Friday, June 8, 2012

The Coyote, by Karen Jordan


the coyote's distant cry
completes the hour —
it is three a.m. —
the turtle has not
yet begun to climb
the hill toward
the garden —
the locomotive
chants its
chug and choo —
my mind traveling 
against blurred
sunflowers
and green —
my vacant body
still —
cocooned
in a sleeping bag
zippedup
to my neck —
my lips conjugate
senseless, isolated
verbs
while my 
heart
recites
Neruda —
"me gustas
cuando callas
porque estás
como auesent . . . " 
the fire
has died
and the embers are
cold —
I wonder
if the robin
drinks each
drop of dew
from the tulip
petals
as the dawn breaks —
some say the veil is thin
at three a.m. —
yet my prayers
fall against
the earth
like heavy snow —
I am not 
sedated
nor am I
awakened —
a deer stirs
and stretches
and nuzzles
the earth
as my eyelids
flutter —
the seconds leading
into four a.m.
are my mother's fingers
manipulating
strands
of my
hair

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

The Mirror, by Nina Miller


"Those girls, those girls, those lovely seaside girls."


They're all young, their skin fresh and unblemished. The blush in their cheeks is delicately natural, not applied with a cotton puff. Their form of morning ablution is to ever-so-gently press fresh clear water to their cheeks and brows. They gaze at their reflections in limpid pools with limpid eyes.

Not a wrinkle in sight.

Understand that I am not a vain person. I stopped dying my hair when I was in my thirties. My make-up kit contains dried mascara from twelve years ago, blush that has caked and powdered. Lipstick is my concession to the avoidance of total colorlessness.

For years I have mocked women — and now men, I suppose — who nip and tuck and press and apply painful masques of skin-tightening substances. I come by my wrinkles honestly, I have proclaimed in my proto-feminist voice, and I’ve asserted that I am proud of them.

Until last week. I had just screwed a brighter bulb into the fixture above my bathroom mirror, and as I washed my hands I glanced up. Who is that, was my first thought. Reflected in the glass was a face creased and cracked and lined with uninvited marks which, if laid end to end, would cover the distance between Ithaca and Albany. The area above my top lip looked like an accordion. The sides of my mouth had triple parentheses. I leaned closer and got a better look at a neck gone to seed. My eyes looked as if someone had packed prunes underneath the skin beneath my lower lids.

Shaken, I left the bathroom. Understand, please, that in the catalog of catastrophes that are afflicting my cohort, including me, wrinkles rank very low on the list. But that I had been so unaware of my changing face, I who pride myself on my keen powers of observation! How do I adjust to living behind this crepe-covered mask?

I did the unthinkable. I marched myself to the cosmetics counter of a nearby department store, climbed awkwardly onto a stool, and when the sleek blond saleswoman in her starched white coat asked if she could help me, I pointed to my face.

"Oh,” she said sympathetically, and turned to explore her larder of products assuring youth and beauty to all comers.  When she turned back to me, she was holding something in each hand.  

"These are collagen drops blended with blah blah blah.” I lost the last part of her sentence, never having studied advanced chemistry. “Four drops rubbed in twice a day, followed by this firming moisturizer.” She unscrewed a small glass jar which contained a substance that looked like whipped cream. “You’ll see, in a month you’ll notice a big difference.”

She applied a coat of each, and indeed, my skin felt fresher, younger. Maybe it was starting to work already! I had a brief fantasy of walking with my 51 year old daughter and hearing someone say “They must be sisters.”

To the bottom line. “How much? “ I asked. “Cuanto cuesta?”

"The drops are forty dollars, the moisturizer is fifty.”

She saw the look of a startled deer in my eyes. “But it’s a full month’s supply,” she said reassuringly.

I’m reasonably good at math. Ninety times twelve — that’s more than $1,000! What could I do with a thousand dollars? How many Moosewood lunches? Books from Buffalo Street? Movies at Cinemapolis? Gifts to grandchildren, charitable contributions, writing workshops?

