Good chance I lost it again.
What is "it"?
"It" is me.
Me on paper.
Me on the screen, pretending to be paper.
That is where I lost it again.

The first time,
It was stolen by man.
This time stupidity took it.
The screen is not paper.
If you want it to last,
it ought to be backed up.

I didn't do that.
I lost it again.
My words.

Oh lamentable day.

The day the computer refused to boot.

Writing

I miss writing. There is something soothing or comforting in the act of placing the symbols for sounds on a page. Stringing them together to form thoughts or ideas that can be shared is quite fulfilling. What is it about this simple act many of us take for granted, that is so enticing? Perhaps it is taking the intangible, thought, and giving it a life to be touched, viewed and, with the right implement, even smelled.

Extracting ideas, that without the written word, would have no place to go, they could be told verbally, but it isn’t the same as existing on the material plane, giving them concreteness, is so exhilarating for me, that I often find myself writing about nothing more than writing or the idea of not having ideas which is still giving form to the creation of something from nothing. The nothing being lack of thought, the something being the words I am writing and hopefully you are reading.

Ahh, fulfillment.

My Inner Hippie

Things. We have them. We desire them. House, automobile, land, clothes, items to fill the home. We then need to hold on to them, for we musn't let go. The keeping and acquiring of these things takes a great deal of effort. For some, it is all that life is about, they thrive on their efforts to retain and gain. For others it is only with great difficulty and a huge amount of energy that they can have or keep the basic necessities for life. What would happen if we were to use that same amount of energy to love? Love each other, love the flowers, love the weather, just love. Love would encompass appreciation; appreciation for food to nourish; a roof, be it tarpaulin or wood, to keep the elements at bay; a hug to fill the soul. Things take great energy to retain. Love, freely given and received is what we really need, not a thing or any thing else at all.

The Baby

The phone was ringing. As my arm groped around for the source of the sound, my eyes blearily took in the time, 1 AM. Who the hell was calling at 1 AM? It was Meadow (not her real name), a very dear friend of mine. “My water broke. I didn’t go into labor yet”, I heard the phone say to me. My mind was trying to comprehend what that was supposed to mean to me. I had been asleep for about an hour and a half and was pretty sure I had some more of that to do. “Huh?” was about as articulate as I got in that moment. “Yeah, this is how it was with my son. We’re getting ready to go to the hospital, will you meet us?” “Uh, yeah.” “What are you thinking?” “My mind is racing in a million directions. I’ll see you there.” Oh no, I had planned for every possible outcome, except this one: middle of the night labor with husband out of town. Ugh!!! I had to get to the hospital. I had to get dressed. I had to find a place for my kids. I couldn’t think straight. There was a baby due to arrive in the world and I had to be there, but how? I thought I was prepared, but apparently, I wasn’t even close. I called my husband’s cell, he didn’t answer. I called my mother-in-love’s phone, she did, “Meadow’s water broke” I said. That’s all I had to say, we’ve all been waiting for this moment. “OK. Hold on. I’ll get him” she croaked in her “middle of the night, I’m sound asleep” voice. I hear her get out of bed and wake him. I tell him he needs to come home and get the kids, but there’s a hitch, I don’t know where they’ll be. I’ll call back as soon as I do. He is so wonderful. He woke up and was in the truck on his way home in less than fifteen minutes. Of course, he was still two hours away.

I had a list. I made this list because I didn’t want Meadow to worry about my end of things. I made a list of friends who would aide me, when I was called to aide her. These friends were willing to watch my children if their father wasn’t around, but only until he could get there. The deal was that I’d call him wherever he was and he’d come get them. He could be up to two hours away, depending on what job he was working on. When I originally asked each person to do this for me, the conversation was based on the assumption that this would be during the day. I never considered the fact this could happen after the sun went down. Neither did any of my friends on the list, who all happen to be parents by birth. What had I been thinking? Of course not one of them heard their phone. I called my husband back. “That plan isn’t working” I barked. “Why can’t the kids just stay there? I’ll be home soon.” replied the calm voice of reason. What a good idea. Now that was solved, all I had to do was find something to wear. I had a choice between looking good in cleanish clothes or donning a clean not-so-flattering attire. I decided the baby wouldn’t care what I looked like, but deserved the respect of cleanliness. I still needed a book, a change of clothes, and a pair of sneakers. Luckily they were all in the same room. I tossed them in bag, filled my water bottle...And I was off.

