Morning Musings ~ Firecracker ~ Writing Into It

Trucks drive by, clunk, clunk. A car zooms close after. The shutting of a door. These things represent outside for me today and most mornings. The refrigerator rumbling softly, my coffee cup sits on the upper left side of this small desk that faces a wall with a window behind, near the bed. The music drifts in from the living room, the same soothing CD that somehow gets my days started. I’ve been wanting to stay inside, reading mostly, and some journaling too. It’s been difficult to want to go outside, when outside soon becomes the inside of an office building, with stale air and carpets that I don’t like looking at, colors that are drab. I adjust. I keep colorful calendars, colorful in images and words—to keep me company. I’ll be honest, I think what is sometimes frustrating is when humans in general aren’t aware of their own “stuff.” You hear them complain about the same things over and over and wonder if there is some adjustment they can make. And I wonder if we don’t all—me included, of course—from time to time operate as though the world revolves around us. I have great days most of the time and every now and then annoyances get the best of me because you begin to see how other people operate, you see little things, observe little things—things of the psyche, things often cloaked from their own awareness. I then look to myself and ask why certain behaviors bother me so and it comes down to a miscellaneous grab bag. In certain environments, I have a pet peeve for inefficiencies; I don’t particularly like when people don’t have faith—trust in your following through and somehow turn to a micromanaging demeanor. It’s with the smallest of things that this can occur. The mail—worried that you didn’t take the letter down only because your letter is there, not stopping to think that the mail always makes it down to the box. Why would your piece of mail be treated any differently? If it’s in the pile, it will get mailed. It’s little petty things. And then I ask myself: Am I not being somewhat petty by bringing this up with myself? I don’t know. I do know that I have certain buttons and even with that awareness, it doesn’t stop the buttons from going off from time to time. It happens. I’m human. I suppose this is my way of having a conversation about it with myself because one cannot always have these conversations with everyone—or specifically the person. I can, thank goodness, express my frustration in an open fashion with most—the ones that it counts with—counts in the sense that if I was keeping everything inside with them, well, I’d be miserable and they’d be miserable and who needs that. I’m a firecracker at times—could be hard to believe. But it’s an aspect of myself that I am aware of. I’m a firecracker in a good way and sometimes it can overwhelm people that have a more level way of being. I find it difficult at times, knowing that I have chosen to put this firecracker inside of a box that is necessary to make a living. That’s why when I write, when I journal, when I read—when I am in some way interacting with the page, I am in heaven—I am in my bliss. Sometimes it’s going to feel good and sometimes it’s not, and as I always remind myself: That’s OK. I accept the positive aspects of myself and the negative; and in the end, I try to do the same toward my fellow human beings. What’s important is my intentions are positive. It’s complicated being a human firecracker, especially when it’s somehow stifled and that can be felt in many ways—not just the obvious. Fire needs air to breathe; Fire also needs air to grow.

Happy Halloween

Winding down dotted hills of champagne

and plum wine, grapes round with abundance.

Cows in patches, mooing and chewing the

grain. Rustling grasses beneath hoofs, furry

groundhogs playing hide and seek with the

clouds. Jack-O-Lanterns greet visitors,

atop the brick arch overlooking vineyards.

Aroma of oak barrels and freshly crushed grapes,

A hint of fresh grass tickling the senses, mixed with the

brink of being right on the cusp of this season and

that season. Open hearts, open mouths— a toast to you

on this—O’ Joyous Halloween.

Hoofmaker

Betsy was walking into the supply room to put postage on a letter when she saw William filing down one of his nails. He then got out a band aid box from the cabinet. She didn’t ask, but he told her he had a hangnail.

Bespeckled William snorted out a laugh and said, “I feel so feminine.”

Betsy turned back to William and said, “I usually just rip mine off.”

She’s about done at the postage machine, when William grabs her hand to inspect her fingers. She looks too.

“You have very unfeminine hands,” he says. Another one of his chortled laughs. He’s known for these laughs and it annoys some of the other office mates.

Betsy pulls her hand away. “Yes, I know. Tom boy hands.”

She’s still trying to get back to her desk when William proceeds to flap his lips. He’s know for this too. William is the sort of guy that has something to say about just about anything. Freely opinionated. And occasionally when Betsy needs a random piece of trivia, she goes to William if he’s nearby.

He says, “Ya know, they sell this stuff at the horse and feed called Hoofmakers.”

