Challenger

Challenger of a turbulent tide

Please hand me the key

To your world inside

We'll sidestep the monsters

Welcome truth to peruse

Kick dark fate down the staircase

What's left you'll use -

Challenger of a turbulent tide

Know you are stronger than that

Dark fiction of unscrupulous ways

Your base mind is an iron flat -

Challenger of a turbulent tide

Filling your pockets

A most watery ride

Brilliantly broken

The last page you pen alone...

Framing dusty, dark floorboards

A Room of Your Own.

Ghosting

I went out on the patio and sat down on the front step. My glass swirled the thick red liquid around like a lost, dark promise forgotten. Soft footsteps made me look up to see small eyes glinting my way. A little girl about 10 with a bowl haircut and a ripped knee in her dirty jeans. She was holding a ball and stopped to say hi.

“Hi yourself. You out playing some basketball?” I shaded my eyes as the sun was just starting to descend.

“Yeah. Do you play too?” Her front tooth made a window in her mouth as her words curled around a smile.

“I use to actually. Not so much anymore.” I tilted my glass for a sip and met her smile.

“What position do you play?”

“Guard. I'm real good. I even got a three pointer once only the game was over.” She bounced the ball with her tiny hand and I wondered how in the world she could control the ball at all.

“Wow. Three pointers are difficult. You keep playing I bet you'll get one while the game is still on.” she shot a smile my way and shook her head.

With only a child's trust, she crossed the grass toward the patio with the ball on her hip.

“How did you skin your knee?” I pointed to her jean hole and she shrugged.

“I dunno. I climb trees and play ball all the time. I'm faster than most the boys in my grade. I probably did it playing.”

“I use to do all that stuff to. Well, you just keep doing it and having fun.”

“Why don't you play ball anymore?” her brown eyes asked the glass in my hand as I consciously set it aside to think.

“I don't know actually. It's different when you get older.”

“Howcome?”

I laughed uncomfortably and said I really didn't have a good answer for her other than priorities change when you get older and she would understand that one day.

Then, with all the maturity a 10 year old can have with a gap toothed smile and ripped knee, she made a kind of exasperated sigh and looked me dead in the eye.

“Sounds awful. You shouldn't ever stop having fun.”

Before I could respond, she shot me a quick pass with her ball and I almost knocked over my glass to grab it last minute, but I got it. I smiled in response through the one upping that had just occurred.

Then a thin voice carried in the air down the street and the little girl turned quickly in that direction and stated, “That's Mom. Gotta go.” Her skinny legs carried her down the street and around the corner before I could say a thing.

I stood up to remind the girl about her ball, and my ears heard a second faint call in the air -

“Amy! Dinner...”

I looked down at my hands with a strange smile and saw only a glass.

Serial Dating

Oh - the Therapeutic Message from a good book! To feel oneself drawn in and cradled from a simple s t o r y. We are given a voyeur's peek into a world unlike our own - or perhaps too similar to. We meet characters with details we can see, and voices we can hear, lives we can imagine inserting ourselves in. A good book is a break, a vacation, a pleasure. A seasoned writer will weave a truly unique web of words across each page to draw us in all the more. Lines we say over - out loud, paragraphs we must share with another soul simply because we were touched. We can skitter around the gamut of emotions until we reach that last chapter/paragraph/line. T h e n, a creeping strangeness infiltrates our psyche that states boldly; 'No, not yet-not the E N D'

But it has to come. The End is a necessity. The End is the author's way of tying up loose ends in a way so that you will remember them. 

If you read a lot,  you too are a serial dater. Someone who invests somewhat safely in the lives of others for a set amount of time. You will come to care for those lives, feel things and then ever so unsimply be told 'it's over'. You will move on - to another story, other lives and emotions will weave you into the fray until you taste the bitterness of those two inevitable break up words; 

The End.

Appearances

Appearances can be deceiving - we've all heard that. Often it can work in your favor . Let's just say you're a bit like me and your best attire is a pair of Docker pants without holes and a t shirt that doesn't say 'gone fishin' with a clumsy stain in the middle. So you put on those best duds, run a brush through your unruly, dyed-too-dark mane and saunter into a nice store.

You know the kind - the ones your mother drug you into when you were a kid and hated. She always said 'Stand up straight' and 'Don't touch!' As a kid you loathed them because 1) they never had kid stuff. 2) your Mom never bought anything interesting. 3) the sales person was always stuck up. Yeah, those stores. Now you look down and see bumps (when did those get there?) and realize you are an A-DOLT and can slouch and touch all the boring stuff you want to. Yay.

But because appearances can be deceiving, your wallflower meets Barney Fife look might just come in handy! when you walk into a posh furniture store say, and look like the priciest thing you've ever bought is a 2 for 1 X-Men T.v. Tray, you might suddenly find yourself hassle-free and walking through the suede and leather barcalounger sets like a ghost.  You might find yourself wafting by $3,000 price tags like an invisible wind if you know how to look poor enough.

The same can be said in Car lots, although those poor bastards could badger an empty bag blowing through their overpriced lot. So, this one might be trickier. I would probably suggest going into full combat gear and blackening out a few teeth, forgetting your shirt (extra points for a woman) or say talking to yourself and waving your arms around violently. This should do the trick. If this by chance doesn't work, i would succumb to giving them the sale and thinking highly of them for sheer courage alone.

I realize even pesky sales people are people too. I've been there and was never good at it. But i don't think I'm alone when i say "Down boy!"

I think it's fair to say no one likes being pestered, pushed or followed into a dressing room. (If you do there is therapy for that). 'Overly attended to' is probably the most appropriate thing to say, but appropriate is overrated and so are appearances.

The truth is, i can afford to dress nicer and drive a better car. I just chose not to. I could afford to look like i want to be bothered, but I don't. You can breathe new life in the girl, but her lifestyle will remain.