The hospital, which I have never actually been to, was over an hour away. I was a bit concerned about falling asleep at the wheel. I had just had a long day and with only an hour and half of shuteye, this was a very real concern. Why hadn’t I thought about this? What was I going to do? A solution began to form. I had to stop for coffee. Even if it was too hot to drink, the fear of dropping it on my lap would keep me awake.

Getting to the hospital proved itself to be pretty easy, it was exactly where I had imagined it. The problem began after I got there. It was a huge and sprawling complex. How in the hell was I supposed to find them? I couldn’t find any signs indicating that they even had a birthing center at this place. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough. Maybe I was at the wrong hospital. I really needed to find them. I managed to locate the main entrance and a parking lot not too far away. The night was very cold and windy. As I was walking towards the main entrance I remembered Meadow telling me she left directions on the phone. Shit! I hadn't checked cell messages in weeks. When I finally get to her message, it sounded like she was about to have the baby. I began to worry. A security guard came up to me as I was listening and told me I had to go back to my car, drive around to another lot, then walk down and around to the emergency room. UGH!!! I kept having visions of walking into the room and hearing the wail of a baby. Where are they? Why didn’t I check this place out sooner?

I finally found my way into the building, now I needed to get to the family. A surly night guard let me in and pointed me in the right direction. At last, the Birthing Center. It actually existed. The night nurse confirmed I was at the correct hospital when she recognized Meadow's name and directed me to “room #11, right down the hall”. I knocked and went in.

I actually held me breath, listening for the baby as I entered the room. To my relief, there was no crying baby, yet. What I did see was my beloved friend lying on the hospital bed, her lover and father of the baby by her head, a group of 3 or 4 women standing all around her. I saw her older children on the couch, bleary eyed. I took off my coat. I helped her son to take off his. They hadn’t been there very long themselves.

A few minutes go by. She is ready to push. I check in with the kids to make sure they are ok. I ask if they want to watch, they both nod not saying a word and get to their feet. We stand at the foot of the bed. Her daughter, the oldest, is standing to my left, my arm around her. Her son is to my right and doesn’t want to be held. They both seem nervous to me, but ok. That seems reasonable, so I let it be. Meadow starts to push. I can see a head just up the birth canal a little bit. Not quite to the opening. Her son keeps checking the clock. Meadow’s head is pushed back and I think she’ll snap her own neck. “Put your chin to your chest” the midwife says, gently over the sounds of pain and work coming from Meadow. She pushes a couple times and her vagina opens wide and the top of the head pushes on it. It opens more and the baby’s head comes half out. She takes a break, only a breath or two, then she’s pushing again and the whole head is out. I am filled with awe. Another breath and groan and push and the baby turns, then another breath. Another push and there she is. All blood and baby and Meadow and love and her son is checking the time of birth. “3:27” he says, “Actually, 3:26 and 45 seconds.” He’s right. As soon as her foot was out he was on that clock. He knew. Leave it to a big brother.

Within minutes baby girl was crying, then nursing. She knew what to do. Proud Papi cut the cord. I took pictures with their cell phone. It all happened so fast they left the camera in the car. I hope the pics come out ok. I know I don’t need them, I won’t ever forget this.

I have never witnessed a birth before. Meadow asked me a few months ago if I’d be there for her or her kids or whoever needed what. Of course I agreed. We’ve been friends for 9 years, the family means a lot to me. I never thought it would be like that though. Less than 10 minutes of pushing. I was ready to coach and say sweet encouragements and walk with her in the halls and read to the kids and do so many supportive things. In the end, it was quick and intense. A lot like my girlfriend. She is intense. Why would I think her birthing would be anything other? This baby girl is so loved and beautiful. She looks just like her father. I didn’t want to interfere, so I tried to stay out of the way, but it was hard. I wanted to hold her pretty badly. After an hour or so, Meadow had to empty her bladder, and asked if I’d like to hold the baby while she did. As if I’d say no. Wow. Holding that new, fragile, life in my arms was truly an honor. She’s strong and vocal and lovely. She doesn’t have a name yet, but that’s ok. She has love, the name will come.

