Shattered Prose

The Writer's Liar

2012-02-16T00:15:00.002-05:00

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” ~ Oscar Wilde

“When I write, I’m not deaf.”

Was I lying or is it my belief, my fiction, my little white lie, which makes this true in a sense? For odd reasons this presented a conundrum for me recently; on some level I felt like the liar (the writer) hiding behind her words. Writing doesn’t remove my disability; to a few readers, my words might be more descriptive in place of hearing. Others believe it’s not an absolute priority or needed to write. Both hold an element of truth. Each person has their own truth they take away from a single blanket statement, in this case my bold altruism of believing I’m not deaf (at least when I write).

Truth is such a relative controversy when it comes to writers; we ply our trade by being imaginative, conniving liars. You shouldn’t trust us writers, we can spin a tale like no other and not only will you believe us, you’ll be asking for more.

Am I deaf?

Proficient liars one and all, even the non-fiction sort. Confused? Whenever someone tells a story or recalls events no matter how true or fact based, they may be - they’re still telling ‘their’ version of the truth. So are we all liars – manipulative culprits you really shouldn’t trust or believe a single word uttered out of our mouths? What if I told you, underneath every lie, a thread of truth can be found. Aha, let’s close that vault full of philosophical arguments before we get off track.

Oscar Wilde wrote, “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

I’m not deaf when I write…change the order of words and the truth outs itself. Every single writer I know writes truth into their fiction; we create the characters and give them personalities based on our own observations, beliefs, and imaginations. We thread the story with emotional density and experiences from our lives. Life lessons are the creation behind the storyteller’s voice. Readers and listeners take those stories and interpret them into something they recognize, until they are no longer the writer’s truths, but their own.

For example, take the woman running the cash register, who yanked her hand away from mine instead of giving me my change, simply because I said I was deaf. In her reality, deafness is contagious. You can bet at some point she’s going to show up in a book somewhere. Better yet the neighbors who become watchdogs duplicating my actions, hairstyle, and clothing like automatons with no personality of their own (aliens maybe) – once again my truth, which becomes your fiction.

Each of us, caught in our worst lie will give away the truth in some form. Writers do it better, we’re sales clerks selling the biggest lie of all and asking you to extend believability to what you’re reading. Who knows…you might find me hidden somewhere in the story. I hope not, if I’m any good at all, you bought the lie hook, line, and sinker.

In the end…I’ll always be deaf. Writing gave me the tools to hear through noise, sound, and music descriptions. A match made in heaven wouldn’t you agree? On this playing field, I hear just fine. Sometimes our biggest lie, is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Picture from here.

About a Dog

2012-01-31T23:51:00.002-05:00

“I am chained to the earth to pay for the freedom of my eyes. ~Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943

I found Pickles curled up in the empty alcove pouting, where the Christmas tree used to be. She wouldn’t even look at me, turning away shifting her head from one paw to the other. With my heart in my throat, I slid down the wall beside her and pulled her chin up on my outstretched legs. She muzzled my hand in apology, confused by her own behavior.

For Pickles, the Christmas tree’s beacon of bright colorful lights has disappeared, gone were those days of curling beneath branches mesmerized by the dazzling luminosity. Charcoal black eyes full of questions search my face for answers. She senses love, momentarily forgetting tree lights and the luxury they afforded her darkening world as I hug her close.

“We make a pair – a deaf woman and her blind dog. You’re so much more than a working dog, always have been.” I whisper reassuring. “We’ll get through this, together.” She perks up at the mention of work. She lives to work and it serves twofold as the reason for her distress lately. Little does she comprehend I could never repay all she’s done already. Gentle sweet Pickles hid the signs well. Yet, the signs were there weren’t they sweet friend - the slow darkening of your eyes with a hazy sheen dimming their brown luminosity, along with the deteriorating night vision.

Pickles told me without words she needed help the day she stood at the top of the stairs with her front paws on the top stair and her hind legs perched on the floor above waiting. Her confusion gave it away, as she cocked her head to listen, waiting for me to go first – to lead, instead of bounding down the stairs ahead of me like the puppy she was at heart. I knew something had changed as I swiped at tears. I knew things would never be the same again when I tapped the step I stood on, and watched her listen, tuning into each footfall to locate a stair, teaching herself how to handle stairs once again. I learned a heartrending beautiful lesson in humility that day from her.

As I sit beside her, I’m reminded of the first time she taught me to hear without my ears. The Spring day she pointed out a woodpecker in a tree, her eyes guiding mine to where the bird tapped away in a staccato like a pile driver and the utter delight she had shown - chest puffed up, prancing on her front paws when I smiled in wonder and hugged her close. In the following years, I would continue to hear through her, seeing life not as a deaf woman but whole, unhindered through her eyes - eyes, which slowly darken and blur with each passing day. We two complete each other. This animal taught me more thoroughly about life and resilience than any human being could ever have.

Time is a thief, stealing irreplaceable things from our lives. Yet, Pickles remains a testament to the things time can’t touch: hope, courage, love, and perseverance. Despite loss and occasionally wanting to give up, we still go on, we still learn from one another, and hold each other up in an indelicate balance of emotional turbulence to the light of day.

Drawing a deep breath, I gently push Pickles off my lap and go get her leash. I’ll let her nose sniff out where we go from here. This survivor of Katrina, heartworms, and me, has more courage than anyone I know - she’ll be fine, we both will, and someday our story might even make a remarkable book. After all, life is filled with colorful characters and plots overflowing to the brim with life experiences and endurance. This writer lives her story word for word each day with an amazing sidekick…

The Sound of Memory

2012-01-26T00:26:00.003-05:00

“These images in vivid and violent tones have resulted from (the) crystallization of memories.” – Henri Matisse

Pickles sits up, rapt, her concentration focused on the driveway with her ears up listening. After a few seconds, her back relaxes, she turns toward me her eyes asking if I knew what alarmed her – tires crunching on gravel from a car pulling in the driveway, the motor purring in reverse as it backs up to turn around, a quiet throttle when the car drives off. Satisfied she settles back down and closes her eyes. I thought nothing of the distraction and went back to reading over my revisions for my book.

As I read, something niggled away at my thoughts…gravel crunching, motor purring, the click-clack of pebbles knocking together, the muted roar of the wind through the trees. I couldn’t breathe, left speechless by an avalanche of sound. Not hearing sounds, memories of sounds, sounds I used to pick up. I skimmed back over the chapter I had just read - there were no sounds.

I had become so accustomed to filling in the blanks when it came to hearing, I automatically used visual metaphors in their place; body movements became emotional indicators, missing sounds were laced in physical backdrops. All of these things together had painted a panorama of all the senses but sound. With words, I had managed to bring my world, a world absent of sound, alive. Would anyone have noticed eventually? Maybe, maybe not... if you close your eyes and plug up your ears, on some level you still hear those everyday sounds - water dripping from the faucet, the dog panting, the cat’s vibrato throaty meow, or the creak of wood floors underneath. You know they’re there without me telling you. Just as Pickles’ reaction alerted me to a car turning around in the driveway.

We automatically equate certain sounds with items or places, when we're given a visual perspective our sensory memories kick in to fill in the blanks. There are five senses in which a writer can delve into – hearing, sight, touch, smell, and taste. Is it possible for sensory overload to the point of telling not showing when writing? Definitely. So in the end does sound matter? I think hearing is one of top five senses when it comes to describing something. Sound connects the writer and reader on a familiar stage. I remember sounds, voices, echoes carried between the space of two people. I intend to use all the tools at my fingertips to broaden my world and yours…with the sound of memory.

On a separate note: I wanted to share the song - Broaden a New Sound by Nobody & Mystic Chords of Memory. A perfect fit for this post. The music is a blend of psychedelic and groovy, or so I read. Smashing Pumpkins comes to mind with that description, you’ll have to look up Nobody & Mystic Chords of Memory and let me know. I’ve included the lyrics for your enjoyment.

Broaden a New Sound

A walk sounded good,
maybe find an old bench made of wood.
There I could look around.
Bring up all the things that were bringing me down
and let go, so let go
Let go. Let go.
Broaden a new sound.
The wind, a bird and a broken branch
You'd like to hold it down
but it only knows ears
and it doesn't know hands

Picture from here

Growth Is Optional

2012-01-18T10:08:00.002-05:00

“The lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master.” – Khalil Gibran

The rain pounds down on the house in torrents throwing speckled shadows across the walls from gray-lit windows. I can’t help but relax in a state of quiet enjoyment, while watching the pellet stove fire blaze crimson and burnt umber. Solitude is preferable these days after the mad rush of holiday glee and New Year symbolism thrust upon me. Not to mention the changes that wrought themselves into the mix of realism.

Changes you say, surely for the better right? Not if you’re a creature of habit, who likes her comfort zone a little too much.

If we want to get downright literal about what exactly a comfort zone is, the Collins World Dictionary gives this definition – n a situation or position in which a person feels secure, comfortable, or in control. Now why in the world would someone, anyone want to give that up? The self-effacing answer - your comfort can become stagnant to the point of imprisonment, locked in a set of safe guards that block any chance of growth. When we get too comfortable, we stop challenging ourselves, don’t aspire for much, and our boundaries shrink considerably.

Turns out, our prison guard is none other than fear rapping against the bars whenever we consider trying something new or challenging. I’m sadly familiar with my prison guard – me. No one else can step over the boundaries I created for myself or sequester me away from knowledge, want, fortitude and growth. We’re supposed to build safeguards to protect ourselves, not to hinder us from enriching our lives.

The latest computer virus tested the boundaries of my comfort zone like you wouldn’t believe. Favorite programs were outdated and disabled. I had no choice, learn something new or stay locked into a system of fail going nowhere fast. Here’s the thing, as much as I don’t like change, I resent the ‘boxed in and giving up’ option even more. I learned a valuable lesson adapting to my deafness – I own my choices, they’re mine and mine alone to make.

Sometimes the simplest things wreak havoc with our comfort zones. There’s nothing wrong with simple days and moments of contentment, as long as you don’t use those very tools to keep you from moving forward and living in fear of what’s around the corner. Honestly, there are days I’m afraid to walk out the door, I’m afraid of newfangled programs on my laptop, or keeping up with technology, and silence, and love and loss, and yes, there are days words and my ability to wield them frighten me. Fear is an ingrained part of us all; don’t let it be your prison guard. Life is far too short to limit the breadth of your accomplishments.

Today…amid the comfort of a roaring fire, with a warm pup at my feet, I brandished words against my fears. I’ve stepped outside of my comfort zone in search of knowledge, life, mystery – the list is endless. Words still scare the hell out of me, but I’m determined to conquer each one in a tableau of prose. You are what you want to be, I’m a writer, I broke out of my comfort zone…did you?

*On a side note: I stopped using IE (Internet Explorer). Readers who are using IE are encountering problems leaving a comment on the embedded form. One option available is to download either Google Chrome or Firefox as a backup. If you do download one or the other and still want IE as your prominent browser, don’t click the default option when you download and IE should still remain the default. You will simply need to switch over to either Chrome or Firefox to browse Blogger. I hope this helps my IE readers.

I’m always open to receiving comments through email at ravensquietscreams@gmail.com . In addition, I can now reply to comments left in the comment section, thanks to a new option for Blogger users using the embedded comment form.

Image from here.

Like Water by Stone

2012-01-07T21:54:00.001-05:00

“The pages, in the wind, flew, were fluffed and ruffled like water by stones into a tune.”
– Lynn Emanuel

As years end approached, I found myself kicking furiously at the metaphorical hands clasped around my ankles tormenting me like a whirlwind hell-bent against a lone leaf left on a skeletal tree limb.

Falling was not an option; stumbling in giddy enthusiasm as I escorted the year out was definitely a possibility. Of course, the days dragged and lagged one into another and I held my breath hoping the other shoe forgot to drop. *Friends rallied around exclaiming 2012 would be my year. “My year?” I snarled at the black screen in front of me, after discovering my computer had given me a virtual middle finger salute in the form of a ‘malicious virus’.

A lone leaf wafts down…

The following days would split the current of my emotions as if gravel skipped ashore and tumbled into gemstones forged of quiet repose and forgotten moments. Days made of quiet self-satisfied smiles learning new recipes and enjoying the scent of decadent aromas wafting up from the stove. Moments spent beside a pup as she grumbled and snorted in her sleep farting, only to wake up to my groans of protest and laughter; coupled by breathless days of gentle snowfall powdering bare branches and the grass in a linen sheet of cotton tufts. Waves of euphoria rose and hurtled against the shore of uneasy resolve, like a turbulent sea flowing into a rambling brook parting over river stones of promise.

I was going to attempt to write about a year of my life (which I found impossible to condense). A year not so easily dismissed once memory serves to remind me of the tranquility submerged between the waves of who I am. Lynn Emanuel wrote, “My spelling faltered under the spell of myself.” – I know that feeling and as long as I live a life filled with an aria of words, each year will be my year.

A rumpled leaf waves playfully through the windowpane, dancing to the tune of the winds cadence before disappearing…

*You can find Lynn Emanuel’s poem Item: here in all its exquisite, curious beauty.
** To those well-meaning friends, thank you for reminding me of what’s important, even if I need a push in the right direction from time to time.

Picture can be found here.

The Spirit of the Season

2011-12-21T18:12:00.004-05:00

“I heard the bells on Christmas Day; their old familiar carols play, and wild and sweet the word repeat of peace on earth, good-will to men!” – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The picture above is my Christmas tree this year, which is pretty much the same view from one year to another, with the exception of ornaments playing merry-go-round and trading places. The framed mural behind the tree blinded by the brilliance of multi-color lights is an electric guitar beside the words ‘When Words Fail, Music Speaks’.

To my deaf ears music is the twining of the chords played upon an individual’s spirit, the basis for our compassion, dreams, hopes, and most of all our actions. The mural says more about the holiday season to me than the tree itself. You see, regrettably I sometimes forget the simple truths around me on display all throughout the year and conspire with Grinch like devotion to fill the space beneath the tree to overflowing. ‘When Words Fail, Music Speaks’ – with a Grinch’s heart I silence my spirit, those inner chords with murmurs of more this and more that, until I’m bereft of any music at all and undeniably words have failed.

A kind word from a stranger or loved one strikes a chord from within, a helping hand and a bit of compassion strums a few more chords and ‘Music Speaks’. Perhaps there is no true season for giving, maybe it’s a little bit more - a reminder of what we can give of ourselves the whole year long. This season, this year, in this moment...listen to the twang of your fellowman’s spirit playing loud and clear and add your own to the orchestra of life. Without a doubt, you’ll leave a more lasting impression than anything else found under the tree.

“When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow, we hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago, and etched on vacant places are half-forgotten faces of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know.” – Ella Wheeler Wilcox

From my spirit to yours,
Merry Christmas! I’ll see you in the New Year sweet friends!
Indigo Ravenwood

November Ballast

2011-11-20T18:34:00.004-05:00

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain. – Mary Frye

November curdled into being soon after tripping over October, only to lose her autumnal identity to December’s bully impatience given to squalls of snow talcum. One month clumsily falls and drifts into another and I’m lost in between seasons of warring transgression. These turbulent months are threaded heavy by limbs of holiday cheer or digress - whichever tempura fits. I’m left adrift among words weather weary in nature and floundering in spiritual ether.

In a slow procession the nearby woodland disappeared under bulldozers and backhoes and all I can envisage are the years it takes for a single tree to root and thicken with bark. The view became a barren mud lake, missing her children’s limbs which used to vie for skyline. Children - yes, for all that grows is a sentient life in it’s own right; the earth a mother whose womb they shared. The pup’s chest rumbles in a whine beside me in spiritual discourse which passes from dog to woman – our shared pain for what was once a forest. She looks up at me searching for reasoning I don’t have and I apologize for the ilk of human cudgel.

And I find the backhoe of my imagination can’t seem to dig deep enough for words. Leaving me to wonder, has desire mined my intelligence to the point, I'm left with nothing more than a barren slate - a muddy expanse of word sludge? Did I cultivate the depths and forget my morality and emotional sentience? Words are structured like tree limbs entwined into a forest of sentences and paragraphs like woodland husbandry. The writer in me must learn to plow gently and weave between the soil of soul and prose, without up heaving the basic foundation of natural nuance and wonderment.

In the forest of my imagination words dance like fey crossing the void into reality and I write a never ending tree line of wordage against humanities angst. So if November sank her hooks deep in a ballast of inspiration; will December herald what words convey in secret places of the heart?

*Click on Link for Mary Frye's poem "Do Not Stand at my Grave And Weep"

Picture found here.

The Woods

2011-10-31T16:06:00.008-04:00

"When it comes time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.” - Chief Aupumut, Mohican. 1725

The woman screamed in anguish, fist pumping against her chest, “What are you doing! Stop…stop can’t you hear their screams!” She dropped to her knees in the middle of the clearing and crawled toward them begging, “What have you done? The forest bleeds…”

Rough hands dragged her away.

“Stupid Indian hag! Go home with your superstitious bullshit.” A man yelled after her, following close behind waving a wad of papers in hand. “Land’s mine brought and paid for. Git out of here and don’t come around here no-more!” He sneered, eyes gloated with victory. Dumb Injun actually thought he’d leave the trees standing. Lies, all lies.

He was privy to the rumors circulating through town, about the wild woman who rescued strays by the edge of the forest. Animals that is, not people. She stayed to herself, preferring the company of trees and beast over neighbors. The new land owner let loose a hard laugh; Too bad witch, to each his own.

To each his own, the raven haired woman whispered, tears streaming down her face. Her chant lifted by the wind, flew swiftly toward the four directions. With a dagger she carved her plea in blood upon her skin. While whispers echoed in the ears of ancestors long gone and those yet to be born. She called forth the forest phantoms each by their sacred name; she called them one and all.

In the silence which followed, the moonlight vanished behind a storm cloud of raven wings carrying the old ones answer. They descend in darkness to flood the woman’s mouth – choking, devouring her soul as they plundered the depths of what remained of her human shell. Her loyal dog ran the gamut and jumped into the swirl of wings and darkness; only to be swallowed whole. At night’s end a beautiful creature stood muddied and half skinned, a rabid beast beside her. For vengeance has its price…

Don’t go in the forest, for the forest contains secrets best left alone. The deeper you stroll; chances are you’ll come across the savage undead. With a demented smile, she’ll greet you warmly before tearing out your throat and leaving the remains for her loyal companion.

