expectations and disappointment

everyone struggles with this, I think--the feeling of disappointment when expectations aren't met. so why do we even bother having expectations? I expected a lot from being a mother and I didn't get what I wanted; I expected a lot out of a new relationship I'm in and I haven't really been happy. I am one of those kinds of women who will live on and on with disappointment; it colors my every action. my every thought. Because i have been disappointed a lot. some would say my expectations have always been too high. i beg to disagree. I just think that everyone should do what I want them to do and things would be great. My daughter would be an award winning cross country runner about to get a full ride scholarship to college; she would do the dishes without ever being asked; she wouldn't defy her curfews and every other rule or boundary I set up for her. she would ask me how my day was instead of hibernating in her room. But disappoinment is really a waste of time. So I guess I'll just shut up and live with it.

endings and changes

every part of life has changes and endings and some people adjust better than others. i don't happen to like changes and endings. I get down in the dumps. I analyze until it makes me sick. i feel helpless and hopeless.

jumbles of thoughts

yard sales i like and mean people i do not like.
cats i like and dogs i can put up with.
i like the way the sun casts light across the turqouise carpet
i like to watch people sleep
coffee tastes bitter but good
the car needs an oil change
some people like to dress up in clown clothes
my boyfriend eats ice cream for breakfast
rivers thrill me
i like roller coasters in the evening when its sprinkling hail
the sky is bluer than my daughter's eyes
but all in all
a poem is the greatest invention ever

a new belt, some potatoes, and the sun

i want to write a bunch of details about how my Tuesday has been going but there are so many i am temporarily overwhelmed!!!

Broken hearts

A broken heart is contagious. Because if I have a broken heart, then it passes on to my daughter through my erratic and depressed behavior, my inconsistency, my inability to fully function. Now I have a broken-hearted, down-spirited seventeen year old to help. I am trying.

What to do with a Daughter

What do you do when you realize you and your daughter get along as badly as you and your Mom do? that's a big reality to face. it hurts. i see it every day with my seventeen year old. Every day i know what I face as she turns eighteen: she will just disappear. i won't know where she is, what she is doing, what she thinks. Well, that won't be that much different from now, since i can't say with any truth that I know what she thinks about cause she just doesn't tell me.and when she does tell me something and i give her my take on it, she just gets mad. it's hard. i don't know how to salvage these last few months of her senior year. any advice much appreciated, thank you. send comments to annetibbitts@usa.net

The Grandma Trenkle Trap

what do you do when you think about something all the time but can't get up the nerve or find the right time to bring it up? I am not the only woman who goes through this process. But I am aware of the consequences of keeping something you need to talk about or know about all to yourself. What can happen is that in your mind you start to make decisions and assumptions about what's going on when in fact you don't even have all the necessary information to do that. My Grandma Trenkle used to be like that with her family. She'd start slamming cabinet doors and I'd know something was wrong but when I'd ask her the proverbial "nothing" was her response. So I walk a fine line right now. I see myself falling into the Grandma Trap in my mind, but not acting it out in person. Yet. That's the operative word. I'm in a new relationship that brings a lot of questions to my mind but mostly i'm keeping them to myself trying to wait it out. If I can just stay steady and not ever get to the point of slamming cabinets.

The Relief of a Weight Lifted

I used to keep a cluttered home. Not because i wanted to, just that i had moved so much that I had all sorts of things and collectibles and photos and important papers stuffed into suitcases and footlockers that i intended to go through but just never did. Well, the day came when I had the inspiration and moral support to go through all this junk so I did. It wasn't easy; it wore me out emotionally.Yesterday I slept all day and night I was so tired from the day before. But now I can sit in a whole new living room. I marvel at a room where when I look at it I don't see a single thing that needs to be moved or gone through. No stacks of old suitcases that supposedly looked "shabby chic." No old sentimental footlockers gracing the floors. No more miscellaneous bags or boxes of my old writings. Everything is in its place and it looks fantastic. I almost don't know what to do with myself sitting in a room like that knowing it's clean and uncluttered and settled. That's why I'm back in my cluttered writing area. Sometimes the relief of a weight lifted is just to heavy to bear.

the old suitcases

i recently threw away some old vintage suitcases i had been using for storage and decoration. i had to look through each and every one, touching old writing, old bills, photographs, drawings, junk like old buttons and some dirty pennies. I got through the mess though, caused by years of packing and moving, packing and moving, and decided to throw out the suitcases all together. Well, my seventeen year old daughter had a fit. which is terribly ironic since she hasn't liked the "martha stewart vintage suitcase" look ever. But she thought someone influenced me to throw them away. i had to set her straight--that wasn't the case! I finally had the moral support, reason, inspiration and physical energy to go through everything and consolidate a bunch of stuff into two Rubbermaid plastic tubs that now hold my life souveniers safely and dry under the house. My daughter's dream is coming true--we're going to have a "real" living room. she just doesn't know much of what it's like to have a dream come true.

Autumn Letter

It's easy to get excited about the fall season. Cool weather, falling leaves, fires, hot coffee on the patio, acorns falling everywhere. There will be hunting and fishing. there will be walks in the woods. there will be days spent with open windows and cool autumn air flowing into the kitchen while homemade cookies bake for ten minutes in a hot oven. there will be time to explore your grandpa's farm with all its mystery, beauty, and good memories for you. There will be jackets and sweaters and a red plaid Vermont snow coat to look forward to. An old green cardigan. Sturdy shoes. Lots of homemade soup and bread. Our first fall season together. Going to the woods and the lakes. fishing poles and guns. Homemade sandwiches and a thermos full of hot coffee. the memory of wearing orange a distant thought far away. Birds will flock to the feeder, rabbits will jump to the sound of your feet in the woods, water will trickle just to delight your senses. there will be rainy cool afternoons spent under the quilts, talking. there will be snow to wait for!
This will be an Autumn of Great Love!!! Thank you in advance...

Idea City!!!

Ideas come to me like lightbulbs turning on all day long. It wears me out. I love to feel creative, don't get me wrong; but when ideas come faster than what you can possibly do with them that's when things get tough. I've got a new idea for yet ANother book I want to write called The Trailer Diaries about two bi-polar mothers who forge a close friendship. I have all the raw material necessary to write the book, but the thought of dredging through old memories and experiences just wears me out. It's a necessary book, though, because there's not one like it on the market already; I've done some research and discovered that much. So let's see what I can get going on that new idea this week. At least i can try.

love glows

i love fried poataoes and rain on a winter tin roof. Cats are good too, and so is love. Life with love in it takes on a whole new meaning. Everything shines. Everything glows. The sky looks huge like a full moon and rain feels like snowflakes in spring. Love is like a melted snowman in february, a new batch of homemade cookies, a fresh pot of coffee. i love love. do you?

at a loss for ideas

at a loss for ideas. umbrellas and fried potatoes. too many random unconnected thoughts. the beginning of a new book that just went flat cause a couple people said they didn't like it. bad coffee. watching tv re-runs.waiting for a new life to begin on saturday. bills to pay and where will the money all come from worries even at the beginning of the month. unpublished poems everywhere and half started novels. my favorite color used to be orange, now I just feel blue.

The Difference A Garage Makes

I was thinking about garages last night, and how they come in all shapes and sizes. Even a carport would be nice. I have never lived anywhere with a garage. Now maybe that seems unremarkable, but since I am now 48 years old, I have to look back over my life and ask "Why?" Why have I never lived in a place with a garage? Garages afford a private place to do laundry, work on the car, store the artificial Christmas tree...store the recyclables, have a sale! Garages seem to be success symbols to my eyes. People who have garages are protected from the weather when going to and from their car. People who have garages, especially attached ones, live a strangely luxurious life, I think. I hope by the time I am 58, I can look back at this blog entry and say "Well, that was written BEFORE I ever had a garage!!!" Then, i will consider myself to have "arrived."

