Best Day Ever

I wish I was the kind of diarist who could draw clever cartoons or renderings of beautiful houses or hilarious sayings in the margins of my journals but I’m not.  I just write.  Sometimes I glue things in first and then write over top of that but mostly I just write.  It is the best way I know to get rid of the junk in my head.  I journal because I get to say anything I want.  Say it badly if I want.  Write the word FUCK in big fat letters or scribble all over the page or complain about friends or whine about myself and my moods and be melancholy as I want to be but lately it seems that I’ve gotten into the habit of being in the melancholy state a little too often.  I don’t do it on purpose.  I’ve just always been that way.  Being happy is one of the saddest things that can happen to a person.  Life is so good it’s goddamn scary.  I am one of those lucky people who has it pretty damn great.  I love my husband for starters.  I think he is gorgeous and kind and smart.  He is a good man.  He is a gentle man.  And those characteristics are getting harder and harder to come by.  My kids are amazing.  They’re all wonderful people.  They’re respectful and careful with people’s feelings.  We laugh together and genuinely like each other.  Not to say we haven’t had our moments we wouldn’t be normal if we hadn’t but by and large everything is A. O. K. So.  Why am I sad? 

I’m not sad all the time, but probably about half.  Like the song says I was born this way.  I don’t court melancholia.  I count my blessings.  I am grateful.  But I am keenly aware of the eventuality of it all and it’s a terrible habit.  It’s like being at the greatest party you’ve ever been to.   The music is pumping, the mood is jubilant.  People are dancing and laughing and no one is overly drunk or annoying.  You’re having so much fun you don’t want the night to end.  But you don’t stand in the corner thinking how sad it is that such a great party will be over soon.  You dance.  You laugh.  Maybe you sing some karaoke.  And you go home saying to one another “God that was great!!! We should do it more often!”  If life is a party maybe I shouldn’t be watching the clock.  Living in the moment is hard.  Why is it that it’s so much easier to look backwards or forwards instead of just enjoying the party?  Two words.  Catastrophic thought. 

Having happiness is the strange bedfellow of catastrophic thinking.  I always use the butterfly analogy.  When I talk about love to my kids I always tell them that love is like holding a butterfly.  If you hold it gently it will flutter and tickle your palms.  But if you hold it too tightly you’ll kill it.  The same is true of life in general.  Hold on too tight and you kill the joy.  I’m just holding too tight.  I don’t want it to end.  I don’t want to lose my husband or god forbid a child.  I want to live a long life with Ken.  I want our kids to live long, healthy, happy lives as well and I want them to find someone who loves them like we love each other.  I just don’t want the party to be over. 

My husband has taken up Kiteboarding.  The guys he rides with have a saying ‘best day ever’.  It doesn’t really matter if the conditions were ideal they always end the day the same way.  ‘Best day ever.’  I love that.  It’s a shift in consciousness.  And it applies to everything.  Best job ever.  Best sandwich ever.  Best nap ever.  Mind you it’s easy to say that now knowing that I’m heading to the lake tonight and that I’ll be sitting on my patio with my husband celebrating 28 years of best days ever.  It will be alot harder when I’m at work next week and people need things from me yesterday and the dog has peed on the floor.  But for right this minute, when everyone I love is safe it’s the best day ever. 

On an Otherwise Ordinary Day

The End of the Beginning

A Ghost Story

Somewhere in this house a child is laughing.  Footsteps run down the hall above me then stop.  Then start again followed by the laughter.  I don’t know who she is, only that she will not leave.  I have asked her to go many times.  I’ve tried to be reasonable.  I’ve asked her what she wants but it’s as if she doesn’t hear me at all.  She only stops and looks, then smiles and runs away and up the stairs to resume her game.  I don’t know what to do.   I’m afraid that she will never leave.  This used to be a peaceful house.  She doesn’t care about that.  She wants only to play and to laugh and to torment me.  There are times when I wish that I wasn’t quite so dead. 

In Dreams

Pt. 1

I walked through a forest

of naked trees

shorn of their needles

skeleton keys

left to unlock

the salted ground

with snowflakes

The House on Dorsey Street

There is a house on Dorsey Street

I’ve passed it many times

And each time I find it weeping

Raining rivers from windows

Unused to the sun

What sadness resides

Within those walls

That it leaks so uncontrollably

I’ve heard the stories

Whispered from one ear to another

And seen the way passersby speed their steps

Looking over tweed clad shoulders and upturned collars

Lest they be recognized by what lies within

 It is after all only a house, although

Sometimes I wonder

My footsteps slow as I near the facade

And now and then I stop and grasp the iron gate

 We gaze at one another forlornly the house and I

As if we were lovers kept apart

By unrelenting parents who misunderstand our kinship

And think it something dirty and ill intended

Something frightening perhaps

 It wants me back that much is true

To walk the floors and hide behind curtains

Or in closets, safer there we thought

The house and I

And so we pine for one another

And what might have been

And what happened there once

I know that she tried to protect me

I always thought so

Offering up her secrets

And now that she is empty she cries because she couldn’t

In Lieu of Flowers

I am sorry for your loss she said

And I was unsure of my response

And so nodded as though inconsolable

Lest she see the mirth behind

The watery eyes

And she must have been convinced

Because she touched my arm and left

The casket lid was propped for viewing

A ritual insane in its design

A corpse in maquillage

Lay still while mourners and other guests

Watch for signs of decay

And comment on how good she looks

To hide their embarrassment

And still I want to laugh

I press a hankie to my face

To stem the flow

Hysteria they think

Sympathetic glances cover me in

Hives and I shake my head and sniff

Someone is singing now

Something about redemption

Atonement and that sort of thing

And suddenly I want to scream

Do you really think it matters now?

Withheld

I am watching

the way the ink bleeds. 

