Things To Do Today
1. Go to a cookout.
2. Eat too much food.
3. Watch fireworks in a huge crowd on the beach.
4. Eat more food that is now filled with sand.
5. Sing patriotic songs.
6. Ooohh and aaahh endlessly, loudly and passionately.
7. Get soppy weepy.
8. Dodge electric sparklers in the hands of children racing through the crowd, avoiding their parents, who are in hot pursuit.
Have a happy Fourth of July and a fun, safe weekend.
From Louise
Generic
I'm supposed to write up to 500 words about a typical day in the life of Louise and I'm at a loss because I have eclectic tastes in days, just like I have eclectic tastes in music, books, theater productions, friends, activities and hobbies. To define myself as one thing in only one way by only one frame of reference causes my circuits to overload, activates my emergency switch and forces the entire system to shut down. I haven't written a word.
Gummy
A goober is a bespeckled, murky string, about 8 inches long, that hangs, thick and gelatinous, from a mastiff's jowls. Each must be wiped away before it becomes a flinger (self explanatory). The little gobs of gra-doo trapped inside goobers and flingers are called floaters. Floaters are oftentimes relics from long-ago dinners of yore; but sometimes they are fresh and nouveau, and much easier to clean up.
Gigantic
My backyard is dwarfed by a splashy, wooded hillside that begins with a giant beech tree, which I flood with light in the summer, since I love it so. I read somewhere that beech trees are considered goddess trees in Sweden or Denmark or somewhere north, but I never researched it like I swore I would, so I don't know what a goddess tree is.
Ghostly
My resident spirits had been trying to warn me about him all summer. During several of his weekend visits, my fans became unplugged and my house dialed 911 when the phones weren't working. The police checked them and were mystified when they couldn't get a dial tone. “Toldya,” I said. They didn't know what to do. Neither did I.
Goodbye
Have a generous, giddy, gusty, gleaming, glistening, glossy, glowing, gracious, genteel, genuine, gourmet, glamorous, gleeful, guiltless, gritty, gutsy, gratifying, grand and glorious weekend!
From Louise
―My writing rambles until I pull it out, shrink it in, rework, remold, reshape and then polish, review, polish, review, polish, review....and half the time, it still rambles.―
―Yesterday my narrative was lopsided and tired and all bogged down with meanderings, muddlings and mixed messages.―
―I'm sure I could write better if I cleared off my desktop. But then I would have to empty the trash, replenish the garbage bags, which would require a trip to the store, return and put the wet, almost-stinky clothes that have been sitting in the washer since Tuesday into the dryer, refill the now-empty washer with my my pile of dirty clothes blocking the downstairs hallway, trek to the kitchen and load up the dishwasher with what is sitting in the sink, and haul my carefully folded, freshly laundered clothes back upstairs to put away. Then I would return to my desk to write, and it would be time to leave for my 2:00 appointment.―
―Dear Louise: When I set the alarm to give you a 20 minute writing session, you are not to spend it staring off into space, scratching an itch, memorizing a grocery list or an errand list or a phone list, evaluating your aging manicure, planning your next knitting project or tugging at the calluses on your feet.―
―Either the flow is there, or it isn't. If it is, keep writing until it's gone. If it isn't, it cannot be manufactured by flipping on some mental switch and having it spew through eager fingers onto the keyboard. That would be nice, but it doesn't work that way; so go do something else.―
―Like have a good weekend!―
―From Louise―
1. An example of my poetic prowess:
It’s supposed to rain today.
Bah, humbug, I say.
2. I’m older now. I’ve done the same thing the same way for so long that if my pattern were any clearer, I’d have a neon sign strapped to my face.
3. Annie goes to the hospital today for a bone scan. She thought she passed her last one with flying colors—negative, clear, normal. And then the phone call: “We found a spot. It could be nothing.”
4. Something is good when you think the fridge is empty and you’re ravenous. Nothing is good when you tiptoe to the mailbox, dreading a pile of bills that you can’t pay.
5. What did they all have in common? They were men I couldn’t trust, which is a clever, ineffective way of fooling myself into believing that I was in control of my vulnerability.
