Ichabod Day

Today feels like the first day of fall to me…not because it's necessarily cold, but because I have noticed for the first time that most of the leaves have been liberated from the trees. It opens things up, makes things feel larger, and yet more mystical at the same time. There is a starkness to the trees that create an ambiance like something out of a Tim Burton film. I half expect Ichabod Crane to come galloping down Pivot Rock Road with a lantern and windswept leaves crackling beneath clocking hooves.

Ichabod Day

Space Invader

It started out with me on my way to the grocery store, having awakened with no coffee in the house-a tragedy all on its own. I thought of that little coffeeshop down the street and thought maybe I'd stop in to check it out, so I brought what i lovingly refer to as my Tippi Tap Typer just in case.

Roscoe's Music and Espresso Café was a tiny establishment, but intriguing. It was time I tried to get out of the house a little and use my new toy in a different environment. I ordered a White Chocolate cappuccino and chatted with the owner for a few minutes, and then a young woman walked in. The first thing I noticed was that she immediately invaded my space. We exchanged pleasantries. The tiny coffeeshop was no bigger than most people's kitchens, and I tried to move aside, but she hemmed me right in, ordering his house blend.

The proprietor, Roscoe, informed her that he was just now making a new pot. She asked how long it would take, and he said just long enough for the water to run through.

"Could you give me some sort of idea, then?"

"Two point 3 minutes."

"Jolly Good," she exclaimed.

Jolly good? That's when it dawned on me that she had a British accent.

Roscoe started the brew and the Space Invader waited, turning a bit to examine a painting on the wall. She then would not let me get past her to sit down out of the way, so I just turned back around and stayed where I was. I don't think it was intentional. I noticed the Bible she was holding behind her, clutching it almost fiercely, standing erect, as if a recruit at attention. My first reaction was Oh great, a religious zealot. I was afraid she'd try to witness to me. Faith is a wonderful thing, but those who wander around with little else other than a Bible, are bound to launch into some religious tirade or hackneyed effort to save my soul. I had already noticed that my communication skills were suffering from caffeine withdrawals, so I didn't feel up to the challenge.

Then she did the inevitable witnessing. Thankfully, to Roscoe. "Have you ever read the Bible?

I understood him to say yes, but heard him counter with another book he had read, asking her if she had read it. She said no, there was much too much in her head right now… But she had realized that the Bible had everything in it she needed, about life and love and so on, and that we should read it, because it answers so many questions… I asked her if she had read The Seat of the soul for the same reasons. She said no, as he poured her cup and handed it to her. She carried her House Blend out to the patio and sat, lighting a Camel filter right next to the sign that read Thank you For Not Smoking.

Roscoe gave me a knowing look, and whispered, "She comes in here a lot…she's been in and out of institutions…she's staying at the halfway house up here…doing pretty well now…except that today, she seems to be British." I was surprised and intrigued. It was clear what the implication was, now. HE motioned me to follow and pointed out the front window. "See that tower, right over there between that building and the water tower is a halfway house for people who are…"

"Halfway?" I offered.

He smiled.

Three people come in, and I comment, "oh look out, you're getting a rush."

He laughs. The people order, one of them a lady who says she misses her coffee, as she is from "Coffee country." I engage her…ask if it's Seattle…she says another town in Washington, above Seattle and I tell her I'm thinking of moving to that area in May. She says what she doesn't miss is the dismal weather and I confess I love weather like that.

I put a five dollar bill on the counter, so that I won't forget to pay.

The Space Invader Zealot returns asking for a refill, saying, "I should think that this much coffee cannot possibly be good for the stomach." She takes her refill back out.

I carried my coffee and Typer out to the deck for a little fresh air and maybe morbid curiosity, so that I could be within earshot and eyeshot of her. She comments on what a lovely day it is, and I agree. Shortly, I hear her chuckle. I look up and she is smoking, smiling, and whispering a few words to some unseen table companion. I know then, she really is certifiable. She sucks on her camel filters, and makes properly British faces, laughing, obviously enjoying the repartee of the voices in her head.