Dripped from a pen

poised

in hesitation.

Held by a shaking hand. 

 The grip is weak,

the words unspoken, 

 held fast in thirsty parchment.

Ash

Today I saw someone

Defeated

Burnt down to embers

Too cold to ignite

Hope

Extinguished

And in the empty grayness

Loneliness

Aloneness

Laying in the ash

Train

Waiting on the platform for the 10:15

She touches a hand to her hair

And checks her lipstick twice

Winds her watch

And looks impatiently down the line.

She tries to read in vain, a novel somewhat comedic.

Words slip past sliding by eyes withdrawn and thoughtful.

So much can be hidden in the act of holding a book.

The pretence frees her mind and a smile plays across her mouth

Lifting the corners slightly.

She removes a compact from the depth of her bag

 and presses powder across her cheeks to dim the pink anticipation.

The time is 10:05.

10 minutes.

Emotions skitter across her frame, chasing each other like puppies.

She turns the page of the book she isn’t reading.

She can hear the rumble in the distance and as she stands she smoothes

the creases from her skirt.

Her shoes are new and she hopes he notices.

A young woman has come out onto the platform.

She is holding the hand of a child who is jumping in place.

“Hush,” the young woman says, “it’s coming.”

Nervous now, she straightens her coat and pats her hair once more. 

And as she does the young woman with the child looks over

and the two exchange a smile.

Others drift out onto the platform, bored or expectant. 

Watches are wound.  Books returned to bags.  Hands are held or let go of.

The train thunders into view, a relief and a disappointment.

Metallic sounds shriek and hiss then stop and huff as though exhausted.

Doors sigh and stairs are lowered.  Places are exchanged with those waiting.

She sees him amidst the clouds and her heart quickens.

He takes long strides down the platform toward her.

He smiles and she responds in spite of herself. 

And as he moves beyond her, pulls the young woman

and child into a firm embrace the smile falters

then withers, then dies.

She lowers her gaze and lifts a hand to her hair,

 looks down at her shoes and boards the train.

I Am a Writer

I am a writer.

I’m a writer because

I put words on paper.

I find joy in blank pages and the

Words that appear like magic

Just because I want them to.

I’m a writer because

the thoughts in my head find relief in running free

Across unlined fields of parchment or kraft

Or sometimes canvas.

I’m writer because I read.

I take comfort in words, letters, vowels and verbs

I swim in them and sometimes they

Swallow me whole.

I’m a writer because I do so.

I write whether it’s correct or incorrect

Or jumbled

Or even very good.

I write because it’s part of who I am.

It’s how I am and because I write

I’m learning to ignore the other voices that yell at me

And scream things like

STOP!!!

YOU SUCK!! YOU’RE TOO OLD!!

YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SAY!!

IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!!

And just write anyway.

Because really, why wouldn’t I?

I am writer.

The Curiosity Chronicles - Excerpt

 

The Curiosity Chronicles

The Gallery of the Obscure

You will need to prepare for a story like this.  Stories like this one should be read at night, long past your bedtime, preferably during a thunderstorm and by the light of a candle.  But if your parents are the overprotective type a flashlight will do. 

If you look around the room you are in right now and think about it you are probably warm.  You’ve probably had a delicious supper and possibly dessert.  And very likely as you begin this story and huddle beneath your blankets you are in your own room and you pulled this very book from your own bookshelf.  You likely have a parent or two somewhere in your house possibly making your lunch for tomorrow or folding your clothes.  Perhaps they even tucked you into bed and kissed you goodnight.  Now close your eyes for a moment and imagine that it was all gone.  Imagine that all you owned fit in the knapsack that is lounging on the chair in the corner and that your parents aren’t there at all but traipsing through the jungles of Costa Rica or climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro simply because they liked the sound of the word.  And now imagine that they had forgotten you completely.  If you can picture all of this then you might be able to imagine what life was like for the Cornell children and how much they longed for what you have right now.  Pity I wouldn’t give it to them.  I couldn’t could I?  Who would want to read a story about 3 children who had everything they could have wanted and dressed in lovely clothes and had holidays at the beach with their equally lovely parents?  No one.  Not a soul.  And so the story I am about to tell you is about 3 children whose parents didn’t want them at all.  In fact they hadn’t seen their parents in so long that they had forgotten what they looked like.  Almost.   Maybe I should rephrase that.  They tried very hard to forget what their parents looked like because sometimes it is less painful to forget a thing than to remember it. 

Letting Go

Letting go today

Of false friends and

Unfulfilled promises

Of hopeless things

I thought better of

Of an image I don’t possess

Or have access to

Of ugly feelings

Alarm bells

And melancholy

And should have beens

Letting go of nothings

Of poisoned words dripping off

A willing pen

Of cold realizations

And harboured thoughts

Of rejection

Born Again

Touched her once when she was small

Forced her up against a wall

Did things that he shouldn’t do

Kept her quiet, no one knew

Found the Lord to mend his ways

Absolution, life of praise

Took things that she can’t replace

Hail Mary full of grace

Went to church with other sinners

Said the grace at Sunday dinners

Forgiven now for what he’s done

Isn’t he the lucky one

Softly shuts the door behind them

Safe in knowing Jesus loves him

Yesterday

Yesterday

I saw a man

Waiting to cross the street

I stopped for him

And caught his eye and

He smiled at me

But as he stepped away from the curb

His smile faltered

And I realized that one of his legs

Was far shorter than the other

It seemed he had forgotten

For a moment

His affliction

But as he left the sidewalk

And made his way across the street

In jagged uncooperative steps

He raised his eyes in apology

There was no need to be sorry

I was just happy that

He smiled at me

The It Factor

It seems that most of us go through life looking for the elusive ‘it’.  The thing that makes us who we are.  The thing that makes us tick.  We tell ourselves that if we can just find that one thing that sets us apart we'll find the missing connection.  We'll get our 'Aha!' moment, the lightbulb will go on and suddenly the world as we know it will make sense. I can't help wondering whether this is a giant recipe for disaster.  Can any of us live  up to the ideal self?  Is there such a thing or is finding yourself a karmic accident?  Are those who find it ready or just lucky? For me I always thought the answer was writing.  I have spent my life writing poetry and journaling and though I work at other things I have harbored the desire to write for a living painfully close to my heart so close that it has become harder and harder for me to act on it for fear of losing the elusive connection.  I don't get anything from writing monetarily.  I don't have a fan base, no followers on my blog or book deals.  I've thought about quitting a million times.  But I can't because worse than giving up writing would be giving up the dream of writing.   