6. Spring Sky
When it’s a sheet of cerulean, I can believe in infinity, and when it fills with quiet clouds, it closes in on me with hugs and softness and wisps of yearning.
7. When dad was here, I took him to dinner with friends at the Edgeworth Club. We were a party of fourteen, two tables of seven. I didn't think to draw up a seating chart and write out place cards, neat and tidy tents, marking everyone's spot for the evening. "Your name, this plate and knife and fork, this chair, with a sturdy back to hold your purse or coat. You belong here." But there was no welcome mat for anyone. My mother would have been horrified. So would Emily Post.
8. I know a man who is the definition of “staunch”. If you climbed aboard, he would hold your weight and carry you. He is married. Not to me.
9. It hurts to have 6S reject my writing; it happens rarely, since I am one of Rob’s original writers. So much for loyalty. But why should he publish anything that is less than excellent, intriguing, fun, startling, fascinating, sexy or provacative? Why would I write anything less?
All the adjectives in no. 9 above? Have them this weekend!
From Louise
Telephone Pole
It bristles with possibility. Never slumping during sorrows or jumping for joys. Ambulance, fire truck, police car, accident. Another sorrow added. The first bike ride, the first walk pushing the pram, strolling by snapping pictures, another joy. It confesses its favorite pastime is smelling the new daffodils, as they creep out of their hiding places around his feet.
Branches
Powder puff corals on the tips of bareness, which last week shivered spindly with cold, begging for a shawl or even a blessed blanket of snow—any covering would be better than that icy nakedness. Alone. Today, they are blushing with their first spring kiss.
Rawhide Bone
My mastiff’s prize possession, untied and shortened. Pieces have wandered into his huge jowls and stayed, as if resting in a swaying hammock, sipping lemonade through a straw. Tart, icy, with a single bead of sweat blazing a cool trail down the sides of the glass. Now all he needs is a warm, spring day filled with bright sun.
Wishing you a terrific spring weekend!
From Louise
Point 01: The Mess That Mustn't
What happens when a busy writer goes into a writer's groove that lasts for days and days, where she can miraculously type 120 words a minute, has whole volumes of synonyms and action verbs and luscious adjectives doing the electric slide in her head, and she doesn't want to leave her computer, can't eat, can't sleep, won't train her mastiffs, won't answer the phone, doesn't do her laundry, can't pay her bills, etc, etc, etc. The picture on the left pretty much says it all, tells it like it is, sings it, sister. As of this writing, The Mess has mounted so high, has accumulated so many under-layers, has swallowed up so many bills and pieces of papers and notes to myself and has become so menacing, I feel that the only way to approach it is with a sledge hammer, a Bobcat or a wrecking ball. Or perhaps a .45, a shotgun or a small nuclear bomb. Don't know. Still in the assessment and planning stage. Next week or next month, when the demolition and reconstruction have been completed to my satisfaction, I might show you the "After" picture. Of course, then again, I might not.
Point 02: The Little Panthers That Could
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can, the University of Pittsburgh Panther basketball team was mantra-ing on and off the boards and in and out of the locker rooms Thursday night before and during the big Backyard Brawl against arch rivals, WVU Mountaineers. I was on my way home and eagerly turned on the radio, assuming the game was over and I'd catch the score. I heard the announcer bemoan all the Panthers' lost chances to put WVU out of the game, tie up the loose ends and go home a winner, but no such luck. Things looked bleak. I stopped the car in the driveway to catch the last few seconds, hoping that Pitt could tie the game and win in overtime. It was 52-54, Mountaineers winning. We had the ball. After a timeout, with barely a fraction of a second left on the clock, Ronald Ramon threw a 3-pointer that went in as the buzzer rang, 55-54, Panthers. The crowd went so completely insane, I couldn't hear the announcer. I listened for a while, grinning like a maniac, before remembering that I had a car full of groceries that needed to be unloaded, so I pulled myself together, regained my senses and went about my evening. I love games like that, games with those explosive, dramatic last few seconds that take a person's breath away with the sheer courage and gut-wrenching wonder of it all. It was definitely the finest moment I have ever spent in suspended animation in my car in the driveway―a most excellent moment to be a Pittsburgher. As an extra bonus, the Penns won too.
