Prompt #69 Reboot: Why We Write

Prologue: 

Over a month ago I posted Prompt #69: They Shouldn't Have. None of us posted.

I wondered, is it the holidays? I did post it right before Thanksgiving. Is it how busy we are with work and everything else going on in our lives? I suppose it could be. I revisited the blog thinking maybe it's the prompt? Yeah, for me at least, I think that's it...

The prompt has a negative feel to it. A literary fuck you to the people who haven't treated you the way you deserve to be treated. It sounded like a good idea at the time. It was inspired after all by a talented satirist. But the more I thought about it, the more uninviting it was to me as a writer. It's not usually where I want to spend my writing time and space. If I did, it's not likely I's want to publish it publicly. So I unpublished the prompt. I'm giving us a reboot, and letting that one sit there in our draft pile.

Introduction:

It's December 29th, which means there are two more days left in the year. Time for resolutions and goal setting? Maybe, but not here. No cliche writing prompts about our wishes, dreams, and goals for the upcoming year. 2021 lists might be fun, but we''ll leave that to individuals as they see fit. This morning I did do something end-of-yearish. I looked back at this blog, back to the very beginning for inspiration and reflection. Five and half years ago, five writing friends, we started this blog in sisterhood to collect, share, document, and celebrate writing. We had no real plans; we weren't trying to get published or build and count readership. We just wanted a place to put our writing together, to create space for our voices and our writing practice. 69 prompts (including this one), over 300 pieces of writing, and now three of us remain. The other two remain in our lives and write on their own, but stepped away from the blog to tend to other commitments. So here we are.

Prompt:

We've done this before in various forms, but it seems like a great time to do it again. Perhaps it's selfish on my part, because I know I need it. But often our vibes are intertwined, and maybe we can all use it. So, with a suggested form, our prompt is to revisit why we write. We'll do it collaboratively, as this has been a powerful vehicle for us in the past. We can complete it right here, jump in where and when you feel inspired... and if changing to the frame suits you, have at it! Write however you are inspired!

Why We Write

a poem by the trailbrazins

I write for so many reasons; some noble, many of them base.

I write to feel, to express my truest self

I write to create my life...then revise, revise, revise

I write to exorcise demons,

       past, present, and future.

I write to have my voice be heard,

       even when the audience is small.

I write to entertain,

       hoping my self-deprecation resonates.

I write to provoke thought,

      sometimes a hit, often a miss.

I write to reflect, 

      often confused when I look back later.

I write to remember, 

      in case one day I forget. 

              

I write to be heard,

     by others and more importantly to listen to myself.

I write to express thoughts and feelings,

     sometimes words on paper flow easier than words out loud.

I write to document,

     so dreams and wishes, experiences and events- people, are not all forgotten.

I write to create,

     productivity isn't all it's cracked up to be, creativity is everything.

I write to share,

     friends in writing are one of life's great treasures.

I write because the pen and paper are my friend.

I write to save my own life.

I write to keep confidences and make connections.

I write to reach what the voice inside is trying to tell me.

I write to scold myself for wrong directions and ill-advised actions.

But mostly I write to continually map my life through the hills and valleys, 

through the deserts and oceans and rainstorms of life. 

Droughts may occur, but eventually writing is the divining rod to guide me back

to a healing, healthy place.

*Photo Attribution: Creative Commons (attribution non-commercial share alike)
Date / time: circa 1910s

Institution: New York Public Library

Final Farewell

When your own prompt is a punch to the gut, you know you're onto something. I actually had two flashbulb moments that kept repeating--one a happy memory of my early days with John, a super sweet story, and the other a not-so-happy memory of my grandfather's funeral. I want to write about the memory that makes me smile, but I need to write about the one that puts a lump in my throat. 

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

Bampa. The faded ribbon with gold glitter lettering still sits in a photo album next to the bereavement card stamped with Psalm 23 and a rare picture of him with my sister, Kendra, and I.  Not a great picture, but it's the one I have. Second only to my dad, he was the most important man in my life, one who instilled a sense of self-reliance in me. 

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

Nine years old. Walking through the sanctuary doors full of dread and fear. I don't want to see him in there I thought as I caught a glimpse of the satin-lined coffin up front, its lid hinged open. As we walked up as a family, the pit in the stomach grew bigger and bigger, threatening to swallow me whole--if only it had. 

My Uncle Bob held my cousin, Robbie--maybe 3 at the time--over the coffin. Robbie lined up some Matchbox cars across his chest. "Play with me, Bampa." He can't play with you! He's dead! I screamed in my head. He's dead!

It was our turn. I stayed as far away as I could while my mom approached the coffin. And, then, she did the unthinkable. She kissed him and laid her head on his chest. "I'm miss you, Daddy," she choked out between sobs. Stop touching him! He's dead! 

I don't remember much after that. I think I was made to look, to say my final goodbyes--for closure's sake I suppose. 

That wound didn't fully close. Maybe now. 

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

PS: I thought about digging up that photo album, but I couldn't bear to do it in this moment. 

Do Not Be Afraid

 Response to prompt "Flashbulb Memories"

This is not at all what I was planning to write about.

But the events of the past few weeks have caused a major change in me. And not all good.

Yesterday I was so distressed before work I thought I was having a nervous breakdown.

But I pulled it together and went in because, well, what choice did I have? 

Fortunately my dear friends had given me a new journal that I keep in school and so I've been pulling it out and writing every time I start to feel lost, alone, unsupported, demoralized...

