Writing Prompt: Photo #2
When I was five I went to "zoo school" at the Portland zoo. It must've
been during the summer when my mom was in the Teacher Corps. I say that
because besides us living in Portland in an apartment on the second
story of a house when she did that, I didn't normally go to summer camp.
I can only think she signed me up because she had things to do. Or
maybe I begged her. It was only a week but zoo school made a lasting
impression on my psyche.
My primary memory? Riding in the small open train cars and looking
up at the huge deciduous trees singing Puff the Magic Dragon and looking
for him between the negative spaces made by the leaves and branches.
The teachers said they could see him and I believed them. Always a
sucker. Naive. Gullible. Easily swayed. Then I felt the frustration of
searching for a creature I could not see, trying to believe that I did.
As an aside, this also happened to me when I walked barefoot in the
rain, scraggly hair and wet clothes, into a church with one of my summer
best friends. They had us stand in a circle holding hands with the
clean cut gawking but not unkind children and accept Jesus into our
hearts. It scared me. Who was this "Jesus" and how was he going to get
into my heart? The grownups all smiled so benevolently, and the children
seemed perfectly mellow. So we sang, prayed and I waited for someone to
materialize and walk inside my chest. Never happened, but I did get
free cookies. I've always been a sucker for cookies.
In fact, this trend of looking for creatures where they didn't seem
to exist continued into college when my friend Gretchen The Purple and I
were convinced by a middle age new agey white woman with straight brown
hair and big beads that we could go to some land south of Olympia and
see little people. Like really little people. You know, Irish-type
little people. Naturally we went and tripped around the place. It was
beautiful, lush green Salal, ferns, the undergrowth of a wet Northwest
rain forest. But did I find little people or fairies? No. Of course,
Gretchen did which made me feel wholly inadequate and jealous.
Don't even get me started on my aunt's guru, whose head I was often
fearful to find laughing at me in a disembodied state in the linen
closet on top of a pile of folded cotton towels.
Do you see that face in the wood? It's totally looking at you.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Daily Write: Mother's Day (May 14, 2013)
Writing Prompt: Mother's Day
Once I said hello
Then awkward introduction
Is your mother dead?
I didn't know her
Kimiko, teen musician
I should have said hi
I am not polite
Is "foible" my middle name?
It would seem that way
At the bus stop once
I approached dressed up strangers
Clothes from Pakistan
How was I to know
Entitled stupid white girl
They weren't wedding bound?
So her mother lives
I'm so relieved to know that
But can I save face?
Once I said hello
Then awkward introduction
Is your mother dead?
I didn't know her
Kimiko, teen musician
I should have said hi
I am not polite
Is "foible" my middle name?
It would seem that way
At the bus stop once
I approached dressed up strangers
Clothes from Pakistan
How was I to know
Entitled stupid white girl
They weren't wedding bound?
So her mother lives
I'm so relieved to know that
But can I save face?
Saturday, May 11, 2013
The Daily Write: Right in front of me (May 11, 2013)
Writing Prompt: Right in front of me
I live with synchronized swimmers, which is excellent, since when I was little in the late 60s, I was enamoured with Esther Williams and her underwater ballets. I thought the way she and the other women looked like flowers in the water was absolutely enchanting. Like the halvah my mom got me once at a deli on 25th in Potrero Hill, the memory of Esther stayed with me, even though for years I didn't know who she was and couldn't get anyone else to confirm her existence.
Now there are Gunny and Sak, the ridiculous litter mate brother dogs that live in our house. I swear to you, they are connected by an invisible line, or perhaps a magnet. One one moves, so does the other. When one sleeps at the end of the bed as I'm laying across it sideways crooking my neck to type, the other matches his position exactly. They lift their heads together, stretch their paws the same. Today at the dog park, they even pooped in tandem, head to head, like a yin/yang!
Gunny is more of a scardie dog than Sak. Not sure why since they ostensibly shared all the same experiences, enough to make them read each other's minds and do the same things. Sak, however, will go along with Gunny which means a lot of loud barking for such relatively small creatures. I've been told by the grumpy bull dyke dog groomer (my favorite kind) that they are Jack Russell Rough Coat/Broken Coat. You may be imagining the regular Jack Russell in your mind, but these are more like shaggy dogs - Gunny with the black and white markings of a nice Jersey cow, and Sak white with some subtle yellow spots that are almost impossible to see except in the right light.