For now, i enjoy being invisible and hassle-free. And the sick part of me will enjoy even more when i go to make that boring, expensive purchase for something i think i finally need, in my plain wall paper style, and look up to see the confused expression of the sales person as i purchase my overpriced item outright, no financing needed thank you.

It Occurs to Me

It occurs to me that humor is missing in my blog. I didn't set out to write melodramatic verse - Words and ideas knock on your door - you answer or you don't. I realized humor is missing largely and if this Wine & Wit scribble blog is to be entirely honest and well-rounded i should balance it out a bit with a spot of chucklery. 

 I'd like to think in my vein-ego centered, artsy fartsy brain that i have a touch of funny rolling around inside. Some occasionally tell me I do, and I don't even pay them. I went through a very cynical period from childhood to now in which i randomly spewed forth what i call 'rants' - most weren't angry. O.k. I lied. They are, b u t they are dipped in silver shimmery sarcasm and sprinkled with miniscule bits of bittersweet chocolate chunks. Sweet enough not to spit out, but healthier in small doses ; )

Anyways, those pieces were like spit-ups of fact, humor, over-indulgence and arsenic. You know, happy writing! I'd like to get back to that idea. Let's just call them 'free-writes with a smirk'. 

If surviving the dumbing down of the Bush administration doesn't give us all a cause to vent then nothing will.

So, I will attempt to diversify my posts and perhaps even gain a bit more feedback! (was that subtle? i didn't think so)

Go in confidence and Peace. And always, thanks for reading -

~ Towanda.

What Can't Be Bought

Inheritance is a funny double edged sword. In a good light it can be seen with utter gratitude and relief. But, let the dark cloud cast its shadow and it becomes blood money, a benefit from death, from opportunities missed elsewhere. A hard swallowed guilt accompanied by memories and questions unanswered.

And because the proprietor of such funds is not around to thank, one can feel an insurmountable guilt and host of emotions. The gamut of feelings from great to shit-faced. Only then does the real responsibility begin.

You can do what you want, but then what is that exactly? When it's never been an option before you might find that you've never taken the time to answer the question. This is as new of a proposition to you as a strategic, happy life behind a white picket fence with cloth diapers dangling from the clothes line.

I don't fucking know.

Or do I?

I will buy that bed I've needed for most of the year that won't hurt my back. I'll take care of business necessities and personal qualms but those aren't as important...they've waited this long.

The word 'Need' hits me with a sideswipe and all i can think of is what i would buy for you.

I'd buy you a top of the line, Versace brand gilt plated set of wings to wear. I'd beam at the purchase as you looked at me with a half smirk and said, "Amy, comfort..." soooo, I'd settle on silver and fleece. I'd point happily at the diamond studded pumps as you casually moved my pointer finger over to the more logical, leather-clad Birkenstocks of which i would relent. I'd pick out one in every color ( like you use to have).

In my exuberant frustration i would turn you around and say with persistent eyes, "Mom, you deserve the best." and you wouldn't miss a beat then as you smiled casually and stated, "I had it."

Oh, but that is only a foolish girl's need to believe! in lieu of knowing the truth. The Truth.

Mama didn't raise no fool.

Diamond pumps and gold plated wings aside, I really only want to buy time. With You.

I want your time. I'm able to pay $1,000 a minute. We have to make it quick Mom.

I grab for you like the last ice cream offered at a state fair on a 100 degree day. I would spend every precious second trying to be half of what you were to me. I'd simply hold onto you and be there. Holding and waiting. Remember .....? The time you came back from a Chemo appointment to find me curled up on your bed crying? There you were, depleted and wrung dry and somehow found the energy to sit down and crush me to your chest in the tightest hug as I selfishly cried. I'll never forget that feeling. How did you have that? That surge of force that shouldn't have existed and yet did. Because you loved me. You passed something to me then and there that I'd buy all the time in the world to repay if i could.

Courage got its definition from you. That is the truth i know for sure. That is the bet i will put money on every time.

So in that blindingly perfect moment of holding onto you again I would shut the hell up and instead tell you everything through wordless exchange. It would equate to the most beautiful sunset on the Oregon Coast times ten. I wouldn't trade it for anything ever.


Then, the last minute buzzer would sound and I'd pull away only to wipe my eyes, hold your hands and pull out my utter best. There's no need to say what you already know, so instead I'd take that momentous time to infuse you with sheer joy and laughter.


I'd make you laugh..... That was always my favorite thing. Whole heartedly, from the belly, tear stained eyes - yes, i would. I'd make you laugh harder than you ever had. The lines around your soft eyes would crinkle, your stomach would ache and you'd beg me to stop. The tears would be escaping your eyes as mine did as well. The moment would glisten in perfection. Life would be as wide as the universe.

I'd catch you then - in silver fleece wings and purple Birkenstocks smiling so hard your eyes were bursting with the bright sun. And you'd fade slowly - like an old black and white movie nearing the end...

I would turn, into the blinding sun your eyes left behind, rattling an empty lined pocket with a melancholy smile. Only then, only T h e n...would I be the richest person alive.

Dirty

Treachery bound

In turbulent war
Seek solace in flags of white
Rest a spell
Take up your hell
On another doom filled night
Revel in the rapture
Of simple peace
Plant an orchard

Flower your foe

Instead with arms of ease

Water the weeds

And yank them at root

Begin your garden again

No one will know

That well made boot

Was ever caked in sin.

Leave It As You Found It

Leave it as you found it
Or better if you strive -
Leave ones print on memory
Minimize need while alive

Leave it as you found it
It all coped without you
Damage not what isn't yours
Some things one can't undo

Leave it as you found it
Mother Earth isn't ours to keep
The trail you leave
Will lead to your kids
And haunt you in your sleep -

Leave it as you find  it
Your good acts and voice will seed
And grow in others to carry them on
Your worth will only succeed.

