Random Things PART TWO

In addition to the people who write with me in person, at weekly Writing Circles in Ithaca, more than 30 others from all over the country receive Sparks-at-Home via e-mail on Sunday mornings. Some of them sent RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME so I could compile this collective list and share it with you, dear Readers.

Much gratitude to:

Anne Killian-Russo

Barbara Brazill

Carol Bossard

Judith Stauber

Kathleen Thompson

Maggie Goldsmith

Maryam Steele

Peggy Adams

Roxanne VanWormer

Ruth Raymond

I love burning things — I'm a redheaded Aries so I just can't help it.

I used to have a fabulous feather collection, which I de-cluttered and have missed every day since.

Wolves are my favorite creatures.

I love Sharpies.

Parrots terrify me — I've been bit too many times.

Every day, I have to force myself to relax or I'll never stop moving.

I fell fully into a campfire as a child, but only slightly burned my pinky.

I love pinecones, especially the heavy ones that never opened up.

We never took a honeymoon, which I think was a mistake.

The speed of riding a bike scares me beyond reason.

I would be perfectly happy living off blueberries and watermelon.

I believe art is the most important school subject.

When I was 13, I carried poetry around in my wallet.

My tea mugs are cursed: the more I love them, the sooner they break.

I will be 32 soon and I'm still waiting to feel grown up.

I once drove off with a tractor trailer driver.

I am happiest at home.

Although I love free time, sometimes I need routine to focus me.

I still have the Barbie dolls I played with when I was young.

I set up a library in my house when I was 10 or 11 and loaned my books to friends.  

One day when my kindergarten class was on a walking field trip to see a classmate's new kittens, I ran away and made it all the way back home. 

My daughter and her friend and I were settling into "nosebleed" seats at a Bruce Springsteen Concert when a worker asked us to name 10 Bruce songs (which we did) and then we were upgraded to 2nd row center seats. 

I can waste more time than is imaginable.

I had an internet affair that ruined my marriage.

I am far too attached to my cell phone.

I am so grateful and blessed to still have my mom and dad in my life.

I can sit perfectly still for over an hour and can go for a week without speaking.

I can't sing, but I love to chant.

I love rituals, like watching the movie My Dinner with Andre every January (just one example).

I can eat anything with chopsticks.

I have slept in the Everglades surrounded by alligators.

I have read all of Proust.

I love the poetry of Pablo Neruda, Mary Oliver, Rainer Maria Rilke and Billy Collins.

I love to watch water move.

I do not like hydrangeas, or the sound of bagpipes; I hate clowns and dislike the name Debbie.

I am a devout foodie.

I spend a lot of time seeking and wandering.

I prefer the direct approach.

My feet are sexy.

My heart has sometimes been brave.

My eyes see clearly behind a camera.

I am getting better at admitting that I don't know.

I laugh without hesitation.

I love faithfully.

The first time I ate on Yom Kippur I was not struck by lightning.

   

I don't know any constellations.

I'm not afraid of horses anymore.

I've seen chickens have sex.

I was bitten three times by the same pig.

I'm afraid of cows.

I can identify several kinds of poop.

I was a Patrol Girl in sixth grade.

My first boyfriend carried my books as far as his house, then I was on my own.

I live off-grid.

I can't whistle.

I once stepped on Christopher Plummer's foot. 

In spite of my ordinarily conventional garb, I love sequins, beads and silver lamé.

Even 25 years after her passing, I still wish I could have tea, cookies and a conversation with my mother.

Every day at about noon I feel that I’d like to start the day afresh.

In spite of urging our sons to explore the world, I’d really, really like one of those Scandinavian farms where the barn is connected to the house and the children build little cottages close by.

Once I dreamed that James Baldwin, so reserved and eloquent, gave me a tour through downtown San Francisco at night.  

Last week I cut 8 ½ inches (the length of my hairbrush) from my straggly hair, and now I’m ready to cut off some more inches. 

I keep a written record of books I’ve read and what I thought about them, because then I can remember them.

I thought my mother never found my diaries, but I’ve always wondered, if she did, what did she think.

When the sky is very blue and the clouds very white, then I talk silently to my mother, who listens.

Last fall I learned the hard lesson that with catastrophe comes community.