I hope you enjoy an uncluttered, most excellent weekend.
From Louise
P.S. Has anyone seen my cell phone?
The crease in Kristen’s forehead deepened. Without looking up, she said, “It’s a stylistic choice. We’ve studied lots of styles this term wherein rich and varied adjectives were used. If they are used well, they provide texture to the piece. It’s a personal call.” ―
Wasn't it Rilke who advised a young writer to love the questions? If so, tell him I'm in. ―
The wonderful feeling I had, knowing I could take my time catching up on some of my writing assignments has been replaced with a knot in my stomach, a migraine and panic traveling up and down my torso, delivering jabs at crucial points―head, solar plexus, stomach. ―
She tells us that when we’re in a creative funk, feeling the void, with no viable ideas, and everything we jot down looks amateurish and awful; we should go ahead and just write down the crap, since it’s the only way get to the good stuff. What she’s suggesting is that our worst writing is a prerequisite, a portal for our best. It’s the flow of the beast. Or the nature of the beast. Whatever. ―
I t was the most obvious, predictable piece of work I’ve ever written, which, in addition to being the wrong assignment, earned me a lousy B-, a low blow for this A student, who was just invited to join a University Honors Society. I’d better accept fast, before they find out about my grades for this quarter. ―
School isn’t as much fun right now as it was last term, when I adored both my teachers, and was thoroughly challenged in every aspect of my critical analysis and writing style. ―
So many words are added in and then taken out, that my sentences feel like I'm shuffling and reshuffling a deck of cards, or attempting to complete a puzzle by pushing a piece into an empty space, and then examining the whole picture from a distance. I try the words on for size, look at them this way and that, say them in different voices, and keep or cut. It only takes one to change the tone and rhythm of the entire piece. I am enamored with the process. I can get lost in the words, trying to make them stand still for me, when they are fluid and active. I'll never completely capture them and I'll never completely stop trying. Therein lies the challenge. ―
Have a classy weekend.
From Louise
Wow. I completely forgot about my latest 6Sentences.com piece, which I wrote for my friend Peter, also known as Pita Pita Bread (for an explanation, see no. 3 here), and which was published for the world to see on Christmas day. I had better get cracking, since that was my last submission; and ordinarily I like to have my stuff sprinkled into the writing that waits in the 6Sentence.com pipeline. Many thanks to Rob McEvily, who was kind enough to showcase all my writing in one click, something that he rigged up in my bio, and that came as a complete surprise. Thank you, Rob.
---
Yawn. Today is the second day after Christmas, and I am deep into the post-Christmas/pre-New Year’s lull. What a boring place to be. It’s too early to get rid of all the Christmas stuff that decorates the house, lights every nook and cranny, and hangs from staircases, trees, and ceilings. My plants have been abandoned to the sunporch, where they are looking dry and droopy, so that I could fill the windows with pine sprigs that are also looking dry and droopy. I know how long it took to set Christmas up, and I know how long it will take to break it down, packing and storing it in some way that will hopefully make sense to me next year, when I go through this again. It’s time for thank you phone calls and notes; hard to do when I am as lethargic and sluggish as I am now, wanting nothing more than to sit on the couch and watch Gilmore Girl reruns. I’m working my way through Season 7, and am happy to report that Lorelei has had the sense to give Christopher a second chance, or is it his third? He is the father of her 21 year old daughter, Rory, who is getting ready to graduate from Yale. All in all, the Gilmore girls are much more exciting than life in the lull between Christmas and New Year’s.
---
Soon. Two more days. Only two more days before I find myself on the plane to Atlanta, Fort Myers, and then to my father’s condo in Naples, FL, for my annual pilgrimage/escape/flight from reality. If only I could get off my behind, and get myself movin' with the same enthusiasm I had before Christmas, when I was preparing for my First Annual Christmas Eve Open House from 6 to 11 that saw 50 attendees this (my first) year, I would have my house cleaned, my laundry done, my suitcases packed, and I would be downtown, hopping from ballet to show to restaurant to coffee house and back again. As it is, my energy level is as drizzly as the weather outside, the tops of my feet feel like a horse stomped on them, and my back feels like I tried to bend over and pick up a 300 pound weight while standing on my tiptoes and twisting my body into an unnatural angle. I would rather merge into this spot, where I sit on my chair at my table, in front of my computer, on my sun-porch-gone-gray that faces into the morosely damp weather, and drink coffee, write, read, let myself get as dried out and droopy as my plants, and completely give into this tired, and gloriously temporary, lullabye groove.