The woods they bleed no more.

"I cured with the power that came through me. Of course, it was not I who cured, it was the power from the Outer World, the visions and the ceremonies had only made me like a hole through which the power could come to the two-leggeds." - Black Elk, Oglala

*A bit of fun this Halloween. Pictures are thanks to MakeMeZombie.com. No animals were hurt in this retelling.

From One Coffin to Another

2011-10-17T15:00:00.003-04:00

'Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world…Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

The above quotes belong to none other than William Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe. Don’t they make a haunting compilation - interesting dinner guest you’d invite to the table on All Hallows Eve? This time of year is fertile ground for a host of dead poets and authors to frighten one’s muse out of hiding.

Do you hear the chalkboard on nails screeching at the window, making the hair curl on the back of your neck and sending a chill up your spine like a Latino ghoul dancing a salsa? I do, shrill, bone deep enough for even my deaf ears. My candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye. (Mary Shelley)

Ah, but why take up company with the dead. Dead is dead. Besides they can always be dug up for a macabre dance or a séance. Why not visit with other dreadful (ghoul inspiring) writers of the uncanny and destitute or just plain horrifying? The living versions of course, although truly…frightening personas in their own rights. How do you come about such an invite? I’ll be glad to twist your spine and help decapitate all remaining brain cells of sanity…by sending you here --> The Coffin Hop. A place where you’ll find the likes of Anthony J. Rapino, Milo James Fowler, Aaron Polson - danse macabre friends of my muse, among others.

Oh, alright already, I’ll tell you what the Coffin Hop is, since apparently I twisted your spinal column a little (just a tad) too hard and cut off a few synapses. To be frank, you get a chance to visit multiple horror writers October 24-31st for a thrill fest of a time. Some I’ve heard are even offering up a few treats in place of tricks. To be honest, I would prefer a trick that would freeze a scream in my throat, but that’s me. No, no, there will be nothing from yours truly. I prefer to wait and skin myself alive down to pulsing vein and muscle sometime in the future. *Sly grin* You had no idea? Oh, you poor soul. It’s always the most innocent one you need to watch out for.

“I could not help feeling that they were evil things - mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss.” H.P. Lovecraft (Still visiting with the old ones, go on already breathe new life into the fresh bait).

Changing Skins

2011-10-09T20:42:00.002-04:00

“I wake up, heart up my throat, a fear taste - getting ready for the changing skin.” Anne Marie Macari

The seasons eclipse and September’s damp foray crashes into autumn's crisp decay. Summer’s strangle hold on my muse unfurls one varying hue at a time. Almost overnight her green foliage gave up the ghost of a season and began dressing in shades of burgundy, gold, and burnished orange.

Breathe deep.

“In this everywhere of blunt and soft sinking, I am the heavy hollow snared.” Deborah Landau

An autumnal day where the musky summer warmth is wrestled in one last tussle to the earth and the road winds higher, lending autumn her due. Jaco Pastorius’s Opus Pocus serenades the warm scent of burnished leaves as they twist and turn in downward spirals and shades of rust grow deeper still. A woodland’s invite to the heart of the mountains sun dappled rapture.

Breathe deep. The writer begins to stir…

Summer’s opulence peels back to skin and bare bones grafted with a season’s worth of words. Bone deep the muse engraves her characters and instills them with life. Awaken psyche, the day grows late. Time for a change of skin - a costume of layered leaves and twigs with which to dance among the woodland sprites in autumn’s ballroom.

Breathe deep. Life is intoxicating. It’s also the essence and the soul of the writer’s muse.

Season’s change - What skin are you wearing and do you possess the courage to disrobe and expose that which needs changing? I’m learning. - Indigo

(Curious - how I would know what this sounds like since I'm deaf? It has to do with the acoustics inside a car and vibrations bouncing off every surface.)

Picture From Here

Words Float

2011-09-17T20:02:00.001-04:00

“There are intangible realities which float near us, formless and without words; realities which no one has thought out, and which are excluded for lack of interpreters.” -
Natalie Clifford Barney

Words float in the space between two sets of deep brown eyes staring at one another almost nose to nose. In the muted glow of the bedside lamp, a cold black nose buries itself in long tendrils of hair smelling the essence of the woman she adores. She in turn, smiles and wraps her arms around the warm fur of the pup and pulls her close in an embrace. Quiet serenity rises to the surface of connection and floats on the dim cascades of light dust upward – spreading out beyond words.

A woman sits in the midst of flood debris on a kitchen chair in her yard, chin cradled in the palm of her hand. Heartbreak etches lines across her features, weighing her shoulders weary. The heavy sigh that escapes chokes in a spiral of clay and mud becoming airborne. I watch for a moment more as the car drives past and will words to strengthen and float on hope. In quiet defiance she still breathes. Words float between strangers in the intervals of reality.

A light chill kisses tender lips as they breathe in the crisp evening. Waves of cotton strata weave a cloak across the fading skyline. Bombast green leaves are red rimmed losing defiance against the coming autumn. My nose wrinkles at the cloying smell of crabapples rotting beneath heavy limbs. Before long deer will arrive and strip the foliage of the remaining fruit. I wrap the grandfather sweater tighter around me like a glove as if that alone could squeeze the words forth - words which quietly simmer in the silence, cloaked in my safe haven of fortunate.

Words float intangible, touching down on lives we’ve lived, spaces we’ve been, and memories which either soothe or strangle. They exist in between one heart beat and another, in second hesitations between breathing and holding on. Sometimes even writers can’t possibly interpret these passages floating down upon them in a space of a few words. We can’t dispute the essence which quivers on the tips of our tongues and leaves us mute. This knowledgeable existence of words is formless and entwined, paused amid moments.

The lexis between you and I, our unspoken vocabulary - spent a summer marinating in wisdom, speculation, and life. My words are adrift; here’s to hoping they find a delicate landing between my brown eyes and yours like the warm fur of a gentle pup.

*Dedicated to all the people in the neighboring area who recently lost homes and livelihoods in the Upstate NY floods. May your grace and courage continue to outshine the debris. - Indigo

Picture found here

Sketches of Humanity

2011-07-22T17:39:00.002-04:00

“A bad book is as much of a labor to write as a good one, it comes as sincerely from the author's soul.” – Aldous Huxley

“We give in to our fears by small degrees” the quote began. I stopped rifling through the pages of my notebook and continued to read. “For all our bravery it won’t stop the world from changing in the blink of an eye. We come away different, changed in subtle ways. Life is the teacher who first taught us there are no guarantees or warnings to duck when we’re sucker punched out of left field. Instinct or impulse, who’s to say why we take the hand we’re dealt and make the most of it. An act ingrained in our humanity much like breathing with each unconscious inhale and exhale which escapes our lungs.”

In retrospect I realized this paragraph described me; the whole context of what, how, and why I write. The guts of what I strive to explore in words, the pain, survival, and hardship underlining my every waking moment. The want and need to understand why something brings someone joy or awakens a smile. For every action there must be a reaction, a need to know how you got from point A to point B, without some miraculous injection of surrealism.

Keep this in mind while I mention a book I recently read that didn’t quite…mesh well with me. One of those feel good books, with pages drenched in sappy, too good to be true plot lines throughout. No, I won’t mention which book. You’ll discover why soon enough. Although not my usual fare, I still read the book all the way through. Why? I think in the end, I wanted to try to understand why the author wrote the book to begin with. Why not disperse a bit of pain and agony, along the way to give each emotion a worthy contender and a reason to be appreciated?

Every book that is written has some deep rooted catharsis of the writer enmeshed beneath the words. Take away the believability and reality from the equation and what is left? Did the author need to write this book for an escape, a diversion from life? My experience tells me reality is stranger than fiction, so imagination alone isn’t enough of a directive to explain away the cheat sheet of happily ever after fairytale ending. I want to see the characters earn that ending.

Without a doubt someone will have read this book and found substance where I found none.

Do we read to escape or to better understand and grasp a different viewpoint of life? Everyone takes what they need from between the pages of a book.

Reasoning is always peppered throughout the bold overview beneath words unspoken on a page, if we look. Yet words alone don’t quite encompass the whole, do they? We tend to take what we need from words. The mediocre becomes a balm to fear and pain, comedy a filter against heartbreak and stress, and horror grinding reality into bone.

Hence the quote beginning this post, “A bad book is as much a labor to write as a good one.” A gift of words in any format isn’t to be taken lightly. I won’t judge a book, I’m more likely to explore the author. What I will do is write for me, plant echoes of myself between the words, and someday get read by someone who found substance between the pages…when someone else might not. And maybe, someone will even have the same view of something I wrote such as the book I couldn’t fathom. Words hold secrets entrapped between the pages, treasure troves for individual discretion. How deep will you dig between the lines? - Indigo

Picture From Here

Storms of Thought

2011-06-19T20:26:00.002-04:00

“Life does not consist mainly, or even largely, of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thought that is forever flowing through one’s head.” Mark Twain

The cell phone sits like dead weight sinking through ropey tendon and scraped bone to the depths of the woman and the hand that held it. Her heartbeat is a frantic cacophony threatening to burst her ribcage, ripping fibrous tissue and skin until her fear is exploited.

“In the end the decision is yours to make.” They always say that don’t they, she thought, as if she had a choice to begin with. When in reality only one existed.
“What would you recommend if it were your wife in my place?”
“Surgery, this will only get worse over time.”
Faced with the point blank question, her doctor didn’t have any reason for subterfuge.

The phone slides from her hand, bouncing off the surface of the coffee table with a jarring thud. Remember this, she tells herself. When this is all over remember every single detail and ache.

***

The mirror seldom lies, she thought staring at her reflection. Here and there streaks of gray belayed an age her face thankfully didn’t betray. She captures a few strands and fingers them gently. This she can do something about, making a mental note to buy hair dye and fix the faux passe before surgery. Gray hollow ovals encircle her brown eyes giving them a deeper depth. Sleep wasn’t exactly a friend these days, toying with emotions and stress like a jugglers balls threatening to crash down at any minute.

Her mouth pulls into a half grimace, scrunching up one cheek. Is this how she would write the wait and outcome; with this mock determination to make the most of things, while befriending denial until the inevitable? Is she supposed to keep a brave face and bald face lie in the face of courage?

“You’ll heal.” She tells the twin in the mirror. Remember this. The woman realizes bravado lies to the face of the heart, reality writes things far differently.

Would I have written this part into the story…I’m not so sure.

***

The laptop slams shut with a disgruntled curse. What else did they want from her? How many forms and pleas for help before they relinquished control back to her? How can they leave her with nothing? Those were her words, her contacts, and followers. She worked hard to build some of those relationships and now in one fell swoop she was cut off. Her stomach gurgled threatening to spew, is this how it felt to be heartsick?

None of this had been her fault. The hacker left her feeling violated and raped of control. The worst, the utmost worst, she was cut off from her words. Words with substance and experience, those utterances of bravado she knew she had at one time and needed more than ever.

“Stupid asses!” The angry tirade poured out of her. The weeks of worry and stress bubbled over to full fledged outrage.

Remember this; the vulnerability and sense of utter helplessness that overcomes you - the loss and anger. Remember it exactly like this; scathing hatred and tears.

***

Life registers close to the heart. Everything around us is a character study on life. The fount in which we slice a vein and find substance for words, those mirrored life experiences - begin with the writer (the heart) and echo outward.

The above experiences could be anyone. Their reactions might not be shared ones. The question is did you feel anything? Did I manage to put you in the woman’s shoes even for a moment? If I did then I’ve succeeded – if not, I have my work cut out for me. I will say this though; sometimes the outcome is never quite what we expect. - Indigo

Picture From Here

Voracious Details

2011-06-04T22:09:00.001-04:00

“Knowledge of an apparently trivial detail quite often makes it possible to see into the depth of things.” - Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Bleach limbs stick out stark and naked like bones against the thriving summer green foliage of trees beside the desiccated birch. A gaunt and ugly eyesore - the noble sentinel refuses to give up his guard and place among the forest; drying moans of slick bark, stretching sunward and challenging the wind’s torment. Is the lone birch’s bravery lost among the mass of fawning perfection?

***

A rivulet of perspiration rolls down my neck, pausing in place until the oscillating warm air from the fan sweeps by, before gliding down a tendril of loose hair, and rolling toward t-shirt absorption. Eyes blink with salt tethers of heat haze and drone lazily across the floor to settle on fur puddles lazing traverse floor boards. A breathe escapes with a heavy pull and tug of lungs, as I grasp to breathe slow and steady against the weight of condensation. Summer’s tyranny is heat induced.

***

Hair windblown from the open window, the cool current carries the scent of deep woods; the kind of deep wood where the sun barely slants between leaden limbs of towering pine and oak. Moist, dark, soil deep scents, shades of sun blockers in a lost sea of branches and ferns. Ominous patches of dark back roads winding ever deeper into the depths of the mountain’s basement. Before falling into shadows gloam the road begins to spiral heavenward, desperate to catch the height of a crow’s flight.

Plowed fields span the girth of heaven, doused in a fermenting storm front. The breathless vista of far mountains bathed in mist hurts the heart. Nature calls with the spirit of earthen drums and the ground thrums beneath my feet. I ache to plant myself between the rows, forever lost in the visage before me. Pockets of splendor touched and untouched by civilization, lost in the knowing.

***

Life is found in the depths of the details. Whenever we gleam over the details in books, we miss the skin and bones which bring characters and words alive. We miss a chance to step into the author’s mind. Worlds and dreams become reality one small detail at a time through intricate descriptions and places we’ve never been.

More and more I’m left hungry for the details - the visual plethora of imaginations. If it’s not the destination but the journey – what are you looking for in your story or life?
- Indigo

Picture From Here

Ocean in Me

2011-05-07T19:38:00.004-04:00

“To him it is an ocean, unfathomable, and without a shore.” – William Godwin

I need to be here. The breeze taste of salt tang - warmth, can I swallow huge gulps of air current like a piquant ambrosia sliding into the warm confines of stomach melt? Or do I savor the breath of dry salt on wet lips like the rim of a margarita?

The smell is intoxicating, a sweet noxious sulphur of taffeta salt brine and baked sand.

Coarse granules wick across the fine hair on my arms, tickling tobacco paper thin coats of abrasion. My toes ooze down sinking in silt, battered by effervesce froth. A tendril of kelp sloshes around my ankle, tugging, daring me to follow the waves retreat back into the ocean. The shoreline reverberates down to my bones with each thunderous crash, thrumming a vibrato.

I close my eyes and listen to a child’s bubbly laughter, followed by slapped footfalls against wet sand racing away from galloping waves. A seagull caws from the air overhead. The ocean roars thrashing wave after wave against the shell laden coast. I hear her faint heartbeat as she sucks her current back like a child suckling a nipple. Music comes to me faintly from somewhere up the cliff, a sonata serenading the tempest.

Sand and salt buffet the heat of the day against my body - I need to be here.

I open my eyes and I’m back in the confines of my home, a thousand miles away from the nearest ocean. The rain beats a steady cacophony against the window, sliding down in streaming rivulets. Teal blue skies are now a hazard grey. Feeling a hard ridge pricking my palm I look down to find a lone sea shell and I smile.

The imagination of a writer can take you anywhere in the world; because of words I can ride the waves in the ocean of me…anytime I desire. In reality I haven’t seen them in twenty years. - Indigo

Picture From Here

Shattered Perception

2011-04-21T21:30:00.005-04:00

“Writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some under culture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.”- Don Delillo

The following words are visceral. I never had any rationale to be anything else in my writing; there is no portent here or animosity. My words are simply ‘dipped heavily in reality’.

Many of my long time readers have assumed I’m writing a memoir. I’m not. Thousands of tear-your-heart-out stories arrive in ink on any given day. So many…I’m only one. Truth be told, I want my words in any format to be what draws my readers in - not compassion or pity (a germane consideration). Not unlike any other writer, I want my lexis alone to carry weight, to sustain someone’s thirst for reading.

So what exactly am I writing? Ah, the boxed perception - choose one over another. Why not explore? I’ve proven my ability on a poetic level. Would it surprise you to learn I can play rather well in the horror field? Before you wander away, claiming I’m taking you down a road you won’t tread, hear me out.

I read horror, suspense, thrillers (other genres). I have this innate ability to recognize the monsters parading around in human guise (life lessons). Every one of us has a base fear; one or more things that curdle our stomach, fears which crawl beneath the skin like an itch they can’t scratch. Ignoring the itch won’t make it stop nor halt the fear. Why does it scare us so much, is there more reality and suffrage in view within the horrifying than anything else?

I find fear, pain, sorrow; all give way to opposing emotions, courage, compassion, hope. I won’t draw a line through any human being or life experience. All of what you perceive, the ugly demographic to the beautiful poetic go hand in hand. We short sight ourselves when we refuse to acknowledge far more emotional baggage exist in one form or another in our lives. How would you know to love, if not having seen hate in all it’s nefarious philandering? Hope without having lost something to want for, or fear without having been frightened.

Yes, it is a very delicate balance beam to foray. We’ve witnessed what happens when someone crosses a line and becomes destructive, hateful, and murderous. The question is would you recognize the beauty in your life if you had not been aware of the revolting?

A friend of mine said to me today, “People obsess about the outline, but can’t be bothered to color inside the lines.” She’s right. We obsess with our happily ever after and never quite appreciate the darker aspects we trespass on the journey. Life is a multi-facet compromise made of a colorful humanity. There is no black and white drawn ideology. We can draw in, outside, over the lines if we so choose.

Some people might be amazed to discover Edgar Allan Poe had a bounty of gorgeous sentiments penned on love. You didn’t know that? A fine example of viewing only one aspect of someone’s writing.

Kahlil Gibran wrote, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” We can’t - I won’t overlook the scars in all their horrifying detail in my writing. The trick is to find the beauty in the wreckage while still aware of the broken pieces left lying about… I can give you numerous examples; all you need to do is examine your own lives to see instances of where the horrifying touched down. Our lives are shattered perceptions in which we traverse words between the poetic to the horrendous. You can’t dip your pen in one without experiencing the other.

