lizziviggi and the life worth living

Black Friday

2011-11-25T21:32:00.001-08:00

Black Friday may have put retailers in the black and had shoppers seeing red, but for me, Black Friday was gold and blue and green-- the colors of nature. On this gorgeous day after Thanksgiving, my daughters and I went for a hike along the Interurban Trail and checked out Woodstock Farm. Apparently everyone else was jostling for good deals on today's hottest gadgets (also known as tomorrow's junk-- do you really think a giant inflatable shark is going to be handed down to the great-grandkids?) so we had the place to ourselves.

So, while others were waiting in line for that amazing sale on Blu-Rays or iPads or what-have-you (or even worse, sleeping this beautiful day away because they were up all night shopping), we were here.

We hiked, picnicked, cloud-watched, leap-frogged, rolled down the hill till we were dizzy (that would be once for me and about ten times for the girls), told stories, took pictures, bird-watched, hiked back, and enjoyed one hot chocolate, one apple cider, and one hot buttered rum.

For me, Black Friday isn't about getting a good deal. It's realizing you already have it.

Things I Did Today

2011-11-22T15:33:00.001-08:00

Filled the birdfeeders

and raked up dead leaves

Pulled out the rotting tomato plants

dropping their overripe fruit like

chastisement bombs

Cut down brown iris stalks

and mopped dark footprints off

the kitchen floor

Brushed my daughter’s hair

tearing through mud-colored knots as her

little body tried to dance away

Told you I was leaving

this time for good

Although maybe this isn’t a list

of things I did today

but things I could have done

Playing with Color

2011-11-05T15:05:00.000-07:00

That's one way to play with color...

I took the suggestion from Victoria at the dVerse Poets' Pub and invited my two daughters (4 and 6 years old, respectively) to help me write a few poems with color as inspiration. I love their unconventional choices and the way they already enjoy playing with language, just like their mom! Here are three of the products of our combined color-play.

Blue
Blue is fast.
It's soft as pillows.
It is cloud boats,
cloud stars, cloud moons.
Blue sounds like sky
like a tiger
like the letter "s."
Blue is flowers
in a mountain meadow
and smells sweet
like crispy fall leaves
under my feet.

Red
Red is happy.
I want to paint the walls red,
paint my ears and my belly,
paint the dog and the chandelier.
Red feels like sitting on an airplane.
It is the breath in my body
and the breath
coming out of my body.
Red tastes like bananas
and burns my tongue
like lava.

Yellow
Yellow feels like the slap
of lilypads against my skin.
Yellow is a colander dripping
in the dishrack.
It colors the cat and the picture
and the mug on the table.
Yellow sounds like boots crunching
through snow,
like rain clouds
coming closer.

Click here to see how others played with color, and maybe try it yourself!

Stars

2011-10-11T13:46:00.000-07:00

I walk beside the river
dark and green as bottle glass
it undulates silently

I scatter stars like breadcrumbs
some stick to the sky like white
bodies on black flypaper

some fall
and I step on them
crack them like snapped branches

some sink in the quiet green
bleed bright tendrils that glow
like little highways connecting fish cities

the moon eats the rest
stars disappearing in its
crescent smile

the last step

2011-10-04T15:50:00.000-07:00

the lustrous little leaves cluster
in the still-warm footprint,
lining the edges,
filling the instep as if
to cushion
the already fallen.

Hands I've Held (II)

2011-08-30T15:29:00.000-07:00

The last day of school

we sat on the flowered lawn

and listened to Nirvana covers,

the band hot in their torn flannel but

too cool to take it off.

I spun a buttercup

between my spring-pale fingers,

gold petals pulsing with the beat.

I was drunk with the heat

and the music and the flashing flower and

the last day of school so

I confessed to you

just a boy

who sat next to me sometimes

who sat next to me now

“I’m sixteen years old,” I said

“and I’ve never held a boy’s hand.”

You took the flashing flower

twined your fingers through mine

said “Now you have.”

It was a kindness, like helping

an old lady cross the street,

but of course I fell in love with you

for a little while

until I gave my hand and so much more

too much, much too soon

to someone with hands bigger and weaker

and less kind than yours.

Rid of It-- Mag 80

2011-08-29T16:34:00.000-07:00

I’m rid of it all, those things that stole my life from me.

The books are in milk crates on the sidewalk, dusty leatherclad classics pressed unwillingly against paperback thrillers. Lamps cast into the alley trash because I will live by the light of the sun and other stars. I gave the curtains to my sister. I have nothing left to hide. I will eat with my fingers, scooping and plucking, licking and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. No fork will steal from me the intimacy of eating.

The cats left of their own accord after I explained things. We’ll still be friends. My bed is at Goodwill, propped up against other lonely beds. I don't need sleep, that substitute for life. I don’t need dreams. I’ve said goodbye to music, to voices and touch. I will sit bare. I will walk free. The spareness of my life is the new luxury.

I tore out my memories. They were not as understanding as the cats. Some went easier than others. My adolescence was relieved—grateful, even—but my thirties screamed as they flew through the air. I clipped my fingernails and tossed out the children. All I have left is this umbrella.

Take it.

I want to feel the rain.

Magpie Tales #78: Paint

2011-08-16T08:33:00.000-07:00

She was almost done. There… and there… and there. Finally! She wiped her forehead with the edge of her hand and set the paint roller in the tray. Backing into the doorway to get a better look at the bathroom, she was already shaking her head at the color.

“Damn. I really thought this was it.” She reached over and absentmindedly scratched behind Calliope’s ear. “Lichen,” which had seemed subtly soothing when it was just a dot on the lid of the paint can, now bounced between the walls in the small space, intensifying the pale green to the color of chewed spearmint gum.

“Maybe light blue?” Zoey sighed. “Or maybe I should just give in and paint it white.” Calliope blinked once, slowly, her lichen eyes glowing spearmint in the bathroom. She raised her tail and stalked from the room.

Zoey sighed once more, just so she could fully appreciate exactly how tiring the whole thing was. She dumped the tray, roller, and brush in the bathtub and turned the faucet on the whole mess. Fatigue struck a blow between her shoulder blades and she sagged, turned off the faucet, and left the tools percolating in grassy bathtub soup while she went to bed.

When she woke in the morning, she rolled over to face Calliope who was blithely licking her front paw.

“Look at you,” Zoey said grumpily. “You get to lounge around all day, and I have to paint it all again.” She thought about going to look at the bathroom. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. But when she closed her lids, she felt fluorescent green glowing behind them. She pulled on her favorite yellow sweatshirt (“maybe pale yellow?”), slid her feet into a pair of clogs, and took her purse off the hook.

“I never want to see green again,” she told an unsympathetic Calliope as she closed the front door.

When she returned, a safe if boring gallon of “Buttermilk” in hand, she didn’t notice anything at first. It was as she was trudging down the hall to the bathroom that she saw them. Little green paw prints, phosphorescent against the dark wood floor.

“Noooo…” she breathed softly, setting the paint can down. She followed the prints to the bathtub, where everything was just as she left it last night. Other than the footsteps, which led from the sickly pea soup, over the bathtub’s edge, and down the hall. Multiple times. She turned back to the hall, noticing now that there were several trails. One led into her bedroom, across the white carpet (“honestly, what was I thinking with white?”) and up onto her petal pink duvet. She followed another trail into the guest room up to the window seat, where leafy paw prints decorated the ivory pillows. The last trail she tracked down the carpeted stairs and across the living room floor, over the new armchair and to the new couch, where Calliope curled obliviously, nose tucked under mossy paws.

“At least I’ll have something to remember you by after I kill you,” Zoey muttered. Calliope cracked open one eye, an infuriating sliver of impassive green. The unconcerned eye disappeared again. Zoey turned her drooping shoulders toward the stairs and followed the paw prints to what was left of her weekend.

From Tonasket - July 12, 2011

2011-08-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

I am alone in this beehive cabin. In a pensive mood, I read a book of poems while the others rush from here to there, collecting tools and coffee and hairbrushes, buzzing about solar panels and fishing and how full the propane tank is. I read a poem by Samuel Green, "Laying Stone," and am overcome. I brim with sadness and awe but even if the others stopped long enough to listen, they would not understand, they would not love this poem the way I love this poem.

Gradually, gradually, they do settle in their places. They make their quiet lists or tune the guitar or look at the atlas. It is I who needs to understand-- they practice their moments of poetry their own way. I leave them to their poetry, and go back to mine.

