Season`s Greetings: a poem for the winter season.

Season`s Greetings by Susan E. Harris-Gamard

As the earthy night stretches deep and black

And the clangy sound of engines and brakes

Is silenced under the frozen muffle

Of crystalline randomness,

Billions of lost souls are deposited onto a wasteland,

Without warning

Or imprint.

They just fall.

Huddled together like angels evicted from paradise.

As I rise, my own body anew

In the diurnal sunrise.

I am mirrored on the outside

By presences

Themselves asleep

As I had been.

The prodigal winter raged and gained strength

Regardless

Of who was watching.

I walk out the door to find that the ground

That I knew yesterday

Was made anew, covered with tiny virgins

Purified and caressed by the night and moon`s full light.

A sole set of tracks has vanquished the smooth landscape

Intruder, caught by its own traces.

Like a detective I search for intent

Caution Do Not Cross

The Boundary for fear

Of contaminating the scene

That remains.

I walk forward to mindlessly tread
Onto the horizontal plane of the perfect glittering surface

With my own boot prints

(Held within a database somewhere

Black Sorels Size 8)

Charged with only negligence

And so I deposit my own little angel

Onto the large yellow vehicle

Directed towards his own enlightenment

At the small school

Nestled within the hill.

The Esquiline Hill: A Short, Short Story

I know it is here somewhere.  Guido said to look just past Vittorio Emmanuele, the wedding cake monstrosity monument that will always be part of my unwished for first impression of Rome.  Well, I passed it five minutes ago, but still no sign of the Esquiline Hill.  I have passed many churches-most very Baroque, very Italian, but none living up to the grandiosity of Santa Maria Maggiore.  I’ve never actually seen it, just studied its non-memorable mosaics in Art History 101.  Alright, let’s get the map out again.  What intersection am I at anyway?  Come on, I am an American already, used to the simple grid system of streets.  Roman streets are on a grid yet not a logical grid—as illogical as anyone could imagine.  I start to notice the ground rising ahead of me—slightly.  Could this be the Hill?  I ascend gradually, flowing into the populace around me.  People are more numerous, livelier, somehow different.  Younger?  Possibly.

  I enter a group of young people, presumably college students, laughing and speaking the Italian language faster than ever before, hands moving in time with the torrent of words.  We begin our ascent up a steep and rugged set of stairs, single file like a line of soldiers marching towards someone else’s battle.  I drop backwards a pace as their younger thighs bring them closer to the top.  As I conquer the final step, a vast garden greets me, the sun warming my chilled hands as I stand amazed at the sight of my destination.   Santa Maria Maggiore is here, and so must Guido be.  A massive structure has appeared before my eyes, like magic. The sun almost avoiding its mere presence as it is draped in shadows. 

My anticipation blends with a sense of anxiety as I scan the crowd for his face. I do remember him.  In fact, I’ve been thinking of him for days—his white T-shirt, most likely carefully ironed by his devoted mama, his black hair, carefully coiffed like a neat cloud within the atmospheric vapors of Acqua di Gio cologne.  A slightly mysterious man, for an Italian, he roped me right in with his knowledge of America, his ease with the English language, and his empathy for my tourist identity within such a vast city.  The gardens carry me to what appears to be the apse end of the church.  People around me are taking in the warmth from sun, enjoying a Roman early spring. The cool air being infused with a burning heat, a premonition of what is to come as the weeks progress towards summer. 

I reluctantly pass the sun-drenched spectators to become enveloped in shade and taken over by the underlying cold of the air coming out of the church doors.  I see a man standing deep in the shadows of one of the archways.  I do not recognize him.  Since there is no one else around to identify as my beloved Guido, I take a seat on the stone bench next to the doors.  The man slowly moves towards me, studying my features.  He asks, “Scusi, are you named Sonya?”  Why yes I am?”, I say hesitantly, wondering suddenly about Guido’s absence.  “Hello, very nice to meet you, my name is Reno.  I am a friend of Guido.  He wanted me to apologize.  His wife is home and so he could not come.”  I freeze.  “His wife?”, I reply, both shocked and befuddled.  “Oh, you did not know?  I am here to take you for some pasta.  I promised Guido I would.  Come.  Let’s get out of this cold place and feel the sun.”  He pauses.  “By the way, I am not married.”  He smiles, teeth as white as his t-shirt, and offers me his arm, as we descend the sunny side of Esquiline Hill.  We take each step down, legs extending in unison, with a rhythm only a conductor could fully appreciate.  We reach the base of the hill, meeting as two separate people with an as yet unknown bond uniting us.   

It all began with a kiss.  Seemingly out of nowhere, Guido descended into my life like a grenade, willfully deposited right next to me, to go off some time in the future.  He must have been watching me for a while.  Everyday, my route was the same:  take my cappuccino from the neighborhood café into the park next door.  I would bring my journal with me for the slim chance I may be inspired to write something.  One random day without any significance, he sat down next to me and talked.  I felt like I had met him before and had known him for many years.  The things we spoke of on that bench could not have been spontaneous or unplanned.  He had to have a motive somewhere in those words.  How he knew me so well, I’m not sure.  The fact that he knew so much never crossed my mind.  When he kissed me, I felt myself coming undone, a part of me unzipping from myself to merge with a part of him.  Seeing this as some kind of loss was not an option.  It was only a gain in my mind, my very precious souvenir of my short sojourn in Italy. 

When he brought me back to his apartment, caution was not on the agenda.  My brain was shut off by passion, the only thought I had was feeling his skin against mine, those lips entering me to touch my innermost reaches. Like a modern day Goldilocks, I would not notice the two sets of shoes, the woman’s trench coat strewn over the back of the chair, the carefully tended house with a woman’s touch.  The bed was much too comfortable, but all the more for my pleasure.  My back touched those crisply ironed sheets, my hair touching the same blankets that she nestled within that very morning before leaving on business. The robe he gave me after my shower fit my own form just right, but never did I question this.  I only thought how perfect this moment was and how perfect he was for me, with me.

A Tetrad: To Celebrate the End of My Treatments for Breast Cancer

The following series of poems represents months of work through the most difficult time of my life as of yet. I wish to dedicate these poems to all the wonderful people involved in my care: the surgeons, medical oncologists, radiation oncologists, physician assistants, radiation therapists, nurses, and anyone else who has touched my world these last few months, both in private practice and at Roswell Park Memorial Institute. And to all of the cancer patients, both whom I have met personally and on the online support groups. Your strength never ceases to amaze me. Thank you to all. I couldn't begin to fully express my gratitude.