We are all books that need to be read at a deeper level, savored between pages, breathings of words defining heart and soul; from the bitter ugly truth and depths of cruelty, to the exquisite magnificence of unfound beauty. I’ll continue to slice a vein and bleed all over the page – reality is horrifyingly frightening amid the splendor.
- Indigo

Picture Can Be Found Here

In Between Seasons

2011-04-09T20:46:00.006-04:00

“You will find that it is all very familiar…the strange and faraway places where you’ve never been. The wild unknown leads you to a place just around the corner. Take a picture when you get there…the road is you.” – J. Bebe, R. Hammond

My heart belongs to the open road. Always has…always will.

There is a hidden mystery beyond each curve and bend in the road. Nature defends against the ongoing tirade of human occupancy and cloaks her crevices in the foliage of decrepit urban decay. Asphalt fractures and leans precarious into coverts; tree limbs stretch skyward warmed by the sun’s prompt to tangle wires, downing lines; vines, roots, push and prod the loose gravel apart weeping for sunlight. These sacred sentinels are what draw me each and every time further into their womb, up the winding mountain back roads. I too wish to leave my humanity behind.

Today the road beckoned with open arms. Come see us, we’ve grow. Mother earth is awake, come see…

Clones of naked bark reached stick limbs skyward tickling the Persian sky until it burst into giggles of strata wisp. A familiar land mark slides into view - ‘The hand of God’, a tree trunk in a field sharpened by time and pointing toward the heavens. A few weather worn barns gave up the ghost losing the war with the elements. Grass the color of wheat balled and rolled across fields not yet warmed into spring’s recurring bottle green. A mare held her head high nostrils sniffing the air, tail waving a salute readying for the scourge of flies soon to come. Although heart warming one and all, I continued looking for another undiscovered bend or turn in the road.

A left hand turn into another right and the familiar began to fall away as winding twist in the roads rose higher and higher up the mountain. A smile teased across my face at the sight of snow sulking in the shadows beneath pine boughs. The vista opened up to reveal the next slope on the rollercoaster highway and a lake spread out in the valley below. Ice bathed all but her shore, slowly slinking back on itself and giving way to winters mourning. This was a haven I’d not traveled before. Every fiber of my being grinned with anticipation as the tires ate the asphalt and moved with the contours of the land around me.

A spontaneous day, urged on impulse bared the soul of the open road between seasons. I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d been let in on a secret kept hidden from prying eyes. There is an incredible intensity in the in-between, a not quite ready, almost, and I am here sense of understanding – which is ethereal in its beauty.

Life has been my greatest teacher.

As a writer, I trace life lessons across the pages of a book. In those ‘I’m not quite done moments’, there is still concrete substance to my words with room to grow. Everything sits in between seasons before blooming to full potential. We begin; we grow, flourish, and complete the cycle. - Indigo

Original picture here

Truth and Bone

2011-03-26T17:52:00.004-04:00

“Sometimes I can feel you breathing into me.
And these hands I can feel them tugging at my sleeve,
I move through the day in the rhythm that I've known.
I've got this crazy dream of stripping down to truth and bone.”

Arms stretched overhead with fingertips hooked into opposing hands, muscle and sinew thrum, pulling, contorting, ache to the surface. The wonder dog pretends to stretch with me, front paws in a halleluiah bow with her tail swishing the air, back legs splayed in a ‘watch me do a split slide’. Head cocked, she does a dog’s version of an eyebrow raise to see if I notice. I burst out laughing, leaving her with a goofy grin. She knows my moods and how to play heartstrings. I’d be lost without her.

The chill morning seeps skin deep, raising goosebumps along my arms. Goofy is content to lie beside me in front of the fire. Limeade green sprouts of grass tease through the leavings of winter melt frozen in mid dance. Blight or temptation of Spring is anyone’s guess. The window belays the truth. A wintry moan gently raps a staccato in assent. Not yet.

I roll my shoulders. The bitter cold is settling bone deep and I desire nothing more than something fresh, alive – a torpor blue injected into a sublime gray sky, a melding of seasonal angst.

“I need you to cut through to where I'm hidden, I'm awkward and I'm too polite and I want two stars for arms like Orion I could breathe in and breathe in and breathe out.”

Breathe in and breathe out through my nostrils, breathe in deep, exhale. The day lies in front of me, a gift of time, minutes, hours, descending into the cerulean hues of evening. Mother Nature will unveil her heather carpet in due time. The longer she allows the earth to rest, to breathe, the more vibrant Spring will arrive in fountains of rainbow irradiance.

She taught me well.

In as much as I wish to rush headlong in my writing, I realize it’s crucial to let the prose breathe and move at her own schedule. To rush will temper the splendor of what may possibly unfold. We sit at opposing ends and distemper: me wanting, desiring more – her defiant perfection, correcting, and a willful rendition of words. Together, writer and prose aficionado will dance between the seasons of a book.

Truth and bone immersed in the depths of wisdom and want, human need and ticking time, all the sinews and muscle of what my writing heralds. Listen to the cadence of words displayed in colorful imagery in-between the seasons of a writer’s life.

“I move through the day in the rhythms that I've known.
I've got this crazy dream of stripping down to truth and bone.”

*This is my interpretation of Heather Nova’s ‘Truth and Bone’. I still get a thrill out of discovering a new to me artist. I still hear the words, even if only in my soul. Enjoy:

Lyrics can be found here.

A River of Words

2011-03-16T21:11:00.000-04:00

“Some people spend their entire lives reading but never get beyond reading the words on the page, they don't understand that the words are merely stepping stones placed across a fast-flowing river and the reason they're there is so that we can reach the farther shore, it's the other side that matters.” – Jose Saramago

I cry when I read my own writing. Always.

“You need to separate yourself from the characters. You’re not them, you can’t write yourself into every story.” But I do. Why wouldn’t I?

These filaments of life derive from me, my creations, my characters - given a semblance of a soul strewn across the page. It’s almost god-like to breathe life into the voices knocking about in my cranium for attention. I’m not them. Not by the end of the book. Surely, in the beginning they’re fleshed out and given personalities. I couldn’t contain all those personalities in one skull, even if I wanted to. No they’re not me in a fictional sense. In the end, I give something of myself far deeper, cloistered between words in a sentinel march across the computer screen.

Imagining somebody (real in every sense of a fictional context) into existence is all easy enough. However, I can’t discern where the line is drawn when it comes to conveying emotions, not if I want some kind of believability. How does anyone, imagine pain and heartbreak in any great profundity - no, those things I dumpster dive inside my soul for. On the page I’m devoid of skin, flesh, and ropey muscles, withered down to an open vein. The characters become my memory makers; curators to my first love, my anguish, my torment, all those hidden crevasses bound up in a heart.

If these innovations have supped enough on my emotions (soul sucking vortexes), they’ll begin to make their own mistakes and take on a life I never envisioned in the beginning. Some of my handiwork will eat the best parts of who I am - others will devour the broken shards of ugliness easily found in all of us (my hatred, my decayed moral compass). Those last take it from me and shrug into skin-suits devoid of humanity. They mimic life becoming the antagonist.

Words help us explore the places we go inside our minds, our hearts. Those things are the equivalent of what comes out in the stories we write. I’m pulled taut, the needle weaving the thread into the embroidery of a book. I get a glimpse of myself as I truly am between each struggle for the right word to voice what is felt. In the end discovering a way to keep who I am intact enough to bond with the architect of the lives I’ve built within a story.

“You need to separate yourself from the characters. You can’t write yourself into every story.” I must. How can it be any other way? Why do I cry when I read my own writing…the best parts of me, the weaver’s tapestry that’s been woven into a river of words is lapping at the other shore.

Picture from here

Working Toward a Life

2011-03-05T23:57:00.004-05:00

“I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.” ~Richard Wright, American Hunger, 1977

The words blur in front of me on the computer screen. My eyes squint - helps but doesn’t solve the problem. Frustrated, I shove my glasses up on my head and massage my temple between thumb and index finger with one hand and absently tug at my earring with the other.

What am I doing wrong? Why do this to yourself, it’s a word – ease up already.

Today’s tough, grueling even. I miss the creative aspect of my writing. Every fiber in me rebels against revising any more grammar mistakes, dialogue tags, or cropping yet another sentence.

I knock on my forehead with a closed fist. This is close but not what you had in mind is it? You know the word you need is right at the tip of your tongue. I knock against my forehead again for good measure in an attempt to shake inspiration from an overworked brain. Aggravated my notes are sent flying off the desk helter skelter.

One lone page floats in the air caught in an invisible draft and dances across the room to land near Pickles’ paws. She stomps the errant page flat and looks up at me questioning if this is a new game. I highlight the inappropriate word, slam my laptop shut, and slip out of the chair like a slinky into a muddled mess on the floor to crawl about picking up stray notes; checking as I go to see if my missing muse is somewhere in the mess. It is and Pickles is standing on it.

You could have done anything, anything at all, but YOU chose to write - something which takes months, years to master with little or no payout to show for all your work. In an ordinary job that would be akin to your boss criticizing everything you worked on in the past year and ordering you to redo the job without reimbursement for your time.

The days flow in like fashion until Saturday’s warmth teases my body into the car and the open road. No words, no laptop, and no manuscript. Doesn’t mean the inn in my head wasn’t overflowing with a no-vacancy sign in the window of my eyes. Johnny Cash is booming from the CD player. Vibrations echo through the car and lyrics heard in another lifetime fill the space between. The sky is a monster creep gray. Storm clouds threaten to pour hell down in buckets.

Wind gust fail to maneuver the car off the road. Out of the corner of my eye pine trees lift their boughs and sway in a multitude of wings ready to take flight. Fresh air creeps up my nostrils with the scent of Earth and wet grass from the open window. And for the first time in over a week I smile. Yes, the work is hard and some day’s words are even harder to come by…but that’s all right – I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Do what you love, and you will find a way to get it out to the world.” – Judy Collins.

picture from here

It's Dark in the Dark

2011-02-19T19:05:00.005-05:00

“Sing then the core of dark and absolute oblivion where the soul at last is lost in utter peace.” - D. H. Lawrence

I love writing evocative details, becoming the conductor who orchestrates words into prose which haunt the senses. So let’s try a writing exercise and take on the dark. With your permission, I’ll take you into the murky recesses of darkness, where there is substance, a mystery that threatens to overwhelm. Don’t let me haunt you…

The silence is infinite. The wind pulses against the windows in a blind attempt for purchase, scrabbling for a foothold among cracks and crevices. A peek through the wood blinds reveals tree limbs bent in throes against the howl and moan of the wind’s torment. A luxury compared to what awaits in the dark. My hand drops and lets the blinds fall back into place and the room becomes a haven for shadows steeped in slate gray, an evolving dark.

Sleep isn’t a welcome reprieve on any given night since the quiet stole in and took up permanent residence. I twine nervous fingers through my hair and begin the illustrative name game – smooth, black, long, straight…

My eyes narrow in frustration, pinching my forehead in anger. “I’m an adult,” comes out in harsh protest. “I’m not afraid of the dark – I’m not!” No, surely this obscured deadened sense of sight and hearing can’t hurt me. What if I closed my eyes and cowered beneath the blankets, like a child afraid of the boogey man in the closet, frightened – sleep deprived until morning releases me. My mind reneges and the shadows grow thick, consuming. Close your eyes, I dare myself. Close them tight and welcome tomorrow. What of the night? Should these hours escape so easily? Hours which mark a life in increments?

The fight still lingers against heavy eye-lids and two orbs straining to part the dark like the Red Sea. Fingers drape around the cat, like tendrils of a vine. There. Thump, thump, lub-zsa-dup slow and steady – a heartbeat. Let go. The night swarms in like hoards of black gnats. Don’t drown me out; give me something solid to sing the night to sleep in this never ending dark. I slip down into a sensory deprived chamber, my reality, my nightly ritual as the cloak of black residual sleep overcomes me.

Lub, dub, lub, dub…my ears pulse like the wind against a window pane; bereft of the cracks in my soul, hallowed by the sound lub, dub, lub, dub, of a heart beat. In this coffin of sleep, comes the sound of life.

Each of us has our own version of the dark and those things that go bump in the night. This is mine. We write about the things closest to us, our fears, and emotions which become a living breathing pheromone eked out on the page in front of us. For me the dark is a very real embodiment hovering ever closer as dusk falls. What breathes down your neck in the dark? Feel free to email (located on my profile page) your version or take a stab at this writing exercise on your own blog. I’d love to see your rendering of what the dark heralds.

Picture from here

Not About the Money

2011-02-10T23:20:00.008-05:00

“There are four questions of value in life... What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is the same. Only love.” – Don Juan de Marco

Valentine’s Day is simply a reminder of what we should celebrate 365 days of the year. Rumor claims February 14th as the lover’s holiday. A wonderful concept, but I tend to believe the day should be set aside to remember all those you love, those who need love, even strangers who could use a bit of kindness. If you can succeed in remembering more than one other person on Valentine’s Day, perhaps you’ll create a tradition to share the same glorious feeling daily and turn it into a 365 day long tribute.

Need some ideas that won’t cost a fortune?

1) Grab a stack of post-it notes and leave one here and there, with words like, “Smile, you’re loved!”, or “The world is a better place with you here.” I’m sure you can think of a few others.

2) Smile at a complete stranger, for no other reason than your alive.

3) Try slow dancing without the music, just the concept of moving slowly to each others rhythm and heartbeat? You’ll be surprised.

4) Cook a meal with someone, not for someone – with. Share the kitchen; turn on some music and salsa the food onto the plate. (Seeing as you need to eat anyway – enjoy the experience).

5) Read to each other. Nothing can compare to the soothing lilt of someone reading to you. Place your hand on their chest; the words vibrate through your very being.

6) Watch a movie without the sound and ad-lib the voices. Who said laughter isn’t good for the soul?

7) Remember those Valentine’s we passed out as kids? Try passing them out to perfect strangers, allow yourself to be a kid again and share a smile with someone. They have super-hero’s for the guys.

And I’m done - sorry. I’m not going to do all the work for you. Seven is the magic number, seven days in a week…

365 Days of the year and it doesn’t have to be about money, you only sacrifice a heart (and maybe time) – yours. I should warn you though, acts of love and kindness become habit forming.

Meanwhile enjoy a song from the movie ‘Rent’ – Seasons of Love.

Five hundred twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty five thousand
moments so dear
Five hundred twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year

In daylight, in sunsets, in midnights,
in cups of coffee, In inches, in miles
in laughter in strife,

In Five hundred twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life

(chorus)
How about Love
how about love
how about love
measure in love
seasons of love
seasons of love

Five hundred twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty five thousand
journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty five thousand
six hundred minutes
how do you measure the life of a woman
or a man

In truth that she learned
or in times that he cried
In the bridges he burned
or the way that she died

Its time now to sing out
though the story never ends
lets celebrate remember a year
in the life of friends

(chorus)

Picture from here

The Way it Reads...

2011-02-05T21:05:00.004-05:00

“Every reader, if he has a strong mind, reads himself into the book, and amalgamates his thoughts with those of the author.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Momentarily blinded by a kaleidoscope of sunset cascading off my laptop screen, I wince and hold up a hand to block the sunlight streaming through the window - a disco strobe effect of shadow dances across my fingers in russet hues eclipsed by the glimmer of new falling snow. I can’t help but stare out the window entranced like a kitten by the cascading light show, moving my fingers this way and that to capture a different shadow play. Backlit by the brilliant white outside the window, I watch the gray orbs spotting the ceiling grow large with the setting of the sun's last milked beam.

I laugh to myself, thinking about how hysterical everyone was over the recent snowstorms; almost gloating they didn’t know how lucky they were.

The vibrating phone beside me catches my attention and I flip my phone open to see who called. Time stands still as I read and reread the text my daughter left. She was in an accident the day before, slamming into a guard rail, and skidding a 100 feet. Her car stopped just before the rail ended and dropped down an incline. The tire twisting sideways is the only thing that stopped her car from swerving into oncoming traffic. The accident ended with the passenger side crushed inward along the length of the car.

I couldn’t read beyond those words, part of me didn’t want to know anymore. I pushed/needed to force myself to finish. The sky grew somber gray outside as I lost my stomach for the beauty I witnessed mere minutes earlier and I read the last few lines of the text. Thankfully, she walked away without a scratch. Bullheaded like her mother, she rented a car the next day and returned to work, without pausing to take in what happened. I learned about the accident after the fact, it was out of my hands. Part of me wanted to bewail her driving and worry every little detail into absurdity. What did I do? I took a deep breathe…exhaled and remembered nature’s disco ball.

Not what you wanted to read? Would the hysterical mother be more preferable? Depends on how you read what I wrote. You can walk away and think I handled things well, or think me heartless not to bemoan the ice, and snow, and what this incident almost cost me. This could have turned out completely different and yes, I wouldn’t appreciate life the same way. The question is what does the reader need to take away? What part of what a writer writes makes it easier to swallow - makes it a more believable reality? So often the reality is never really what we expect, or sometimes want. Of course this is a true story. Still you might argue fiction plays out with a different outcome. Or does it?

Whatever you read, do you find yourself disappointed with the author’s response, or do you try on some level to understand the deeper meaning of what lies beneath the words? How many times have you put a book down because you couldn’t extend believability, and accept another possible human response other than the one you wanted? Would you rather, your fiction didn’t mirror life so closely?

Every writer has a choice to give a human face and reaction to their characters. If they do so and do it well – before finishing the book, you discover some element of yourself somewhere within those pages. I don’t believe writers expect their readers to completely grasp everything they write. All any writer can ask is you accept, not all reactions will mirror the way you perceive life. Stretch your mind enough to give life to the fiction. After all, reality is stranger than fiction on any given day.

If I’ve done my job as a writer, my words will elicit some kind of emotional response out of you.

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Swim Deeper

2011-01-19T16:07:00.012-05:00

“Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean.” - Christopher Reeve

I never liked waiting in a sterile examination room behind a closed door, wondering if they’ve forgotten somehow. Each minute makes my stomach tighten like a turning screw applying pressure, becoming near claustrophobic. The paper lining crackles under me and I take a deep breathe in an effort to sit still, worried the noise would give away my impatience.

Nearby Paul makes faces and pretends he’s going to examine me with various instruments. His presence is comforting, none the less he earns a glare for his efforts. No matter how large the word DEAF is written on the front of my file, they still at times fail to turn so I can read their lips, spurting a barrage of questions to the surrounding walls (nurses and doctors alike). So Paul is a necessary extra pair of ears.

