Please Release Me, Let Me Go...

I'm a good driver, and an even better parker.  The state of Colorado recognizes Rheumatoid Arthritis as a permanent disability and as such affords me a blue placard.  This little sign that hangs off my rear view mirror allows me to park in a front row space in most places.  And I use it.  Judiciously.

If I am feeling really good, I don't use it.  If it is icy and the lot is full, I use it.  If it is super hot and my limited energy is waning I use it.  If there is only one premium spot left, and I am doing OK, I don't use it.  Like many of the choices life gives me, I use my best judgement, and that perspective is subject to change on any given day.

My youngest has moved into a new apartment complex that seems to have a lot of parking rules.  Every car must have a pass prominently displayed on the front window.  One pass per bedroom, so she has two, but cannot utilize it as a generic guest pass because each car has to be registered in the office.  I am unsure if the handicap spots need a pass and a placard; I suppose I'll have her inquire. Perhaps this is another unexpected fallout of our population growth.  Few can afford solo apartments so we are sharing space and squeezing in, hence a two bedroom place may have three or four occupants.  Each with a car.

I noticed while hauling stuff up her stairs - 34 to be precise - that one of the occupants of her building has a placard and takes that primo state sanctioned spot, right in front, by the stairwell.  Fair enough, he lives there.  He also has a PT Cruiser, but I'll refrain from comment on that today.  The other day we had a few items to carry up in the mid-afternoon heat wave.  I could have snagged that parking spot, but instead I backed into an empty space next to the biggest truck in the lot.  Backing in is my style.  It is an old girl scout leader habit of quick escape if need be.  It can also come in handy in case of fire.  And I know about that.

I was probably in my daughter's apartment for about an hour before I decided that my responsibilities as a dog-sitter were being sloughed.  Time to go.  I used the back stairwell and as I came into the front of the building my car was not in the spot where I left it.  The big truck was there.  The PT Cruiser had arrived.  But where was my car?  It is an odd sinking feeling.  Was it stolen?  Did I have a major brain lapse and had parked it elsewhere.  Then I saw the obscure but clearly visible sign.  I had parked in a no-parking spot!  Something about being reserved for a golf cart or cryptic number or some such thing. When I peered around the big truck that was still in it's spot, formerly adjacent to me, I saw the tow truck!

This was a surreal moment.  I was being towed, just when my sense of dog responsibilty had kicked in.  Had I left a few moments earlier, I would have avoided this turn of events.  If I had stayed even one moment longer, I would have been towed.  My car long gone, a big monetary penalty would ensue.  Lots of aggravation and hassle.  Now I pride myself on being a decent negotiator, but I also know that once you're hooked - you're hooked.

I approach the young(ish) driver and begin my plea bargaining.  I start off by telling him that I know he's never to unhook a car once he's in the process, but wow!!  I didn't see the sign.  True.  Not disobeying rules and looking for mercy.  I really did not see it and neither did my daughter.  Then I proceeded to tell him I have a handicap placard and should have just parked in that spot - PT Cruiser be damned!  But I was trying to be nice - and THAT won't happen again.  Then I told him my son was a cop in this town - again true - and that I am house sitting - again true - and that I really needed to get home and take care of the dog.  TRUE, true, true.

To review here was my closing argument:

1. I'm inattentive
2. I'm handicapped
3. I'm a Cop Mom
4. I love dogs

Much to my surprise and delight, he began the process of unhooking my car.  By this time my daughter was in the parking lot alongside me.  I had called her in between those moments of when I thought my car had been stolen and seeing the tow truck.  I hung up on her to fully concentrate on my begging and groveling.  She missed the stellar negotiation tactics of her mother.  No tears.  No yelling.  Just straight up heart-tugging.  As he was in the process of releasing my passenger side front wheel lock, I went in my purse a found a $20 bill as a thank you to this 'kid'.  So bribery was not my first tactic.  But I thought a wee bit of a tip was in order to let this man know how much I appreciated his change of heart.

As the tow-truck pulled away I reflected on this odd occurrence.  I had almost been towed.  I had almost been incredibly inconvenienced.  I had just saved a wad of money and a lot time.  I hugged my daughter who was convinced bribery was my MO, and hopped in to take care of the pup.  Not a phantom excuse.  A real dog waiting for me to feed her and play ball and muster up a belly rub.