Pearl Harbor Day
A clear account of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor can be found here. What more could I add to it? December 7 means so much less to my generation than it did to my parents', except to the wise baby boomers and those beyond, who have studied and made some effort to grasp the incredible significance of, and worldwide disaster averted by, World War II. To my father's generation, December 7 is as poignant and powerful a date as September 11 is to ours; December 7, a day that should live in infamy, according to President Roosevelt. We were lucky to have won the war, even though so many innocent were harmed and killed by the deciding bombs, for the Imperial Navy continued to pound away at the world, well after Hitler's regime had folded. Desperate measures were necessary and unavoidable, and our government took them. I thank all the military officials and brave veterans who fought for, and secured, America's (and Europe's, and...) liberty during World War II. As time moves us further and further away from this era in American (and indeed, world) history, my hope is that those who follow will never forget how great the sacrifice, and how important this victory, was to the freedoms we so thoroughly take for granted today.
Biopsy Day
This is the day I've been trying not to think about; the day of the dreaded biopsy has arrived. Modern, high-tech sonograms, such as the one I had last month, which is the culprit behind today's undertaking, are so sensitive that they can detect the tiniest adjustment that could be completely normal, and not sinister or pathological at all. However, my usual optimism is dampened by the knowledge that the primary cancer that finally got to my mother at the age of 65 came with certain words attached to it―words like "rare", "very aggressive", and "hereditary". My sisters and I were told to get CA-125's every 6 months in addition to our yearly Pap smears. Have I followed directions? Of course not. I was betting on the "rare" thing. But here I am, after ten days of tears, laughter, exhaustion, exhilaration, regrets, memories, tons of chocolate, and back-burner passions taking their new positions on the front burners; and I've re-instituted my Christmas Eve open house, am planning a trip to Europe, am visiting a Buddhist monastery to search for some part of myself that is less flighty than the self I live with every day, and I am listening to a CD of Dalai Lama chants. I want to make sure I see my father and stepmother at least once a month for the rest of time, and I promise I will start eating healthier and working out more regularly to aid my body in its aging process, which includes arthritis and chronic back issues. I'll even cook! Whatever happens, I look forward to actually knowing about it, and having a plan, a schedule, a clue; and in that spirit, I hope that your weekend gives you a cacophony of clues and clear paths, and a boxcar of brilliant ideas, and even some sanity in the midst of mindless holiday madness. I'll keep you posted.
From Louise
Sonogram Surprise
"But it was clear! Normal!" I yelled into the phone, easing myself into the chair. "Remember?"
"Your results are borderline, and the doctor wants to check it further," said the voice. I didn't know which lady I was talking to, but I knew I didn't like her. "It's probably nothing," she said.
Self-Advocate
I spent the next ten minutes raising hell about uterine biopsies performed on thousands of women every day without any pain or anxiety easers, and these are procedures that send some women into false labor and render others incapable of functioning for a week. "You're giving me plenty of valium," I said. "Enough to practically put me into a twilight sleep, which is the least you can do for each and every patient who walks into your office needing this procedure."
"Well, how is your threshold of pain?" she asked.
"Wrong question," I answered. "You should be asking how you can help me be the most comfortable. Don't you care about your patients?" (My threshold of pain is low.)
At one point, I used the word torture. "You're funny," she said.
"I might be a regular Billy Crystal, but about this I am deadly serious," I said. "No valium, no biopsy."
Synch
All of this coming from a woman who hasn't had a drop of alcohol in seven+ years, and hasn't had a non-prescription drug in at least twenty five. My only experiences with valium were its dreamy, puppy-love calm, given for bunion removals and a colonoscopy. I picked up the phone and called my AA mentor to make sure we were on the same page. After I finished my spiel, she asked, "Do you have someone to take you to the hospital and bring you home afterward?"