A TETRAD

It's Not Up to Him

Tell me that I can stay,
A little longer.
A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood
Is just a moment, a flash.
My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,
By one bad seed waiting,
For that slim circumstance
To strike and grow in a moment,
Interrupting a long-awaited dream.
We never know until we know,
We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,
Lone invader of my own universe,
Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,
Confront him and my swept-up fear.
To understand what he’s after,
Stealing my breath in order to live,
And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,
Make him squirm,
Will he have one noble reason?
Will I even comprehend why,
He means to use my body as his own,
Home Sweet Home,
For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,
To tell him that I will stay,
A little longer.

It’s not up to him.

....................................




Ode to Awareness

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,
Not in your hands,
Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,
Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,
As you languishly linger within the folds
Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?
But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,
That breath strong and able,
Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,
Only to while away in longing,
For that noble Youth,
When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?
All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,
Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,
Lying limp and open on the forest floor,
White flood rising from your cool gown,
A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?
A cold wind blows, suddenly,
harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,
You think,
Perhaps, there is another way,
To conceive of this future,
Without falling through the cracks and chasms,
Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,
You navigate your way,
Slowly, ever so slowly,
Forward.

........................................


One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

..........................................


A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,
Lived well and full,
Is not enough to wrap,
My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,
Let’s make it symmetrical.
42 more would do very well.
My social calendar,
Is much too full.

84 years you say?
You’d be lucky.
I know.
But, 84 years in the scope of things,
Is just a drop on the great agar plate
Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,
A perfect number seemingly.
Keats got only 25,
And I’m no Keats,
That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,
My angel
Alarmed me of what’s to come.
He tapped me on the shoulder ,
Changed my curfew to some,
Night I never dreamed of,
Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,
That I was strong enough.
I knew when I saw you in my room,
That night, of all nights,
Mr.Gabriel.
Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,
That you were less frightening,
With your perfectly trimmed beard.
And eyes of clay and sinfulness,
Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,
Bring your white robes, I don’t care.
But I forgive you, Gabriel,
Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,
Comfort to give.
This left hand more to write.
This right hand more peace to share,
With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,
Than vanity,
A frank expression of who I am.
This brain to compute and rationalize,
My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,
They are a window,
To a soul,
Not clean, but bright.
These bulky arms,
Which I lament,
Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,
To those whom need me most.
This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,
All those whom are not lost.
These teeth to chew
The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.
This nose to smell the springtime air,
As it wispily leaves the vine.


This neck,
To accept,
Kisses and caresses,
All the same.
These shoulders
To shoulder the gardening,
Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,
From me to my
Beloved and his stare.
My waist encompassed by those arms
Who really, truly care.
My hips contain my power,
Of life and femininity.
Those thighs that I wish smaller,
Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are
Not so bad,
But shaving them gets routine.
My feet, oh my woeful feet,
You can kiss them,
But not this week.

My heart,
I save the best for last,
It holds so many dear.
Although I may not express myself,
Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,
Almost a century,
Of life to give and share,
This body with the great wide world,
I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,
Sleep silently,
Knowing that I care,
And never for a minute dream
Of when you will not be here.
Leave that worry all to me,
I’ve seen it all before.
To me it’s just a path I’m on,
And I’ve just opened the great big door.


This is my one wish for you,
Life can be so unfair.
For I have people looking out for me,
Some white dove--down here, up there.
Oh No! I’ve lost my shoes again,
Radiation is a bear.

I Keep Chipping Away

I've been working on a series of poems about breast cancer for months now. Writing, rewriting, and finding my muse in many places that I never even thought to look. This particular poem caused me many nights of lost sleep and moments of frustration, and the members of my writing group, who watched me as I brought a new version in each week, can attest to this. I was initially inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia exhibit at the Buffalo Museum of Science. I began reflecting on this idea of children at war and how perhaps we have some kind of innate strength that is present, even since birth. I used the idea of light as a symbol of my own strength, from which I was able to tap into many times over the last 6 months. This poem lay in its beginning stages for at least a couple months until one night, inspiration came to me. The title came to me in a half asleep-half awake state, after throwing off my blankets in the heat. I pictured a computer file labeled with the title One Good Rain, and I began to write and eventually finish this poem in this state of "in-between" consciousness. As I coast through my last few radiation treatments, I am very happy to present to you my latest literary creation and to say that the series is,at long last, complete.

One Good Rain

All we need is one good rain
To wash these sins away.
Too bad it’s not so easy
To become clean again.

In the beginning,
There was sword and shield,
To keep us fully clothed.
Then we had witness protection,
To keep away all our foes.

Now it’s just a crapshoot,
We have nowhere to hide.
For me it’s just a walk on the beach,
But I am not too sure of the tide.

There really is no use,
I can duck in every doorjamb,
But I will always be looking backward,
A weapon filling each hand.

Protect both the chest and head
With armor reinforced.
Not once, but twice,
To withstand the force
An army of 100 men.
The battle cry sounds with a rush,
Of arrows emerging swiftly,
Over the cries of lonely voices
A raging fireball arcs,
And turns this armor to ashen dust,
This hope to smoke.

The fallen counted as we pass
Through these years
To days, not less dangerous.
It is not within the integrity of the body,
But in its own stealthiness.
We can disappear into thin air,
But still find invasion from within.
Crossing the crime of the organized
Will only leave you
With a neck forever cricked
a gaze directed behind those eyes,
A throat not quite nicked.

Night falls over the bustling bar,
A glow arises from the corner.
An enticing circle of fire emerges,
From the dimness
Beyond, the face slowly becoming visible
In the darkness.
A world alive at dusk,
A youth riveting and vibrant,
Confident in her ignorance.

A tinkle of ice as the whiskey
Flows, the smell wafts over me,
Like a banana freshly peeled,
It passes my lips like a fantasy.
That numb little confidence I love
Has entered my skin.
I coast down its river through days
And months
And eventually years
To where I am right now.

Here in this room
Whiskey long forgotten
Yet still a part of me.
Is it really
A mere cellular memory?