I had about a half an hour to continue my contemplations about the afternoon series of events on the drive to my son's house.  How did I manage to convince this hard working guy to unhook me?   Which one of my arguments touched him enough to have compassion for me this day?  Was it that I was polite in my actions?  Even though I was upset and a bit kerfuffled in the moment, I never raised my voice.  Never cursed him out.  Didn't tell him bad things about his mother and her choice of footwear.  If I am nothing else I am a well-mannered diplomat.

Perhaps it was a wee bit of good karma coming my way.  A cosmic payback for all nice things I try to do for other people.  You know who you are, no boasting here.  I may never know the reason, but I am eternally grateful for the outcome.

Time to Write,

Jane

Book 'em Jano

Like other writers I know and commiserate with, I have more writings in notebooks than I can possibly transcribe into this computer and enshrine for perpetuity.  I keep a notebook in my purse, in my car, on my nightstand.  There are several strewn about on the ottoman at all times.  I'd like to tell you that I am organized and keep different notebooks for different genres or classes.  It wouldn't so much be a lie as an inaccuracy.  I try to stay orderly but my creativity overrides and I just pick up the nearest lined collection of blank pages and a writing implement and scribble.

Truthfully I love these random notebooks.  They have provided me nostalgia and humor over the last few years.  I wrote that?  (please take the time to say this three times - stressing a different word with each iteration - they all hold weight!)  If I do manage to tap a full notebook into my keyboard I gleefully write done! and the date on the cover and put it up in my closet.  I kvell* with a small sense of pride for a short while before remembering that a few less notebooks in my personal space is not much of an accomplishment.

Some ramblings will probably never be entered into my hard drive.  They were for me and me alone.  Many times I have advised friends who wanted to say something to someone (like an ex...) to just write it down and burn the paper.  I've done plenty of writing to my former significant other, but unlike Terry Barton** I know better than to go in the forest and strike a match to my penciled down pain.

My struggle du jour is much of what I've written about my wusband is good.  Readable, relatable, funny and true.  Well, mostly true.  OK - I've stretched the truth in some of it for comedic effect, but it is good.  I haven't posted much of this and that is my dilemma.  Would it be hurtful to blog about the father of my three children?  Either from my perspective or through the stories of anguish and pain my children still experience in their relationships with him.  (I admit, I snuck that in)  Would I be opening myself up to some kind of lawsuit if he could prove that he really did pay the child support?  Would his family with whom I still have good relationships be upset because appearances are everything and I could dispel that with a few keystrokes?  Decisions, decisions.

Mainly, would I just be proving to myself and others that even though I am divorced for ten years, I am still obsessed with this man?  That is the last perception I want to portray or ponder.  Would it just prove the theory of the elephant in the room?  I have unresolved 'issues' with my ex and use the closest weapon I have to protect myself.  Pen and paper.  Can I say I have let go if I actually go on and on and on... ?

Or is it just verification that I am able to live my life quite fully, actively involved with my three children and grandson in a way that I feel good about.  That I enjoy eating what I want, when I want. That the arguing, voice raising, the having to be right, are distant but still in my DNA.  That is certainly a theme in my musings.  Under the surface, but not boiling in any way.  They just are.  I'm OK with that.

I see my wusband less and less as years go by.  In the beginning of the end, it was hard to talk to him about anything and not be emotional.  Now I am quite neutral.  I don't have any pangs of want or regret.  I also don't want to kill him.  I'd call that a good spot.

Here are two short poems I wrote in the last year concerning the aforementioned subject.  Enjoy!

 

No Vacancy

Sorry, there is no vacancy in my heart

No subletting space to you, even briefly

No room to see if opening leads to heartache

I am not willing to take the chance

When we were together, married

I always had space for you, availability

I’d let you stay in my mind, and you would sting me

Now the chamber of my heart that was once

Exclusively reserved for you is

Permanently occupied by indifference

Tap-Tap

I detest the tap-tapping of the razor

Against the sink, tub wall

Each thundering shower I take

Reminds me of this repetitive intrusion

I was taking a trip to a warmer clime

So, a shave was in order for

Bathing suits and social norms

I stood in the cramped stall

Of the YMCA, tap-tapping my razor

For the next clean stroke

How effortlessly my mind drifted to my wusband

That tap-tapping of his razor

Each morning tap-tapping on his

Side of the double vanity

Tap-tap   tap-tap   tap-tap

And then I knew

It isn’t shaving I dislike

It is my ex husband

Time to Write,

Jane


*M-W definition of Kvell
**Hayman Fire - Wikipedia

Lying in Poetry

I have treated myself to a few Craft Workshops this week and last.  LitFest in Denver is a big deal, though it is my first time participating.  Maybe this is further proof (to myself) that I am considering myself a writer.  A writer.  When I think of all the jobs and positions I have held in my 40 or so years of working A Writer is the title that sound true.  Perhaps my life experiences were necessary to give me perspective and fodder.  I occasionally struggle to sit and commit.  When that happens I will often turn to my friend Heloise Jones' book The Writer's Block Myth.  I'll read a chapter at random or complete an exercise and voila!  I am refreshed and ready to write. 