And yesterday some words came to me that have been a comfort since a flashbulb moment from almost 30 years ago.

*

It was late June 1993 when my husband blew his back out and had to have surgery. His doctor was already talking about the possibility of having to go on disability. We had a fairly new house and a lot of debt and I was terrified and under a major amount of stress. Seeing him in pain added to my anxiety.

On the evening of June 29, I had an aching head and so much fear in my heart I found myself crying out to the Holy Spirit for help.  And this is what I heard:

Yesterday when writing in my journal about how I feel my teaching life is being stripped away, these words started flowing out of my pen.

This morning I recited these words to myself as I took a short walk in the neighborhood. This message never fails to fortify me.

I am forever grateful for the flashbulb moment that brought these words of comfort to me. And though I despise my current situation, it reminds me I have mighty helpers looking after me.

Wait

 Response to Prompt #68: Flashbulb Memories

I identified my flashbulb memory early on. It's one I've thought about many times but never captured in writing. Such quick "flash" of memory, so visceral. It took me a couple of days from start to finish and I'm not even sure in which format/genre it belongs. I shared it in two ways because the process was interesting. It started as a poem- which tends to be my go-to. But I got stuck and left it for a day or two. I just couldn't get past a certain point but knew it wasn't finished. Today, I came back to it and thought maybe it's not a poem. I backed all the lines up, made a few tweaks for grammatical purposes and started thinking about it as a micro memoir. Then I finished it, and decided maybe it was a poem, and just thinking of it as a complete moment in the form of a micro helped me get it done. Not sure! Either way, I'm pretty sure it's done. Interested to hear whether it's better read as a poem or a micro memoir.

Wait

a poem by ljkemp

I remember still, that moment in the doorframe 

naked in more ways than one,  flushed with energy and insecurity.

You stopped me, a tender reminder to be present. Wait. 

My bare feet grounded to the floor, my toes pressed into the cold tile. 

A pivot, my disheveled locks tossed over my shoulder. I tried 

to return your stare but looked past you feeling young and exposed. 

We were both young and exposed, in all the right ways. 

I just want to look at you. And I could feel the warm glow 

of the bathroom light outlining the curves of my body 

while I obliged for just a few seconds. Moments like these 

would come along again and again through the years. 

Thirty years later I still wish to see my body as you do, 

to love it as you do. To stop myself while passing a mirror to say, 

Wait, I just want to look at you.

Wait

a micro memoir by ljkemp

I remember still, that moment in the doorframe naked in more ways than one,  flushed with energy and insecurity.You stopped me, a tender reminder to be present. Wait. My bare feet grounded to the floor, my toes pressed into the cold tile. A pivot, my disheveled locks tossed over my shoulder. I tried to return your stare but looked past you feeling young and exposed. We were both young and exposed, in all the right ways. I just want to look at you. And I could feel the warm glow of the bathroom light outlining the curves of my body while I obliged for just a few seconds. Moments like these would come along again and again through the years. Thirty years later I still wish to see my body as you do, to love it as you do. To stop myself while passing a mirror to say, Wait, I just want to look at you.

 

Prompt #68: Flashbulb Memories

I was struggling with inspiration for our next prompt--my brain full, my creativity and energy spent by Saturday morning. Since John was golfing, I set to getting some menial tasks such as food prepping, laundry, and light cleaning accomplished, hoping inspiration would strike while I was not forcing it. 

It almost did. In fact, I might save one idea (comedy of errors) for later. But, somehow it didn't sit right for now. 

I almost gave into the couch and re-runs of The Office, but I knew this wasn't the best strategy for productive thinking. Instead, I slipped on a swimsuit and headed toward the pool with a book I started a while back and pretty much deserted. It's a nonfiction on memory by Lisa Genova, the author of Still Alice and Left Neglected (highly recommend this one) called Remember: The Science of Memory and the Art of Forgetting. I have long been fascinated with neuroscience and love when someone can deliver the specifics in a accessible way. 

I knew I needed some outdoors time--the warmth of the sun, the sound of the birds, the breeze making the palm fronds dance. I also knew reading in that setting without the distractions of my to-do list would be my best bet for inspiration. And, I was right. 

Ideas started flowing when Genova explained episodic memory, "the history of you, remembered by you," (Genova, 2021, p. 78). I jotted down the idea and marked the page number. Then, I got to the next page where she discussed a specific type of episodic memory: flashbulb memory. Ding, ding, ding! I had my winner.

Flashbulb memories, according to Genova, are activated by strong emotion and surprise--highly unexpected and registered in your brain as extremely significant (Genova, 2021).  These differ from photographic memories but do have some of the characteristics such as the retention of vivid details (Genova, 2021). 

Finally, the prompt: Search your catalog of memories for a flashbulb memory. Remember, they will be easy to find as they stand out from run-of-the-mill memories. Use this memory however you wish to create your piece--it could be really cool song lyrics, a micro memoir, an autobiographical or fictional short story, a poem, or for a challenge, a combination of genres. 

Try not to rely on journals to jog a memory, and don't worry if you've written on the subject before. The goal is to find the most emotionally charged and vivid memory that comes to mind and spin it into writing that captures that moment so others can share in it. 

Happy writing! 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reference

Genova, L. (2021).  Remember: The Science of Memory and the Art of Forgetting. (1st Edition). 

            Harmony Books. 

Priorities

 Response to #67: Opening Lines

Who doesn't know what I'm talkin' about? 