Mag 71

2011-06-28T09:44:00.000-07:00

they do not recall

the messy heat of birth

their molten changeable nature

the way they screamed

steamed

stretched

after the slowly leaving heat

hot soft bodies growing cold

their durable changeability replaced

with fragility

heavy liquid weight transformed

into frail and flawless suspension

time flows like a fish

around their paralyzed forms

frozen

for our feasting eyes

The Eyes Have it

2011-06-11T06:50:00.000-07:00

Most people don’t notice this (or if they do, they’re much too polite to comment on it), but my eyes look like they belong to two different people. No one is symmetrical—and I should know, being an optician for the whole of my adult life. Having to explain to people every day why I’m adjusting their glasses to sit straight on their face, not straight on the table, and yet not end up insulting them—“Dude, your right ear is half an inch lower than your left. Yes, your glasses are going to look crooked when you put them on the table. But they’ll be straight on your face.”—that really brings it home. But my eyes go beyond thwarting symmetry. They each have their own personality.

My right eye is my cynical eye. It’s a little squinty, a little suspicious. It’s literally smaller than my left eye, and it acts like maybe it’s got something to prove. I think it might be jealous of the other eye. My right eye is my Clint Eastwood eye. Go ahead—make my day. Don’t look at my right eye if your feelings are easily hurt, because it will judge you, and you will always be deemed unworthy. My right eye says that everyone is annoying, and possibly should be mauled and eaten. My right eye would do this, if it could. It’s the only part of my body that’s not vegetarian.

My left eye is wide-eyed and naïve. It’s open to the wonders of the world, and constantly amazed at the beauty of it and the people in it. It is perpetually astounded by everything, including things as commonplace as my cat or my morning cup of coffee. My left eye is always surprised. If you and I have been hanging out for a while, look at my left eye after an hour. It will be surprised. It will be saying “Oh! Look who’s here!” More than that, it will be looking at you with the wonderment of a newborn baby. If you want to feel beautiful and amazing, gaze into my left eye for a minute. It’ll give you a real ego boost. Of course, don’t look at my right eye after that. That bastard will take it all away again.

"You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?"

"Oh my god, you're like, so beautiful and amazing!"

And here's the whole picture, in case you think I cheated and cropped from different pics:

Please don't ask what's on top of my head. I really have no idea. It was an interesting evening.

And I totally could have taken a new picture to exaggerate the effect...

but I respect you guys too much to do that.

SheWrites Blogger Ball #4

2011-06-10T14:41:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my blog, SW ball-goers!

You all look fabulous, but while you're here, why don't you go ahead and get comfortable? Take those glass slippers off, let down your hair, and stay awhile.

If you prefer photos and snippets of writing to poetry and rambling, check out my other blog at http://bellinghamdailyphoto.blogspot.com/

Here, let me help you with your coat...

(click the bookcase to return to 1st Books. Thanks for visiting!)

Everland

2011-05-23T06:43:00.000-07:00

Like Wendy, sad at her window
we mothers wipe small fingerprints
from glass, looking through it for hints

of pirates or pixies below.
Languishing eyes search empty skies
for childish dreams we should outgrow.

That old dream outgrew us long since...
and Wendy waits at her window.

I wrote this for One Stop Poetry's form challenge. This week's form is the Octain, which consists of eight lines and eight syllables per line. I won't bore you with the other rules, but I enjoyed working with it!

Click here to read the other octains and high octains submitted.

Playing Dress-Up

2011-05-17T08:53:00.000-07:00

After a morning of my daughters playing dress-up with my clothes and accessories, I'm thinking I need to rethink my wardrobe. Is it normal to have outfits that are so easily turned into costumes? Well, good or bad, now I know... with very little effort I can dress up as:

a lady from "Mad Men"...

...a bloodthirsty buccaneer...

...or a lumberjack!

Hands I've Held (I)

2011-05-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

Your warm fingers
angular and alien
hook through mine as if by accident.
We leave them there
our clasped fingers
and pretend not to notice our weightless hearts.

The day is gray and windy
trees fuzzed yellow-green with spring pubescence.
Cherry blossoms choke the gutters
drowning in Decemberlike rain.

Your fingers are like bare winter branches.

I wish I could go back to December
back to the bare simplicity
of naked branches and dormant earth
before the urges of spring
complicated everything.

For One Shot Wednesday.

The Burning

2011-04-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

I keep the fire going

with sugar packets and gum wrappers

scrape the bottom of my purse

for goldfish crackers and crumpled tissues

a Starbucks napkin

a receipt for a swimsuit

I haven’t worn yet

I rip out the blank pages

from my spiral notebook

and feed them to the flames

silent people crowd the cold room

nodding at my notebook

too thin with straggling pages

they can’t help me

or don’t want to

but watch me struggle, scrabble for scraps

sticky lollipop sticks, ticket stubs

to that horrible show

that didn’t make me laugh

until there’s nothing left

nothing else to do but throw it in

my notebook

the words curling and darkening

fading into the satisfied smoke

For One Shot Wednesday

A Girl and Her Cat

2011-03-10T16:07:00.000-08:00

Warbler's Requiem

2011-03-09T06:31:00.000-08:00

The robin's neck is broken
its beak splintered orange
having met
something harder than itself.
My youngest girl whispers
"She's sleeping."
Big sister knows better.
"Can we bury it?"
The toe of her boot,
the mud-caked suede gray-brown like feathers,
curiously nudges the spent bird.
Its soft roundness
gives way like overripe fruit
and she withdraws her boot
her face blank as snow.
I dig the hole under the holly tree
where the snowdrops have opened
and lower the once bird.
"Awww," says the little one.
"Ew," says the bigger one.
We sing it a song.
It notices nothing--
not the song
not the mocking worm swimming pinkly
in the freshly turned earth
not the tears on the oldest girl's cheeks
or that the little one has already run off,
already forgotten the robin.

For One Shot Wednesday

Try Again Later

2011-03-02T06:17:00.000-08:00

I'm not ready.
I've changed my mind.
I stare at the curtain behind you
try to close my mind to you
push closed
the heavy door within
lower the splintered bar across it
barricade it
with a peeling, painted wrought iron table
two deck chairs
my high school science teacher
and remnants
of clinging Christianity.
Please go away.
I peer through the glowing crack.
I don't see you
but please don't look
so sad.

For One Shot Wednesday

conscious stream

2011-02-09T09:25:00.000-08:00

her excitement burbles and stutters
the same words crashing
incessantly incessantly
against the unreasonable boulder

trying to say it all
to say everything at once
pitch rising and rising
like vocal water vapor
consonants jumping from the stream
little silver fish glinting

can't recall what she was saying
but the way she said it
stubborn waves breaking free
rushing out
the rubbled boulder beaten
her blue eyes a waterfall

written for one shot wednesday

Believer

2011-01-17T13:13:00.000-08:00

I hear my child call in the night,
Eyes crazed, cheeks flushed with fever.
I won't let her go without a fight.

Lips curl, tongue rolling bright
She begs me, please, believe her
I hear my child call in the night.

Her righteous shudders of delight,
Agonies of conviction seize her.
I won't let her go without a fight.

Her illness, a wall of impossible height,
Her fortress, a ring of believers--
I hear my child call in the night.

I watch her creep toward the light.
Jesus, don't make me grieve her.
I won't let her go without a fight.

Her faith convinces her they're right--
My faith says they deceive her.
I hear my child call in the night.
I won't let her go without a fight.

This poetry form is called a villanelle, and it's a lot of fun to work with. I wrote this villanelle for One Spot Poetry's Monday Poetry Form. Click here to learn more about the villanelle, and read other poets' entries.

A Morning at the Lettered Streets Coffeehouse

2011-01-12T07:23:00.000-08:00

I sit under the backwards espresso sign
sipping my coffee
perusing a travel book about Turkey.
The borrowed pages
smell like paprika.
Droplets gather on the steamy window
and travel down in groups.
The women behind me talk
about their trip to Africa.
The glowing sign faintly buzzes
and I leave half my coffee undrunk.
It is winter
there are no flowers on the table
and I will never go to Turkey.