Last week's workshops were "The Art of Confession" and "Lying in Poetry".  Do you see a pattern here?  Ha!  I am a confessional writer.  I write true life events from my purview and use my literary license to drive in a few embellishments and humor.  This little ditty came from the latter workshop.  I'd love to sit here and write more, but I am off to another workshop this afternoon.  Enjoy!

Sorry

The truth is I struggle to hear your work

I am only interested in my own stuff

All that sitting under tents, intense

Not for me, you jerk

I prefer to enjoy my own poetry

Read it aloud, alone to myself

Do I really care what you are trying to say

What you meant by a metaphor or the phrase of the day

Alas

The truth is I love to sit outside, under the blazing sun

Straining to hear your every rhyme

Blocking out the sirens, the horns

You are so damn interesting. Every time

I would prefer you to take me to your den

Whisper sweet sonnets into my ear

Tell me I am beautiful and that your poetry

Is only meant for me to hear

31 Words in 31 Days

The transition of considering myself a writer instead of someone who doesn't hold a traditional job anymore, has been a slow shift in my mindset.  Am I really a writer if I just write and am not published?  Do I need that validation to be a 'real' writer?  Is it OK to for me to write for me; my purview, my catharsis, my alternative to therapy?  A few months back I was in Colorado Springs having lunch at a neighborhood Italian restaurant where I know the owner.  Having been an event planner, I am friendly with many people in the hospitality business and when Franco asked me what I was "doing these days?" I quickly replied I was retired.  It was my daughter who proudly declared "My mom is a writer".  Why didn't I think of that?

So what do I do that allows me to think - maybe say - and hopefully feel that I am a bona fide member of the pen and paper club?  I try to write everyday, but never beat myself up if the words just aren't free flowing.  I have also become an observer of my little world.  And an eavesdropper.  I hear the very best one-liners and they often spark something in me.  For me it isn't so much what to write, but the daily distractions of life that can stand in the way of my and my muse.

Many writers wake up and do morning pages.  Three or so sheets in a notebook of free-write to ignite the brain.  I have tried to do this, but I am inconsistent.  I am also a wee bit disorganized and have notebooks strewn everywhere; in my car, on the table and ottoman, the nightstand.  I spend quite a bit of time leafing through these notebooks to find what I need.  But it is never wasted time as sometimes I come across a nugget I had neglected.

A year ago in a memoir class one of the teachers initiated a discussion about source.  I had not heard this word used before regarding what it is that writers use to get them writing.  I had only thought about inspiration.  It was eye-opening for me to learn that inspiration is just one source. I've done some thinking about source and how it relates to me and my writing.  I have come to understand that prompts are one of my favorite sources. The Daily Poet, a little book with seasonally appropriate prompts is useful.   Ekphrasis is another.  Turn me loose in a gallery or museum and I will write!   Being in nature also allows my creativity to come.  I am not a nature poet, but I am moved by the beauty of the natural world and the song-birds lilt, and often come back from a hike rejuvenated and motivated.

I also make up ways for me to use prompts.  I have a book of quotations and will randomly open a page, read a quote and write.  For June I will be using a little Hallmark inspirational book of 50 short pieces about things that really matter.  Having 50 prompts to choose from gives me some freedom to not get stuck if one or two don't call to me.  I found this book on a dollar shelf at the local library, so it is mine to write in, tear pages from, pass on when I am done.  I can read the page title only, or read a few pages before I write.  We'll see.

For many years I have a daily word in my in-box courtesy of Merriam Webster Word of the Day.  I have always prided myself on being a wordy kind of gal.  As a kid I was constantly accused of using BIG words.  My parents encouraged a large vocabulary, and I have found knowing a lot of words to be useful in my writing.  It also gives cred to my writing when my word choices match my daily speech.  So this merry month of May found me taking the word of the day as my prompt.  31 words in 31 days.