Indeed I do. So don't answer the telephone if the caller ID shows it's your doctor, be sure to stand up for yourself at least once this weekend because it's really empowering (even if it's a smokescreen for something else you'd rather not think about), and have a super weekend.
Oh, and by the way, I'm done with the letter s.
From Louise
Prologue
You may think that the above title is a title. It isn’t. What it really is, is a disclaimer. I’m not spending a lot of time editing, so don’t expect much out of me, it says. Today I’m not paying much attention to my craft. Those initial, first thoughts, untouched by that all too familiar my-writing-is-crap voice, are usually the best thoughts, the purest thoughts, according to many writing teachers, such as Natalie Goldberg. Besides, how much rewriting finally results in a piece that’s been rewritten to death?
C 1
Thank goodness I went on my writer’s retreat when I did. How was I to know that immediately after, Professor Elm would start asking for a page of my final paper, then three pages, expecting more and more writing every week, until the week after Thanksgiving, which would require a first draft? If I had known, I might have scheduled my writing retreat weekend on purpose to get a leg up; but as it was, the retreat was one of those happy coincidences that keep popping up, and that I can now recognize, since I've become a non-agnostic. Those fabulous, flukey moments of chance that connect me to the deeper pulse of life, the same ones that I worked so hard to ignore for the last bazillion years. Being an agnostic is hard work. Really, it is. It’s much easier and much more fun to walk through life with eyes open to those weird, little, sometimes clever, sometimes creepy signs that occur all the time, and that my spiritual friends put so much stock in.
C 2
Happiness is being a writer, and buying from Amazon.com, the biggest, thickest, heaviest, scariest volume of synonyms I could possibly find. Ah, sweet heaven. Alice, my last weekend’s writing retreat teacher, said it was the best synonym finder she has found to date, and she’s a teacher, so she really knows. My next present to myself? A 4th edition, American Heritage Dictionary, millennium version. I’m glad I named my puppy Webster instead of Heritage.
C 3
I guess I’m not shutting down my blog after all. Why would there be a conflict for me if I keep rambling away like I’m doing this minute? Certainly nobody would steal this. Plus, isn’t the agent that Peter semi-promised someone who has to be paid, whether they get you published or not? I have a copy of The Writer’s Market sitting downstairs on my bookshelves somewhere among training books and dog encyclopedias and novels and autobiographies and volumes of poetry that I bought for a course that I dropped after one class. Maybe it would help if I actually opened it and checked it out.
Epilogue
I’m getting ready to zoom down and across several states to make my way to my father’s house in Cincinnati for the weekend. It’s amazing that he still puts up with me.
Have a glorious weekend.
From Louise
01
I like to don my pretend black beret and pay a visit to Café des Amis on Division Street and listen to the guys chatter in French, except that men don't chatter, do they? Rather, they fire off language at the same time they pour thin batter onto a round, cast-iron skillet, and cut up fruit on a large butcher block square on the island in front of the stove that almost touches the ceiling, and pour thick, see-through, bright golden butter sauce into an enormous steel mixing bowl with its whisk lying nearby, ready to jump in and go to work. They are young and handsome, and they fly around their kitchen as fast as they speak, making me feel as if I should flee for my life amidst the furor and flurry of their kitchen mania. I am glad to be tucked out of the way at my wooden table around the corner with its hand-painted ceramic salt and pepper shakers and red and white checked tablecloth. As long as I'm writing in my notebook, I'm removed from the scene, observing, slow, and safe.
02
"Oh, for God's sakes, Annie. What man alive would be interested in a woman with three mastiffs?" I asked. I tossed my head back, and noticed a crack in my ceiling, a river making its way from one corner to the other. "Damn, I'll have to fix that at some point," I thought.
Annie crinkled her forehead, and hitched one knee over the other. "I know who! A wealthy horse breeder who lives on a 150-acre farm with stables and grooms and trainers going in and out at all hours of the day and night, with three mares, ready to drop their babies at any moment."