That’s it.
The deed is done.
I’ve unsheathed the sword,
Released my own ball of fire,
Submitted my body to flame and forge.
I’ve opened the gate to chaos,
I’ve started this holey war.
I’ve crossed the mafia cell at its own game,
And I will always be looking back.
With a crick in my neck,
A dislocated shoulder,
Waiting for that next attack.

And I owe it all to those whiskey years,
And that marvelous carelessness.
In my innocence of youth,
I had grasped a light,
That has lingered ever since.
And it’s true.
It is still near,
Burning strong and very much
Alive.

A Mother's Day Wish: A Poem by Me

"Poetry is a record of the life around us and in us, and you'll get a better idea from poetry what it was like to be alive in 2011 than you will from the New York Times." ~Garrison Keillor

If this is so, I only hope my own poetry can live up to the task.  This poem was written this week, May 2011:

 

 A Perfect 84

42 years of a life,

Lived well and full,

Is not enough to wrap,

My weary arms around the world.

42 more would do,

Let’s make it symmetrical.

42 more would do very well.

My social calendar,

Is much too full.

84 years you say?

You’d be lucky.

I know.

But, 84 years in the scope of things,

Is just a drop on the great agar plate

Of the world.

84 years is all I ask,

A perfect number seemingly.

Keats got only 25,

And I’m no Keats,

That’s what I see.

We’ll call him Gabe,

My angel

Alarmed me of what’s to come.

He tapped me on the shoulder ,

Changed my curfew to some,

Night I never dreamed of,

Then changed it once again so I’d learn.

Then I knew,

That I was strong enough.

I knew when I saw you in my room,

That night, of all nights,

Mr.Gabriel.

Thank you for coming so soon.

I only wish,

That you were less frightening,

With your perfectly trimmed beard.

And eyes of clay and sinfulness,

Here on hallowed ground, so rare.

We are less earthy than you think,

Bring your white robes, I don’t care.

But I forgive you, Gabriel,

Your message was loud and clear:

These hands have more,

Comfort to give.

This left hand more to write.

This right hand more peace to share,

With those I encounter each night.

This hair much more,

Than vanity,

A frank expression of who I am.

This brain to compute and rationalize,

My relation to earth as it stands.

These eyes,

They are a window,

To a soul,

Not clean, but bright.

These bulky arms,

Which I lament,

Have held my child so tight.

These ears to listen caringly,

To those whom need me most.

This mouth with which to kiss goodnight,

All those whom are not lost.

These teeth to chew

The chocolate, most delicious and so fine.

This nose to smell the springtime air,

As it wispily leaves the vine.

This neck,

To accept,

Kisses and caresses,

All the same.

These shoulders

To shoulder the gardening,

Creating life along the way.

These breasts create a line,

From me to my

Beloved and his stare.

My waist encompassed by those arms

Who really, truly care.

My hips contain my power,

Of life and femininity.

Those thighs that I wish smaller,

Have gotten me from sea to sea.

These old calves are

Not so bad,

But shaving them gets routine.

My feet, oh my woeful feet,

You can kiss them,

But not this week.

My heart,

I save the best for last,

It holds so many dear.

Although I may not express myself,

Hear me loud and clear.

84 years,

Almost a century,

Of life to give and share,

This body with the great wide world,

I’ll do it, if you dare.

Knowing that I love you all,

Sleep silently,

Knowing that I care,

And never for a minute dream

Of when you will not be here.

Leave that worry all to me,

I’ve seen it all before.

To me it’s just a path I’m on,

And I’ve just opened the great big door.

This is my one wish for you,

Life can be so unfair.

For I have people looking out for me,

Some white dove--down here, up there.

Oh No!  I’ve lost my shoes again,

Radiation is a bear.

The True Halloween Experience: The Continental

photo courtesy of The Continental Facebook page-the existence of which tells all!

For the following, my suggested musical pairing would be "Every day is Halloween" by Ministry, "Dig It" by Skinny Puppy and "Lucretia, My Reflection" by Sisters of Mercy. Just scroll down to my play list at the bottom of my blog, and then scroll down to the last songs.



The Continental nightclub in downtown Buffalo, New York was a place where you could live Halloween, any weekend night of the year. The nightclub had a first floor, where the indie bands of the time played, a second floor, where the cool people danced, and an outdoor courtyard in back, where there was a lot of marijuana aromatherapy, bat watching, and, if you were lucky, good old fashioned making out. You were never really quite sure what was going on out back.

For those of you from good ol' Buffalo, and old enough to remember, the Continental was quite the unique place. As we used to say, one is either a tourist merely there to watch the unique goings-on of the crowd, or a regular part of the crowd, which was the cool, and only, way to be. Needless to say, the regulars despised the tourists. Nowadays, we would call it a goth bar, but back in the 80's, I'm not even sure if that phrase was coined yet. It was a ritual getting ready to go out on those Friday and Saturday nights. I think we must have owned stock in black eyeliner and white make-up. And, lest we forget, we never wore anything but black.

The Continental night club is now defunct. It closed a few years ago after changing a few hands and the popularity died out, or as I like to say, the patrons grew up and moved on. But, in it's heyday, it was THE place to be, if you were interested in breaking into the alternative music scene, or, in the early days, punk scene. I remember we were friendly with a couple of guys who seemed to play every weekend in their band. They were known to us as Johnny and Robby (my friend Kim had an ongoing flirtation with Johnny). Nowadays, everyone knows them as Johnny Rzeznik and Robby Takac and their world famous band, The Goo Goo Dolls. We just knew them as that blond good looking guy, and his short friend.

I pretty much did my "growing up" at The Continental. I starting going there around 1986 or so, around the time I entered college and got my first car, a 1976 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale, medium blue with a white vinyl top. And, boy, was I proud of that car! My best friend at the time, Kim, and I would arrive early, just after dark. We would park in the parking ramp across the street, so we could spy the door to check when our favorite bouncer would arrive (I don't remember his name, but he was quite large, African American, and completely bald). When he did, we made our move. Copies of our birth certificates in hand, the date changed to protect the innocent, we made a run for it before he left the door and someone else took his place. Although I really don't think we were ever thrown out, and I look back now and laugh at how we would get so nervous about it. I mean, come on, we were 18 years old and quite pretty, and the Continental was a DIVE. Why wouldn't they let us in?!