Pretentious Poem

Pretentious Poetry,
Pretentious Poems,
Pretentious Poets.
The snake eating
Its own tail.
Some are just myopic.
Peering peripherally,
Well, then its plain as paper.
They don their pretty clothes
- or their not so pretty clothes
Writing words
Attempting to convey
A something.
So sure of their grasp of the language.
And, to what avail?
To impress?
Impress on who, or on what?
We hide behind our words
As others – behind masks.
We profess these to be our Truths.
And confess our depths perceptions.
But is it?
Look closely?
Could it be a decoy?
No really one knows.
And – in the end,
No one cares.
The paper crumbles
- as do we all –
A grave by pauper or prince
Is still a grave.

The Guys Go Fishing

My husband and our friend love to fish. So do I. So do our kids. Its fun and most of us enjoy eating fresh fish. I caught my first two keepers toward the end of the season. Now, I use the phrase “end of the season” very loosely. The reason being, these men are fanatical about fishing. They have spent at least a few hours every weekend since the water froze, ice fishing. I have spent every weekend since the water froze, teasing them. You see, they spend all evening, the night previous to fishing day, preparing their tip ups, lines, and other gear. They usually get 0-3 hours sleep, owing to the fact that they need to be the first ones on the ice, in order to get first pick of the lake. Then they spend the rest of day standing around 6 inch holes, freezing their asses off. They call this fun. They try to get me to join them. They just don’t get it. There is nothing in my genetic make up that thinks this is a good idea. My people are from the desert. My husband, on the other hand, was created to thrive in a cold climate, as some of his ancestors were Swedish. Hell, the cold is probably good for his constitution. More power to him. You just won’t find this woman any where near them if they happen to be standing around on ice.

Each week they go out with high hopes. They know which ponds stock which fish. They are equipped with the appropriate gear. Each week they come home and tell me about the guy who caught a salmon just as they were about to leave or the trout they caught, but didn’t quite land. One weekend they even brought home a few perch, to appease me, but they were barely edible. Too much work for not enough meat. There has to be some equation to make it worth it. For example, sun fish. Most people wouldn’t bother. They’ve heard they’re not good eatin’. Well let me tell you. They are the candy of the lake. So I’m willing to work for the little meat you get, but with perch... Sorry, just doesn’t cut it for me. Pardon me, I digress, I was discussing these gentlemen and their bizarre ritual. As I said earlier, I find it hard not to tease them. What is there to take seriously?

Well I guess today is the day they came home with the answer.

Take a look at these:

They did it!!!

Now that's a fish!

Yumm!!!

I guess they showed me. I don’t mind eating a little crow, especially when it tastes like salmon.

Haiku

Well my friends this is another sad writing day for me. Actually, it is a sad reading day for you. I wrote a beautiful essay. Only I can't share it with you. It was way too personal. Here's the thing, I wrote for a long time, and when it was done, I read it and knew that was for me. Maybe someday I can share it, but for now, that is my gem. For you I have Haiku:


I wrote an essay
Thinking of you the whole time
Reading my fine words

In The Room

The room is empty. I sit, legs crossed, eyes ahead. I am transfixed with the blankness of the wall. The size of it is more than my imagination can grapple with. The entire room is white. There is no door knob. There is no window. There is no bench, or chair, or cushion upon which to sit. I am donned in white; white leggings that cover my feet, a white long sleeve leotard, white gloves and a white hood. I am here voluntarily, though I am now beginning to question my choices. I am forced to face nothingness. As white is the absence of color, so my brain shall become absence of thought. From that, I do not know what will present itself, but I can hope.

No clock in the room. Time begins to change shape. I am lying on my back, legs together, arms tucked in close to my body. I wonder how long I have been here. I feel no hunger, so perhaps it hasn’t been very long. But I have taken too many breathes to know that cannot be so. Time. Why has it become so important to me? I begin to feel an urgency to know what time it is, to know how long I have been here. I look at my wrist as if a time piece will magically appear. I realize I am looking for my sense of time. Like touch is a sense to the hands and sight a sense to the eyes. Where in my body do I sense time?