“Hoof What?”

“Hoofmakers. No really, it’s straight from my mom. All the girls there at the feed store use it. It has a bunch of vitamins and other stuff in it. It smoothes your nails and puts a protective barrier around them and helps with cracked skin. You should check it out.”

Betsy listens. On one hand in the back of her head she laughs because this is just William; and on the other hand, she’s thinking, maybe she should check it out. She’s thinking it’s  moments like these that give her day a little lift because she appreciates being able to find the comedy in what can be a humdrum office vibe. So she’ll take it.

She’s determined to get out of the supply room and back to her desk. As she edges away, she says, “Hoofmakers, huh?”

“Yeah. Check it out.”

Betsy leaves William with his nail file and band aid and says, “Maybe I will. Thanks.”

Farmer’s Market Veggies

This morning my hands and fingers are frigid. I’m running late, but my writing moments usually take precedence and then I will find myself in a rushed mode, which I don’t care for. But this is part of my daily ritual, whether it stays sealed in my notebooks or appears here in the moment. There are so many journal clippings, thoughts, and more books that I want to share. They collect and then, patiently, they simmer in my notebooks, or my mental crockpot.

The weekend included a visit to the Farmer’s Market. I walked from stand to stand looking for veggies mostly. Last night I brought the veggies out, knowing I would base dinner around them. There is nothing besides being outside in nature that I enjoy more than admiring fruits and vegetables. In last night’s case, just vegetables. And when I start chopping and setting them into the pot, the colors blending together, it is a sight that I can look at over and over. Fresh veggies with their different skins and juices and fresh oozings and drips of freshness that reach up to my olfactory and put me there under the sun on the farms with the fresh soil and the good smell of earth. I am the okra, the eggplant, the zucchini—yellow and green—and I’m the garlic with it’s pungent kick that mellows as it cooks and becomes so soft, it melts in my mouth—the green bells and the red bells—all of these happy veggies, having gone through a long process, of growth and handling, to eventually reach me here in this most smallest of kitchens, that feels like the size of a hobbit’s, but it suits me well. And of course, other additions joined the veggies, but I wanted to honor them on their own, to savor their goodness for a few moments more.

Leaning trees

Leaning trees

berries hanging

                         Pulling

Bear thy fruits

Unload yourselves

young tender shoots

Amongst mature wise bark,

lean on each other, bear

thy weight together.

**

Endnote:

I enjoy being the passenger in a car. The freeway especially allows me to enter into the moment. This small poem came to me on October 15, 2011. I was watching the road and noticing and absorbing what I saw. I wasn’t thinking. Words started forming, so I unzipped my bag and pulled out the little blue notebook the size of a credit card. It’s a Moleskin—my favorite. I also have a larger sized one in there, but the moment decides which one I will select.

Halloween ~ Mix & Match

Halloween was one of my favorite holidays when I was growing up. I would get excited about finding a costume to wear. A few of my memorable transformations were of being a clown, a witch, and my many interpretations of a gypsy. Being a gypsy was my favorite. I would usually find something in my closet, mixing and matching clothing that I bought for the beauty, but no where appropriate for my self-conscious self to wear them.

But Halloween changed that for me, allowing me to set aside my insecurities and unleash some part of myself through costume. I would make my eyes smoky with dark eye shadow, lots of rouge on my cheeks, sparkling eye shadow, and bright lips of a sultry red. I was transformed.

Of course at some point, I stopped dressing up and admired Halloween from a distance. It didn't feel the same anymore and the neighborhoods I passed through didn't have decorations outside to enjoy—something about it felt lost. But that is no more. I’ve been seeing some great Halloween efforts this year.

 This Halloween—for me all of October is Halloween—feels different in a good way. I may not be dressing up the way I used to but I have my orange and black knee high socks ready to go. I already wore the socks once with a pair of flowing pants that came just past the knee so you could see them. That day I had my brown Portland shirt on to match my rust colored pants. I felt like a fall leaf. When I was walking, a lady was with her friend and she seemed to be deep in their conversation. She turned to me and said in the most cheerful tone, "Girlfriend, love those socks!" I smiled at her and said thanks somewhat meekly.

And just yesterday I bought a pair of black boots that come just below my knee. They have a pink zipper. Pink is not my favorite color, but I was thrilled that they were just my style: Simple and fun and there’s something about boots. I can still fit into a girls size four, so I got a deal on them at Target! I saw a pair of striped tights on the way out, so I now have magenta and black striped stockings as well.