Click here to visit One Shot Wednesday

Haiku #9

2011-01-10T09:48:00.000-08:00

the hush between
fall and spring-- the icy breath
of winter

and one in the rigid 2-3-2 syllable form:

beneath
white heaped tables
green squares

(I would love to hear comments back on this last one, to let me know if it is easily understood)

One Stop Poetry Form: Haiku

Mr. Bilson - Part II

2011-01-04T06:23:00.001-08:00

The hall creaked with each step under the brown carpet as I followed Mr. Bilson into the depths of the house. It smelled like old man in there, like hairless skin and arthritis cream and dentures. He asked if I wanted a cup of coffee and I said yes, partly because I wasn’t allowed to drink coffee and partly because I wanted to bury my nose in the cup. He went in the kitchen, where he disappeared like a chameleon against the yellow-and-brown color scheme. I turned back to the wall and forgot about the smell.

There were all kinds of knives. The card underneath each knife said what kind of knife it was, who made it, and the year it was made. Some cards also had names of places and years next to those. There were some really old ones. The oldest one was also the biggest. It said it was an Argentine Modelo short sword from 1909. It had a pretty long blade, but it was old and nicked. It wasn’t rusty, though, like a couple of them were.

“Which one’s your favorite?” Mr. Bilson was back. He handed me the coffee. It was in a Denny’s mug, and I wondered if he’d stolen it. I took a sip and tried not to make a face. Even I could tell it wasn’t good coffee, and I’d never had any before.

He was still looking at me, waiting for me to answer. I studied the wall. I pointed to a dagger, all open ends and decoration, with a ridged, rusty blade. It looked like it would fit in my pocket, and if Mr. Bilson didn’t have those watchful eyes I might have tried.

“The Indian Katar dagger, hmmm?” He plucked it from the wall and thoughtfully felt its blade. “It isn’t dated, but it’s an old one.” He handed it to me.

I felt uncomfortable with the knife in my hand. He just kept looking at me, and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it. I felt the blade like he’d done, nodding a couple times awkwardly as if I knew what a good knife should feel like. I handed it back to him when I thought the right amount of time had passed.

“You’re one of those boys doesn’t speak much, huh?” he said, placing the knife back on the wall. “Too busy playing your computer games, I suppose. Forgot how to use your voice.”

“I talk.” My voice sounded rusty, like the blade. I took another swallow of coffee. “How did you know I played computer games?”

“That was my job, to get close to people. To notice things. It’s the height of summer, and you’re white as a fish. When I handed you the cup, I saw the callous on your index finger from clicking that mouse button all the time. It wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

“What was your job?” I asked, but he didn’t answer. He just looked at the wall of knives, so I looked too. How come it was okay for him not to talk?

The Pillow Case

2010-12-29T10:12:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Lovely Annie, I discovered a new poetic form this morning: the etheree. An etheree is a poem with ten lines, with an additional syllable for each line. It starts with one syllable and ends with ten. I love playing with new forms and had to try this one out. Here is my all-too-autobiographical account.

The Pillow Case

I sew

the pillow

case. The whir whir

blur of the Kenmore's

pace makes the needle jab,

the needle stab, the thread grab

the fabric, a cambric, candent

and delicate, so delicate it

can't handle the tread of the thread and shreds.

One Shot Wednesday

Thursday Poets' Rally: Week 36

Microfiction Monday: #63

2010-12-27T06:57:00.000-08:00

They fell in love, but she was wed to another.

100 years and 2 lives later, here they are again.

"You still have purdy eyes," he cooed.

(137 characters)

Mr. Bilson - Part I

2010-12-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

It was so embarrassing when Dad went up and started messing with Mr. Bilson’s front door.

Mom was making us go for a walk. Dad wanted to be fixing the brakes on the car, and I was in the middle of a Warcraft battle. And Holly—it didn’t matter what she was doing. She was five, and five-year-olds whine about everything, even the fun stuff. She could be at Disneyland with a lollipop in one hand and a new toy in the other and she’d find something to whine about. I think Mom just wanted her out of the house.

The only one who thought a walk sounded like fun was Mom, and she didn’t come with us.

So we had gotten about four houses down the street when Dad saw that weird Mr. Bilson’s front door handle was falling off. It was crooked and barely hanging on, but I doubt Mr. Bilson even noticed, because he didn’t go outside. His front lawn had gone to seed and was almost as tall as Holly. The tiny house had equal patches of brown and gray, so it was hard to tell which color it had been most recently. But it must have been the brown, because it was peeling off in long strips like my skin did that one time I got a really bad sunburn at my friend Jake’s house. Jake has a pool. Anyway, the only reason I knew that a person even lived here is because my parents complained about the state of his house a lot.

So we were passing Mr. Bilson’s house when Dad noticed the doorknob. Without a word to anyone, he walked right up to it and started trying to fix it. I guess he was still hankering to fix something. Still, I hoped to God no one I knew would walk by and see us in Mr. Bilson’s yard. All the kids knew he was totally weird. Holly pulled up a golden stalk of grass and ran her fingers up it, popping all the seeds off. She held the seeds in the palm of her hand and blew them away. It looked as good an activity as any while Dad messed with a doorknob he couldn’t fix because he didn’t have any tools with him anyway. I pulled out some grass and joined Holly. Sometimes five-year-olds aren’t all bad.

“Who’s there?” The voice came from inside, but was strong enough to make all three of us jump. The door swung open, and Dad stood there with the doorknob loose in his hand.

“Oh. Hi, Frank,” Dad said. He lifted the knob up. “I saw you were having trouble with your doorknob. I thought I’d try to fix it for you.”

Mr. Bilson stood there eyeing Dad. He was short—shorter than Dad, anyway, and Dad isn’t real tall. He was solid, though. Stocky and strong looking, like he’d once been real muscular but some of those muscles had gone to fat. He didn’t have much hair left and was obviously sorta old, but he didn’t stoop over like most old people. He stood up real straight. He was dressed better than I would’ve expected a guy who never left his house to dress. He was wearing a long-sleeved yellow button-down shirt and brown slacks that had sharp creases in them. His house may have been falling down, but at least he dressed nice, which is more than I can say for my folks. They both work from home, and I’ve never seen them in anything but jeans.

“Where are your tools?” Mr. Bilson finally spoke. “You’re not going to get very far that way.” He turned and went back into the house. We all stood there, not sure if we were supposed to follow him or go away. Even Dad didn’t know. He stood there with the knob still held up in his hand and his eyebrows lifted. He rolled his eyes at me and was about to put the knob back down when Mr. Bilson came back with a toolbox. It looked like it had been bought new and had never been used. It was covered in dust. He set it down at Dad’s feet.

“There you go,” he said.

“Uh… thanks,” Dad said. He was committed now. He knelt down and opened the toolbox, ruining the perfectly even coat of dust.

Mr. Bilson just stood in the doorway, watching Dad as if he’d better do the job right or else. I was trying to decide if I had to stay when I saw the knives.

They were along the back wall of what I guess was Mr. Bilson’s living room. There had to be twenty or twenty-five of them, all mounted on the wall with a notecard underneath each one, like they were all real important and this was a knife museum or something. I wanted to see them better, but Mr. Bilson was in the way. Then I saw that he was watching me. My face got all hot and I looked away.

“You want a better look?” he asked.

I did, but not bad enough to go in his house. I shrugged and looked away to show him I didn’t care. I could go to the knife shop if I wanted to see cool knives.

“You should see what’s on the other walls,” he said mysteriously.

I looked at Dad, but he was fishing around noisily in the toolbox. Holly was now lying in the long grass and looking up at the sky, singing a soft song. She was probably pretending she was a princess or something, like she always did. I looked back at Mr. Bilson.

“Okay.” I said. Dad shifted his body so I could pass, and I knew that he’d been paying attention to the conversation even though he hadn’t looked like it. Normally that would be annoying, but right now it made me feel better. When I brushed past his warm flannel shirt I felt safe, and I was relieved he was right there. I’d make sure he was in my sight the whole time, just in case.

Microfiction Monday: #61

2010-12-13T07:15:00.000-08:00

Becky's hands were red and raw, her fingers freezing. She smiled anyway. What Ivorine didn't know yet: they'd liked her over at Hershey's.

A picture may be worth 1000 words, but we're only allowed 140 characters. Join us over at:

The Line

2010-11-02T07:51:00.000-07:00

They stood in line, shifting their weight from foot to foot like metronomes out of sync. It was a cold night, and Rachel had forgotten her gloves. She burrowed her long fingers under her arms, finding more warmth there than in her coat pockets. She looked up at Hank. He was scanning the line of people in front of them, the familiar little worry V between his eyebrows. He noticed her watching him.

“Looks like it’s going to be quite a wait,” he said to make conversation, even though it was obvious.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s okay. It’ll be worth it.”