With effort and profuse apologies, I climbed off the stool and went to a nearby hardware store, where, in the electrical supply department, I purchased a dozen dimmer lightbulbs. 

Problem solved.


Monday, June 4, 2012

The Kissing Contest, by Paula Culver


Let’s have our own Kissing Contest! What would the rules be? How long could we kiss in one long stretch? Or how many kisses we could fit into a designated time? Or how many places we could brush our lips across each others’ skin? Would it count if we mistakenly kissed the same spot twice? Three times? Or how about a contest to see in how many locations we could kiss? We could start right here, right now, and then move through the day and the night and start all over again in the morning. We could follow the “wash, rinse, repeat” instructions. We could kiss across a crowded room with our eyes. We could kiss with our voices while singing a Lucinda Williams song. We could kiss in the morning, through your window, as I spy you eating oatmeal at the table. We could kiss right after you call me Ms. Culver. We could kiss in GreenStar and set the alarm off. We could kiss at Cascadilla Falls while eating our lunch as the water rushes past us. We could kiss in Mr. Bell’s class during School of Rock. We could kiss at Friday Morning Program. We could kiss on my porch, at twilight, while a soft rain falls. We could kiss on the couch, for hours. We could kiss on a bench at Stewart Park, looking out on the lake, fulfilling the message of the tarot card. We could kiss in your back yard while the girls giggle and play. We could kiss on the street corner, unable to move our feet. We could kiss in your kitchen, coats still on, bags still in hand. We could kiss while cooking dinner, the most delicious meal ever eaten. We could kiss while you do the dishes, bent over my sink. We could kiss while you trace the veins in my hand. We could kiss and keep our eyes open. We could kiss in between breaths as you hum in my ear. We could kiss should we ever come up for air. We could kiss after a grueling day of kissing. We could kiss as you step from the shower. We could kiss before we even speak. We could kiss when no one is looking. We could kiss and make everyone jealous. We could kiss up one side and down the other. We could kiss in one fell swoop. We could kiss when we meet at the volleyball net. We could kiss on the 1st day of each month. We could kiss the day after tomorrow. We could kiss our way around the world. We could kiss and make it into tea. We could kiss and forget everything. We could kiss and find ourselves home. We could kiss like there’s no tomorrow. We could kiss as if our lives depended upon it. We could kiss when stuck in traffic. We could kiss under Taughannock Falls. We could kiss in our own private Idaho. We could kiss until the cows come home. We could kiss whenever an hour passes. We could kiss when we should be working. We could kiss on a crowded street in New York City. We could kiss in front of the girls. We could kiss and never look back. We could kiss whenever we put on our shoes. We could kiss if the sun comes up. We could kiss every time a bird chirps. We could kiss on a rainy day. We could kiss over dark chocolate with Pop Rocks. We could kiss each other's fingertips. We could kiss while rushing out the door. We could kiss and wake up. We could kiss on a Tuesday. We could kiss long and slow. We could kiss forever. Yes!  Let’s kiss forever . . . . 

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Numbers Journal


What if you were to keep a journal of your experiences and observations, as they related to numbers? 

This is the question I posed to some friends, and here is the collective NUMBERS JOURNAL they produced, over the course of a few days at the end of May and the beginning of June, 2012:


1 felled oak, 200 rings young

6 tubes on our wind chime

12 cat toys on the living room floor, most of which the cat doesn't play with anymore

24 eyelets in my white sneakers

9 blossoms on the pink orchid I got when I retired four years ago

11 white whiskers on the face of our sixteen-year-old black cat

2 possibilities for dinner; I choose both

161 steps to the top — perhaps another day

17,904 days have passed since I opened the first door

5,000 pounds of spinach in my refrigerator that I should eat instead of these chips