My patience is soon rewarded by the door opening, which admits a new (to me) doctor. She appears nice enough, even if she at first talks slow like the animated pauses in a Roadrunner cartoon. Seconds later her questions and lips begin moving rapid fast – at a machine gun rat-a-tat pace. I glance toward Paul and he shrugs with a half grin and repeats what the doctor just said. Within minutes I become accustomed to her speech patterns and I’m able to communicate without help.

“You’re good!” The woman replies, after I repeat back the latest information to make sure I had my facts straight. The comment catches me off-guard. Reading lips has become so natural to me; I don’t grasp at first how it must seem to a hearing person. She’s actually excited and a little awed at the prospect of talking to a deaf person with no sign language. After the initial consult, I’m sent to make an appointment for a minor procedure, leaving the room still slightly baffled by the woman’s response.

Not even three minutes later, talking to the receptionist – she turns to me and exclaims, “You’re good!” After I finished a sentence for Paul in the midst of trying to repeat something he wasn’t sure I understood. By now I’m thoroughly amused; I seem to have become the novelty of the day. Or perhaps caught in an episode of ‘The Twilight Zone’ (the doctor’s office is located in Rod Serling’s home town after all). By nightfall amusement would turn to bravado. I had seen myself through the good doctor’s eyes.

Years ago I dared to jump off the pier of comfort I had originally submerged myself with my deafness. Something I had feared would alter my life had become an extension of me instead.

The thing about piers – is once you’ve jumped off they’re still in sight, still close by to grab hold and pull yourself up to safety. Unless you swim like the devil away with your arms and heart growing stronger with resilient determination, you might want to stay on board and never jump again. Crazy as it seems jumping isn’t enough in any scenario - you can either drown, swim, or grow into a vine entwined into the floorboards of a desecrated rickety pier (boredom).

I wasn’t happy treading water 6 years ago (with my deafness)…So why am I still in sight of the pier with my writing? My advice – swim deeper in whatever life offers, safety is lost in the stagnant recesses of not fully living.

**If it seems I’m talking about my deafness a lot on my blog of late - I am. Simply because there are some hard lessons here, reminders I need to stay the course with my writing.

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Skunk Thinking

2010-12-30T22:43:00.010-05:00

“To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose one self.” - Soren Kierkegaard

When I first announced taking my writing seriously, I was told certain anonymity would be required for professionalism. On some things I might agree, on others I feel the human equivalent of a writer can’t be ignored and makes them more assessable - real. In all things we need a certain level of reality to slip in from time to time. This post is one example.

The bottom of the bed bounces up and down; a little earthquake announcing a restless pup is convinced I’m long past good morning, and in need of a nudge. With a playful smirk, peeking with one eye open, she knows, I know she’s up to mischief. Pretending to yawn, my arm stretches overhead pulling the blankets over my face. Did she take the bait? My giggles warm a breathy patch of sheet layered over nose and mouth.

Within moments I’m on a trampoline, jostled, “Oomph!” A four legged ball of fur launches toward me. Her cold nose snuffs the sheet above my eyes. Unable to suffuse my laughter any longer I burst from the covers and tackle her in a playful hug. She happily settles beside me with her head lain over my stomach. I let the quiet settle around us for a few moments. How she recognizes what I need dumfounds me, but she does. Pup and woman alike, we master stillness.

“January is almost here,” I whisper.

Pickles perks up her head, ready to listen, waiting, but my melancholy silences any more complaints.

“You’re happier when you write,” his words echo from memory. Words are hard to come by right now, I argue silently. I can’t do this, just leave me be. The well wasn’t empty by a long shot; words hang in the balance, ready and willing to pour like a fount from me. My courage had temporarily plugged up the flow, like a stopper in a kitchen sink. Stupid skunk, over thinking every single nuance, worried to the point of defining me by…January…

An Anniversary creeps forward, closer and closer, day by day. My eyes squeeze shut tight as if that could slow time.

“You’ve been deaf for six years; it’s a date nothing more, nothing less…” With determination I throw back the covers and stomp around the bed. Pickles stands in the middle of the bed, head cocked, unsure what to do. I glance into those deep brown eyes and shrug my shoulders – lost myself.

“Where is the courage I possessed back then?” I ask burying my face into the scruff of fur at her neck. Haven’t I proven I’m more than this yet?” A tear cascades over sleep chaffed skin and I’m transported back to my former self, who wanted to give up because communication seemed near impossible. Fiercely wiping my pajama sleeve across my eyes, I scold, “Knock it off, coward. This is nothing, nothing compared to yesterday.” One sum – that’s the equivalent you’re allowed for your deafness, I vowed silently.

Whatever I fear will never be the sum of who I am as a person. Of course I’m afraid of succeeding or not, we all are in one form or another. You only fail or can rightfully be accused of cowardice if you DON’T try. I’m a writer and as long as the words flow, I’m going to continue to challenge my fears. This is small compared to what I’ve already accomplished. 2011 will be the writers year, my year.

My wish for you in the coming year: Conquer your fears – try, it’s all anyone can ask. You’ll find courage when you least expect it. It stares back at me, every day from a pair of deep brown eyes. See yourself through another’s eyes, you will be amazed.

Happy New Year!

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The Life and Times...of a Dog

2010-12-14T20:35:00.008-05:00

"When the Man waked up he said,
'What is Wild Dog doing here?'
And the Woman said,
'His name is not Wild Dog any more,
but the First Friend,
because he will be our friend
for always and always and always.'"
- Rudyard Kipling

I feel fur brush against skin, a comingling of human and animal hair. The couch reverberates with warm breathy snores, disrupted by a gentle oomph and contented sigh accentuated by the occasional warm sleepy head nudge. Her presence is warming in more ways than the heavy weight she pushes against me trying to get as close as humanly possible.

I get nostalgic this time of year; it’s her birthday and the anniversary of my awakening. Sounds colossal describing our beginnings this way - the pure simplicity of need that attaches us in more ways than not. Need, is such a heavy handed word. We two souls, hers and mine, are to each other a kindred friendship made to last a lifetime.

On December 12th, 2006, Pickles entered my life for the first time and wove her spell.

What’s so special about her? Besides the fact she’s a Katrina survivor or quite literally my ears? She’s the embodiment of compassion and life. For those who don’t know our story - I’m deaf and she’s my working dog. Trust me, I didn’t realize the possibilities either until a thing called need, pointed me in her direction. Nor did I understand, sometimes gifts of spirit arrive in the most unexpected guise.

Where did we (dog and woman) begin? - In stillness. It’s no secret I loathed my decent into silence. Hatred appropiately defines my demeanor in those days. So much so, I locked myself away from the world at large. To me going deaf had been a death of sorts and I mourned the loss of my hearing, the life I knew…and then along came Pickles. She was the animal doppelganger to my personality. She’d lost everything in Katrina, her home, her forever family…yet…she stood before me grinning as only a dog can and defied the rules of my closed existence with a challenge in her eyes to be more than my deafness.

Who I am today, started with her: The writer who learned to hear with her eyes. The woman who she (Pickles) taught to dare the impossible, and best friend (to a creature thankfully not human). Never did I imagine the life lessons, such a loving, four legged creature would portray.

You can’t train a bond like ours. Training doesn’t teach a dog to sit beside your bed all night worried when you’re sick (I woke up one morning to a red eyed pup that hadn’t slept a wink, with her head nestled over the edge of the bed). Nor does training teach comfort, laughter, kindness, or any of the numerous daily life lessons that dog and woman alike share.

Like the holiday season itself, there is a hint of something more between us. So with great pleasure I wish you - Happy Birthday Pickles! I couldn’t ask for a more loyal friend and mischief maker.

To everyone else, I wish you all the beauty your hearts can hold, all the spirit and lessons of a dog named Pickles, and words a plenty from a writer who appreciates the small things. Happy Holidays! I’ll see you in the New Year.

I'm a Dreamer

2010-12-08T14:34:00.016-05:00

"Imagine all the people living life in peace. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one." - John Lennon

Thirty years ago today John Lennon was assassinated. I can't imagine not paying tribute in one form or another to the man, the icon that he was. If ever a man believed in dreams...

I'm a dreamer. I'm also a writer who knows when to give the proverbial nod to another, whose words encapsulate whatever I might have said. Please visit (click-->) Glass Cases for an enjoyable tribute we can all take something away from.

Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
-Imagine by John Lennon

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It Came Without...

2010-12-02T21:26:00.009-05:00

"And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?" - Theodor Seuss Geisel

Sometimes our bodies boycott any notion of doing much else and wind down for a much needed rest; followed by coughs and sniffles which serve as warnings like a beacon signal in the night -an impending cold or virus is on the prowl. In any case a person isn’t much likely to do anything else but give up the ghost of wellness until the foreign entity has taken its due.

Nose sore, eyes bleary with nothing to do outside of sleep, I stare remorsefully out the window watching the rain batten against the roof and windows. The dour and bleak sky mirrors my own mood, a virtual pity party taking place on both sides of the window pane. At that very moment, it came…a slow thickening of condensation, a wind blown chill, and a bit of white. I blinked unsure, wondering if my eyes betrayed me - a hallucination brought on by phlegm clogged senses. How can this be? Not now...not when I’m bedded down sick?

Snow zigzagged down from a charcoal skyline. The wind howled and the flakes grew thick and fell more furious. Sour, lip curled up in a snarl, I pitied me more for being sick. Everything in view wore a cloak of iridescent frost and glimmered, taunting me, as I sat perched childlike in front of the window.

Snow doused memories tug at my heart: A child pouting on Christmas day, not for what wasn’t beneath the tree but for the missing flurries and cold weather she once knew. The young woman spellbound by a winter storm with childish glee. The grown woman who shrieks in laughter in flannel pajamas and slippers kicking up snow and chasing a dog in the indigo moonlight, to a shared kiss in the middle of a busy sidewalk with her face upturned and snowflakes catching in her eyelashes. Giggles rent the air as she breathlessly pursues her husband around their car, snowball in hand, slip-sliding around until she lands face first in a snow bank. So many more…they unfold, these gifts of spirit handed out like seasons of a life.

The snow melted that day. I however, found a sense of ambience despite my sick predicament. Yes, there will be days we scoff and renege on our good sense of compassion and kindness. Days lost to regrettable forlorn. May we have more days of child wonder and laughter than not.

In light of the spirit of the season, I want to take this moment to thank all my loyal friends and readers. You’ve stood by me steadfast and loving despite my continued lackadaisical approach to posting. My muse has definitely been on holiday - on and off the page. Hopefully she’ll return full vigor in the coming weeks. Enjoy the new layout in the meantime - tis’ a kindness for your eyes and mine.

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The Day in Front of Us

2010-11-15T21:45:00.014-05:00

“Our strength is often composed of the weakness we're damned if we're going to show”

– Mignon McLaughlin

I feel her small body weighing down the cat carrier and a single tear wets my eyelashes. My gut instinct is to open the door and set her free. Instead I reach fingers through the mesh lattice, greeted by whiskers across skin and the sandpaper wetness of tongue licking finger tips. My heart sits in my throat suffocating.

Three months, why couldn’t she understand such a small feat? All she needed to do was settle down and allow herself to fit in, belong for a time. Incomprehensible hatred boils to the surface. How dare she make me an insignificant and unworthy part of her life? The tears come unbidden and I’m ashamed at this emotional outburst. This was never about me.

Then again, I made this about me refusing to see the warning signs: A mind unhinged – from one extreme to another, tinged with sharp hostility, swayed to an impassionate demand for attention in the next heartbeat. Nutmeg’s cruel, greedy possessiveness pushed all away, so none may enter her world – the imbalance to her wanton attention seeking; the merry-go-round encapsulating my summer and providing this moment of introspective abuse.

Standing on the porch a chill permeates the morning: The kind of cold that seeps deep and hardens sore muscles and awakens evening’s longing for warmth in the dusty hues of sundown and sets the night’s hoarfrost glinting in indigo darkness. It’s the last kiss of autumn and promise of snow in the wintry wind across the horizon. The kind of cold warning – time had gotten away from me and I failed this small creature encased in the cat carrier.

She can’t be an inside cat, nor outside for that matter, acting like a dog on attack guard whenever another warm body should approach. I hate again, not her, rather the ignorant excuses of humanity responsible for abandoning her. For there is where it must have began, this unhinging of a mind, this need to possess an enclosed porch where she guarded food and refuge alike from all but her.

With winter approaching, there will be others seeking nourishment and warmth. What cost one soul, for many? Damn the decision, damn the heart that beats in me, and damn the mind which acknowledges I’m making the right decision.

Three days ago I turned Nutmeg over to a shelter we work with. I don’t know anything from the moment she left my home. Somewhere inside of me, I want…I need to be disillusioned and believe someone will notice her wild, mischievous spirit and take her home to a quiet existence of solitary, undivided love. Either way, I don’t want to know. I don’t think my heart can take knowing.

Yesterday, the porch was filled with three warm bodies, happy for the attention, seeking sustenance and shelter against the bitter wind and hard ground. Today, I caught sight of dirty white fur peeking through the trees. More will come, but I’ll forever question this simmering hatred brewed beneath the exterior of my heart and wonder how long before I harden.

Life is a mixture of hope and disbelief, compassion and anger, compromise and willful stubbornness. Without guarantees we blunder our way forward and question our very existence. Every once in a while we get a glimpse, a sampling of a sure thing and hold on for dear life. My writing is that for me, without which I wouldn’t be able to immortalize a cat named Nutmeg. At least as a writer I can write my emotions into words.

I don’t have all the answers, nobody does. I can keep learning and trying till I’m almost there, close to perfect – nothing is ever perfect. So take the day, the task in front of you and find the heart of it. Therein lays the beauty of a life…yours and mine.

[For Nutmeg’s original introduction into my life, go here --> Hysteria .]

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Bully Syndrome

2010-10-24T12:36:00.007-04:00

*This post isn’t about writing per say. It is however about a writer, her take on life, and the bully syndrome.

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

A friend (Christina Lee) asked me, “If I had the chance to go back and change one thing in my life, would I and what would it be?”

My first instinct was to say nothing; I would change nothing as we are the sum of our experiences. It’s the same answer I’ve always given. You need to understand, I like who I am right now, at this time in my life. However, when I sat down and contemplated the question over and removed my immediate response, the answer changed.

I grew up with a hearing disability and a mother who insisted by any means possible I would be treated normal and participate in a public school environment – versus a deaf school. Some of you may be cheering in the background and saying, ‘yes – way to go and good for her’. What you don’t see is the hours I’m taken out of class for speech therapy during school hours (alienating me). What you don’t see is the ruthless bullies that flick my hearing aide making it squeal painfully in my ear. No one sees the bullies…ever. The kids who sneer and say, “What?” as if it’s a joke; I learned early on not to give that response when I couldn’t hear ‘what’ someone said.

Excluded, invisible, a joke, freak, afraid of something I couldn’t change (me), ritualistic days of torture…

Following my mother’s example all I ever wanted to be was normal, just like everyone else. So naturally I strived not to stand out in the crowd and become any more noticeable than necessary. The thing is: I wasn’t ‘normal’. I had a disability. There isn’t anything wrong with being different, unique, or having an atypical viewpoint in which you look at life. Today, I realize those kids were insecure, confused human beings afraid of diversity or anything which didn’t fit their boxed perception of life. Cowards whose reaction to fear is brutality.

Diverse means you don’t fit a certain idea of normalcy. The bully mentality doesn’t know how to react to you, because ‘you’ are outside of the box – a four squared boring space, they grew up in – you’re different. In short they’re stumped in a very narrow minded space, a space you’re existence challenges.

My bullies and all the naysayers that claimed I would never be anything, made me who I am today…and I wish I could have shared this lesson with those kids who committed suicide. Eventually, you get a thicker skin and new eyes to witness how pathetic these people truly are. Space is existential, consisting of time and place. Every one of us shares their space with strangers at any given moment. No one should be required to beg, plead, or change to fit in someone’s space, click, or group dynamics. No one has the power to demand that of you, nor should they.

These days I still come across the bullies all grown up - One of those narrow minded individuals who can’t comprehend how a deaf woman can speak eloquently, or carry on a conversation with them because she reads lips. I worked away my childhood to fit into their world. Today, I’m so damn comfortable in my skin and thrilled I don’t ‘have’ to share my space with these diminutive individuals.

So what would I change about myself? I’d learn to become comfortable in my skin sooner and learn to let the bullies co-exist, lumped in a separate world (narrow like their mindset). A world I would grow out of and learn to expand my wings. I wish I knew then, to be proud of me, in all my unique differences.

What advice would I give the bullied me: Don’t let anyone clip your wings; the heights you will soar are beyond anything you ever imagined.

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Basement Santa

2010-10-18T21:53:00.001-04:00

My body is tilted off balance with the laundry basket propped on my hip one handed, while I struggle to slide the bolt lock to the basement door back with the other. I hesitate before opening the door as a shiver played my spine like a xylophone. A sign of bad karma, bad luck? Open the door already wimp.

Without a doubt, basements hold their own element of suspense; they’re damp, cold, concrete enclaves’ playing guest appearances in almost ever horror movie ever made. Creepy basements don’t bother me. However, a dirt encrusted, soot smudged, unblinking mannequin, in a bad version of a 60’s Santa suit scares the crap out of me. We’ve all encountered ‘that’ Santa at one point or another in our lives and balled our eyes out, convinced there was no freaking way Santa was anything like the mall version. The problem - ‘my’ version of evil Santa is lurking in the basement.

My laundry had no sympathy for my fear, growing into a mountainous heap more threatening than Santa. The laundry and the smell won, hands down. Ascending the stairs into the bowels of basement hell, cold air wafts up to greet me. My eyes fall on Santa in high-water red overalls, missing his boots. I do believe he was missing a few toes as well. His beard a rat’s nest gray, fingers posed into claws. Why anyone ever thought this spectacle could entice someone into a music store during the holidays is beyond me. On closer inspection, I realize the paint on one of Santa’s eyes has been scraped off and I can’t help but shudder.

I hugged the contour of the stairs, trying desperately not to brush up against Basement Santa and rush to put in a load of laundry and be done with it. When I turned around, there he sat in all his demented glory, bent forward into the passage between the wall and the stairs. Had he moved?

