Block

I have writer's block.  I have tried to write and no words come.  The few words I do jot down, make me consider serious therapy.

I even tried a new muse, and as with all muse's they look shiny and bright for a short while, and they burn out like the tiny remnant of a candle. I'm grasping to gather my thoughts, but can't get a hold of them.
I hate having writer's block.

Any Other Name

Argue; verb: Give reasons or cite evidence in support of an idea, action, or theory, typically with the aim of persuading others to share one's view; persuade someone to do or not to do (something) by giving reasons; exchange or express diverging or opposite views, typically in a heated or angry way.

Lick; verb: Pass the tongue over (something), typically in order to taste, moisten, or clean it; (of a flame, wave, or breeze) move lightly and quickly like a tongue; defeat (someone) comprehensively; noun: An act of licking something with the tongue; a smart blow.

Squint; verb: Look at someone or something with one or both eyes partly closed in an attempt to see more clearly or as a reaction to strong light; (of a person's eye) have a deviation in the direction of its gaze.

Any Other Name

When you spend every day with someone who is larger than life, do 

you too become large or do you remain small?

“Hey, hey, hello this is Bob.”  The voice on the other end of the line is none other than Bob.  In my profession I work with a wide variety of BOB.  Bob, Bobby, Bo, Bubba; six out of ten times I answer the phone the male voices on the other side say, “This is Bob.”    The “hey, hey, hello” made recognizing which Bob it is on the line, undeniable.  

“Bob,Bobby Boy,”  I say back to him.  

He doesn’t hesitate to ask,  “How the hell are you today?” 

“Now you know when I fell from heaven, I realized I was in Hell deep and wide.”  

Laughter roars on the other end of the line, “You know it girl! Let me talk to Don.” 

In my mind I tumble around Donald, Don Wan, Don the Donut King, Dawn the insurance representative that speaks her name so fast it sounds like Don…  “Hold please,” and I quickly press the button to page Don to the phone.  Don the Donut King, you ask?  You have to be here to know the story of the Donut King, so I will tell you. Don the Donut King, is a guy who knows all donuts, and corrects you if you call twists, bear claws or mistake Cherry for strawberry filled.  How does he do it???  No one knows the difference between cherry and strawberry filled until the first lick, but Don the Donut King, he knows at a glance.  He is a regular around here, and brings donuts when he needs something from us.  I never asked, but I think he is like an alcoholic with donuts.  He would rather be a social donut eater than eat them by himself, or he would have to admit he has a donut problem.  He is thin as a pine tree and I think he can eat all the donuts he wants, but must be vain to hide his problem.

Back to Bob, Bobby Boy.  Bob is the kind of man who fills up a room by just his voice.  His presence is not so dominating.  He is about 5 ft. 10 inches tall, not exactly short, but not quite tall either.  Medium build. He might not even be noticed in a crowd.  When he opens his mouth, he is large.  He is huge.  He thrills everyone who hears his voice.  It is booming and encouraging.  I have seen him with his children.  Tiny toddlers they are, but when he talks to them, it is as if his words scoop them up and catapult them in the direction they need to go.   The kids look like they realize the power their dad possesses and want to win his approval, and inside they know nothing they do will disappoint him, so they do anything he asks. 

The phone rings again. No, “hello,” no, “hey this is Bob.” 

On the other end, “ Does Ray drive a maroon truck?” 

“Yes.”

“ Why did he just pull up then drive away?”

I have no answer.  “I am here and you are there, you tell me.”

“No. You call him on his cell phone and tell him I am here with two other guys and we saw him drive up and drive away.  Does he think he is in the wrong place?”

Again I have no answer. I want to argue this point with Bob, but I hesitate and Bob is quick, “Put me on hold and call him on his cell phone. Let him know I am standing here with two guys waiting on him.” 

“Ok, Hold please.”  And this is my day.  

I think of him sometimes, another Bob.  I know he wonders about it.  We never talk since the time his mom and his boss simultaneously tried to get us to date, constantly inviting me to meetings, fish fries, and other gatherings I normally did not attend.  Of course we would talk, but only when encouraged by  his mother and boss.  We already had “the talk.” It was brief.  We were walking together on a job site walk- through (another invite to something I normally did not attend) As he pointed out this and that, he knew it was just for looks.  We talked.  He asked.  I said no.  Why?  We work together.  I wanted to keep working together.  I like Bob.  I wanted to keep liking Bob.  He said he understood and that was the end of it.  We humored his mother and his boss, but at the end of the night, goodbye were the last words we said to each other.  This was nearly fifteen years ago.  We still work together. 