1 new favorite song titled Shampoo for no reason I can discern

13 slinky felines taking up space in a dream that isn't even about them

3 hours of sleep when I was hoping for 7 or 9 . . . stupid cats

8 matches for "cats" in the dream dictionary

1 peculiar symptom that Web MD says could be 14 terrible things or 1 boring thing

1 secret explodes violently all over the ice cream parlor, forever tainting Madigan Mint

27 of the most perfect dogs I've ever seen distract me with riveting gazes and perked ears so I don't realize until too late that mine is peeing exactly where she shouldn't

7 huge books about neurofeedback, that I don't remember requesting, arrive from inter-library loan

4 more weeks need to pass before I can return the books and still look like I read them

114 bees find their way into my house and only I know how I got them out with 0 stings

24 years of getting away with being a parent without any qualifications

1 nanosecond between the right decision and the wrong one … still unsure which was which

24 items on my lost shopping list but I only remember the water balloons

5 dollars for this clever wrinkle trick that will enrage Botox doctors, now revealed [yet not revealed]

0 interest have I in Botox but infinite interest in strangely worded, enigmatic sentences

45 minutes spent finessing my numbers journal at work when I have actual work I should be doing

2 swings at the lake, filled with a total of seven people

1 new mystery sculpture waiting under cover, to be unveiled, for finishing touches, for presentation, who knows? 

1 sailboat, 15 Canadian geese, and 6 pair of ducks on the lake this afternoon

12 blocks straight ahead, then turn left, walk 3 more and find 1 friend who presents me with 2 sets of 60 cards each

1 very well made bird's nest, filled with four beautiful blue robin's eggs, on the 10th rung of the stored ladder

35 pots on the deck, filled with vegetables for health, and flowers for the soul

4 indoor birds singing along with the outdoor birds they can hear through the open window

8 cranberry walnut scones ready in time for breakfast

1 power outage that lasts 7 hours

15 friends around a backyard campfire 

3 nights in a row, the cat skips dinner

4 eggs sink, 1 floats, is it rotten?

1 cardinal lands on a branch
  
2 goldfinches chase each other in the sky

10 small tables inside Gimme Coffee, all filled; no one wants to sit outside in the heat today

4 hours of sleep last night was not enough

2 geese and 10 goslings in 1 straight line 

1 dollar bill lying in the wet grass

24 blueberries dropped into the pancake batter 

4 seeds in my seedless piece of watermelon

2 Tibetan monks carrying heavy shopping bags on Cayuga Street

6 teens smoking next to a NO SMOKING sign

2 strangers laughing so hard in the diner that I start laughing too

2 little boys having a light-saber duel in front of the library

18 purple irises in front of the house where my friend used to live

2 broken clocks and 1 broken watch in the same week

22 Toyotas in the parking lot 

1 kernel of popcorn stuck between my tight back molars

3 profoundly disturbing traumatic revelations in a 15-minute conversation with an old friend

4 pairs of eyeglasses in my pocketbook

1/2 scoop of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia low fat frozen yogurt


Contributors:
Barbara Cartwright    
Alice Damp    
Carla DeMello    
Barbara Kane Lewis    
Charlotte Sweeney    
Lynne Taetzsch    
Barbara West    
Zee Zahava

Friday, May 25, 2012

BEGIN . . . . a word collage


This collective list of BEGINNINGS was created by members of the Women's Writing Circles at Zee's Writing Studio in early April, 2012, as a warm-up exercise. Perhaps it will inspire you to write your own list, or to start a story with one or more of these beginnings. 