Questionaire

Debonair debauchery

Taints the air you cut

You pierce each sense

With a saccharine sword

Ravaging heart and gut

Never a simple dove..

Innocence etched

Betwixt layers of love -

You bruise a path of serpents

Slithering into a crimson heart

Dripping false bravado

Inside a hopeless start

Trip my tipsy reverie

Malign my mind complete

Relinquish my wish

To fully digest

Your soul at its fullest speak

I crawl across dunes of desert

To seek you dry at the well

And console myself at the pulpit

Of your masochistic hell. 

In memorandum

When all the facts add up

To half the sum

Where hides the solace

In which to run?

When one chooses late

A plea for self

With future dangling precariously

From a wobbly Shelf -

What earthly good can come of this?

But the halt of repitition

And a tear-soaked wish.

Treasure Combing

I recall as a child helping pack up our enormous, gold Caprice Classic that took up most of the road. Even for just a day trip to the coast we’d over-pack. Several jackets, boots, bags, snacks and towels all found their way to the back seat. The Oregon Coast requires warm attire. No beach balls and lounging chairs for these elements. Mom and Dad always packed their signature Brown, heavy matching beach jackets lined with deep pockets and strong hoods. Dad came armed with Yellow tide table booklet to best gauge the waters whims. This water isn’t for the faint of heart, one good hit at high tide to a turned head and you could easily be carried away, or at the least, soaked and shaken. These trips were such a ritual; I took them for granted as often children do. Surely, all parents took their kids to the beach to comb the sand for treasures just waiting to be found.

All three of us hunted for different things. My goal was always the biggest agate. I’d announce every shiny find like I’d won the lottery. Dad found his joy with the hard to find Newport Blues with their dark camouflage – indistinguishable until held up to the light, sure enough though, the sunlight would cascade inside showing the mysterious stone’s truth; Beautiful Blue like the murky depths of the ocean itself. Mom enjoyed what I called the ‘odd’ rocks. Strangely shaped stones, shell fossils, funny patterned rocks. She often would boldly pass up an agate on the sand in favor of the heart shaped gray thing lying next to it.

So, with bags lining pockets, we’d all start combing the sand. Our covered heads bent against the wind, with slow footsteps inspecting the earth’s surprises. We took the sea’s throwaways with pasted, cold smiles as the wind unmercifully whipped by leaving running noses and squinted eyelids. We’d return home from a day of treasure combing and dump out our day’s find under water to better examine our captured beauty.

I miss those trips tremendously.

The Dictionary’s definition of Serenity is; “The state or quality of being Serene. Calm or tranquil.” I never realized at 12, that my serenity was on that beach, in those rainy, cold excursions. My Serenity was held in the faces of two other people who understood the thrill of these trips, as if we all held membership to a secret club no one else knew about.

I really thought when Mom died; my days of serenity were behind me. With such an important membership expired, surely Serenity was past. Then, one day many years later I opened a book with a new vision.

My partner at the time worked at a used book store when we met. She’d come home and tell me about the book scouts that would come in with boxes of books to sell. For many Scouts this was their only means of income, and what they’d walk away with depended on their book knowledge and luck of what they’d find. Scouts would frequent estate or yard sales and thrift stores, buy cheaply and sell to the stores for a profit. If Scouts had the knowledge and means to bypass the stores completely and sell on the internet, there waited a global market. My partner, Lori would joke that if she ever stopped working there, we should open up our own internet store. Then, one day she quit.

So, I was slowly introduced to the wide, mysterious world of book scouting. I learned how to scour rows of shelves and not get intimidated, how to take everything one book at a time. I had endless questions for a long time. I learned how to spot a Book Club book without even pulling it off the shelf. I learned about ‘blind stamps’, small press books, uncorrected proofs and the complete breakdown of the copyright page. I also learned that this is an imprecise skill. A book can have all tell-tale signs of having monetary value and turn out to be more common than you’d think. Signed or autographed does not equate to money. Limited edition does not always mean RARE. I was a dense, eager sponge soaking up everything I could hold. Our first scouting trip was tentative and cautious. We picked books modestly unsure of our own knowledge. In time we slowly gained confidence and took bigger risks. We always had a discard pile when we were done looking up our finds, but over time the pile got smaller. With experience, knowledge and time, we began to trust our decisions and found ourselves diving into the bookcases with full force.

“Listing Lingo” was another class at book-scouting school. Our first goal was to be able to accurately list our books with as much detail as possible. We wanted to be the bookstore that people could rely on with truth and accuracy - If there was underlining, how many pages? A page ripped? Where? Silver-fish nibbling? Soiling? Was this book a true First edition or a First Thus? What number printing? These were important things people should know. And we wanted to feel confident that what people thought they were getting, is what indeed they received. Words like Front-Free Endpaper, Octavo, Buckram, Gilt, Mylar became common descriptions. We watched the mass-listers coming onto the scene with their several hundred thousand book stock all with the exact same description. No variance. Words like ‘standard’ or ‘used’ replaced effort and time. Hand scanners have replaced knowledge and it’s easy to look and that and understand but it’s also just as easy to look at that and vehemently oppose it in lieu of giving a damn about what you do. Somehow, still these sellers sell. Quantity often replaces quality and that is the sad part of any business. I chose time and knowledge. For me, part of the joy of this job comes from every unique book reached for, absorbing something, touching its covers, and making an educated guess. If you take that away, then I might as well be working the register, scanning barcodes in and watching the clock. I delight in the fact that I use my brain and constantly learn something. Even in the failures I’m learning. Not to mention, that tons of valuable books are pre-ISBN that scanners won’t do any good for. How far will your machines take you then?

