Wednesday, December 26, 2012

B Double OK Book, by Sylvia J. Bailey


B double OK Book

I must be 6 years old. I am on the porch of my childhood home, 39 Dempster Street, Ravena, NY. The paint on the wooden porch is thick, cracked, and peeling in spots. 

B double OK Book

I am coming home

B double OK Book

from first grade

B double OK Book

up the three steps to the landing. Some of the paint flecks on my hand.

B double OK Book

It's a warm, bright day.

B double OK Book

I wear sturdy leather tie shoes, Buster Brown — "Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy" (The Andy Devine Show. What a bizarre show. What kind of drugs were they on?) — or Keds, so I can run faster, jump higher.

B double OK Book

I am skipping. I have that "I am skipping" feeling even if I am not skipping.

B double OK Book

I am inside of the house watching myself arrive. I am outside of my house and outside of myself watching myself arrive.  And I am my arriving self.

B double OK Book

You can have your mantras. Your "Om Mani Padme Hum," your "Kyrie Eleison, Christe Eleison," your "Hare Krishna Hare Krishna."

I have mine.

B double OK Book

You have arrived. You are home. You are always arriving. You are always home.

You, my innocent, curly haired, skipping, child of my heart, have never left.









Friday, December 21, 2012

I Am Always Afraid I Will Forget, by Carla DeMello


I am always afraid I will forget

to water the plants
to feed the cat who never lets me forget
to be on time
when to pay the bills

that it's time to begin the next project
that it has to be finished in nick's own time or the world will end
the hour and minute each child was born
how to bake bread without a recipe

what the sun means to me
how to get to Brooklyn
to buy those shoes I wanted on payday
to remember who to give what to

to set up my out-of-office message
to buy toilet paper before I run out
to take my pills each day
to pack a lunch for my son

that this year I won't be invited to that annual party I hate to go to
that color is my mojo
to take my cell phone, keys, wallet, and iPod
to renew my library books on time

to listen to This American Life on Sunday at noon
what it's like to be a child
to fast the morning of my cholesterol test
that it's Monday

But I never do.

I try never to forget

that I want to stand up more than sit down
that I love to dance
that I've decided not to get so mad about things I can't control
that I'm not an extrovert

my resolve
that I don't actually care how much I weigh
that I don't have to do anything I don't want to do including going to that party
to pack a lunch for myself

that what I love to do is more important than the stuff I do instead
that my children love me more than I can fathom even now that they're all grown up
to just be myself
that once upon a time I was passionate about clay

to floss
the good things that happen
that she told me "no" lives in the land of "yes"
what I already know

that I have given away more than I've kept
to take myself less seriously
to take you less seriously
that I'm not always in a knowing place

that I love solitude
that from me came these . . . and these
to go to bed at a reasonable hour
why that person is just the sort of person I really shouldn't open my most vulnerable self to

But I always do.

Friday, December 14, 2012

12/12/12: a collective diary project


More than 75 people — children, teens and adults —  contributed to this collective diary, describing one particularly note-worthy day: December 12, 2012. 12-12-12. The last of the month-day-year dates for a long long time.

Below you will find a flowing list that offers a glimpse into group consciousness, with entries coming from Ithaca, California, New Mexico, Afghanistan, and other places too.

I call this a Word Mosaic, and hope you'll enjoy reading this account of a day, arranged in random order.

THANK YOU to everyone who participated. All the contributors' names are listed, alphabetically by first name, at the end.