We never really got into too much trouble back then. I only remember a handful of nights when we drank too much, usually Kim more than me because I was driving. I do recall a night in the bathroom, Kim just a pile of skirts and combat boots lying on the grime-encrusted bathroom floor. I believe that was also the night I dropped her off on the front lawn of her house, literally on the front lawn passed out. It was a "Sixteen Candles" moment. Kim was the one with the midnight curfew, too! I don't think things even got started at the Continental until midnight. That's when all the freaks come out, after all.


I wrote a little story, a sort of memoir, a few years back, in September 2007. It is about a night that will remain ingrained in my memory, and it is perfect for this Halloween time of year. And, here it is:

The Continental

I moved up to the bar, self-aware and hesitant, to order our usual first drinks of the night. This decision was usually made after 15-20 minutes of commiseration about who was at the bar, which bartender was there, and how much tip did we really need to leave. I remember those drinks, Blue Hawaiians, and how they actually glowed in the dim, reddish light of the Continental. I also remember the smell of the place before the evening got under way, the smell of sticky drinks, old cigarettes, Kim's perfume (Lauren by Ralph Lauren) and lots of leather in various states of decay.

The Continental was our haven, our shelter. Our elders expected something totally different of what a teenager should do and be. Kim's parents believed that at 19, she was still a child and should be locked away like Fiona in her dragon-guarded castle. My parents expected perfection, but never gave me any rules or guidelines in which to plan my life, leaving me floating around aimlessly, which I did for years. But, I was always the responsible one. Go figure.

So, every Friday and Saturday, like clockwork, we would enter our dreamlike state through a combination of alcohol (buy one get one), dim lighting, and very shady characters at our place of choice. Little did we know, it would form our future, our personalities, and our social life for years to come. (Well, at least mine. I lost touch with Kim after college. Last I heard, she had married quite young and has twin boys.). For me, the Continental formed my imagination, heightened my creativity, even to this day.

One night in particular, I swear to God, I'm sure, I met the devil. He was one of those few standing at the bar, earlier in the night, as the first band was playing. It was one of those nights that we did our commiserating at "the mushroom" (a spool-shaped bar table), but that particular night, it was so smoky, I almost couldn't breathe. When I decided to finally walk up to the bar, I walked up beside him. He turned to me and shook my hand. Somehow, with this handshake, he left red marks on my palm from his long, black fingernails. And, his hair, how can I possibly describe it? It was a wild mass of dreadlocks, but different. They were more like long strips of black tattered rags. It was almost as if he shaved his scalp between the rags. He seemed to appear like a demon from an angst-ridden teenager's wild imaginary drawings. His voice was a scathing whisper that still resonates with me still to this day, more than 20 years later.

I saw him in my bedroom later on. I'm not sure if it was days or months later. I just know that I saw him, and he seemed real, yet wasn't. I saw him twice in one of the hallucinatory nighttime visions I have been having all my life. He sat in the corner of my bedroom at my parent's house, quietly, but unmistakeably him. Clear as a bell, him.

I sometimes look back at this time in my life in disbelief. The girl from a mostly Polish-Catholic Cheektowaga, New York who thought she wanted to be a forensic scientist, but somehow, through life experience, realized it wasn't science that grabbed her soul. It was the unknown, that which we will never know, the spirits that still lurk within the walls of that place on Franklin Street, the spirits that lurk within our minds just dying to come out into the great world. The Continental was the essence of emotional inspiration, proof of the slippery slope of humanity.

"In a Bind", My Feeble Attempt at Flash Fiction, Freshly Rewritten

Since I seemed to have been writing with an unconscious emphasis on Halloween this week, I decided to pick up this old story and rewrite it using my recent inspiration as a guide.

For an extra bit of atmosphere while reading my recent posts, may I suggest that you scroll down to my play list and find "Lullaby" by The Cure? Enjoy!:



The key rests lightly on the tartan scarf I had worn yesterday evening. They both seemed to have been placed gently, patiently, there by someone who cared whether they stayed on the hall table, or tumbled down onto the slick, marble floor below.

This key alone knows the truth, the whole truth. It knows that someone had tried to kill me last night in my bed, but to no avail. The key knows the time, the place, and the M.O., and it, alone, knows the man himself, intimately.

Apparently and interestingly, he arrived late for dinner, just after 7:30 and left at 2:30 am, but not in a rush. All clues lead us to this determination.

I lay breathless, in a limp heap on my bed, but still full of life a short time after 2:30. I then rose, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water to quench my parched thirst. I saw then, out of the corner of my eye, the key and the scarf on the hall table, both lifeless, but present. The scarf is the same that I had purposely draped around my neck earlier in the evening, and the same used as a reluctant accessory to attempted murder.

My first impulse was, after presumably slipping on gloves, to place them both in a plastic bag as evidence, but I let them be, their presence as proof of the crime. Suddenly, the phone rings, startling me, and I jump, my heart pounding. A lone raven caws in the yard. I let the machine pick up the call as I quickly close the rear window in the bedroom, fearing invasion by another intruder.

"Hi. You've reached Rachel. I am unable to come to the phone right now, but if you please leave a message, I'll return your call as soon as I can." Beep...."Hi, uhh, Rachel, are you there? Just wanted to call to say thanks for the pleasant evening [pause]... by the way, you didn't happen to find a skeleton key there by chance? It's the key to my coat closet. Don't mean to put you in a bind, so I'll just stop by later this afternoon. Also,(he chuckles) will you wear that scarf on our next date? I had a fantastic time..." Beep....

Perhaps this tape will only confuse investigators. I press "ERASE" quickly, before the machine stops, and get back to my water.

On Awareness: A Plea

Scarecrow Most Eerie
(photo taken at the organic farm of a friend)

On Awareness: A Plea

Does tomorrow melt in your mouth,

Not in your hands,

Like Desire pulling you along by a taut, silken harness,

Only to nestle and caress you within the jaws of the famished world?

Do you tell your Prince to wake you later,

As you languishly linger within the folds

Of a sleep, unblemished by potion?

But, sooner than later, you will need those eyes open wide,

That breath strong and able,

Expanding and contracting for life.

Do you gaze across an open, fertile landscape,

Only to while away in longing,

For that noble Youth,

When all bitter Beauty has is these petals in her void?

All the while, the leaves rustle amongst us, calling out for Winter,

Awaiting to hear his step on the porch boards.