Who's never left home, whose never struck out

To find a dream and a life of their own... 

-The Chicks

Twenty dollars. She had her long locks tied up in a messy bun, a baby on her hip, and a twenty dollar bill in her back pocket. The auto slide doors opened and she inhaled a waft of fresh sweet baked goods in the air as she stepped inside. How in the world would she feed her little family of three for a week on twenty bucks? It's not that she was unhappy, or even that she had no one to turn to for help. But she was an adult now. A wife. Most importantly, a mom. She would figure this one out on her own. Seventy-nine cent boxes of spaghetti go a long way when you need formula and cereal for a healthy growing baby. And a half a pound of chicken can last several meals if you cut it up small and toss it with said spaghetti. Time, place, priorities. Everything is relative. I haven't had spaghetti in almost 5 years.

Fault Lines

 Response to Prompt #67

Fault Lines

 

I.

I was in charge of the prompt this time around, and I proposed the idea of using the first line of a song to get started on a piece of writing. I was fairly certain a line would jump out at me, and I’d be off and running.

 

It wasn’t happening.

 

By Saturday morning of this Labor Day weekend, weeks after initiating the idea, I had decided just to choose something and work with it. I wasn’t totally satisfied with the approach, but I knew I could make it work.

 

Late morning found me meeting up with my friend Annmarie at an art exhibit and then having lunch together. Annmarie has a new position and has worked very hard on getting her health back after a tough time period. We had a long discussion about all aspects of what makes health and wellbeing. As usual, I enjoyed her company immensely.

 

Yet when I left I felt uneasy, and I didn’t know why. I knew it didn’t have to do with our different directions in life – I am where I am purposefully and gladly. Still something didn’t feel quite right.

 

I was driving down MacGregor Boulevard listening to Tom Petty Radio, pondering this tired and distracted feeling. Marty Stuart was being a guest DJ and was playing some of his favorite Petty songs. He ended the show with his version of “Fault Lines,” which was on Tom Petty’s 2014 album Hypnotic Eye.

 

As soon as the song came on and I heard the opening lines, I knew I had my prompt:

 

See those fault lines

Lay down like land mines

It’s hard to relax

 

Now I just had to figure out what it meant.

 

II.

The idea of fault lines kept drifting through my mind on Sunday. I looked up definitions and images. I couldn’t quite make it personal. I mostly was thinking about the fault lines I see in our democracy, but I knew I didn’t want to write about that. I knew this still uncertain feeling was signaling something, but I just didn’t know what.

 

That day I noticed on Good Reads that a friend of mine listed that she was reading Amy Poehler’s book Yes, Please. I read it back in 2015, and was so inspired by one section in her book that I wrote a blog post about it. This post, called “Career as Chocolate Cake for Breakfast” has been one I’ve revisited many times. I thought, hmmm, maybe I’ll share my post with Susan.

 

But when I read it, it felt rather foreign to me. Almost unrelatable. Even a little embarrassing.  And I had no idea why. I thought to myself, This blog post always has inspired me. Why is it making me feel weird?

 

I since have figured it out. It was revealing my fault lines.

 

III.

Late Sunday afternoon, I had a moment when everything became clear. Once again, I have shifted myself into doing too many things that don’t matter, and not enough of what does. Over a glass of wine and some serious journaling, I made note of the things I just don’t have time for anymore, with the idea of opening up time for my creativity. It felt great to make this start.

 

Monday morning I revisited the ideas I had written the night before, and I reflected on “Career as Chocolate Cake for Breakfast.”  The post had detailed how I switched to middle school to have more time for my creative life.  It explained how my creativity was to be my priority from here on out.

 

This was the fault line. I wasn’t doing it. And I wasn’t relaxing into the way things were because I could sense it was like a landmine – one that could blow up on me if I didn’t reset.

 

There have been many times in my life I have done the same thing, and have had to turn things around, make adjustments, and take a new direction. I am not sure why I create these fault lines around me, only to have to have to fix them, but I do. I guess it is because I am a dabbler and I try lots of new things.

 

But in this case, my writing life has suffered. I’ve known for a long time it was suffering, and I’ve made some minor adjustments. But it wasn’t enough to make room for real creativity. I just have not focused enough on making where the true problem lie.

 

This is why my time with Annmarie prompted this change. She had taken charge of what she needed – her wellness – and it was serving her. I sensed it and knew that there was something I, too, needed to address.

 

IV.

As I mentioned earlier, on Saturday morning I had found some opening lyrics I was going to use. They were from a song called “You and Me Now” by the Record Company.

 

Sun beaming through the door

I’m lying on the floor

 

These words remind me that I need to keep in touch with the light inside me --the creative force-- and I need to stay grounded enough in my practice to recognize when I’m opening a new fault line. The chorus of this particular song is All we have is now. Everything I do in the present needs to serve me.

 

My aim is to hang on to this truth as long as I can, move forward on my creative life, be patient with myself as I make the right changes, and mostly, enjoy the journey 100%.

 

 

 

Blog Post "Career as Chocolate Cake for Breakfast" https://helen5questions.wordpress.com/2015/06/04/155-career-as-chocolate-cake-for-breakfast/

That's Life

 "Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, that's life."  The Verve 

I haven't heard this song in a while, but when it came on the radio on my way to the gym, I knew it was my inspiration. It's one of those go-to songs for me, something that always resonates no matter my mood or current situation. The lines in italics are taken from the lyrics. 