I should love and care for my old and scarred feet because they have carried me so far for so long.

When I have felt my world has collapsed and I am oh so sad and need some solace, it’s the trees that have shown me that life goes on and is good.

I don’t cry; I don’t want to anymore, even if I need to, even if my face puckers and my eyes fill with tears.

My mother jabbered and my father was silent, and unfortunately I chose to admire only my father.

I don’t dream much because I don’t sleep for long periods, but the dreams I remember vividly after waking startle me into new thinking about my life.

My elementary school librarian gave me inspiration and direction, and years after I wrote her to thank her.

I love humor and look for it every day.

If it is fear of failure that stops me from writing that play, then there’s no reason not to continue writing it!

I took a photo of my lined face to put on Facebook and the first two people I proudly showed it to were shocked by the ugly reality of it and vetoed it.

In junior high school I won a watermelon-eating contest.

Something I know about me: transitions may tear me apart but my pieces will realign, and they may even be refreshed and polished up a bit.  

After years of writing with sharp pencils on loose paper, I am returning to a fountain pen on bound paper, just because!  

On January 13 I wrote that it was time for me to stop moping.

I am anonymous.

I  eat oatmeal porridge every day for breakfast and I never get tired of it.

Sometimes I tell people that I was at Woodstock but I really wasn't there; when they ask what it was like I just say "amazing," or "muddy."

I cleaned off a bookshelf today and this time Thus Spoke Zarathustra, a book I bought my freshman year in college, goes.

I enjoy the lingering smell of garlic on my hands after having chopped cloves for cooking.

Sometimes, when I cannot get back to sleep after awakening in the middle of the night, I find that the best thing to do is open a window and, if it is the right sort of night, take big breaths of fresh air, feel the breeze blow in past my face, and listen to the wind blow.

Last night I dreamed I lived with Michelle and Barak Obama —there was a big leak in the kitchen, but I didn’t tell them because I figured it was their responsibility.

My favorite radio station is Lyric FM from Limerick, Ireland.

I get plenty of sleep.

My blue parakeet’s name is Baby Toes Too.

I wanted to be a nun, and in retrospect, perhaps it was mostly because of the clothes.

I write the date on a new box of salt so I can see how long it lasts — the last one went from May 2008 to March 2012.

What I’ve owned longest: my Great-Aunt Tillie’s mother-of–pearl opera glasses — I took them to college with me.

In eighth grade I used to go up on the roof to dry my hair in the breeze.

I am a fearful driver, but I’ve flown a plane, ridden in a hot-air balloon, and walked on a coral reef in a diving bell.

I see eagles once in a while from my sun porch window.

I never thought I’d own a toy poodle.

My first doll’s name was Carolina Moon, the second was a celluloid Kewpie doll I called Sweet Potato.

Every fall I make great apple sauce: quarter and core a half-peck of McIntosh apples, slice an ounce or two of ginger, boil with a half-cup of water until soft, press through a food mill — pink ginger apple sauce to freeze and enjoy all winter.

Generally, I am perfectly happy.

Random Things, by 25 Writers

This week I asked people in the Writing Circles to jot down Random Things about themselves, as a way for us to get to know one another better at the start of a new writing season. Here are some of the things that some of them shared.

Thanks to these contributors, listed in random order:

Deanalís Resto   Rita Feinstein   Peggy Stevens   Maude Rith   Ana Ramanujan  

Gabrielle Vehar   Sue Norvell   Barbara West   Janie Carasik   Molly Sutton   Sara Robbins 

Tara Shanti Kane   Lynne Taetzsch   Diana Kreutzer   Zee Zahava   Susan Lesser  

Sylvia Bailey  Sue Schwartz   Mo Owens   Kathleen Halton   Perri McGowan  

Rachel J. Siegel   Barbara Anger   Barbara Cartwright   Lottie Sweeney

I like to giggle.

I feel empty and listless without bread and chocolate.

I don't do small talk.

I wish I could write fiction but it's always about me.

I like being old and using elder privilege.

I often read three books at a time.

I am a light sleeper.

I worship spring.

I grew up with wretched excess.

I paint my toenails red.