Mothers and Daughters

Much has already been written about the often stormy relationships between many mothers and daughters. There are self help groups, books, and websites designed to coach mothers through the difficult teenage years, for example, but those too can go out the window when all of a mother's buttons get pushed by her teenage daughter who knows everything. An emotional Catastrophe can take place. Yelling. Crying. Accusing. Blaming. Retracting. Fury and Loathing. Resentment. Gut-wrenching honesty. Explosive family drama doesn't just happen in the movies or in books. It happens every day in a household with a seventeen year old girl and a worried 48 year old mother. What is more frustrating to an experienced 48 year old woman than to have to listen to the rantings of a seventeen year old convinced she knows everything. It's horrible to live through that kind of torment. It truly tears into the hearts of all concerned. It gives you a headache, the kind you get after sobbing for an hour. It gives you courage, the kind you get after discovering some of the truth behind the teenager's comments. It gives you a heartache, the kind you get after a word-fight that cuts to the core and leaves scars even after its supposedly healed. And at what price do these kinds of emotional explosions occur? What toll do they take on all concerned? It's terrible to realize that you are just like your mother: stubborn, unforgiving, blame-filled, and angry. When will these generational atrocities just stop? When can the healing begin? After an emotional catharsis in a family, the only thing to do is laugh, hug, smile, and try to make it as smoothly as possible to the next episode. It's life in a powder keg, this mother daughter stuff is.

Transitions

Transitions get overlooked in our fast-paced society. Taking time to move from one phase of life to another is an important but often overlooked and underrated process. Many people just gloss over the seams that hold the fabric of relationships together. Some relationships are glued together, some pinned, some taped, some sewn, some bound forever. But all relationships involve transitions and the transitions ought to be respected and even revered for their specialness. Take the time to honor transitional periods of life.

Who Will Be Your Baby's Daddy?

My daughter is seventeen and is making some questionable choices about boys she likes. I thought of something new to explain to her today as I was thinking about it for a long time: choose a guy to date based on whether you think he would make a good father to your children. It may sound old-fashioned or weird, but what's wrong with using this standard to measure potential dates by? If teenagers did use this standard, maybe they would think before they act. Actually, you don't have to be a teenager to use this standard. Women of all ages get pregnant and have children, so maybe if we all thought this way fewer children would be born into homes with no decent father. My daughter basically grew up without a father in her life. She has one, but he has always lived in Hawaii and we don't see him much--which is actually a good thing. Suffice it to say that if I had applied the same standards I am trying to teach her to myself seventeen years ago, i guess i wouldn't be writing a blog to my daughter, now would I?

a new character--Olivia

Olivia was a basket case the morning she found out her dog had been hit by a car. She went ahead and made coffee because she knew Barney was coming over to visit. Barney would know what to do about burying her dead dog. She couldn't just leave the dead dog to the spot by the tree where she had dragged it. Barney liked his coffee strong and black so she set out to grind some French Roast beans and fill the coffee pot with filtered water. Olivia's medicine sat on the kitchen table untouched. She knew she needed to take it--it had been four days since she had taken her last dosage.Sometimes she just didn't care. But now she had reached a crisis point. Four days with no medicine and a bright beautiful morning only to discover her dead dog on the road by the circle drive. Should she take it as an omen? No, it wasn't time to over react. She just needed to drink some coffee and visit with Barney.

Writing About Love

Love is an action, a hope, a longing, an excitement, an adventure, a thrill, something to look forward to, something to share. Love is about togetherness, uniqueness, beauty, and grace. Love is also about sadness, disappointment, anger, the need for privacy, and misunderstanding. So all these things may be taken into consideration when writing love poems and love letters. Not everything you write needs to be shared. Sometimes just the act of writing itself can be helpful. But if you think you want to share your love writings, then use lots of specific details and sensory descriptions. Exaggerate. Embellish. Really go all out. Use your experiences and your imagination together to build and create some awesome love writings. Make stuff up. Let yourself just make stuff up. It won't be easy at first because most of you are inclined to want to tell only the truth, but you have to elevate your writing to a new level when writing to or for a loved one. And remember that your love writing might be shared with others someday. Good writing always is.

A Writer's Office

A writer's office is a very personal space. Much goes into the decorations, the chair, the table, what is on the walls, and such. My office sort of evolved over a period of months. Now, I have dismantled it all by moving--again--so I have to start from scratch and the first decision I have to make is where to put my table and chair and computer. I know I don't want i to be right by the TV where it is now cause it's in the way there. I haven't felt at home in my office since i moved and i think it's because i haven't put the stuff in order yet. That has to be this week's priority. An office can only become productive when it suits the writer to a T. Or is that just another excuse i make up for not being able to write consistently? Only time will tell.

Chapter about Barney

Barney's Grandpa had raised him. Every Sunday, Barney and his Grandpa went to church riding in an old yellow Pinto. Grandpa was a tall man and it was hard for him to crunch his legs behind the wheel of a Pinto but he had got the car at an auction for twenty five bucks and it ran good and got excellent gas mileage and if Grandpa was anything he was practical and he'd always say it wasn't too much for a man to suffer a little discomfort in order to save a few bucks on the outrageous price of gasoline in the United States of America. Grandpa was a veteran. He'd served his time in the Army and had helped fight to preserve freedom and he was proud of that but he was also bitter about the fact that when he came back from the war his government didn't do more to honor what he'd lost to help them gain. Going to church though, grandpa told Barney one Bible quote after the other to impress upon his grandson that it wasn't right to let yourself get too caught up in the workings of the U.S. Government and that he should just remember that Jesus died on the Cross for all of us imperfect sinners and that no matter how bad things might seem to be, there was always hope cause of Jesus.

The Letting Go

Letting go of memories, people, material possessions, animals, attitudes...all can be difficult to do. It is the letting go that makes us whole again, though. Sometimes holding on to something immaterial or material can bring a person down and the only way to lighten the load is to let go of something. The more I practice this belief the healthier i feel; I also feel happier.

friendships...again

It's a Friday of a long, long last couple of weeks. Yesterday i wrote about the emotional disasters of friendships and today i am still living it. I think it's always hard to have a friendship between three women. Unless you are always on three way conference call things get said from one to one to the other and who knows what was REALLY said. So much depends on interpretation and perception. So much depends on how afraid you are of confrontation and conflict, too. I tend to want to avoid it, as most sensible people do, but lately I am in the middle of a bunch of it and i just don't like how that makes me feel. It robs me of my creative edge, my emotional energy and my mood starts to get low. I worry a lot. I fret. I over analyze. I try to make amends when i really don't want to just because i hate the feeling of ill will. It's not easy to break up a "girlfriendship." And why is that? Why is it easier to just leave a guy in the dust but not be able to even start the car to get away from a girlfriend? I know it's not very courageous or even honest to just not answer the phone, but that seems the easiest way in this day and age of "voicemail." Now I am faced with the idea of just taking a breather from the friendship to see what it is that settles after all the dust leaves. I need to understand what my true feelings are in order to take any or no action. But it feels so urgent, so much like I have to know right now exactly what to do....I'll have to continue my analysis and follow my heart, I guess. All I really know is I want to get back to writing poetry and writing my love novel about Lily and Hunter and their school bus life. Those have got to be my priorities....

The Emotional Disasters of Friendship

When a natural disaster strikes, people are often caught without warning; and so it is with emotional disasters of friendship. I've lived through one recently with two of my best friends and the recovery process is proving difficult yet interesting. Even though I am almost 48 years old, I still have a lot to learn about friendship, loyalty, healing, grief and love.

When does a person decide that enough is enough? How many times does a person feel they have to be loyal to a friend but their heart tells them differently? And aren't friendships breaking up just as hard as any other relationship?

How does a person know when their "I'm really sorry" is genuine or just meant to make the other person feel good?

These are some of the issues I struggle with on a daily basis and soon want them to come to an end, a resolution. I have decided that some things aren't worth reconstructing after a disaster, as hard as it is to let them go.

Circus

Sometimes a bluesky day overrepresents itself.
The short circuits aren't crackling in ways
the electric company can fix.
Instead, the mind pulses on
complicated and frantic.

The tight rope walker goes
off to the left and falls
The bear comes down
off his ball and cries
The tiger roars to his own tune
and then bites the head
off his trainer and escapes onto Main Street
where he is promptly shot
by rather impervious deputies.

The blacktop is bleeding and broken into clumps
from where the elephants made their truths known.
One guy who jingle jangles their trunks full of old peanuts
turns beet red when the kids ask why he's whipping Dumbo.

this poem first appeared in Green Hills Literary Lantern

Riversongs

One
You rose from a river to find me in the confusion of woods
I took to you quickly like the way a summer thunderstorm
Just sweeps in and before you know it you're caught in an unexpected
Downpour that you don't mind getting soaked by.
Glue my feet to the earth
For a while so I have a chance to see if I can stand.