"Foals," I corrected.
"Foals," Annie echoed. "To a man like that, three mastiffs would be nothing."
"Interesting," I said. "Do you know anyone like that?"
"No," Annie said, staring off into space.
"Me neither," I said.
"Hey, Louise. Do you know that there's a crack in your ceiling?"
03
I was reading about a seminar that would teach a student how to craft a piece from beginning to end, and was vaguely aware of the bus door gasping open and someone plodding down the aisle and throwing himself into the seat in front of me. When his smell hit me, I looked up. Soap, English Leather, and Old Spice, but softer. Floral, but more masculine. Like honeysuckle and lemonade on a blue-sky day, mixed with the smell of freshly mown hay―a yummy surprise that rhymes.
04
I'm on my way to a women's writing retreat in Traverse City, MI. I look forward to a delicious lemonade weekend, filled with spicy surprises, and I hope the same for you.
From Louise
Most of these prompts and first sentences have been borrowed from The World of the Ten Thousand Things, Charles Wright.
• • •
It's odd what the past brings back, with me, plopped into place, center stage, always smiling, always the cute, little one. The rest is hazy, those other millions of moments, when I felt awkward and gawky, fumbling with my school books, tripping over my feet (which I still do), and skirting the outsides of cliques, wondering if there would ever be one that included me, the shadow figure lurking for an opening on the edges.
• • •
I assumed it was all next door at the Long estate with stables and jumper courses and private roads lined with maple trees. Mrs. Long was at least twenty years younger than her bald husband, who used to do wheelies, taking his jeep through the woods on his way to our house to pick up whoever was game enough to go for a whirl down to the lower creek beds. We used to pick apples with them for cider, ladders and baskets, and I'd look down to watch them laughing and strolling through the orchard, trying to step over the honey bees that were feasting on rotten, downed apples. They held hands, something I'd never seen grownups do before. When I learned that they died together in a 727, I cried and tried to say a prayer on my knees, but landed prostrate on the ground, and the only sounds I could make were sobs and I'm sorry's.
• • •
I think I may let the dye fade from my brown and grey hair, and grow it to my waist, and stop eating meat, and start wearing Birkenstocks and a long skirt with patches, and patchouli instead of Chanel no. 5. My contacts would be replaced with silver-rimmed granny glasses, and I would tuck a daisy behind my ear and always have a pen handy, and I would ponder and debate deep questions all day long with my fellows in dusky, cushioned coffee houses over hot spots of herbal tea. What is the meaning of life? Is there really a God, or an afterlife? Do inanimate objects have a consciousness? Is the universe coming to an end? I would think all these thoughts and more. But since I'm a blue-eyed blond in makeup and jeans, with a really cute purse and really cool shoes, I'm content to drive around on this blinding, sunlit, orange and yellow day, wondering where in the world I'm going to park my car.
• • •
Enjoy your weekend no matter where you park!
From Louise
Cluster :: Of shorts to make up today's Friday List. Many thanks to Unconscious Mutterings for the cues. Enjoy.
Announcement :: Done, supposedly.
I’m tired of trying to write lyrical narrative, tired of the whole poetic prose exploration thing I’ve been into the last couple of weeks. I’ve spent so much time sitting at my computer, trying to grab onto elusive metaphors, mixing my sensory descriptors, and trying to portray vivid imagery that I'm totally burnt out and just don't want to do it anymore. Period. So what am I doing right now? Sitting at my computer and writing about it. Hmm.
Respect :: The Creative Nonfiction department at Pitt.
I have loved most of my teachers at Pitt, and think it worth my while to give them a little plug. Several friends, who hail from academia, told me I was wasting my time on a 2nd bachelors degree, when I could get an MFA in half the time, but I have not regretted a single moment. Well, maybe one or two, like those spent in College Algebra and How Science Works. At any rate, my motive was to go back and learn the basics, and learn the basics I have, with the help of some great teachers along the way.
Incident :: What isn’t an incident?
Aren’t moments and incidents the little building blocks of a person’s life? That was my one profound thought for the day.
Accordion :: A date I had last spring.
Check it out here.
Drunk :: The Sunday bus riders.