I'm reading a mystery novel that's a bit confusing because there are two characters named Freddie. Walking to work this morning, I noticed as I do every year at this time that the sun was crouching as we circled it rather than standing, as it was a moment ago, in summer. I heard a woman in surprise say "whoa!" and I wondered when and how our command to horses shifted to this new meaning. Driving my daughter to school today, I felt a surge of happiness as I realized that she is always ready to laugh. New York City, all lit up, hustle bustle crowding pushing, cash registers, carolers, too much too little, too loud too hard, too hot too cold, too far from home.  I woke up in Afghanistan. The dryers were all full, but as is custom here at Camp Sabalu-Harrison, Afghanistan, I carefully folded someone's dry clothes for them, and then filled the dryer with my clothes. I realized it was Wednesday. For lunch on Wednesdays, it's wings! I got a package from my mother — she sent me snacks and Christmas decorations; I'm saving the fudge for Christmas Day. I left work a little early so I could come back to my room and write these sentences about what I did today. The contractors invaded the house to rip out ceilings due to a flood two days ago; it shocked me how quickly a room could go from charming to raw. And then you take out the recycling and everything changes. Today at work I snacked on a pear, an apple, an avocado, a hardboiled egg chopped up with mayonnaise and cottage cheese, steamed zucchini and some rice cakes. Is it my imagination, or was that a younger version of me that I saw in the mirror after this morning's shower? After reviewing and tweaking an email at least 12 times, it was disconcerting when a glaring error popped out just a hair before I hit "send." Cleo and Fiona, the cats, insist there is a mouse in my study. Accidentally set off my car alarm which makes me feel like I've been caught doing something very wrong, but that's ridiculous. The alfalfa sprouts were covered with a network of fine white hairs, so I rinsed them thoroughly, removed the ones that hadn't sprouted, and set them on a sunny windowsill. I French-braided by daughter's long blond hair, kissed the top of her head, and made her shiver. I wondered these things: how can I keep from singing; how can I make money; how can I grow taller; how would I look with bangs; how would I look bald; how come I don't dream. I began the day with prayer and meditation. I hold out my hand to this day's revolutions and open my heart to knowledge yet to come. Read poems by Walt Whitman and had ambivalent feelings; later learned about Victor Hugo. Played basketball, but not very well. Today I received a round of applause. I laughed several times when I meant it and several times when I didn't. I missed an opportunity to use "albeit" in a sentence. Confused The Taming of the Shrew with The Turn of the Screw. Wondered if there is a chance I would live to the year 2101. Read a chapter of Madame Bovary. I had a ripe red pomegranate for lunch. I bought a not-very-good cupcake in the school cafeteria and pretended to like it. Looked at the yellow setting sun, though not directly at it, of course. This morning the leafless hills looked brown and furry, like a bear's back. Tonight we will light the menorah and eat leftover green curry for dinner. I developed my fourth roll of film and my hands still smell like rapid fixer. Some things went better than expected, but some things bode ill. I didn't really talk to him, but he said my name as we passed in the hallway. In U. S. History class I encountered a deep sense of nostalgia; I worry sometimes that nostalgia will soon be all I ever feel. I made paper snowflakes for the first time since pre-kindergarten; very zen-like. I realize that rhymes come naturally to me. Today I learned that my science teacher eats road kill. As the clock ticked to 12:12 the principal's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, reminding us to remember this day; I whooped and hollered, along with all my classmates. I was ambushed by my alarm clock. Appreciated my history teacher's frequent references to the movie The Hobbit. Drew a picture of a wolf and talked about waffles. My teacher bribed me with 3 mint candies so I would sit next to a troublemaker in math class. Remembering a dream about the 1930s. Why do all these so-called health bars taste exactly the same (and not very good)?  Learning to play Chanson by Robert D. Vandall at my piano lesson today, the teacher showed me how to curl my thumb under my fingers in order to move it easily onto the next note. My purple little toe, which I'd dropped the dust-buster on over the weekend, hurt only a tiny bit on my walk today. I ate freshly baked rugelach, a gift from my neighbor, with my English breakfast tea this afternoon. A friend asked me: Is this the day the world is supposed to end?  Wishing a long and happy life to Baby Girl Patterson in New York City, born at 12:12 p.m. on 12/12/12. A party in the office: 3 plates transformed into clocks with the  number 12 made out of bulk treats from GreenStar. To nap or not to nap? I set my neglected fantasy books together on the shelf for company. This room needs more magic. I tack up photos of the future. If I drink pink bismuth with this energy drink, will I regret it? If I don't get rid of all this catnip, people are going to catch on. Coffee grounds as an air freshener is the best idea I've had in a very long time. I watched as a hawk scooped a little bird up in her talons. An elephant ventured curiously into the dream-world. It was a cozy morning of cushiony socks, thick paperback novels and miso soup. A mad scramble for a celebratory morsel turned one precious minute into a race against time. In the dim light of the downstairs, I heard mysterious squeaking coming from above; it was the guinea pig. The day started promptly at midnight with a crying (and crying, and crying) baby. The afternoon was a blur. I heard the most amazing story in a phone conversation with someone I thought I'd never speak to again. I sat on a red comfy couch and slowly chewed a pumpkin bagel. The pre-school where I read for Traveling Books gave me a giant poster of their finger-paint hand prints forming a Christmas tree, with much glitter. The oatmeal cookies I baked made the house smell good, and Ella Fitzgerald made it sound good. An old boyfriend phoned (we'll call him "Kermit"), not to whisper sweet intimacies across the miles, but to beef that Coach Munn hadn't played him enough on