Thursday, January 28, 2010

Meet Marigold

When I looked up Mama had her worry look on and it was fo me. I knew cause I was pok-a-dottied and itchy all over. Even my tooths itch. Mama says, I got the Pox. All I know is now I can't play with my friend Patty today and she was even havin' her birthday party. Mama says Patty don't want that gift I got to give. Says Patty'd be mad if I gave her the Pox too. Me? I figure Patty'd like it. We could jus' play inside all day together. Uh-course, that itchy part ain't so good. I'm not uh-scared though, cause Mama said she do the worrin fo both uh-us. I just gotta not scratch and stay by myself and the other little one's that gots the Pox. But Patty's my favorite friend and I sho wish she gets the Pox for her birthday any ol way.

I don't gotta go to school tomorrow neither. Wouldn't Patty like that? Not going to school means no Wendell poking me from his side-a-da-line. And no arithi-amatic. Patty hates the subtractions. Pox would cure that... fo sho.

Friday, January 22, 2010

Blue Monkey Pajama Incident

We were old enough to know better- but the butane seemed harmless enough. Four women of an age where skinny jeans were questionable and clothes that 'give' preferable, sitting in our pajamas at the dinner table in our hotel room. Hair tossed up in wild buns, faces smelling clean and flannel jammies comforting us, we felt in our teens. And (not to do anything halfway) we were making decisions like them too.
Tara in the plush white hotel robe, pulled out what looked like an unlabeled tin of cat food - but when she struck a match to it, the jump of flame like a rock star appearing on stage, was a tell-tell sign that it wasn't cat food. Candy,looking thirteen in blue monkey flannel pj's, retrieved the wooden skewers. And Debbie, in her holey-worn sweats came giggling out of the kitchen area with marshmallows.
We were living it up at the Ritz and making smores may not seem devilish to some - but for four stay-at-home mom's, this was like being drunk at Prom (although I've never had that experience). The smell of burnt marshmallow flesh filled the room and just as the mushy goodness filled grinning mouths, a piercing sound split through our hotel room.
We froze, marshmallows guiltily dripping from burnt wooded sticks. When the realization of what was happening sank in and sobered our sugar high, all eyes dropped down to our attire.
"Did we set off the fire alarm?" Debbie was offended by the possibility. Evidence of her marshmallow clung to her chin.
"No, it didn't even cause smoke to when we roasted them." Candy was determined to blow it off and remain unmoved in our childless refuge.
"We need to evacuate." We all knew the truth and reluctantly gave in.

Hundreds of people lined the front of the hotel- glittering gowns from a party, crisp polo-shirts after a day on the green, a few jeans and sweaters tossed in for good measure. We stood mortified at 5:00 p.m. in our blue monkey, white-robe, holey sweats and pink polka-dotted pajamas. Highlighted due to our clothing choice and wicked sticky fingers.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Sweet Life

Journey through the life of a cherry candy.
Begin hard and stubborn - holding in flavor.
Give way to a pink bunny, soft and sweet.
Bunny hops away and is transformed by evolutionary miracle, into a round tangy ball of citrus that releases floods in your mouth from its sour pucker.
Replaced then by a gummy molasses of fading sugar-
more hibernating bear than hoppy bunny.
Tired, used, fading.
Relish it. It will soon be over.

Seriously... this was all just a good slow suck on a cherry candy, but in reading it, sounds almost like the cycle of life.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

My Affair with Coffee

I awaken a vagrant damsel in distress. The morning feels like sandpaper- its rough edges grating in my head, drying my eyes and leaving dust in my mouth. I tumble my habitual path to the kitchen with slushy feet and scribbled hair. I sense relief is near, hearing a gravely scoop of beans. A swish of water. Then the drip of awakening, the drop of stimulation, the drip and drop of coffee coming to my rescue. Drip, drop, like the clip clop of a white horse, my knight riding in. My eyes clear with visions of lucid brown liquid. My nose perks. My hair actually relaxes. One taste. One taste and my spirit rises like a champagne bubble. Coffee, my prince. It feels like love.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Portland Women's Writing Group

Today I attended my first writing session with the Portland Women's Writing Group and was elated to see after our first shared prompt, that not only was I amongst a very talented group of writers that I intend to have rub off on me, but also that we responded similarly. The prompt was "When I write..." and "When I don't write..." I'm thrilled to be feeding the art within... nothing feels better (okay, maybe sex and cake) than writing.

When I write it can be a transcendental experience. Time stops and I am able to connect myself to all the "Me's" in this world throughout time. When that pen moves I'm with Deborah the eight year old still battling boys on the playground and I'm with Deborah the teen, so eager to please. I'm connecting to Deborah in the future as well. She's waiting for my message down the line. When I write I am mask-less and most me. It's cathartic. It's meditative.

When I don't write sometimes I forget to breathe - caught up in life's' daily routines, like getting mascara out of Barbie's hair. I'll feel the itch and wish I had more time for it. Because when I'm not writing, I want to be.

But my muse is dark and protruding, rude and alluding. My muse mocks, teases and lays down bets against me. He's harsh and unforgiving. But I'm competitive and he knows this - uses it - realizing, I'll work hard to kick his ass. So, I find the time.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Portland Writing Community

Last night I attended the Willamette Writer's Group Meeting to hear Jessica Morrell speak. She's a local, successful author. She shared her story, and oh! I love stories. She inspired me. The entire writing community in the Portland area is astounding me. First, I didn't even know there was a 'community' until Wordstock 2009 gave me the red pill that jolted me into a new existence. My new world has a club, and it's not exclusive.

I expected on some part to find the mystery writer's tucked in a back corner donning black jackets with unlit cigs dangling precociously from their tight-lipped mouths, romance writers seductively lounging with heaving bosom's, and perhaps a literary novelist sitting front row, whose nose would be held high enough to look down on me.

I'm not exactly sure what I expected strolling into the writing world, but it certainly wasn't what I found. I was nervous. I was feeling neophyte, unpublished, a stray dog begging for crumbs and not worthy of the surrounding company. But what I found in this local writing environment has not been hostile, pompous or intimidating. It's been the opposite. I've been approached with open-arms. I've been welcomed into this literary community like they've known all along that I was a writer. And never once let one of my fellow writer's catch me saying that I'm anything but a writer. I'm a writer. They make me say it. I blush, "Oh, but I'm not published." And they will add, "Yet." They make me believe it's a possibility. These people, these complete strangers, support me. The one's who've found success want to help you find it too. The one's who've not published yet will take your hand and happily pull you along the path to our shared goal.

Though we may sit alone at our computer or at our desk with pen in hand... we aren't alone in the writing community. They're out there. They're routing for me. That has been an unexpected delight.

Friday, January 1, 2010

InTheLap?

"In The Lap" - because no matter what I reach out to touch with my fiery fingers, I know where I reach from. Grounded in the lap of security, contentment, privilege and love. Still, I save my right to complain. And I will complain. And I will change my mind. Often. Optimistic enough to think it an open mind as opposed to hypocrisy. Still, I save my right to be a hypocrite. In the lap I will be when my mind wanders. I just pray it will continue to return. Still, I save my right to be crazy. Writing is a cathartic art where creativity feels like an exhale of breath that I can float away on. Something intrinsic and personal made open to the universe, like a spread of wings on a thought. Someone may catch, someone may connect, and that's why I read. Why I write? Because I can't seem not to. It relaxes me more than gin and listens to me like a friend. It expunges tears and wrings out emotion. It may not be worth mentioning, or reading to some at all, but I save my right to write. For in writing, I remind myself not only that I am alive, but to live.