I read once that the three ingredients to happiness were someone to love, something to do and something to look forward to.  It is because of the latter that I became a fan of the perpetual dream.  Having a dream that doesn’t come to fruition can be just as beneficial to our psyches as the one that does.  It keeps us looking forward.  We continue to be engaged and striving instead of jaded and complacent.  It reminds me of the movie “That Thing You Do” about the band who made it big only to come undone.  It was the dreaming not the reality that sustained them. 

 I look at my writing like this.  I am a writer because I write.  If there comes a day when I am published then I will be a published writer but I no longer want to place the value of my self worth as a writer on a single adjective.   The way I see it, it could be a “be careful what you wish for you just might get it” scenario.   Perhaps if I were to publish I would encounter a new set of problems, deadlines, criticisms, poor sales.   Who’s to say?  In the meantime I will continue to write as the need arises or the inspiration or even the desperation.  And I’ll keep dreaming, who knows, maybe one day I’ll even add that adjective. 

Yellow

Yellow sat under the shade of a bearded tree watching the gator taking its time near the shoreline.  She wore a dress made of an old fabric called Dotted Swiss that she’d found in the church bin.  A party dress for a happy day.

She’d been crouched there for awhile now.  The calves in her legs were beginning to complain but she wasn’t ready to leave just yet.  A bead of sweat formed between her shoulder blades and made its way down her spine and she shivered despite the heat. 

She enjoyed watching the gator.  If he knew he was being watched he gave no indication.  He moved with a malevolent grace in the rusty water.  He was king here and it was good to be king. 

She was remembering the first time Roy Brown had called her Yellow.  He said the name suited her, “Yellow Brown, piss and shit, good for nothin’ and a relief to be rid of”.  And then he’d laughed.  But he wasn’t laughing now. 

The gator glided toward her and opened its mouth wide.   The arm floating in the shallows disappeared with a satisfying crunch. 

“My name is Grace,” she said.

Fallout

We all saw it

The shift

Before you left

The silence after the storm

And we wondered

Who would take care of us

After you had been replaced

Who would we become because of it

Someone who is misunderstood

Someone who gives up

Someone who hurts the others

But carries on as if nothing matters

And nobody knows

Someone who uses their body as

A means of escape

Someone who’s forgotten

But we are all okay

Aren’t we?

Character Sketch in Poetry

I use poems to help me in my writing.  This is a character sketch I did on a villain by the name of Silk.

Silk

Mr. Silk is slippery

Slides between your fingers

Lifts a watch

Steals a purse

Everywhere he lingers

He is called a dandy man

Dressed up in velvet cloaks

Knows his way through busy streets

Cuts his neighbours throats

Comes across a charmer

You’ll think he’s on your side

But rest assured he’s after you

You’ll run but you can’t hide

Cheater

Ahh the writing life.  I get up in the morning, pour myself some coffee write brilliant prose for awhile and carry on with my day.  Not.  My writing day goes more like this.  I get up and the first thing I see after I’ve poured my coffee is the large blue notebook I write in.  It’s actually a sketchbook with paper heavy enough to paint on.  It measures 7” x 10” and I’ve become fixated on this particular book to write in, if only I could be that committed to the stories that are in the pages.  It lies open, waiting exactly as I left it.  I drag myself to my desk in the ‘do I have to?’ way of most third graders and sit down to try and get whatever has gone awry back on the rails.   And while I’m corralling my wayward story, using the words ‘and then’ a lot and knowing I’m in a flat spin another idea will pop into my head.  “Well,” I think, “that’s the problem.  I didn’t want to write that story in the first place, I wanted to write this one.”  So I turn to a blank page and it’s as if the other story never existed.  I’m lost in the new and improved idea, the one with legs the one that has to be written.

I’m back in the zone.  Ideas flow, post-its abound and then somewhere around page 20 or so I start to slow down.  The characters are losing their lustre and I begin losing interest and if I’m losing interest, the reader will lose interest.  It’s in the bible of writing, Vonnegut ch. 3 vs. 1.   And so I start again with the next big thing.  It could be a process of elimination I suppose.  Maybe I’m just struggling to find my voice.  But I know and you probably know too.  It’s fear.  Fear of failure, fear of success, fear of spending months writing something that is garbage when you could have written something great or at least good and the ultimate fear, the fear of rejection. 

When this happens I crawl back into the safe cocoon of poetry.  Poetry fills my need to get words on the page, to get feelings out of my head and into the stratusphere.  I can use my poems to sketch out ideas or lament my expanding waistline.  It is forgiving and welcoming and expedient.  It’s entirely possible that my whole problem is a giant case of attention deficit.  Hmmm a character who has a severe case of ADD....I should write that down.