Do your dreams recall a listless longing,

Lying limp and open on the forest floor,

White flood rising from your cool gown,

A sad stream echoing your delirious sleep?

A cold wind blows, suddenly,

harsh and heavy upon your parched skin.

Shivering with eyes aflutter,

You think,

Perhaps, there is another way,

To conceive of this future,

Without falling through the cracks and chasms,

Of a life lived by another.

As you grasp the reins,

You navigate your way,

Slowly, ever so slowly,

Forward.

Tell Me by Susan Harris-Gamard

Tell me that I can stay,

A little longer.

A life formed out of bits of thread and spilled blood

Is just a moment, a flash.

My creative clutter the only proof that I breathe.

Flesh plundered, compromised, sight unseen,

By one bad seed waiting,

For that slim circumstance

To strike and grow in a moment,

Interrupting a long-awaited dream.

We never know until we know,

We are not a given, even if we are forgiven.

I’d love to speak to that cell,

Lone invader of my own universe,

Travel the rivers and canyons of this divide,

Confront him and my swept-up fear.

To understand what he’s after,

Stealing my breath in order to live,

And perish with me.

I'd love to debrief that cell,

Make him squirm,

Will he have one noble reason?

Will I even comprehend why,

He means to use my body as his own,

Home Sweet Home,

For a little while?

I’d love to speak to that cell,

To tell him that I will stay,

A little longer.

It’s not up to him.

Patty Berglund, Just Another Bored Housewife?: A Review of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom

SPOILER ALERT!!!
"Is it raining, my love?" "Yes, my love. And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with my self." "What was that, my love?"."Nothing...of consequence. Nothing."

These words were spoken by Lady Dedlock and Sir Leceister in the 2005 BBC film series of Bleak House. Lady Dedlock is married to Sir Leceister, a very conservative baronet, much older than herself. She lives in the lap of luxury with everything taken care of for her, but seemingly her life is far from perfect.

"Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine." Bleak House, pg. 170.

We learn to find out, as the novel progresses that there is a reason for this boredom. It is not boredom per se, but more like an inert anxiety over a secret kept from everyone, something that happened before her marriage, something that could destroy "her shrine" and cause everything to fall apart around her. I don't wish to reveal the secret for those who have not read Bleak House (and it really is not relevant to this review), but suffice it to say that boredom is only a symptom, not the heart of the problem. If you have experienced this feeling of "inert anxiety", you know what I am speaking of: a feeling of being frozen, unable to move or take action, almost like one is tied up in a tight knot.

We see another example of "the bored housewife" in the novel Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, but we see a different sort of woman, a kind of villainous victim, or victimized villain, however you wish to see it
"But she was full of hungers, rage, and hate. That gown with its straight folds concealed a heart in turmoil, and those reticent lips did not tell of its torments. She was in love with Leon, and she desired solitude in order to be able more conveniently to delight in her image of him...The exasperating thing to her was that Charles had not the air of suspecting her anguish. His conviction that he was making her happy seemed a witless insult; and his sense of security a further ingratitude. For whose sake was she being virtuous? Wasn't it for him, the obstacle of all felicity, the cause of all misery, and in a way, the sharp-pronged buckle of the strap that was lashed about her?" pg. 94-95, Madame Bovary.

Emma Bovary is part of a long tradition in literature of woman who have been taken away at a young age in order to be married to someone of whom only her family approves. These men are usually too old, too boring, too abusive, lacking affection and/or a sense of equality, or too neglectful to live up to the fantasies of love in a young girl's heart. As Emma ponders, "And Emma wondered just what it meant, in real life, by the words felicity, passion, and intoxication, which had seemed to her so beautiful in books." (pg. 30) As we usually see in this case, Emma jumps out of the frying pan into the fire. Leon is just another man who is only willing to categorize her, only this time as the married mistress to be kept in private, out of the public eye. She starts to buy many pretty things in order to impress him and win him over so that he takes her away from her unhappy marriage. Sadly, she merely realizes that she cannot escape her gender, and becomes a lesser sort of person by trying. Emma steals from and is unfaithful to her hard-working husband. Her whole life becomes a lie, and she is split into two in order to keep the lie going.

My theory is that Jonathan Franzen is giving us a modern day Emma Bovary in the guise of Patty Berglund, in his new novel Freedom. Seemingly, in our very modern, contemporary society, you would think that a woman could never be compared to Emma Bovary. Our American marriages are no longer arranged, except for some first generation immigrants who are still keeping up traditions. Woman are free now, both sexually and financially, and are considered equal in society. As Frantzen begins his own commentary on what it means to have freedom in America today, he bases his story on a central character named Patty who lives a life just as entangled and just as self-destructive as Emma Bovary herself. Patty has the ability to make her own choices, marry, or not marry, whom she chooses. We see the other characters as satellites circling around Patty having a kind of gravitational pull on her choices and her actions. And choices she makes, as we will soon see.

The story begins with an outsider's view of the Berglunds. "There had always been something not quite right about the Berglunds" seems to be the mantra of the beginning chapters of the novel. The Berglunds were the young pioneers of Ramsey Hill, a neighborhood of St. Paul, Minnesota. when they first moved there after marriage, it was run down and unsafe, but they stayed the course, raising two children, Joey and Jessica, and fixing up their dilapidated Victorian, bought for a song. The biggest complaint from the neighbors was that Walter was too nice and that Patty was too smug and needed a full time job to keep her occupied. She never spoke bad of anyone. If anyone tried to gossip about the "not quite right" goings on of her neighbor Carol Monaghan, her response always was that is was just "weird". Patty doted too much on her son, and not enough on her daughter. She placed too much emphasis on her house and the small world of her little family. Her extended family was never mentioned. There was never a visit from out of town guests (her husband's family is from Minnesota), so little was known of Patty's past.