They had been there only a few minutes, but already there were a dozen people behind them. The line curved from the castle door in a long, graceful smile. Everyone was orderly and polite—merry, even. It was a Christmas concert, after all.

Rachel’s fingers were just beginning to thaw when Hank companionably squeezed his hand through and tucked his arm around hers. Cold air rushed into the little pockets of warmth, and Rachel sighed at the loss, as if the warm air from her lungs rushed to escape with the warm air from her armpits. She said nothing. Many were the times she wished Hank were more demonstrably affectionate, and if the Christmas spirit had prompted him to touch her in public without her asking, she wouldn’t complain.

Hank squeezed her arm, and waited until she wasn’t looking at him to look back at her. He didn’t know why he should be shy to examine her face. Fourteen years together and you’d think all walls would be breached, all secrets reached. Yet while he could make love to his wife, or argue about the gas bill with her, he couldn’t examine her face with her clear eyes on him. Her gaze was too steady, too strong. It was like trying to look at the sun. So he didn’t look at his wife very often, and she noticed this but didn’t know why. Fourteen years together and they had this little cool barrier between them, a mild disruption in the comfort of an otherwise complacent relationship. In a way, each of them treasured this sliver of shy secrecy. It kept something for later, for the years when nothing else was left.

She was admiring the castle’s façade, the glow from the windows reflecting golden on her skin. The fine hairs dusting her cheeks and chin were highlighted in a way she would have been self-conscious of, had she known. He found the effect charming. He liked things that made her human. She was smiling, bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of her feet as if trying to contain her childlike excitement. He was glad they came. He didn’t give two shakes about a Christmas concert, but he liked seeing Rachel happy. Her gaze dropped to the line of people in front of them. He looked away before her gaze reached him.

“Did you hear Becky had her baby?” The woman behind them asked her friend. “She had it at home in the bathtub—can you imagine?” There was no judgment in her voice, only wonder.

“Of course she did. She’s Becky!” Her companion laughed.

Rachel and Hank shared a quick glance and a furtive smile, in on the laugh by proxy. Of course she did. She’s Becky!

The foursome in front of them laughed at their own joke, and Rachel’s smile grew wider. They were three women to one man, and a ratio like that is never overlooked by the man.

“I can’t believe you guys talked me into this,” he said. “We could be at Darcy’s right now.”

“Braaaad!” One of the girls said. She grabbed his arm and hung from it, which he was no doubt hoping would be the intended result. “We go to Darcy’s every night. It won’t kill you to experience a little culture!”

“Sure, if we get inside before we freeze to death,” he said. The three women looked at each other and surrounded him in a big, female hug.

“We’ll keep you warm!” said a muffled voice. Brad looked pleased.

The elderly couple in front of the group hug glanced in tandem at the youthful frivolity. The iron-haired woman gave a disdainful sniff and turned away. Her husband looked at the mass of bodies for a minute, his eyes laced with memories. He took his hat off and clutched it tightly, as if it were his anchor to the present. Eventually he ran a spotted hand over his cool scalp, and perhaps the feel of his bare pate brought him back. He gently set his hat back on and faced forward again. His wife muttered something to his bent head, no doubt involving the phrase “kids these days.” He kept his nostalgic eyes cast down and nodded.

A little murmur of excitement traveled down the line, and Rachel saw the door was now open, a liveried man standing outside it. Hank smiled at her.

“Here we go,” he said.

But go they didn’t. The man chatted with the first few people in line, and stood there. He must have been waiting for something.

It began to snow. Big, soft flakes floated down in front of the grandly lit castle, as if they’d been ordered just for this occasion. Little exclamations bubbled up from the people waiting, and the queue undulated as hands were lifted, palms outstretched to capture the flakes. Rachel followed suit, laughing and extending a bare hand.

“How beautiful,” she said. A few flakes settled in her hand and she touched her tongue to them like a child. She tasted nothing but the salt from her skin.

The iron-haired woman scanned the postcard-perfect scene. “Great,” she said. She sighed loudly as if the snow were a personal affront. Rachel felt sorry for her husband.

Hank’s worry V was back. He sandwiched Rachel’s cold hands between his gloved ones. “Where are your gloves?” he scolded lightly.

“I forgot them.”

His V deepened. He rubbed her slender hands gently and then cupped them, raising them to his lips. He blew on her freezing fingers, and rubbed them again. He alternated actions; blow, rub, blow, rub. Rachel’s hands slowly grew warm as he massaged them. She felt like they were alone, surrounded by a curtain of snow. There was something different about this moment than the preceding moments. Different from the moments soon to come after. This one stood alone, suspended in snow, brought to life with breath and touch. The rippling pattern of the fluttering snowflakes and the hypnotic rhythm of Hank’s attentions to her hands went directly to her heart, filling it with such happiness she thought she might die. Hank stopped and looked up, as if he felt it too. He broke his unspoken rule and looked at her while she watched him. They gazed at each other, examining the other’s face as if they would never see each other again and had to memorize every curve, every wrinkle. They looked into the other’s eyes and saw themselves reflected there.

The falling snow slowed, thinned, and stopped. The absence of the snow left them feeling strangely naked, and they sprouted embarrassed little half-smiles and turned away from each other. Hank took off his gloves and gave them to Rachel. She said “Are you sure? You’re hands will be cold.” He said “Take them.” She said “Thank you.”

The snow had subsided, but flurries of hands rose from the crowd again, pointing up. Hank followed their direction to a lit window at the very peak of the castle. He didn’t know what the room was on an ordinary day, but for tonight it was apparently a dressing room for the choir. Some unfortunate girl, ignorant of the crowd outside and the lack of a window-covering, was in the process of changing into her gown. She’d unbuttoned her shirt and was stepping out of her jeans. There were murmurs down the line as people registered the appearance of a half-dressed girl in the window.

“Poor girl,” said one of the women behind Hank and Rachel.

“For God’s sake!” muttered the old woman.

“Whoa,” said Brad appreciatively.

Hank and Rachel said nothing, and watched the window. Hank felt sorry for the girl. He wished there was a way to cover her from the eyes of all these strangers. He looked away helplessly and hoped it would be over soon.

Rachel watched as the girl unhooked her bra, thankfully with her back to the window. There were a few catcalls, one “Turn around, honey!” that was hushed quickly in admonishment. None of this registered with Rachel as she watched the girl, awkward and innocent, struggle into her dress. She had the strangest feeling that she was that girl, naked and clumsy in full view of eyes quick to find fault. She was exposed, embarrassed. The connection with the girl was so strong, when Hank put his hand on the small of her back to urge her forward, she was surprised to find herself in line, standing on a thin covering of snow. The line of people had finally started to creep slowly forward. She took a few steps to close the gap and looked up again. The girl was in her dress, twisting her long hair up as she looked in a mirror. She was beautiful. Rachel wondered if she would ever know.

The queue inched forward. People around them rustled in pockets and purses, pulling out tickets.

“Do you have the tickets?” The woman behind them asked her companion.

“Yes. I was lucky to get them, too. They sold out fast.”

Rachel and Hank looked at each other, mutually chagrined expressions growing on their faces. “Did you get tickets?” she asked.

“No. I thought you did.”

“Oh.”

They fell silent, shuffling along with the line of ticket-holders.

“What do we do now?” Hank whispered from the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know. Make a break for it?” Rachel whispered back.

They clasped hands and ran, laughing, as if they’d just shoplifted something. Their queue companions gazed after them in bewilderment, then promptly forgot about them again as they neared the entrance. They could hear the discordant sounds of the orchestra warming up, and chatter, and wine glasses clinking. The girl was gone from the window. Rachel and Hank ran, slipping and righting themselves and slipping again, laughing through it all.

The snow silently resumed.

Last Night's Clothes

2010-10-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to take after my five-year-old.

When it comes to enjoying the little things in life, like blowing dandelion fluff onto the neighbor's lawn or eating chocolate chip cookie dough, this can be a good thing. Life-affirming, even. However, when I'm taking fashion and personal hygiene cues from someone who still picks her nose, there's probably something wrong.

I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes, and I feel no need to change. It's all her fault.

This re-wearing of clothes is a slippery slope. Where do you draw the line? It's okay to wear jeans two or three times before washing them, right? Why not a shirt? Why not a dress? Nai's love of certain outfits, coupled with her laziness, started the Clean Panties, Clean Socks rule. It started out this way: if she changed into clean socks and panties, she could wear the same outfit two days in a row. She still changed into her pajamas at night, of course, so she wasn't sleeping in her clothes or anything. Then... I let her start sleeping in her clothes. Then... the two days sometimes turned into three days. Then... the clean panties and socks sometimes got forgotten.