Bob got married.  He has three beautiful boys.  He named one with a name I suggested as my favorite.  I am extremely happy for him.  His oldest boy plays piano, opposite of his jock father.  He goes to job sites with his father and wants to know how things work but I do not think his hand will ever know a splinter.   His brothers want to ride the heavy equipment trucks and watch the earth move, they will get plenty of splinters.   

I know from experience you cannot love the kids without loving the parents.  Love sometimes cannot be contained no matter how much you try.  I tried to force love and it never came.  Whenever love comes, I like it to be simple.   I do not like love when it is confining.  Love has not found me in a while.

The next call suggests we go to lunch.  I agree and soon I am out the door to meet my girlfriend.  At the restaurant I want something new.  As I am reading the menu  someone walking by bumps my arm.  I squint to see who it might be, the stranger is apologetic and introduces himself, “Hi, I’m Bob.”  

Put on Pants

3WW

Brutal; adjective: Savagely violent; punishingly hard or uncomfortable; direct and lacking any attempt to disguise unpleasantness.

Grope; verb: [No object] feel about or search blindly or uncertainly with the hands; [with object] (informal) feel or fondle (someone) for sexual pleasure, esp. against their will; noun: An act of fondling someone for sexual pleasure.

Transfer; verb: Move from one place to another; move to another group, occupation, or service; change to another place, route, or means of transportation during a journey; make over the possession of (property, a right, or a responsibility) to someone else; noun: An act of moving something or someone to another place. 

Put on Pants

My brother committed suicide a few years ago.  The details are emotionally brutal.  My sadness is evident.  I am surrounded by people who have not had the tragedy happen to them.  I wish sadness was easily transferred to the trash and discarded leaving only happiness, but it is not my reality.  My conversations with my mother used to include updates on my brother, if either of us had talked to him or wrote him in prison.  Our conversations are void of him now and we do not have much to talk about. 

My mother is a lively talker. We talk about the weather and shopping at Macy’s but it is the same jaw jacking  we would talk about to anyone else on the transit.  In my last phone conversation, my mom finally asked me a question I have never heard her ask me, “How are you?” She actually stopped talking and sounded concerned.  I told her I was good.  I rarely share details of my life with my mother, we are distant not only because she lives over twelve hours away, but also because we have never been intimate with our feelings.  I used to hate the distance, now it really does not matter.  Our emotions in conversations are like two people covered in oil, groping for a stronghold to keep from slipping away.  I know she would listen if I talked, but I no longer wanted to talk about the subject that used to join us.

I miss my brother.  We were close.  I was closer to him than anyone and most of my life he was in prison.  I think I might have set up his Facebook  page for him.  I am, of course, his only Facebook friend.  I do not know if he ever logged on.  I posted and tagged his pictures.   I login to Facebook  everyday not to catch up with friends, but to say hello to my brother.   It is weird, some days his face is the first one I see of the little box that previews my friends. Other days he is on chat.  When he is on chat, I send him messages.  Sometimes they are short, “hello.” Other times I spew out long paragraphs or news I think he might like to know.  My great- aunt died last week and I messaged my brother to look for her.  Silly, I know. 

One of my great aunt's fondest memories of him was when he was four or five and she visited us, we had very good manners, and she remembered he would knock on her bedroom door and yell out before turning the door knob, “Are you decent?”  When he was young he had a sweet voice.  My brother was always charming.  He was well liked.  I like to think my brother and great-aunt are having a laugh together as she tells him about  when I came to visit last year, and her sister called ahead of us arriving and made a joke to “be decent and put pants on,” because guest were coming over.  My father made sure to carry on the joke and ask in the door before we entered, “are you decent?”

I miss my brother’s voice and his laughter.  I know he is making my great aunt laugh.  I called my grandmother who is in snow today and told her to visit me this weekend.  I would take her to the beach were we share memories of her sister and my brother.  “Grandma, come to the beach with me, it will be 76 degrees out and we can put on bathing suits and no one will tell us to wear pants.”  We both laughed, and my eighty seven year old grandmother said, “Someone might!”  Laughter will get us through this time of grief, but I cannot guarantee I will always be wearing pants. 