I am intrigued enough to want to talk to her, but intimidated enough not to. How does one talk to a crazy person without sufficient psychological experience? What if I say something that screws up this reality she has created for herself? What if that little swim in the cerebral fluid garners me a proper British drowning? I move to the smoking section, situated at a picnic table behind her, lighting a cigarette of my own, and bend back to my writing.

A moment later, I notice Birkenstock knockoffs a few feet from my table and look up.

"Excuse me, " she says. "I am out of smokes…can I give you 50 cents for one, or something?"

"Oh, no, here," I give her two. "It's awful to run out when you're addicted."

"Isn't it though?" She returns to her table and lights up.

A young man approaches, asking about my typing gadget and I give him the sales pitch and he seems interested, then wanders back into the café. I wondered why he came outside just to ask me about my Typer. After he leaves, Space Invader turns around and says, "These are delicious cigarettes."

Delicious? "I'm glad you like them. Most people don't because they're menthol and lighter."

"Oh no, there's just enough menthol, and it doesn't last long, and there's this fruity aftertaste…"

"Yes," I say, while thinking, funny she would say Fruity.

Later, I go inside the café for a refill and while I wait, admire a portrait of a man who is playing harmonica. I comment on how good the painting is. Roscoe tells me it's by a local artist, and he knows the guy in the painting, played music with him for years. I see an old photo of Roscoe on the wall, jeans, no gray beard, but still a mustache, wearing one of those poofy down slicker vests, and a newsboy cap. "This is you, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a long time ago."

"I can see it's you. You have the Jack Kerouac look to you in this…you have this face that seems familiar…were you famous at one point?" I smile. "--maybe in a movie you might not claim?"

"No..." He laughs. "-- but I was in the movie they made here recently..."

"Oh, Billy Bob Thornton's movie?"

"Yeah, I got to play banjo a little."

Space Invader comes in and announces she is finished with coffee, and wanders back toward the halfway house. I finish my third cup, and settle the rest of my tab and tip him two dollars. He dubs me Customer of the Day.

Outside, I hear the now familiar laughter of the Space Invader. She is nearby, toward the road, probably standing there waiting to cross, and having a pleasant conversation with no one.

Space Invader

Passerby

(Published in the Arkansas Women's Journal)

I had begun the trek to my Expository Writing class that January afternoon, taking the high walkway in front of the campus bookstore, when my eyes flickered to the woman coming toward me. She was a frosted blond, middle aged, dressed professionally, and carried a soft side attaché. She held an ugly green umbrella over her head to stave off the light drizzle; the edge of the umbrella tilted just enough so that I couldn't see her face clearly.

These details swept into my brain along with a numbing suggestion that she was not a stranger, but someone I have known all my life. I looked away so quickly, caught up in my practiced apathy, that I was unable to get another look at her face, for fear she would notice me and that eye contact would result in a dreaded confrontation. My brain whirled away in a fantasy that she would see me and rush over to me, pulling at my sleeve, and tell me how very proud she was of my success at school, and of my courage in going back for a degree, and how sorry she was for the awful letter she had written when she excused herself from my life. And the fantasy evaporated abruptly when she passed by, and my heart thumped back into operation, and the veins in my neck seemed to swell, forcing the blood into my head.

I tried to catch my breath before I turned around to examine her as she moved away from me without pause across the red brick square below. Like a traumatized child, I stood there in the mist, trying to focus on her form before it moved too far away. It had to be her. But the green umbrella-- she would not carry a green umbrella. And the walk she never hobbled like that unless something happened. Unless she's had an accident of some sort since--I continued to watch her move under the canopy at the entrance of the student union, and beyond toward the parking lot, analyzing the reasons why it could not be her. She might have looked at me, but it was not for very long. I know, even though I was busy looking away. Maybe she didn't recognize me after two years. Have I changed that much? Maybe she didn't look at me at all, and that's why she kept walking. That's why she didn't react.

I stood there in my long, dark raincoat, the mist caressing my face, and wondered why it mattered at all. I wondered why I would risk being late for class for someone like her, who could not give me the time of day, nor acknowledge me as a valuable human being. How can a mother ignore her only daughter?