When our dog Massey died right before Thanksgiving two years ago we grieved. I thought we would take a break, maybe even for as long as a year, but when you are used to having four footed companions, as much of a pain in the ass as they are, it's hard to go without. I wanted two dogs so they could keep each other company. Little did I know that would actually translate in dog language as "egg each other on." The little rascals have ripped down a dog door, bitten through a plugged in cord causing half the electricity in the house to go off, eaten shoes, and left "presents" all over the house. We now have child gates everywhere which we think is perfectly normal until a new kid comes over to play and looks at us quizzically while trying, like Houdini, to figure out how to open the latch.
You'd never know from looking at them just what rascals they are. You would, however, be amazed at their ability to run in tandem.
I live with synchronized swimmers, which is excellent, since when I was little in the late 60s, I was enamoured with Esther Williams and her underwater ballets. I thought the way she and the other women looked like flowers in the water was absolutely enchanting. Like the halvah my mom got me once at a deli on 25th in Potrero Hill, the memory of Esther stayed with me, even though for years I didn't know who she was and couldn't get anyone else to confirm her existence.
Now there are Gunny and Sak, the ridiculous litter mate brother dogs that live in our house. I swear to you, they are connected by an invisible line, or perhaps a magnet. One one moves, so does the other. When one sleeps at the end of the bed as I'm laying across it sideways crooking my neck to type, the other matches his position exactly. They lift their heads together, stretch their paws the same. Today at the dog park, they even pooped in tandem, head to head, like a yin/yang!
Gunny is more of a scardie dog than Sak. Not sure why since they ostensibly shared all the same experiences, enough to make them read each other's minds and do the same things. Sak, however, will go along with Gunny which means a lot of loud barking for such relatively small creatures. I've been told by the grumpy bull dyke dog groomer (my favorite kind) that they are Jack Russell Rough Coat/Broken Coat. You may be imagining the regular Jack Russell in your mind, but these are more like shaggy dogs - Gunny with the black and white markings of a nice Jersey cow, and Sak white with some subtle yellow spots that are almost impossible to see except in the right light.
When our dog Massey died right before Thanksgiving two years ago we grieved. I thought we would take a break, maybe even for as long as a year, but when you are used to having four footed companions, as much of a pain in the ass as they are, it's hard to go without. I wanted two dogs so they could keep each other company. Little did I know that would actually translate in dog language as "egg each other on." The little rascals have ripped down a dog door, bitten through a plugged in cord causing half the electricity in the house to go off, eaten shoes, and left "presents" all over the house. We now have child gates everywhere which we think is perfectly normal until a new kid comes over to play and looks at us quizzically while trying, like Houdini, to figure out how to open the latch.
You'd never know from looking at them just what rascals they are. You would, however, be amazed at their ability to run in tandem.
Friday, March 8, 2013
The Daily Write: What I forgot (March 8, 2013)
I blame my mother. There's a lot I can forgive her for. After all, I am
now an adult, older than she was when I was growing up with younger
children. I get it. I get that one's time isn't one's own. I get that no
matter how much you do for your family, you still feel selfish. I get
that you have to do things that take time away from them if you are to
maintain even a shred of sanity. And I know that no matter what you do
as a parent, you will be the cause of therapy later in life. If they are
lucky enough to get it and realize how helpful it can be. Ironic that I
say that considering I'm the recovering daughter of a therapist and I
haven't had all that many great experiences "talking it out." Give me a
sand tray or smear of thick oil paint any day. Give me an intuitive tarot reading
or a Rob Brezny horoscope. That's more my style.
But no matter how many charts I have done or things I have "read" (my handwriting, my eyes, my knees, my past lives), nothing will cure my anger at the lost keys. Seriously the bane of my privileged existence. Do you realize that my mother lost her keys every single day? Sometimes more than once. She did all sorts of things to keep this from happening, including the infamous "jailer's key ring" a giant brass circle big and heavy enough to keep them from disappearing out of sight. Did this keep her from misplacing them? Of course not. Did it keep her from raising her voice in a high pitched, high stressed whine of panic when she was supposed to be out of the house already? Not a bit.
One time, I kid you not, she lost her keys in the garbage can! I mean, for the love of god, how the hell does that happen? And while I became adept at looking in between the purple velvet couch cushions, and digging into the many pockets of my mom's overstuffed purse, there are some places I just never considered.