There is no sound save that of my breath. The walls have been sound proofed. Not just from the outside. I try to scream, but it falls flat. There is no umph in it. No echo. No depth. I’m standing, my belly and ear pressed hard against a wall. I strain to hear something, anything. I do not think I have ever fully appreciated how loud quiet is until now.....It’s deafening.

I can’t figure out where the light is coming from. It’s as if the room is lit by magic.

I’m still thinking.

I’m going back into the dream now.

The Wall

Words are elusive,
Transient beings
Swirling through my mind.
Just when I think I’ve
cornered one,
It slips through the synapses,
Becoming a transparent memory –
Taunting me
Daring my creativity to flow,
An elaborate wall constructed.
Is this
Writer’s Block?

I love to write

I have recently remembered I love writing. The process of stringing words together, in a precise pattern to convey images or feelings is a great deal of fun. Time seems to slip away, as does the world around me. Including all my responsibilities. All that remains is my pen and paper, or screen and keyboard for a more accurate representation, and my thoughts. I feel so at peace. I become the epitome of focus. Nothing can interrupt me. It’s odd, as I have lots of people and animals around me, yet they become two dimensional, as if I had just birthed them into the scene on the screen. Interaction feels scripted and only half (or less) of my attention is there. I’m not sure if this is healthy or not.

For me this is that “thing” that makes time disappear, we each have one. For some it might be painting and to others it's running. For now, this is mine. Yet I'm feeling like this may not be a good thing. The word I am looking for more accurately would be guilt. I feel guilt. Guilt for writing. Guilt for doing something creative. Guilt for not doing something useful. Guilt. It feels so unfair. I rarely do anything just for me, especially if it is something I really enjoy. I’m supposed to be attentive to my family and their needs. Guilt. I’m supposed to be teaching my children. Guilt. I'm supposed to be present. 100% in the moment present. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I should just let it go, right? You’re thinking, “you’re a mother, of course you need some time just for you”. Well let me tell you, so am I.

I have a good excuse for keeping the guilt. I find writing late at night too tedious. After a full day of using my brain, I don’t want to use it anymore. First thing in the morning won’t do, my brain needs a good 2 hour jump start or at least 2 cups of coffee. No, the perfect time for me to be writing, is when I’m supposed to be making dinner. When my family most needs me, I want to check out. That sucks. Like my language? See what guilt does to a person? It reduces people, or at least me, to use crass, base language. I know I need to get over it, but I only just discovered it. Well, I hope it’s the guilt I soon get over and not the writing. I guess only time will tell which will win out.

Maybe I could make this magical time of day, “writing time”, for the whole family and we could all write. Then, as each of us finishes we could join the others in the kitchen and we could all make dinner together. Wow, I may just have figured out how to let the guilt go and keep writing. Did you see the breath of relief I just released? Did you breathe it with me? Yahoo!!!! I love it when stories have a creative, happy ending. Don’t you?

You know they only happen in fairy tales, right?

Caged Love

I say, let me go
Don’t hold me
here
against my will

I say, release me
Freedom from behind
stained glass walls
is fuzzy at best

I say, let me fly
Clipped wings
confine me
to earth

I say, raise me up
Praise me
increase my potential
to change the world

I say, give me space
I am strong
I have a voice
Let me use it

If not,
One day
I will escape
And you
will
be
alone

AAAAARRRRGGGHHHH

I just spent the past hour and half writing and because I didn't pay attention, I clicked the wrong button and lost it all!!!!!! AAAAHHHH!!!! That's me yelling silently so as not to wake up anyone as it is 1:45am. I'll try again tomorrow. Sorry you all have to miss a fabulous piece and instead get this. Didn't mean to take it out on you. It had get released though. Ugh! There, it's done. Till tomorrow.

Going green

My husband and I have a two year old home renovation business. Until now I have done very little for it. I basically type and answer the phone. Not too hard, since we don't advertise or even have a card to hand out. I just sent in an application to register us with the state so we can have a registration number and then I can get our name out there. I only recently became motivated to do something.

