRITING PROMPT – 10 MIN – DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO PEOPLE IN WHICH NOBODY SAYS WHAT YOU EXPECT

Hey, Glenn how’s it shakin baby?

Dali! So good to hear from you. What’s happening in the third world?

Not much that you don’t already know. Those god damn Chinese are giving me a shit hemorrhage. Every day it’s something with them. I’d love to just march in there with all my monks and lop off all their heads.

Oh, Dali, no. I know it’s difficult to keep your head when things are as tough as they are, but really, hope will prevail and peace is the only answer. You know that. No matter how bad they are, they only make you look better and help our cause.

Peace Schmeace. I swear to God, those chinks are gonna be the death of me.

OK. Sounds like someone needs a break and maybe a time out. I’m going to turn on my computer camera and I want you to do the same. OK. Got me? I see you. OK. Look into my eyes and concentrate on my pupils and breathe deeply and think about something tranquil.

Tranquil! You must be kidding. I don’t have a tranquil bone in my body. Honestly, Glenn the worlds going to hell, people are going crazy and I’m trapped in this friggin robe and have to keep my lips zipped and a frozen half smile on my face like some Asian zombie.

Dali. Get a grip. I know you don’t want your job and I know it was thrust on you and you’ve had no choice. I get that. But, really, man. You are the f’n Dali f’n lama. How bad can that be? You wanna know what hell is? Go get a stupid hair cut and gain weight so you look like some pudged out Pillsbury dough republican and then stand in front of a chalk board and draw crazy diagrams for a living. I’m running out of conspiracy theory ideas. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m plum out of ways to rile up the public.

Ya, I guess of the two of us you’ve got it the worst. Everyone thinks I’m brilliant and perfect. Only crazy people like you and everyone else thinks you’re a head case. That’s tough, man. But you do get to wear normal clothes. Like a man you look. Not like some guy perpetually ready to get in the shower. At least you get to stomp around and get angry. I have to just sit and get leg cramps while I gaze out into nothing and smile. Makes me wanna puke.

But I’m not angry. I have to pretend. Capitalism is crazy. I’m wondering if it’s worth it. I’ve gotten rich off of stupid people. Is that right? Is that what a good person does? Really, most days I don’t feel like I’m any better than Bernie Madoff. I’m a con artist. I’m selling my soul for money. I have to go to confession twice a day just to be able to function. I donate ¾ of my earnings to charities – and you, of course – just to reconcile my job with my true ideology. On weekends, I do volunteer work hoping god will even out the scales for me. My fervent hope is that people will wake up sooner rather than later and I can go back to living a sane and true life.

Speaking of donations. Did you send a check this month? The monks and I are getting awfully horny and we’re planning a trip to Shanghai. You know what that will cost.

Ya, baby, the check’s in the mail. Have fun.

I am looking at the time on my post - 6:12 am. I never wrote anything at 6:12 am!!! The clock is right on my computer.

The sun came up today in my heart when I read all the words. Deb and Linda - your pieces make me want to write something. Looking forward to seeing all on Thursday.

My narrative isn't working

so this is what I have to contribute this week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t want no shiva
I don’t want no funeral
I don’t want no memorial
I don’t want no casket
Fancy or plain or wood
Just burn me
And blow what’s left
To the winds
And
Walk away
I ain’t comin back

So don’t play no music
Neither
Don’t sing no songs
Or read that poetry
I don’t want no wailin’ and cryin’
Don’t cover the mirrors
Just go on as usual
And
Don’t look back
I be gone
And
That’s
All

Ease up on sorrow and grief
Don’t be bothered with regrets
Or
Guilt
It was what it was
We were who we were
That’s all
I’m gone
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

War of words
War on poverty
Drug war
War on terror
World war
War on illiteracy
War on science
War on the middle class
War on Christmas
War games
War movies
War on violence?
What does our country love more
War
Or the word war?

My porch was falling apart. The boards were rotten and the pergola was on the verge of falling upon some unsuspecting person's head. The exterior of the house (my house and I are the same age) was showing the cracks of its 61 years. And so--I launched a face lift. (Maybe I should have launched one upon my own face?)

This has been an extraordinary journey, remodeling a house. It's cost about twice what I planned and has already taken twice the time projected three weeks ago. Some days I'm euphoric with the whole process; a couple of days I've been in tears. I'm learning a whole new language as I listen to workers, electric guy, and the contractor conversing. I'm shopping for paint colors, door knobs, and light fixtures. I'm sleep deprived and cranky and worried that I'm depleting my IRA funds.

As a friend pointed out, the house in dreams is really the Self--in Jungian terms. My Self is being demolished, prettied up, and made stronger. Four or five men a day are pounding upon my surfaces, scraping, and discovering "issues" that I didn't know were there.

Ultimately, it's all good. It's going to be beautiful! And sound. And ready for inspection. I'll probably live in it for the rest of my life--just as I live in my skin. I love it like an old friend.

"You keep changing your mind," the contractor says. True. I do. It's been like writing a book, and I am a perfectionist, a constant editor. I can't say with certainty that a "sentence" is going to work until I see the paragraph it's going to be a part of, can I?