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

That's Life

That's life.

One of my dad's favorite lines when I questioned things or lodged a complaint. 

It always seemed to me there was more to it than that. 

And now that I am grown, 

I know I was on the right road, 

the one that leads to the place where all the veins meet. 

Yes, life can be hard, 

it can even be unfair.

Yet I prefer to view it as a bittersweet symphony,

a long and intricate composition of sights, sounds, events, emotions,

all blending seamlessly to create something pleasurable, 

even if it is tinged with occasional unpleasantries. 

That's life is a cop-out, 

a way to shirk responsibility for your own fate.

Life isn't arbitrary.

It requires careful thought, reason, principles. 

That's life is fool's gold, 

meant to trick the untrained eye into accepting a narrow world view. 

If you must sum up life, don't leave it at that. 

Prompt #67 Opening Lines

I have to admit, I've been struggling as a writer. I don't feel much inspiration coming my way. I cannot seem to lock into something useful to me, and I feel like everything I do write is kind of blah and unoriginal. Like I've written it all before.

So I've been living the question, Who am I as a writer?  It inspired me to move forward on finding a new prompt for our blog, thinking perhaps it will help. 

As the best ideas happen, they come to you when you're asking the question but are not necessarily putting yourself to the task of finding the answer. Today it came in the form of a podcast called "Songtown on Songwriting."  The guest was Don McLean, and the topic was the importance of opening lines.

Bingo! My prompt delivered to me over a bowl of Cheerios.

 

Here are Don's opening lines from his album American Pie:

Long long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile

What can this be/can you tell me?

Starry, starry night/paint your pallet blue and gray

I've got nothing on my mind/nothing to remember/nothing to forget/ I've got nothing to regret

No one can take your place with me/and time has proven that I'm right

I feel the trembling tingle of a sleepless night/creep through my fingers and the moon is bright

Fortune has me well in hand/ armies wait at my command

The spirit of Fatima still rules the earth/And she knows your future she knows what it's worth

The grave that they dug him had flowers/Gathered from the hillside in bright summer colors

TASK

Find an opening line to a song, one that creates a vision for you, and use it to begin your piece: poem, song, story, essay, whatever. Find a new direction from the original writer. Make it your own.

PROCESS

I think the best way is just to LISTEN to find your opening line. You may be driving in the car and hear it, or walking through the grocery store. Live the question: What is my opening line?

If you really get stuck, you can look here for some inspiration:

https://www.buzzfeed.com/victoriavouloumanos/best-opening-lyrics-all-time-part-2 

Final words: Listen. Don't overthink. Have fun. Share!

Cracking Open the Unfamiliar Parts

 Response to Prompt #66  Stories in One-Three-Five

 

Preparing this prompt: I had several ideas come and go, and absolutely nothing was sticking or making sense.  Eventually I realized it is because I was supposed to go back to things I've drafted out before and make them work for this. And once I sat down to do that, everything fell into place beautifully.

 

The first two are short stories, ones I call "addadabbles." Dabbles are 100 word stories. What I did with these was "add a dabble" at the end of another micro-story, ones that I found in a notebook from 2003, continuing it in some way. I have several of these in drafting stage, but these two stories were closest to the theme I had established, as well as word counts I needed.  Full disclosure, "Sad Victory" is a bit longer than a minute, and "Quartz" is not three minutes, but again, I felt they fit the entire scheme of this, and so I broke the rule!

 

The final piece is a memoir from a trip I made to Ohio in 2016. With my summer plans including a trip to Ohio, I thought it was time to take a look back and see what I wrote. I was surprised at what I found. Would love your feedback on any of these, but especially the memoir.

 

Cracking Open the Unfamiliar Parts: Stories in 1-3-5 

 

 

Sad Victory (1)

 

Flying down the street on her scooter, Misty hit a gravely patch of stone which threw her into a tailspin. Her Red Ball Jets scraped the ground as she went down on all fours -- knees and the heels of her hands grinding into the small stones. She knelt there, not sure whether to laugh or cry. She slowly looked to the left, to the right, and down in between her knees behind her. No one had seen her accident. No sense crying. Instead, she rolled over onto her butt and started to pick the little bits of gravel out of her hands and knees. Gosh that was fun, she thought to herself.

    She finished just in time for her sister Gina to come flying down the same hill on her bicycle. “Wipe out,” Gina yelled and with that, hit her brakes, expertly stopping her bike on a dime. Mostly looked at Gina with disgust.

    “Here I am wiped out on the gravel and you make a perfect stop. You make me sick.”

    Gina laughed. “Oh, Misty. Grow up. Let’s go home and play checkers.”

    Misty looked at her sister, who was smiling big at her. Damn, no sense being made at her. She is just too cool. She picked up her scooter and began the walk back up the hill, slightly limping, side-by-side with Gina, her older sister whom she envied, and who would proceed to beat her at checkers five times in a row.

 

70 Years Hence

Life is about what you remember, and for Gina these days, that isn’t much. For me, it’s turned into a silence; memories are all mine. 

 

One night I remembered that day on the scooter, how envious I was Gina, and how I continued swallowing my jealousy that day and beyond. But the memory provided something else. This visit I’m bringing checkers to the Alzheimer's Center.

 

And it works. Gina remembers how to play. She does not talk. She does not win. I thought it would feel good -- finally winning after all these years. 

 

Yet sadly, this silence holds no victory. 