Two
I see you by the campfire in your plaid shirt
Your hair glows with the warmth of open flame
Your eyes are like a river to me.

Three
I see the full moon bright through the river trees
High up as we wait for the 6:30 whistle
Our waders baptized
By the small wave of trout fin
Oh so lovely to be in
that depth with you.

Four
You always were a wild boy in your Heart.
When I see that in you I begin to wonder can I
Start becoming a wild girl, wearing my waders
With sparkly earrings and pink lipstick in my pocket
But still putting the bait on my own hook,
Still slitting my own fishes throat.

Five
Let's cash in all our fool's gold and tell each other the stories
We both know so well about the times we lost our way
In the river but rose again from foam and current to piece together a survival.
We can thrive in the thrill of just living, breathing being
A grace we always before took for granted.

The Value of a Man

In my life as a woman, I have met and talked to a great number of men who are afflicted by something very sad, almost yes even tragic: the feeling that as men they are failures. Not because they are indecent, insincere or horrible people--but because they don't have a fancy car, big paying job, enough hair left on their head, or they are cursed to be 5'6" in a 6 foot tall man's kind of world.

So many of these men are hurting inside, silently and yet desperately flailing to keep from drowning in the seas of their presumed failures. They filter everything through their feelings of failure to "measure up" often never acknowledging their true gifts and abilities and what they actually do have to offer. Many remain unpaired, unmarried, and "homeless" in their hearts.

An excerpt from a Pablo Neruda poem captures the essence not of men's failures, but the failures of those who value the outward, not the inner:

What a pity that I have nothing to give you except
the nails of my fingers, or eyelashes, or
pianos melted by love
or dreams which pour from my Heart in torrents,
dreams covered with dust,
dreams full of velocities and misfortunes

I can love you only with kisses and
poppies, with garlands wet with rain


What a pity that I have nothing to give you except the nails of my fingers: working fingers to the bone, digging a driveway by hand, with a shovel in the rain, not paying for a big bulldozer to come in and do the work in an hour, but digging and moving rock by hand because that is the physical urge of a man, to feel rain drizzling on his face, his muscles working for a necessary purpose,not just pumping iron in a closed up sweaty gym.

What a pity that I have nothing to give you except pianos melted by love: that someone could play music so intensely, with fingers led by a muse so strong and full of life and love that the piano itself would just melt.

What a pity that I have nothing to give you but Dreams which pour from my heart in torrents: that a man could profess and share his innermost thoughts and dreams without fearing judgement for not achieving them yet. To hear a man talk at length for hours on a midnight phone about his boyhood dream of one day becoming an astronaut. Flying to the moon to blow his mother a kiss. The dreams can be enough without having to back them up with a three thousand dollar a month paycheck, or by trophies, plaques, or awards.

I can love you only with kisses and poppies. I can't give you jewelry or a split-level home with new wall to wall carpet--only kisses. I know of many women married to wealthy men who have all the gadgets and niceties and yet--no kisses to give. Love you only with kisses--who does not want the kisses? What is a diamond necklace next to the thousands of kisses that could sparkle in a lover's eyes?

What a pity indeed that so many men nowadays have none of this poetry to give. That they judge themselves by their financial worth, their investments, their Ira's. The greatest failure of all is to be valued by outward successes, not inner ones.

When will men and women alike see that it is the gift of poetry, of genuine expression of dreams shared and kisses and "garlands wet with rain" that truly make a man worthwhile? When will people wake up to the fact that there ARE women in this world who want the kisses and the pianos melted by love and the dreams full of velocities and misfortunes?

The Last First Day of School

I woke up this morning to realize that in two days my seventeen year old daughter will experience her last first day of school. She will be a senior this year and will graduate May of 2011. Where did all the years go? Of course I know I am not the only mother to wonder this, but it feels like I am. My feelings are mixed. I am happy that she has made it this far, yet I wish she were still ten. I wish she were still playing clarinet in the seventh grade band or running cross country in ninth grade or singing in the sixth grade choir or asking me to bring cupcakes to her fifth grade Halloween Party. What about all the beautiful Christmas pageants she has been in? What about her little backpack jiggling as she ran to catch the big yellow school bus? What about running in the door after school to give me a big hug and say so proudly "I have homework!!!!" The years have passed fastly by and now I am facing her very last first day of school. I want to throw a big party. I want to buy her a card. I want to get her a car, a cadillac, a limo, her own big yellow school bus. But I guess it's just another rite of passage, a time to reflect, to remember, to think back and to realize there is still time to enjoy one last school year.

Poem About Leon Hall--my Uncle

On Sunday's when we'd go visit
he was almost always in the barn.
Sometimes he'd let me go in circles
with the horse walker inside the big
white barn round and round with his
Tennessee Walkers to cool them down
after riding or to exercise winter muscles.

Uncle Leon would come into the house
bringing the aroma of hay and mud and
grass and horse and he'd have to duck
his head through the short little kitchen
door into a room warm with Aunt Mary's
banana nut date bread and the sweet of ripening
peaches from the orchard just down hwy 21.

Breathing him in was like a field of wildflowers
and wind. He was a gracious man.

Leon Hall had a big heart and a bigger laugh
that came from way deep down. He loved his horses.
his family, and the big openness of the grassy fields
and trees of Bridle Ridge Acres.

When a man like Leon Hall would sweep you into a hug
and carry you piggyback around the twelve foot long
dining room table it felt like Christmas morning,
like a star had fallen from the sky,
lighting everything.

I think he made a lot of people feel that way.
You knew you were in the presence of someone Great
someone respected, a man who loved big,
a man who had the gift of vision
and a knack for making other people's dreams
come true. Leon Hall had charisma, an energy,
a rare kind of beauty--

And everyone who holds a memory of Leon Hall
they know how precious each reminisce is.
He was a true Southern Gentleman,
so few like him left
on this Earth and in this world.
There will never be another Leon Hall.

Do you sometimes when you dream of heaven
hear his big laugh and see his smile and
those twinkling eyes and hear the clickety clack
of an old Tennessee Walker gaiting across the clouds?

Betty's Orioles

Come in flying with clouds and wind
they look for the oranges, grape jelly,
the oriole feeder, and Betty.

She puts up lace curtains then watches
through the panels to see her orioles
wind down their flight
for a month of heaven
before they fly all the back to Baltimore.

Do they know what a haven
they have been coming to
all these years?

Bird mommies tell the story
to their babies and when the newbirds
arrive, Betty's greetings dot
the yard all over with orange,
the solicitation of loyalty,
and a love of birds
that even Audobon couldn't match.

lily's coffee cup

Lily's favorite coffee cup sat on the old quilted placemat she had once put together by hand when they first moved to the schoolbus life. Hunter had said it was time for them to leave the craziness and hypocrisy of the world and to go make their own life together. Lily was all for that. Her life as a teacher was over; she was so tired of all the work, the grading, the reading, the senselessness of teaching people how to write research papers. She was glad to go. More people should, she thought.

jail friends

Everybody on the inside needs somebody on the outside. That's true. Make a pact with your friend to accept your collect calls from jail just in case you ever happen to end up there--unexpecteds like that do happen to people. You have to research which phone service the facility uses to accept collect calls on a cell phone, but it can be done so just have patience and realize how worth your effort is is to someone who feels they have no contact with the world. Also, inmates in jail, not prison, but jail, need people to put say 20 or 40 bucks on their commissary account so they can buy paper, stamps, envelopes, to write to loved ones. Some inside don't have anyone on the outside they can write to, so adopting a jail pen pal is not a bad idea either. You can find out how by contacting your local sheriff's office or city jail. Just ask how you can write to current inmates and have your letter delivered to a man or a woman. Just write current events and things you think about--inmates on the inside crave news of the outside and in jails there aren't any TV sets. Jail is a whole different world than prison is and not enough people know that. So make yourself aware and do something about this ongoing problem. Did you know that people who get arrested at home don't even get to change clothes before they are cuffed and led out? That means some people in jail don't have proper clothes, socks, underwear, tee shirts, etc. So think about this issue. It's worth some thought.

Hunter returns home...