You see, this is what he loves. He loves building and design. It leaves him feeling accomplished at the end of most days. This business was not my idea. (I wanted a used book store, but we all know they barely make enough money to stay afloat let alone support a family of four.) In fact two years ago I was looking for a job. I was usually over qualified or under qualified, but I never actually qualified. So three or four months passed when he asked me if I would work with him. I was so excited, for about a week. You see, my husband works alone. He is exceptionally good at what he does and the few times he worked with others, they were unable to meet his high standards. He is orderly and efficient at the work site. He also cleans up after himself every day, leaving the space nice for those who have to live there. If you have ever hired a contractor you know how rare all this is. Anyway, when he asked me to be his business partner I was flattered. We had bought a four family, fixer upper 9 months prior to his proposition. In that time I learned a lot about renovations. He was impressed with how quickly I learned and how accomplished I became. My biggest fault was that I was slow, which can improve over time.

Unfortunately, the reality was, I was still only a secretary. Don't get me wrong, I know how important that role is, as I had been doing it most of my life. I just thought I'd get to do something else for a change, something I was good at. I thought I was going to be on the job site, working side by side doing the renovations. Have you ever demolished a ceiling and then installed a new one? It feels so good. Women, have you ever used a pneumatic nailer or a cordless drill? It is so empowering and a lot of fun too. I loved putting on my tool belt at the start of the day. I thought I had a new career.

It proved to be more difficult than we had imagined. With two children going to school, at that time, a half hour drive from home, it quickly became apparent that I would not be able to be on site as much as I hoped. My first priority in life has been my children since the day I found out I was pregnant. Thus, it seemed one of them (and there are only 2) always needed me. Either for a field trip, a school project, to get picked up due to illness...see where I'm going with this? From there, my new career went down hill. I was back to being a secretary. My heart went out of the business.

We recently made a huge business decision that has my blood pumping again. I'm finding I need to force myself to pay attention to the children and not our business. What is this decision? I bet you guessed by the title. We are going green. When we went to college, my husband studied environmental science and geology. I studied sociology and took as many science courses as I could. We love our planet. The field of home building and renovation creates enormous amounts of waste and uses excessive amounts of energy. This has bothered us so much, we decided to do something about it. We are going to be green renovators. There is so much to learn and it is very interesting. Where things are produced, how far they have to travel, what they are made with, how to dispose of waste, which products are renewable, you get the idea. These are just the tip of the iceberg. I love this feeling. I love the idea that we can make a difference in the world. Helping people to live in a way that will have less of an impact on the planet and doing it in a thoughtful way leaves me feeling good about myself and my career choice, even if I am only the secretary.

The Monarch

As I sped off down the road,
Rain pelting my windshield
I saw the magnificent creature
Only after it was too late.
As the color on the far wiper blade
Caught my eye
My heart sank,
my mind raced.
Is there an appropriate response
When something like this occurs?
I left it there.
I tried not to see it.
Using the wipers only
When I could no longer see the world.
Not so my very dead hitchhiker.
Orange and black,
Orange and black
Flashing brilliant against the grey.
Each swipe of the mechanical arm,
Shredding the delicate remains.

I struggle not to see it...
Not to think about it...
Not to let it in.

It never happened.

In the Carroom

Have you ever noticed that when most people are in their car, they behave as though they are in their homes? They treat their vehicles like another room in the house; there is the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen, the bathroom, the car. It is the only room unavailable to window treatments. If I lived in a glass house without curtains, I’d expect to be looked at by passers by. Yet those sitting in the carroom don’t seem to mind.

The next time you’re a passenger in a car, watch every one else. You may be amazed at what you witness. The rear view mirror is wonderful for primping. People brush their hair, apply makeup, clean food out of their teeth, and check for unsightly objects hanging from their nostrils. They are pleased the car makers were so thoughtful of their needs.

Car makers continued this trend of thoughtful design by creating the cup holder, thus enabling the carroom to double as an eating space. Whole meals are consumed by entire families en route. The upholstery scotch guarded, of course.