 

 

 Quartz (3)

 

Sammy opened the cabin door on a cool early spring day. Still no leaves on the tree, he could see the hillside, brown with dead mulch and brush across the river. The river, too, was brown, and the grass not yet much greener. He cursed under his breath, “Fuckin’ brown existence.” He had come to the cabin with the hope of having his spirits lifted. Instead, he felt as dead inside as ever.

He talked out loud to his dog, Fella, who yawned with indifference. “Today. Today will be different. Today we catch that fish. Today, we will not only catch the fish, we’ll pan fry him. Trout. Yes, trout.

Sammy put on a windbreaker over his sweatshirt and jeans, and walked down the hill to the river, the ancient New River flowing peacefully. He stood on the side of the river, as the water marched by, its rhythm uninterrupted for centuries. Lying at the bottom of this waterway were petrified logs; trees that had fallen so long ago God barely remembers. They have turned to quartz in some cases. Sammy saw a small piece of quartz lying on the bank, and stopped to pick it up to toss it. Instead, he put it in his jeans pocket. And for a moment, Sammy felt as old as that river, as old as the fallen trees, almost as old as God. Any troubles he brought with him that morning, the ones he seemed to carry with him for years, were now carried within that jagged piece of quartz in his pocket. 

Sammy thought of the grief that had brought him to this cabin: the death of his wife Clara on Christmas day as she was driving back from a quick visit with her sister. The snowy roads were treacherous, but she had insisted she’d be fine. He had not forgiven her for this miscalculation. The winter had been bitter and mean, culminating in his decision to take a leave of absence from work and burrow away in the cabin. Until this morning he had done a pretty good job of not thinking about his severe anger and his lack of forgiveness. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to think about it now, so he pushed it to the back room of his mind where he stored all his emotional injuries.

The sun cut through the clouds, and the rapids began to sparkle. Sammy looked up at the sky and then to the hillside across the way. That is when he saw for the first time the brilliant green of buds clinging close to the branches. Had they just arrived with the sun? 

Taking that as a cue to get on with the day, he walked back to his cabin, Fella trailing behind, to get his fishing gear.

 

Evening

Back at the cabin, Sammy pulled the quartz out of his pocket and set it on the kitchen table. It appeared to be a beacon and a promise. He allowed himself to think of Clara for the first time without bitterness. He had buried his love for her for too long. 

 

He put the quartz back into his pocket, and remembered the moment when he saw the green buds in the morning light. Everything felt possible now somehow. Sammy knew spring had arrived in a crystal form. He would release his severe judgments and then somehow learn to love again.

 

 

 Shedding My Shoes at the End of the World  (Memoir-5)

 

Prologue

As part of an e-course I did on gratitude, David Whyte’s poem “Finisterre” was offered for study. While delving into this particular segment of the course, I tried to answer the following questions:

 

What do you need to leave behind in order to go forward? A habit? A relationship? Beliefs? Identity? Ways of seeing the world and yourself?

 

I did my best to answer those questions, but within two weeks I would uncover the true answers to these questions. I would come to the end of the world – the world I had always believed I held inside – and I would suddenly know it was time to leave it behind.

 

Journal Entries & Poems from the Trip to Ohio, Summer 2016

Sometimes we are called to dance on the wild edges of our lives and discover something new, or we have a sense that our lives have grown too small so we need to confront our fears of what is unknown, we need to welcome in strangeness to crack open unfamiliar parts of ourselves and of God – Christine Valters Painter

 

Wednesday, June 29

I doubt I will ever come back here. What a fuckin’ MESS. Mom won’t let me help her get shit out. Says it’s “wasting time.”  I want to CRY.  Time is DRAGGING.

I can’t even write. I feel so frazzled.

~~~

Inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Conversations Between Here and Home”

This is not my home.

This is a wasteland where someone I used to know lives.

This is carpets of clothes, layers of dust and dirt,

    Newpapers of eternity.

 

I cannot come here any more.

I won’t even consider it.

Sounds harsh, but I need to be resolved.

This won’t resolve itself.

 

So I am here

A place I call “home”

But more than ever

I don’t recognize it.

 

I’ve been puzzled by my non-attachment for years.

This just reinforces

All I want to be.

All I never was.

 

11:00 a.m.  6/29/16

 

 

Friday, July 1

 

I place my future in the Hands of God.

Remembered to pray today. Finally. 

Getting tired of socializing and want to go home.

Yes, this has been about accepting the moment as it is and yes, sometimes that moment is KILLER. But I’m staying in it and not lashing out. Nothing that could make me angry matters anyway.

I’m finding it difficult to physically write.

 

Inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Four Horse Song”

 

The tracks always lead to the same place

This isn’t vacation

I’m tired – bone tired in just a couple of days

Want to be home in my chair

Listening to Hamilton and writing good poems

Not scratching out shit at Starbucks.

 

The track to Ohio always leads the same place

Sorrow amid the town’s happiness

Friends changing, family reaching or drawing back

I grasp to keep myself and maybe

I let others define me too much.

 

Or is it a reflection?

 

Here again, those elusive tracks

always leading me to the same place.

 

7:41 a.m.  7/1/16

 

 

Saturday, July 2

I suppose in many ways I am learning a lot about acceptance, but also my own boundary.  Yesterday I was perturbed by my mom’s mocking me about having to stop and use the restroom. I don’t know – it just bothered me.  Then she wants me to be kind to her. Yeah. Okay.

My reaction to all of this is to isolate. She has a disorder. My point here is that I need to keep a boundary. My friends tell me I’m loving and accepting. I call it self-preservation.

 

 

Inspired by Joy Harjo’s “I Am a Dangerous Woman”

I know who I am

Where I belong

What I want to do

      without apology

 

I am a dangerous woman.

 

I write the truth

I provoke conversation

I’m not afraid

 

I am a dangerous woman.

 

Look at me like I’m old

Look at me like I’m a hippie

Dismiss what I have to say

 

I’ll set the world on fire.

 

I am a dangerous woman.

 

7:08 a.m.  7/2/16

 

 

Sunday July 3

Damn, I just want to cry.

I’ve had a wonderful time here in Columbus, but today I need to return to that dirty mess and I made no solid plans for tonight, so now I’m regretting that…I can’t even call Jim because I feel like I’m going to cry.  I WANT TO GO HOME.

 

Okay, I cried a tinge and now I feel better.

 

Yeah – so right now nothing feels right. I made the decision to come to Ohio out of obligation and I can’t say I’m totally sorry. It was glad to see Donna and Becky’s place and to meet Gordon. Oh, and Kate, of course. And I’ll be happy to go to the Rock Hall tomorrow. All is not lost by any means. And the time here in Westerville has been incredible.  I just feel far away from my writing life and I feel all I want to do is complain and I hate that. I don’t feel like investigating this awfulness with my mom and her mental problem. It’s exhausting. Keeping a boundary up and accepting what is exactly as it is. Seems easy, but then somehow catches up to me.