So now I'm an ostensible grown up. I do a fine job of keeping track of my keys. My partner on the other hand. Oh my god. It's not that she loses them every day, but she misplaces them often enough that I find myself filled with rage and resentment. There's a lot I'm willing to do, but looking for keys is not one of them. Even when I get the blame for putting them "somewhere" in a moment of cleaning frenzy.
I'm am righteously indignant in these moments - knowing that my family history colors my perceptions, expecting her to respect what she knows about my mother and my past, and get over the fact that I need to neaten up the mess once in a while. You can, then, only imagine my embarrassment when we got into a big fight the other day, a fight so annoying I found myself whispering horrific expletives only for me to discover that I had misplaced her keys in my purse.
Hey, at least it wasn't the garbage can. That's where I draw the line.
But no matter how many charts I have done or things I have "read" (my handwriting, my eyes, my knees, my past lives), nothing will cure my anger at the lost keys. Seriously the bane of my privileged existence. Do you realize that my mother lost her keys every single day? Sometimes more than once. She did all sorts of things to keep this from happening, including the infamous "jailer's key ring" a giant brass circle big and heavy enough to keep them from disappearing out of sight. Did this keep her from misplacing them? Of course not. Did it keep her from raising her voice in a high pitched, high stressed whine of panic when she was supposed to be out of the house already? Not a bit.
One time, I kid you not, she lost her keys in the garbage can! I mean, for the love of god, how the hell does that happen? And while I became adept at looking in between the purple velvet couch cushions, and digging into the many pockets of my mom's overstuffed purse, there are some places I just never considered.
So now I'm an ostensible grown up. I do a fine job of keeping track of my keys. My partner on the other hand. Oh my god. It's not that she loses them every day, but she misplaces them often enough that I find myself filled with rage and resentment. There's a lot I'm willing to do, but looking for keys is not one of them. Even when I get the blame for putting them "somewhere" in a moment of cleaning frenzy.
I'm am righteously indignant in these moments - knowing that my family history colors my perceptions, expecting her to respect what she knows about my mother and my past, and get over the fact that I need to neaten up the mess once in a while. You can, then, only imagine my embarrassment when we got into a big fight the other day, a fight so annoying I found myself whispering horrific expletives only for me to discover that I had misplaced her keys in my purse.
Hey, at least it wasn't the garbage can. That's where I draw the line.
The Daily Write: The invisible (March 7, 2013)
The notion that she was "hiding behind her fat" was simply ludicrous. It
implied that she could hide. Hiding, she knew from hard experience on a
daily basis, was never an option. The opposite of hiding was being on
display. Not being seen, that's something categorically different, but
being watched, measured, compared to, "thank god I don't look like
that"ed.
She got used to it at an early age. The three bean diet salad that stunk of warm and pungent vinegar which caused the other little girls to scream and laugh as they scurried to another table and left her alone without anything decent to eat. The kids and their parents and teens in the mall who all turned around, as if on cue, to stare at her and her friends as they came from the scorching dry heat into the cold stares of the indoor shopping entertainment complex.
When she walked by groups of guys in school her butt seemed to move too much. She tried her hardest to keep it still, but nothing could stop them from guffawing and saying in too loud voices, "Shake it, don't break it, Strauss!"
As a young woman recently out, she went to a dyke bar with her mom. Naturally she was approached by a handsome woman who wanted to get "her sister's" phone number. And then there was Lisa with the big bleached hair, fuck me pink pumps and tight jeans that looked like they'd been poured on. As soon as she left to freshen up, the men swarmed her. "Can I have your friend's number?" "What does she like?" "Is she single?"
In that sense, she supposed she was invisible, a foil, a friend, an offset to the extreme beauty of her thin family and friends.
The truth was, she had always wondered what it would be like to be fucked hard by a man, but this simply wasn't an option. When she was younger she was too scared. The men that found her were skanky, crumbling, rugged and rotten. The guy in his 30s with shrapnel sticking out of his skin, metal shavings barely held in by the top epidural layer. The man who had already been convicted of rape, inviting her in to stay the night and hide from her mother. The twerp who taunted her by pulling her hair and ripping her shirt, only to kick her by the tree and run away screaming with laughter about how ugly she was.