Poetic Aside

I trip on words
get tangle up
lost among the sounds
make a world
tied up with string
that always comes unbound
to write a story takes too long
I can't commit I know it
and that's why I shall always be
have always been, a poet

Chill Before Serving

Did you ever do that experiment in elementary school science where you created a tornado in a bottle?  It's basically akin to stirring up a batch of Kool-Aid but more scientific like.  My writing life is like this.  I start with an idea, which is basically like the water.  It's pure and clean and pretty much whole in my mind.  Then I add the flavoring, characters, locale, villains and give it a mighty stir.  At first everything is suspended, yet separate and crystallized.  Then as it gains momentum it begins to come together and starts to form a story.  But if I start to stir too fast a hole appears in the middle of my Kool-Aid and all the great ideas that were coming together are pushed to the side to make room for this giant nothing that threatens to take over.
I find myself writing faster trying to squeeze everything in the space that's left.  I jump around in my narrative. I'm unsure where things fit and the more I stir the greater the emptiness grows while everything I thought I had is frantically trying to become something else.   Even when I let go of the spoon the bright red concoction continues to turn.  I'm learning that the only way for it to become what I want it to is to let it.
As writers, we're hard on ourselves.  We feel bad when we have to start again or rip out pages.  But that's the beauty of it.  We can do what we want.  It's not a one off, we get to try again.
I'm there with a story I've been working on.  I'm a month in and I've been stirring too fast.  I'm at the point where I might just make a new batch, this time with sugar.  After all, Kool-Aid is a drink best served chilled.

I Doubt It

My writing life has been hounding me for years.  It’s like a terrier that yaps at my feet until I pay attention to it or take it for a walk or give it a treat.  I want to ignore it but it won’t let me.

When I’m writing regularly, as I am now, I should be on top of the world.  I should be proud of myself for sitting down every day and putting words on paper.  But instead I am plagued by self doubt.  When doubt creeps in the little terrier that begs me to write something down, that whines until I have, runs away with his tail between his legs then hides under the bed until it’s safe to come out again.

 I have written reams on what a shitty, shitty writer I am and why I should close up my laptop for good and toss it.  I have tried over and over to convince myself that my writing is a hobby, one I could easily trade for knitting or ceramics.  I have tried to let it go because it is painful to hear me talk to myself like I do.  It is painful to want something so badly but feel that you may never achieve it.  It’s beyond frightening to think that what I tell myself might actually be true and that I might suck more epically than any writer that has ever put pen to paper.  And then....just as I’m about to hit the ‘delete’ key the terrier will poke his head out from the dust ruffle.  He’ll creep closer and maybe lick my ankle or nudge my leg.  He’ll look up at me with those puppy dog eyes as if to say ‘so what?’  Then he’ll start to whine a little and just to keep him quiet I’ll write a poem or two.   When he’s satisfied he’ll creep back to his bed and go to sleep.  The only way to keep him quiet is to write. Because as hurtful as all this self doubt is, it is far more distressing to think that I quit, that I gave up on something that meant so much to me.  It’s impossible not to write.   And if I’m not the greatest writer, so what?

When doubt gets really bad, when it threatens to erase an entire manuscript or clear the contents of my computer I look to my bookshelves for inspiration and pull out the worst novels I can find.  Every author should stock a few.  I pick them up in the 99 cent bin once in a while and in times of great duress I open them and curl up on the couch with my terrier and read a line or two and think the thought that keeps all would be novelists coming back to the desk, “if they can do it....”

You Can't Have One Without the Other

It seems that I am never happy in my writing practice.  When I'm writing fiction I want to be writing poetry.  When I'm writing poetry I feel the need to hammer out an essay.  If I'm writing a mystery, I want to be writing a ghost story and... well you get the picture.  So if you're reading this blog,  and Thank You if you are, you'll see that I've split off into my multiple writing personalities.

At 365-Pages I'm writing a page a day of a story called Gideon's Folly.  It's a story about a boy who lives his life behind the stone wall of a crumbling mansion called the Folly and what happens to him when he finds a way out.

Pocketwatch Poetry came about because I often try to write a poem as fast as I can without editing or censorship.  This is where I put them.

Diary of a Catastrophic Thinker is a humorous look at my issues with anxiety.

And this one, 142 books, is a mixture of poetry and essays on writing.

It's possible that this is a form of writer's attention deficit but hey, on the bright side, look at all the writing I'm getting done.

The Quiet One

they called her quiet
and refined
with her downcast eyes
and covert glances
they thought her shy
withdrawn and lost
in thought
or pursuits otherwise romantic
but in the avenues
she walks
in silent regard
and thin disguise
adrift in
sympathetic crowds

Writing Without a Net

There is a question that I have asked myself time without number.  'Why do I write?'  Followed closely by the subsequent  'Why do I care?'
As I navigate the world of Twitter and try to figure out how to actually get someone to read my blog(s) I am actually beset by something close to apathy.  It is exhausting to me to think that day after day I must sell myself. I must push my words at people like an unwelcome fourth drink at a tasteful event.  I feel pressure to squeeze my words into a size 2 so that no-one will realize that I'm not 26 anymore.  Unfortunately there are no Spanx for writers, no Botox, no collagen injections.  We have to constantly expose our flaws and then stand naked in hopes that the powers that be won't notice the cellulite.  So why??? Why bother?
I don't know.  The elusive dream of the contract is not actually on my radar anymore.  I used to keep a scrapbook, kind of a bound vision board, and in it I glued my dreams together.  One of them was a VW convertible.  I promised myself that when I got published I would buy myself that car and that the license plate would read "Author".  So many years have passed since I made that book.  It seems silly.  My husband suggested I get a plate that read "Arthur" instead.  I laughed. 'Close enough,' I thought. And then it occurred to me that it really doesn't matter.  Life is good.  I write because I always have.  I write because it is a part of me.  But not every part of me has to be compensated to be legitimate.  No-one pays me to be a wife or a mother and yet those are the roles that give me the most joy.   If this means I never unearth the Holy Grail known as the  literary agent so be it.  I will continue to write simply because I don't know how not to.  If there's no one to catch me when I fall that's okay.  I'll survive.

