This Year---an old poem made new.

The buds of the magnolia have browned
All at once

Like a half-charged memory growing ill
And withered in the new light

By Sir Frost’s shocking freeze
And the latent echoing

Of his sonorous footfalls
Crushing gestures from Size 12 steel-toe boots

This mere shadow of a bloom heals me

With its smothered vow of surety

And the soft cry of hope within

Its withered frame

As the brown petals meet
The earthy ground
 My own sun-touched arms unfurl 

To greet

The spirited Master Spring as he
Leaps silently forward
Within grassy slippers as delicate
As my own lusty breath.

The Struggles of a Writer

I've just read a piece of advice this afternoon that was incredibly timely.  And it goes like this:

      Right here is your story. Your manuscript. Your career. So why the [heck] are you running in the other direction? Your writing will never chase you — you need to chase your writing. If it’s what you want, then pursue it. This isn’t just true of your overall writing career, either. It’s true of individual components. You want one thing but then constantly work to achieve its opposite. You say you want to write a novel but then go and write a bunch of short stories. You say you’re going to write This script but then try to write That script instead. Pick a thing and work toward that thing.

Click here for the original source.

I am incredibly, astoundingly guilty of this.  Running away.  I thought I was facing my biggest fear in writing a novel (that is, my profound fear of being alone), but I am still running from it in what I have learned is the best way possible:  by seeking the company of others.  One cannot write a novel, go about the active physical and introspective motion of pounding a keyboard with all one's got, by engaging with others.  It is just not possible. So, therefore, I must, after 44 years, learn how to comfortably be alone-- utterly and completely alone.

This will be hard for me, I must tell you.  Maybe the hardest thing I have ever done.  Close to needing the  amount of strength that I can only assume would be required to overcome addiction to cigarettes. I have only lived alone for a total of less than 2 years, but in those meager two years, I managed to stay engaged with others most of the time.  In fact, I probably managed to be with people for almost all of my waking hours (and even many of my non-waking hours to be blunt). I would wake up, get dressed, go to school, then to work, then out after work somewhere or invite others over to my apartment.  I was never lonely and if I was, it never lasted long.  I would always manage to find someone to be with (the quality of the other person sometimes had to be brushed aside, but no matter).  I was afraid to be alone then, more than 10 years ago, and, sadly, I still am today.

But, and this is a whopping BUT, I never let my fears go on forever.  I have simply been dealing with other fears in my life.  For instance, I, at one time, had intense and debilitating social phobia (ironically it would seem).  So, what did I do to get over it?  Traveled to Europe for the first time--alone, and had a crazy, wonderful, liberating time doing it--meeting people I would have never dreamed of meeting if I had stayed at home.  So, in other words, I was never really alone (once again).  Just left my home by myself.  Another fear of mine---giving presentations.  So, what else did I do? I went through a grueling Masters program that required complete surrender of my own isolation by being put on the spot for every minute of every seminar that I attended, giving many of my own 20-30 minute presentations along the way.  I think I am finally cured of that fear now, too.  And thank goodness for that.

So, now the time has come to work on my stubborn fear of solitude, once and for all.  I know it will be hard.  I know that I will probably keep giving up, over and over again, finding myself back where I started.  But, one thing I do know absolutely.  Something good will come out of it:  my writing. My cherished, soul-wrenching, profound, uniquely raw and unspoiled, and, I hope one day, brilliant writing.

Just a Note

Since I have a few followers (although I am not sure you are all still with me), I figured I'd write a post just to check in and keep you abreast on what is going on in my life.  I have finally finished my Masters degree.  I handed in my masters thesis 3 weeks ago and will be graduating at last on May 10th.  I will absolutely not miss attending the ceremony.  Many years and an enormous amount of work were put into my degree, from work in an art history program, a short stint in architecture school, to a very intense English program.  I wrote my master thesis on Jane Austen and the picturesque landscape within the novel Sense and Sensibility. It certainly was an interesting thesis to write, and, even better, it somehow managed to incorporate many of my interests within a mere 70 pages.  

If you are still following me, you may have noticed that I have been posting only portions of my creative writing and no more book reviews etc.  I am not attempting to point my blog in a different direction, but merely focusing, at the moment, on attempting to write creatively and mainly fiction.  I have a good general plan right now for a potential novel, or what I would call "a semi-gothic psychological romance flipped on its head".  I am having a bit of difficulty with time management and of course trying to understand how to access my fiction muse, so I am trying to get a good routine going as well as the practical aspects of being self-employed with an office within the home i.e. keeping accurate records, receipts etc. for tax purposes.  I have found that when it comes to poetry, the ideas have no choice but to come out and get written, but fiction is a bit more subtle.  The ideas are in the mind, and it is up to the writer to process them into something more concrete.  This can be frustrating at times, but it is my hope that it will be rewarding in the end.

Please keep with me on my journey.  I will be around more now;  perhaps with more book reviews, non-fiction pieces, or more of my writing.  It is always hard to know in advance where my mind may take me, but it is always a surprise, even to me.  So, take care, and be assured in knowing that I will be with you again shortly.