the Honeoye Varsity basketball team —  in 1956. This is the first December 12th that I am considered a breast cancer survivor. Gingerbread cookies are bald until you paint hair on their heads with frosting. Lounging around with my son, waiting for inspiration — "where to go for breakfast?" becomes "where to go for lunch?" My 64-year-old body aches all over from three consecutive days of tennis and moderate weights. Almost time for bed and the cat howls to come in and my right wrist aches to the point where I consider taking some pain medication even though I swore I wouldn't today. I felt a cold coming on today, took a hot bath and a nap, and now I feel a lot better. For dinner: 5 chicken wings, one piece of cherry pie, pomegranate seeds, and a spoonful of cole slaw; I have to go now and eat a banana. Today was a lucky day, full of great decisions. It started out only as a Moroccan yogurt cake, but quickly turned into an eight course meal. Discussing coffee with a stranger reveals many truths about them. Walking past the trees, the deer rustled the pine boughs. Walking across the horse pasture, every single blade of grass is covered with thick frost, the red tailed hawk screeches above me, and the sun catches us all. Settling into sadness — this can be okay. After years of hearing it squeak, I oil the wheel barrow wheel and it is instantly quiet. Darkness descends without me riding the spotted horse. Frozen mud makes for easier walking, but I have to wonder: is frozen mud still mud? Black beans for lunch, black beans for dinner. Stepping out into the night of dark dark sky, bright bright stars, and tiny me. What is that incessant ringing that goes on and on? No keys, no money, no breakfast, and I've missed my appointment. "Unglued" is a mild statement for the way I am feeling. Comfort food in the form of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup makes all right with the world. I have to remind myself to breathe. At the Passion Pie Cafe in Truth or Consequences, you cannot help bumping into someone you know, and this auspicious morning, as the New Mexican sun starts to warm the mountains, it's packed. Water exercises with my cohort of old crones. Dozed on and off through an interminable meeting. I am hooked on a new picture puzzle and got most, but not all, of the border done. Watched a program on NOVA about a leopard single mom — such a beautiful, nurturing, clever, and resourceful creature — so much like my single mom granddaughter.  A good day, left much undone without regret. A day of many small incompletions, adding up to nothing. Some days sing, this one didn't. Packed my bag (keeping it under the 50 pound limit) for my four-month trip to Bogota, Colombia. Too tired to even turn on the Christmas tree lights. Sage, lavender and dried plant stalks are all sparkling with frost tonight. Didn't see another soul all day. Delighted to see an uncommon Brown Creeper, as part of my FeederWatch observation for the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Was awakened this morning by the sweet breath of my 3-year old granddaughter who climbed into my bed to snuggle me awake. Danced with wild abandon, with a 2-year-old, to Bob Marley's Three Little Birds. Had an enjoyable conversation about great jazz musicians, while dunking delicious biscotti in espresso. At the oncologist's office, information definitely trumps not knowing, but getting the best possible answers to my well thought-out questions leaves me exhausted. I awoke from a complex dream and lay still for a while, piecing it all together. My coffee percolator clucked and burbled away like a happy hen. I worked at memorizing a poem, reciting it to myself in the mirror as I dressed. I exchanged a knowing grin with my friend across the table. Today a friend said goodbye instead of au revoirToday my heart stopped for a moment but then it revived when I received good news. I got a text saying I am officially divorced. My five-year-old's blessing: "God cough you, Mommy." Unpacked Dora, Sigmund Freud's work that reads like a detective novel, a steamy one, if you believe the back cover. Exchanged my band-aided clamshell cell phone for an iPhone, and it only took 2.5 hours at the store. Ate homemade chicken soup, then took great care in dressing myself to attend the memorial service of a very young man. Sleep came early — is that because it was dark at 4:30 p.m.? Took a brisk morning walk and delighted in the strength of my almost 65-year-old body and the warmth of sunshine on my face. Pondered the difficulty of leaving the world of many brief experiences in order to explore one thing deeply. Celebrated Hanukkah with singing, dancing, stories, and latkes; then helped my grandson set up a nativity scene. Began my morning trying to perfect the smokeless fire in my new wood-burning stove. Took a longevity test and discovered I would live until I'm 94; that's another 30 years, so I began to re-think how I want to live the next bit of my life. Daylight exits earlier and earlier, stage left, while my life invites me to do more. My 79-year-old feet carry me into my 80th year. Painted a small watercolor of a yellow butterfly and orange flowers, its only merit being its cheerfulness. I looked for the last glimpse of the old moon. Chased the calico cat, again, from under the bird feeders. As the clock was moving into 12/12/12 I opened the day with a breathing meditation, using the words, "Everything that is" with the in-breath, and the words, "is perfect" with the out-breath. At noon, joined by a friend, I popped some popcorn, broke open a block of beautiful dark chocolate, fixed a cup of luxurious Tea Forte, and curled up to watch Pride and Prejudice — absolute perfection, experiencing a quiet and clear sense of peace and contentment. Brewed and drank half a pot of Cafe du Monde coffee, but alas I had no beignet to accompany it. Microwaved (and ate) a bowl of McCann's Instant Oatmeal: maple and brown sugar, extra milk (two percent). I didn't feel even a drop of Impending Doom today. I wished I was in Ithaca, and five minutes later I wished I was in Ithaca again. Pumpkin yogurt, leftover pasta, the 3 p.m. cup of coffee I can't give up. Acupuncture needles: three in the ears (two left, one right), one in the forehead, one in the crown, two in the belly, two in the right calf. 270 days without sugar or flour and I'm still missing cookies. Just another Wednesday. Bought groceries that I didn't have time to get on Saturday. Enjoyed a bottle of Woodchuck "Granny Smith" hard cider. A moment of