Hope

Soft breath
tainted with leaves and cut grass
and other growing things
inhaled and
breathed deep
nights have shortened
less time to be afraid of things there
less time to wait for dawn
and the relief of seeing
sidewalks wet from an evening's rain
fresh, clean
the footfalls soft against them
in this tower it wafts toward me
even now as i wait for death
I am alive

Anatomy of a House pt. 30

R.I.P.

On the night of the storm

An old woman died

And they buried her under a tree

Next to the lover she’d waited for

And clung to faithfully

And on the stones

Where they lay in repose

A message divided in two

Words to the song that she sung every night

To the portrait of her groom

‘I promise to love you for all of my days

Promise to leave you never

Promise your love and I’ll promise you mine

Forever and ever and ever’

The End

Anatomy of a House pt. 29

Epitaph

You walk among the ruins

Of lives and lovers past

Through epitaphs and poetry

The granite words held fast

The bride has stopped beside a grave

More scarred by time than most

It’s not her name that’s etched in stone

Don’t you see?

You were always the ghost

Anatomy of a House pt. 28

Return of the Bride

She drifts among the sleepers
Floating through the mist

And beckons you toward her

No power to resist

The years have turned the clock

Back to the time before

And as she calls you closer

You belong to her once more

Anatomy of a House pt. 27

Forgotten and Forgetting

Angels look to heaven

And tears run from their eyes

Forgotten and forgetting

In this garden of good-byes

Countless songs of sadness

And doubtless many more

Entwined in simple phrases

Ode to those who came before

The trees begin to whisper

As she moves among the tombs

The woman dressed in white

Begins to sing the tune

Anatomy of a House pt. 26

Of Things Engraved

The storm has lost its menace

And the sky is gently weeping

In the garden made of stone

A hundred souls are sleeping

As the clouds begin to thin

And the moon begins to play

Tombstones mark the place

The dead show you the way

Anatomy of a House pt. 25

The Garden

You run without direction

And yet know every turn

Every step that lay before you

Every leaf and every fern

When you come upon a gate

Set deep inside the stones

It offers you a welcome

To the garden full of bones

Anatomy of a House pt. 24

The Sad Goodbye

Fear and sadness struggle

As you stumble through the halls

Down the spiral staircase

Along the crooked walls

The house is sighing around you

And bids you a sad goodbye

You push through the door

To the garden

And run out into the night

Anatomy of a House - pt. 23

The Girl She Used to Be

The longing in her eyes

Sends you running for the door

But you can’t escape the image

Of the girl she was before

Was it only a trick of the light

That changed the recollection

Of the beauty that stood at the mirror

Lost in her own reflection

Anatomy of a House pt. 22

Paper Face

Gone are the auburn tresses

Replaced with shades of grey

The alabaster skin

Is showing the signs of decay

She looks towards you and smiles

Paper face with an uneven grin

And as she reaches toward you

The lightning flashes again

Anatomy of a House pt. 21

A Familiar Face
 

Confusion floods your senses

You feel as though lost in a dream

Where everything is eventual

Yet nothing as real as it seems

Outside the rain begins falling

Thunder rocks the skies

Lighting snakes into the room

And lands on the beautiful bride

Anatomy of a House pt. 20

The Portrait

She glides toward a photo

Taken years long past

A sepia coloured memento

Of someone she loved to the last

An image encased in silver

That time could never erase

Candlelight shifts the shadows

But you recognize the face

Anatomy of a House pt. 19

Upon Reflection

She stands in perfect stillness

Reflected in the glass

The candlelight becomes her

A vision from the past

She is a true born beauty

Blue eyes and auburn hair

Calmly she walks toward you

But it seems she’s forgotten you’re there

Anatomy of a House pt. 18

The Veil

At the end of the song

She’s beginning to cry

As she does every night without fail

She moves from your arms

And turns to the mirror 

And slowly she raises the veil

Anatomy of a House pt. 17

The Dance

You enter the lady’s chamber

Feel as though stuck in a trance

She reaches her arms towards you

And pulls you into a dance

You’re powerless to resist her

As you sway across the floor

And as you dance the music box plays

And she sings the song once more

“I promise to love you for all of my days

Promise to leave you never.

Promise you heart and I’ll promise you mine.

Forever and ever and ever.”

Anatomy of a House pt. 16

The Last Inhabitant

Standing beside the window

Is a woman dressed all in lace

A candle is burning beside her

And a veil covers her face

It seems that she’s quietly sobbing

As she’s done so often before

“Come closer.”

She turns toward you

“I’ve been waiting.”

She opens the door

Anatomy of a House pt. 15

The Keyhole

“Won’t you come just a little bit closer?”

Calls a voice that is papery thin

And it seems that you cannot resist it

Though you’re frightened of

What lies within

The door is the kind with a keyhole

Where the light leaks into the hall

You press your eye to the portal

To see who is making the call

Anatomy of a House pt. 14

The Spiral Staircase

The spiral staircase invites you to climb

To the room at the top of the stairs

The tune calls you onward

Familiar and yet

Filled with the utmost despair

Your heart pounds in time

To the musical rhyme

As you wind your way step after step

But what you find there

At the top of the stairs

Is something you didn’t expect

Anatomy of a House pt.13

The Room at the Top of the Stairs

From somewhere above you

The floor creaks

And you pick up the threads of a tune

Drifting through cracks in the ceiling

It steals its way into the room

You lay the book on the table

Closed on the final chapter

“Who’s there?” you call to the darkness

The clock in the hall chimes the answer

The Inhabitants - Anatomy of a House pt. 12

The Bride

The tortured bride

Was never the same

Kept to her room completely

Dressed in a gown that would never be seen

Singing the tune ever sweetly

“I promise to love you

For all of my days

Promise to leave you never

Promise your heart and

I’ll promise you mine

And love you forever and ever.”