I am a horrible, horrible mother.

Still, it's not like I'm totally neglectful. I comb her hair at least every other day. I make her brush her teeth morning and night. And since she chomps her fingernails down to nubs I don't have to worry about dirt gathering there. So, other than yesterday's grape juice stains down her front and dirty-kneed jeans, she doesn't look too bad. Besides, this way we're really doing our part for the environment. I think we've cut down on our laundering by half. How can this be a bad thing? I have more free time, we're saving money on our water bill, and I feel a little greener.

Just when I'm feeling not so bad about it, I see the pretty mother down the street walk past with her little girls. Her bouncing hair shines with perfect highlights. She's wearing a cream fisherman's sweater, skinny jeans, and brown suede boots. Her little girls are all clean bright stripes, pigtails, and freshly scrubbed pink cheeks. They look like a glossy Ralph Lauren spread. I tackle Nai, who feels a little sticky, and pull her away from the window. Now if they look up there's nothing to see but a collage of greasy handprints on the glass. I look at her, in her rumpled, slept-in clothes and bed-head hair. Then I look down at me.

I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes, and yes, I slept in them too. Wearing Friday night's clothes on Saturday morning is cute when you're twenty-four and sneaking out of your boyfriend's apartment wearing a cocktail dress with your strappy heels in hand and panties in your pocket. It's not so adorable when yesterday's clothes consist of two mismatched t-shirts and sweatpants.

<----- The offending outfit.

Bonus information: I'm eating last night's pizza, too. At least I put it in the fridge between meals, though.

New pledge: I will change my clothes every day. I will make my daughter change her clothes daily, too. I will look like a marshmallow topping two sausages if I wear a chunky sweater over skinny jeans, but at least I will look like a clean marshmallow. Till I spill coffee on my sweater, anyway.

I'm going to change right now. Well, as soon as I finish this pizza.

The Loss of a Dream

2010-10-22T06:15:00.000-07:00

Floorboards creak.

She creeps to me where I lie asleep,

tears on her cheeks, voice cracked with sleep.

"Nightmare?" I ask, sweeping the sheet

aside, moving my feet.

No, no, she weeps. Not a bad dream.

It was a lovely dream,

the best dream. A sweet, sweet dream.

Yet she grieved

because this perfect dream

she could not keep.

Fall Walks

2010-10-20T08:14:00.001-07:00

There are so many reasons fall is my favorite time of year:

yellow flowers

crisp apples

bird-watching

squirrels gathering nuts and seeds

crunch crunch crunchy leaves

golden glow

new places to discover

I hope your autumn is full of all of these and more!

Microfiction Monday: #53

2010-10-18T07:01:00.000-07:00

"Microfiction Monday" is about taking a picture and creating a story about it in 140 characters or fewer. Below the picture is my story.

She didn’t understand.

He’d told her to clean the castle.

But when the king heard she’d swept with his brother, he was furious.

Click here to visit the Microfiction Monday site, and see what clever little stories others have created for this scenario.

Bathtime

2010-10-13T05:46:00.000-07:00

Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop

with the sweep of an arm,

the splash

of a foot.

Punctuated with little girl voices:

"Pretend we're princesses,"

"Pretend we're getting married."

Mounds of luminous bubbles

pile high on their heads--

delicate, ephemeral crowns.

Hundreds of fleeting bubbles pop,

the soft crisp sound

of their imaginary taffeta skirts.

"Pretend we're sea monsters."

A sparkling, bloodless massacre

of hundreds of fleeting bubbles, popping.

Microfiction Monday: #52

2010-10-11T09:05:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Microfiction Monday,

where a picture paints 140 characters, or even fewer.

Below is the picture, followed by my take on it.

The engineer smiled and waved,

as he did every day,

to the woman with the luggage

who never boarded.

Click here to see what other people thought was happening in this picture.

Skywatch Friday: ( * ) '

2010-07-02T07:13:00.000-07:00

This was taken as the sun rose over Kodachrome State Park in Utah. I hadn't really thought about how long it would take the sun to rise over the surrounding cliffs, so I had about an hour to sit on my little ledge and watch the light slowly wash over the valley, and wait for it to get to me. It was worth the wait, and the surprise visitor in the form of a hot air balloon made the shot.

Check out other skies here!

Check out my not-so-neglected blog, Bellingham Daily Photo, here!

Wednesdays With Grampa

2010-03-09T09:08:00.000-08:00

Giorgi and I have a standing date with my dad every Wednesday morning while Nai is in school. Coming up with a photo a day for the Bellingham Daily Photo can be challenging with my busy schedule and two little ones, so every Wednesday morning Giorgi and I pick up Dad and go someplace I've been meaning to photograph. We click our cameras companionably, and I get a good stockpile just in case I don't get anywhere scenic the rest of the week. Plus, Giorgi and Dad get some good bonding time.

This series is from the Deming day-use area, and it was a grey, misty morning-- which probably could be atmospheric and cool if I had the right camera and was a "real" photographer. Still, even though my little blue point-and-shoot doesn't know what to do with mist and all that white sky, I got a few sweet moments with Giorgi and Grampa.

Life's a Beach

2010-02-17T15:53:00.000-08:00

The girls and I had a picnic on the beach today. I can't believe it's February. Here's a few pictures from today... followed by a picture from last February. Both days were fun in different ways!

Anyone Know a Good Housekeeping Service?

2009-11-18T08:01:00.000-08:00

I should be taken out back and shot by the Housewife Firing Squad.

The Visitor

2009-10-22T10:40:00.000-07:00

I pushed through the frozen grass
Of Mongolia's ancient steppe.
I'd had to leave my horse behind,
But couldn't pause in my trek.
The wall of wind pushed me back
For every step ahead.
I imagined it was guarding the land
From my foreign tread.
Darkness gathered like a warrior,
Threatening my intrusion.
"Excuse me," I said, and went ahead,
Despite my growing confusion.
The wind resisted and darkness grew,
I heard hooves and saw black eyes.
Before his arrow could find me, I cried
"I worship Eternal Blue Sky!"
His arrow lowered and his eyebrow raised,
And he gave me a yellow grin.
Yet once I blinked, he was gone,
Stars shining where he'd been.
I trudged forward once again,
And almost at once saw a light
Shining from a Mongol tent
In the black November night.
The family, though they knew me not,
Welcomed me inside,
Gave me food and a place by the fire.
No comfort was denied.
The hour grew late, and little ones dozed,
While the rest of us drank mare's milk.
And sweetly, one girl began to sing
In a voice dark and soft as silk.
Though I didn't know her native tongue,
I could hardly tell.
The strength of passion in her voice
Was one that I knew well.
Once her song was finished,
And trying not to weep,
I shared a poem, one of my favorites,
About woods dark and deep.
In this way we passed the night
With songs and spoken word.
We didn't share a language,
But nothing was unheard.

The Dispersal of Sara

2009-10-14T07:12:00.000-07:00

She fell. Or had she jumped? She couldn't say anymore. But here was the still air, a hurricane against her body. And there was the ground-- oh! Here was the ground.

Her soul jumped from her body, a surprised scattering of particles that flew in all directions like a puff of flour when a bag has been dropped on the floor. Minuscule bits of consciousness, of memories, of knowing, of being-- everything that was her erupted in an invisible powdery haze around her. Fragments of herness drifted in all directions, or settled around her body like falling ash.

"I have brown eyes" bumped into "I love Gone With the Wind" and together collected the memory of her mother's hands pushing the hotly ticking iron around the flowered buttons on her favorite green dress. The summery whisper of aspen leaves fluttering in the wind flew into the heart of a seagull, who suddenly turned inland where unknown trees were calling him. The taste of melted gouda on grilled sourdough sunk into the earth and disappeared, along with her powerful yearning to be loved by Mike Dutton in return.

Molecules of soul-- epiphanies ("God loves me") and dislikes (mushrooms, dirty fingernails, anything starring Mel Gibson) were buffeted about in unseen randomness. Some found a new home, such as the daisy which discovered it had no desire to keep living, and slowly turned away from the sun. Polarized spirit bits were repelled by or attracted to others. There were surprises-- for some reason, "I love apples and peanut butter" immediately glommed onto the memory of her art teacher slicing off the tip of his finger with the paper cutter. Others were more obvious. Lying on a blanket, watching the meteor showers with her first boyfriend, attracted the taste of cabernet sauvignon. "I love the Eagles" and "I love Ozzy Osbourne" were, naturally, repulsed by each other.