I refused to run back up the stairs, squaring my shoulders and forcing myself to walk stiffly by. Santa’s hand lifted up off his lap. I ran like the wind up the stairs and slammed the door shut, leaning against the door with all my weight and breathing heavy. Thump, thump, the door bounced against my back from the weight of something on the other side. Holy crap on a cracker (trust me, my profanity would turn virgins into heathens – this is the polite version).

Imagine every horror movie cliché you’ve ever watched. Now remember screaming at the screen, “Don’t open that door…don’t go outside…look out…” - you get the idea. Now start screaming at me. So what do I do? Make like a cliché and grab a pan and open the door. My cat Socrates flies out of the dark snarling and screeching like a banshee. I slam the door shut behind her, slide the bolt home, and avoid the basement until Santa’s evicted.

Was Socrates the guilty culprit? Probably. In any case, I hate mannequins.

The moral of this story? I’m deep in the midst of revisions and I’m finding more words are getting evicted in the same fashion as Santa than not. Does it scare me? I’d say it’s on an even keel with Basement Santa. On that analogy alone, cleaning out the basement (first draft) of my manuscript is bound to have the same profound effect. Useless words and structure bog down a storyline. Just like Santa wouldn’t be half as scary if he actually had a twinkle in his eye and rosy cheeks, my words will flow into lyrical prose.

I’m much happier writing the horror on the page in front of me than living it. Anyone remember Silent Night, Deadly Night? (Winks) Don’t let your fears keep you from finding out what’s on the other side of the door.

*On a side note: Basement Santa is a more appropiate story for Halloween than the holidays. I’m really not a Santa prude. Where did he end up? On someone else’s porch.

Perfectly Imperfect

2010-09-29T19:19:00.002-04:00

“The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.” – Henry Miller

For weeks on end, I searched; bereft of actually knowing what I needed to find. One moment I would be overcome by domestic frenzy, unwilling to leave a thing undone…and the next I’m lost staring off into the woods with longing etched across my face. Frantic slowly eased into submissive boredom. Apparently, the middle ground is what I found lacking as the days rolled into a month of unsettled compromise.

Whenever the opportunity afforded itself, the open road would call and beckon and I…I would answer. Full of apprehension – tinged with a huge dose of hope, my eyes searched the rolling countryside and scaled the mountains; waiting, watching, for what may come.

Minutes passed into hours, days, and weeks, until the mountainside began to wear a cloak of russet amber and burgundy maple. Goldenrod bent in waves, a sea of yellow nodding from the open fields. Squirrels were no longer frolicking playfully (it’s been a while since a crab apple bounced off my head), rush about cheeks swollen with their winter gathering. For some reason this saddened me. My malaise hadn’t hindered the ever tireless trek of time.

On the road once again, the trip winding down and the pup in need of relief, we stop. In due time she discovers a steep path on an incline, I glance down with misgivings. Oh it’s doable, getting back up would be another thing altogether. The sun glints off something out of the corner of my eye. Pickles had caught the scent of the water and looked up at me begging. Can you guess who won?

I breathe in deep the aroma of river water, mud stones, and damp earth, while standing in the shallow river bed, wet jeans and sneakers, socks soaked through. No, I hadn’t planned on wading in the river with my clothes on. Pickles tends to pick and choose the eventful scenarios and how they play out, more times than not.

The sun warmed the top of my head, the water felt refreshing not cold at all. On each side the river stones went on for miles, an invitation to explore as far as the eye could see. A coil begins to unwind inside of me and I come alive, a smile spreading across my face. Here – here is what I was searching for. Someplace new and untamed, a place where silence echoed and bounced back to me splashed on the shoreline and against my limbs. Imperfectly perfect.

A burnt orange leaf dips and weaves over the stones following the twist and turns of the water – Pickles pounces before the leaf disappears. Kind of like the words I’ve needed these past weeks; flowing along at a trickle, me trying to pounce on the relevant ones, the perfect revision. Perfect words are rare. Imperfect lives with instances of perfection, an easier find.

I’d forgotten the one facet that makes me the kind of writer I am. I’m there in the imperfections, the storyteller who tells the story through my eyes and lets you in.

In searching for the perfection, I forgot to let myself into my own story, my own imperfect creation and I lost the most essential ingredient of all – my words. Revisions are hell, but I have to remember not to lose me in the process.

But then again, I think sometimes you have to get lost in order to find yourself. Hard to believe it’s as simple as that…

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Scream like a Girl

2010-08-26T18:09:00.004-04:00

“A girl is a person who screams at the mouse and smiles at the wolf.” Shyam Kapoor

Let’s get a couple things straight here; I’ve never been a screamer. Maybe, it’s the tomboy in me, but I don’t ever remember letting out one of those high pitched wailing screams - A scream capable of sending a shudder dancing up someone’s spine and teeth chattering in grinding pulsation.

Since we’re trading personality traits, I'll readily admit I am a flinger. I’m 98% sure all humans are ingrained with the fling reflex on the off chance something offending, somehow finds its way into their hand.

All these things play a role in the following story. Beware what happens when a writer’s imagination gets away with her.

I turned off the light and snuggled down into clean sheets and up to Paul. My hand absently strokes against something rough, which tickles my palm (this isn’t that kind of story). I immediately felt along the length of my braid to the tail end, making sure my braid wasn’t the culprit. The realization that’s not me slams home with a shudder. Fingers outstretched, I explore the space beside my pillow once again. Oh holy mother…whatever it is, is now in my hand with legs, lots of legs. I fling it toward the end of the bed.

Now here’s where it gets stupid, really stupid. I should have known. A classic ‘don’t open that door’ moment from a horror movie. For one the working dog wonder did not run out of the room post haste with her tail tucked between her legs, and she’s deathly afraid of bugs.

Reluctant to turn on the light like a frightened little girl, I refused to be alarmed and curl back up under the covers, only to stare restless for hours at the end of the bed. Waiting. My eyes droop heavily, shuttering open and closed in a fitful fight against the sandman and sleep. Slumber wins in a welcome tired reprieve.

Mere minutes later, my eyes fly open. Something had scurried crablike over my wrist and off. A low moan, escapes my lips. Fingers curl inward and around the revolting crawling heap until goo leaks down over my knuckles, followed by a crackling pop. I react and fling the predatory nuisance over the edge of the bed. With a groan, I grab up a handful of tissues and scrub at my hand.

At this point you would think (at least the logical assumption would be), I’d turn on a light to see my nemesis. Instead, I push myself deep into the middle of the bed - shoving Paul to the edge and almost off the far side, and wrap the sheets and quilt around me tight, leaving my side of the bed bare. I sat vigil waiting, expecting something to come crawling over the edge with possible reinforcements this time.

Dare I peek? The way my night was going? Not a chance. At this rate, I’d find the boogey man hiding under the bed. Four AM – I finally fall into a fitful sleep.

The next morning emboldened by the light of day, I searched every square inch of my bedroom for the night creeper. Nothing – not one single insectile leg or denizen was to be found.

So now we’ve established three things: I’m not a screamer, I’m a flinger, and I’m a writer. If only I could stop psyching myself out and imagining a nauseating creature crawling off to lick her wounds and spawning more of her ilk for revenge.

Things of note:
*Paul would have gladly come to my rescue had I awoke him.
**No one was bitten by a repugnant bug during this reenactment.
***Writer’s tend to let their imaginations create dystopia realities, when confronted by alien like bugs.

Hysteria

2010-08-18T16:03:00.006-04:00

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave man is not he who does not feel afraid, but he who conquers that fear.” Nelson Mandela

I stood in front of the door to the music room, my hand held in midair over the doorknob ready to push the door open. With a weary sigh, I let my hand drop to my side and walk over to the stairs and sit down, sorely disappointed with myself.

Shut in the room sat my latest rescue cat. Never in all the years, of saving these abandoned animals had I feared one. Nutmeg – so named for her coloring, had found me not long after she had gotten pregnant. Nothing but skin and bones, Paul and I had made the decision to have her pregnancy terminated in order to save this tiny cat - who wove around our legs while we decided her fate. Gentle, loving, wanting to please, and be held Nutmeg, came back a very different animal.

Paul gave up his music room and his lessons for two weeks in order to give her time to heal and recover - twelve long days to be exact. Two days later she bit deep into the meat of my hand. She’s nervous and afraid I reasoned and didn’t think much of it. The next day she lashed into my leg so violently, I bled and would sport bruises for over a week. Paul joked, "Must be you." She appeared fine for him. That same day she left three scratches across his face.

So, I sat on the steps, embarrassed this tiny tyrant had gotten the best of me. In an act of bravado, I strode to the door and went in and dared to approach my nemesis. She purred and curled up in my lap. I cried, I didn’t trust her and wanted so much to make her right again. Slowly but surely Meg as she came to be known in her gentler times, healed. The day we had to cut her stitches and remove them (due to the nature of her health the vet chose not to put in dissolvable stitches) both Paul and I, anticipated a few scars. Much to our chagrin and surprise, she gave us little resistance.

We now have one last hurdle - find her a home, where she’s the only pet. Our (not so) gentle Meg, isn’t so kind to other animals. She fights for everything and anything. Alone she’s the gentlest creature around. If she appears to be a kitten in the above photo, she is. I still believe there is a home, a place where she belongs, and I’ll find it. I haven’t given up on her.

I came to realize over the past three weeks, dealing with her is not much different than writing. The courage it takes to open a door and risk what lies on the other side; is the same courage that continued to spur me on as I wrote the final pages of my current book. I’m in awe of what I accomplished (animal and book). I left the last thousand or so words until yesterday…I wanted to keep them close and refused to let them go, languishing in the ending.

In a year and some odd months, I’ve written three books – Close to 232,000 words. If that isn’t practice and determination, I don’t know what is. There are still revisions to be made on my latest work in progress. But not unlike working with Nutmeg, I’m resolved and passionate enough about what I do – someday a book of mine, will find its way into a publishing house. Courage is the single step you take, one in front of the other, into your dreams. I can’t/won’t be one of those people who sit back and wonder about the ‘what if’s’. I plan to finish what I started, and go on to start another and another…Because dreams were never one dimensional.

*In a side note: We have rescued pregnant cats before and watched over them full term, finding homes for the kittens after they were old enough to be weaned. This decision wasn't made lightly. The health of the mother, overrode all else. Everything we do with these rescues is out of pocket. We’re making a difference one animal at a time and I’ll continue writing one page at a time. Life, it's about those things we are most passionate about.

Missing

2010-07-27T12:23:00.000-04:00

Missing, gone, off the airwaves, definitely NOT here - If there is even a ghost of a chance I can return soon...

As it stands right now, I’m haunting the air waves, a spirit on the line that can’t reach out and connect. Thanks due to my internet provider, who doesn’t understand my predicament. Trust me, on any other occasion I’m honestly not this rude or distant from my readers. Due to my deafness I rely heavily on this form of communication.

The wireless asylum curators have been given the ultimatum to fix it once and for all or lose me as a client. In any event if that happens - I’ll have a whole lot of time to haunt up a new provider, phone company, and cable service. Ah yes, that’s the problem in a nutshell. They control every single air wave coming into my home.

Meanwhile, feel free to peruse my previous post if you haven’t already. Shattered Prose haunted up a years worth of post and bypassed an anniversary. What a way to celebrate, a mere ghost of a presence online. Here’s haunting you with a tenacious short (very short) reprieve.

Picture from here

Free Falling...

2010-07-25T15:28:00.017-04:00

“Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties.” – Erich Fromm

Exasperated I vigorously rub my forehead in consternation. Not again. Four visits from the cable company concerning my network connection, four different men – each performing some difficult task and assuring me this time it would work. Only to find once again I’m floating in nether space with no connection what-so-ever to the web. Pickles head perks up beneath my office chair and without warning she darts off after one of the cats.

My youngest cat, Feather, thought the cord to my USB key would make a wondrous new toy. Her thievery exposed by the click - click bounce of my USB toggle against wooden floor boards. Cord in mouth she runs pall mell toward the stairs with a dog in chase. It finally registers; my book is attached at the end of her new play toy. My work in progress is at the mercy of these two, who think a game is afoot when I join the chase. Within moments I’m back in front of my computer, the dog with a self satisfied smile getting a pat on the head. She knows she did well, in alerting me to something I couldn’t hear.

Lo and behold the connection is back. I’m online, a gift of time for however long the wireless gods deem me worthy.

My tenuous hold on this sporadic connection leaves me hesitant and wary of forging ahead on my writing for the day. I remember another moment, another day when my fingers poised over the keyboard, unsure – frightened in some small way of the direction my life would take. A year ago - truly? A year spent writing, creating, and plotting? A year in which I proclaimed myself a writer and set it down in stone on a blog for all to see and hold me accountable for…

Three books later, hours spent letting my fingers pour my minds musings out on the screen in front of me, and I swear it most certainly doesn’t feel like a year.

The question then begs of me, what would you tell your writer self of a year ago today?

I would tell her:

Go ahead and let your fingers sing across the keyboard. Stay curious and learn. Even if you don’t follow all the rules of your chosen profession, what you do learn and take to heart will be priceless.

You will have days of wanting to toss your laptop out the window, days of agonistic misery where you ponder why in the world you choose to do something that offers no instant gratification. Writing will test the very fiber of your patience.

You will also have days the words flow unbidden and you’ve lost hours at the drop of a hat. Lost minutes stolen by endless lines of prose and dialogue you won’t have with anyone even remotely human.

There will be moments you feel so utterly alone, followed by moments of clarity that you are never truly alone when faced with a head full of colorful characters taking up residence.

Most important –I now know no matter what unfolds from here on out, I can’t/you won’t imagine life any other way. From yesteryear to today, each day brings improvements, hopes, and the fulfillment of a dream. So go ahead let your fingers loose, let the words flow, for no other reason than you can’t imagine not. Jump off the ledge of your misgivings and learn to fly.

So with my faithful sidekick Pickles, a faulty internet connection, and a head full of characters – I bid Happy Anniversary to the first year of Shattered Prose. For better or worse this journey continues…

Picture from here

The Mighty Red Pen

2010-07-05T08:59:00.001-04:00

I have a tendency to do everything back-assward. Can you imagine how that encroaches on my writing? Take for instance the first draft: Everyone knows you basically write without thought to grammar, spelling, and *blink* editing. The general rule is to get the story out of your brain and in some semblance of order on the page in front of you. Everything else comes in the consecutive drafts later on. Sounds easy enough right?

Uhm, yeah, if you say so…

For starters, I’m a free form writer. I let strange variations of plot (whatever story won’t stop nitpicking away at me until I give it a voice) flow. No outline, no clue as to where the story goes from beginning to end. In some ways I’m like a reader who picks up a book by a debut author – until it’s written the story is just as fresh and new to me, as it is for them. I love that the ending catches me by surprise or hits me out of left field.

To make things even more interesting (remember cardinal rule breaker here)…I broke the fundamental rule of the first draft and let a Beta reader work over my pages with a bright red pen. Those red marks danced circles around my words and left a macabre sight. Lines shadowed in parenthesis scolding in big red letters – REDO, echoes of – this makes no sense or this is unbelievable. My manuscript cringes in its designated binder, begging the red pen for mercy.

I wouldn’t say I’m a diehard rebel. For instance, I kowtowed to the popular rule of no edits in the first draft (which is challenging). So now, the binder sits in full view taunting me. I did read all the corrections and do take those red dashes across my prose serious. Those marks let me know in some nefarious way if I’m heading in the right direction or veered so far off the mark I’m no longer working on the same storyline.

No worries, I get my dues in the end. I get the satisfaction of knowing my Beta reader still doesn’t have a clue how this book ends. To me, that’s good writing. I managed to lay the groundwork, feeding just enough to let the foreshadowing work its magic. He senses the underlying currents with my characters and wants more.

Writers are excellent weavers. We pull the strands of words, chapters, characters and plot together, into an extensive web of enchantment and mystery. Even so, there are days those strands don’t pull tight enough or yank the web eschewed – as evidenced by the mighty red pen. So I pull the web apart and rework the strands until I can present something worthy of the spider in Charlotte’s Web.

At the end of the day I need to ask myself, is the way I write working for me? You tell me. The latest red pen declaration was, “Oh F*** me!” That would be in response to a revealing piece of the story. In case you’re wondering…yes, he did give me a flattering appraisal. His surprise turned out to be all the encouragement I needed.

The mighty red pen…where would I be without your constant challenging, encouraging scarlet scribbles across my words?

*This has been a public service message to remind me why I don’t outright kill the wielder of the RED pen (winks).

Writing Adjacent Life

2010-06-06T21:50:00.006-04:00

“Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some under culture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals.”

- Don Delillo

She had a mind of her own and I let her lead me – the anchor slowing down her progress, tethered by a leash. Nose to the ground, she wove back and forth, a half second pause - long enough to glance back over her shoulder. Her eyes challenging me to follow as she dipped her head parting the foliage and disappeared down a hidden deer path. I hesitate; I could barely make out the curve of her black tail with the white tip a few feet in front of me. The leash went whip sharp tense and held, coaxing me to follow.

I dipped down, an outstretched hand in front of me, and glimpse a miniature tunnel made by flowering towers of Dame’s Rocket bent in an arch by the eroding switch cane bamboo. I took a tentative step forward and a soft laugh escapes. Encouraged by the sound, Pickles’ head reappears. Her mischievous grin seemed to say, what did I tell you? I barely have time to breathe in the delicate scent of flowers along her dog made tunnel, before I felt the pull of her leash beckoning. Petals tickle my face and thorny tendrils nick my arms. Alice in Wonderland falling down the rabbit hole came to mind.

We’ve traveled this way to the creek before. This is a first for the Dames to have grown so tall in the bamboo forest. Pickles nudges my hand impatiently, she smells the water and knows the creek isn’t far. We plunge our way through cane 3ft or more above our heads, with little visibility, our only guide the trampled foot path of deer before us, until at last we made it to the creek’s edge. I found Paradise on a hot May afternoon, skipping from one stone to the next trying to keep my footing, splashed by a wet dog chasing twigs twisting and tumbling down the stream; as we followed another tunnel of sorts carved by time and water.