I checked my watch, and turned toward my destination again, refusing to take that additional glance my heart ached for. She's no longer part of my life.

If it was her.

Which I'm sure it wasn't.

Passerby

The Universe That Continues To Disappear

(book review)


Okay, regarding the book, The Disappearance of the Universe: Straight Talk About Illusions, Past Lives, Religion, Sex, Politics, and the Miracles of Forgiveness…

If you're able to suspend your disbelief, this book is really fascinating. I see that the point is not the presentation but the message, yet my editor/ writer/analytic self wishes it could just be a bit more straightforward in presentation. . .like, “Hey. These are ideas I have on god and the universe and our place on the earth plane. . .” Yet I know that credibility is an issue others have as well, and the mass media marketing machine has taught us to believe or embrace that which has some clout. Clout is indicated by association with respected and well-known authorities, success, packaging, testimonials.


The clout I seek, however, is more rooted in pragmatism. Show me a photo, provide a recording, a video, or information that is irrefutable. . .as hard as it is to allow that to be enough these days, what with the manipulative technologies we have at our disposal: Proof can be tampered with, altered, and even created in such a way as to be indiscernible from the real thing. Alas. Heavy sigh. So perhaps it comes down to what resonates for each of us. Perhaps I've come round the circle. . .perhaps I've gone round the bend. I'll explore that later.

As for the content of the book—I actually agree with some of the ideas presented, and resonate with others. I enjoy ideas that flirt with social upheaval. I like to rattle spiritual cages. This book does that. I am still reading it. It's taking me a while because of TED (my affectionate moniker for Thyroid Eye Disease). Sometimes the words just won't come into focus and I spend a lot of time trying to find just the right strength of reading glasses to wear over my contacts. . .and it's also taking me a while because I tend to read the other 8 books I have on tap at the same time. . .I have digressed again. . .(I'm only on my first cup of coffee).

The book, The Disappearance of the Universe. . .yes. Fascinating. Worth reading. Probably one of the most important cage-rattling books to come along in some time. If you can suspend your disbelief.

One problem I had, for example was the pronouncement about "only listening to the Holy Spirit." You cannot authentically say that you “only listen to the Holy Spirit” because we are human and humans often can't tell the difference between what they need to hear and what's there (or not there). When you speak of an entity for whom there is no proof, nor whom anyone has seen, it’s a stretch to say that you know what that entity is “saying” to you—in your head—like what happens to schizophrenics, I might add.

While I am a skeptic about most things, I am also spiritual and have a great affinity for things metaphysical. It is a precarious and time-consuming way to be. But it seems to work for me. Anyway. Here are some thought-provoking excerpts from the text that caught my interest:

“. . .there are people who are highly visible when, rather than being true masters of spirituality and metaphysics, they are merely exhibiting the symptoms of an extroverted personality.” (p.33.1) No doubt an aspersion at the competition for the spiritual publishing market. And in my experience there are many highly visible gurus who exhibit other personality traits that fall into the realm of “disorders.”

“. . .it doesn't matter what actions you take or don't take in the world—although your way of seeing and the attitude you maintain while engaging in any action does matter.” (p.35.3) Well now, it DOES kind of matter what actions you take and don’t take, obviously. But I do understand it’s easier to deal with the consequences if you’re a positive-thinker.

“. . .he who needs nothing can be trusted with everything.” (p.40/41). Unless it’s money he needs, and you have it and are looking the other way…I wouldn’t say this was a person to necessarily trust with my money. On the surface, then, quite a lofty and poetic statement, but it forgets human nature.

“In the end, everything except for God is metaphor.” (p. 82) This one is all very well and good, but it makes a huge assumption that God is NOT a metaphor as well. The reality is, He could be. Humans quite possibly invented him, rather than the other way around.

The Universe That Continues To Disappear

Close to Never (poem)

The light in your eyes
moves, dims, and behind it, I see doubt
I try to pull the words from you
And all you say is
"I don't want to lose you."