The Inhabitants - Anatomy of a House pt. 11

The Love Letter

The bride in her room

Was singing a tune

And in a heartbeat stopped

Silence hung in the empty hall

Cut short by a single shot

The beautiful lover lay dead on the grass

With eyes staring into the blue

And in his hand a note that read

To thee I will always be true

The Inhabitants - Anatomy of a House pt. 10

‘Dear Diary’

Read the obsidian tome

‘Tonight we are to be wed

At one we will stay

For the rest of our days’

But before the first kiss

One was dead

The Inhabitants - Anatomy of House pt. 9

The Inhabitants 

A book of leather

Carved and gilded

Tells the tale of woe

Two star crossed lovers

Forbidden sweethearts

These many years ago

The story goes that one

Loved the other

Wholly and without reservation

But when the time came

To promise their lives

It ended without consummation

Anatomy of a House pt.8

The Library

You are drawn to a room

At the end of the hall

Where music is playing

And books line the walls

Stacked upon tables

At rest on the desk

Is the story of how

The house came to unrest

Anatomy of a House pt.7

The Clock

The clock in the hallway

Is the grandfather kind

With carvings and gongs

And a key that you wind

The hands reach for numbers

On opposite ends

Stuck at the time when the haunting begins

To the last of the day you open the curtain

Things will be fine

Of that you are certain

You move through the rooms

Feeling at home

No longer afraid

Though you’re never alone

But as the sun sinks

Burns down like a wick

The clock in the hall is

Beginning to tick

Anatomy of a House pt. 6

The Door and What’s Behind It

The door shrieks on hinges

Two hundred years old

Leads to a passage

Reeking of mold

Paintings in oils 

Usher you in

Wallpaper roses

And ceilings of tin

A breathtaking beauty

Long past her lustre

It’s love at first sight but....

Do you think you can trust her?

Anatomy of a House pt. 5

The Skeleton Key

Tight in your grip

Is the skeleton key

That arrived with a letter

Anonymously

Indian ink on a parchment page

Sealed with wax from an erstwhile age

A legacy written in elegant hand

Granting the title of dwelling and land

To the one who inhabits

The house for a night

Put the key in the lock

And turn to the right

Anatomy of a House pt. 4

The Facade

The grey of the stones

Rises three floors

Attics and turrets

And four sets of doors

Gargoyles perch on towers of rock

Cast iron lace where widows would walk

A time-ravaged beauty

Just a house, nothing more

But how your hand trembles

When you reach for the door

Anatomy of a House pt. 3

The Hanging Tree

As you pass the hanging tree

It reaches for you

Restlessly

Brittle leaves whisper

Birds call a warning

Still the house will be yours 

If you stay until morning

Anatomy of a House pt. 2

The Gate

There is a gate

At the end of the drive

Twisted metal

Looks alive

It opens slowly

Rust on rust

Just wide enough

To earn your trust

Enter will you if you dare

But know that she is waiting there

Anatomy of a House pt.1

The Last Inhabitant

An empty shell choked with vines

Where people danced

The wind resides

Breathless in a crowded room

No laughter

To dispel the gloom

A single shadow walks the floors

Peeps through keyholes

Opens doors

The last inhabitant

Lets you in

But will she let you out again?

Encounter at an Art Show

I met someone last night who could only be described as vile

Her gimlet eyes and waspish voice

Insulted me with their aluminum sound

Scraping on nerves already raw with fatigue

Who are you to tell me I am wrong

You who has known me for under a minute

And yet

Your words sting

You insect

Inflicting venom with your comments

Words pierce sharper than daggers and cut as deep

Would that I could squash you. 

Love Note to Libraries

A love note to the book trailer of my youth

Dear Book Trailer,

I remember the way your metal sides and portable stairs winked at me in the sunshine inviting me in.  I remember the magic of stepping through the narrow door and being surrounded by colorful spines and the smell of paper.  I remember thinking the librarian the most glamorous person in the world and taking joy in the way she stamped the borrower's card inside the front cover pronouncing the book mine for a time.  I remember the sense of continuity of all the stamps that came before mine.  The shared legacy of reading.  And I remember the day I found my favourite book hidden among the titles and how it changed my life forever.  I remember falling in love with books in that small space, a fantastical world on wheels that landed in the parking lot outside the grocery store once every month and let me discover its secrets for free all the while giving me something that money could never buy.
Always,
Angel

I Must Be Crazy

It's almost spring.  For me that means looking forward to 3 months off work.  Yes, I am one of the lucky people in the world who has summers off.  I have time.  Time to putter, to hang out at the cottage, to read, to do some artwork and, of course, to write.  You would think that I'd take it easy knowing that I have all this free time coming up.  Instead I've decided to start on two projects that will catapult me into the writing habit and give me some much needed accountability.

The first is NaPoWriMo or 30 poems in 30 days.  I am a poet by nature I suppose.  I find it much easier to work through things in freeverse.  So beginning April 1st I'll be putting that to the test.  I finished NaNoWriMo last year.  I figure if I can do that I can do this.  I'm sure going to try.

The second is of my own doing.  I'm writing a novel.  Nothing so unusual in that. But this time I'm inviting people to follow along.  Beginning May 1, 2012, I'll be blogging my novel at 365-Pages.blogspot.com. 500 words a day for 365 days.  That is a much scarier prospect.  500 words seems do-able, it's doing it for 365 days that seems daunting.  I am known to have a small problem with boredom, not to mention the random bouts of menopausal depression that seem intent on derailing any creative energy that makes an appearance. However, I am going to do my best to kick my hormones in the ass and get some words out.  I hope you'll come with me for the ride.