clarity —  choreographing rain, rivers, and water droplets. I watch two women in a booth at the coffee shop, with their silver hair, crinkly eyes and raucous laughter, and plan to be just like them 25 years from now. I don't dig numbers. A brisk walk with a friend who is tired of being a friend. Today I resolved to draw something every day for a year and on days I don't draw I will put a dollar in a jar. I buy a Christmas tree, so tomorrow morning I can breathe in the lingering scent of a Douglas fir in my car. Today I finally figure out how to use Facebook, but not really. Walked up Willow Avenue to watch mallards on Cascadilla Creek. Read up on certain marine creatures designed by H. P. Lovecraft, uncannily similar to my own happy fantasies. Grateful to end the day in a warm bed, good house, peaceful neighborhood, and lovely town. While my coffee brewed this morning, I lovingly studied an old photograph of myself as a three year old child squinting into the sun, all dolled up in a cutesy-white-girlie-dress, standing in the middle of a dirt road with my wagon, my favorite toy of all time, piled full of rocks that I seemed to be hauling somewhere. On the way to the recycling center this afternoon, I wondered what kinds of annoying bags full of stuff people will be cramming into their cars (or whatever it is they drive), taking them off to the "dump" on the next 12/12/12 in the year 2112. I spent an hour and a half writing an important e-mail to a dear friend this morning and then, when I read it again this evening, erased it and spent another hour writing something "better" that ended up sounding about the same as the original. My older sister and I talked on the phone tonight and were amazed at how profoundly different our memories are of our father, who died when we were both still in grade school. Crisp white frost makes the grass pale. Lots of construction, beans on the floor, rotten pomegranate, busy mall, tears, farewells. Having been to East Africa in October I especially enjoyed going into Diaspora on the Ithaca Commons, to share African stories. The line at the post office was long, prompting one woman to loudly say "mercy, mercy, mercy," over and over again, as she walked past everyone in line, did a U-turn, and walked back out. Geese flying north in a perfect V-formation suddenly turned and went south. I do my daily ten salutes to the sun, to bring out the sun. I have my granddaughter's hand in my right hand, the dog's leash in my left hand, the gifts of vinegar and horseradish mustard, both homemade, both packed in glass, I had planned to deliver in this silver bag also in my left hand, when I drop, not the child, not the leash, but oh, yes, the bag with glass bottle and jar: smashed on the sidewalk, oh well. I practice the recorder pieces at the bright, sunny window and now feel ready for tonight's concert. A good friend and I went to a class at Lifelong to learn together about the Ten Signs of Alzheimer's. I took myself out to lunch at Moosewood and tried to calculate the  number of times I had eaten there since it opened. My son helped me fill up the bird feeders so my cat and I can be entertained, watching the birds dine for the next week, from inside the comfort of my warm house. I wake up thinking of the Dalai Lama on his exercise bike. Today we are nine days from the Winter Solstice — it is the fourth night of Chanukah, the second Wednesday of Advent, St. Lucy's Day, and the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. My doctor listens to my heart and says, "Very good, just like a turtle, slow and steady." I woke up thinking about a mistake I made, and how I might never make it right. Went to the kitchen and opened the door to day 8 on the Chocolate Christmas Countdown Calendar — we are a couple days behind. Called my mom and cried as soon as I heard her voice. I met a sweet baby, born today.  I remembered Little Chap, my lovely grey and white cat, and I cried, knowing that I'll never forget him and hoping that I am forgiven.  Did the cryptoquip and crossword puzzle, both in pencil. Thought about my upcoming surgery and realized that sometimes denial doesn't work. I think of Jimi Hendrix, who would have been 70 this year. I think of the child I gave birth to in 1969; I saw her briefly and never again. Saw the funeral director walking into the optometrist's office in her black coat and felt sorry that she will never be able to wear a red coat. Taught my private client to meditate by counting his breaths up to twelve (instead of the conventional ten) because I am a maverick. Gave someone a present and signed it, "Love, Hanukkah Harry." I decided to start a new routine today and listened to the Writer's Almanac while still cuddled up in my coziest of all beds. I feel a bit like a reality TV star, recording the little details of my day for my own boring show. It's the last day of class, and I think I spot tears in my professor's eyes as he thanks us for the semester (or maybe I'm projecting). My heart jumps a little at 11:11, but then I realize I should wait until 12:12 to really get excited. I feel powerful and unstoppable, zooming downhill on my roommate's speedy purple road bike. Everything is foggy while I bike uphill, and I have a fleeting fantasy that something has happened to my eyes and I will never see clearly again. A well-dressed man lovingly massages the shoulders of a woman sitting next to me in the cafe, and though my back remains knotted, I feel less tense— as though I'm receiving a second-hand massage. I promised myself I would eat healthier today, but I could absolutely never turn down chocolate bread pudding with vanilla ice cream. I put a check mark next to each small task I accomplish. I re-discovered how helpful it is to speak out-loud (to myself, to my friends, to the shower head) in figuring out the mess in my head. Filled in the last empty box of the crossword; surprise, surprise the theme is 12/12/12. The little blue knit cap is sewn up, pompom attached, ready for Christmas Day giving. With coupons in hand, my husband and I head to the mall to buy gifts for ourselves. Math class: feeling lost and confused. Music class is alright and kind of easy since I'm very musical. My elective class is Stencil Art, we design our own stencils and print them on shirts and napkins. My mom surprised me by taking me to a see the Dave Matthews Band in Raleigh; so exciting; I died inside. After 12 weeks and 12 days I rather suddenly stopped being angry at someone. Grateful for this day and a reason to write.