For around our apartment, I bought a cute little stuffed bear-- he's only about three inches high--he has on a pumpkin costume. I put him on one of the bookshelves that our television sits on, so we can see him all through October.

The other way I'm celebrating this year is by revisiting Edgar Allan Poe's short stories. I am also trying to read other scary or dark tales. And this I am sharing with my significant other. The other morning with Poe on my mind, I remembered how much I love "The Tell-Tale Heart." I thought this might be a story that my significant other would enjoy so I asked him if he wouldn't mind my reading it aloud to us. I enjoy reading aloud very much. I told him it wasn't that long and I proceeded. I sensed out of the corner of my eye that he was engaged but I wasn't sure. When I reached the end of the story, I appreciated how much more of an impact it had on me reading it aloud and when my significant other said that he really enjoyed it, I was pleased.  I said that I'd love to read another Poe story aloud later that evening. Some months ago I had downloaded a free e-book of Poe's stories on my Kindle and other free and inexpensive collections. Last night I excitedly searched for a few others to add to my e-book collection. I always have fun searching the Amazon Kindle store.

I already have Flannery O'Connor's short story collection, "A Good Man is Hard to Find." I thought to myself, he might really appreciate this title story and I would enjoy reading it aloud. I began it, but O'Connor writes much longer short stories than Poe. He was curious how many more pages and as I flipped through the Kindle to see, he jokingly said "that's not short, that’s a book." I laughed. I asked if he was enjoying it. He was. We agreed to stop there and continue tomorrow. He thought we were going to read more Poe. I said that I wanted to see what he thought of this story first.

What’s funny too is before we had started reading O’Connor, I was started to get cozy while we were watching a little TV and my eyes were closing and he said I was a sleepy head and I said, no just resting my eyes and then I popped up and that’s when I said, are you ready for our short story?! He said, “I thought you’d never ask.” He was half kidding. He knows I get a little crazy about books and reading and all of it. We muted the tele and off we went to story land for a little while.

Hopefully we continue our out loud reading regime past October. There is such enjoyment, an elevated intimacy in reading aloud together, of sharing stories I love, and discovering new ones together.

**

The Talented Mr. Ripley is on of my favorite movies and this song popped into my radar and fits in my little box of October. Here is the clip in the Jazz club where they sing “Tu vo' fa' l'Americano.” It makes me want to jump around and sing with them!

Tu vo' fa' l'Americano

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXtxR1gHZIk&feature=related

Happy Day!

The Web

Zelia Morris simply did not love Dudley anymore.  He could not stop his drinking, could not hold a job for very long.  He stopped painting—his one passion had slowly slipped away.  He wasn’t the Dudley that she had married years ago.

A strong woman, some might even say that Zelia was cold; it wasn’t that she was cold.  She did love Dudley at a time.  But love changes—she would not continue being drained in this relationship.  She did not however expect that Dudley would change even further as he did; he climbed down into his dark dungeon, never to come out into the light again.

They had found Dudley Morris, bottle in hand, sprawled out on the concrete in a dark alleyway, yelling nonsense to the wind, to the shadows.  He found himself in and out of institutions, but this time he would spend the rest of his days alone, enclosed in a world on the  inside, damning himself, damning anyone he could, especially the voice in his head.

“If you come too close, I will take you and squeeze the life out of you.”  Dudley Morris walked the streets aimlessly through the suffocating fog.  Little did he know that his whole life would be different after that one winter eve.  His jacket flaps were pulled up high to cover his neck from the brisk wind that chapped his face.  He walked and walked on those lonely stone streets, wet from the hard rain that poured hours ago. 

“I will intrigue you with the pretty things that I have to offer, then I will come close as if I want to be your friend, reach out to you and quickly spin you into my web:  This intricate, detailed design—we are all part of it!.” 

Earlier in the day after a fight with his landlord, Dudley began talking, and then yelling to himself, he took a long swig from his bottle, wiped his mouth sloppily, and shoving the bottle back into his deep jacket pocket. He would run the incident through his mind over and over again.