I’ll never forget an early scouting trip we took where I came upon an autobiography by Lauren Bacall. I opened its cover to find it signed by the legend. This being an early find, I grasped it tightly under my arm thinking surely someone would know the jig was up. This signed book for $3? The police will be coming any minute once they discover the truth. I coveted it like gold. Who on earth could toss this out? It turns out Bacall’s signature wasn’t worth what I suspected, and in time I learned the same about many surprising figures. Often the big names sign anything put in front of them, thus driving the price down. I didn’t care though. That Book is still on my shelf at home. Perhaps the best knowledge I’ve gained through this business is how to divide monetary value from personal. Price means nil when it strikes a chord and resonates in you. Monetary worth shouldn’t pertain. You have an old book club edition of a favorite classic? Its true value is in your head and heart. Books burrow in, stories leave a stain on our being like a finger print. No amount of money could erase that. This business has taught me a great deal about books and also beyond.

Two and a half years into the business we had 650 books listed and available for sale online. Comparatively this number in the book world is shamefully small. We hadn’t bought in bulk yet and hand picked our stock on small trips out then.

At current status, I am 11+ years into this with 7,600 books available with roughly a $160,000 inventory value. I continue the venture knowledgeable but always open for more. I’ve learned that the most you know is never enough. There is always more. This knowledge secures me in my scouting trips. Bring it on, I will pay attention. Never get cocky. You will be put in place with every misstep you take. (you will). I adore this business and all it’s flaws.

The thrill of finding an odd title or sure find continues. While the ever changing market and economy can bring frustration, the joy of the hunt is as much of a fun carnival ride as it was in the beginning. The constant shelves of book clubs and Reader’s Digest Condensed books don’t discourage this scout. That out of print collectible is in their somewhere. That signed, limited gently read copy, that discarded leather bound first edition with tipped-in plates and gilt edged papers, that copy inscribed with a personal poem on the endpaper from mother to son accompanying a dried rose laid in dated 1880. Used Books are treasures that surpass time and carry with them stories beyond the obvious print they hold.

As I sit in my office now and let my eye linger down the stack of spines before me to list, I think of the old beach trips I took with my folks as a child. It was my father who instilled in me the passion of the hunt, the venture of possible success. With him I knew to keep looking and have patience – that whatever I sought was out there somewhere; A priceless vision to have in life. The image of Mom that never leaves is her bending over to pick up those old, dull rocks and examine them with careful eyes. What a fool I took her for, passing up the obvious shiny gems!

But now, I play the fool.

It is in part, through both their teaching, I’m able to pick out the hidden, dusty books that catch my eye now - The books that might not stand out with a bright glossy cover and house-hold name. It is often these not so obvious gems that turn out to be the most valuable treasures. How Mom would have smiled at that. It is she who taught me to look a bit harder, past the immediate shine in order to really see. It is my wonderful beach partner titled ‘Mom’ I take with me on every book scouting trip. I did pay attention, Mom.

Somehow, through this Bibliophile life, I’ve re-discovered the serenity I held on those beach trips so many years ago. Whether its beach combing the Oregon Coast or knee deep in literature, maybe my serenity never went anywhere? Maybe it was always waiting for me to find it again? I’ve saved my shillings to find my way back to it. Its gifts are not taken for granted. I hold them as carefully as a fragile First Edition or broken sea shell easily passed up at the beach. It’s through Mom’s eyes I reach for both.

The S T O R Y

Fine supple leather

That binds the page

Sprinkled with various

Tones of stage..

Step into the fire

Of a perilous hue
One starting the dance

Of a world brand new

Colorful characters

Villains and fools

Love sick peddlers

Bending the rules -

Play voyeur and friend

Or castrating spy

Flip each page like a day

With an eager set eye

Lose yourself for a minute

Or day

Or year...

And regret n o t the time

You have spent well here.

More

Bless'ed be the fortunate

Garnering grains of gold

That precious ilk

Sowing rows of silk

Into their daily fold -

I their woeful counterpart

Languor in night's sweaty balm

Squander a smile

For the waxy orchid

Above the water calm


Turpentine Spirits

Of blazing faith

Take me as kin to your door

So i can forget

All the time I have spent

Trying

Always

For

More.

One Sentence Stories 2...

I wonder, if we could time travel..how many of us would go back and educate the heart first?

I tried to talk to my younger me, but she wasn't having it.

1,2,3,4, rap lightly with caution at Love's door.

If you think too much about your happiness you can detour its course.

Listen, learn, think, A C T.

No, it isn't easy but that's what makes it great.

I'm so sorry for believing you were ever more than what you clearly defined.

I've dusted off your flaws and discover i still like you.

If I'm your soul achievement, i worry about your future.

A license is required to teach, drive, hunt and fish but not to parent.

Birdie

Bird on a wire
Watching all unfold
Flying home with secrets
Never told

What good does airing
Everything
Do?

But unburden a brain
For a day or two

Bird on a wire
Voyeur and friend
Unnamed witness
To the bitter end

Bird on a wire
How do you sleep?
With news on your tongue
You cannot speak?

Motherless Daughters

We are the motherless daughters

We’re scattered across the globe

We wear the cloak

Like an itchy coat

An attire we can't disrobe.

We are the motherless daughters

Traveling territory unknown

Forever searching within our loss

At another taste of home.

We are the motherless daughters

Missing more than words can say

The woman who gave us more than life

And took more than that away..

We are the motherless daughters

Left with memories, trinkets, advice,

Trying to make that be enough

Knowing it won’t suffice.

We are the motherless daughters

A tribe of another tongue

An anonymous bond throughout the land

The loss that binds you as one.

We are the motherless daughters

Owners of a tender heart

Filling our schedule on Mother’s day

Battling the urge to fall apart.