Shipwreck

Metal taste

Like blood

In the back of your throat

Bile rising in a bid for escape

Internal poison

Swallowed whole

Sinks like a stone

A shipwreck

Rusted tomb

Hidden in the murky waters

Invisible on the surface

Where everything is fine

The Wolf

It’s hiding in the dark,

Yellow eyes  watching;

Waiting for the right moment .

Silent

Until I think it’s moved on,

Until I start to relax.

I look for signs like footprints in the snow to see if it is stalking. 

I wake up and listen to the house. 

Is it too quiet?

If I stop watching, stop keeping it at bay

It will rip me open.

I want to kill the wolf. 

Hunt it down and shoot it dead.

 I want its yellow eyes to glaze over.

I want its skin to turn to paper. 

I want to walk across its grave and laugh. 

But it’s growing dark now

And somewhere the wolf is  hiding.

Alias

Working up a new story.  This is the way I do it.

Alias

Sifting through the ashes of

Someone else’s life

She finds

A Letter

An imaginary lover

Is out there somewhere

Awaiting a reply

Not knowing there is none forthcoming

In a moment she decides to be

Her

To live a life belonging to someone else

Someone who may have died alone

Who may have hesitated a bit too long

Someone who was loved

She breaks the seal and hesitates

But only for a moment

Because she can’t bring herself to believe that it’s wrong

A Real Writer

Not long ago our neighbour, who is a teacher, asked if I would look at a short story that had been written by one of her students.  She’d been telling the class that she lived next door to a “real writer”.  She knew that I liked to write because I, like an idiot, had told her so.  I thanked her for the compliment but demurred.  I suggested she approach the well known novelist who lived around the corner.  But she was insistent.  Finally I agreed to read her student’s short story and immediately had an epic bout of impostor syndrome.

While it’s true that I write and write nearly daily, have a novel, young adult novel, various short stories and a bagful of poems under my belt, I was uncomfortable with her calling me a real writer.  There could only be one reason for these sudden feelings of inadequacy.   I haven’t been published.  Even as I write that I feel somewhat ashamed.  It’s like my writing life is a dirty little secret instead of something that I should be proud of.  Tell anyone you write and the dreaded ‘have you been published’ question is the first thing out of their mouths.  But not this time, this time I was, for the first time, dubbed a real writer.

As I read this student’s story (all 28 pages of it) I found myself mentally critiquing it.  She was too wordy, she constantly shifted tense, her characters did a lot of talking without saying much and the plot was weak.  Did I mention that the author was in fifth grade?  My neighbour told me how this child loved to write.  It was natural for her.  It reminded me of myself, as a child, excitedly writing a very dramatic and angst ridden short story for 8^th grade English.  I loved to write too.  I thought that I was pretty good.  But what I needed at that age was for someone to tell me so. 

I remember approaching my teacher,  Mr. Brown,  at his desk, paper in hand, sure of the praise I was about to receive.   He had a rumpled, unkempt, scholarly look and I couldn’t wait to show him what I’d written.  I always think of that moment as pivotal to the psyche of my newly hatched writing desires.   As I got closer to the desk I remember that Mr. Brown had seemed distracted.  Perhaps he had trouble at home, maybe he’d had a bad performance review or he’d wanted ham instead of salami for lunch, I’ll never know.  But suddenly I felt hesitant sure that his mood was somehow my fault.  I should have gone back to my desk right then.  Instead I said, “Mr. Brown could you look at what I’ve written so far?”

 Now every writer knows that it was more than 2B lead on newsprint paper that I was handing over.  It was much more.  I loved my story.  I thought it was great.  But I needed to hear him say it.  I needed to hear him say “You’re a really good writer Angel.  You should keep writing.”  Only he didn’t.  All l got was a half hearted wave of the hand and a “yes, yes Angel it’s good”.  What was that supposed to mean exactly?  Did it mean ‘yes, you are a great writer but I’ve got students with real problems to deal with’? or was it a casual brush off to a mediocre writer?  I don’t even remember what mark I got on my story.   But I will always remember that dismissal and in that moment any confidence I had in my writing was waved away like so many eraser crumbs.  

 This young lady whose paper I held in my hands loved to write and she believed in herself.  I realized that what I thought didn’t matter.  It was what she thought of herself that made all the difference.  I wish I knew that then.   I wish Mr. Brown did.

When I finished her story, I stacked the paper neatly and wrote this on the front page.

“Dear Eunice, 

You are a great writer.  I loved your story and the colourful characters you’ve created.  I’m sure I will see you published one day.  Keep writing.”

I hope that she does.

micropoetry

and so it is that I am me/and not who I pretend to be/ the die was cast/ the plot foretold/this wisdom came from growing old

Running on Empty

Twitter.  It's kind of like high school.  But back then I was popular.  And young.  Now I sit in the slush pile of writing wannabes scanning tweets for writing tips and probable locales likely to feature the kind of thing I want to write.  Or should I say the kind of thing I do write.  What I do write are ideas.  I'm in love with them.  I'm addicted to  the burst of adrenaline that rivals any energy drink on the market when I get a new idea.  I smile at everyone, think the world is amazing and humans are wonderful.  It is a high that nothing else comes close to.  The thing is, just as quickly as it comes, fickle lover that it is, it evaporates.  Fireworks and then the glittery falling apart that leaves black sky and wisps of smoke in its wake. 
I've come to this conclusion.  It's very hard to be a writer when you can't fan those flames. And therein lies the rub.  I can't seem to get past it.  That's not entirely true.  If I am extremely disciplined I can do it.  I once wrote a childrens' novel just to see if I could.  I entered Nanowrimo and finished.  But have I edited either one?  Nope.
So the answer is discipline.  Cool.  But when the sink is overflowing and my full time job has me drained where is that spark then?  It's dancing with someone else.  Someone younger and more energetic. Someone with a flat stomach.  So cliche.    I mentioned in a previous post that I turn my ideas into freeverse or risk losing them completely and that works to preserve them.  It's the literary equivalent of  Botox.  But when I run across these beautiful beginnings while adding yet another best selling idea  to my ever expanding notebook and see them looking so good it literally pains me.  I gaze at them longingly willing any one of them to step forward and take my hand and lead it across the page in a waltz of words. Too much? 
To say I'm frustrated is an understatement.  It's times like this that I usually sit myself at my computer and berate myself for being such a shitty writer; a true impostor and then a curious thing happens.  While I'm telling myself I will never amount to anything and that I will die on a mattress stuffed with hardcopies of magnificent undiscovered manuscripts I will get...an idea.  And so it goes.