Begin at the beginning.
Begin with "good morning."
Begin by taking off your mask. 
Begin tomorrow.
Begin with a hissy fit.
Begin again and again and again and again.
Begin with a pair of scissors.
Begin with nothing.
Begin with one thing.
Begin by burning the toast.
Begin with your eyes closed.
Begin with your eyes open.
Begin by taking a deep breath.
Begin with YES.
Begin by dipping your feet in the water.
Begin today.
Begin to notice the smallest things.
Begin on a bridge.
Begin on the roof.
Begin in the middle of the road.
Begin at the top.
Begin by looking in the haystack.
Begin with me.
Begin by writing wildly.
Begin under an umbrella.
Begin in the fetal position.
Begin in downward facing dog.
Begin by wandering aimlessly.
Begin at the Irish pub on 50th Street and 10th Avenue.
Begin with a clear mind.
Begin the Beguine.
Begin with the calamari.
Begin on a bicycle.
Begin with the thinnest line on the map.
Begin by making a big change.
Begin by opening the box.
Begin with your sister.
Begin by tying your shoelaces.
Begin after you eat all the cookies.
Begin with a memory
Begin with middle C.
Begin at sixteen.
Begin with a string of pearls.
Begin to forget your own life.
Begin another chapter.
Begin in the back of the garden.
Begin on page 43.
Begin to spin.
Begin with chaos.
Begin with just one word.
Begin by opening the book.
Begin by looking in the refrigerator.
Begin by lighting a match.
Begin by moonlight.
Begin with a friend.
Begin with new shoes.
Begin taking better care of yourself.
Begin slowly.
Begin by not apologizing.
Begin with a paintbrush.
Begin with dessert.
Begin with your ancestors.
Begin by getting out of your own way.
Begin on time.
Begin on the last note.
Begin by juggling too much.
Begin by stopping.
Begin with a kiss.
Begin with a haircut.
Begin with a guffaw.
Begin by cleaning up.
Begin by throwing out the recipe.
Begin in a diary.
Begin with hope.
Begin by falling in love.
Begin with a family legend.
Begin in a canyon.
Begin in a cave.
Begin at a dance.
Begin in Brooklyn.
Begin at my house.
Begin by sitting still.
Begin upside down.
Begin in a state of excitement.
Begin on a blank page.
Begin in the jeans department.
Begin on the ocean floor.
Begin with silence.
Begin in the basement.
Begin with a song.
Begin with yourself.
Begin asking questions.
Begin were you are.
Begin if you dare.
Begin even if you're scared.
Begin to realize.
Begin at the point where Pine Avenue intersects with Ridge Lane.
Begin between the farmhouse and the silo.
Begin around the corner near the yellow fire hydrant.
Begin with a plastic spoon.
Begin right now.
Begin on the beach.
Begin with care.
Begin on the edge.
Begin by being mindful.
Begin with temptation.
Begin with everything.
Begin at a turning point.
Begin without self-censorship.
Begin with a blush.
Begin by listening carefully.
Begin with an egg.
Begin with more.
Begin by packing a suitcase.
Begin with a seed.
Begin with your imperfect self.
Begin by being kind to others.
Begin under a rock.
Begin anywhere.
Begin joyfully.
Begin by finding true north.
Begin where you left off.
Begin when I say GO.
Begin before it's too late.
Begin planting after the first frost.
Begin by Googling "How to Feed a Giraffe."
Begin by making sure you have all the passwords.
Begin by remembering.
Begin as though it is your first day of kindergarten.
Begin at 5:32 a.m.
Begin by forgetting everything you know.
Begin with a hug.
Begin by ignoring him.
Begin by dipping your pen into the inkwell.
Begin by putting on your gloves.
Begin by taking off your gloves.
Begin with a smile.
Begin with an apology.
Begin at the heart.
Begin with a lie.
Begin at the place where you have no more thoughts.
Begin when you feel like it.
Begin as soon as you get the news.
Begin at A.
Begin in the kitchen.
Begin with how you met.
Begin at the Coda.
Begin at Act 2, Scene 3.
Begin by visualizing your safe place.