Two years ago, I ran away from home for a year. My house was on the market. I, too, was on the market, more or less--trying to discover if I could make a new home in Georgia, far from my friends in Texas. When I came home, I slowly discovered--again--that THIS is home for me. Sometimes it takes running away to find that the treasure is right here, right where we are. What makes this home is, in part, this funky little house that was a gift to me, post-divorce, from my parents. What makes this home is that I have the best and dearest friends in the world, my beloved writing sisters.

The Stuff of Dreams

OK. This is not writing, ok, it's writing, but it's not creative. It's a true story about my brain and what it does when I am asleep.
~~~~~~~~~
I had a dream last night that the first woman president was my best friend...don't know who it was [maybe one of you?]. Anyway, we were hanging out at a private and little, but very casual, soiree just letting our hair down and who walked in but Sarah Palin. She came over and chatted and was actually very gracious and we were just shooting the breeze and then I said to my friend, the president, ya, Kit was laughing about all the public speaking you have to do and wondering how you remember everything. He wants to know if you write it on your hands and arms. There was an awkward pause while I remembered who was sitting with us. What would Freud say? Do I need to buy a Sarah Palin voodoo doll and a big pack of needles?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is any one else lying awake at night, dreaming in six word increments? Where do we go from here?

On the lighter side

Chocolate wants an exercise free zone.

Six Word Memoir

When love dies the soul shrinks.

Six Word Memoir (Two)

Today five minutes is a lifetime.

To live a minute is miraculous.

Six Word Memoir

The person she'd tell was gone.

Six Word Memoir

The smile hid her frowning feeling.

Six Word Obit

she finally learned what enough was

lost

Observe the children-
they know
Who they are.
The rest of us
forgot long ago.
We lose
ourselves
for so many years-
fumbling in the darkness
of denial,
pretending to be
Who we aren’t-
only to find out
again when we’re
Old,
and nobody
listens to
what we know.

Six word memoir

I can't think of even one.

Spring is a Cruel Beast

Spring is a cruel beast
It arrives surreptitiously
And cloaks itself with humbling beauty
It glides through our yards and gardens
Sprinkling pods and stems with blooms of color
It freshens the air
And makes cool breezes that ripple the curtains
Hanging in the open window
It brings rain so soft and gentle that you barely
Feel or see it
All you hear is the faint sweet whisper of the
Drip and drop
It causes leaves to sprout forth on the tree
While you gaze at it
What was naked and stark a second ago is magically
Clothed in lush green
It causes your nose to twitch rabbit like
As it detects the fragrant aromas of
Honeysuckle, jasmine and laurel

And then it cruelly and viciously bashes your body
And
Thrashes your system
It causes your head storm,
And
Your eyes to weep torrentially
while your head thunders
Your nose rains down upon your lip
And
Your chest convulses with quaking coughs
While your throat
Beds the fresh pollen in that moist safe haven

Spring is a cruel beast
Beware of spring.

Song of Songs

As she sang "Song of Songs,"
I looked at the people
in the congregation.
One couple, elderly folk,
seemed transported-
gazing one another
into a time
we don't remember...
holding the other
with bright eyes
intense with love,
perhaps reminiscing
of the day
they knew they were
soul-mates.
Feeling as though
I'd stumbled into
a private conversation-
wordless,
I lingered for a moment
more and knew
few ever find this;
how lucky I was to
be there.

6 Word Memoir

One touch; I am forever his.

Six Word Memoir

I looked out but got lost.

I have nothing to add--except to say how much I'm enjoying your entries. All my creative energies this month seem to be pouring themselves into the remodeling project. It started out as the demolition of a rotting porch and the addition of a new one, but anyone who has undertaken a facelift knows that every change exposes a flaw you didn't know was there before, right?

The former roofer neglected to vent the exhaust fan through the roof--so all the grease of the past ten years or more has landed in the attic. The water pipes are crooked as old roots. Alamo Heights says we have to have a new survey so that they will know that I'm not encroaching on the streets of "the city of beauty and charm." The Bexar County Tax Assessors Office--alerted to my existence because of a permit request--tells me that my house is on the wrong lot!

Precious Mary Beth came over on Tuesday morning to help me think through some of the decisions. The contractor was in a pushy mood. "How many times are you going to change the contract?" he asked. (It was my first change) Suddenly I heard a choir of men's voices, all of them accusing and impatient and pissy. I cried! His Big Man Know-it-All Voice had evoked my Little Girl Always Changing Her Mind self. Mary Beth surveyed the situation knowingly. She held my hand--figuratively speaking--and helped me stand up straight again, like a big girl, like a grown up.

Then I met Lea for lunch--and you can all imagine her advice for dealing with big men with loud voices! I'm buying me a WWLD bracelet as a reminder of Lea's Lessons in Talking Back to bullies. (That is, What Would Lea Do?)

He skied down the Matterhorn. Once.

Six Word story - this prompt is a real challenge! See what you come up with.

it rained today. she left him.

he returned from war without legs.

the house burned. the family died.

they left town after the robbery.

she stripped for fame and fortune.

he died while enjoying his mistress.

they were robbed while they slept.

he read the letter then jumped.

the bee stung her. she died.

she wrote songs about new york.

the homeless man was a doctor.

she got rich when he died.

they came out west in 1878.

he drank too much and fell.

the doorman stole the resident's money.

the bird escaped out the window.

he ate peanuts and died choking.

the parachute failed when he jumped.

it rained so much it flooded.

the wind blew the trailor away.

she died of a broken heart.

the lemon tree grew from seed.