Here's what I learned.  My vocab is not as voluminous as I thought.  At the end of this blog you can read the list of words in two parts.  KNEW and NEW to me.  I only composed a few ramblings that are worthy of further exploration.  Some words were obscure or archaic.  Riposte had parry in the definition, and I knew that was a fencing term, so I printed a list of terms inherent to that practice.  A kind of literacy mis en place.  I have the ingredients in hand for a future write.

Cajole got me thinking about my mother.  Flummox I knew - was it from a childhood cartoon? Garrulous forced me to be reflective in my word choice and tendency to dominate conversations.  Winsome sent my mind off on a tangent - winsome, toothsome, handsome...  Unfettered made me smile because I have a line in my poem 'Dozen' that says "Unlock my fetter, make me better."

My best write for the month came from the word remuneration.  Ah, my Dad used this word.  As a kid I always thought I knew more, and he meant to say renumeration.  Nope.  He had it right.  M before N.    From May 6th:

remuneration  noun | rih-myoo-nuh-RAY-shun

Definition

: the act or fact of paying an equivalent to for a service, loss, or expense : recompense, pay

And here is what I wrote.  Unedited and true:

My Dad was the Boss

Entrepreneurial and innovative

No college, I am not even sure

He graduated high school

But he had a quirky vocabulary

And when I asked if he’d pay

Me for a day’s work in his shop

He said I would be

Duly remunerated

Chastise is the final word for May.  A good one because it serves as a reminder to be gentle to myself.  Always.  It is OK if I don't write for a day or two.  It is OK if what I write is crap.  It is OK if what I write is really good, or close to good and deserves expansion.  It is OK to never chastise myself and continually treat myself with loving kindness.  It is also OK that knowing this word almost evened the tally.  My score?  48.39%.  Just about 1/2, but not quite.  I love learning that I have more to learn.

KNEW	NEW
Palindrome	Eventuate
Beaucoup	Flocculate
Remuneration	Agonistic
Decimate	Jocose
Menagerie	Slumgullion
Collaborate	Nascent
Transpire	Otiose
Layman	Aggress
Unfettered	Winsome
Cajole	Muliebrity
Homogenous	Besot
Sacrosanct	Raillery
Flummox	Garrulous
Indigence	Petard
Chastise	Riposte
	Arrogate

Time to Write,

Jane

Anniversaries!

My sister and her husband have been married for 28 years.  Almost three decades ago, in Orangeburg, NY they were betrothed while accompanied by a symphony of childish giggles from some friends of my parents.  Who were stoned.  Not my parents - their friends.  Which I find very interesting as this couple, both in their nineties, have outlived all of the friends from that suburban enclave.  Maybe Colorado has it right after all.  Cannabis may be the long lost key to longevity.  A smoky fountain of youth.  But I digress.

That my sister and her husband have outlasted me and our brother in term of years married is kind of miraculous!  I think my brother's first marriage, which produced four children, was about 16 or 18 years in length. His second go-round has been 23 years.  In total he was married longer than my sister, but two against one is not fair.  Right Mom?  My own marriage lasted almost 24, and we had three offspring.  Just six weeks and one year shy of a silver celebration.  Oh well, my hair is silver now and I can celebrate that.

I don't know the details or the secret to Amy and Ted staying put.  But I do know that I couldn't do it and neither could my brother the first time around.  I've read that half of all I Do's in the US end in I Don'ts.  As a divorced person myself I never shame people who are going through this very personal decision.  We never know what happened behind closed doors and expressing disappointment in people when I've had the same painful life experience is not only hypocritical, but cruel.

Instead -I choose to celebrate my sister and her hubby and all the long married friends of mine who managed to find the formula, the magic to wedded bliss.  And for anyone whose marriage ended, like my own, I hope you find peace in your journey.

This morning I was perusing some old scribbles and found this.  Along with my sister's anniversary it served as the inspiration to today's writing.


Taormina - my honeymoon, post one year of marriage.  The hotel lobby was actually the top floor as it was built into a cliffside on the Island of Sicily.  The pools were gorgeous; endless rimming to the sea.  I gleefully took off my bikini top and sunbathed while my husband gazed upon what I now regard as my formerly firm, youthful breasts.  

There was an elevator accessed through a vertical tunnel to bring us oceanside, and we devilishly made love in the darkness of daylight.  Oh!  To be young and uninhibited.  No forethought of hardships to come.

Just a blue Mediterranean sea and sky, expresso, and bread with butter so yellow it tasted like the sun.  Scooter rides on the coast of Sicily...

I loved that man and that place at that time with all of my being.  But I have never been able to return to any of them, geographically or otherwise.

Time to Write,

Jane

Mother Earth Would Approve!