Hunter looked at himself in the mirror and stopped, suddenly. I don't even remember who you are, Lily. I don't remember you. He instantly panicked. Hunter had become a successful businessman after getting out of jail for going on a rampage after Lily died. His stash of money had come in handy; he invested well and had been living a worldy life in society as a hob knobber, ever the popular guy that he always had been. The mirror told him to go home, to go back to the schoolbus, back to where Lily was, to a place he could find himself again. He looked at his fancy clothes and felt a sense of shame overwhelm him. He needed to go home. He tied up some loose ends and got in the car for the five hour drive to the river, back to where he had been the happiest in his life. when Lily was alive, when Lily was so ready to give birth to their first child. Oh, Lily, he thought as he sped down the backroads, Lily I am so sorry but now I am coming back home to you. Wait for me, wait, I'm on my way. Hunter shook his head. No, Lily wouldn't be waiting with fresh bread and a fruit salad and a good hot cup of coffee. Lily was gone. Gone. She could not return. Oh those days when Hunter would be on the river....knowing Lily was back at the schoolbus fiddling in the garden or crocheting something new for the baby to come. Sometimes she would spend hours just walking and taking photographs. If not for Lily's photographs being so popular and such good money makers, they would not have been able to fund their life away from society, but somehow they managed to exist mostly from the river and the land and the garden and the bread and the great artesian well water just a walk away from their kitchen bus. Hunter was lost in thought as he drove closer to the homeground. He saw the road, the driveway, and turned. It felt like a million miles until he saw the first bright look at yellow. His old bus. He parked, got out of the car, started to walk to his old home and then fell to the ground weeping. My God, he said aloud, he yelled, My God why did you let this happen? When he woke up an hour later, he was spent, tired, weary and in need of a hot meal. He pried open the door to the kitchen bus. How could everything look the same, he wondered? Was he caught in some kind of time warp? Would Lily magically appear now and welcome him home like she used to with her bright smile and sweet kiss? To be in her arms again was all Hunter wanted. He started a small fire and made some coffee. He put some beans to cooking and found some deer jerky to tide him over until his meal was ready. Hunter was home again. He knew he would never leave. The world would have to do without him again. He had a story to tell, a story that needed to be heard. He would start from scratch again alone. He became the wilderness king then and vowed never to leave the grounds where his precious and beautiful Lily was buried. That kind of love could sustain him even through his loneliness. He would be fine. He would thrive. The sound of boiling water and the smell of northern beans brought him back to the bus, to his real time thoughts. Just eat for now he told himself. The rest will take care of itself.

jail talk continued

I know, I remember, he said tenderly. Lily moved up closer to Hunter as the wind had picked up. Do you think we can make it upriver in this wind, she asked him. Of course she already knew it was a dumb question: with Hunter, all things were possible. He just had a way about him of getting through whatever came up. Yeah, we'll make it he reassured her. Then ice began to fall from the sky. It's hailing, it's hailing, Lily shouted. Hurry and get us to shore! And they rode that way, next to each other under a falling ice sky all the way back to the schoolbus, to their home, their haven, their world. There, nothing, no one, could or would intrude. They had set themselves off from the world and they loved each other and they had woodstoves, and a nice kitchen bus and warm blankets and quilts and three cats. They listened to music every morning with their coffee and then at night before lying down in each other's arms, they'd listen to music again and fall into a world of their own making.

Jail talk

They fell in love while he was in jail, over the phone. It wasn't that they hadn't already loved each other, just that they spoke it when he was in jail. Lily would have done anything to get Hunter out but there was a 10,000 cash only bond and her hands were tied. Hunter understood. He knew Lily would stand by him through just about anything he could throw at her.She loved Hunter with all her heart. She remembered their first meeting--opening day of trout season. She noticed him fishing near where she was and later in line to claim a prize, they spoke to compliment each other's catches. They traded names and numbers right away; they felt an instant attraction. Their love had blossomed slowly but beautifully and now, now Lily was going to give birth! A home birth, too, all natural, in the water, artesian water. They swam daily for pleasure and exercise, the river being their second home, their precious and cozy schoolbuses being their first.
Lily, what are you thinking about? Hunter asked out of his usual curiosity. Nothing much, just about how it was for me when you were in jail. How you'd call me collect twelve times a day just to say hello. I love you very much, Lily, you'd say.
to be continued....this was just a freewriting trying to get back into the new story....

the issue of names

i've been thinking all day about names to call the characters and so far I have come up with for the guy Crane, Hunter, Aaron, Bill, and for the woman, Lily or Emily. I think I like Lily and Hunter. When he was ten, they called him Hunter. When he was twenty, he was living as a hunter. to be continued.....stay tuned Okay I'm back. Now, today I thought of using the name Stone. ALso, title of the novel could be The River Junkie. It would have a double meaning cause the characters have drugs in their lives--prescription medication for chronic pain. that would be another theme in the novel--the issue of chronic pain and all its ways of impacting a person's life as well as all the people in that person's life. I think I will use the name Lily for the woman. And she was so much like a flower, like a strand of sunlight beaming onto a blossom. she was beautiful like no one else. Inside and out. Dialogue. Background info. I feel overwhelmed again, as if i am good about coming up with ideas but just cannot follow through. why not, anne? Because you are lazy? Troubled? conflicted? Unmotivated? I see the way I want to live and I write about it but in reality I don't even cook dinner every night! I live in a fantasy world, that much is true. That's what I am trying to organize onto paper, into words. There is so much advice I need and want. I am going to call Joe Benevento or write to him. I am sure he will have some things to say. Need a mentor right now, and lots of moral support and a clear direction. Let the housework go in the name of writing. Let the dishes gather crust; let the vegetables in the fridge go rotten. All in the name of trying to write. All without any clearcut knowledge of what the outcome and possible profit to me would be. I need to consult the writer's marker, so that's what I will do next. to be continued

Uh-Oh and social relevance of new novel

Uh Oh. I wanted to title the novel The Riverking but after I had my heart set on that I researched the title on Google and found out that alice hoffman already wrote a mystery murder novel of that title which has already been made into a movie. So I need to talk to some knowledgeable people about whether I can use the same title. I have heard that titles themselves cannot be copyrighted. this is a bummer because my play called Fool's Gold can't be called that anymore either since there was a major movie out a couple years ago by that title....well more research is needed plus I have to come up with back up titles. As for the social relevance of the novel, some of the themes are going to deal with Americans with disabilities, the stereotypes and stigmas, the politics of disability, the disappearance of spirituality and religion from many contemporary American's lives, the legalization of marijuana, drug use and abuse, alcoholism, interpersonal relationship success and self-help, and the struggle within many people, especially men, about being part of larger society and keeping a regular haircut and job versus going back to nature and living in the wilderness.

The Riverking

When I was at the creek earlier, I got inspired by the sight of water, sound of water, trees, fish swimming, the sky so blue, the sun, the kingfisher bird i saw....I was thinking about the novel idea and some of the descriptions for each schoolbus setting, and the reasons why they decided to go live by the river. Well, when should the part about her getting bit by the water moccasin and dying in his arms in the river be in the organization of the novel? Halfway through so the last part is all about how the man becomes The Riverking after he loses the woman in the river. He withdraws completely from society, has his supplies brought in once every few weeks by an old friend.....he lives mostly though on fish he catches every day.And then one day he decides to go back to the world from which he came. He shaves and cleans up and gets some clothes and shoes for going to town. He goes to visit his parents. He applies for a job. He goes to a Starbucks. He buys a telescope. He rents a one bedroom loft and starts taking nature photographs and selling them to National Geographic and such. And then he looks in the mirror one day and doesn't remember who she used to be. That scares him so he drives out to the schoolbus property in his nice clothes and he goes to her gravesite and somehow that's where it ends with a montage of their lives together, what he had, what he lost, and the question is will he go back to town or stay in the schoolbus world again?

setting for the novel...

the main setting takes place on a piece of property above the river on some bluffs with lots of trees and flowers and a huge garden fenced in by a fence they built to keep some critters out. Three old schoolbuses are organized together to create a three part dwelling: one bus is hers, one is his, and then the community bus where there is a big kitchen and lots of hanging plants and a nice old oriental rug well worn but expensive that they got at an auction for only twenty bucks. Each schoolbus has an awning built over the front door so they can go outside and sit even when it's raining. Each bus has a small woodstove and when all three are cranked up in the coldest cold of winter everything inside is toasty and warm, very cozy. The floors of the buses are hardwood that they installed little by little from scraps at people's houses where they worked together sometimes doing odd jobs when they could.
The river property is in the midwest, in Missouri, in Washington county. The name of the river is Big River. They have a small boat with an outboard and two canoes and a kayak stored in a shed they built away from the schoolbus homes. the year is 2010. They have lived at the river for five years. There is lots of background about the stories of each of the characters' lives, but the main part of the novel is centered around what takes place at the river and then of course the ending is tragic and sad but beautiful nonetheless. People read it; people watch the movies like that. It's possible that I have been sitting on a gold mine with some of my love stories and just didn't take them seriously enough to try to finish them and send them out. Those days are about to come to an end. Next I have to sketch out some plot lines and some character sketches to flesh out the people's backgrounds. Plus I have to come up with good names for them and a name for the town they go shopping in. Both characters are disabled, too, so there is a political element to the novel in that they face stigma in society for their disabilities so that contributed to why they set up their lives at the river. So exciting and so much more to come!!!!