In this way, some of her lived, some of her died. Some was reborn, and some is still out there. She herself was Ghengis Khan and Eleanor Roosevelt, Leonardo da Vinci and Nikolai Tesla. She was seagulls and daisies and aspen trees and wind. She was Matthew and Sin Yoo and Mildred and Charlotte. She was Sara. And so are you.

Children on the Playground

2009-09-24T06:46:00.000-07:00

Shooting stars
zipping around a plastic and metal
solar system
blue and green and yellow
flushed with fiery exuberance.
Satellites roam sedately
silent observers
blinking shy lonely lights.
A meteorite slams to earth
in a shower of rock and tears
and the shooting stars disperse
zooming to new destinations.

Savoring the Sweet

2009-08-28T08:25:00.000-07:00

I have not been paying enough attention to my children lately. Even when I think I'm trying, I step back and realize I'm still doing what I think they want and not just asking them what they want. So Nai has been acting out more and more lately, and I've been getting more and more upset with her-- because don't I take her to all these fun places and let her do fun things all day and eat lots of sugary treats? I end up feeling like I'm bending over backwards trying to please her, and she's just ungrateful. But meanwhile she just wants to be heard, to be the center of my attention for awhile, for her opinions to not be secondary to mine all the time.

I have an incredibly difficult time being in the moment. My mind is always pulling me away to an inner world. So even when I'm trying to interact with my kids, I end up with my eyes glazed over, in some distant land, until I notice that Giorgi is screaming "Mom! Mom! MOM!" trying to get my attention.

I exist in some weird combination of dreamy half-life and then snapping to it and trying to catch up-- running all over the place, trying to get stuff done, trying to be supermom and in the meantime being a not very good mom at all.

Anyway, so small steps. Yesterday I made it my goal to be present, in the moment, with my girls all day. Doing whatever they wanted to do. So my morning started when Nai woke up and wanted to cuddle on the couch. So I held her for half an hour, just the two of us talking a little, and looking out the window at people starting their day, but most of all just enjoying a quiet moment together.

After that I asked Nai what she wanted to do, which was go to the beach. So I skipped the gym and loaded up the girls and a picnic and we went to the beach. And while we were there, instead of pulling out my notebook while the girls were playing, I played with them. Occasionally I'd feel the pull of that inner somewhere-else, but a smile from Nai or the feel of the hot sand under my feet or the salty ocean scent was enough to keep me anchored in this world, enjoying my family.

Nai then saw the blackberry bushes lining the beach and wanted to pick some. We ate a lot, and brought a lot home.

When we got home, the girls took a much-needed bath, and naps, and then Nai wanted to help me make a pie with the blackberries we brought home.

What a way to savor being in the moment with my girls.

Grandad's Poem

2009-08-17T07:54:00.000-07:00

I haven't been getting much of my own writing done, (although I am working on a short story, at least), but I've been typing up my Grandad's letters to Grammy during WWII. Among his letters to her was a little notebook with this poem he wrote to her, which is so sweet and pretty. If I have nothing new of mine to share right now, I might as well share something of his!

I think of you day after day
As time goes marching on its way
To join the ranks of yesteryears
Away from our blood, sweat and tears;
And as the moments swiftly pass
Like ripples on a sea of grass
They seem to whisper "Hurry, lest
Time pass you by, and in your quest
For happiness you'll wander far
And see it not, right where you are."
Do you recall a setting sun,
And stars appearing one by one,
A crimson sky, a crimson sea
Fading into eternity?
And when the moon rose into place
He hid his funny, whining face
Behind a cloud, and peeking through,
Caught me as I was kissing you.
And as we watched the stars grew bright
Lending themselves to the summer night.
Do you recall a Winter's day
Up in the mountains, far away
From daily cares and work and strife--
We laughed and sang and found that life
Was not in vain? And as the snow
Fell gently on the trees below,
We travelled fast, and faster still
The ski tracks pointing down the hill.
And then at night, a cozy chair,
A fireplace, and you were there
To help me search with eager gaze
For fancied pictures in the blaze.
And as the dying embers glowed
Upon the hearth, their passing showed
A way to happiness in view.
I was content alone with you!

--Harvey Gooding

Green Little Tree

2009-08-13T06:45:00.000-07:00

She climbs you like a frail tree
Your branches snap under her weight
Her pink claws tear your bark like paper
She sways at the top
Breathless with victory
You bow and bend and break
Your height never meant to be summited

Web

2009-08-03T11:32:00.001-07:00

I don't know why
the spider has caught no flies--
How her web sparkles in the morning light!
She glows like an angel
in the center of her sticky halo.
If I were a fly
I'd be honored to die.

Visitation

2009-07-31T08:09:00.000-07:00

Hear
Footsteps in the hall
See
The patch of drifting light
Feel
A gentle touch on my arm
Think
Is it you?
Think
Of cats making noises
Headlights on the wall
Breezes from the window
Know
It doesn't matter
I want it to be you.
And so it is.

Living Extremely is not Necessarily Living Happily-- Yes, I'm Talking to You.

2009-07-30T06:27:00.000-07:00

I am not one for extremes.
Take the weather here lately, for example. Once the thermometer reaches ninety, I don't know how people can think straight let alone lead functioning lives. I'm living in a certain zombie-like limbo, waiting for the temperature to lower so I can return to my former life of productivity. The strange world I occupy now is landscaped with growing piles of dirty laundry and kiddie pools. My backyard is littered with various little keep 'em happy toys. It looks like a dollar store exploded in my yard.
Meanwhile, I don't care for extreme cold either. This is why I love where I live, people! You midwesterners can keep your below-zero temps, thanks. Still, I don't like monotony-- I would go bonkers if it was eternally sunny and warm. I love the changing of the seasons and the distinct feeling and flavor that each season brings. I just like my seasons within reason.
I'm not randomly bitching about the weather (although I certainly feel entitled to-- it's 6:30 in the morning and my clothes are already sticking to my body). I'm giving an example of the many ways I don't like extremes. I have been thinking that it's as valid to gain your life happiness through small, temperate means as through extremes.
I know not everyone can be as fortunate as me to be happy with the small things. I have always been blessed with a sense of exhileration over trifles other people probably wouldn't even notice. I get tremendous satisfaction from cooking something really delicious. I drive my husband crazy with all my happy little observations--"That cloud looks like a pink dragon!" "Oh my god, don't these flowers smell amazing?"-- I think he's really grateful to have children who bear the brunt of my enthusiastic inanities. I am in heaven if I have a couch, a good book, a glass of wine, and jazz playing. Ooh, and it should be raining outside. And a cat on my lap. There. Perfect.
Yet while I love my life almost wholeheartedly almost all the time, I know that many people would consider it "not living." It's a dark cloud on my horizon, and while I try not to care too much what people think, it's always been a problem of mine. As long as you're achieving real happiness, does it matter how you get there? Whether you're hiking in the woods, weeding in the garden, flying around the world, swimming with dolphins, cooking dinner for your family, drinking wine at a Tuscan villa, or dancing with a stranger... it's the contentment with your life that I consider important. How you get there is up to you.
I think about my life so far, and if I were lying on my deathbed what regrets I would have. Would I wish my life had been full of more excitement and adventure? I truly don't think so. I may not go sky diving or have a French lover, but the hours of playing the piano, watching sunsets with my husband, laughing with my children, reading good books, and talking with my friends, to me, adds up to a life full of deep, meaningful happiness.

Grey Gardens Dollhouse

2009-07-28T07:59:00.000-07:00

It's funny how surviving long, ridiculously hot summer days are surprisingly similar to surviving long, ridiculously cold winter days when you have young children. Brief forays into the extreme outdoors necessitate an hour of preparation (Summer: layers of sunblock, hats, sunglasses. Winter: layers of pants, scarves, hats, mittens...) and the rest of the day is spent trying to keep rather miserable children happy.
Yesterday Nai and I spent most of the afternoon furnishing her outdoor dollhouse. Being frugal can be quite fun sometimes. In the past I would have gone out and bought Nai some doll furniture... but watching our pennies forced me to be creative and spend quality time with my children. So now Nai's creepy happy-meal toys have rather modern furnishings using a combination of dixie cups, tupperware, CD's, baby blankets, and various other found objects. Between the dolls' vacant expressions and the dirt and spiders ever present in the dollhouse it's all a bit Grey Gardens, but that suits Nai's goth-girl personality just fine.