On occasion I've been known to get stoned and watch trash TV like Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, Wife Swap, or Mob Wives.

I used to write in secret notebooks.

I think about the past too much.

I'm obsessing on a pair of shoes I will never buy.

I have a radiated breast.

I love to swim.

I sleep under a down comforter.

For many years I lived in the country and used an outhouse.

I get distracted easily.

I have a few grey hairs coming in and vacillate between thinking it's cool and freaking out.

I would love to get a big, huge dog to hug and sleep with but I don't think that my kitty-girls would appreciate it.

If I could, I would eat desserts for all my meals.

My favorite number is 18, because that's the date when both my brother and I were born.

I love having traveled, but I hate getting ready to travel.

I'm fascinated by Stonehenge, the Indian mound builders, and Mesa Verde.

My knitting project is stuck because I can't find my mistake — I know it's there somewhere, I just can't find it.

I have decided to stop falling down.

I love corduroy, cotton flannel, and suede; I'm not a taffeta, satin or lace person, except for satin linings of soft wool coats.

I wish I were a piece of hard candy, sweet on the inside but with a hard coating that would protect my vulnerability.

I had to grow into my name because I always thought it was too formal and didn't fit me.

I once won a dance contest and the prize was a 45 rpm of Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.

I never liked the crusts of bread when I was a little girl, so when my mother turned her back I threw them behind the refrigerator.

My husband and I flew to Las Vegas after work one Friday, got married, flew home, and were back at work on Saturday morning.

I am fearless, and I am also scared.

I am open-minded, yet sometimes I am narrow.

Watching others eat lemons makes me uncomfortable.

Sometimes I forget how to sleep.

When I was seven years old I wanted to be a missionary.

I never make anything from a recipe listing more than 10 ingredients (not counting salt and pepper).

My high school boyfriend has sought me out on Facebook and I am  thankful to remember those long ago years and know that we both ended up in exactly the right place without each other, but also because of each other.

I have an English muffin with swiss cheese every single day for breakfast — time to break out of the rut and go for a bit of bacon.

Sometimes I think I would like to go someplace where everyone dressed up in silk and sequins and jewels, but I have been in Ithaca too long and I wouldn't know what to do but gaze and stammer.

My favorite thing to do is nothing.

Watch out! I bite.

I'm beginning to find the idea of reincarnation comforting.

I wrote the best metaphysical comic strip you'll never see.

Preparing my taxes is an act of creative writing.

I once felt something in my chest, as solid as an iron gate, clank shut.

I wanted to be an archeologist, oceanographer, cowgirl, monk, writer, poet, serious artist.

I used to be able to hold my breath so long you'd start to worry.

It's possible I went months, even years, without fully relaxing.

I divide people into those who adore Leonard Cohen and those who don't.

I learned to knit when I was 10 but my first knitting project failed because I used two different sized needles.

I once thought I wanted to be a professional violinist, until I realized I really did not like practicing all that much.

My brother is the person who I love the most, who makes me the angriest, who is my best friend, and who is there for me most consistently.

I used to run outside in the summer, in my nightgown, to dance in the rain.

I learned how to read from a series of books inaccurately portraying a family of birds, called The Word Bird. 

The first poem I ever wrote was about the night sky, and it was terrible, so I never really tried again.

I once hit myself in the eye with my knee while trying to get a pair of orange Halloween socks off my feet.

I am not good with numbers — one minute I put zeroes where they are not required and the next I randomly take them away. 

I am not as tall as I used to be. 

I prefer dogs to cats, birds to fish, and flying insects to the kind that crawl.

I sucked my thumb until I was in my late teens.

In middle school I wore entirely too much glitter.

I often wonder if I have more conversations in my head than in my real life.

I love drinking pickle juice.

When I was eight years old, I was offered a Boy Scout magazine after a bad haircut.

I hate the American modern poets; the best thing about Ezra Pound is that half of his name is half of pound cake.

When I was younger, I was literally moved to tears by the heart-throbbingly epic adventures of my toys.

I’ve let go of all my grudges but one.

People always ask me what’s wrong and usually it’s nothing, but the sympathy is so enticing I’m tempted to make something up.

I would completely regret my first kiss if not for the writing material.

I usually drool when I laugh.