Postcard art

These are my submissions for the postcard art show.
Darling Deer and Focus Fox.

ON THE ROAD

3WW

Heave; verb: [With object] lift or haul (a heavy thing) with great effort; [with object] produce (a sigh); [no object] rise and fall rhythmically or spasmodically; noun: An act of heaving, especially a strong pull.

Ponder; verb: Think about (something) carefully, esp. before making a decision or reaching a conclusion.

Valid; adjective: (Of an argument or point) having a sound basis in logic or fact; reasonable or cogent; legally binding due to having been executed in compliance with the law; legally or officially acceptable.

Note: I've been reading "Darkly Dreaming Dexter," by Jeff Lindsay   

and this is completly fiction.  

On the Road

As I drive home, I am pondering how people around me packaged life into how it should be.  There should be a white picket fence, a dog, etc.   Their illusion of “should be”. ..  is bull.  It never applied to me and it never will.  Every time I tried to fit into their idea of should be, it crumbled.  All the “should be’s” they told me over and over… hell, I wanted to believe them too.  It was like believing in fairy tales.  Believing there is a happily ever after.  I’m angry for the lies I was told and I’m angry that I even believed.  Life as it should be, never made me feel safe.  I am full of laughter for not believing; my memories are only funny to me.

One evening I stood across from a guy sitting in an overstuffed antique chair, wearing only his underwear, smoking a stinky cigar. He sat not saying anything until he finished his cigar. His fat fingers snuffed out the remaining fire on the tip of the cigar and it smoldered in the ashtray.  I must have been high from the smoke because I never looked away from the smoke when he began to talk. He had a thick Russian accent. He spoke and I heard words but I only understood the last few words, “You will do.”   I heard the door behind me opened, a woman in a tight dress and spike high heels passed me and gave me the once over with her eyes, then proceeded to spit at the man and walk into another room slamming the door behind her.  I felt his eyes evaluating my response.  He had no idea I was thinking I should have pulled out my gun and shot him and his girlfriend, and taken anything I wanted.  Maybe I was high, because I did not react. “Undress; Leave your clothes here and we will talk in the other room.”  The guy must have been a mind reader.  Later I learned he was not a mind reader at all, he was the devil.  Two hours later I walked out of the penthouse, fully dressed with what I came for and didn’t kill anyone.  I left them sleeping.  Should I have killed them?   No, I was not there for vengeance of sins, someone else would do it soon enough.  I was there to prove the sin.  It sucks knowing another person’s secrets, their dirty, messy, ugly secrets. 

I cannot tell you when it started.  I cannot pinpoint the first sin I ever witnessed.  I do know I was very young.  Maybe it was in the womb, where I drank my first bottle of vodka ingested by my mother.  Is drinking really a sin?  Was anything she did really a sin? No.  Nothing she did was a sin.  It just was not how life should be.  Someone else will validate her sins.  I decided when I was five, since I was none of her business; she was no concern to me either.  Sometimes now, when I see her, I still look at her with wonder, and cannot believe the person sitting in front of me was supposed to fit in some kind of package that was supposed to be a gift to me.  Nice gift.  She will return to the sender soon enough. 

I live life on the edge of things, a very thin edge.  My life is like a word that sits on the edge of your lips, but your mouth will not let you say the word and you cannot wrap your brain about it to make sense of it.  I know too much to get in deep.  The edge is fine with me.  I will not let the things I know consume me.  I guess that is why my life is in this, “should be” state.  I will never fit in as other people do and I know it.   My time alone is the only time I take to remember the past and know I am not other people’s ideal.  I am just like I should be. 

The last book I read was a cookbook.  I do not cook.  I throw things together in a pot that sound good to eat, put it in the oven for an hour and then there is food.  Cookbooks are entertaining.  I am drawn to the ones with stories inside, how the recipe was conceived and the holiday it is cooked, and how the food gives people roots; A place they come from.  I take the memories printed in the cookbooks and make them mine.  If I am out eating dinner, I have a pallet that allows me to separate spices and flavors.  Cookbooks are so descriptive, I take other people’s memories and say things like, “My grandmother once made this same pasta with the oregano and added cinnamon, which was a surprise once it hit your tongue, and woke up the dish a little more.”  I only saw my grandmothers when we vacationed and neither of them ever cooked for me, we always ate out. 