~~~

Poem inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Crossing the Border”

 This has been a border crossing

Amid the entertaining times:

  Cookouts,

        Sunset boating,

              Steak lunches

And hours of conversation

And that lovely nature walk

I have crossed a border

I love these people

but if I am to return

the terms have to be different.

It’s been taxing and I have to

shut down constantly

to get past the irritations.

I have crossed a mother/daughter

    border.  I don’t feel it.

Absolutely no guilt.

Move on to a new land –

    Don’t look back.

 

7:17 a.m.  7/4/16

 

 

Tuesday, July 5

Had a good morning and it was wonderful to see Laura, but I am still fighting the depressed feeling.

Just have to make time MOVE. It will be such a relief to pack. This has been the weirdest trip ever because of the extreme highs and lows. The highs and lows were both a surprise. I mean, really, my joy was multiplied at times because I was fighting the depression.

So this is it. I’m not planning on coming back willingly. It has become obvious that I need to be where I can do my best work. The emotions tied here can’t get resolved here.

 

I put my future in the Hands of God.

 

Poem inspired by Joy Harjo’s “Someone Talking”

Maps

In my mind

The roads, how they intersect

Where they go

Not in my memory

until I come upon it.

Baltic. Berea. Belle.

 

I traveled a lot of the

same roads, like following

a map of memory.

Westwood to W. 210 to Detroit

to Clifton to Cove

or other places

and back.

 

The Solstice Steps were at

the end of Belle.

The exit to Edgewater no

longer marked.

We took a boat, watched the

train bridge descend.

Listened to Paul Simon while

the sun set, the lines criss-crossed,

unbroken connections still.

A map of memory for me.

 

7:28 a.m.  7/7/16

 

Epilogue

I stepped off the plane, light pack on my back, walked up through the portal into the Southwest Florida terminal, my white jeans glimmering in the sunny interior.  I took a very deep breath and smiled. Then another.  And smiled wider.  I breezed past the Sanibel Bean and the red, white, and blue USA sweatshirts for sale, past slow walking airport workers, past the display boats, to baggage claim. In a few minutes I would get to see my husband for the first time in over a week.

 

I am home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stories in 1-3-5

In response to Prompt #66--1-3-5--I've penned 3 stories: a 1-minute read, a 3-minute read, and a 5- minute read (times are approximate). This was a challenging and fun exercise that I may just play more with!

The Power of 5

She could read their moods before they even made it halfway down the long hallway to her door--the last stop before the parking lot.  They wore their emotions on their faces, carried them in their bodies--shoulders slumped or rolled back, heads hung low or held high, feet that dragged like concrete blocks or skipped lightly above the ground, eyes that either shot daggers or sparkled with light,  downturned lips or toothy smiles--all these things ready to be read and interpreted by anyone who paid attention.

Regardless of her mood, she smiled warmly at each and every one of them as she greeted them with a "Good morning!" or  a "Great to see you!" or a "How are you today?" She wasn't being disingenuous but knew her approach--or reproach--would make or break the day.  Instead of barking down the hall to move faster or spit out gum or take hats off or put phones away, she gave directions with her eyes and subtle hand signals. She often got eye rolls, but the students generally complied without incident. No one lost face, no gauntlet was thrown, no battles ensued. 

At times, they would brush by her with nary a grunt, but sometimes they smiled and returned the greeting. Other times, they asked to be left alone for the day. She honored all those reactions and used that information to make on-the-cuff decisions about who would partner with whom, what to add to the day's lesson, and what to leave out. 

Those 5-minute stints several times a day were sacred moments for her, moments that she knew had immediate effects--and hoped had lasting impact. 

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

Dead Silence 

Time seemed to stop in that moment. The voice on the other end was barely discernible. She knew it was one of her parents by the number that flashed on her caller ID, but the croaks coming through the line were not her father's normal steady speech.

"Dad, take a deep breath." She waited to hear the sharp sucking in of air and the shaky release. "What is it? What's happened?"