I love and hate blank notebooks.

I wish Americans had British accents.

I used to have a weird habit of patting my stomach for no reason.

I would love to have an automatic pie dispenser.

When I played make-believe with my Barbie doll I used to pretend that she was a priest. 

I'm saving one of my cat's whiskers that fell out in the night.  

Rosewater and orange blossoms are my favorite scents.  

I am conflicted about fur coats.  

I always wanted to wear glasses because I thought they would make me appear smarter. 

I'm an introvert, but I feel better after interacting with people.

In kindergarten I ran around with a journal, pretending to be Ann Frank.

I want to walk with a sexy, confident swagger, like my cat. 

I used to eat Milk Bones.

When I was a girl I caught frogs and put them in my dad's wet socks for safe keeping.

I don't have many close friends.

I like the color brown better than any other.

I love amusement parks.

I'd like a pocket-sized Kindred Spirit to carry with me everywhere — she does, of course, look like Anne of Green Gables.

One of my favorite memories is of night creeping in on me in my canoe, my canoe over the lake, the lake covered in mist, the mist hiding the bats, the bats churning my soul, my soul engaged with the music — that's the teenager I liked.

I have a few regrets.

I've spoken with a spirit walker in human shape and wolf form.

I don’t like to clean my house, but I do like to live in a clean house. 

I do everything fast, even things that should be done slowly. 

I am very competitive, but I will try to cover that up by acting like I’m not, or pretending I don’t care.

I am in the middle of chaos, so I may appear one way today and another tomorrow.

I always cry when I hear stories about animals, especially animals who are lost, hurt, exploited.

I am in the process of reinventing myself, which could be a very exciting time if I let it be.

I wear my hair short because my mother's hair was always messy, not stylishly messy, but neglected messy, and I never want anyone to think that about me.

I am very strong for a 58-year-old woman.

Here is my recipe for red cabbage, which I cook at least once a week: slice the cabbage thin; add lots of onions and ginger, and balsamic vinegar, and a generous does of applesauce; stir and cook together until cabbage is soft to your liking.

I've had many nicknames over my long life but not one of them has been exactly right, so I keep trying out new ones even though this confuses my friends and they don't know what to call me anymore.

Apostrophes drive me bonkers.

I am bossy and I say I'm trying to get over it but I don't think I am trying hard enough.

I like those times when I'm a little bit out of control; a little bit out of myself.

I have a weakness for old-fashioned, sentimental, happy-ending novels.

I don't know what to do with my anger.

I once loved David Cassidy and I cleaned the apartment of my oldest sister's neighbor when I was 11 to make money to buy his album, Cherish.

When I was 16 I listened to Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon on 8-track cassette, over and over, lying on my bed in the dark.

I used to wear a felt fedora hat and a scarf, like Dylan wore during his 1975 Rolling Thunder Revue tour.

My biggest musical regret is that my mother refused to let me use her car so that my oldest and dearest friend and I could go see Bruce Springsteen in Augusta, Maine.

I'd make a terrible camper or pioneer.

I have a scrap of peach fabric hanging in my closet and no plans for it.

I think makeup on little girls is scary, even for dance recitals.

I thought about the Magna Carta in the shower this morning.

My handwriting is terrible.

This is something I believe: if you put an eyelash on the back of your hand, close your eyes, make a wish, and hit your hand three times and the eyelash disappears — you'll get your wish.

If I weren't a teacher I would grow flower gardens and sell bouquets at the Farmers' Market.

When I was in fourth grade I wrote and produced a school play called The Cat and the Magic Duck.

I so love greyhounds!

At five, I got in big trouble for peeing outside between the houses; I think it was my first ever experience with shame.

My best friend from high school stopped talking to me when I came out in 1974, but last year she friended me on Facebook and “likes” all my gay marriage posts.

Sometimes I feel guilty that it is often easier to love my dogs than it is to love my daughter.

I saw a hawk killing a rabbit on my morning drive today, and I had to open the car windows because it made me light-headed and nauseous.

I love this time of life; there is an absence of angst and stress that feels right and appropriate, and I feel like I’ve earned it.

I have wild curly hair and have always felt that it was a part of my personality and an appropriate introduction to me.