The reader does learn of it when reading Patty's Autobiography "Mistakes were Made", however. We get an up close and personal glimpse into Patty's past. Her mother was a very liberal career politician, and her father a successful attorney who spends many nights working on pro bono cases. Her parents like to keep up appearances, which is quite ironic given their liberal views. Her father admits that within the pro bono cases, everyone involved is pretty much a liar. So, her family is all about looking good in the public eye with no thought to what goes on in private. The reader learns she also has a dirty old man for a grandpa (see gives us a visual of him bouncing Patty on his thigh for pleasure). He is a very wealthy man with an ancestral mansion who sees it as a right to be eccentric as long as he looks good in the public eye. He is also notoriously tight-fisted, and while Patty's siblings loved to rebel against this by making impossible demands, Patty decides to just ignore it all by just caring only for sports, something in which her family have absolutely no interest and completely ignore Patty from then on. Well, until of course she was raped by Ethan Post, son of the high society "Posts" who were very influential for Patty's parents. So, of course, they swept the rape completely under the rug, even though Patty seemed completely devastated to anyone who got close enough to look, which her parents completely didn't. Between her dirty old man grandfather, the rape that was completely ignored, her ineffective father, is it any wonder she would choose athletic prowess over something more traditionally feminine? Sports were her escape from being the powerless woman. And it worked for awhile, until she hurt her leg. Then along comes Walter to save her from herself, and thus begins her 20+ year journey to discover a place where she can be free.

It's interesting to note that the two men in her life, Walter and Richard, are like soul mates. It's actually alluded to in the novel. Put them together and you would get a perfect man, or Joey, Patty's son (I will discuss this a little further along). Walter is one side of the spectrum: a lifelong tee-totaler, he always sees women as "victims" of society, the forever defender of those unfortunate beings among us. Richard is the other side. While he respects Patty as a woman and as a sexual, powerful being, he still is drawn into throwing her aside after a period of time. Richard has the inability to keep women for any period of time. The only person he keeps around is Walter, whom he is forever in competition against. Richard is the true artist, the creator, the reactionist against the status quo, but as Richard says so himself, being an artist, he is only advancing the progress of consumerism along. Walter blindly does the same while trying to save a species of bird. The difference being Richard realizes what his work has done, Walter merely does whatever he has to do to get to the desired result.

At the "very young in our day" age of twenty-three, Patty marries Walter. She leaves her family in New York to join Walter and his family in Minnesota. Her main goal in life at this point was to have babies, which is one thing Patty was good at. Patty seems to choose Walter because he is at the "nice" end of the male spectrum. He will never abuse her and always be respectful, and he understands the things she has been through. Patty needs an escape from what she knows: her past, her family, her life before Walter. Like a pioneer discovering a new country, she creates her own world in the old Victorian in St. Paul. Her house was her domain in which she can play out her own utopia: raise a son who was different from all the other stereotypical men out there, raise a daughter who will be a woman no matter what she does, so don't put much effort into it. Her utopia was a perfect little bird cage keeping her family safe and away from the apathetic public eye, until, of course, the little bird cage started to fall apart. Joey moves out to live with Connie, the quiet, unassuming girl next door. His sexual drive leads him to leave, in Patty's eyes. She felt she failed him by not separating him from the inevitability of male sexual desire and the defiling of women.

Patty moves up to Nameless Lake, and lets the Ramsey Hill house remain empty, the garden go to seed. She tries to create another place of refuge, but this time with Richard. Walter had disappointed her over the years, always seeing her as "the victim" and working long hours for the Nature Conservancy, never spending a minute with Patty as equals. Patty starts drinking, they move to a townhouse in Washington D.C., she is unfaithful to Walter with Richard (although Walter was just about to be unfaithful to Patty with his new first generation Indian assistant Lalitha). The townhouse is no longer Patty's world: it is Lalitha and Walter's (Lalitha lives upstairs). Nameless Lake is no longer the perfect utopia because Richard called off the affair due to his feeling disloyal to Walter. Walter finds out about the affair through Richard giving him Patty's autobiography. Walter breaks it off with Patty and is unforgiving. In fact, how could he ever forgive "poor Patty" who suddenly becomes this powerful "adulteress Patty"? Such a betrayal! He then continues where he left off and begins his own affair with Lalitha, who ironically is Indian, and in her own culture would probably be married off in the "traditional way", unlike Patty.

Through all this breaking off and chaos, Patty in the mean time is finally beginning to find herself. She gets a job as a receptionist at the local gym, starts to buy new clothes, cuts her hair, and looks like the beautiful Patty that she used to be. Patty does not do this to impress any man, though. Unlike Emma Bovary, she improves herself for herself, more for a message to Walter that she is strong. When Walter throws her out, she lives with Richard but only for as long as he'll have her. Walter in the mean time moves to Nameless Lake and becomes an eccentric psycho. His girlfriend Lalitha is dead. He worries about the birds being killed by neighborhood cats, resulting in his sending one cat to the animal shelter.

While Patty has become strong, and Walter has become psycho, they both realize that they love each other after all. Through all the chaos, destruction, betrayal, departures, they come back together again. Walter renames Nameless Lake after Lalitha and turns it into a bird sanctuary. This is where the birdcage references come in for me. Patty doesn't need her birdcage anymore. She is ready to live in the world. Walter and Patty leave Nameless Lake to the birds and the spirit of Lalitha, two symbols: the first, unspoiled America and its real natives and the second, the possibilities and idealism of the America dream.

Walter's grandfather originally came from Sweden to America. I cannot find the quotations right now, but Frantzen writes that it was more a defect in genetics that originally led Europeans to travel to America. A whole country was founded on a genetic defect: the gene responsible for getting along with others. People that came here could not get along with the people of their own country, so they came here to create a place where they could get along. It seems as though this is exactly the same thing that Patty tried to do. She couldn't seem to get along in this world as a woman due to her upbringing and neglect by her parents, so she had to create a new world inside the home to house a place where she could feel free. Eventually, the real world encroached on Patty's world. Her son Joey let the world in. He was the only male character in the novel who could play the game of capitalism while keeping his own sense of self in check. What Patty did not realize is that she created a near-perfect son, so it was O.K. to let him out into the world. He would survive because she equipped him with what he needed.

I found it interesting that, in the end, Patty finds work as a teacher's aide. To me, working with children is symbolic of a role in the building of the future. Patty is taking a role in change by molding children. People say the Frantzen is a misogynist in writing this novel. I disagree. He is a realist and an optimist. He gives us the reality of the problem of women and men in society, but ends the novel with a sense of hope.

No, Patty Berglund wasn't bored. She was her own version of pioneer, in our crazy, fast-paced, modern world. Patty foresaw a need for change and exerted her own power in her own way to try to achieve this change, if only for herself. To me, Patty is the Emma Bovary that should have been.