If you only knew how close you were
To never losing me
I would never see that doubt in your eyes again.

Close to Never (poem)

Jenfu

The Internet can be such a treasure chest. Amid my brief excursions into dictionaries and reference materials for my writings, i stumble on little gems that make me feel so fortunate. Not a Fountain of Youth, but maybe a fountain of comfort, entertainment, moments of peace or camaraderie.

One of those pearls is an online journal by a young woman with the moniker, JENFU. I read her entries, and i feel inspired, hopeful, understood--jealous; i feel i want to know what she looks like, to put a face to the writing, i want to be her best friend. I eat through her entries, and think, "God, i wish i could write like that."

"It isn’t that late, not much past nine, but it feels late. It feels like it could be any time after midnight, when things just stop and the background expands, and it is you, standing on a dark street against that dark backdrop, and everything in the world narrows down to you, alone, under the streetlight, your arms moving through the yellow light as if you’re underwater, and the only possible sounds are the scrape of your heels on the sidewalk as you shift from foot-to-foot, the rasp of fabric against fabric, your hands skating down your arms to clasp your elbows, pulling your body heat back into you, your breath, and the wind that flies up the hill, hits the street with a thud, and goes clattering down the sidewalk, down the other side of the hill." (Jenfu)

If i could grasp that intimacy, the vivid, picturesque quality of these vignettes, i could be a best selling author. (well, that is is the right folks saw it and offered me a contract). If my tortured prose could only spill out of me in that way, i would finally believe in myself.

As much as this is impressive serious writing, i find this next piece, RINGU, absolutely hilarious. I almost peed my pants, reading it.

http://jenfu.net/archives/000231.html

**addendum. Since reposting this here on blogger, i figured out that i can't access those blogs from Jenfu. I'm just sick! I spent a long time googling her (and i bet she didn't even feel it). Seems she's off the map as far as her older stuff. I have some print outs but can't find some of them--to include "Ringu." I might have to hunt down her email and ask her to send me some stuff so i can quote her some more. She's been my favorite blogger for about 6 years. I only had one book in print back then. Now i have twelve. And...i'm STILL not a best selling author, because the right folks haven't seen them and offered me a contract.

Jenfu

I Am Purple

I am purple.

I am dark without being dismal.

There are so many variations of me that most people don't know what real purple is.

I am not the color of choice for most people, as I am not conventional.

I am not standard.

Sometimes it's hard to match me with other colors if you are color coordinating.

I am often seen as a flavor rather than a color.

I can stand out around certain other plainer colors.

I have been associated with bruising, with sweetness, with mountains majesty, with anger and with royalty.

I am purple.

I Am Purple

The Sound of My Own Thoughts

(From "The Misadventures of No One Famous" my memoir)

This entry was written before i found out that i had Graves Disease. My thyroid had been dying for some time, according to doctors, and it was literally in the death throes around this time, causing me a great deal of mental anguish. To anyone who has suffered from thyroid disease, you know what i mean. Happily, i had my thyroid nuked, and am now on lifetime medication to control it.

They should only enjoy the fruits of those dark demons,
but never have to do battle with them.

I've lost the sound of my own thoughts. I have so much trouble with that: just having a thought, recognizing it, communing with it. I noticed this the other day in a rare moment when I was having a smoke break alone on the front porch. The thoughts marched in and out of my brain and I didn't recognize them. They were disjointed, odd, meaningless--rather pathetic, actually. I can't recall now what they were exactly.

I know much of that is because I've spent 24/7 for the last year and a half with a loquacious partner. I love her stories and she is intelligent and interesting and quite often hysterically funny. But I crave some solitude, Some quiet--some time to reacquaint myself with my own thoughts.

That's why I'm sitting in the driveway in my van writing this.