I love sappy country western music, it gives me goosebumps and sometimes even makes me cry.

I think about numbers all the time and measure everything in my head.

I love that all dining tables are 30" high, counter tops 36" — I love that stairs have 8" treads and 8" risers in old houses, 9" treads and 7" risers in newer houses.

In fifth grade my teacher told me I read at a 12th grade level; I looked at her and quite seriously said "Good, then I guess I can go home now."

I got kicked out of high school 17 times; I held the record for a girl.

I do not believe in a higher power but I do believe in an inner power and I think most people try very hard to squash their own powerful selves.

When I am walking alone I feel 12 years old.

I was the first female taxicab driver in Ithaca in 1975.

I am a good actress; I think most women are.

When I am old I think I might try being a stand-up comedian.

Somedays I feel so sad that I think I just can't do this anymore and somedays I am in awe of my wonderful life.

Dreams, by Phoebe Lakin

A few months ago, I visited a beautiful European city with a friend. She lent me her camera and I took surreal photos of fireworks, and of the stars and planets that floated through the cobbled streets. 

Yesterday, I had to go examine working conditions in a medieval factory, but the whole thing turned into a fiasco when a werewolf showed up and I had to hide from the cruel factory manager with some German exchange students.

Last summer, I did some work for a research boat on a river in Thailand. I still remember the smell of the boat's red paint on hot days and the fishy odor that always lingered in the laboratory.

I once saw a ghost in a mirror. It drifted behind me, and when I turned from the mirror in surprise, it had disappeared.

Once, when I was doing some detective work for my school, a friend and I had to go undercover and work in a kimono factory, which was in my front yard. He drove us there in his car, and we had fun laying out the fabric on greased sheets of paper.

Long ago, when I was at the house of an acquaintance, I accidentally drank some nicotine from a bowl on the counter. I became distressed at learning what the strange green fluid was, and I can recall the salty taste that lingered in my mouth for hours afterwards.

When I was five, my kindergarten class went to a museum. We were in the gift shop when a huge T-Rex suddenly barreled into the room. Several children were eaten.

When my parents and I were visiting Germany, our dogs got angry at the mailman and escaped from the yard by climbing over the fence. It was a debacle, and I was greatly annoyed by their incessant barking. 

A few years ago, I had to navigate through a giant junkyard to find medicine for a woman who had been injured. I was successful in procuring the medicine, but she became furious at me for helping her.

One horrible incident in my life occurred on top of a parking garage. I was being chased and shot at by a gang, and I had to escape in a car, which was difficult, since I can't drive.

Once, when I was in Greece, I was walking through an abandoned house near the sea, trying to find my friend, because I had to ask him something important. However, when I found him in an empty room, he had turned into someone else. I was not pleased.

Many years ago, on a summer night, I was sprawled on a picnic table. As I gazed into the dark, a giant brown bat flew above my head in slow motion, flapping its leathery wings.

While visiting a Russian marketplace during the 1400's, I caught sight of a picturesque cathedral in the distance, its onion domes bright and shining against the green hillside. I was then obliged to search for stolen goods in the public bathroom, which had a stream running through it.

Mama's Arbor, by Kathleen Halton

I live in the house I grew up in. When I share this with people they are so pleased for me — "Oh, how nice that must be."

"Oh yes," I say, "it's amazing!"

Although it is, in many ways, a good thing, it is also a burden that often feels more like a punishment than a gift.

My mother's ashes are in the backyard under an arbor that we, her seven grown children, built for her when she died of old age at 55.

The arbor is draped with beautiful, soft green kiwi vines that never grow kiwis. This is a perfect resting place for Mom, really — another great idea that will never come to fruition.

Inside, at the dining room table, is Mom's chair — an old, slightly wobbly classic hard rock maple dining chair with arms worn soft and smooth by years of sweatered elbows.

My mother spent many hours each day, and late into the night, sitting in that chair, a teacup and a cigarette at the ready. The table was always covered with piles of stuff: newspapers; notes on little pieces of scrap paper or paper plates; an overflowing ashtray; a writing journal; and dozens of novels purchased on the "cheap days" at the annual Library Book Sale. She was a voracious reader; she especially liked historic novels.