5+ stars

Getaway Car

The first day of school seemingly went off without a hitch. I woke up well before the alarm, the coffee pot brewed a full pot of coffee without spilling all over the kitchen or malfunctioning, Tristan woke up without a fight, and we both made it to the bus stop fully clothed. Historically this hasn't been the case. With the bus stop being at the end of the driveway and the middle of winter being dark and tundra-like, it is very tempting to remain in modest nightwear. Also, I sent Tristan to school last year one day without underwear due to the darkness and my verging on sleepwalking in the morning, causing me to almost have a mental breakdown from the worry of his reaction when he realized nothing stood between him and his uniform pants.

This morning, however, Tristan and I happily made the short walk to the bus stop all bright- eyed and bushy-tailed, and READY. We spy the flashing lights in the distance of the approaching bus. I turn to notice the one remaining toy left in the driveway from our fun-filled summer (his Volkswagen New Beetle, kid-sized). So, I say to Tristan, "You know there is still a way out. Your getaway car is waiting in the driveway. All you have to do is get in it and drive away." We hear the roar of the bus approaching. He says, "Yeah, that would be great! Except that car is too slow and it only has two seats. I think I'll take the Cabrio (my own adult-sized Volkswagen). That way we can both leave and spend the rest of our lives together at Target!"

Gotta love my guy! First grade, here he comes!

On Point: Top Young Fiction Writers

http://www.onpointradio.org/media-player?url=http://www.onpointradio.org/2010/06/top-young-fiction-writers&title=Top+Young+Fiction+Writers&pubdate=2010-06-09&segment=2

I wanted to post this On Point radio show segment from NPR.  The segment is a discussion with 4 of the Top 20 writers over 40 from The New Yorker magazine (June 14&21).  It is very pertinent to writers coming to the forefront today.  I love what these writers have to say about the future of writing and books in the digital age.   In the program, they portend that fiction in 20-30 years will be read as much as poetry is today.  I have to disagree.  I think the format of fiction (and writers themselves) will just have to keep up with the times i.e. appeal to the new reader who has an attention span of about two seconds ;).  Seriously, there is hope in the future for fiction. I am sure of it and will never give up hope.

I

Venice at Night: A Prelude (an essay written in 2004)

In the words of Henry James, "The only way to care for Venice as she deserves it is to give her a chance to touch you often-to linger and remain and return." This summer, I will be returning to Venice, after an absence of six years. My first visit was in May of 2004, newly married and 5 months pregnant with my son. I wrote the following essay upon returning:


Plato wrote of human existence as being like the inside of a cave with a fire burning. Most of us have our backs to the world, facing the wall, only seeing the shadows of the truth flickering on this wall. For those who travel merely to view the notable sights and then go home, Plato's analogy runs true. If you travel to see the Eiffel Tower, not for the experience, but just to take a photo to prove that you were there, you are only seeing those shadows on the wall.

When a tourist travels to Venice with this attitude, a true tragedy occurs. Venice has the ability, if you allow it, to transform all of us permanently and irreversibly no matter who we are or where we come from. It is one of the few remaining sacred and spiritual places on earth, not for any icon or relic, but for who we are when we are there, and for what we see within ourselves and our souls.

I've been dreaming of Venice for years and years. Although I've travelled extensively all over the world, I had always saved Venice for a special time. I did not want to rush through the experience without having the ability and, I see now, the maturity to enjoy it. Learning that we were expecting a baby in October, my husband Stephan and I decided that this May was as good a time as any to finally see Venezia. We signed up for a cruise of the Adriatic-Venice, Dubrovnik, The Greek Isles, Athens, and Kusadasi, Turkey. Unfortunately, we weren't lucky enough to gaze from our hotel balcony over the Grand Canal, and, I'm embarrassed to say now, splurge for the 100 euros for the gondola ride, but we didn't need to. All we really needed was a general map (nothing too detailed-you get lost regardless), comfortable shoes, and time to explore.

The first day we arrived, we began our expedition in the dim light of evening at the main vaporetto station which I later learned was the entrance to the Grand Canal. Little did I know what I would be about to experience. Since I have absolutely no sense of direction, I had no clue where we were or even what direction we would be going. As we embarked, Stephan and I grabbed seats in the rear in order to be outside in the night air. After about three minutes, I realized we were already on the Grand Canal, and the buildings began to pass by, one after another. Except for the occasional noise of the vaporetto's motor and gear grinding, the city was dark and silent-not eerie, but mysterious and inviting. Each building was more and more magnificent, and we were able to catch glimpses down all of the smaller canals, full of darkness and glittering water. We would pass an occasional gondola still lingering, but for the most part, the Grand Canal was empty and serene.

I remember sitting there with the wind blowing in the nighttime silence and the whooshing of the water. Every building in Venice looks mysterious at night, even those that are unremarkable by day. If unremarkable buildings can look magnificent, what about the others? Well, no words can describe their beauty at night-their silence, their knowledge of what has been and will be. the memories they hold within their damp stone walls, perfectly cut with the love of a people who truly appreciated the beauty of their craft. The water may infiltrate the presence of these buildings , but it is a part of who they are and their very existence. Without water, after all, Venice would not be Venice. If Venice sinks, it is because it was Venice's fate to sink, being so united with the water. Why is Venice the one place in the world that has not been pinned down and become known for something other than what it is? Because Venice is Venice, that's all.

The more we try to pin it down, the more it escapes us. One can write infinitely about Venice, but her story is never complete. The history of Venice seems to go on, all at once. Venice is the one place that contains true ghosts. Not some specter waiting to be released from its earthly horror, but spirits who live amidst this city who would never think of leaving. Spirits who millions of tourists have felt, but never really realized. The spirit of the place will not let this happen. It's strength encompasses you wherever you turn, and you somehow become part of it. It can never be conquered, only joined and merged with. I think sometimes its power overwhelms people and so they try to ground it in some way, saying it is too smelly, or crowded, or hot, or too labrynthine. It's this fear of the unknown that does this to people. It is a natural human defense mechanism to fear what they cannot control, or conquer.

As we passed the Ca d'Oro, it was brilliant at night. You can actually imagine yourself back in the Venetian Gothic period, passing by this newly built opulent palace. It must have recently been cleaned because it is immaculate. The water leaps up onto its porch, striking a union between man and Nature in its embrace. There were other very beautiful notable buildings and private residences, but there was a general feeling of mystery, pleasure, and sensuality found here. The water gives the atmosphere a floating, gliding, and ethereal quality and slows everything down, allowing us to "taste" Venice in all its deliciousness.

