Ferocity in a Dishpan and the Teacup Manifesto, by V. J. Armstrong

Perhaps the ferocity in a dishpan was mine. I stood at the sink in my father's old home, my birth house, my childhood home, the only one I ever lived in until off to college and beyond, returning over the years, watching it diminish, him diminish, first my mother disappeared, then the cat, then the plants that couldn't take neglect, then finally it all. It all had to go.

I stood at the sink washing each teacup slowly. Deliberately. He had died only two weeks earlier, and the day before, I arrived at the house to find a dumpster in the driveway, and my brother's new stepson and friend chucking old furniture and clothes and molded curtains into it. The refrigerator in the laneway, the one collaged with wine bottle labels from cottage dinners, my mother's grand and lovely way of retaining happy memories of good times with family and friends, that old broken refrigerator that had stood for twenty plus years in the driveway beside the red brick wall of the old small suburban home, just standing there, being, not really causing any harm to anyone except those embarrassed by rundown things, it was now chucked. Unceremoniously into the dumpster. Like a lot of things will end up, I suppose. For who in their right mind mourns an old refrigerator?

When I found a few minutes later that they had already chucked my mattress, the bed I slept on when I came to visit, my little refuge in the far corner of the house, I lost it.

Like my mother I left. In silence I left. In a rage and a storm too furious to speak, I left. I drove first to the falls, where the river diverges alongside the canal, and there I sat and wept. And thankfully the water raged in its winter glory, smashing and tumbling across and down the rocks, acting out all the ferocity my world needed at that moment.

When I returned the next day they were gone. The house had been left for me to mourn in peace. They had noticed. Or perhaps I had even requested it. I don't recall.

Graced the one day to sort and sift through old things at my own pace, alone, I did what anyone in their right mind would do. I washed teacups. For hours. Each single and beautiful teacup, speckled with roses or lilies or violets, each with its special flowers, its unique design and history, its matching plate, I washed the dust and the neglected years off its body and revealed its singular beauty. Its shine.

Where did they come from, these delicate bodies, these relics of slower times? My mother told my sister who once finally told me. From girlfriends. They'd exchange teacups as birthday gifts. Or to honor a graduation, or the birth of a child. An important life event. So after I washed all these teacups I hand delivered them, leaving them on doorsteps, with notes, or using them as an excuse to get in a visit with every single friend of my mother's, twenty-two years after they'd seen her last.

(Note: The title of this piece comes from 2 different poems written by Molly Peacock and published in her collection "The Second Blush")

Moon Palace, by Rita Feinstein

I couldn’t decide where to move, so I moved to the moon. I found a nice craterfront property, a lonely promontory overlooking the Sea of Hope. I dug the foundation in white earth the consistency of cake batter, though I don’t know if lunar soil can be referred to as earth. I built the walls out of dinosaur bones — a spine for a banister, a jaw for a sconce, and for the entry hall, a lofty ribcage with plaster between the ribs.

I unrolled lush carpets down the corridors, streaking the gesso-smooth floors with bands of royal blue, royal red, royal purple. Everything royal. I carved scrolling molding into the walls of the throne room, punched holes through the wonderboard and filled them with stained glass pomegranate candy. Through them I can gaze upon the sea, a white-gold crater filled with shallow shadows.

I shaved strips of Milky Way from the sky and papered them to my ceilings with a bucket of glue and dewdrops. It’s always raining in my throne room, a fine, frothy gauze that gets nothing wet. It beads on the blooms of my crystal beds — spears of citrine and sapphire proliferating in loamy troughs sunk into the floor. It glistens on the floor-to-ceiling freshwater pearls encrusting the wall behind the throne itself.

The throne is solid sea glass, limpid turquoise, with a plum-colored cushion stuffed with puffin down. It stands alone on a raised dais made of salt bricks that do not dissolve in the lingering mist. It’s just for show, of course. I never actually sit in it. I spend most of my time in the library, a perfect cylinder drilled deep through the moon’s crust and into its frosty core. Here there are no mass-market paperbacks, no Dolphin Doubleday editions of anything, no inflexible spines or covers where the author’s name is as big as the title. There is one book I can only find when I’m not looking for it, a children’s book filled with illustrations of impossible sea creatures. Mostly I read literature infused with magical realism, and as I read I drink chamomile-valerian tea that lulls me lucid-dreamily inside the book as I fall asleep on its open pages. I don’t like chamomile and I’ve heard valerian tastes like cat urine, but that’s okay because the tea tastes like inch-thick buttercream melting into a warm cinnamon roll. There is always plenty of cinnamon in my house. The kitchen itself is buttressed with beams of cinnamon sticks, and the saltshakers are filled not with salt, but with cinnamon sugar.

I’d invite guests over for dinner if only they enjoyed caramelized onions as much as I do. But I prefer eating alone at a simple wooden table in a room with no distractions. I can be distracted elsewhere, and I can get elsewhere on the quaint little train whose rails run at Escheresque angles through my house. The engineer, I’m sure, is a charming animal in pinstriped overalls, but I’ve never seen his face. I just rely on him to transport me to the sandy-bottomed swimming pool where I can breathe underwater, the fantasy toyland where my stuffed animals have forgiven me for not playing with them since I was twelve, the anti-nausea anti-gravity room, the lighthouse, the ice garden, the gift shop, the wishing well, the unicorn stables, the zoo, the aquarium, and the bedroom that absorbs nightmares and spits them out as butterflies.

Some nights I climb the stairs to the observatory and train my telescope on earth. I feel an airless ache in my chest as I observe the steamy, blue-green marble rolling around its mindless orbit. How can something so small cast such a big shadow? As it blunders across the sun, it plunges the moon into darkness, slice by glittering slice. Once I felt a sense of betrayal. Now I feel almost-relief. What I can’t see, I can’t miss. Besides, I have a kingdom to look after now. 

A Pastiche of Titles, by Rachel J. Siegel

Rachel composed this delightful piece about Mona Lisa by interspersing the titles of recently published books (listed in the Daedalus Books catalog) into her tale.

I confess, I've always felt a kinship with the Mona Lisa and wondered about that mysterious smile of hers. 

Was she just holding in some gas, an inconvenient burp perhaps? Or did she hide her power, her un-maidenly ambition, behind that docile smile? Was she perhaps ambivalent, undecided about the color of the new curtains, or was she just plain bored, pretending to be gracious and mysterious?

And those eyes, following you no matter where you stood; a secret kept, a watchfulness. Some said I looked like her, at times when I was most unlike myself, holding an artificial pose of self-confidence. 

Who was she, the real Mona Lisa? What would she have done with the toss of a lemon; how would she have responded to this natural disorder of things? Would she have been relieved to give up her pose, that calm pretense? Would she have been jarred out of that hidden inheritance of genteel femininity? And then again, would she have known how to slice an onion, or was that task always left to unseen kitchen maids; would she even have known what an onion looked like, or what to do with it, or how to find the five spice street, down in the market section where the poor folks slept and ate, or shopped for their mistresses?

     

She lived in the perfect house on the sweeter side of the city, where private lives were protected from public scrutiny, where rare and precious things were carefully collected and at times displayed, away from the Bridge of Sighs. She had never shown her diary of a bad year to anyone, never acknowledged the right mistake made so long ago, once on a moonless night when she had followed the water and discovered the secret of the miniature rose. She liked to sing songs without words . . .

But stop me if you've heard this one.

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.