“God damn landlord—the jackass!  Unreasonable bastard; can’t he understand that I’m barely making ends meet.  I didn’t have the god damn rent!”  Keeping his hands in his pockets, he would let the filth spew out of his mouth as though anyone cared.  He spoke to the dark and lonely street; to the scraggly cats rummaging through the putrid dumpsters.  Dudley continued his rant: “But No!  He wouldn’t hear it.”

Dudley usually kept to himself but the Landlord, Hue Bedford, picked the wrong day to push Dudley.  Dudley started pounding him.  Hue yelled, pleaded for him to stop but he couldn’t.  The spit sprayed from Dudley’s mouth as he yelled at him “You son-of-bitch!” 

After Zelia had left him, Dudley rarely left that dim, claustrophobic room; the only light filtered through the tiny round window facing the street and the candles on the nightstand.  Cobwebs hung in every corner.  Dudley would kill the spiders, fascinated at watching their bodies shrivel up in the candle flames, sometimes he would take a fuzzy body between two fingers, bring it right up to his eye, examine it with great wonder, then squish it tightly, watching the life drain out of it. 

Every time he heard a stir, he would flinch in fear.  He would look all around him as if someone was in the room with him.  Occasionally rodents would scurry across the room in search of crumbs. 

A loud thud woke Dudley; he shot right up in bed, sweat pouring down his face, dripping down his dingy, brown shirt.  He rubbed his hands on his rough sandpaper face. 

“Where am I?” Dudley mumbled to himself, looking around.  He walked past a mirror, his attention whisked away by a beautiful web that was up high in the corner of this unfamiliar room.  He walked over to the web with wide eyes; a chill went down his spine.  He jumped back, knocking over a small worn out pocket watch from a strange—unfamiliar end table—the spider seeming to watch his every move.  He watched the spiders many hairy legs moving slowly along the web, seeming to move toward Dudley.  The harder he looked back, the greater the chill became.

Pinching himself hard, Dudley was trying to make sense of this strange familiarity.  “Ouch!”  A large red mark appeared.  Dudley bent over to pick the watch up, turned it over in his hand.  It looked familiar, yet it didn’t.  He placed it back on the table.

“Mrs. Morris, I’m so glad you could make it,” the Head Psychiatrist said.

“I really don’t want any part of this anymore—he’s not part of my life—it’s done!” Zelia said, trying to stay composed, looking ahead with tired eyes. 

“How would you like to handle this; you’re his only living family.”  The nurse jotted down a few notes in her file.

“I don’t know if I can handle this anymore—can’t he stay here?.”  Zelia’s voice was shaky.  She started sifting though her purse, looking for her cigarettes.  She found the empty pack and threw them back in her purse.

“Mrs. Morris, if you leave him here, there’s a chance he will never be released.  This is becoming a common occurrence and we think it is in Dudley’s best interest that he stay, but that decision is up to you, Mrs. Morris.”  The Doctor looked sternly at Zelia.  “Are you sure about this?” After a long pause, “Yes, I’m sure.”

It pained Zelia’s conscience, but she had no choice.  She was the only one left in his life and now she too would vanish, leaving him to himself.  She knew it was the best—the only answer that made sense to her.  Dudley had become unreachable.

Dudley screamed so loud that everyone in the hospital could hear him; they heard him two floors up and two floors down—so much anger poured out.  After many more episodes, Dudley would spend much of his time in solitude, yelling, screaming himself to sleep…

“I didn’t ask for this—.”  Looking up to the high ceiling, hands secured behind his back in the white cocoon that he would never break out of.  He let out a howling scream, looking up at the ceiling again.  “You!—You, did this to me.  The people!—they stare in awe.  I spin—I spew myself out aimlessly in circles.  They look on in fascination but if only they were I, they would see how meaninglessness this existence really is. Damn You!!” 

There was not one tear in Dudley’s face.  He rested his head on his knees, unable to do anything but rock back and forth, wishing he had never left his dingy little room that cold winter eve, wandering the streets, seeking his doomed fate.  Zelia’s image quickly passed through his mind.  Dudley slowly lifted his head; out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move.  He froze at the sight of it and went into hysterics.  He saw black and red swirls, he couldn’t move, his whole being, mind and soul entered a deep abyss.

The next morning, Sunday, Dudley was gone.  The police were unable to find any clues as to the whereabouts of Dudley Morris.  On Tuesday while the cleaning person was dusting away a cobweb, she saw a large black spider.  She was about to swat it, but could swear it was smiling at her, and decided to let it live.