The first time I saw a snow-capped peak, I thought it was a mirage.  It was my inaugural trek coming in from Nebraska on I76, and as memory serves, I spied the Rockies.  Well, not the whole range, but one large peak covered in a blanket of white – looming in the distance.

In the time it took to rub my eyes in disbelief, it was gone.  We were on the plains.  Hay stacks had transformed into large straw-colored bales somewhere between the Mississippi River and this border
crossing between western Nebraska and eastern Colorado.
  
I wouldn’t learn to appreciate this expanse of billowy, amber landscape until I stood on my BFF’s acreage.  Forty years had passed since my first foray into the flat earth that teased its way upward until the mountains reigned.  Now I stood with my friend, a true Colorado farmer, a vocal champion of organic skincare and steward to this land.  Her land.  An 80-acre rectangle of grasses and scrubby ground plants.  Situated directly across from the Wild Animal Sanctuary in Weld County.  

Crouching down to inspect a clump of native grass, we were checking to be sure that there was no bind weed.  An invasive plant that requires drastic eradication measures.  This land was perfect!  No offensive foliage to thwart Lily’s plans to build an agri-tourist destination.  This property has morphed - boasting a beautiful barn-like event center that will house the operations of Lily Farm Fresh skin care in addition to the endless possibilities of events that are only limited by imagination.

That day as I stooped to feel a prickly plant, I allowed my gaze to wander to the west.  In Colorado it is natural to always seek the mountains.  They are beacons of direction and hope.  The sun was just beginning to dip behind the front range and dark clouds were mimicking the silhouette of the Front Range.

This was the first time I had eyed the curve of the earth.  The soft roll of an unseen hill.  The ancient question of flat or round evidenced in my purview. With my head perpendicular to the land and my eyes seeing the world sideways, I could actually witness the gentle, feminine curvature of our life giving planet.  This is why country folk love this kind of landscape.  It is magical and majestic, and it took my breath away.

My first Colorado lover was a quick, cursory view of a mountain peak.  In the forty years of living on and off in Colorado, I have consistently appreciated this vision.  For fifteen years I awoke to a view of Pikes Peak in Colorado Springs.  I never tired of the sameness because it really was a bit different every day.  The sun and the clouds danced on this peak and provided an ever changing scene.

But this day, on a yet unplanted patch of farmland, in prairie vastness and mountain shadows – this day was a time to honor a new lover.  The earth itself.  The mother of all creations and majesty.  Out here where the sky seemingly touches the golden yellow grasses - I can hear the earth rustle, as if Mother Nature is blowing a gentle breeze to initiate a quiet symphony.  It is almost always windy out here.  I like that.  It feels fresh and gives an expansiveness to the quality of the air.  

Three years have passed and the earthmovers have come and gone.  The barn is almost finished.  There is hemp planted on 10 acres and more farming to come.  This patch of earth will host many happy events in the years to come.  It will also be the creation station of Lily Farm Fresh Skin Care.  And an organic farm for children and their parents to come and see and feel the plants and the earth.

I do not feel unfaithful to my original snowcapped lover in this beautiful state I live in.  I rejoice in knowing I can love both the mountains and the plains.  And I can appreciate my friend, who diligently works to preserve this 80 acre plot as well as another 200 or so acres as organic, pristine land.  Mother Earth would approve!

Misogynistic Effigy

Every fourth Tuesday the Lighthouse Writers host a drop-in writing session at the Denver Art Museum.  The Denver Art Museum, or DAM as we locals like to say, is a world class experience each visit.  Add the bonus of a bit of ekphrastic writing for a visual prompt kind of gal like me and I am a happy camper.  Or maybe that should be urbanite!

Today's workshop took place in Jeffrey Gibson's exhibit Like a Hammer.  I wrote a piece that probably had nothing to do with his vision or his message.  I simply pressed my pen onto my pad of paper and allowed my hand to follow the lead.  Raw and unedited.  Enjoy!

Misogynistic Effigy

A quintet, count them, please
Five headless, elegant women
Hanged in misogynistic effigy

Their hips narrowed like
Boys, only the smallest
Remnant of peplum

Decapitated beauties
Sacrificed legs no longer
Needed to support them

Men no longer needed
To support them
No longer in need of men
To bolster girth or worth

Their eulogies painstakingly
Embroidered where their
Breasts once protruded

Chains that had adorned
Their decolletage, now suspend them
In morbid immortality

Personal mission statements
Emblazoned upon the
Cylindrical sameness, mindless memories
Of days.  Long past