A momentary reprieve in an otherwise never-ending writing splurge and gift of sanity to keep me going; when, I accidentally deleted day’s worth of work. Heartsick and frustrated my sidekick ignored my pouting and ranting, curved a paw around my hand and glanced toward the door. She knew I’d get her meaning. Another outing, in the same general direction we took a few days previous, except we didn’t go down the tunnel of Dame’s Rocket. Pickles wanted to explore a different path, another adventure.

Taking a lesson from Pickles, that evening I sat down and started over, exploring diverse words and taking my book in a new direction. In the back of my mind I held the wonder of the flowering tunnel and realized - life is in the writing. Some words, just like days can’t be salvaged, but the idea and heart of what is written still exist; still lives, waiting for the right tandem and flow to carry them from head to finger tip. And such is life - sometimes we’re not meant to grasp where the story leads us, or given answers to what the day brings. Dare to discover, dare to trust in the simple things.

Today, I’m still filling pages, writing chapters and duplicating life in words. It’s a high I’m not ready to come down from just yet. Unfortunately (or not), my absence will be for a few more weeks yet. It’s all good. I’m simply giving in to my muse (and busy rewarding the sidekick – wonder dog extraordinaire).

Picture from here...

Two Weeks

2010-05-19T22:20:00.009-04:00

“Many people hear voices when no-one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing.” - Anonymous

Sometimes writing feels like madness, others like euphoria, for a writer to lasso words into lines of prose fluidly streaming our imaginations, capturing a moment or lifetime in a few lines. All parts of the equation luring the writer in me. Words fascinate me; they are puzzles for a muse to fit together into whatever he or she might render possible with an ounce of beguiling creativity.

In as much as I savor writing, at times my muse eludes even me. Not exactly - I’m one of the more fortunate ones to get haunted by mine. Folly, gave me a playful, insightful, muse who tends to get distracted rather easy, leaping and bounding all over the place, instead of doing what a muse/I should be doing.

Which to tell you the truth is getting me in a bit of hot water. I’ve spent far too long on the current draft of my book than need be. All the pieces are set and ready to place in their respective chapters; I simply need to sit, butt in chair and finish the remaining pages. To be honest, I love the direction this book is taking. So much so, that I’m unplugging for two weeks to finish (this draft).

Yes, I’m giving myself a self-imposed deadline. Someone needs to kick my virtual ass into gear, who else if not me. Until then follow your muse, whatever it may be…

Those Eyes...

2010-05-14T11:13:00.012-04:00

“Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those peepers?

Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those eyes?”

- Johnny Mercer

It’s come to my attention I have an abundance of eyes turned my way as of late. Don’t believe me? Check out my sidebar, right over there -->. See that little area with all the smiling faces under ‘The Followers – Prose Aficionados’.

What’s that you said? I changed up the tagline? Uh yeah, I couldn’t help myself - the whole writer-esque mindset where I can’t leave well enough alone and need to imprint my fevered imagination on a line of words (Nah, nothing to do with being a writer – not at all).

In light of so many newcomers, I’ve decided it’s time to become more ‘complacent’? Not the word I want? Of course not, I knew that. How about friendly, outgoing, polite and compliant, do any of those words work?

The whole reasoning behind this post is a simple (not quite) decision; to try and start replying like the polite little writer I supposedly am to comments. Yes, I know I’m nefariously shy and will probably be screaming bloody murder in a corner somewhere before it’s all over. It’s not that horrendous you say?

Think I’m kidding? Here’s an example of a conversation with me, thanks to a sweet friend Janna Qualman who asked an interesting question on her blog. "While we wait," she asked, "What would we talk about?" My answer:

“Life. How the mystery of it all brought us together to that precise moment, this conversation. I would watch your lips move to hear you, your hand movements and body language; letting myself get to know those things that make you unique in the way you carry yourself and talk.

First conversations mesmerize me with all the details to the above. I would seem shy at first so you...you dear friend would carry most of the conversation. Promise though by its end, I would know you and the tendrils of friendship would have dug deeper into the trunk of my being.”

Ah, you see? Simple words come easy on a page in written form, in life – I quake with a whole different signature. Not to mention my tendency to be long winded. Yet, despite not being able to see you and gather who you are from all the above…I’m willing to throw down the gauntlet and open myself up to questions in an effort to begin replying to my comments.

I offer you this, ‘Ask any question within reason’. Although, I still reserve the right to plead the 5th if need be.

Well, what are you waiting for? Quickly before I change my mind *winks*. Honestly, no need to rush. All comments end up in my inbox, so I’ll be able to reply even weeks from now. I’m just not so sure how well my fragile psyche will hold up (she says, with a raised eyebrow, smiling broadly).

I’ve included the lyrics to ‘Jeepers Creepers’. The whole concept worked well for this post. I doubt Frank Sinatra ever thought, when he sang this song, it might inspire a horror movie by the same name. Horrendous fun, what do you know?

“Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those peepers?
Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those eyes?
Gosh all git-up, how'd you get so lit up?
Gosh all git up, how'd it get that size?
Golly gee, when you turn those heaters on,
Woe is me, got to put my cheaters on.
Jeepers creepers, where'd you get those peepers?
Oh those weepers, how they hypnotize!
Where'd you get those eyes?”

Picture from here

Mother of us all...

2010-05-08T12:49:00.004-04:00

“The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before.”

Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

This topic challenged me in unexpected ways and opened a sense of ethereal understanding in yet others. No matter what kind of mother brought us into this world, the circumstances or reasoning behind our births, we owe that one fundamental respect and thank you to the woman who gave us life.

One of the definitions in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary for mother is: maternal tenderness and affection. If that is the case, wouldn’t that apply to any decent compassionate human being? We all carry a mothering instinct in us to protect, shelter, and care for others of our species. In light of that basic comprehension, what if the role of mother changed to who ever molded the person you are now?

Perhaps we didn’t discover exactly what it meant to be mothered until we became adults or parents ourselves. What if we took someone or they took us under our/their wing and showed simple compassion and appreciation; is that not mothering?

This Sunday celebrate the very act of having been born and those saintly souls who mother our spirits. As a mother myself, I gave the world a daughter and she gave me the unconditional love and honor of being her mother. I have earned my place in her heart and life. Ask yourself who has earned that place in yours and honor them with all the glory they deserve not just in a single day, but all the days of your life.

Even Edgar Allen Poe in all his dysfunctional haunted understanding of life, could behold the beauty of that which is called Mother:

“Because I feel that in the heavens above

The angels, whispering one to another,

Can find among their burning tears of love,

None so devotional as that of "Mother,"

Therefore, by that dear name I have long called you,

You who are more than mother unto me.”

-- Edgar Allan Poe

Picture from here

The Ocean In Me...

2010-05-01T09:50:00.005-04:00

“You cannot dream yourself into a character; you must hammer and forge yourself one.”

– James A Froude

There are several different labels used to describe a person; there are familial titles, society standards and occupations on one hand, on the other gender, heritage, and character. It’s easy enough to accept how we may appear to complete strangers - that is until we’re giving a box or a few lines asking us to describe ourselves. Suddenly we feel almost godlike when we’re given the ability to pick and choose what we wish to define us.

I’ve always found definitions limiting. How can anyone possibly grasp the bigger picture of who you are from a few short stipulating words? It takes time to see all the facets of what makes someone unique. Taking that into consideration, one of the words I use to describe myself easily besides a writer is - deaf. Anyone that has read me for any length of time knows it’s been a learning process to own up to that.

For new readers who may be curious and afraid of offending by asking; no I wasn’t always deaf. I grew up hearing impaired. The nerve damage to both of my ears would continue to destroy what hearing I had, until my impending deafness five years ago. I’ve had people say to me, “I can’t imagine what that must be like.” Neither could I, until it happened. I can honestly say nothing could ever fully prepare someone for that kind of life changing loss.

People have used words such as courageous and inspiring to describe me. I don’t get it. Why? Anyone else in the same situation would have found a way, to do whatever they needed to get through each day. It’s human nature to adapt. Without getting into the issues I faced, let’s just say five years later it’s still a learning process. I refused to take it lying down and found a way to communicate and exist in a hearing world.

So what does this have to do with writing - everything and maybe to someone else nothing at all. Words gave my silence voice, strength, compassion and life. Writing allowed me to be on an even pedestal with everyone else. The same passion I apply to my writing, is not unlike that which I overcame my insecurities with my deafness.

Here on these pages, I’m considered no different than you or anyone else. I still face obstacles with my deafness even in a writing capacity. Conferences and writing seminars are rather difficult under the circumstances. So maybe I have to work a little harder to get where I want to be. To me it just makes it that much more rewarding. I’m no different than anyone else, not really, not here or in life.

Find something you’re passionate enough about and willing to sacrifice for and you’ll find a dream in the making. That last sentiment is anyone’s choice.

Food for thought – When you pick up a conch shell on the beach and put it to your ear, do you hear the ocean? I do, in the sand beneath my feet as it crashes to the shore, in the tangy salt air wafting up my nostrils, in the cold spill of bubbling water and foam spreading across the sand, and in the slimy tendrils of seaweed wrapped around my ankles. I hear the ocean with everything I am. It’s the same way I approach life and my writing.

The question isn’t what defines you; rather how passionate are you about life? I’ll leave you with a quote by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, "I must write it all out, at any cost. Writing is thinking. It is more than living, for it is being conscious of living.”

Picture found here

Writers Anonymous

2010-04-23T18:40:00.004-04:00

A woman nervously enters the dank basement, walking quietly over to the chairs in the middle of the room. She clumsily bangs into a metal chair, wincing as it scrapes along the concrete floor like nails on a chalkboard and quickly takes a seat. Her palms are sweaty, her mouth dry, and she’s not exactly sure why she’s here.

My name is Indigo. I’m a writer.

My writing has gotten out of hand to the point I can no longer watch television or a movie with someone else, due to occasional bouts of spouting out the plot and sequence of events and giving away the storyline.

It’s been so long since I read a book like a normal functioning human being, without poring over newfound words and dissecting what I’m reading to see if I can find the author’s voice. I’m often left dumbfounded asking why I didn’t think of that and hell bent on learning trade secrets.

I have more friends and enemies running around in my head than I do in real life.

I lose huge chunks of time; only to discover pages of typewritten words I don’t remember typing.

Friends and family should be warned they may or may not end up being a character in something I’ve written. Fair warning I could be writing about any of you right now. I’ve comprised a whole horror book on my neighbors alone (then again I’m sure that’s rationally normal).

I miss conversations and stare rudely at people I don’t know, filing away details for future characters in my head.

It’s been days since I stepped outside my house, or wore anything besides pajamas. Sometimes I forget to shower. I simply run out of time, sucked into the latest WIP (work in progress). Of which I seem to have several spewing forth at one time. I can’t seem to be satisfied with one storyline. I’m greedy that way.

Several times in any given day I come *pinches finger’s together* this close to tossing my laptop out the window.

I tend to scare people around me with sudden bursts of, “Aha”, and “I Got it”, at the top of my lungs or sputtering on and on about characters no-one knows. It’s all I talk about…I don’t understand why it should be so confusing.

My house has dust bunnies that scurry out from hiding with a hint of a breeze. They’re bigger than my foot. I’ve learned to expertly stack the dishes beside the sink into mini mountains. Loved ones often offer up food in the form of buckets of chicken or Chinese take-out. I forget to cook sometimes. Laundry? - That’s depends on smell-a-vision.

Right now I’m imagining Woody the woodchuck, digging holes in the snobby neighbors lawn (He lives beneath my shed – the woodchuck not the neighbor), and dandelions are yellow paint spatters from nature’s brush, and I’m a twenty something that wears Ed Hardy High-tops (The last is true, except the age thing – no that doesn’t have anything to do with being a writer. I’m just thrilled to have gotten them for a mere $20, compared to the usual $73). Sue me I don’t act my age.

I’m prone to bouts of illusions that make life seem…other than.

You know what? I don’t necessarily see a problem here. Sure I can’t comment on blogs as much and rarely visit reality. But I wouldn’t change a thing. I doubt any writer would, maybe that’s why I’m the lone one in – “Writers Anonymous”.

Original picture found here

Escaping the Asylum of my Mind

2010-04-09T19:41:00.009-04:00

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise”

- John Lennon

Steeped neck deep in the latest draft I’m writing, I glanced up at the news just in time to see the close captioning cross the screen, “By Friday we should return to reality.”

“Hah!” I laughed. “Not anytime soon I’m afraid,” came out in whispered sarcasm.

The return to reality sentiment came by way of my local weatherman, in reference to the 20 degree rise in temperature from the norm.

I think any writer that dips their toe in the river of fiction, can honestly say there is a very thin line between surrealism and what life seems so thickly steeped in - reality. I know it’s not a far stretch for me. Perhaps its easier having found myself submerged in the silence of my deafness, or maybe I’m speaking for a larger share of writers than I realize.

The only way I hear my voice in this deaf world is upstairs, in my head space. I also get the lovely honor of sharing that head space with multiple characters who tend to be a little on the dark side. It may surprise quite a few of my readers, how effortlessly I write from an ugly perspective, compared to the delightful descriptive prose I often lend here.

Why is that?

I’m willing to delve into the frightening in order to discover the beauty hidden within the repulsive. Sometimes the most terrifying things in life are that which you can’t see. In that sense, I have a head full of broken, startling, horrid characters roaming about. They keep company with resilient, strong beautiful spirits. It’s an uneasy balance of both. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Such is life.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Black bird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

all your life

you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise,

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

(Blackbird lyrics by the Beatles).

Picture from here.

Where is the Compassion?

2010-03-26T16:45:00.004-04:00

“Compassion literally means to feel with, to suffer with. Everyone is capable of compassion, and yet everyone tends to avoid it because it's uncomfortable. And the avoidance produces psychic numbing -- resistance to experiencing our pain for the world and other beings.” – Joanna Macy

I’m many things in this life - I’m deaf, I’m a mother, lover, friend, and a writer. That last takes precedence here.

Even though I may be deaf, my words have substance, a voice that can plead or bring moments to life. There comes a time when we can no longer remain silent. A time when something affects us so deeply we’re not afraid to shed tears, hurt or find that compassionate place within us to take a stand. As a writer, I chose to let my words reach out to you. You don’t have to agree with me…just take a moment…to listen.

I often have the TV playing in the background - its visual to me is what music would be for someone who hears. Yesterday evening my dog ran up to the TV, pacing back and forth upset, so naturally I looked up to see what distressed her. By this time Pickles was all out whining and pawing the wooden chest that held the TV, as if that could make it stop and my heart hurt to see what she saw. I called her over to me and we both comforted one another - human and dog, her body trembling, my heart racing - witnessing the devastation of an American Icon.

Can you imagine existing wild and free, suddenly alerted to the sound of helicopter blades cutting the air, coming closer and closer? You hear the beast before you see it. When you do, your heart leaps, your nostrils flare in fear and you run like the wind trying to outrace this new menace. Running ragged and hard for miles - hours, you can’t stop for it looms closer and closer and you’re forced down the mountain under a hovering helicopter in desert heat.

When you finally do get a reprieve you’re trapped, exhausted, lost, confused. Your mane is tangled with burrs and debris and your flank is soaked with perspiration. Your nostrils are running, you’re overheated and you’re separated from your mother. Without warning your legs go lame and the last thing, the worst - you’ve died in captivity, deadened eyes crusted open and mirrored with terror.

Can you imagine the despair and panic that remain long after the dust settles? Separated from all you know, the land, your band and family…

That’s what happened in a wild horse round-up on the Calico Range located just outside of Reno, Nevada, over and over for two months solid, until the round up ended in early March. Wild horses once coveted as an American Icon are now being run ragged by hovering machinery and corralled into captivity. Why? All because claims made by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) that the horses were starving or dehydrated – claims of protection and welfare. The same horses that witnesses refuted were healthy and in no way in harm. All under the guise of what our government calls management, when in fact they are denying these horses the very thing we have fought so hard for in this country for ourselves - freedom.

Out of over 2000 horses rounded up, 77 are dead including 2 foals that lost the outer layer of their hooves. 39 Mares miscarried. More will die before this is over, before they are auctioned off or slaughtered. Now you have to ask yourself, is this what you want your tax dollars spent on? Is this what you call protecting a species? Surely you would expect the BLM to be aware the winter months would herald heavily pregnant mares and endanger them. Isn’t that part of what protection is, knowing that which you profess to protect?

Even a dog could see the wrong in what unfolded on the TV screen. How is it humans failed to see what an animal instantly recognized and understood?

Don’t take my word for it, watch a video of a roundup unfold and ask your heart who you hurt for, the animal or the beast in the machinery?

Better yet watch this PSA <-click here, find out how you can take a stand and contact your elected officials in Washington, DC. All the information you need is found throughout the PSA.

We are better than this. Human beings can’t ignore how cruel this makes “us” appear as a species. May we be reminded of Peter Singer’s quote, “All the arguments to prove man's superiority cannot shatter this hard fact: in suffering the animals are our equals.”

Picture found here

Rain Dancing

2010-03-22T17:43:00.003-04:00

“We grow great by dreams. All big men are dreamers. They see things in the soft haze of a spring day or in the red fire of a long winter's evening.” – Woodrow Wilson

I breathed a sigh of relief looking out the window specked with wet droplets, wishing I could hear the rain gently fall - pooling into puddles and flowing into rivulets which turn to meandering small tributaries ants wouldn’t dare forge. Placing my fingers on the clear reflective surface and tracing runaway multi-facets of clear streams, I smile as the cool dampness invades my fingertips.

Relief floods through me in weary contentment. The hazy day outside my window promises a well needed reprieve. I want – need to lose myself in the comfort of my couch, an Indian blanket strewn across my knees and my laptop waiting, ever waiting for days such as this for the dance to begin.

Spring’s arrival kissed my cheeks with warmth and mischievously tousled my hair in blithe merriment in recent weeks - playing havoc with the nature lover in me. How could I not want to lose myself in the fresh scent of dirt and gentle breezes invading through windows at half mast? Grass never a greener, green – emerald, jade and shades of olive let loose from imprisoned snow.

Old Maid woodchuck came out from under the shed to take a bow, her winter fur with it’s tuffs of beige shimmering in the sunlight. A visit to the creek gave way to the blue jay’s soaring flight at eye level across my path. Let’s not forget the bright red backyard bird to the north – the Cardinal or the beautiful Oriole. They’ve all properly graced us with their company these early spring days.