I'm about to enter a new chapter in my life. It could be the best chapter ever, the one I've been waiting for like some ticket-less wannabe passenger on the train of real life. I watch the trains come and go--see other people boarding and going somewhere. I wish I could go too. But am I running away, or running to? No matter where I've been or who I've been with, I never can count it as a success. I always have some screaming ugly in my brain, ripping my psyche to shreds, leaving me feeling victimized by my own mind. My error, I think, is in the notion that "success" and "normal" are terms that apply to me in the most fundamental sense. That's when I had my little mini-epiphany. All these years, I have struggled to do the things i felt i must--offer what little talent i had to the world, hoping to finally create stability and calm in my day to day life--finally place my energies into art and writing and music.

But the reality is that those things are merely points of light in an otherwise darkened room. I still have difficulty dealing with stress. I continue to impose order on my chaos, inventing still newer ways to obsess and control the minutia of each day; still am thin-skinned and self-loathing and angry that I can never be that person I was before everything good in me imploded and rained down like shards of glass, cutting me, creating more wounds in my scarred skin.

I don't think highly enough of myself that I can just dismiss my hideous behavior with, "Oh, it's just the way I am, and I don’t care if anyone approves." I'm not strong enough to change certain behaviors--the chemicals fighting, brawling, wrestling in my brain are too powerful. And I'm not so naïve that I believe it's acceptable to behave the way I do. I hate who I've become, yet I have been incapable of changing that reality.

I'm a nut-case. Crazy. Sick in the head. Messed up. Mentally ill. How tragic that is. What a total pathetic loss. Potential, just jack-hammered into smithereens.

The safest and wisest thing I can do is never again fool myself into believing that I can maintain a committed, co-habitation with anyone else. It would be asking too much from another human being. I should never invest too much emotionally in the success of a lover, or the success of keeping one. It’s a fond, fruitless wish, and exercise in futility. The people who cross paths with me, or count themselves as a friend or acquaintance, should never have to see the ugly side of me. They can enjoy my momentary calm, the fleeting generosity and kindness, the humor over a cup of coffee, the painting I just finished, the song I just recorded, the novel I published--and never have to endure the stomping rages, the tearful despondency, the invisible self-esteem. They should only enjoy the fruits of those dark demons, but never have to do battle with them.

The real challenge, after truly accepting these things about myself, is to embrace fully that I will never again enjoy the company of that SELF that has been usurped by this new self. I have changed, slowly but surely. I must release my hold on the hope that I can be loving and kind and generous and easy-going most of the time. It has become obvious that the person who possesses those qualities is now possessed by this demon. My only hope is to keep the demon in check when I am in the company of others, and let her rant and rage around in the safety of my solitude; and to glean some creative penance in songs and books and art. I've run out of time. I'm 40 years old, and what could have been changed is now only a dream. And like a dream, I must allow it to fade from my consciousness and never let it interrupt my day with the should-haves and whys that torture my waking moments.

My dog loves me and he won't walk out. He'll be the constant companion that helps me feeling needed and loved unconditionally. He won’t argue and push all my buttons. He will give me hugs and make me smile and laugh, as he has always done. He will not have pressing needs and agendas and ambitions to tax my strength. He will only ask for food and water and a pat on the head, and a trip outside to relieve himself. He is the only one who can safely build his world around someone like me.

The Sound of My Own Thoughts

From Crayons to Gel Keyboards

The Evolution of the Writing Instrument

When I was a toddler, I recorded my lofty thoughts with my favorite Crayola, teal blue, from my selection of 64 crayons of "Different Brilliant Colors." I recall that I never wrote on walls or furniture as some children are wont to do. I preferred to save my creative endeavors, and felt it unlikely that I could rip down part of the wall and hide it in my sock drawer. So I wrote on paper. Colorfully.


As I grew older, I moved to pens and pencils. Colored ones, at first, so that the transition from rainbows to uninspired black lines would not be overly traumatic. Bic, Eberhard, Trusty--always number two, because number three was too light, and any other one smudged. I filled spiral notebooks and steno pads with stories and poetry, and even wrote my first novel in one of those record books with the hard covers. I had to have a pen or pencil that flowed (or flew, if past tense rules are followed logically), because my mind would charge ahead and I would have to write quickly to keep up. This is probably why my handwriting became such an infantile hieroglyph.