"She's dead," he finally managed. 

There was no need to ask who "she" was. It was her mother, a woman with whom she had a close bond as a child but had increasingly pulled apart from thanks to her incessant complaining and judging. A woman who had suffered at the hands of multiple immune disorders, pinched up with pain for years and years. A woman who had suffered with severe depression for more years than that. A woman who chose the bottle and pills to ease that suffering over the sweeping lifestyle changes her doctors recommended. A woman who chose to wallow in her misery instead of trying to find joy. 

She let the silence hang for a while, not quite sure what to say to him. He had played caretaker for decades, all while being barked at and berated and unappreciated, his retirement dream of mountain cabin dwelling in North Carolina nixed by his wife's situation. He too relied on pills to ease his anxiety and the crushing weight of a life he never wanted. 

"I killed her," he finally choked out. 

"Dad, you didn't kill her. You did the best you could for her. It's a miracle she lived as long as she did."

"No, you don't understand." Once again, the silence hung, heavier this time. So heavy it felt as if hands were clenching her throat. "I shot her."

Her throat closed so tightly that if she had words, they wouldn't have been able to escape. 

"She begged me to," he bawled. "Said that if I really loved her, I would put her out of her misery, save her from having to do it herself." 

"Dad, why didn't you call for help?"

"They would have Baker Acted her, treated her like a crazy person. She would have never forgiven me."

More silence.

"I don't expect you to understand. I just wanted to tell you goodbye, that I love you, that none of this is your fault."

The shot rang out, piercing her ears, her heart, her soul. She had feared this day for so long--a dangerous mix of alcohol, pills, guns, and misery. She had tried to stop it, but no amount of urging and offers to help could have fixed any of this. 

Yet she would be the one to carry the burden of it all.

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

Doll Face

Finally--the baby was down for his long afternoon nap, and her 2-year-old daughter was tucked safely in her room for a shorter nap. Any amount of time she could grab during the day to take care of herself was like winning the Golden Ticket. 

She was almost giddy as she popped her Denise Austin exercise tape into the VCR. The overly enthusiastic fitness guru is just what she needed--quick hit fitness with a side of inspiration. 

As the music started thumping at its fat-burning pace, she began the warm-up, mimicking the moves of  the tan Denise with an impossibly white smile. "If you rest, you rust!" the host reminded her followers. 

She felt that was an accurate observation as her extra-baby-weight body fought her just 5 minutes into the tape. Keeping up with a toddler and an infant seemed like enough movement, but she knew that was different from this body-toning activity. Denise looked fantastic, and she had had two kids. She also had a similar build as the tired mom used to have--larger hips but a small bust and little waist. 

Denise kept up her encouragement at predictable intervals. "You deserve this! You are worth it!"

I do deserve this! I am worth it! 

Just as the real workout began, she heard it. The jiggle of a door handle. She kept working out, doing her best to ignore the possible interruption to her precious half-hour of self-care.  

She heard it again and turned the volume as loud as she dared without waking the baby in the next room. 

Another jiggle.

"Mooooooooomy! I stuck!" squeaked a little voice. 

"Just give Mommy 20 minutes! You need to rest," thinking to herself little girls can't rust--only big ones. 

She wondered how that child had managed to lock herself in, but she was also grateful she did. 

"I want oooooout!" 

"No! Just give Mommy 20 minutes, and I will unlock the door."

It got quiet, and she thought, that was easy. She shrugged it off and kept pace with the energetic instructor. "Keep it up! You're doing great!" 

The workout ended--20 minutes later--and, as promised, she went to spring her big blue-eyed, sassy daughter from her room. A room, by the way, that held every comfort and toy to keep a 2-year-old occupied for hours. 

As she popped open the lock with the emergency key, she was greeted with her daughter, sitting on her bed, covered in pink Barbie lip balm, with a I'll show you scowl on her chubby little face. 

She looked around and also saw the pink balm smeared all over the comforter, embedded deeply into the wicker hamper, and painted on the walls. 

She back slowly out of the room, shut the door, and began laughing. 

Then, she called her own mother. "Mom, I am about to kill your granddaughter." She relayed the story quietly, looking for some piece of wisdom, some momvice if you will. 

"I don't know what to tell you, honey. You got your sister's child. You would have never done anything like that."

She cursed her rebel middle sister as she said, "Well, she's about to inherit a 2-year-old." 

She hung up, plotting her next step as she re-entered the room. Her daughter sat in the same position, holding the empty tube like a weapon of war. 

"I wanted out."

She bit her lip--hard--to keep from busting out into laughter and told her precious hellion to gather up her other Barbie toiletries, the lotion, the powder--who buys this stuff for a 2-year-old anyway? Oh yeah, her grandmother--and held out the trash basket. 

"Throw it all away. If you can't use things appropriately, you don't get to have them."

Her daughter's little lip quivered, but she did as told. Then, she got a super-soapy mid-day bath to coax the oily balm from her hair.

Since the baby miraculously slept through the commotion, she settled her daughter in front of a Barnie video and took to washing the sheets and comforter and scrubbing what she could. The hamper was a lost cause. 

It dawned on her that she hadn't heard her daughter sing along with the Barnie "I love you" song. She hurried into the great room--worried about what she might be up to now--to find her sound asleep, her little face scrunched up against her Barnie stuffed toy. 

She sighed, "Of course, now she sleeps." 

And, just then, she heard the screech of a baby boy who didn't get a long enough nap.