When we reached our final stop, Piazza San Marco was a short stroll away. Everyone we saw here was strolling, which tells us a good deal about the nature of this city. There are many couples here, also, and most of them are Italian (contrary to the reputation of Venice being too touristy). These couples seem to be embracing their own new found romance while experiencing the one place where all inhibitions are discarded and forgotten. For some reason, I expected Venice to be a place of masked revelry and non-stop celebration, but not on this night in May. This more authentic Venice is a place of quiet, repose, safety, and a kind of watery embrace to all those who enter her fluid arms. There are very few parties, but the ones we do see are quiet and sophisticated. As we enter the Piazza, we hear only the musicians playing and the beating of pigeon wings. You could actually explore Venice at night without seeing more than a handful of people, if you stay off the beaten path. To me, this is the true beauty of Venice. Not only are you exploring Venice one-on-one, you are exploring your own soul and that of your soul mate, if you are lucky to have brought them with you, as I was this beautiful evening. The canals and pathways twist and turn, and there is something new and more mysterious around every corner.

The only smell I noticed here was the beautiful smell of the sea, and how it permeates throughout every corner, alley, building, and piazza. Walk a little, get off the overpriced gondola, take the city at face value, not just the value that others have thrown at you. Experience Venice with your heart and soul simultaneously. You will never return. You will leave a piece of yourself there, becoming one with this island of souls. Venice is the place where truth lies and will remain: the real truth of who we are and why we exist. It is a place in which to discover our faith in each other and the greatness of our race. It has been said that Venice is the perfect union of God and man. I will go one step further to say that it is not the union, but proof that God does exist within man, and that everyone has access to this power. Go to Venice and allow your own truth to begin and take hold.

Just as I will never be the same after Venice, anyone who has ever submitted to this powerful and deep city, releasing themselves to its pure essence, will never be the same. In the words of Henry James, "But it is hard, as I say, to express all this, and it is painful as well to attempt it-painful because in the memory of the vanished hours so filled with beauty , the consciousness of present loss oppresses." I will miss you, my Venice, but I will return, there is no doubt.

We are home now, contemplating naming our son Marco as we prepare for his birth. I am glad we waited to see Venice because, to me, it was the perfect time in my life and in our marriage to experience this amazing city, La Serenissima, the most beautiful, magical place in the world.

Back to 2010: Keep in mind that our son is now 5 years old and his name is Tristan Alexandre. I guess at some point we came to our senses ;)

Quote of the Day

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

Dead Poet's Society"
— John Keating

Why I Write: A List

1. the first and most important reason why I both write and read is the search for that moment of complete transcendence, where nothing else matters, but a certain truth. It is that point in a piece of creative writing in which the reader gets past the words and letters, and forgets that he or she is reading.
2. because I love words. how they look, feel, sound, how they feel when read out loud, how they make me feel, how they react to the words around them. I love when a certain word sticks around, resonating with me as I go about my day.
3. because of the act of writing and how it feels to physically write, depending on the tool. I recently acquired a typewriter, given to me by a neighbor. I love how writing changes with the tool used: whether it is the very physical action of typing on the typewriter, the speed and effortlessness of a laptop (almost like the fingers are directly connected to the brain's current), the graceful, sweeping movement of a pen, or the more rustic, earthy feel of pencil to paper. Different emotions, mood, motions for each tool...Will the writing follow? I hope to try them all and see what develops.
4. because I love the blank page, whether in a fancy journal that will be around for a while or a scrap paper lying around in my purse. (look inside my purse and you will see such papers covered with jumbles of writing written at that "light bulb" moment)
5. because I have a definite need for an arena to explore my crazy, ever-changing emotions-getting my feelings down on paper in order to sort through them into a sort of coherence, and discard those that are irrelevant (probably the majority). I've found that a typewriter can be very helpful in this process. Its very physical, rough kind of motion allows for the tumultuous emotions to surge out of my mind into my hands.
6. because writing transcends all works of art. Nothing is required of it. Memory is the minimal means of recording. Also, a handy hand to be written upon, a scrap receipt and a loose crayon on the carpet, or the digital world and its never-ending means of dissemination. To me, its the most perfect art form because it requires only our thoughts and some necessary practice.
7. because after 41 years of searching, I have found that it is the one thing I have always done, the one thing I feel I am meant to do, and the one thing I am comfortable doing. I still need to find a way to summon up the self-confidence to let my writing go out into the world without regret.
8. because of the body's inevitable demise (this is for you, John!) and how we all wish we could stick around longer. You can leave behind your shoes and a worn out old chair, but in order for someone to truly remember you, who you are deep inside, you need to leave a piece of yourself behind-your thoughts, feelings, aggravations, triumphs, ideals, teachings, or just some ramblings jotted every once in while in a journal. I would love to make a stamp in the world while I am here, but it would be nice if I am remembered too, even if only by my loved ones.
9. because I want to record those moods or moments that are so very fleeting before they pass by and are gone. They seem memorable at the time, yet they are eventually forgotten if enough time goes by.
10. because i enjoy being a writer. It "fits" me. I have always been an observer, a reader of both words and people, someone on the sidelines. In our society, where extroversion and assertiveness are valued above everything, it is nice to know there are still vocations out there for people like us. I heard someone say once that one should only be a writer after trying everything else. Well, believe me, I have tried out many things, but writing seems to be the only thing that really works.
11. because I can write anywhere and the writing will always be with me anywhere I happen to find myself. It isn't that I am a nomad, but it is nice to know I am never tied down by my career.
12. because writing makes me proud. Not in a negative way, but in a "hold my head up with confidence " way. I think it must be because I feel I am doing the right thing for me. Writing is a noble profession with limitless rewards (if you don't mind the rewards not being monetary) and limitless aspirations.
13. because I love knowing that I am now part of the ongoing conversation, like I have finally been invited to that dream party with all the right people, people who I have everything in common with--this group of writers, alive or dead, who have found a way to express themselves through words.
14. because technology has now opened long-closed doors, enabling all of us solitary writers to be heard at last.
15. And, finally, almost as important a reason as my first, because I love people. I love their struggles, their facets, their shared humanity, and I love, and have faith, that no matter what happens, we will all be there for each other.