We are the motherless daughters

Lacking but lucky everyday

Hoping she'd be proud of the woman

The mirror puts on display.

We are the motherless daughters.

Fruit Stand

You be careful what questions you let form on that tongue. The answers may not be wrapped in a pretty pink bow laid at your feet. Sometimes truth is like tripping into a bear trap camouflaged in the woods- it can break bones. One can walk away with that new grisly knowledge you just had to have and remain intact. Courage can take many blows and still encompass a beating heart.

Even the prettiest truths have their angles.

No, no.... I aint saying that! There's always good just like there's always bad and everything else between. Now just take a look at your face in the mirror. What you housing in there? When you gonna give that thing inside you a pasture to roam free in? Let it find its own way? No, you don't own it and it doesn't own you if you don't let it. Just cuz the darkness gets in doesn't mean it owns the title on your house. That sly lodger is paying by the day, honey. You weren't born with that sadness in you. You can evict him anytime you really want to.

It's o.k. you cry. Tears are a good way of draining out all that's draining you. Just think if we couldn't let out our tears! If we just digested them, my god.... it would sure be easy to predict the suicides huh? They'd all be rolling down the street like snowballs taking everything out with them, filled up with a flood of grief ready to pop any moment.

No, i aint making light. I just think it's real good we can get rid of our grief naturally - expel it so it doesn't sit in us adding up. Anything added up can get out of hand.

I agree, it aint fair. But...what is? Fair aint a word that should pertain to life. There's what is and aint and what we can do and what we can't. Trouble comes i think from people who stop believing in what they can do or say or change. What's really bad is indifference. When we see events and people generally and lump a ho-hum easy answer on it and turn on our t.v.'s.

O.k. I'm sorry - Maybe you don't watch much t.v., but that's not the point. We look away, we disregard what we don't think effects us and carry on like we have no stake in it. But, we're all key players in the war against ourselves, everyday. We create what we loathe, we complain when we're unhappy, and we sit back waiting for the world to change us instead of the other way around. We don't participate in our own betterment.

No, not just you honey, everyone. No one is exempt. I aint saying shame on you for not being Mother Theresa, but just think...... If we could all learn to fix ourselves first. If we could learn to look in that mirror and evict the darkness, learn to listen to the ugly answers and remain intact. If we could learn to be resolute in not just surviving but living - there is a big difference. When that happens, anything is possible, but not until it does. How in the world can we take on what's outside of us with any clarity when we can't deal with what's not?

You take a strong bite of that peach honey. It will make ya feel better. A warm, Georgia peach sun soaked right off the tree can't be beat. What's that? oh o.k. then. Well, that comes to $4.99 and you make sure to hold the bottom of that bag or all those peaches might be splat at your feet before you get home! I sure will honey, no problem. You come by and see me again, ya hear?

Flypaper

I caught your moonbeam in my flypaper and wanted to return it - well, i didn't want to but one needs all the light they can in this dark place. I knew it belonged to you because the light you bring into a room is like a signature. What you radiate stains everything around.

I rallied with the Wiliams Duo in Wimbledon and marveled at their chiseled frames as they raced me around the court like a headless chicken. I hadn't seen their talent and skill since Seles and Graf, and their stature and physique was unparalleled. I got a small sniff of the hundreds of thousands of hours they'd dedicated to becoming the very best at what they do. They were kind enough not to ace every serve into the galaxy. I asked appreciatively for a signed ball.

I went black Opal hunting in the dusty, hot rock beds of Nevada. The stale sun scorched my skin and my knuckles were bloody when i finally unearthed the most precious of fire Opal from the dry ground. I couldn't take my eyes off it for days - I turned the gem for hours in my mitts, catching light and peering into brilliant hues of indescribable color. It's searing bright, pure beauty brought tears to my eyes and i had forgotten totally about the 8 band-aids wrapped around my skin.

I stumbled blindly into a thrift store shop to book-scout on a dreary rainy day. The clouds painting their own grim masterpiece across the vast sky. I eyed spines with dull interest until the second to last book on the bottom shelf. Spine cap almost completely torn off, half leather binding beaten and exhausted from wear and age. All cover lettering faded and illegible. The frail title page was foxed and stained with short tears at the edges - it read, "Herbal remedies used in South East Asia" The book's date was faint but i discerned 1845. The rear endpaper held the text of this copy being a Limited/Numbered Edition, this being #42 out of 150 copies in the world. I brought my sad book to the register and paid $2.50 and then walked home.

There were 4 copies available for sale online. The least expensive starting at $2,500. I quickly deduced this was the best $2 I had ever spent.

These odd things and more have happened to me in my quiet life. I try hard not to think about it all too much, but when i do i smile feeling lucky and blessed in some fashion.

I look around to see what evidence i have of these events. My signed Tennis ball was discovered by my cat and quickly made a pin cushion for claws of unforgiving nature. Fuzzy and disheveled, any signatures by top athletes of the world can't even be deciphered. The precious Opal caught a good friend's eye one day and with utmost love and devotion was gifted to them. The leather bound book was sold. The money spent - I can't even recall on what.

The flypaper however still remains. The one that caught your moonbeam I had to return. It's basic use expired with age, but it's visual reminder worth more than all my adventures combined.

That Girl

I wish i could be That girl. You know, the one who can just be happy that you're kinder now. The one that can learn how to see you brand new. That girl with the huge heart and mind that isn't in denial but completely beyond being angry, bothered or aggravated and needing something from you to make her feel better.

These words are all negatives and somehow less. I don't want to feel or mean less. I want to be That Girl. And not just the fictional girl in movies and books that works through their stuff in 10 seconds/pages and comes out better - because i believe someone relative to that can exist non-fictionally. That Girl.