a vision

They lived by the river in three old schoolbusses. Yellow ones at the beginning, but now custom painted and decorated. Hers was filled with art and flowers, his with trophy fish and taxidermized deer. They lived in harmony with nature, eating things they grew in a huge garden and fresh fish and meat like squirrel and once in a while even opposum. It was a beautiful life until when she was eight months pregnant and they were swimming in the river she got bit by a water moccasin and they couldn't make it to the hospital and she died in his arms in the river and like the great hunter that he was he cut out her heart and buried it in a tin in the dirt. It's my new idea for a novel. I'm working out who the characters are, how they get to a place called schoolbusville. How they get along and interact. I don't even think I know how to write a novel. I just write a lot of descriptive stuff and it doesn't go anywhere. I don't know what to do, how to proceed. I guess to just freewrite for a while and see what happens. I don't know if I should incorporate the school bus by the river idea into my last attempt at a novel with Barney and Lisa in what I titled The Crazy of Wind. Maybe that's how the old story would end. With her dying in his arms in the river. How tragic and how sad it is that readers thrive on stuff like that. It's partly why I have resisted my natural ability to write that kind of story because I don't want to promote unrealistic fantasy of love type thinking because I think that damages women's abilities to have realistic relationships with men....that has always been my experience, my theory. But some are encouraging me to just write what I know, so I'm going to use my blog for that for a little while and see how that works out.

I love the peace and silent noise of water

slippers in sunlight

A pair of old slippers in a square of sunlight brought such joy to my yesterday but I forgot to write my blog so I'm writing it today instead. I know I am behind; I have set some goals that I do not seem capable of reaching. I can't understand why I am so unable to focus on my writing. It confuses me. I am a good writer and i like to write so why am I avoiding it or failing to do it everyday? I can't really call myself a writer, can I? My friends say I am a writer anyway, but there are a couple of friends I know of like Joe Benevento who would say that if I wanted to write i would just write and not write about not writing!!!

Slippers in a square of sunlight, oh you have walked on many floors, carpets, dirt, tents...you have been part of my life for more than twenty years. I have taken you to all the places in this world I have traveled to. I have worn you with boots to hide you but still felt comfort from you deep inside the boot!

MY daughter is coming home in a week; she has been with her Grandma visiting. I bought us a tent and am equipping us for camping and fishing this summer. It's her last summer before turning 18 next year. This year will be her seventeenth birthday which just blows my mind, actually, since I still see her and hear her at every young little age she used to be....I have loved her all along and am really looking forward to the summer. And to writing every day I can. Which should be EVERY DAY.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day means so many different things; everyone focuses on their own version of the holiday, so let me focus on my version. Of course I am grateful to all the veterans who gave their lives, but I am also grateful for all the people I have known in my life, some of whom I would like to mention here in my Memorial Day blog:

my parents, Ken Gardzinski, Mike Slowey, Ben Hill, Jacquie Fortner, Starr Hawk, my mom, my daughter, Geoff, and that's all I can think of for now....

Oh, to be young again! Memories of youth surround us on Memorial day. We don't just think of those who gave their lives, but of those who lives were given to us in the form of friendship and love. We must remember our past and pay homage to those who have influenced us, helped us, hurt us, been a part of our memories. On Memorial Day, we must practice remembrance.

I fly the flag of memory everyday but on this day it billows and flows in the wind of my mind.

rivertrip

For me, it was almost like going to the moon. The sounds, the water, the fish I caught. A very good time. The friends, the campfire, the hooks, the split-shots, just everything.

where have i been?

So much has been going on that I have been in a state of writing paralysis but today i make myself write no matter what. About an idea for a new writing called The Pill Hunter or something like that but its about a man who goes from society after a tragic life altering event to live from the river and woods. And I need to write about being a writing teacher and about being a mother and about valuing female friendships and about falling in love at any age and about the beauty of container gardening. About standing someone up for a date, about getting really drunk and blacking out, about eating french toast for breakfast, going to dig for worms and coming back emptyhanded, about getting a vintage outboard for a boat, and so much more. There is where I will focus my writing. I must try so much harder to be faithful and write everyday this summer. I have been out of school for two weeks now and in a haze of daze and mindfog. But here I emerge with a new mission and a slew of new topics. I don't know if I will post pictures with each post or not. That was fun but limiting. And off we go, again!

still life with rabbit fur

i like taking still shots because they are just that--still. what's wrong with being still, anyway? Sometimes that's the best thing to do is just be still and do nothing.A poem may emerge uncaught by the brain but sent right through the keyboard. An old friend might call unexpectedly. Maybe someone will knock on the door to deliver a poster of the Eiffel Tower in snow. A cup of coffee might appear at the front door, as well as a book, perhaps. So being still has its merits. I spend too much time being still, I think. But I like to hear birdsong and that comes from being still.

the nature of a poem

I got the bad news about a poem I have spent a lot of time on. One of my poet friends doesn't like it, doesn't think it resonates, doesn't think it's finished. I'm not upset about the fact of his critique, just that I had spent so much time on it and was happy with the progress and evolution. Now I have about five different revisions of the poem, different versions from when I cut and pasted and changed and moved and re wrote. I think the next step is to give out the two most finished versions to several different people and see what the reaction is. After all, it's not just one person's opinion or judgement that matters, right? If that were the case, who would ever get published? Who would keep trying? I need to let that poem see the light of the day, get into the public's hands, be read by eyes other than mine. That's the nature of a poem anyway.

Sweet Dream Poem

is this a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare? song lyric by Beyonce'

Pinch me cause I don't feel like what I feel is real
My heart is like a rock all heavy and full of crevices
where things hide and aren't visible to the human eye

Won't you take a sledgehammer and break me apart?
You can do this; I trust you.
You have navigated and hiked and traversed through worse
It won't be that bad! We might even find my heart
is made of cotton candy and things can be real real sweet.

Not full of the old hurt, the suitcases stacked high
to the ceiling busting through and going halfway to the moon.
I thought I dropped those hurts long ago
But when I think of you and how my heart is like a rock

I have to wonder if this is a sweet dream
or a beautiful nightmare. Glue my feet to the Earth
for a while so I have a chance to see if I can stand.

The Yellow Truck Easter Poem

When I see this yellow truck, I think of Sunshine in the mountains, of gorgeous rivers, streams, creeks, drybeds, and the ocean. I see animals everywhere riding in the back of the truck like it's a circus wagon on the way to the train station. These wheels can take you anywhere. To the moon if that's where u want to go. To your friend's house for Easter Dinner that was made by people in bad moods so you aren't even sure if you want to eat the food. You can get away from everything and everyone in this truck, just go, just be, just fly. It's a yellow poetry truck, another one, and in the bed lies a little poem:

Easter Sunday in the Fountain City

I think I am walking boldly around on dangerous ground
But I like it so I won't take myself away for now I won't run
Like I'm used to doing, wanting to go fast with every fiber
Of my delicate being, afraid, scared like a spider on the wall.

I have forgotten how to be a woman because I never really knew how
in the first place, from the first time when i wasn't ready and never could
catch up from that. In my fourth decade, I can imagine, but not remember.

I feel like slicing a piece of wind from a bear's paw.