Prompt #66: One-Three-Five

I’ve been on an interesting part of my creative journey lately. My reading and writing hasn’t been very high in volume lately, outside of work. But trust me, I have been creating. And I mean that in the literal sense. I’ve taken up junk journaling (or glue booking, or smash booking- what you call it is based on what you put in it or how you create it- but it matters not). I spend a lot of time looking through materials others would think of as junk. An old tattered book I bought for a dollar at the Goodwill store, deconstructed cardboard boxes from various household items that are over packaged by the manufacturers, leftover papers, stickers, and knickknacks from my scrapbooking days almost twenty years ago... and some already read old magazines piled for the trash.

I love flipping through the old magazines, not for the articles or stories, but for whatever else speaks to me. Beautiful words in striking font, images that I couldn’t possibly draw or create myself but which make me feel inspired. This is what I was doing this morning; curating “junk” from magazines for use later on. It’s kind of like picking off the last of the meat from a carcass before you dump the bones in the trash. And I just happened to pick up a Poets & Writers from March 2016. This might be the last time I actually had a subscription to a physical magazine. And I happened to have two copies of the same one, the second one was in a a pile of a couple of magazines from my friend, Helen, who often gives me a couple when she’s finished with them. 

“The Time is Now” appeared on page 35 of this issue from just this time of year, 5 years ago. This is the magazine’s offering of writing prompts to the reader. There were three; poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, and I like all three. But one of them combines just perfectly with an idea that was already brewing. So, after that long and self-indulgent introduction, here is this month’s prompt:

I had been thinking about how people say, “I could tell you a million stories...” We actually tell stories everyday. Think about how you recount your day with your cohabitants, or about dinner or drinks with your friends, which is usually a round robin of storytelling. Think about a collection of brief stories you could tell around a single topic. Maybe typical childhood accidents or injuries (stitches, falling off the trampoline, a broken arm). Or three different job interviews. Or three touching stories about a loved one. Start by brainstorming topics or ideas for a small collection, and jot down some ideas. (This is the idea I had brewing).

Here is where my idea blends with the one from Poets & Writers. The magazine had an explanation of a set of 8 short story vending machines placed by a publisher around the southeast of France. The idea was that passers by could select one, three, or five minutes of fiction to read while commuting. The community submitted six hundred stories that would dispense on receipt-like paper out of the machines at no cost to the reader. (How cool is that?) Try writing a story that can be read in one minute, then one in three minutes, and one in five minutes. Think about the story collection ideas you brainstormed, and use them to try the 1, 3, and 5 minute collection. Fiction, nonfiction, makes no difference. After all, if you don’t tell us what’s fiction and what’s not, how would we know?

Between Planes

Response to Prompt #65: Random Page

I’ve been dragging my feet on starting The Listening Path. Though it arrived weeks ago, I’ve been involved in some other creative endeavors, and I haven’t felt ready to dig in. I think Ms. Cameron would approve, as I have been creative! Reading poetry, writing, junk journaling (which is my latest creative outlet- and boy is it fun!). To get myself going, I thought I would use the book for this prompt. Open it up, grab an inspiring line, and create the temptation to get started. I think it worked. Here is the line I randomly turned to:

There’s a difference between listening and hearing. Sometimes you have to tune out what’s all around you. You have to zero in to really listen. (I forgot to mark the page.)

I decided to focus on the first sentence in this couplet. I used each word in the sentence as the start to a sort of poetic verse. 

Between Planes

by ljkemp

There’s the rushing of cars, a lawnmower and a weed eater. A squawking bird, the air conditioner and the dribble of water through the fridge into the ice maker. I can hear those sounds, but the 

Difference is when you really listen. You can hear the chaos of people commuting, a constant rush from one place to another, the heartbeats of men and women, sweating, grunting, working to feed their families- the woman inside, working from home isolated from a world plagued with viral toxicity.

Between these two planes is where we write. First in descriptive observation of what we see, what we hear, then what we feel and what we truly hear and see beneath the surface beyond the obvious. We create a perceived reality

Listening to our subjects. They are trying to tell us about themselves, each other, the world... ourselves.

Hearing the concrete stimuli- voices, machines, animal sounds, the wind passing over the edges of our ears through the Eustachian highway for interpretation in the cognitive control center. What is the universe trying to say today?

Jealousy

This is inspired by Prompt #65--Random Page as is taken from  page 176 of The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, a book loaned to me by fellow Trailbrazin' Helen Sadler and one that is admittedly taking me too long to read! 

"Jealous people go straight to hell."

Having grown up with the concept that sin--physical acts or flaws of character--result in an express ticket to hell. Unless of course, you ask for forgiveness and make a conscious effort to avoid a repetition of said sin. Then, God would extend his grace, even when there is no way in hell you deserve it. Overall, He is a gracious God, but don't test him.

Now, I'm starting to recognize that operating out of that kind of fear and guilt isn't such a healthy way to live. Another thing I've realized is "sins" such as being jealous or envious are just part of human nature. They're not pretty traits, but they are there--they just vary in degree person to person. 

Being human does not automatically guarantee you a reservation to the presidential suite in Hades. 

Add to that, jealousy creates its own special hell for the beholder, so why is further punishment required? 

And, now, and acrostic: 

Joyfulness is robbed when

envy reigns--a hell 

all its own,

leeching contentment, becoming an

obsession that 

ultimately devastates the 

spirit, building a prison of

your own making.