I've met shades of her in women I've known in my life. But never the complete package deal. What is that you ask? well, she is the girl who is smart enough to acknowledge, look at deeply and feel what they do and then approach their subject with no holds barred. AND, in the end, gain confidence, understanding and perhaps respect for said subject enough to be on good terms in the future with all dirty laundry aired and folded in some consenting pile. THAT is the girl. In her own courage she has unbeknown-st to her gained utmost respect and a better understanding of the world in general and specific. She exists around the globe everywhere, she does and i feel her.

She is a conqueror. A woman who doesn't say, "I've been hurt" with a period but a comma -

She intends to change what she can in her own life and others for the greater good. That Girl.

She has lived with the world's appraisal of her sex and possibilities with a sly smile and always raises her hand first before challenging any rule, but she always raises her hand.

She is my hero. Perhaps with a bit more understanding and time i can learn to be my own?

Rubbing Beads

I was watching my cousin's six year old boy rub the rosary on every bead and i smiled. This Catholic tradition doesn't hold much importance for me, but i knew it did to Grandpa.

If he could see this unfold, Perhaps in his golden years he would find affection for this act. Kids biting off more than they could chew.
Trying so hard to understand and believe what they were told..

As the prayer was chanted repeatedly i sighed and wished more than anything i could ask my Mother why she dropped the Catholic faith, but i couldn't.

After the 4 quick seconds paid to that task, the child grew bored and I empathized in my own way- being a grown adult I couldn't lean heavily on my mother's shoulder or tap the pew in front of me in some secret rhythm a child's mind only hears.

As each predictable prayer started again I watched the boy in front of me. Curious and random in his movements, eyes darting to every colored glass mosaic in the window being highlighted by the most minimal sunlight. Jesus, Mary, Peter.... my mind reeled I suppose as did his. Then the plastic Rosary beads got another good rub and an elbow to Mom on which bead they were on now.

I grew itchy in the ironed suit i wore....feeling silly and overdone compared to the comfortable attire my co-mourners wore. The button in the middle of my breasts holding all together threatening expiration. I made no extreme movements, breathing evenly with no sudden movements. Somehow, I literally held it all together - through the service at the church, the burial site and the perish. The boy in front of me holding tight to his last plastic bead.

I only selfishly mention my suit at all because i had labored two and a half weeks to find the right one. Having attended my Grandma's funeral only a year and a half earlier i wanted to be better prepared, and wear something nicer. And like so often that occurs in our quest to find the perfect thing, we over-indulge.....leading us to only feel uncomfortable and over-exposed. In other words, i stood out like a sore thumb. A sore thumb ready to pop out and become pornographic at the slightest sneeze.

And yet, something odd happened when i stopped fretting so much...

I forgot.

Between listening to the pastor talk of Grandpa and speaking with various family at the grave site and afterward, I completely forgot about my own 'tight' predicament.

I don't recall seeing my cousin's boy again until we were at the perish. Various foods were put out and people mingled - somewhere near the end I recall a flash of energy and a small tailored suit whiz by.. It wasn't until then I realized that the boy of much boredom looked as good as if not far better than I did (perhaps he was just having far more fun?)

I smiled to myself. But not just myself. Somewhere deep down i knew Grandpa saw the whole darn day.... Agnostic, uncomfortable me and all. Somewhere he was smiling and feeling o.k. with it all. Perhaps beside him was Mom and Grandma. I'd like to believe they were - and being Agnostic i can't say where it was...perhaps Grandpa, Grandma and Mom were out hiking in the Siskiyou mountains stopping to watch us? i don't know...but some strange part of me feels better thinking they were all together.

It's the comfort in that thought that suddenly made my suit feel not so tight.

Masters

Death is a fortress
Immovable mass
Solid and towering
Shimmering brass

Death is a blessing
To many that ask
For desperate requests
Irreversible tasks

Death is a shadow
To live in each day
Hiding the lessons
Behind grief and decay

Death is a knowledge
With a Masters Degree
And the Clearest sight granted
From which you'll ever see.

Liquid Diamonds

How does one get lost in the sea-scape of time and find their way out? Follow the liquid diamonds....squint to see them, pausing is the only way.

If i had done this, been there, said that, life would have baked a better bread. Well, the crust would've been more golden, but it still might have been gooey inside. What ifs are wishes on stars...

Cast out your line with confidence. A limp line knows the difference. Even if you don't mean it, fake it until you do.

Swish your way through the muck. Live like you're on both sides of the water. Hold your pole firm, and swim like you can't find a bigger obstacle to dodge. And when you have, you will find your liquid diamonds.. Lost and found. Cut and polished up for your consumption. All yours.

3 Minute Phone Call

"Mom, are you there?
Did i dial wrong....? It is supremely long distance and i don't know how much time we have.
Your Pop is there, Mom.
You might need to look around - Check the card halls by the bar. I don't need to tell you..

I don't know how it all works. Is there a processing time like for a passport? Or is it beam-me-up Scottie time? I'm glad you'll have company Mom. Both your folks now.

That gives me some kind of peace of mind. It's ok not to speak, the line hasn't gone dead so I assume this has been heard.

Tell Grandma to bring a sweater. He's lost a lot of weight. I'm sure he'll be warm enough now.
The lines going out Mom......
Mom?

I should go. It's ok.
Yes.

I love you. I miss you.
Give Grandpa a huge hard hug for me
And tell him,
I'm sorry
Cuz one more sorry never hurts."

Picking Battles

If you feel the small problems begin, breathe. Everything starts out small. Tiny irritations wait in the wings threatening tidal waves if unattended.....or maybe not.
We attempt to overlook most discrepancies, afterall no one is exempt from foibles and flaws. But, one can push an enormous car under the rug and life can remain calm until the motor starts...