And yet…I smile looking out my window fogged with each exhale. Yes, spring has let the sun kiss my lips and the new growth of lawn tickle my senses. “Almost”, I whisper, not yet, I’m not quite ready yet to leave this space I inhabit to write. It’s comfort enough to know ere long I’ll have my hands buried in dark brown soil and dirt ground beneath my fingernails as I plant and knead the earth.

I’ll take what comes, no rush, no candor just wanton days of ‘what if’s’. As I let my fingers loose across the keyboard, my heart flutters and the words begin to fly free to grace the page. It’s the perfect day, my kind of day, to let my fingers do a little…rain dancing…

Picture found here

What Time?

2010-03-13T14:53:00.003-05:00

When told the reason for daylight

savings time the Old Indian said,

"Only the Government would believe

that you could cut a foot off the

top of a blanket, sew it to the

bottom, and have a longer blanket."

Pickles doesn't get it either.

"Say what? You save daylight how?

This is going to mess with dinner

time isn't it?"

Paintings by Terry Sodd
Pickles is all mine...

Don't Stop the Music

2010-03-04T18:44:00.007-05:00

“I know I can be colorful

I know I can be gray

I know this loser's living fortunate

cause I know you will love me either way”

Finally given the opportunity to relax after a harried day, with the words to the above lyrics in live performance running through my head; I wrap my legs under me in my office chair and twist it around to stare out across the living room, out toward the bleak gray sky with skeletal winter branches stabbing skyward. My thoughts are lost in that frozen tundra beyond the window.

“Most were being good for goodness sake

but you wouldn't pantomime”

Shaking myself from my reverie, needing to write and finding myself all kinds of distracted, I glance down and break out in peals of laughter. Nothing so hilarious but perhaps to me, my feet were wrapped in opposing colors - one sock varying degrees of blue, the other shades of gray. I couldn’t tell you why this was so amusing to me, other than I was wearing mismatched socks.

Pickles sits up on her haunches and bats the air with her paws, entertained by my giddiness, causing me to laugh even more. While I laughed my hand crossed laying flat against my chest and I giggle. There you are, I thought. In this way I could hear something I had been missing, my voice - nestled in the heart of me. Oh sure, I could hear myself speak all the time. Although I’m not sure I want to be the deaf woman walking around with her hand over her heart, leaving people wondering if at any moment I might break out into a rendition of the Pledge of Allegiance.

Later still I find myself needing a song, some kind of music to build the crescendo of the moment I’ve just written on the screen in front of me. You would think that discovering new music would have been an impossible task since I became deaf over five years ago. Amazingly no…If anything I find I appreciate the discovery even more now.

Keep in mind I was able to hear right up until I went deaf. Add in all the music versatility that I used to enjoy from one extreme to another, from a monk’s choir to punk rock and it’s not a hard stretch to imagine a new sound, no matter how different. With today’s technology it’s amazingly easy for a deaf individual to hear music in their own distinctive way. It’s all about bringing the other senses into play and recording them in your mind like an orchestra.

Having discovered lyrics I’ve never heard before, I’ll go in search of reviews of what the band sounds like. Are they hard punk or delicate strands of melody? Is there a heavy bass played? (Bass lends a louder acoustic sound that comes through a speaker or amp in a jovial vibrato).

When I’ve found what I need, I close my eyes and listen.

The candle gives off the scent of brisk evergreen reminiscent of a forest dew morning. I hear a complex song, a less gritty version of Nirvana. The latter a band I’m familiar with so it’s not really that much of a stretch, then I play the words I’ve gleaned from the lyrics to ‘Who I am’ by Smile Empty Soul in my mind.

“No one knows the way I feel a part of me I have to find

Buried somewhere deep beneath my skin

The emptiness in me is faded

And I can see my life is waiting

Now I know I’m living for who I am”

Did you hear it? Not only did I hear it, It gave me the edge I needed to feel for the protagonist in my latest story. She’s gritty and angry at the world - full of emotional overflow. She’s me and she’s not – writ across these pages.

Hearing despite being deaf for me was a skill honed by time. Just as time will hone these delicate strands of words I write into something we both hear. I learned by testing my boundaries and questioning everything. My world doesn’t subsist in the box deaf might have labeled me. Nor will my writing. It’s an extension of who I am. We – you and I live/write with the best parts of who we are.

*The first two stanzas were by the Verve Pipe from the song ‘Colorful’
*Pickles - my working dog for the deaf.

Picture from here

Brain Clunk

2010-02-25T15:41:00.010-05:00

“For every failure, there's an alternative course of action. You just have to find it. When you come to a roadblock, take a detour.” – Mary Kay Ash

A few days ago I read something that stopped me dead in my tracks (Cue the sound of an engine falling out of a car). I couldn’t shift back into gear for the life of me until I reassessed my thoughts on the matter.

It doesn’t happen often.

For the most part I read and glean all I can and move on.

What was all the commotion about? Janet Reid had posted a Typography link that held these two lines ensconced.

“What has happened to our conviction?” and “Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?”

I balked, stammered and watched the video again and again, until I ended up going in search of the original poem by Taylor Mali. I was enthralled, wanting/needing to follow suit and reaffirm my own convictions.

Convictions - Those strong persuasions of belief that lend strength and credence to who we are and what we stand for. Sound familiar?

It’s effortless to forget things which once stirred us to speak out and up. What happened to those times we made decisions with the utmost conviction, knowing this is what you were meant to do – be?

In this day and age of choices it’s all too easy to leave it to someone else or better yet - give up, because the road has suddenly become unbearable and difficult. After all without our convictions what could possibly drive us to pursue that avenue of hardship?

Take my choice to be a writer for instance, it’s a long difficult journey to get to the publishing stage. There are self doubts and days of pulling your hair out, screaming fits of what am I doing to myself. It’s a rare opportunity to get that pat on the back with exclamations of you're doing great, keep up the good work. A choice in which you learn you’re a company of one, who may or may not have that best seller in you.

So why do it? - Because I can’t imagine doing anything else. Life is a process of repeatedly falling and getting back up until you’re strong enough to stand against the tide. The only way you get there or anywhere in life, is having the conviction to believe in yourself.

Without a doubt there will be days conviction in itself won't be enough and you'll need all the courage and brute determination you can spare to stay the course.

So the question belies – Am I writer? Do I see things in poetic detail or lives played out in the form of characters in a book. Am I a storyteller who loves to imagine all the possibilities of consequences? Better yet…go ahead and ask the hard question. Do I believe I’m a writer?

Picture from here

What She Saw...

2010-02-11T19:08:00.003-05:00

"I could stay awake just to hear you breathing

Watch you smile while you are sleeping

While you're far away and dreaming

I could spend my life in this sweet surrender"

Gently pushing loose strands of long dark hair behind her ear and bending over the page in front of her, pen in hand the woman sighs heavily. Chin nestled in her palm weighing down her elbow leaving grooved ridges from the hard oaken wood table. Here she was a writer - missing words and phrases. Her head rises in frustration catching the broken desolate building across the yard in her view from the dining room window. The corner of her lips pull into a playful smile and she remembered, what she saw…

She saw a man crawl through the brambles and thick tangle of vines on hands and knees to rescue a mewling pitiful cat from beneath a broken down shed. The man more worried about an animal than his own safety. She smiled, shaking her head as he fed the cat before checking to see how badly scratched he might be.

She saw a man sit across from a woman and carry on a conversation. Intrigued she watched him spellbound by mere words. Nothing distracted from the importance of what she had to say – not then or ever to this man. He never minded once hearing her voice. Little did she know soon, he would be one of the few people who truly heard.

She saw a man angrily argue with a woman child that wasn’t his. Little did the almost woman know he cared much like a father. She saw him crumble into tears with worry. He wouldn’t have ever let on, because it was never about him.

She saw a man work hard with sweat streaming down his face and neck as he walked through the door. He wouldn’t be kissed, he smelled of dirt and grime. Little did he know she would have gladly kissed his sweat lined lips. He did it all for her, for them. She knew.

She saw a man slam a door and drive away in anger. A woman felt pain in places and ways she never believed possible. A part of her had walked away with him. She heard the silent apology crying out too late, willing him back. Both at fault - a mere argument that occurs between couples.

She saw two people, a man and a woman stretching boundaries – learning to blend, yet remain separate.

She saw a man play his guitar and pat his amp beckoning the woman to sit. He cried right along with her while he played The Little Drummer Boy. He gave the gift of sound the only way he knew how in her silent world.

She saw a man walk through the door bewildered, confused and torn after taking one look at the woman across the room. Without a word he went to her, gently wiping away tears, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He wouldn’t let go until she believed in herself again, until she knew she was loved unconditionally. He knew words weren’t enough, his arms would have to suffice.

She saw a man reach out his hand with a smile and invitation. And the couple walked that way for some time hand in hand. The smiles on their faces saying more than words could portray.

She saw a man watch a woman worriedly in a hospital room. He could read all the ‘what ifs’ that lined her face. He danced a gig and made a fool of himself until she left the room in tears and peals of laughter.

She saw a man hold up his hand and make the sign for love, the woman did the same letting the tips of their fingers grace each other - This sacred bedtime ritual that was theirs and theirs alone.

She saw a man love a woman.

The woman stopped writing and once again pushed strands of hair away from her face. The evening glow of the afternoon splashed across the table from the window. Her smile was infectious. Her words, her understanding in pen strokes on the page before her testified - love wasn’t a single day, a memory, or even a moment. What she saw…was something with the makings of a lifetime. Solid and sure.

Lyrics Here

The Why of the Why Not

2010-02-07T17:36:00.003-05:00

“Curiosity is idle only to those who fail to realize that it may be a very rare and indispensable thing” – James Harvey Robinson

A breathy timid voice asks, “Why?” The mother looks down, rubbing her thumb along the petite ridge of hand in hers and regards her child’s inquisitive question. She smiles at the dance of wonder and awe that alights in her daughter’s eyes and tries to answer the question, knowing in her heart what ever answer she gives won’t satisfy.

Quick on the tail of her reply escapes another, “Why?” in her daughters singsong voice reminiscent of the tinkling melody of wind chimes swayed by a breeze and the dance begins again; over and over until either out of frustration or genuine alarm the mother realizing she has no more answers retorts, “Because I said so.”

In that moment the little girl's innocence becomes overshadowed on her minuscule features by a look of abject seriousness, outweighing her young age. No she’s not satisfied. There is more to the why and she wants her answer. She can’t move beyond until she understands and with purpose belying her age, she goes in search of yet another adult, another big human to question – why?

Do you remember that point in your life when you came to understand some questions would never truly be given a satisfactory answer? The possibility perhaps – there was no answer. We should, it’s a rite of passage of growing up and questioning everything and anything in our pursuit of knowledge and our relentless need to fill our curious natures. My question then is? When did you stop asking why?

Our adult selves tend to go with the flow, to accept things as they are rarely questioning the reasoning for what is. Until a child’s timid question charges the air demanding, “Why?”

I was never satisfied with not knowing the answer and went in pursuit of some form of adequate response. There had to be an answer that could fill the want in my child long enough before the next set of why(s) quickly resurfaced in curiosity. As an adult...I forget to ask myself why. Why did it matter so much to feed her curiosity - because it fed mine.

These days when I write, I see my writing with a child’s innocent curiosity. I believe I have most of the answers for my characters, but what if I don’t. What if for some reason what unfolds in the storyline doesn’t make sense to anyone at all? Can I trust that whomever is reading will go in pursuit of their own answers or do I try to answer the impossible and worry perhaps they will get frustrated and give up so easily at trying to comprehend - as they may tire with a child’s endless chorus of why?

Maybe if you look closely enough the answer is there, hidden in the depths of the long ago curious child inside of you. As a writer I can easily say, “Why not,” Why not live, why not die (from a characters point of view), why not smile, why not cry. For every why – if you remember that childlike wonder and gullible belief, there is a why not.

Life is complicated. Sometimes there really are no answers. For the ones we can find to fill our curiosity, those not readily available answers – I hope you never grow too old or wise to stop asking, “Why?”

Maybe that’s why I’m a writer. I’ve never stopped being curious and investigating the possibilities of life. My characters get to live all those myriad answers. I can only hope by the end of reading me, I have not fully answered your questions and leave you asking why. I’ll consider it a gift if I do. - Indigo

Picture from here

Chaotic Semblance of Sane - Sometimes

2010-01-31T12:45:00.015-05:00

“Sanity is madness put to good uses.” – George Santayana

The above graphic is about right…I’m buried in a new manuscript. I’ll let you figure out whether that is excitement or madness.

In light of the writing frenzy that keeps me imprisoned from giving any coherent responses to questions in the past few days, I’ve come to the following conclusions:

1) Google is more insane than I am with some of the results it passes off as informative.

2) I have way too many discussions with my dog. It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t end them with a childish retort of “I’m not having this discussion, I said so.” Strange enough I’m the one that brought up whatever we were discussing to begin with. (Go ahead and look baffled – she does a good imitation).

3) Anyone within close proximity of me should NOT be surprised when I suddenly shout “I Got It!” at the top of my lungs and do a mad scramble for paper and pen (should see the alarmed looks I get). You know how those elusive story elements come at the oddest times in restaurants, in the car, in the middle of a conversation, while in the shower…chaotic at best.
Then comes along a challenge by a dear sweet soul - Kasie West, in the form of an award. Yep, this blog is still award free (appreciate it, love them, seldom follow the rules). But I couldn’t pass up the chance to see how I would do under pressure. She did say no pressure (but that’s like someone lighting a flame under your arse). The challenge? One word answers to the following.

Your Cell Phone? Text

Your Hair? Obsidian
Your Mother? Absent
Your Father? Lost
Your Favorite Food? Exotic
Your Dream Last Night? Tragic
Your Favorite Drink? Chai
Your Dream/Goal? Attainable
What Room Are You In? Head
Your Hobby? People
Your Fear? Silence
Where Do You See Yourself In Six Years? Published
Where Were You Last Night? Writing
Something That You Aren't? Silent
Muffins? Boring
Wish List Item? Peace (no it’s not an item per say, but it’s solid)
Where Did You Grow Up? Haven’t
Last Thing You Did? Dream
What Are You Wearing? Glasses
Your TV? Ancient
Your Pets? Psychotic
Friends? Many
Your Life? Chaotic
Your Mood? Serene
Missing Someone? Me
Vehicle? Passport
Something You Aren't Wearing? Mask
Your Favorite Store? Antique
Your Favorite Color? Indigo (Is it any wonder?)
When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Inside
Last Time You Cried? Guess
Your Best Friend? Pickles (We’re literally bonded at the hip. She's a working dog for the deaf)
One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? Mountains
Facebook? Overblown
Favorite Place To Eat? Home

Kasie – Thanks! I had no idea how creative and fun this would be. This from overwordly (it’s a word in my mind sphere) me.

Nope, I won’t be passing it on. If you look up my answer to friends you’ll know why. However I would love to read any attempt by any of you to participate. Kasie, I'm truly honored. - Indigo

Rainy Day Muse

2010-01-25T18:15:00.009-05:00

And I want to wake up with the rain

Falling on a tin roof

While I'm safe there in your arms

-Norah Jones (Come Away With Me)

Nursing a hot cup of tea, I’m staring out the rain specked window, mystified by the sight of grass in my yard. A fortnight and a day was all it took to change nature’s canvas. As pleasant as the view is, I’m unsettled enough to want for the snow banks and normalcy.

I can’t help but study the contrast brought by chance in the middle of a New York January. It’s all in the details - the growing puddle in the middle of the yard, the rusted kiln blazing bronze in wet symmetry, and surprising for this time of year - the bright hue of the green grass despite the overcast drizzling day.

I’m reminded of a post my dear friend Aidan wrote, Confessions of a Double D. She referred to herself as a Detail Delinquent. In her case it applied to details such as appointments and important dates (It's a great read). All I could think of was my own brand of detail - The kind of details that burn bright in the absence of sound – silent details in glaring juxtaposition.

In a heartbeat I’ll capture a furrowed brow of impatience or the way someone’s eyes will light up when a certain subject is broached, the mumbling, the hand talker, the wary eye darting that comes with an inability to pay attention to what is in front of them. I see it all. You’re backlit by a dimly lit room, or the overhead is too bright, you’re uncomfortable in your chair – in my presence, you’re loved, you’re lonely and wanting someone – anyone to make eye contact - A room, a face, a place full of little defining details.

Yes, I’m fortunate to hear with those same eyes that capture every single little detail. Some would say it’s a writer’s paradise, no noise distractions what-so-ever.

I believe the depth and heart of a story is in the details. If I write about rain, I want you to feel the wet moisture on your skin, the cold splattered little shocks of surprise, smell the damp Earth and notice the misted breathe of delight that escapes your lips. If you yearned or in any aspect felt the rain by that last figurative sentence – I got the details right. I don’t always though.

Sometimes I have to stretch outward and relearn to communicate, to let the details lay quietly in the background. I don’t always say nor do the right thing and I know that. I’ve learned some details don’t make the writing stand out, some events are forgivable and more than anything I’m human. Underneath all the details and descriptions and words is a writer that doesn’t always get it. I’m trying not to forget there is a life strung in between these words of mine, a real live breathing persona.

I’m good with the details, I’m getting better at the living part. This has been brought to you from my Rainy Day Muse. - Indigo

Picture from here

Anonymous, Anonymous...

2010-01-15T12:51:00.010-05:00

Oh, Anonymous…

What am I going to do with you? You have preyed for some time on my trusting nature and as a result – I’m beginning to cringe at the very mention of the heading you have chosen to hide behind.

It’s not a name (why else would it be anonymous?).

At times with the bullying you subject me to, vying to bend me to your will to hit those links you embed in your comments – I’m left to wonder at the face that would be so cunning (at least you think so), unfeeling and downright inglorious…You’re not human are you?

For most humans I know have that one thing they own above all else – A name. Or at the very least an identity, a place where they came from, arrived from and end up at (besides my comment section and those idiotic links that have nothing to do with my post what-so-ever).

Just so you know – I do have a name and a reputation I do adhere to, that is far more worthy than your simple non-descriptive moniker – Anonymous.

I back up my words and writing wherever I go with a name. Why? Because I feel what I have to say is deserving of ownership. You on the other hand poor dear anonymous nonentity - apparently don’t have a whole lot of faith in backing up your words (or links). Part of it might be because, well…you’re not exactly kosher and following the guidelines are you? - (Which leaves me to ponder why Blogger would allow your existence to begin with).