Cats and Poetry

People are like cats and cats are like people. I might drink some dandelion tea tonight to detoxify my liver. Maybe I will go look for a wild bird nest for to decorate my living room bookshelf with. I might have to drive to the creek. Maybe I will make some more coffee. I will visit with friends, think about the movie I just saw and ask myself, too, why I feel right now that my poetry is worthless. I love to watch my cats more than revise my poetry. I have to find a way out of that hole. I'm already crashing down off the beautiful happy feelings i had the first of National Poetry Month. I'm sure this is just a temporary state of mind.

the red poetry truck

Gotta go somewhere in an old red truck on the second day of Poetry Month! It's time to go to the river, to the creek, to the sandbar, to the islands, to a carnival, to the circus, to the woods where in O Great Nature we can be alive again and really breathe. Let's go find poems under crystally rocks, under shrubs, hidden in the bunches of daffodils all over this beautiful little town in such a big big world. Let's pack our lunch and sit on the cliffs of Washington State Park and then drive to Potosi to a Taco Bell for dinner. Poems are waiting everywhere. In fact, we are each poems. We are alive and happy and there is much to look forward to. In a red truck you can see the whole world through rose colored glasses. In a red truck, you can find peace and tranquility. In a red truck, you can eat the World like it's a piece of strawberry rhubarb pie. Why is the thermos full of coffee empty?

rooted in poetry

Sometimes happyness is so beautiful it hurts like the sun when it shines in your eyes by a lake, by a bus stop, by a tree branch or a limb. Why is it that when we flow with happiness it gets stopped by a worry that everything is going to fall apart? Today that happened to me. As I was out driving in the early morning, everything I saw was gorgeous. Sunshine threw its light everywhere and fell out of the sky like a huge window of yellow. I saw a bird. I saw a squirrel running with a nut. I saw the creek flow blue. I heard the sound of beauty and felt overwhelmed. I try to remember to stay grounded, to keep roots close to the earth so I don't just fly away with all my wondering thoughts but it's hard especially on a day as exciting as the kickoff of National Poetry Month. My plan is to work on poems all month. That means writing new ones, revising old ones, typing old ones into the computer and getting ready to submit. The prospect does not seem daunting; in fact, I look forward to the work, the real work ahead of me. I feel, now, today, at this moment, like what the poet James Wright wrote in his poem "The Blessing:"
Suddenly I realize/That if I stepped out of my body I would break/Into blossom. I feel like I could live on just air right now, that nothing else in the world matters except living for this very moment of beauty on this earth. Dramatic but true!

reflections

If only people were like mirrors and you could see things reflected in them maybe it would make communicating and understanding a little bit easier.

hypocrisy?

A few blogs back i wrote about an owl painting I saw that I took a photo of instead of buying it. Well, guess what? A friend talked me into buying it today. I didn't put up much resistance, I must say. So, now I have to come to terms with hypocrisy? Is that what I am, a hypocrite? Too vulnerable to impulse is more like it. I have noticed lately that I am less impulsive, though. I think that has to do with the stability I feel by writing a blog almost every day. I feel a purpose and even though I have no idea who or how many might be reading it, I still am motivated to write. This must be good practice for me no matter what. I also feel like I have a lot to look forward to lately and that helps keep me focused. I hung the owl painting and appreciate it very much. I may be a hypocrite, but I do have good taste.

the creek

Moving water can move you. Yesterday I was at the creek thinking about the beauty of what's outside and I wanted to float away on the surface of that cold creek. I ask my friends would they rather live by a river, the ocean, or a creek and a lot of them have said "creek." I wonder what it is about creeks that so get our attention. Maybe it has something to do with their usual clarity and the way you can usually see the rocks beneath the surface. If only people were more like creeks so you could see beneath their surface into their beautiful brains and thus understand better and more fully.

Today the sun rose up pink over the creek; I couldn't even try to capture that on video, or a still shot, but the little video I did capture is just a reminder to let creeks move you, let water take you places, let your own wildness go free.

old typewriter

need a poet say more? a picture is worth a thousand words, after all.

Change

Change scares me. I don't like it and I don't take to it easily and I don't know exactly why but I feel like I have to figure it out. Just changing the layout of this blog sent me into a spiral and then I told myself I could always change it back if I don't like it. Maybe that's part of why I don't like some kinds of change: once you do it, you can't go back. And sometimes you never know if you can go back when you have to make your original decision. So how do I apply this to myself as a poet and a writer? One thing I know for sure that I have to change is my reluctance and resistance to revision. I know--at least I believe--that some of my writing could be made even better were I to just take the time to change some things. Why I don't do it must be pure laziness. I can't come up with any other answer. Another thing I need to change is my sense that I'm not gifted in the business aspect of selling my writing. Yesterday, I wished I could get an agent to just go through everything I have and then tell me what to do but I know I'm not near ready for that. Well, how upsetting to be 47 and not near ready for an agent. I think I have to change the age perception too. I always tell my friends that you're never too old to make changes and to seize opportunities. I think this is a case of needing to take my own advice. Now, that would be a real change!

the business versus the talent

The business side of writing is not my strong point. For the last week, instead of writing my blog everyday--which has been my goal at the outset--I spent my time researching markets to sell my writing to. I certainly got overwhelmed. I feel, and I wonder if I am alone in this feeling, that I was given a talent for writing but not for business. If that is true, then what am I to do? If it is not true, then it means I have yet to tap into my business side to get my writing out there into the world. Or am I just delusional?

poetic dream life

I used to live across the sea and when my daughter was three we took a ferry boat to the island of Kume Jima near Okinawa. I remember that trip clearly; I had started writing a novel called Purple Heart and I was excited to get more ideas and facts on that ferry trip. My daughter and I danced on the roof of the ferry to the music in our headphones and wow that felt wonderful. I loved living overseas. Always there was excitement and adventure. I loved the Japanese vending machines--they were like art. And the cans were made of thick steel so they didn't crunch when you tried to smash them and they were tall and skinny and beautiful to look at. So now as I live in the Midwest I think to my life overseas and I want it back. I want to go live in Korea or Japan. I want to drink Lemon-C from a steel can. I want to eat Kimchi for breakfast with two eggs and a dried fish. I want to see gorgeous tropical sunsets and go to fabulously expensive funky artsy coffee shops. Is this the life of a writer, a weirdo, a traveler, a poet, a mother? I have responsibilities to live up to yet I still live in some kind of poetic dreamworld. I dream of traveling again and meeting new people and eating new foods. I dream of living my old Life and I know I am not the only person on Earth who does this. It's possibly human nature. I guess it's why we have the capacity to remember. The good times make for good memories. I think it's hard sometimes, and I don't think this just applies to me, but I think it's hard to draw the line between what is wanted and what is actual. Reality says I can't go overseas right now. Reality says that I write this little blog instead of dancing on a ferry roof. Reality says it's time to cook dinner, wash dishes, make cookies and some evening coffee. Reality says I just have to wait. Kume Jima will be there in a year. At least I dream so.

women and money

It's kind of a cliche' now to talk about how women spend money so crazily, but let's think about what it means when a woman is not a spendthrift, when she is impulsive, prone to shop for certain patterns, etc. A friend of mine told me he thinks i just like to spend money. I said that wasn't the problem; the problem is that there are things I see that I want and to get them, they cost money. Like today, for example. I was browsing and unexpectedly came across a piece of owl artwork. I loved it! I wanted it! I wasn't going to spend twenty-five dollars to get it though, so I took a photo instead. I plan to try to copy the owls with my own paints so I can have a painting like that hanging on my wall. That's one way I have managed to curb my spending. But it doesn't always work because there are some clothes I see that I feel I can't live without. It's a problem, though. I don't want to spend the rest of my life alone but so many men are scared of women who like to spend money. They think that if a woman spends money they won't be able to support her habits and they cross her off their potential wife list. I know this is true because Dean Moore once said so. He said that if I were his wife, I would have him filing bankruptcy in no time. Of course since hearing that and countless other lectures from men about how I spend money, I had to take that announcement to heart and try to make some changes. Why, though, if I have my own source of money do I still worry about what a man will think of how I do spend money? It's definitely a controversial topic. For now, let me get the paints out and try crafting a funky owl for my wall. I already own the paints so I won't have to spend a dime!

orange boat to the sea

Walking on the beach in the morning brings the imagination to Life. I dreamt of driving an orange boat--even pretended to drive one parked at a tourist trap. I wrote my friends' names in the sand and took pictures for their souvenirs. I looked for cute souvenirs at the shops but the sand seemed so much better!
I drove that orange boat out to sea with a picnic basket intact. Full of coffee and cream, the thermos rode next to me as I navigated through the buoys and out into the wide open sea. I saw dolphins, sharks, a killer whale, and a whole school of Japanese Goldfish. The engine got quiet when I turned it off to listen to nothing but the sky and the waves. When I got back to shore, a throng of people were there to meet me with necklaces of shark's teeth and bunches of flowers. I love how the imagination works. How often do you let yours just open up and go wild?