Fun with haikus

2009-07-15T17:11:00.000-07:00

Haikus are so fun and attainable. I love anything that takes only a few minutes to complete. Why spend years toiling away on a book that may never be finished, when you can compose a haiku so easily and actually feel like you accomplished something? Here's one I came up with as I was letting the dog out just now.

Fuzzy bumblebee
The black sheep in a field of
buzzy honeybees

Perky Girl

2009-07-13T08:26:00.000-07:00

she crazy as a lunch nut
likes to crunch her girl gut
got to stuff her strut strut
wigglin' her perky butt
swingin' the down haircut
she don't like her mouth shut
gotta tell me what the what
but
she love my funky grungy mutt

A Piece of Peace

2009-07-12T08:12:00.000-07:00

I wish I could carry this feeling with me always. Nai's expression shows the complete contentment of being in the moment. Wouldn't it be perfect if we could bottle up that feeling of incandescent peace in the rare moments we feel it? Then in the all-too-frequent times of frustration or grief, we could pull out our bottle of joy, uncork it, and bask in the yellow glow of being alive and actually appreciating it.

Introduction to Classical Music

2009-07-11T07:19:00.000-07:00

I was very young when Dad first introduced classical music to me. Little as I was, it was evident early on this was not a type of music to be taken lightly. During the day, the music accompanying our daily routines would be Billie Holiday or Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald. The only time the sacred classical records emerged was in the solemn peacefulness of night. After dinner was eaten and dishes were washed and put away, the four of us-- Mom, Dad, my sister Mel and I-- would congregate in the den.

The den was reserved for a few special uses, and there were really only three items in the room. The couch, a gold velour number you'd only find in the 70's, was long and comfortable and fit all four of us; the computer, an Atari (the latest thing) which was affectionately named Hermione; and The Stereo. Addicted to all things electronic, Dad made sure The Stereo had all the latest gadgets: cassette deck, open-reel, turntable, and eight track player.

Mom, Mel and I would get comfortable on the couch while Dad chose a record. Once the record was on the turntable, he pulled the nubbly brown drapes closed, switched the lights off, and lowered the needle to the groove. Littered with dots of red and green lights, The Stereo was the only light in the room. Dad settled on the couch, and Mel or I would curl up in the crook of his arm.

My heart pounded as the record popped and crackled. Would it be Debussy's soft strains? Or a crash of Tchaikovsky? After the initial jump of adrenaline at the start of the music, my heart slowed down. We'd all close our eyes and listen. The imagery behind my eyelids was of the type only classical music can inspire. Rimsky-Korsakov's "Scheherazade" varied from abstract pastels swishing softly to a desperate ship on a storm-tossed sea. The "1812 Overture" involved me energetically conducting the London Philharmonic. Other pieces had already been colored by different experiences. Once I had opened my eyes during "Reverie" and watched the green bars on the receiver measuring the sound, rising and falling with the music. Afterwards that was all I could see when I closed my eyes. "Night on Bald Mountain" was changed forever when I saw Disney's "Fantasia", and spooky images of ghosts and demons danced behind my eyelids.

The majority of these pieces have since been experienced in different ways-- in movies, operas, at work or in the car-- and so have lost their delicious unbiased imagery but not their beauty. However, certain pieces have the same sudden effect. Whenever I hear Debussy's "Reverie", I am immediately in the den with the brown shag carpet, curled up next to Dad, the green lights dancing on The Stereo.

Nai of Birch Bay

2009-07-07T22:44:00.001-07:00

Here is my latest silly little children's story. It started out as a story I told to Nai by the campfire in Birch Bay (hence the setting) with several additions of hers thrown in (most significantly, the name of the fairy!). Now if only I could get Eli to do some illustrations...

Nai of Birch Bay

In the mysterious land of Stonydawn, there is a silver forest perched at the edge of the ocean. This beautiful place is called Birch Bay. It is a magical place, where the salty wind rustles the birch trees and sets their silver leaves flashing. The redwinged blackbirds and seagulls sing their wild songs to the sun. But most of all, it’s magical because a fairy called Nai lives there.

Nai lives in the stump of an ancient fir tree. It is soft and sweet-smelling, and has lots of crevices for reading or sleeping or having tea. When she wakes in the morning, she climbs to the top of her stump and throws her tiny voice to the wind, adding her song to the morning songs of the birds. Then she flies to the beach below and dances, leaping from rock to rock and pirouetting on the smooth tips of driftwood branches. She takes care of these woods, and the woods take care of her. They are glad to have each other, because it wasn’t very long ago that they didn’t.

One morning, in this not-too-distant past, Nai stretched up on her stump and gave her morning song to the sea breeze. Only this breeze wasn’t just any breeze. This was the Northwest-But-A-Little-More-West-Than-Actual-Northwest wind, and he was the messenger for a sea dragon. Northwest-But-A-Little-More-West-Than-Actual-Northwest (or NBALMWTAN, as he preferred to be called) had been taking Nai’s morning songs to his master. The dragon, Stalon, loved music. He used to have a little songfish who made music for him, but she swam away to live in warmer waters. Since then, Stalon had lived in a songless world. The dragon had to have the fairy who sang. He sent NBALMWTAN to bring Nai to him.

It happened so fast. Nai was singing her morning song, when—WHOOSH! Her little body was swept up by the wind and plunged into the chilly ocean waters. Farther and farther, deeper and deeper, colder and colder, darker and darker. When at last they arrived at the sea dragon’s cave, NBALMWTAN put her down and whisked away again. The fairy stared at the dragon. The dragon stared at the fairy. Finally, Nai put her hands on her hips and gave him a particularly pixieish scowl.
“What’s the big idea?” She asked.
“Well… I want you to be the fairy of my sea cave. I want you to sing for me.” The dragon replied.
“But I’m the fairy of Birch Bay. I sing for the birds and the trees, not for dragons.”
“I DON’T CARE!!!” Stalon roared. He wasn’t used to not getting his way. “You will be my fairy and sing for me!”

Nai certainly didn’t like getting yelled at like that. She crossed her arms and put her nose up in the air. She twirled around and plopped down with her back to the dragon. And she did not sing. Hours passed. Days passed. Weeks passed. The dragon wanted his songs, and the fairy would not give them to him.

Back at Birch Bay, the woods were suffering without their fairy. The birds forgot how to sing without Nai’s morning songs to guide them. Gradually, the birdsong stopped. The trees felt empty and sad. They started to droop, and their silver leaves turned brown. The flowers wilted, and the frogs stopped jumping because there was no fairy to leap with them. The birds and trees whispered to each other—what happened? Where did Nai go? Didn’t she like them anymore?

Eventually the whispers reached a little redwinged blackbird. She was a young bird, and her parents had tried to protect her from the news of the fairy’s disappearance. When she realized Nai was gone, she remembered a strange occurrence. Several weeks ago, she’d just been awoken by Nai’s beautiful song when it suddenly stopped. She peeped through the marsh grasses just in time to see the little fairy disappear into the sea. There was a strange wind that day. It smelled like burnt seaweed, and it ruffled her feathers the wrong way.

Now she knew that something was very wrong, but she didn’t know what to do. She was just a little redwinged blackbird. How could she ever find a tiny fairy in the vast, unknown ocean? All she could do was tell her parents what she’d seen. Maybe they would know what to do. Before she could find them, though, she felt her feathers ruffling the wrong way in the breeze. She smelled blackened seaweed. The little redwinged blackbird knew she didn’t have time to think—she just jumped on the back of the wind and followed him under the sea.

It was cold—much colder than she’d ever been before. And it was dark. Slowly, her little red-flashed wings grew dimmer. The blue ocean water was washing them away. She had just the faintest shimmer of red on her shoulders by the time she reached the bottom of the ocean. When she finally got to the dragon’s cave, the red was gone completely. She wasn’t a little redwinged blackbird anymore. She was just a little blackbird.

The dragon was sitting in front of the dark mouth of his cave. He hadn’t noticed the just-a-little-blackbird yet. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Nai for eight weeks. He was sure she’d change her mind and start singing for him, but the longer he waited, the longer she sat. She’d tried to escape, but Stalon was too fast for her. Every time she started flying away, his clawed hand reached out and snatched her back. So there they sat. Eventually the dragon saw the just-a-little-blackbird creeping quietly toward the fairy.