Thank you, every one of you:
Amanda Coate, Ana Luisa Brady-McCullough, Ana Malina Ramanujan, Annemieke Ruina, Antonia Matthew, Barbara Cartwright, Barbara Force, Barbara West, Bill Holcombe, Bridget Alano, Carla DeMello, Carol Bossard, Chris Fontana, Chris Lemar, Debbie Allen, Donna Holt, Elaan Greenfield, Elissa Wolfson, Gary Russo, Gwen Glazer, Gwen Guo, Joan Victoria, John A. Yntema, Julia Grace Brewster Rosoff, Julie M. Weeks, June Wolfman, Karen Koyanagi, Karina Burbank, Kathleen Galland-Bennett, Kathleen Morrow, Kathleen Thompson, Kay Bacon, Kris Ebert-Wagner, Laura LaRosa, Laura Levinson, Lee Miller, Linda Keeler, Loretta Louviere, Lottie Sweeney, Lynne Taetzsch, Maggie Goldsmith, Margaret Strumpf, Martha Blue Waters, Marty Hiller, Maude Rith, Michael Lakin, Mira Vanek-Johnson, Nancy Gabriel, Natalie Detert, Peggy Adams, Perri McGowan, Phoebe Lakin, Phoebe Shalloway, Priscilla Walker, Rachel J. Siegel, Rose Pinnisi, Rosi Holcombe, Sara Brown, Sasha Paris, Seraphina Buckholtz, Sharon K. Yntema, Siouxsie Easter, Sophia Hiller, Stacey Murphy, Sue Hirschberger, Sue Norvell, Sue Perlgut, Summer Killian, Susan Koon, Susan Lesser, Sylvia Miller, Tara Shanti Kane, Victoria Boynton, Weiwei Luo, Will Koon, Yasmin Kassam-Jamal, Yvette Rubio, Zee Zahava 