inspiration and the work ethic

So the inspiration can't spring from a person anymore--that's what i finally figured out. Like my professor writer/poet friend Joe Benevento said "You'll work on your writing when you are ready to really work." Work. A word I hate. Even in third grade, my teacher wrote on my report card "Anne wants to color and play all the time when she really has work to do." I want the writing to come easy, and to be truthful, most of the time it does come easy to me. Sometimes, I have felt that the writing came right through me, or was delivered through me. But my mistake is to think that the writing is finished. Now, don't get me wrong. I know I'm not thinking of anything new here, but for me the idea is one I have to accept. I have to do like Joe Benevento says: revise, revise, revise. Which is of course what I always tell my students. I always tell them not to be satisfied with how good their writing is but strive to make it even better. So if I apply that to myself that means I have a lot of revision to do before I send out the writing for publication. I have to work, work, work, and stop depending on sporadic crushes, inspiration per se' and such excuses like that. I want to make Joe Benevento proud.

a poet's crush

I was talking to a friend about what it means to be a writer, a poet, and a woman who still gets crushes on guys. It gets mixed up, sometimes, the writing and the reality. Recently, this has happened to me. For a week, I had a very intense crush on someone new and he inspired me to write a lot, which I did. A three part poem, an essay and some other assorted free writings. Then on Sunday, I crashed down from the crush. It seemed amazing to me that it had only lasted a week. Now what do I do? How do I find the inspiration to write? From where or whom do I find it? That has always been the essential dilemma and the essential question for me, and for other writers and poets as well. How do I get through the times when I don't feel like writing? I suppose it's time to take the advice I often give to my students which is to freewrite freewrite and freewrite some more. Somehow, that seems boring compared to having a crush on someone! I'd still like to be composing love poems, but Valentine's Day is over and no one seems interested in them right now. I'd like to compose the ultimate love poem, which I think I did recently so I will just take heart in that and make peace with my newfound standstill in writing.

on waiting

My cat sits by a volume of Walt Whitman poetry, waiting, as I have sat all morning waiting to have coffee with a friend. I am disappointed. In fact, the level of my disappointment alarms me. I wonder if I overestimated the inspiration I was getting from this friend and therefore put too much emphasis on the wrong area of my life--yet again! This would not be the first time I have done such a thing. I wait too much. Women do this. They wait. They wait for men. Still in this day and age. Who can help it? Men attract us like the wild animals they are. Men personify the wilderness. Even if they are talkers, they will still often be unpredictable in their behavior. Like my cat by the Whitman volume, waiting, so too have I been. I think it's time to pick up the Whitman book and stop counting the hours. I think it's time to listen to the tick tock of my own heart, alone. I can, like Whitman, embrace all of humanity in its diversity and weirdness, but I don't have to sit by my phone like a lonely old disillusioned spinster. I feel like an over exaggerated character in a Flannery O'Connor short story. I've had way too much coffee, way too much time to think. I must read now.

joy of early rising

The coffee is fresh and hot, birds are chirping outside the window, and there is the promise of a friend to visit so this is starting out to be a good Saturday. I didn't sleep in--I never do. Some people take the chance to sleep in on Saturday morning--especially if they've been working all week. But me--well my internal clock wakes me up about 5 or 6 a.m. Now, this is not how I always lived. I used to wake up at noon every day, but that's a whole different story. Now, I am a morning person and with that comes joy. There is the early morning chill through the open window where my cat Pumpkin likes to hang out. There is my friend Betty who gets up early, too, cause her cat Fred wakes her at 3 or 4 every morning. I could call her and go eat some breakfast. I could go play cards with another friend. I could go walk at the park, collect rocks from the cool creek water, watch the sun rise orange through the trees. It's morning time! I can't believe I let half my life go by sleeping in. Not any more. Now, it's early to bed, early to rise and I'm living a whole new lifestyle. So I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.

a love poem

I see the full moon bright through the river trees
High up as we wait for the 6:30 bell--"Fish Now!!!"
Our waders baptized
by the small wave of trout fin
oh so lovely to be in
that depth with you (by my side)

You still live a world away
come visit my planet and stay awhile
Let's go to the Pisgah National Forest
in North Carolina, let's go to Amsterdam, let's
go to a lake and find fish shimmering
on the ends of our hooks

I want to fall into waters with you
I want to eat apples by a ravine
Let's go to Taroko Gorge
Climb the red spiral steps winding down
a mountain side toward the hot springs

Let's eat together every single meal
Like a sacred blessing
Like a wing
Like a butterfly just learning how to flutter
Her fragile wings, and you in all your toughness
will become the wild boy you always were in your heart

if only not to analyze

The English rockstar Billy Bragg sings that "we shouldn't take the precious things we have apart to see how they work/ we'll never fit them together again." Is it true? Do people pick apart their relationships too much until all the mystery and the excitement goes away? I think so. Whatever happened to just reveling in each and every moment you spend with someone and you don't analyze the interactions you just let them flow into you and become part of who you are and who you were meant to be? When it comes to analysis, people do too much of it. Now, critical thinking is more than just analysis--it's thinking deeply and broadly. I once heard someone say "don't grow, deepen" and I agree with that. I think a lot of people don't think deeply enough; they don't think broadly enough; in fact, some people simply don't think very much. My mother always tells me that my problem is that I think too much. I was in my forties before I was able to think of a good comeback: you don't think enough, Mom. She of course didn't like that much. I want to say everything in one sentence, but one sentence is too small to hold it all. I want to climb into my friend's mind and on regularly scheduled visits. I want to eat hot sandwiches and write until my fingers bleed on the keyboard. I want the electric guitar of a Billy Bragg song to sink way deep into my brain so I can sleep well and not spend too much time analyzing my day. I want to go camping and sleep by a night fire. (Did you know I collect bead necklaces?)

writing love poems

How do you write a love poem? First, you have to love something or someone. Are you capable of feeling love? Or are you shut off? If you are shut off, then you need to start freewriting a journal about every good thing that has ever happened in your life so that you can discover what it is you love. Another way to write a love poem is to use your wild imagination and create the Harlequin Romance Man of the Month in your mind and then write specific lines to this fantasy person: here's an example:
i want to live underneath your whiskers, live inside your breath, eat the air all around you like a fabulous piece of pie. Okay, do those examples seem a little bit over-exaggerated? Maybe they are, but why not? When is the last time you really let yourself go in your writing, let the thoughts flow out of your mind to the keyboard, or pen to paper? When will be the first time that you find out what it feels like to unleash your deepest vocabulary? Let your ideas grow one from the other? Make some good strong coffee, get some half and half, turn on the lights and start writing. And then what do you do with what you write? Do you keep it to yourself or do you share it? Do you show the poetry to whoever inspired it? Will your friends laugh at you for writing to an imaginary person? Probably not. Probably, they will be happy that you could write something so beautiful and entertaining. Try it. It will grow on you.

woman as writer

I'm not the only woman who has ever struggled to be a writer in this world, I do know that. But in my situation, it is all my own experience and so I feel the sting of the struggle that much more. I compare myself to the single mom who wrote Harry Potter in a coffeeshop and feel like I failed, somehow. It's a very real set of failures, too, and I have spent years blaming my failures on all sorts of sitations, people, cirucmstances and reasons but now it's time to face up and be real: to live as a writer, I must be childless. My daughter is 16. I don't have long to wait till she grows up and goes on her own path. Some would say it's just an excuse, but I know the truth. It's not an excuse. For me, having a child, and just one at that, took so much like almost all of my energy that I often felt befuddled just to cook some supper much less work on my old writings and creating new ones felt impossible. But now I am proving that sort of wrong since I am writing a blog everyday. I have yet to pierce the surface of what will eventually show up in this blog, but like anyone new to something, I am still a bit shy about what I write in my blog every day. I censor somewhat and I wonder if I can overcome that to shed the shield I hold up to keep people away. Cause once I let the floodgates open, there's gonna be a big wave coming. I look forward to the day when i am ready to surf that huge wave.