“What do you want?” He growled.
Nai looked up and saw the bird. She burst into hopeful light, illuminating the darkness around her. The golden glow gave just-a-little-blackbird the courage she needed to approach the dragon.
“I want our fairy back.” She chirped bravely.
“Not a chance. I want her here, to sing me to sleep. I can’t go to sleep without a lullaby.” Stalon sniffed. He looked quite sad.
“Lullabies? But I can’t even sing bedtime songs. I’m a morning fairy.” Nai stared at the dragon.
He stared back at her. “You can’t?”
“No.”
“Not even ‘Twinkle Twinkle’?...”
“Nope.”
There was a long silence, and then just-a-little-blackbird spoke up.
“I sing night songs. If I teach you a lullaby you can sing to yourself, will you let our fairy go?”
“That’s the problem,” Stalon said. “I can’t sing. See?” He opened his mouth and wheezed, sending sparks drifting and smoke curling through the water.
“Do that again!” The bird exclaimed.
The dragon cooperated, sending a long, wheezing whistle through the ocean.
“That’s perfect!” The just-a-little-blackbird clapped her wings excitedly. “You sound just like I did when I was learning to chirp!”

Over the next few days, she taught the dragon to sing the redwinged blackbird lullaby. It was a little mushy and garbled, and he had to sort of whistle through his nose, but altogether he was very pleased with the result. Stalon sang it to himself, sleepily, one last time before they flew away. “Goodbye…” he murmured. “Goodbye! Goodbye!” they called back to him, but he didn’t hear them because he was already snoring.

Nai and just-a-little-blackbird flew back through the water. It was much harder to push through the water without the help of NBALMWTAN. It was still very dark, and very cold, and sometimes just-a-little-blackbird didn’t think she could make it. But Nai was always there to give her a little push, and they would keep going. Gradually, something strange was happening. The little blackbird’s wings were getting bluer and bluer, like they were picking up the color of the ocean. By the time they broke through the surface and flew through the air to Birch Bay, her wings were a vibrant, shimmering blue.

Nai and her friend Bluewing were almost always together after that. They had tea parties in the fairy’s stump, and danced together on the beach. Nai would awaken Bluewing with her songs in the morning, and Bluewing would sing the fairy to sleep at night. And every once in awhile, a big green scaly nose would emerge from the water and join the bird’s lullaby with a long, whistly wheeze.

Out With the Old... etc, etc.

2009-06-30T22:49:00.000-07:00

So far since I've started this blog (which I haven't told anyone about, and therefore can post whatever I want without fear of embarrassment) I've only posted random poems and one angry/sad rant about losing my mom. I guess now that I've run out of my semi-decent older material, it's time to start posting new stuff. Or I could post my old even crappier poems... but no one wants that.

I just finished a rather silly little children's story that I need to tweak a little, and then I'll probably post it here. I'll also make some copies and think about sending them out to publishers before I decide it's all too much bother and throw them in the recycling bin, where many such projects have gone before...

I pretty much started this to have a place to post some of my poems and short stories... but also to explore what makes life worth living. Most of the time I live my life discovering many things that make it all worthwhile, but sometimes things look pretty bleak and I need to reassess the point of it all.

So... here's to the life worth living! Cheers.

Substitute

2009-06-30T22:38:00.000-07:00

I hear my name softly called
lizlizlizlizliz
It is your voice that whispers
It is the wind in the firs.

I feel the touch of your fingers
at the nape of my neck.
They trail down... down... and stop.
Your caresses are only raindrops.

Wind pushes the hair back from my face
Rain pelts my mouth with a kiss
I close my eyes and accept with grace
The substitute for your love is this.

2.09.09

2009-06-30T22:32:00.000-07:00

At McDonald's
Nai plays
I read
Deepak Chopra
and try to believe
when Mom dies
she will exist
again.

Moonrise

2009-06-30T22:29:00.000-07:00

Diana's moon is rising
over the house tonight,
her glowing silk surprising
the darkness with her light.
My children dream in their sleep,
nestled in her clouds.
I lie and count my sheep,
sleep lost among her shrouds.

Waiting

2009-06-30T22:25:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting for you--
Bare legs braced against splintered posts
Muscles knotted with tension
Fingers pressed whitely on the worn railing
Eyes straining into the shadows
Skin textured like sandpaper with the cold.
I've been waiting for you--
While stars spread like fireworks into the mist
While raindrops shattered on my forehead
While curious eyes fixed on my rigid silhouette
While the moon burst between the clouds
And taunted me with silver rays.
I've been waiting for you
For so long.
Many lifetimes.

Goodbye

2009-06-30T22:18:00.000-07:00

The silhouette--
a heron, blue.
The sun has set.
I think of you.
Rain rips apart
a spider's web.
She'll reweave, and
be destroyed again.
Sweet cedar scent
drawn out by the wet
uplifting and fresh
can't help me forget
your so-sad eyes
the shake of your head
the soft "good-bye"
you barely said.

Wednesday Morning

2009-06-30T22:15:00.000-07:00

Wednesday morning.
Tinkerbell watches Curious George.
Cheerios crunch under pajama'd feet.
I inhale coffee fumes-- no time to drink it.

Fall Walk

2009-06-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

11.19.08

We wade through a sea
of brown crunchy leaves.
Every swooshing step sounds
like a wave on the shore.

A tiny silver toy jet
draws a perfect white line
across the blue chalkboard sky.

The cat is striped with grassy shadows.
He crouches and pretends
that he is the tiger
and we are antelope.

Groundhog Day

2009-06-16T22:20:00.000-07:00

I don't deal with Mom's cancer
by standing outside
inhaling a clove cigarette.
I need the smoky softness
to blur the clarity of the night.
The moon is so close.
I could surprise him--
kiss his astonished mouth.
The rushing whoosh of the freeway
is soothing,
hushed by distance.
Snowdrops break through
the frozen midnight soil.
Their little lives mean nothing.

2.03.09

2009-06-16T21:48:00.000-07:00

2.03.09

The frost lays quietly, whitely,
in the early morning hours.
A blade of grass melts on my tongue
like a sugary confection.
The unstoppable sunrise
yellows houses cars trees flowers
Spreading over the world
like a beautiful infection.

For Mom's Fight, That Others May Win

2009-06-16T07:17:00.000-07:00

Right now, I am wearing her diamond earrings. I'm drinking from her favorite coffee cup. And I am overcome with sadness, because I shouldn't be doing these things... she should."She" is Mom, Diana Williamson, and she died last month at 59 from cancer.I was going to throw a huge 60th birthday party bash for my folks, but now Mom is dead and Dad doesn't even want to think about his birthday. For the last 42 years, he shared his birthday with her.Mom had been retired two weeks when she went in to the doctor to see about the swelling in her uterus. She and Dad had worked hard, and now it was time to live a little-- travel, indulge her many hobbies, dote on her grandchildren. Instead, she received a terrible diagnosis and died a year and a half later.God, I hate cancer.Cancer robbed my daughters of their grandmothers, both gone much too young. Cancer took away Dad's true love and life partner. Cancer killed my mom, the best woman I have ever known.Mom loved life. She woke up every day determined to make that day the best ever. Even at the end of her life, when she couldn't get out of bed and was attached to machines, she started each morning by looking out the window and saying "What a beautiful day." Every night she said to Dad "What a perfect day." She was the happiest, nicest person I've ever known. She gave herself so completely to so many people, those of us left behind haven't figured out how to fill the holes she's left in so many lives. I know we can't. No one could do it but Mom. She had the biggest, brightest smile and the most contagious laugh.She loved life. And she wanted everyone to have a chance to live it to the fullest, which is why she was so active in the Relay for Life. It's because of her I got involved, raising as much money as we could for the American Cancer Society. Even though her death is so recent and raw, if our positions were switched I know she would be here, writing a letter to raise money to help fight cancer.So even though this is a pretty rough, ranting letter, and even though I've been crying trying to get through it... fighting cancer is more important to me than ever before. So please, if you have a little spare cash, buy a luminaria or two. They are $5 each, and you can dedicate it to Mom or someone else you love who has been touched by cancer. Make checks out to the American Cancer Society, and mail them to me. I won't get to see Mom at the Relay for Life this year, but maybe I can see a big block of luminarias for her, with her beautiful smile shining up at me.

Thank you,
Liz

Blue

2009-06-16T07:11:00.000-07:00

Blue

light and shade
across the field
shadows played
where bluebells pealed
blue on jade
their petals wheeled
blew blue glade
my spirit healed