When I remember my first Sunday on the bus with son Jeffrey, I think of stale alcohol, dirty fingernails, toothless smiles, and indecipherable conversation. Most of the bus people I encountered must have been riding around, trying to sober up enough to return to the wives who kicked them out of the house for being drunk the night before. Obviously the little hair of the dog thing is not always successful.
If :: If you want to go on the city bus for the first time, pick a week day.
Enough said.
Dexter :: Great name for a mastiff!
You would think I could come up with something else for this cue, wouldn’t you? I don’t think there is even one mastiff named Dexter, at least not on the dog show circuit. Great idea for my next male.
Wedding :: Formal family reunion with a bride, cake, and champagne.
Isn’t it unfortunate that weddings are the main arena for families to show their true colors and practice their quirks and dysfunctions? I can think of more benign occasions for people to act their worst, like Sunday dinner, preceded by a Sunday bus ride. Yeah, fighting families would really add to the whole bus patina thing.
Gambling :: Coming to Pittsburgh.
Along with an influx of strip joints, drug dealers, organized crime, surrounding area restaurants driven out of business, and a hidden, extra tax placed squarely on the poor, who already make up the mainstay of the lottery system and lose thousands of dollars every year on wishful thinking. The casinos will also impact the beautiful historic neighborhoods being renovated on the North Side. I am really sorry to see my town travel down this road.
Hope this weekend finds you on the road to fall fun. Have a good one!
From Louise
Thank you to Unconscious Mutterings, week 243 for providing the prompts which turned into paragraphs that have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.
Crook : Yo Mama Bo Peep.
"What the hell happened to my sheep?" Yo Mama asked herself, turning this way and that, scratching her head in dismay. "I swear they were here a minute ago. God, I have to watch them 24/7, or else, zoom, they're gone." She flopped down on the grass and pulled out a cigarette. Jack and Jill approached, an empty bucket between them, and moved forward to greet her, removing headphones and flipping off ipod switches. "Hey, Yo Mama! Sup?" they asked. "My sheep are missing," Yo Mama complained. "And I don't know where to find them." She turned her staff and studied the crook at the end. "When I get my hands on them, I'm going to shear them alive." "That'll shearly teach them," agreed Jill.
Mistake :: Perfection.
For my New Year's resolution in 2006, I decided to strive for imperfection for a nice change of pace. Since it quickly became clear that it was the kindest thing I had ever done for myself, I adopted it as a life choice. What used to be two ways of looking at things―perfect (rare) or not perfect (the norm)―opened up to endless assessment possibilities including marginal, average, fair, good, not so good, okay, terrific, barely squeaking by, fabulous, almost perfect, and every degree in between. Gone were the days of forcing myself out of a fetal position to tackle enormous projects head on, the perfect m.o. for anyone as detemined, or stubborn, as I. I knew I couldn't keep pace with my own expectations. Enter the era of breaking down tasks, trips, writing, problems into manageable pieces, plodding through them one at a time. I slowed down my frantic pace. I started enjoying the process. I took time to celebrate my achievements, to pat myself on the back. "Way to go, ole girl," I'd say. "Not bad for a middle-aged baby boomer," I'd think. The newness of it made me marvel at the long years I had spent trapped inside myself, devoid of self-approval, without self-congratulations, and focused on the infinite ways I fall short of perfection. As goals go, imperfection is much more reasonable and entirely obtainable. I'm glad to be movin' on by aiming smaller (a great segue into my weekend sign-off.)
I hope you move on to an imperfectly wonderful weekend.
From Louise
Snap 01: I told the truth once. Like that'll happen again.
Snap 02: Humpty Dumpty sat on the truth; Humpty Dumpty ate a Babe Ruth.
Snap 03: When I was a teenager, I assumed that kissing meant we were going steady, so I was very careful about whom I kissed. Truly, imagine all the fun I missed.
Snap 04: "How would you know? You live in an ivory tower," my boyfriend said. "I do not!" I yelled. It was the 60's. When he dropped me off, I stomped into the house, slammed the door, and went straight to my parent's dictionary that lay open on a metal stand in their den; but to tell the truth, ivory tower wasn't in there.