The Sea in Relentless Pursuit

An empty vessel

Tiny boat

Battered and cast adrift

Rolled over and righted

In a momentary sense of balance

And then

The waves crash down

Splitting it in two

Rendering it to splinters

That stab at

What’s left

And then

When the sea calms

The fragments bob

In a meandering fashion

Useless pieces swallowed whole

The Window

There is a window in her room

The one she sits at

Day after day

Watching the life she used to know

Stroll by

Hand in hand or pushing a stroller

She rubs her empty palms now and then

So that the blood will flow

Although she wonders

 If

It wouldn’t be better to let it dry up

Her eyes mist over at remembered kisses

Forgotten moments jump to the fore

And as she drifts she dances

Eyes closed humming a tune

 The glass is fogging over

She decides that

The plant on the windowsill

Looks lonely

A Confesssion

I have not until today felt the need to tell my story.  There are no happy endings here.  In fact it may be that because you are reading this I am dead.  Dead.  There is no more.  And all of the things that I have done have ceased to matter.  I am the last you see.   The last chapter in the story is my own.    I have no expectation of forgiveness.  I ask only that you hear me and what it is I must tell you before I go. 

The house is quiet around me.  I am well and truly alone.  This house is as much a part of my story as the characters in it.  It has been my torment and my delight,  my refuge and my prison,  my guardian and my jailer.   I hate to imagine it when I’m gone.  It offers me no comfort to think of others climbing the stairs, looking from the windows, hiding in the attics. I want it inhabited by ghosts;  all of us dancing in the halls as if no time has passed at all.  As if it were all just a dream. 

  I was born a murderess and became an orphan.  I never knew my father though I lived with him the whole of his life.  He could never forgive me you see.  And I often wonder had he been given the choice would he have had ripped me from her piece by piece if it meant saving her. 

I am told she was beautiful.  There is a photograph in the hall of a rather sombre looking girl whose countenance was saved by a pair of arresting eyes.  Poets have basked in the depths of eyes like hers. Large and most certainly on the verge of tears that would remain unshed.  Neither brown nor grey nor green but some combination of the three, changing with her moods and surroundings, her eyes spoke volumes.    Had the eyes been slightly smaller in size or perhaps more brown than green she would have become unremarkable.  It is amazing how closely linked the measurement of beauty is to ugliness.  Millimetres really.   Perhaps if I had followed in her footsteps and been born a beauty everything would have turned out differently.  Perhaps, if only...it seems I have been uttering those words my entire life.  Sometimes I wonder, had she lived, what she would have thought of her little daughter.   Would she have loved her unconditionally as mothers do or would she, as time drifted by, become less and less enamoured until one day she just forgot her altogether.  I hope not.  It would be nice to think that she would have loved me.  That someone would have.  I am sounding maudlin.  I despise myself when I slip into such a state.  It is unbecoming. 

It seems that I must go back.  Back to the beginning if you are to understand my story. 

The Beginning of Goodbye

September

The first blush over, she is tired

Beautiful in her fatigue

There is wisdom in her golden branches and faded blooms

A beauty fleeting and unequaled

Not empty promises based on

False perceptions

But a homecoming of quietness

A winding down

A slowing of the clock

Precious

Precarious

The beginning of good-bye

The Other One

I'm working on a story about sibling rivalry, ghosts in the attic and revenge.  Sometimes it gets confused with another book that's been in my head for awhile.  Both contains elements of sisters, the strange bond that they share and the elements of competition and jealousy that are at the root of all female relationships.    I asked myself what lengths the sisters in these stories would go to to get what they wanted.
In one story it is unrequited love that drives the wedge between the girls, although the man that wields the sword is not a lover at all but the girls own father. It speaks to the desire we all have to be seen, to have our existence validated; to be the favourite and to the cruelty of a disinterested parent.
In the other story  the sisters are twins. A tragedy brings about a circumstance which leaves one sister with a burden of tremendous guilt and the other a perpetual child hidden from polite society.  What would happen, I thought, if somehow she were to take her sister's place.  Would the ultimate revenge be to reverse the roles?
As I have mentioned I sketch out my ideas in freeverse.  I find it's the quickest way for me to get the just of the story down without doing the outline.  Here are two versions of 'The Other One'.

The Other One

I have a sister

Who is hidden away

In that room

The one with the lock

And the rusty hinge

She is so small in her mind

Her reasoning is unreachable

She plays with dolls and reads story books

Dresses up in pretty things and

Never sees the sun for more than an hour

She is the skeleton in the closet

The ghost in the mirror and the elf that moves your treasures

And plays a game of hide and seek – cat and mouse-

But she isn’t angry....is she?

The Other One continued

The other one is singing

A nameless tune

It dances through the stairway

And floats into the room

Do you hear it?

The other one watches  from a secret place

and picks the lock while you’re sleeping

to steal a look or two

she is lost or given up for dead

a ghost that can’t be seen

a blemish

an aberration

a twisted trunk in a stunted tree

she waits

and then by chance she walks about

a shadow

 no longer content to grow

in the darkness

she hides in plain sight

The tunes begins

But who is doing the singing?