My Red Velvet Cloak (written Fall 2003-a year before the birth of my son)

This is a re-post of an old poem written almost 10 years ago.  If anything, it shows how far I've come with my writing (it took all I had not to edit it).  The basic premise is still meaningful and close to my heart.  That is, remembering the feeling of being in the womb:

Mother, Mother, where have you been?
I miss that red velvet cloak
You held within.
I miss its soft caress
full of smiles and warmth,
and the love of a kindred soul
long lost, but never forgotten.

Mother, Mother
please put it on...
It isn't worn, or full of dust,
not yet, if ever it was.
Ah, but you have given it to me, for keeps
and I have put it away in safety,
so that I too may unfurl
It's red river of comfort
to the next bright star, who waits, in the wings.

The Airport

1

“The moving walkway is now ending, please look down.”  “The moving walkway is now ending, please look down.”  I walk amidst the noise of motion and conveyor belts.  I see feet all for as far as my eyes can see in this moving crowd of people.  Feet of all ages, reckless, restless feet, walking, running, strutting, clicking fast towards their destination.  Where is that destination?  It seems we are all constantly running, but never reaching a place to call home.  Life today needs a destination.  Cell phones ringing, people speaking, suitcases rolling and reeling.  The conveyor belt lurching—everyone pushing, shoving, screeching to be at the forefront. Airports speak volumes about us, don’t they?

            People are struggling and striving to lift those few precious belongings thought to be most important—those material objects that we cannot leave without: important enough to drag and lug across the world.  I find my own anonymous black bag that evidently needs some sort of marking like a ribbon…next time, I think.  I continue on, suitcase trailing reluctantly behind, through the roped off labyrinth that is the modern day airport, our own long awaited futuristic fantasy.  This spiraling path has energy enough within itself to move people like a gigantic herd of cattle across the Western plains—such a modern day invention: the spring-back crowd divider.  What else does human ingenuity have in store for us?

            I am wearing a skirt today, something that my grandmother always did.  Always.  She had one pair of pants hanging in her closet for years, left untouched, virginal.  Wearing a skirt is not really conducive to the heave-ho of lifting incredibly weighty luggage and hopping off and on conveyor belts that tell you what to do or where to go so that you avoid killing yourself upon propulsion across the terminal.

            Finally, I’m outside.  I breathe in deeply in order to greedily engulf more fresh air than my body has seen for the past 30 hours.  My windpipe freezes in surprise as the cold inhabits my body.  It’s been a good long while since I have felt this kind of cold.  It is trying to welcome me home, but I am having a hard time trying to feel the “open arms” part of the deal, unless those arms are made of ice.  No messages on my cell phone.  What the hell.

            I see him.  He’s one lucky bastard.  Correct me if I am wrong, but is a ride home from the airport not one of the perks of a romantic relationship?  Isn’t this one of the few roles a boyfriend is required to take on?  Gabe rolls up quickly, pops open the trunk, and I once again lug my large case into the back most inelegantly in my skirt and jump into the passenger seat next to him.  The only reward that awaits me is a peck on the cheek.  Oh forgive me! I should be appreciative that he has gallantly come to transport me home.  On the contrary.  A man should be honored to feel the grace of a lady’s presence inside his humble carriage.  “Hey.  I was wondering why you hadn’t called.  My plane was on time for once.”  We roll off into the sunset.

            Sometimes, I really wish I could go back in time, both in my own life and history.  A time when I was still innocent, like a freshly tanned farm girl, and the world was just a little less insane, apathetic, and engulfing.

2

She bends down to pick up her purse as she hears her boarding call.  She looks up to meet my eyes; a look of disgust infects her face as she quickly understands the motive behind my gaze, then looks away without a thought.  There is a certain art in the graceful movement of a woman.  The way she holds herself, aware of the eyes around her, then shies away as if those eyes were seeing something they should not.  Only an ankle is revealed from below the cuff of her pant leg.  An ankle in this day and age is seemingly nothing significant at all.  Yet her ankle is so vulnerable, so telling.  It redeems the coldness and hostility of her stare.  I could, almost, see inside her soul through that undulation of skin and bone beneath her calf.

I know she sees me.  I can tell by the way she purses her lips, with a slight bitter gleam in her eye, aware of and enjoying my admiration.  I’ve often wondered whether women require this silent praise in order to survive and get through life in our world of generic nameless faces.  Maybe just people in general need the validation that they exist and are noticed:  just the knowledge that someone else appreciates the truth of their own uniqueness in the world.  How does it feel to be her?  This woman, presumably in her 30’s, has the fate of the world before her.  She wears no rings, therefore she is not tied down.  Well, at least not too much.  One can only hope that she does not take her freedom for granted.  She is wearing pants, though.  A telling sign.  I prefer women in skirts. 

Nolan Returns

It isn’t like he pleaded with me not to go to Italy.  In his own little way, he worked his way under my skin, daily, persistently, until it became my own idea, from my own mind, not his insidious method to seduce me to stay put within his arm’s reach.  