Thursday, November 22, 2012

A Thanksgiving Letter, by Zee Zahava


Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.


Dear Ava,
I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: M-A-I-L  B-O-X. 
Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?
She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.
There was a lot of activity in the kitchen this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.” 
So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.
My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at one. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.
One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake. 



So now it is so much later, how did this happen? 
You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox,  hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you? 
There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.
This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving. 

Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.

Love, Dorrie

Friday, November 16, 2012

Milkweed Grey, by Peggy Adams


Camille, my painting teacher, says, “Never use black — you can get a much livelier color by mixing French Ultramarine and Burnt Sienna.”  She’s right — I drip water from my brush onto the dark blue watercolor pan to moisten it, then dab the thick dark mix into one of the little hollows in my white palette — I am painting dried milkweed pods, I need a lot of gray, so I wet and dab the blue, five or six good brush loads.  Then I dip the brush in water to clean it, and add more water to the blue until it livens up and shimmers. 
Rinse my brush again and dab it into Burnt Sienna.  I love Burnt Sienna.  When I was six, I called it “squirrel brown” — that reddy-brown, more the color of illustrations of squirrels in books, not the actual color of my Ohio squirrels, drab tipped with silver.
Maybe in third grade Burnt Sienna showed up in the crayon box, maybe that year we had twenty-four crayons in our boxes, three tiers of eight.  By then I had heard of St. Catherine of Sienna, who was supposed to be a saint with a sense of humor — I knew Sienna was a town somewhere, I saw it made of clay houses rising in tiers like the crayons in the box, layers of browny-red or reddy-brown houses, St. Catherine laughing — a good color, Burnt Sienna.
I load my wet brush with paint, and dabble the reddy-brown onto the rim of the hollow where my French Ultramarine swims — it could be the sea, maybe if I were a seagull riding the air, looking down on the sea off Marseilles, off the Cote d’Azur — ultramarine, the most sea-ish of the blues.
I let the Burnt Sienna sit there on the rim, and dip some water into it.  The browny-red loosens up — as the color diffuses, I see again the delicate transparency of watercolor. 
I begin to dribble the light red-brown into the darker blue. 
The colors blend.  Black forms, then softens, its intensity relaxes —the separate colors lose their distinction.  I know my thick creamy watercolor paper will take this new color and play with it, and I will see gradations of grey, some parts bluer, some parts browner.
I look at the back of the milkweed pod with its hundreds of shades of grey, its subtle striations.  The pod is dark beneath the least bit of silvery silky furriness.  It is curved like a whale, tapered like an elf’s cap, warty as an old tree trunk.  Its seams have the slightest borders, rims of darker brown.  Each bump, each curve, has its contrasting darks and lights.
I have fallen in love with the milkweed pod, and my grey is lively and waiting. 