fishing dreams and a small poem

In a world of smoke and silence and music and talk it feels so good to be driving down to the opening of trout season, all sorts of miscellaneous thoughts racing around in my mind, surrounded by three friends. And then we are in the water and the bell rings and everybody starts casting out their lines and then voila somebody gets a fish. No matter how many times we moved spots, and maybe that was half the problem right there, no matter how many times we never caught one fish and came home emptyhanded. Emptyhanded but not emptyhearted. There along the banks of a stream rising with morning steam a dream got born. The dream of a lifestyle. The dream of a life. Could I really take someone's hand and wade through the small scary rapids? Could I ever have someone bring me sandwiches while I type for hours and hours and when I need coffee it's hot with cream and I'm happy cause even though I am a woman writer not a man with a helpful wife I can maybe still succeed. These are parts of the dream I thought of as I stood thigh deep in cold water, waiting. And then while I fished we went to Amsterdam, the Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina, to the high cliffs of Cape Hedo, the valley of gorgeous water that lies beneath an international Peace Monument. I wish for small things and hope they will come true. So I tell you now:
I saw the full moon bright through the river trees
high up as we waited for the 6:30 bell--"Fish now!!!"
our boots baptized
by the small wave of trout fin
oh so lovely to be in
that depth with you (by my side)

You still live a world away.

poets, lies, and stories

I love liars. Liars make me happy. Because liars can tell stories and i value stories. I love strawberry rhubarb pie and drinking coffee from mason jars. What Gary Snyder wrote in his poem What it takes to be a Poet is something I agree with but I think he forgot somethings. Like to be a poet you have to learn how to lie. But you also have to love cats and dogs, and you have to know how to fly. I know lots of poets who don't write poems but to me they are poets because of how they talk, or what they talk about. I once heard a poem by aloha lavina where she said "I am thinking of how so few people wear necklaces of teeth." I loved that line when I first heard it and even today the line from that lie of a poem profounds me. I have been telling stories since I could talk. My mother doesn't value that I tell stories. She tells me my nose is going to get longer if I keep telling lies. So what exactly is the difference between lying, telling stories, and writing poems? If what you are doing is to specifically and purposefully hurt someone, that seems and feels wrong to me. But if you are crafting a story, it's not a bad lie. I wonder if I have been deluding myself for years with this theory I have about lies and lying. I will ponder the question while I eat barbeque with friends. That's no lie.

Deferred and Hidden Poems

Today I censored myself when teaching. Actually, I denied the students full access to a poem called "What You Should Know to Be A Poet" by Gary Snyder. Why did I do this? I felt they would be offended by a couple of the lines in the poem. I question the whole idea of what happened. On one hand, I don't think it's that big of a deal, but on the other hand, I am concerned about my incapability to be completly free as a performer when I am teaching. I could have performed the poem and made a statement with it and maybe some of them would have enjoyed a poem unlike any in our textbook. So was I afraid or shy or what? I think I am getting more conservative as I get older. I wonder if that means I am losing my creative edge. I wonder if it means I am losing something of my old self that shouldn't be lost. Yesterday when I was reading through some of my older poems--from the year 2000 or so--I got caught up in hating them. They were yucky to me. I don't even know why. I used to think they were good. I think I might have hid them for too long; I might have ruined the poems by not getting them out into circulation. They sit waiting for me to do something with them but when I try to handle them, sort them, think about revising or editing them, I just feel sick and overwhelmed and I wonder if this phenomenon is unique to me or if others share the same type of feeling. How old can a poem get before it's no good anymore? Of course, there are so many PUBLISHED old poems which people never tire of, that is true. I am thinking of the deferred and hidden poems, the ones who fester, who whisper to you, who sometimes yell at you and chew you out for leaving them so lonely and unread. I am thinking of all the unpublished, undiscovered poems and writings that populate my trunks and boxes and notebooks and bookshelves. What will become of them all if I die before I can make them come to Life?

amidst a sea of old writings

if you could see a picture of me now, where i am, you would see a bunch of papers and folders spread out at my feet, the contents of an antique Okinawan trunk I keep my old writings in. I don't know what to do with some or most of them. I have kept them all these years thinking i might someday need them or that i might get discovered as a great writer and then every scrap of every word i have ever written will be sought after. But I think that might be either illusion or delusion. So today as I sit amidst all the old script and typing i will do what i once thought to be unthinkable: i will carry some to the dumpster across the street. So there they will lie waiting for the trash man. There they will lie getting wet with rain, damp with dew, hot with sun. At the time I originally wrote everything i thought it was profound and necessary but now maybe i see it all as just practice. The good stuff meant to be kept will sift itself out of the piles into my willing hands. I will keep the few, the best, and the rest will have to go. I don't find it easy to get rid of these writings, but i must clean and cleanse and let some things just go goodbye. I must make room for the new.

Thoughts on Getting New Chest Waders

With the anticipation of beautiful early morning fog mist for fishing, I try on my new chest waders with the red suspenders and am reminded of a little girl twirling her fancy dress in front of the full length mirror on her wall. I have not been fishing for more than ten years, but this Monday I will be there to hear the bell ring as trout season sets off like a fire in a burning forest. Everyone will clamor to the river to set their boots in a spot where they hope to catch a tagged fish which might announce a prize: dollars, a new rod, maybe a tackle box. Who knows!!! Maybe I will catch a poem. A huge boat might blow by and throw out candy. It's a crap shoot, really. Out there in waders, in water, in wonder, with nature so close you can breathe her like a cloud well maybe it will be like heaven. And speaking of heaven, maybe my Dad will watch from afar. Or he might perch on my shoulder, a small and friendly little ghost to whisper tips in my ear about how to catch my limit. I put the waders back in their new box, fix the kettle for coffee, and wait.

am i a poet or not?

i see a thousand different ways to write a poem but I don't take advantage of my abilities as a writer, a poet. I guess since I am 47 I feel I am too old and washed up; I feel like I can't overcome the handicaps I face. I don't think so positively about my future, either. It's not that I don't want a future--I do very much. I want to live a colorful, vibrant, interesting, vocabulary filled life. I want to settle into a love with the figure I wrote about once in my chopping wood man poem. But those seem like dreams. I watch the Olympic athletes and marvel at their wherewithal, courage, their ability to push themselves to physical and mental limits and then even beyond that to fulfull their wildest dreams. I wish I could reach that kind of potential. I wish I could fulfill even half my potential. I can bake a nice lasagna, some excellent chocolate chip with pecans and walnuts cookies and I can be a friend to several people who seem to need me, but I don't seem capable--or is it just as Peter Wodarz once said? Am I just lazy? Am I too mentally ill? Is there hope for my situation? so that one time i could sit down with the pen and the poem would craft itself and then find its way to a bunch of readers instead of being put into hiding.I want to eat the fire of Pablo Neruda love poems and then drink green tea. That's all the energy I can muster for now.

introduction to blog

Let me explain the title of my blog--"An Artist Among Thieves." Also, i will outline my goals and plans for the blog. First, i am a poet. i am a writer, teacher, lover, mother, poet. I am an artist. But I have lived amongst thieves. People who have stolen from me both literally and figuratively litter my past and that is why I have titled my autobiographical memoirs "An Artist Among Thieves." What I want to accomplish in the blog is simple: I want to find out who I really am. I must write to discover whether i really am a writer. I must ponder my life and my experiences with my daughter to see if i really am a mother. I must look at my relationships and ask, as a lover, am i being degraded as a woman because I don't stand up for myself? And what can I do in my life as a teacher to become more challenging and fresh? So everyday I will write to discover. I will write to live. And maybe by the time i finish in a year i will know something more than i know now. or will i know less?

For the Unbloomed

Tillie Olsen's short story "I Stand Here Ironing" offers a great line of wisdom which is also bittersweet to me since I myself have been a mother standing at a proverbial ironing board wondering about my daughter's life, her future, her choices, her past, her birth, and everything else about her. Toward the end of the story, Olsen wrote "so all that is in her will not bloom--but in how many does it?" And that is the line I most relate to since I feel the same about my own child and unfortunately I have to live with the idea that I did my best but it just wasn't good enough. Now, she is 16. But when she was 13 she was a cross country runner who was so full of talent and zest that as her ponytail would bounce by me on her way down a trail I would see her flying like a bug past all others into first place. I saw her at the Olympics. I saw her jogging with a baby stroller. I saw her unlike all the other girls: she was going to be the best. But then she changed. Or was it I who changed? Now she is not a runner and I am not a mother anymore, either. I actually don't know who I am.