I spent my entire young adult life (as if I'm some doddering old lady--although, come to think of it, I have been known to dodder on occasion) typing up my quaint little stories on what I now (lovingly) refer to as a Smith Corona AK-47. The bell at the end of the right margin informed me of an empty clip. It wouldn't have been so bad, except I was continually chasing this piece of machinery across my desk. I knew I'd either have to nail it down or buy a heavier model.

The heavier model turned out to be an IBM PC, which seemed the ultimate technology in 1985. I felt so important. I had an actual computer to take care of all that busy work that often dissuades writers from finishing those laborious and voluminous novels. I went through just about every obligatory software there was. EasyWriter, Easy Working Writer, Professional Write, and finally, WordPerfect 5.1, which I learned to hate, then found MS Word, which i use to this day.

Irony available here: upon editing and updating this piece of writing, I had to convert it to Word (for Windows)--the program I have used for the last five years--and I won't change to anything else again. I mean it. Really.

Consequently, I have a profusion of floppy disks that hold various writings within various programs. The transfer process began to get old after I finally got everything switched over to Professional Write, and then discovered WordPerfect. I swore up and down that I would never change again; WordPerfect was the program for me; it was too much trouble to switch everything to another; I WOULD NOT learn another damn program. Then I realized that it really was difficult to remember all the function keys. I still had to glance at the cardboard reference chart suspended next to the monitor to remind myself that center was Shift F6, not Ctrl F6, or Alt F6. After two years of this continual referencing, the idea of Windows with icons that I could simply point to and select, grew more and more appealing. I exercised my female right to change my mind, and announced that my very next purchase would be Windows. But only WordPerfect for Windows, since I had slaved over it for two years. I had to save at least some face.


So now that I have trudged through the Swamp of Software, survived the Morass of Manuals, and emerged a Word Processing Force to be Reckoned With (or, With Which to be Reckoned, if I want to be grammatically correct), it eventually became time to retire the old IBM, since it was showing signs of not only wear, but a sort of computer strain of Alzheimer's. So my IBM PC-asaurus, has faded into a fossil in some technological graveyard of keyboards, joysticks, CPU's, LCD Monitors, and dot-matrix roller printers, and undoubtedly a 22nd Century archaeologist will dig them all up and snicker at its crudeness.

From Crayons to Gel Keyboards

A Proper Kiss (poem)

One might say she'd been around
the block a few times, while romance-bound
in search of an innocent charm she insists:
matching lips, for a proper kiss.

they had been short and tall and fat and slim
and she kissed every blessed one of them
but none of them offered her what she sought
the smooching seemed to be for naught

one was rough and one was wet
one was as sloppy as one could get
one was there and then was gone
one got worse as the kiss went on
another chapped her mouth and face
and pushed her pug nose out of place
and still another she'd have to say
was, "swab the deck and anchors away!"
but not a one was worthy, you see
to be what a proper kiss should be.

then thinking her quest to be fruitless and vain
she swore to never kiss again
and stopped in at a local pub
to toast her failure and in the club
was a young woman lounging at the bar,
seeking some solace, and not getting far,

a beer in her hand and a frown on her face,
saying, "Can i get a beer in this place?"
she sat down next to the frowning face.
A double-take, she took a look
And in her heart sank one big hook
The frown was melting as the barkeep served
the beer she needed to keep her nerve
and then she heard the frowner say
"It's on me" and the two shared a smile.
"Sit down, girlfriend, and stay awhile."
And so she did and halfway through the frosty brew
she found herself admitting to
a failure in finding one living soul
to kiss her proper, kiss her slow.
The other one held back a grin.
"I understand the dilemma you're in.
Forgive my boldness, dear,
but i have a solution, if you'd like to hear."

An answering nod gave her the nerve
and she said, "the reason those kisses don't serve,
is simple as this, i know we just met,
but you haven't kissed a woman yet."
And after the revelation sunk in,
she suggested the two of them go for a spin,
just a short ride
to a quiet place by the riverside
she sank into arms that held her fast and at last
as the sun was sinking low
A proper kiss was had by both.


Charcoal (c)Jae Baeli

A Proper Kiss (poem)