Now, you know my sin.  I am a liar.  I lie about everything.  No one is supposed to know the truth.  The truth is very upsetting.  Living on the edge makes the depth of me more than anyone else wants to know.  Like the Russian.  No one wants to know I stood naked in front of a man who bought and sold women into slavery.  No one wants to know about how a horse trainer in Florida strangles women and buries them with a backhoe on his land and tells everyone he had to put another horse down.  No one wants to know his callous hands once slipped around my throat, tightening slowly, as he stared into my eyes, while I struggled and heaved to inhale.  Some things are never forgotten.  I gave him a nice scar and once vengeance is delivered, the scar will testify that I was there.  I haunt him.  He never told anyone I escaped, neither did I. His mind will not let him believe I was still alive, knowing his secret.  Till his dying day he will wonder if I was a ghost that gave him a scar. He knows better than to leave his precious cemetery, if anyone else ever had to bury another dead thing, his victims would be discovered and he had too much invested to risk. If one bit of dirt is disturbed, his reputation of being one of the best horse trainers in the United States would change to murderer.  Trophies and ribbons, valid wins; not one bit of the room he strangled me in was not covered in photos of winning horses, trophies, and ribbons.  The plaques were strategically placed under track lighting so each illuminated his name and title. None of the trophies were for murder.  I notice the weirdest things when I am in stressful situations.

I live on the edge of death, not life.  Death follows me to collect what I leave behind.  No one knows that I am their last chance.  I enter.  I slice through other people’s lives like a knife in a chocolate cake, ruining perfection of the icing making it lovely and leave the dark inside exposed, making way for death to devour them, leaving nothing but the stale uneaten crumbs to rot.  The knife never comes out of a cake clean.  I suppose if the knife came out clean there would be nothing for death to eat, and we would move on to the next cake.  Like the knife, I remain unchanged.  Whatever I get into I come out the same.  Only I stay perfect. 

I feel tired.  I think I will stay in an expensive hotel and rest for awhile in a hot bubble bath.  Even knives need to be cleaned.  

Carrot

3WW

Cumbersome; adjective: Large or heavy and therefore difficult to carry or use; unwieldy; slow or complicated and therefore inefficient.

Morbid; adjective: Characterized by or appealing to an abnormal and unhealthy interest in disturbing and unpleasant subjects, esp. death and disease.

Rampage; verb: (Especially of a large group of people) rush around in a violent and uncontrollable manner; noun: A period of violent and uncontrollable behavior, typically involving a large group of people.

CARROT

The storm rages on outside.  Large droplets of rain beat against the window and the sound resonates in the house as if it is raining inside.  The power has been out and the lit candles cast moving shadows that make the house feel unsafe, not from the rain; something else.  The wine is still chilled and I pour another glass to take off the edge.  There is so much to do. I partly think that darkness can benefit the task.  I look about to find the items needed.  I get distracted as I walk by my fish tank.  I apologize that there is no electricity and the goldfish are unconcerned but they do want some food.  I feed them hoping to comfort them.  You may laugh, but I am affectionate towards my fish.  Their eyes see everything, but they never tell.  Fish are excellent pets. 

I do not need light to find what I need.  The duffle bag is large and cumbersome, and easily found in the bottom of the closet.  If something is not packed inside, it can be easily replaced.  That is how I feel towards material things.  They serve a purpose and disposable.  I did not always feel this way.  There was a time I valued having a lot of everything.  I could not do what I do if there were things for me to be responsible for.  In the shadows I can see the paint peeling off the walls, the house is rubbish anyway, nothing really to lose.  No one knows the house is rubbish.  I never invited anyone over.  I think on several occasions I even lied about my address. The lack of everything would disappoint anyone else, but I find it freeing.  Part of me knows there will not be another place such as this.  It is slightly morbid to me to know my next residence is a penthouse with glossy marble tiled floors.  I will have a dog walker that will bring my dog to the park twice a day. The doorman will know of all my comings and goings.  There will no longer be the freedom of the shack.  Part of me wants to set fire to everything, but the rain has changed my mind.  If I set fire to everything, I want it to have the opportunity to burn completely to ashes.   I have never felt completely safe. I suppose my surroundings have never made me secure.

I return to the fish with a large bucket and drain the water to half and net them out.  I do love them.  Carrot, the largest goldfish has grown too large for the tank.  He is going on four years old.  I am taking them to the nearest pond and setting them free.  Carrot was won at the local carnival, I could not bear it if I left them to die alone.  At least in the pond they will have a chance.  The tiny ones I fear will become food for larger fish or turtles. 