My mother was a tiny woman with very big ideas. If she had been wealthy she would have been considered eccentric, but she didn't have a nickel to her name. 

Mom was a list maker — the table was always littered with her lists: grocery lists; to-do lists; lists of politicians she was going to write to; lists of plants to buy for that beautiful garden she was going to grow next spring.

All of Mama's books and magazines had old lists tucked between the pages, perhaps to hold her place; perhaps just a place to hold her lists! Over the years I have found several of these precious lists in the old books I am saving for her.

oleo

6 loaves of whole wheat bread

4 2lb. packages of hamburg

bag of onions

laundry soap

ask Kathie to pick up Steve

more yarn for sweater

call Dr.

10 pds. red potatoes

cigarettes

I sometimes wish that the house would burn to the ground.

Am I the caretaker? Am I supposed to finish all that she left undone? Could I forgive myself if I burned it down, adding ashes, with love and apology, to those under Mama's arbor?

Altar, by Laura LaRosa

When I was nine I wanted to be a priest. Clearly, I knew that Roman Catholics didn’t believe that women had any place in their covens, except for the nuns who were referred to as “brides of Christ.” I used to watch them as they walked down the halls of our school, often in pairs, their habits fluttering.

Andrew and Michael were my good friends at Saint Nicholas of Tolentine School. They were altar boys and told me stories about how much fun they had getting Father Kneafsy ready for Mass. Father Kneafsy was a short beefy man with thinning red curls and fat pugilistic hands. I avoided him; he was scary. I always tried to get Father Meany for confession and waited an extra long time to avoid Kneafsy at all costs.

Michael said that he and Andrew would always fill the chalice too high so that Father Kneafsy would have to drink way too much wine at that hour. Michael and Andrew probably didn’t know how much the priest liked to drink anyway. I often saw him at the cheapo liquor store two blocks from my house where my own father visited too frequently. Frustrated with church, school, my parents, and life in general, I came up with what I thought was an excellent plan. At nine, nearly ten, I was thin, angular and flat-chested. I decided that with my short hair combed with some Brylcreem, I could pass for a boy.

Andrew snuck me in, and Michael watched the door. The short vestments slipped over my head and the small white stole hung around my neck. Both boys showed me the way into the church from behind the altar. I wasn’t going to help serve the Mass, it was Saturday; but sometimes the altar boys would prepare the day before so if one of the priests was running late Mass would still come off on time. I breathed the lingering smell of incense from High Mass, and the only light was the flickering of candles: blue jars under Mary’s statue, red under Jesus.

Against the wall, at the back of the altar, was a cubby that contained the unblessed hosts, the chalice, server, and a cloth. I took a host and ate it; same old boring cracker as always. Somehow the whole Eucharist thing didn’t ever hit me. There always seemed to be something missing. Reaching deeper into the wooden box I brought out the chalice. It was covered in a tent-like white cloth with a red cross embroidered on it.

The smell of wax, smoke, and flowers was starting to make me a little dizzy. It was also very early in the morning, still dark, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I removed the cloth and held the chalice, one hand underneath it and one around the middle where the metal felt cool to my sweating fingers. I stepped back from the altar. With my back to the pews, in the shadowy light, facing the enormous crucifix above, I closed my eyes.

Opening my eyes, my hands began to tingle as I brought the cup up to my face. Looking at the golden metal, I saw what seemed to be my own image, tiny and upside down. I raised the cup over my head, still staring at the light reflected on it. My entire body vibrated gently, not unpleasantly, and I knew this was what the priest must feel. This was what I had wanted, an unmediated experience of the Other. Then there was a flash and a bang.

All the church lights had come on at once, and one of the windows in the anteroom door had broken out of its frame, as Father Kneafsy slammed into the room. Andrew and Michael were scurrying out the small hidden door behind the altar to the sacristy. I stood, chalice held chin-high, looking into the priest’s fevered eyes. I didn’t know then what it was I saw there, in those eyes, but I knew without any doubt I was being deliberately kept away from a power, a current, that could alter my life. I saw his arm come up, felt the blow, and landed backward, my lungs emptying of air. He glared down as I wheezed. I looked up at him no longer frightened, but defiant.

I never went to church again. But I never dropped the cup, either.