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Reflections on Gray/Grey, by Natalie Detert, Perri McGowan, Molly Sutton


Drifting in Grey

Tarnished silver never bothered me
Nor the soot from the chimney sweep
Or the dust storm behind the couch
But the thought that I may never again
See dirty snow dripping from your boots
On the mat inside the front door
Left me dreaming in a sea of loneliness
Just before waking

—Natalie Detert


Gray dead branch, sticking into bare pink skin, leaves
Scarlet bloody mark leaves
Rusty scab and yellow bruise leaves
Purple shiny scar.
So much color from gray.

—Perri McGowan


Tibetan icicles will be forming soon 
in Dharamsala 
and I won't be there to acknowledge them. 
Have the thunderstorms arrived in full force? 
Can you see them gathering 
above the mountains in the distance, 
just waiting to flood the streets? 
Are the waters drenching your socks 
as they drenched mine? 
Is there a taxi waiting to take you home?

… … ...

People always talk about snowflakes floating lazily through the air and I have to wonder . . . maybe they're just tired. 

—Molly Sutton





Monday, November 12, 2012

Her Legacy, by Barbara Cartwright


65 pairs of shoes, 9 never worn.

33 clocks, all with different times.
16 coffee makers, and 5 more in the basement.
22 jars of raspberry jam, dated 1972.
8 cats and 1 dog. At one time.
Cat hair everywhere, strands too numerous to count.
354 balls of wool.
3 pairs of nylon stockings, all with runs.
1 padded chair with a remote to help her get in and out of it, elevate her swollen legs and recline into a more comfortable sleeping position.
106 quarters which become 26 dollars and 50 cents after she passes.
5 tapestry wall hangings, reproductions of the 18th century French painter Watteau.
Under one, an upright piano she has owned and played for 58 years.
33 sheets of paper covered with musical notations of songs she arranged or composed.
24 poems I cannot bear to read because they are filled with lies. Yet written with excruciatingly true feelings.
1 old British Pathé movie clip I play on my Ipad. She is 17, singing with her two younger brothers. It is 1937. Dead now 7 years, there she is, swaying to the music. And though we haven’t met yet, she reminds me of someone.
1 husband, mine for almost 28 years, who says I should stop writing about my mother.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

When I Sleep, by Sara Robbins


When I sleep I dream.

It happens a lot.

My brain sings to me during the night.

Dead people visit and make me cry,
or teach me a lesson.

Mean people make me angry and
I fly from them — 
swimming through
the sky, escaping.

Sometimes I have naked-in-public dreams,
or no-shoes-in-the-snow dreams.

But I always find a way out:

wrap myself in curtains or toilet paper
or wear boxes on my feet.

Or at the very least
awaken

to find myself
in my own bed,

heart racing,

and safe.



+++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++ +++



I opened the box and out came an envelope.

I opened the envelope and out came a photo.

I opened my eyes and out came my tears.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

My Father's Hands, by Susan Lesser


My father had aged visibly and his insistent allegiance to his own independence was pulling him toward isolation. He no longer drove at night, so outings to parties and meetings were curtailed. There were no opportunities for casual handshaking, a pat on the back, or a simple hug from a long-time friend. His grandsons, my sons, were too old now to climb on his lap for a reading of “Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel.” They no longer walked on either side of their grandfather, each holding his hand as the went to explore the Planets exhibit at the Ontario Science Centre. My mother was in her own sphere of privacy. Maybe she hugged him in the morning and shared a goodnight kiss, but I never saw it. As near as I could tell, no one ever touched my father anymore.

So, I thought, this needs to change somehow.

Dinner was in the small breakfast room off the kitchen. It was easier there and cozier. I sat to my father’s left. At some point in the conversation, lively as always, there was a pause in my father’s tale about trying to convince a horse hitched to a farm cart to back up. He put his hand on the table, just alongside his plate. I put mine gently, but noticeably, on his. “So what did you do?” I asked. He pulled his hand out from mine as he might have from a hot oven and shot me a glance that might have been a glare. He continued his story.

At 85 years of age, my father’s hands looked well-used, like the hands of an intrepid gardener should look. He had short fingernails and long elegant fingers with joints often swollen by arthritis. The blue veins on the back of his hands were prominent pathways and the skin was an uneven color. None of this was unlovely to me. I like the way hands age, reflecting a life of useful activity. 