I finish my wine and consider if I should wait until the rain stops, but considering that I have an eighteen hour drive I would rather get going and risk the danger of the weather than contemplate staying.   I pull on my goulashes and trudge to the car lugging first my bag, then another trip to put the fish in the passenger floorboard.    The rain has soaked me and I grab the wine bottle and blow out the candles.  I make the last trip to the truck.  Inside the truck I remove my wet jacket and put on a hat. 

There is no one to tell I am leaving except the fish and there is no way to assure them everything will be alright.  I pull out into the night, I consider telling the fish of my plans to make my way to the West and consider taking them along.  Could they survive the drive?  Sentimental?  What kind of person arrives to their penthouse with a bucket of goldfish?  It is laughable.  Arriving with live fish would certainly set me apart from the other neighbors.  I regret I did make preparations for them.  I will let them loose soon enough.  My dog will keep me company in the penthouse.  I’m getting a puppy that will surely rampage the penthouse.

In the rear view window I watch the house disappear in the darkness and rain.  I know I will not return. 

Menu Writing

I have  taken some time to do a lot more reading than writing.  Please know at times writing is much harder when you have been out of practice.  I read over a teenager’s essay last night to offer some advice for gaining word count for an assignment.  I could see how he struggled to make 500 words turn into 1500 on a subject that he was not very passionate about.   I was enthusiastic offering suggestions on how his essay could be expanded.  He too seemed encouraged with the little direction I gave him and decided to do more research to expand his word count with more knowledge. 

I make a lot of mistakes writing. I am not qualified to edit anyone but myself. I admit meeting a minimum word count is a struggle.  Writers usually challenge themselves within these parameters and writing can be easy or extremely difficult.

I haven’t wrote for over a year.  I am creative and I like to create.  Writing used to be my favorite creative outlet. I haven’t had a work space for a few months and have concentrated on other things.  I pick up a paintbrush from time to time or take out the scissors and glue, but I haven’t finished anything.  Scattered in my house there are paintings of people without faces, boats without sails, and strips of burlap laying about silently waiting for my return.  I have been the same way with my writing. People closest to me are worried.  Gifts I received this past year were beautiful blank journals, watercolor tablets, paints and sketch pencils. I loved each gift and I regret they are still blank. 

 I began this 2013 attempting to writing at least one sentence from each day to describe an event or feeling from the day.  It has turned into a food journal : Breakfast – slice of leftover supreme thin crust pizza; Lunch- creamy tomato soup with Harlem pepper spice; Dinner – Gouda stuffed burgers with bacon and apple slices on toasted sesame seed buns.  I do not consider these menu items writing, but at the time they were the best part of my day. 

The food does have a story to tell.  The pizza from the night before was partially eaten over the computer planning a romantic weekend out of town.  The Harlem pepper spice was discovered on a trip to the local flea market one lazy Sunday afternoon. The spice vendor was an excellent saleswoman offering cooking suggestions on each spice mix she had to offer. We bought several spice mixes. Lately we add Harlem pepper to everything, trying for ourselves what compliments it best, from salads, to soups and baked chicken. The Harlem pepper adds a chili-pepper punch to tomato soup and it is my personal favorite. Our friend Jason, who owns a local bar, grilled up the burgers.  He has been on a burger stuffing kick and we are lucky enough to sample his experiments. The burgers were excellent. We stayed at the bar after eating and played trivia with our friends and the bar crowd. Hot L. and J., outwitted us by knowing the car Austin Powers drove in the movie and won the trivia contest.   

I am attempting to write again.  It is like trying to rekindle a romance with an unwilling lover.  If I find some way to win favor with writing, I’m going to complete my novel. Until then, I will attempt to gather my thoughts and express them on this blog. A friend has said many times, “don’t expect anything from me, and you won’t be disappointed.”  Those words are death to any relationship.  I do not want to start this way.  

Let me introduce myself, I am a writer.  I once wrote a few interesting things, and I hope I can write that way again.  Maybe we can be friends. 

If nothing else, you might be interested in what I ate at potluck family dinner last night; pork roast, green rice casserole,(the rice is not green, parsley in the recipe makes it green and it is delicious)  French cut green beans with mushroom slices, coleslaw, and homemade bread. Dessert was a peanut butter cream pie with chocolate graham cracker crust.