No, she recollected, she wasn't invisible. She was a target. And, like the best of her species, she learned to adapt to the reality. If she was going to be noticed for how little she fit into the mold, objectified really, in a reverse of the overtly sexualized response to attractive women, then she would learn to love the outrageous in herself. She would punish the viewers with their petty responses and guttural excuses for instinct. She would be the biggest goddamned woman they ever encountered, in every way. She would make them suffer for wanting her, hiding inside themselves for fear of their lust being discovered. She would turn into a lesbian and make all the men dream of her all the time. She would be in their faces and on their minds.
She was not about to hide. Not that it was a choice.
She got used to it at an early age. The three bean diet salad that stunk of warm and pungent vinegar which caused the other little girls to scream and laugh as they scurried to another table and left her alone without anything decent to eat. The kids and their parents and teens in the mall who all turned around, as if on cue, to stare at her and her friends as they came from the scorching dry heat into the cold stares of the indoor shopping entertainment complex.
When she walked by groups of guys in school her butt seemed to move too much. She tried her hardest to keep it still, but nothing could stop them from guffawing and saying in too loud voices, "Shake it, don't break it, Strauss!"
As a young woman recently out, she went to a dyke bar with her mom. Naturally she was approached by a handsome woman who wanted to get "her sister's" phone number. And then there was Lisa with the big bleached hair, fuck me pink pumps and tight jeans that looked like they'd been poured on. As soon as she left to freshen up, the men swarmed her. "Can I have your friend's number?" "What does she like?" "Is she single?"
In that sense, she supposed she was invisible, a foil, a friend, an offset to the extreme beauty of her thin family and friends.
The truth was, she had always wondered what it would be like to be fucked hard by a man, but this simply wasn't an option. When she was younger she was too scared. The men that found her were skanky, crumbling, rugged and rotten. The guy in his 30s with shrapnel sticking out of his skin, metal shavings barely held in by the top epidural layer. The man who had already been convicted of rape, inviting her in to stay the night and hide from her mother. The twerp who taunted her by pulling her hair and ripping her shirt, only to kick her by the tree and run away screaming with laughter about how ugly she was.
No, she recollected, she wasn't invisible. She was a target. And, like the best of her species, she learned to adapt to the reality. If she was going to be noticed for how little she fit into the mold, objectified really, in a reverse of the overtly sexualized response to attractive women, then she would learn to love the outrageous in herself. She would punish the viewers with their petty responses and guttural excuses for instinct. She would be the biggest goddamned woman they ever encountered, in every way. She would make them suffer for wanting her, hiding inside themselves for fear of their lust being discovered. She would turn into a lesbian and make all the men dream of her all the time. She would be in their faces and on their minds.
She was not about to hide. Not that it was a choice.
The Daily Write: A noise outside the window (March 5, 2013)
It's a fine line, the sound of a fist pounding on glass so hard it
shakes, and the sound of the fist going through the window. And harder
to discern the difference when your heart is beating so heavy and hard
that noises outside the body are muffled. The sound of fear comes from
the inside - between the ears, in the chest, and rattling from the
throat out the mouth. The sound of fear tries to be muffled and quiet
but it rarely succeeds.
When I was 14 my mom's ex boyfriend found us. We had been hiding from him for years. Mom met him sometimes to give him a ride, or bring him something to eat. Or that's what I imagined in those long hours when she was no where to be found, when she should have been home feeding us dinner, or picking me up from the YWCA. I was always waiting, always worried.
Before he found us, I lived in the fear that he would figure out where we lived. He called often enough. I felt like the phone was a menace. No answering machines back then. No special ring tones. No way to tell if it was him or someone important. I was tortured when I didn't answer and damned when I did. Even through the wire I could smell his boozy breath. Especially when he said nothing. Just heard my voice, waited, breathing until I had to plea with him to speak, end my misery.
You've heard this one before, how I was babysitting for the journalist. She had three sons who lived with her in a yellow house. There were 15 steps leading from the street, to the porch. Outside it was cheerful, inside a horror show - dishes piled on every surface in the kitchen and covered with mold. Garbage overflowing. She was a single mother. Her boys were voracious and unkempt. I did the dishes. It took me hours.
And then the phone rang. He had found our house. I panicked. Worried myself sick. Couldn't leave. The mother for whom I was babysitting had caught her big break and was off interviewing Mike Wallace. Clean and wait. Wait and clean. The boys went to bed and I sat, paced, fretted.
The night he put his fist through the window I thought he had broken down our front door. I told the operator that he was trying to kill my mom. I had been convinced for years that's what it would come to, so it wasn't a stretch to imagine he was on his way through the house, searching for the scurrying sound of us. We were trapped, in the attic. Me and my brothers and mom, helpless.