If we've learned anything from our past we pick our battles carefully but realize also (hopefully) the necessity in picking. Then begins the careful dance of sifting, weighing out and throwing away, of grasping tight even under duress - and holding on with pure might. This is an essential, difficult part of life to master (or even gain basic understanding of) that no one teaches us about in school. What defines importance for you? This question is uniquely yours to answer and no one can do it for you.

When to let it slide? and when to dig in. Either choice beckons the question, "At what cost?" well, my friend, that is your solo battle to bargain. Many will advise you, few will be right. (whatever right means)

I've learned in my own life that small problems are often symptoms of bigger enchiladas to fry - but not always. I don't want to be a 'Cynical Susie' with no hope for whimsical, get-through-it times. I want to think the world and its occupants are smarter and more loving than i generally see. I know there's always a story behind every story which begs the conclusion; Nothing is black or white, easy or hard, right or wrong, stay or go. Rose tinted glasses or fog glazed spectacles, life is still, and always a beautiful but burdened ride.

S

Several soliloquies saunter my stride
Seventeen snakes slither silently by
Suckering succotash! Six sovereigns have sunk
Sinking in slippery sea
Slimed with muck..

Six, sextuplets slobber over secondary silk,
Save me!
Salivate in your best silver socks
Sections, sanctioned out with sleuthery
Simper and smother me in your most seductive silver
Sexy saturation will sanctuate certainly.

Serpent of Saturn,
Straddle my side
Suck in your sambas
Simmer your sighs
Somber seals sing a solo for you
Stagnating selfishly
In a sewer of goo.

Wrung Out

I've learned to read the fine print -
Of a day gone awry..
Sometimes comfort comes in whispers
Subtleties of soft cat fur under your fingers
And warm hoodies out of the dryer

A stranger holding the door for you
Or a note of thanks when you do the same -
Our days are made up of intricate details
Small, woven moments over in a second
Some large and encompassing

Others drip daintily from a full gutter
Brief drips continuously
Needing to be wrung out
And to our surprise
It gushes like a flash-flood
Reminding us that everything, everywhere adds up
How we wring it out
Is up to us.

Leap Of Faith

25 stories up isn’t that high. Whenever they have a ‘jumper’ scene the ledge is always like 6 inches across and cracked, with pebbles falling down in a brittle state – anything to heighten the drama. This isn’t at all that narrow, a foot maybe with no cracks. I believe the building got erected in the early 70’s, so perhaps the architects were sensitively thinking with us jumpers in mind?

It isn’t that I want to jump really. Mom would say I was testing limits again. She liked to say that when I was my angriest just to watch me roll my eyes. She said I always pushed limits. I'd sarcastically reply that I learned from the best. Mom who reminded me in a continual stream of creative ways that my sole accomplishment was quitting things and burning bridges. Mom who never held a job or boyfriend for longer than two years liked to pour out her inner angst on me instead of the mirror. The game of life is easier played that way.

It’s weird looking at the world from this angle. Usually one looks up to see what’s going on. But from here you have to look down because everything north is stagnate – almost on pause. Like the sky is waiting for something to happen. The cars look like bugs, all filing down rows in no real importance. I’m suddenly reminded of a pez dispenser. The little plastic doohicky that pretends to have a function but really doesn’t. We’re all like that. We busy ourselves in our cars, going to our jobs we hate just so we can go home and bitch and pretend were important when none of it matters at all. If everyone stopped getting in their pez dispensers and going to work, if everyone dropped dead, the sky would still be stagnate waiting in its passive aggressive way as if to say, “Is that the best you got?” I suddenly feel a strange kin to the north, to the clouds- the blue, vast blanket of air, of nothing, waiting there so patiently, not giving a fuck really what happens down here at all. I suddenly love her. The sky is a lover I want. The unobtainable mystery dripping with allure, The locked lips of secrecy. The one place nothing happens, or needs to happen to be utterly whole and complete. I want to dip into her whispers for good and own her truth. It’s perfectly fitting that the skie's gender be female.

When I think of god, I think that he/she/it gave us two gifts. The gift of life and what we choose to do with it, and the gift of calling it quits whenever we want. The way I see it we are all pieces on a grandiose size monopoly board and God is Hasbro. He designed it all with a sly smile and we are his sick entertainment until the end of time. Well, I say fuck your thimble! Your horse-head, iron and dog. I want my goddamn luscious cloud to sail away on. God never put that game piece in as a possibility. Then again, why would he? Giving us the idea to ‘sail away’ from the gameboard would provide less entertainment for him. But ya know, I’m one step ahead of that crucified martyr, he can keep his monopoly and heaven, I want the space between – I want the vast, beautiful, lax, secret sky. I want to languor lusciously in love with soft clouds between my toes and all the unpretentious time in the world. I wanna look down and laugh at the pez people in their purple P.T. Cruisers pretending they have somewhere important to be. I wanna look up and faintly see gates closed to me, which is fine since the sin I own I'm told won't allow me access anyway. I want to feel complete where I am, house certainty for once in my pitiful – pez life. I wonder if anyone ever thought of grabbing on? Not trying to die, mind you but gutsily jumping out to those clouds with every intention of holding on? Is that the secret? Have I discovered the answer?

Does intention define result?

Christians intend themselves to god fully and believe through their faith their rightful place in heaven. Why should it be any different for me? If I believe enough in my rightful place among the secrets of the sky, will my deep faith grant me a cloud?

Unintentionally my excited feet have shuffled dare I say, a dramatic pebble from the ledge. I wouldn’t believe it either if I didn’t feel sand grit from under my high-tops. Is this how it really unfolds? I’ve noticed now after this occurrence of looking down that the monopoly pieces have ceased moving below. I can make out a blinking light from under the building I’m on and realize now that it is in the form of an ambulance – in other words, the highest official pez dispenser under Hasbro designed to keep all game-pieces playing correctly, do-not-pass-go. Once they get up here they will send me a ‘go to jail’ card and smile up at their manufacturer for a pat on the head. A job well done. Game-pieces resume play.