            Even so, I was able to persuade myself away from the idea of staying.  My independence and will were too strong, even for Nolan.  He may have been my rock, for a while, but I needed to be free in order to test my own limits and take care of myself for a change. I needed to understand the reason I had spent three marvelous years with him and now must leave.  I not only felt the urge to leave (the same urge I had felt with past loves), but I felt myself parting from him, the inevitable insidious boredom taking over.  I wasn’t the same Sonya I had been on this day 3 years ago.  I was different:  yes, older, but more knowledgeable about human nature and the way the world worked.  I knew that, in order to grow and become stronger, I needed to test my very own faith in myself.  He would not allow me to do that on his watch.

            As I watched the proverbial door close on his lovely, familiar face, I felt unfettered and finally content.  It needed to be done, but to this day I feel guilty for leaving him.  And I am sure he will always blame me and never, ever, forgive me.

Journeying through the days, weeks, months, and years, I see now why I did it.  Why I hurt him in my quest for freedom.  His world was too small to hold me.  I was suffocating within the small confines of him and his society.  He was suffocating me with his very presence.  He wanted to be my whole world, at the expense of my own identity.  The years have been both good and bad to me.  I’ve been through tragedy and celebration, elation and depression, but never regret.  I may not have found my soul mate, if there is such a thing, but I am grateful for finding my own soul. When I saw Nolan for the first time in 7 years, my heart did not stop the way it did the first time I saw him that first night, his confidence overtaking my composure.  It merely kept beating, curiously hypnotic yet stable.  His first look was utter shock, almost like he was seeing a ghost.  It surprised me with its emotion because he had never been the emotional sort, but he regained composure after a few brief moments and approached me. 

“Sonya, how are you? You look better than ever. If that’s possible.” He expressed it as if we had never parted that day in June and with the same voice I find I have a hard time resisting.

“Fine, Nolan.  And you?”  I replied, trying to keep the same nonchalant familiarity in my own voice.

“Oh, just sold my boat.  The same boat.  Lots of memories below that deck.  I am moving on to dryer land.  I finally got that old Porsche I always wanted.  A ’66. You want to come see it some time?”

“Sure.  That would be cool.  I do miss that boat, but don’t miss the storms.”  (both literal and figurative, I thought)

“Yeah, the storms.  Can’t live with ‘em.  Can’t live without ‘em.” He laughed, that familiar crazed laugh of his.  Funny, I seem to remember being the only one affected by or even noticing the storms.

 I then caught a faint look in his eye.  Could it be nostalgia or longing for the past?  I never could know with Nolan.  He was always solid and cold as ice.  If you would get too close for his comfort, you were stung by his freezer burn.  I still felt unsettled and undone by the solid wall of stone he would put up when any sign of intimacy was forthcoming.  Any closure I had hoped to gain by this inevitable, yet fateful meeting was nowhere in sight.  But I was absolutely fine with that, and move on, I must and will.

The Quick

Painful memories of reckless abandon,

Haunt my soul,

Enabling my regret to flourish,

And my rapture,

Softly creeping,

As if sleeping.

A bit smashed.

A blur.

My own quiet surrender would lead me back,

To that timeless cavern,

Carving out a bench of moss,

Sanding countless shells of loss,

Grotto resting within my fixed heart,

With secret staircase for quick

Escape,

To part.

Though a painful cutting,

This quick much too close to

My undressed core.

Endless hours of solitude

Have escaped my grasp,

Attempts to recover them fail,

Ignore.

And Bore.

Still born.

As my body writhes and wrenches

Towards new shiny steel benches,

Endless Hurricanes,

Blindlessly striving

To become

One

Sans Pain,

Who I am, Who I was,

My Who.

Sane.

But, those painful memories of abandon,

Continue to haunt,

As time, at once, asserts itself.

So quick to let go,

To swoon,

So quick to relinquish every thing

To the moon.

I bring.

The life blood,

The source of my own coursing,

Diverted, restless river.

Too quick to shake off this cloak I have gained,

And spread myself thin.

Too quick to drown in strange new sorrows laid out

By a fantastic deceptive dance,

Held captive,

Floating.

Lifeless.

A specter of my own deluded vision.

Shrugging off wisdom,

Time-worn consciousness,

Too quick like a butterfly discarding its own cocoon.

Looks back in grief,

Regretting,

Or merely moving,

On.

With hope

Brushing the pain away,

Clearing away the precious shrugged-off dust

Of a life lived with presence,

Armed with a mind

That knows

Its own

Essence.

And so night passes,

Illuminating the unseen:

The mystery, the unknown,

The soft grey halls of my inner sanctum,

Wandering on the outside

Of the endless labyrinth,

Striving towards the place without scar,

Or passed  

Memory.

Losing my own wings to obtain transcendence

In disguise.

I soar above the dance,

Standing still.

My humbled heart has been hidden

Inside my sleeve,

Unnoticed,

Too long:

Too ardent,

Too breathless,

Self-effacing.

Tightly lacing.

My only request

That you care for

My stifled heart,

Delicately peel open,

Layers of tough and fibrous jade plaque

That surround its softly pliant and sanguine being,

Enabled seeing,

Unearthed for me by-and-by,

My Who,

My What,

My unborn evasive Why.