The sound of fear obscures everything.
When I was 14 my mom's ex boyfriend found us. We had been hiding from him for years. Mom met him sometimes to give him a ride, or bring him something to eat. Or that's what I imagined in those long hours when she was no where to be found, when she should have been home feeding us dinner, or picking me up from the YWCA. I was always waiting, always worried.
Before he found us, I lived in the fear that he would figure out where we lived. He called often enough. I felt like the phone was a menace. No answering machines back then. No special ring tones. No way to tell if it was him or someone important. I was tortured when I didn't answer and damned when I did. Even through the wire I could smell his boozy breath. Especially when he said nothing. Just heard my voice, waited, breathing until I had to plea with him to speak, end my misery.
You've heard this one before, how I was babysitting for the journalist. She had three sons who lived with her in a yellow house. There were 15 steps leading from the street, to the porch. Outside it was cheerful, inside a horror show - dishes piled on every surface in the kitchen and covered with mold. Garbage overflowing. She was a single mother. Her boys were voracious and unkempt. I did the dishes. It took me hours.
And then the phone rang. He had found our house. I panicked. Worried myself sick. Couldn't leave. The mother for whom I was babysitting had caught her big break and was off interviewing Mike Wallace. Clean and wait. Wait and clean. The boys went to bed and I sat, paced, fretted.
The night he put his fist through the window I thought he had broken down our front door. I told the operator that he was trying to kill my mom. I had been convinced for years that's what it would come to, so it wasn't a stretch to imagine he was on his way through the house, searching for the scurrying sound of us. We were trapped, in the attic. Me and my brothers and mom, helpless.
The sound of fear obscures everything.
The Daily Write: It fell through (March 1, 2013)
"Well, I certainly hope so," Flo said, smacking her gum as if she were
born to her name. She stood over me, plate with pie in hand, ready to
put it down, but floating it, instead, in mid-air and mid-conversation.
"I know, I know, it made no sense." I was dejected and looking forward to diving head first into that voluminous, if over-sweet whipped cream. I had always preferred cream pies, less work and no surprise pungency from strange under ripe fruits.
"What on earth were you thinking, Julie?" Somehow she was able to balance the pie plate while simultaneously fluffing her pink bouffant with the other.
"Put the pie down already Flo, Geezus Aitch. I'm hungry."
She looked at me with amusement, rolled her eyes and lowered her lean body into the booth while sliding the plate and its fluffy sugar delightfulness across the table. We both picked up forks absentmindedly and dug in, visions of Francis presumably dancing before both our eyes.
I sighed, then turned my fork over to lick off the chocolate pudding stuck to the tines. "I guess I just thought maybe I was going to be the one to turn him."
We both laughed. Guffawed. Spit actually.
"Uh, Flo honey? You think you might want to finish your shift?" Frank was harmless, much as he tried to act like the boss. He and Flo had been having an illicit affair for so long no one even thought to gossip about it anymore. And since her husband was incapacitated, no one cared either.
"Give it a rest, Frankie," she laughed, and slowly pulled herself up.
"Eat your pie sugar. Might as well drown those sorrows while the pastry is fresh."
"I know, I know, it made no sense." I was dejected and looking forward to diving head first into that voluminous, if over-sweet whipped cream. I had always preferred cream pies, less work and no surprise pungency from strange under ripe fruits.
"What on earth were you thinking, Julie?" Somehow she was able to balance the pie plate while simultaneously fluffing her pink bouffant with the other.
"Put the pie down already Flo, Geezus Aitch. I'm hungry."
She looked at me with amusement, rolled her eyes and lowered her lean body into the booth while sliding the plate and its fluffy sugar delightfulness across the table. We both picked up forks absentmindedly and dug in, visions of Francis presumably dancing before both our eyes.
I sighed, then turned my fork over to lick off the chocolate pudding stuck to the tines. "I guess I just thought maybe I was going to be the one to turn him."
We both laughed. Guffawed. Spit actually.
"Uh, Flo honey? You think you might want to finish your shift?" Frank was harmless, much as he tried to act like the boss. He and Flo had been having an illicit affair for so long no one even thought to gossip about it anymore. And since her husband was incapacitated, no one cared either.
"Give it a rest, Frankie," she laughed, and slowly pulled herself up.
"Eat your pie sugar. Might as well drown those sorrows while the pastry is fresh."
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