My toes feel a tingle from the excitement. I wait only for the chance I get to view disappointment in such grandeur. I close my eyes and attempt faith at max warp speed for the skies secrets and all it holds in store for me. The voices that predictably show up from behind me urging me down are no surprise, merely the helpful push I needed.

At that moment the adrenaline coursing through my body was I imagine a parallel to a junkie on their best high. Five seconds tops I guess. And I think I did grab on – even momentarily. What did my faith grant me as it slid through my fingers? A moments touch of dancing dangerously close to the secrets of the sky? What would Mom say at me pushing this limit? The sad truth is that I think I already know. What if she's right? What if my biggest and perhaps only success is forever attempting to obtain the unobtainable? Who is to say I haven't?

I am not able to tell you what they found in my tight-fisted grip as the ambulance surrounded my form. I'm choosing to believe it looked a bit like faith, the purest most honest leap of faith...

Swishing

I won't be her for you. She's not me anymore. When i took you back in my life it was with an adult's eyes and understanding...

And it's been better. It has. I've learned to re-see you and focus on positives I never knew were there. But you beckon her back...with your uncareful words and baited breath - you fish for her and she stirs in me, swishing her tail like buried secrets do - misplaced and mishandled.

Secrets don't need air to survive, only a host.

Feeling her stir is like waiting to feel symptoms from a prescription. But you have them memorized. You learn how to maneuver....

The 1st symptom: A melancholy fog overshadowing everything. TACTIC: Change the subject, leave the room.

Symptom 2: Lack of air, flushing of skin. TACTIC: Change the subject, leave the room.

Symptom 3: Eyes filling with tears. Memories flooding back in technicolor - TACTIC: 1.Feign illness. 2. speak up for yourself 3. Leave. Run. Go.

You WANT to be and encompass #2 but this is reality and that looks more like #3.....

After the temporary terror has left, one resumes their un-swishy ways.... you calm down, have a coffee/wine and remember to breathe... you think about all the wonderful things in your life, if you don't have them then you make them up...

Then you remember your life isn't hers. It never was. She can go back to her swishy - dwelling entirely, and as long as he's in your life you must remember, she is too....It's a package deal.

But another day is coming. If you sit very quietly you can almost forget she is even there...waiting.

Pop!!

The past can creep up like a fifty-fingered foe yanking us backwards. Names tangled with images attached to balloon strings - undeterred by the sharp objects lining its path...

Indestructible.

Some are heavy filled with burdens of emotions we can't name or don't have the tools to dissect....

Others vague, but remarkable for their continuity in our lives. The unwavering fortitude of events

Gone

Awry.

Riding with Wrath

I reasoned with Wrath. I cut him half my apple (being bitter will work up an appetite). After he clawed my arm i gave him a manicure and slapped on a band-aid.

We rode in a two seated cycle through Paris like Renegades - I let him speed up at the jay-walking pedestrians (but dodge them last minute) I admittedly shared in his smirky grin. We ate corn dogs on a grassy knoll and played checkers with bugs until his Termites beat my Cockroaches. He lectured me on the evils of the world, I agreed with some and then bought him cotton candy. His mood lightened a bit...

At the crest of our evening, he muttered some half-ass apology about my arm and rode off in the two seated cycle only holding one. I watched his figure getting smaller down the road and i suddenly felt utterly surrounded in the loneliness he left behind.

Lying

To linger in a laugh, tell vanilla truths - marinate in the birth and have it be enough. I wish it were... I wish humor and truth would feed a couple forever. I hope someday truth could announce itself without fear or anger. I wish honesty were enough (it's not). One needs a myriad of dreams to pull fulfillment from -

Boredom creeps up like an angry foe. Who invited that? Well, there you are. Now what?

So we dive and delve into possibilities to keep from drowning (they're held against us as I'm told they should be.) We lounge in shallow waters of generality until our souls slowly disappear - We make better what we can and mend the obvious wounds at bay and dangle still in that grisly grasp of unrefinement- because only US noticing isn't enough, and the terrible, hard truth is: It never was.

Diamond

The Azure sky has wrung me dry, words flow free like drink, the blanket wrapped around my bones is woven in glitter and ink -

I bought dreams from a peddler and laughed with the crows, Smiled at secrets no one else knows, Saw a woman in silver boots at the store, she escaped from a comic book wanting more-

Tickled keys of plenty, set idle too long, cursed myself for never composing a song. I rebel-roused with my cat, she was victorious again (don't tell her i threw it - she likes to win)

I dreamt of a beauty far away, and kissed lips i knew deep down couldn't stay. I clasped tight the diamond, to then open my hand -

And found nothing but air
And sparkly sand.

Polished

Perhaps my words aren't polished to shine,

And I'll never be paid to scribble and rhyme,

My rejection letters could cover a floor,

Yet still i doodle

and doodle more -

I shall remain a scribbler for scribbler's sake,

And be realistic in a writer's shaky fate,

A tried and true masochist to the T !

With noone to make happy but little old me.

If I

If i had a child, I do daresay..
I'd be careful and honest, encourage their play- but I'd teach them the power of thinking things through, and what good can come of it when you do -

I'd warn them also life can be tough, and there will be days when you've had enough. I'd say, "Look for the details in the rainiest day, because big muddy puddles are the most fun for play."

I'd explain death early, read them books every night, tuck them in with a kiss and shut off the light. And while they were sleeping i would worry and fret, that all that they needed they don't have yet. I'd think of their future, grow nervous again, then find a big puddle to jump in and swim.