There is something very beautiful that happens if you continue to watch. You will experience the bright face of a child looking back. A signal of recognition will be given, perhaps in the form of a hand wave, a protruding tongue or even an obscene gesture. Wave back, react and watch the excitement that ensues. Children are watching even when you think no one is. They do not know boundaries, nor do they care. So the next time you are in your carroom, stop, think, are you doing something you want a child to see?

What does it mean to be a creator?

What does it mean to be a creator? If I create a character and breath life into her, is she real? If I give her shape and love and work and conflict, is she more real? What is real? Does she have experiences, if I give them to her? Am I any more or less real than her? Could I be a character written on a page having the experiences of my author? How do I know that I’m not? What would it be like to realize I’m just someone’s imagination? I’m someone’s written character? Would I be any less real than I was before I figured it out? What an interesting concept. Do I die at the end of the story? If I learned I was written, could I jump to the end to see what happens to me? Would I have any control over the story if I became cognizant of it? Would my observation change everything? What if a reader happened to be there when I made this discovery? Would the words on the page change? Would the reader be there with me? Would the reader be able to observe what was happening to me, or would it be in my own created mind? What if my cognizance happened while I was still being created? What would that mean for the writer? How would the writer experience it? Would I be able to have life off the page? Would I think I had life off the page already? Would I only exist in the minds of those who read about me? Would I then be a runaway creation living in the minds of all who read about me? Would I be able to enter into the collective unconsciousness via my readers?

What if I became bored? What if the scene that was written for me was boring? How would that play out? What if the scene wasn’t boring, but I was bored with it? What if I became bored with the scene as my writer was writing it? Would it be experienced by me and the reader as boring? Or would I space out and not experience it at all while the reader, the observer, experienced it completely. The reader would experience the scene and see my reactions which may be me nodding or uh-humming, but not know where my head really is. How could I know where my head is if my reader and writer don’t know? When we space out, do we know where we just were when reconnecting with here and now?

Would I have the ability to overwrite my author? What if my author wrote for me to say or do something I really did not want to do? Can I change the story? Or at least my own actions? Or would I be forced to behave in a way I didn’t want to? Would I act out the script written for me, while watching from behind my eyes? In what ways would I be able to be autonomous in my behavior? Would I be nothing more than cognizant of my being? Would I be a self aware puppet? How boring. Perhaps I might start out that way, but what sentient being doesn’t grow and change? Therefore as I became more aware of me and my surroundings and the laws that govern them, I’d be more readily able to exert my will upon them. At first, perhaps, it would be in small ways. The ability to change the punctuation of a sentence perhaps. Or would it not work that way all? Would I work behind the words, so to speak. On another level, where the reader can’t or won’t be able to know I know.

What would happen if something were to happen to me? What if my author wrote something tragic? Would I have the ability to change the event itself? Could I alter the direction of my story? Like in lucid dreaming, you can see a person with a knife in their hand and turn it into flowers, would I be able to do that to? Would I only be able to do it if I’m paying attention at the moment of writing? If I caught the writer in the act, would we have a battle of wills over the letters on the page? Would I be completely helpless and at the mercy of my author? Like my author, would I only be able to react/act to the events written for me? Maybe I could control the events, but only in a limited way. Maybe it would take so much of my energy to actually change the events that I would only do it in extreme cases. Maybe I’d never do it and as the saying goes “what doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger”, I’d only become more me.

What if something were to happen to my author before my book was finished? Would I have no ending for my story? What if I was the one who just made that line space occur? Because my writer can’t or didn’t cause it. What if it’s not a glitch in the program but my will? How would a person react to that, huh, writer? What if there is no end? What happens to me? Can I write my own? Can someone else write it for my author? What if more than one person wrote me? How hard would it be to be then?

What do I owe to the reader? What does the reader owe to me? What if it was the reader who was there when I became aware of me? How would that look? Do I even exist if I have no reader? What do I do on the pages when they are closed? If I have form, but only in the mind of the reader or writer, where am I? How can I have form and life if I’m in someone else’s mind? I started in the mind of my writer and was put onto paper to be shared with readers. How many ways do I exist? Do I still exist if the reader forgets me? How can I be an individual if I’m in the minds of so many? ......