The conversation moved on to other tales of derring-do. I noticed my father’s hand was back on the table, resting immobile, precisely where it had been when I dared to touch him. We were on to politics. "So, what do you think the Liberals in Quebec will do now?" I inquired, and again, I put my hand on his, only this time he didn’t move. He began his response, whatever it was, and I gave his hand a gentle pat as I withdrew into my own space. My father looked at me and smiled. 

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Ninety-two Degrees, by Barbara Cartwright


It was Sunday afternoon, around four o’clock, and most people in Lawrenceville were sitting around, relaxing on the porch, or in the shade of a tree, or inside the house, near a fan. Or two. Or three. Yes, it was hot all right. But it was summer. And the citizens of Lawrenceville tended to take life easy in July and August.

Lawrenceville could be so damp and rainy in the fall. And cold and snowy in the winter. And teasingly warm and sunny as spring approached. Then suddenly all wet and drizzly as that promised season receded, not yet April but oh-so-sick-of-March.

So today, despite the heat — the radio had said it was 92 degrees — people were content.

Or somewhat so. Because you see when you mix a lazy afternoon with warm air and nothing to do, you get time on your hands. And the mind begins to wander. The mind takes on a life of its own.

Cynthia Huxtable could not stop thinking about her ringless fourth finger. She moaned in despair: “I can’t even call it my wedding hand. It’s just my plain old left one. The one I don’t write with. Don’t play tennis with. Can’t open jars with. My left hand was born to be married. And here it is: ringless, purposeless, with nothing to do in August of 2012 and it’s friggin’ 92 degrees outside.”

The worst of it, Cynthia realized, was that she had no prospects. In her teens, she had dated at high school but never anyone in particular for too long. And come to think of it, it was always too long between anyone in particular.

Her choice of college had been a good one academically but it was an all-girls school so no groundwork had been laid in the Prince Charming department. Now here she was back in Lawrenceville, where there were no single men, not a one, unless you counted Mr. Richards down at the hardware store. Yuck. Who was even counting, she thought.

Across the street, Edna Louise was washing the last of the floury bits off her hands and preparing to put her two peach pies in the oven. She was bound and determined to win the Lawrenceville peach pie contest this year and refused to entertain even the slightest possible notion that Mrs. Garrett would take the blue ribbon yet again. Mrs. Garrett did not have her secret ingredient. Mrs. Garrett was getting forgetful. And Mrs. Garrett was . . . well all Edna Louise could think of was that even though Mrs. Garrett had won three years in a row, this year the Best Peach Pie in Overton County belonged to Edna Louise.

Twelve-year-old Bobby Martin, over on Millerton Circle, was preoccupied. He wasn’t thinking about pie. He had no intension of getting married ‘cause girls sucked, in his opinion. And right now all he could think about, as he sat under the big maple tree in his front yard and slammed his genuine autographed Chicago Cubs baseball into his well worn leather glove — the one his brother Todd had given him just last year before he signed up for what he called the war in Eye-Rack — was why Tommy Tupper had chosen to bicycle out to Carson’s pond with Richard and Tyler and those two new girls in town, Kaneisha and Alyessia, when this was the time they always, and I mean always — without fail! — played catch over at Riverton Middle School.

Thwack. That was the sound Bobby’s ball made as it landed in his glove, never missing that well-warn dent in the palm. Thwack. Never losing the beat. Thwack. Never breaking with Bobby’s hypnotic routine and maybe, just once, flying up into the air over Bobby’s head, which would require Bobby to look up, anticipate and gauge the arrival of said ball and stretch out his gloved hand. No, there was no chance of that happening. Not today.

Thwack. Bobby’s hand reached in to get the leather orb, raised it, threw it — with such intension — right back in. Thwack. Damn you Tommy Tupper, Bobby thought. Thwack. Damn you too, Tyler Wells. Thwack. Damn you Richard and Keneisha and Alyessia, or whatever your names are. Thwack. Damn you all to hell.

And then, without knowing why or how, Bobby looked up and over at his bike and wondered how long it might take him to ride on out to Carson’s Pond. It was 92 degrees, for Christ’s sake. Time to swim. Time to hang out with friends. And later it would be time to go downtown and eat peach pie. Now where had his mother put his swim trunks.

“Mom,” he yelled as he walked toward the house. “Where are ya?”