Begin with a dilemma.
Begin with your heroine in a pickle.
Begin with what comes out.
Begin with the cha-cha-cha.
Begin with the word "cloacal."
Begin from the 3rd line on the right-hand page.
Begin by casting on 120 stitches.
Begin to believe.
Begin by reminding me.
Begin with a loose button.
Begin with a writing flash mob.
Begin with a sharpened #2 pencil.
Begin by finding your true voice.
Begin by telling what has never before been told.
Begin with a terrible fall.
Begin by lying on your back in the grass.
Begin with a tattoo.
Begin by telling the story of your life.
Begin in spite of noise and distraction.
Begin by eavesdropping.
Begin by getting ready.
Begin with a long walk.
Begin with a needle and thread.
Begin with confusion.
Begin with your mother's story.
Begin with all the ingredients laid out on the table.
Begin with gratitude.
Begin by spending less money.
Begin shedding unneeded possessions.
Begin watching Fellini films again.
Begin tracing your family roots.
Begin to melt.
Begin inside.
Begin outside.
Begin by letting go.
Begin by putting one foot in front of the other.
Begin by petting all the animals.
Begin with what's on your mind.
Begin yesterday.
Begin after the candy dissolves in your mouth.
Begin by washing your hands.
Begin by saying Thank You.
Begin at the first glimmer of dawn.
Begin by forgiving.
Begin in a new place.
Begin at midnight.
Begin with the color green.
Begin in a willow tree.
Begin with the patchwork quilt.
Begin by finding matching socks.
Begin when you were a baby.
Begin by braiding your hair.
Begin the moment you wake up.
Begin the way you always begin.
Begin with the big bang.
Begin with the dream.
Begin wherever you are.
Begin by telling me what happened.
Begin with the drama.
Begin as if you've never said it before.
Begin with the juicy part.
Begin by walking into writing group.
Begin with a large soup pot.
Begin with your magic wand.
Begin by taking a risk.
Begin a conversation with a stranger.
Begin with the first piece of the puzzle.
Begin by flying out of the nest.
Begin with a blessing.
Begin by covering all the mirrors.
Begin with a gentle touch.
Begin playing more.
Begin by being less bossy.
Begin with more reasonable expectations.
Begin by diving, leaping, jumping.
Begin by making a choice.
Begin with your next breath.
Begin with the lightest color first.
Begin with confidence.
Begin by turning up the heat.
Begin by destroying what is already there.
Begin by not looking back.
Begin without regard for what other people think.
Begin by baking a cake.
Begin by asking your dog.
Begin with three knitting needles.
Begin in secret.
Begin with no regrets.
Begin by sitting in the hot spring's steaming pool.
Begin with a lullaby.
Begin when you come in.
Begin with your feet flat on the ground.
Begin with your earliest memory.
Begin by sitting for a moment.
Begin by grabbing the lowest branch.
Begin fresh.
Begin with the new moon.
Begin with a new pen.
Begin with butter.
Begin at bedtime.
Begin at the last possible second.
Begin freely and without a goal.
Begin by bringing the kettle to a boil.
Begin by emptying your mind.
Begin to find your sense of balance.
Begin by drawing a circle.
Begin by re-naming yourself.
Begin by building a fire.
Begin by emptying your pockets.
Begin with the wild things.
Begin with mud.
Begin with an overflowing bathtub.
Begin when the journey ends.
Begin in a deep sleep.
Begin by stepping on the cracks.
Begin with good-bye.
Begin by going deeper.
Begin by learning how to grow old.
Begin with a startling announcement.
Begin at the end.



Contributors to this Word Collage:

Alice, Annie, Ava, Barbara, Carla, Conni, Courtney, Deanalis, Donna, Draya, Gabrielle, Gwen, June, Karen, Kathy, Kim, Laura, Linda, Lottie, Lynne, Maggie, Margaret, Marty, Molly, Nancy, Natalie, Nina, Pat, Peggy, Reba, Sara, Sheila, Sherry, Sue, Susan, Sylvia, Tara, Yvette, Yvonne, Zee