Snap 05: He has so many truths crowded into his brain, it’s no wonder one or two slips out from time to time, to fall as soft as cotton shattering its weighty shards into shiny pieces at his feet. They splash to the ground with metallic details that echo inside his head for weeks.
Snap 06: The truth falls away like dice pudding and turns into a centaur that gallops off to disappear into cracks and ravines beyond, behind tall, silent sentry trees in the black woods.
Truth be told, I hope you have a great weekend!
From Louise
Before the black, green, purple, and blue faded, and the blood-red dissipated from the whites of my eyes, and my face returned to its normal size, I jutted out my scratched, split chin, put on my trendiest jeans that now hung off my hips, grabbed my purse and car keys, and headed for the door. “Just because someone broke into my house and hurt me doesn’t mean I have to hide, God damn it,” I thought. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Why should I be ashamed? Just a few little bruises. Other than that, I'm exactly the same!” After a week of waiting, my left eye had finally opened, and I could see out of it with no blurriness, no double-vision, no impairment, so I wanted to celebrate with a Paniken's coffee, and parade my courage in the daylight where the normal, safe people lived. They would applaud. Maybe a standing ovation? No, mostly people were afraid, and moved to the other side of the street. Another assault.
===
I listened as hard as I could. Maybe I hadn't heard her right. "I woke my husband up this morning," Jeannie whispered over the phone, "to tell him what I thought the pink piece of paper was that the mailman left in the mailbox yesterday, and he rolled over and yelled, 'Jeannie, you are so dumb! You're so God damned stupid! You have no idea what anything means! You're an idiot, an absolute idiot!'" I had heard her correctly. Wow. I know Jeannie's husband was probably half asleep, or maybe he was dreaming a bad dream, and I know he apologized profusely later, of course he did. Even so, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would take him before he started hitting her.
===
Sometimes we stumble upon those unintentional signals of loss, disappointment, grief, shame, or embarrassment. The areas painstakingly forgotten behind the backs of our minds, well out of the way of our everyday probing, our everyday ability to place one foot in front of the other. My professor wants me to visit those places, the vast empty beneath the spaces under the stairs, and in the backs of closets that are behind the closets. These areas aren't funny, cute, or whimsical, and the people in them don't want the intrusion of exposure, they don't want to remember. It's none of my business, it's not my concern. I want to respect that, I do. My friends and family have a right to their privacy. As do I. The problem is, that's where the good writing is.
===
Have a great weekend in or out of the good writing places.
From Louise
Missed It 01
Remember when you were dating Henry Myers, and you went to New York for a book signing for that famous Cincinnati writer whose name you can’t remember, and Mary Ann or Marion or Maryanne Whitney, the famous New York philanthropist whose name you can’t remember, was the hostess; and you bought a white, sequined cocktail dress and went to a midtown hair salon for a French braid, and you showed up at the private 6 pm drinks-and-hors d'œuvres reception on Henry’s arm, only to discover that everyone else was in dressy-caj and business attire, and some of the men, including the guest of honor, didn't even bother with a tie? Yeah, that was a comfortable evening.
Missed It 02
"I’ve never seen this art exhibit before,” I said. “I know it’s here every year, but I’ve never stopped in to see it.” I was looking at a long piece of fabric art hanging on the wall, woven in a thousand greens and blues, with stars and sequins and gold hoops fastened to it with glue or thread or staples. It was also hand-quilted. My mother would have adored it.
“Why not?” Jay asked. I tried very hard to look into his brown eyes instead of at the same, old Burberry plaid print that I hated so much and that glared at me from beneath his navy blue Brooks Brothers sports jacket.
“Because I’m white―not only white, but blonde―and I figured I wouldn’t get it,” I answered.
“What’s to get?” he asked. I looked away from the art and turned completely toward him, studying his handsome face with just a touch of color left over from his summer tan that was probably about two weeks old. Behind him, a beautiful, tall black woman with long, slender arms, was explaining something to a small crowd, and was draped from head to toe in flowing green gauze that was topped with a matching fabric braided through her silky hair, piled high upon her head.
“Exactly,” I said.