In essence I no longer trust comments left under the guise of Anonymous. Which is a travesty in it’s own as I had only wished to make commenting here an easy transition for my readers. So you did manage to get my attention. Although I don’t think it was the method you were aiming for. As of this post, you are banned from commenting – unless of course you want to back up your words with a name (smirks). The likelihood of that happening is null. I’ve trumped my trust issues with you. So I wish you adieu, goodbye and good riddance.

Farewell Anonymous, my fair weather friend (not). I won’t be seeing you anytime soon.

For the rest of my readers who grace my comment section: Thank you for your patronage, words and friendship. I appreciate the time you take to leave a word or two and let me know you’ve passed by my way. Love and Peace!

Picture from here

A Deeper Kind of Silent

2010-01-09T19:38:00.004-05:00

Some part of me always knew I would eventually call myself a writer – that was a given.

Then came the deafening roar of silence…
*I should note here for those of you who may not know. I had been hearing impaired since the age of five. This is about a precise date, January 8th, 2005 – the night I ceased to hear. Imagine a light bulb burning brightest before it fizzles, pops and goes dark. Going deaf was a bit like that.

What I didn’t plan on was deaf being part of that descriptive nuance. Five years later I can’t imagine describing myself any other way. It’s the very current that flows beneath my writing. Life lessons that echo and reverberate against my words.

Why would I find myself with this need to define who I am? The question begs of me.

Because, it wasn’t until this year that it dawned on me, the subtle hush that falls soon after Christmas and stays with me until the very day – January 8th. A pattern that apparently repeats itself year after year as predictable as the air I breathe. It wasn’t until this year that I noticed something unremarkably different in as much as, the day slipped by without a whimper, unfelt and forgotten. Could it be?

Could I have somehow crossed that threshold of deeper understanding and awareness? What changed and where do I go from here? Those questions and more were in the forefront of my mind today, along with that insatiable need for definition.

If memory serves me right - that first year of deafening silence was spent exploring the space within my silent world. I tried to temper my feelings and prepare for this new learning curve by stretching my boundaries as far as I could, to see which parts of me snapped back into place. The second year was a defiant one and by the third year I was done exploring. I wanted all the jagged edges of my life to somehow work themselves out.

I discovered over these last silent five years, I didn’t get to take the easy way out – no one does. I had to put in the time and labor and let it teach me how to be complete. Think of it as reading a book: If you tear out the pages you don’t like and rush to the happy ever ending – you’re left feeling as if you missed an important part of the story. What happened to the journey to get there? Doesn’t it seem so much more enriching after reading the struggle that ensued to see the end results? Didn’t the book gain substance and life with those points of controversy and compromise?

Honestly, I don’t need to define this deaf writer. Questions come with anniversaries, dates (point being Jan. 8th was the day I first learned my world was completely and incomprehensibly silent forevermore) and life changes. My humanity simply begs to understand and the hush falls on my contemplation.

These last few years the pages of my life overflow, the plot and consistency of my beautiful flaws and exceptions from the norm only made the tale so much more enriched. Are not our lives all an unfinished book with it’s own plots and twist? Some are easier to read, others more complicated and filled with rich detail.

And so it goes…

Five years later my deafness fits me well. The lessons that have come from such a life experience are ten fold. Ink that was once wet with the first rendering of those days, is now dry on numbered pages of my life. Fresh crisp new pages await the next chapters.

These lessons echo in the characters of books. When faced with controversy and dealt a hand in life they didn’t ask for, they tell their story – page by page and show in their own way they haven’t reached that finale yet. Books mimic life. A writer’s experience and voice can be found scratched across a page, underneath the lives of characters. Listen for the whispers between the words, the hush that foretells a deeper kind of silence. Catch your breathe, keep reading, and keep living. There is a deeper kind of silent that unfolds within us all.

“Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood.” – Helen Keller

Picture from here.

This Song, This Year...

2009-12-31T14:27:00.001-05:00

I've never thought the New Year should be a time of introspection or dalliance, rather a continuance of what was and what is to come...Another year of possibilities and growth. It’s no surprise we grow weary of trying to fix ourselves on this one day of the year – instead of simply living.

If you still insist on resolutions my friends…resolve to find the beauty within us all.

This song Season of Love, sung in the musical RENT, is my heartfelt wish for you as we approach this new decade. May you make every moment count, for each leads to another and before you know it another year has passed us by. Live your lives with love, compassion, peace and beauty and you will find the rest is actually wondrously bearable.

Happy New Year dear friends, welcome, welcome, this new decade! - Indigo

Five hundred twenty five thousand

six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty five thousand

moments so dear

Five hundred twenty five thousand

six hundred minutes

How do you measure, measure a year

In daylight, in sunsets, in midnights,

in cups of coffee, In inches, in miles

in laughter in strife,

In Five hundred twenty five thousand

six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year in the life

How about Love

How about love

Measure in love

Seasons of love

Five hundred twenty five thousand

six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty five thousand

journeys to plan

Five hundred twenty five thousand

six hundred minutes

how do you measure the life of a woman

or a man

In truth that she learned

or in times that he cried

In the bridges he burned

or the way that she died

Its time now to sing out

though the story never ends

lets celebrate remember a year

in the life of friends

Remember the love

(Oh, you got to, you got to remember the love)

Remember the love

(You know that life is a gift from up above)

Remember the love

(Share love, give love, spread love)

Measure in love

(Measure, measure your life in love)

Seasons of love

(Measure, measure your life in love)

Happy Holiday!

2009-12-24T08:41:00.004-05:00

Happy Holidays!

Wishing a wonderous day to friends and family from afar. However and Whatever you celebrate, may love and peace surround you.

I'll be back to posting regularly after the New Year with more adventures on writing.

Love and Peace

Indigo

The Rarely Requested Gifts

2009-12-18T18:41:00.004-05:00

When Christmas bells are swinging above the fields of snow,
We hear sweet voices ringing from lands of long ago,
And etched on vacant places
Are half-forgotten faces
Of friends we used to cherish, and loves we used to know.
(Ella Wheeler Wilcox)

Looking around at the throng of pushing, shoving rude customers in the store with me, I was beginning to think I had lost my mind waiting so late in the holiday season to shop for those elusive gifts under the tree. There wasn’t an ounce of holiday cheer present anywhere. Where was the ghost of Christmas past? Christmas present it seemed had lost all decorum, running amok and out of control.

A woman rudely shoves past practically knocking me off my feet to get to the display I’m standing in front of. “Sorry,” I mumble in her direction as I absently rejoin the throng of mad frenzied shoppers. Her rudeness was deserving of much more than the questioning raised eyebrow that I gave, indicated as much. However, I was determined I wasn’t going to play a part in the hostility and chaotic mayhem present around this time of the year. Somehow my moral compass would stay firmly pointed toward the positive.

“I don’t know what the hell you want from me. Why should I know any more than you do what to get our grandkids? I don’t talk to them the way you do. Send money for all I care!”

I didn’t mean to catch that last bit of conversation. Not really. I had just absently looked toward the older man thinking, I would glimpse a bit of holiday cheer in his face. After seeing the saddened expression his remarks left. I wished I hadn’t. The woman those words were meant for was close to tears and I wondered once again – What is wrong with people?

“How can we afford all this? I’m losing my job at the end of the month!”

“It’s Christmas.” Was the only reply to what I thought wasn’t an unreasonable question. Christmas wouldn’t be enough of an explanation when the heat wasn’t paid on a cold winter’s night would it?

Stop watching people’s lips I scolded myself. Do you really want to be a party to their misery?

The worst was…I was there in the midst of it all. My own arms filled as I waited in line to make my purchases and my mind wandered over Christmases past. Each year had been a race of one up man ship in lieu of the year before. I recognized that old familiar desperate need to give my daughter as many gifts as I could afford, some years finding myself in dept for gifts she no longer played with mere months afterward.

Later that evening, I sat strangely detached and removed from feeling any goodwill cheer at all. My moral compass had been stomped on and grounded into the floor. When did I or anyone for that matter forget – what this season used to represent? When did we get so lost in the rush and havoc pace of buying and forget about those timely gifts of the heart.

“Send a gift – anything, what does it matter. It’s not us they want to see.”

Let me ask you dear gentle readers, what was on your Christmas list this year? What did you request? Was it love, peace, time with family? Serenity, compassion and self worth have fallen on the wayside in search of bigger, better, and more expensive pursuits haven’t they?

I didn’t like the answers I came up with either.

So this year I’m giving the biggest gift of all – to myself. I’m going to request from here on in, love me, cherish me, and spend the holiday in laughter and give of your self to me. Nothing more, nothing less – yet it far exceeds any purchased gift. It’s not about being stingy or lazy. It’s about wanting the best of what life can give me. It’s about experiencing the beauty of those wondrous human souls that share my life.

Slip a love letter in the tree branches, bring a dish to share, but most of all bring a smile and the gift of time. Promise, you will be richer for it.

Take this wondrous time of the year, leave the malls behind, the pushing and shoving and rude behavior – gather around friends and family from afar and simply enjoy the biggest gifts of all, those of the heart. So what’s on your list this year? Let’s make those rarely requested gifts that don’t cost a penny – the next best thing on everyone’s Christmas list. - Indigo

Universally Speaking

2009-12-13T20:00:00.006-05:00

“Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open.” – John Barrymore

Not Again.

Those words weren’t even worth an exclamation, just a very dismayed utterance escaping my lips as I lay prone on my back with ice prickling and stinging my skin. I was pretty sure the wet underside of my flannel pajama bottoms contained melting snow.

As I looked up at the night sky through the tree branches and falling snow, I wondered how long it would take for my hair to freeze and stick to the ice. I could just see it now – the rescue workers would be hard put to hide the laughter. The pajamas were only one part of the whole picture – add a Harley Davidson leather coat, Elmer Fudd hat, a ridiculous long scarf and duck boots. Trust me; I didn’t want to be found looking like that.

Snow coats my eyelashes, I blink and raise my head just far enough up to see where the crazy-ass pup was. Amused (she has a grin she reserves for such occasions) she sticks her nose down near my face and I feel her warm breath join mine in a foggy dance. My head falls back in the snow scrunching the hunters cap even further down on my head, leaving me barely able to see from under the brim. Pickles gives a worried nudge, before settling down beside me with one paw on my chest.

“Fine! Perfect! Now what?” I scold whoever might be listening as I pummel my legs and arms up and down throwing a fit. I’m well aware to anyone else it would seem as if I were talking to myself or having a seizure of some sort.

“What lesson do you have for me now? What’s so profound that the only way I can grasp whatever you have in store for me, is flat on my back with snow down my underwear?”

Last year at this time it was a lesson in learning to smile despite my predicament. I wasn’t smiling. This wasn’t amusing (and yes, I do know you’re probably laughing your ass off right now).

Cold, miserable and waiting impatiently for whatever epiphany the universe had in store for me, I was positive I would end up like the kid in “A Christmas Story” with his tongue stuck to the metal pole, only frozen to the ice by my long hair. It wasn’t near cold enough, but then again my backside was pretty wet. In my mind at least there had to be some kind of drastic consequences for ending up on my back, in the snow, in the middle of the night.

Snow continues to fall lazily tickling my lashes and bathing my face in feather light kisses. This was supposed to be the season of giving, good will and cheer. Lately every little thing bothered me. Where was my holiday spirit? What exactly did I expect? Was life really that miserable lately?

Pickles with her head on my shoulder, looked at me with her amber brown eyes as if I had lost my mind. Her human was confusing the heck out of her. Little did she know, I was pretty confused myself about a lot of things these days. So many little things had been niggling at me. Everyone expected me to have all the answers and be the good will ambassador. Simply put - I just wanted this moment to be a tormented brat, throwing a hissy fit in the snow.

A burst of laughter escaped my lips, startling Pickles.

“Thank you! I got it!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. A universe of misery still had room for laughter. Humans are not perfect specimens by any degree. We have our days of torment and insecurity. Sometimes we let the little things weigh too much in light of the bigger picture.

I get up and chase after Pickles. If you’re looking for me - just look for the crazed woman running around in her pajamas through the snow in the middle of the night and laugh, because sometimes there isn’t anything else left to do. - Indigo

Picture found here

Pickled Grace

2009-12-01T16:57:00.009-05:00

“A dog is the only thing on earth that will love you more than you love yourself.” Josh Billings

As I turn the lights on to the Christmas tree, Pickles steps up beside me and nudges my hand. I absently stroke the top of her head. There is a silent agreement between us, dog and human; it’s that time of the year again. We recognize this place, this starting point that becomes us – the working dog and the human who so desperately needed her.

In a couple weeks it will herald the third year of our beginning, our friendship and my biggest lesson in life – how to love unconditionally. December 12th is not just an ordinary day, its Pickles arrival date in my life.

In the meantime, Pickles curls up beside the tree and I sit typing this story on my laptop. Chuckling, I can’t help but think how things have come full circle, for in a way this too resembles the beginning.

This is Pickles’ story and mine…perhaps more hers.

However the actual beginning started with me. I often mistakenly say I got Pickles a year after my encroaching deafness, in reality it was two years. The first year of my silence is another story for another day. I will say this – I fought my deafness with all I was. And yes, it was a futile battle. The quiet absence of sound would be my life from then on in. When I stopped fighting and started accepting the inevitable, I became determined to find a way back to me. You see I thought I had lost far more than my hearing and had become something less than. The reality being I had not even begun to find me - until then.

In desperation I was driven to the computer exploring every little tidbit I could find on late deafened individuals. Just as I was about to give up the ghost of finding my answer, an article highlighting working dogs for the deaf, caught my eye. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had read and how it would work to my advantage. Sadly yes, it was all about me in those days. I was lost in self pity and forlorn depreciation of life in general.

The picture above was my introduction to Pickles. I fell in love with her right then and there, more so when I discovered her story. Not only was she a Katrina survivor, she had spent the past year being passed around in shelters until the agency I obtained her from, found her. Not unlike me, Pickles was looking for a place to belong, a place to fit in.

She was the animal equivalent of me. Somehow I knew her before I ever laid eyes on her.

Pickles and I would discover all we needed to know of each other in the following two weeks after her arrival. We would be literally attached by a leash 24/7 as part of her training, to make sure she understood I was the human she would be working for. Honestly, she is a working dog with all the restrictions that come with that title and yet so much more. I no longer think it’s training but something more spirited that exist between us. Six months later I would understand that last assertion intimately.

The night before I had been sick with a lung infection, struggling to breath, weak and confined to the bed. I remember seeing Pickles pad into the room, watching me with concern in her eyes from the end of the bed before I faded off to sleep. When I awoke the next morning, Pickles was beside my bed (no small feat as there was barely enough room for her 65lb body), sitting there with her head nestled against my arm. Her bloodshot, drooping eyes signify she had been there all night, going without sleep to watch over me. I think I knew then there was much, much more to her quirky personality and me finding myself amidst the silence. She wasn’t just my working dog - she was fast becoming my teacher.

And if you’re wondering…yes, Pickles was instrumental in helping me accept my deafness. As a matter of fact, she can even be credited with me becoming a writer. How? It all began with those first few entries entailing Pickles arrival in my life.

How fitting that Pickles training with the leash ended on Christmas Eve. How perfectly she fit into my life and I hers. I get up and join Pickles staring at the tree lost in contemplation. It stands as a reminder to us of how far we’ve come. Pickled grace - indeed.

*If you’re looking to make a donation this Christmas, a chance to give another individual the miracle that is Pickles to someone else, you can do so by donating to the following agency:

International Hearing Dog, Inc.
5901 E. 89th Ave.
Henderson, CO 80640-8315

www.ihdi@aol.com or
www.pawsforsilence.org

Your donations help deaf individuals who might have otherwise not been able to afford a working dog, obtain one. They work exclusively with re-homing shelter dogs. Give the gift of human connection, a gift of hearing to a deaf individual this Christmas in the form of a hearing dog.

From my heart to yours - Indigo

The Time Thug

2009-11-21T13:41:00.016-05:00

“The intoxication of anger, like that of the grape, shows us to others, but hides us from ourselves.” – John Dryden

Sometimes I get lost in ambiance. I’m cocooned in my own safe world of oblivion and forget not all is as it seems.

As a writer I should know better. It’s there in the pages of my writing, all the malice and splendor of existential human traits. Still, some small part of me and I believe all of us knows that other world exist – the rampant ignorance and disrespect for life. We just don’t want it to touch us, stain us with its residual tar of bitter noxious taint.

Ignorance is bliss, or is it?

Wednesday evening a thug, a disreputable denizen of wanton moral standards thought it would be amusing to bust out the back window of my car. Those last sentiments are putting it lightly. I’ll bite back the curses of abject hatred I had for whoever did this.

Nothing was stolen. As horrible as it may sound, I would have perhaps understood if they had been a thief instead of a mere vandalizing thug. At least in my mind a thief would have had some purpose, given some kind of meaning to their actions. Instead I’m left to wonder at the cruelty of such an act that had to be for no other reason than malice, petty vindictiveness in a show of bravado.

I’ve run the gamut of emotions. A stranger breeched my safe haven and made me question myself and those around me. First there was inconsolable anger, foul ugly visions of what I would have loved to do to this person. Then came a sleepless night, followed the next day in the secure knowledge my insurance would cover it.

Sounds easy enough, cumbersome, bothersome, and troublesome, but easily fixed – right? Nothing in life is ever that straightforward. I was left to ponder, how was I responsible for someone else’s vulgarity in my life.

Me? How could the fault lay with me? How was this responsibility mine? Did I leave myself vulnerable?

I live on a dead end street, the only house beside the woods. There is a path that meanders through those woods which would make an easy getaway. My driveway is hidden beside the house, right before the wooded lot and it’s not visible at night. There are no motion detectors or enough light to see an intruder. So was this an open invitation to disrupt my life?

Two days later living with the inconvenience of changed plans and little to no mobility due to traveling with a busted back window, I’m no longer angry or puzzled. I recognize the vandal for what he is – a time thug.

That’s all he accomplished - earning a descriptive moniker.

The window gets replaced. I’m still able to move forward with a slight change of plans for the weekend. And I’ve decided this alone wasn’t worth any changes to my home. A motion detector would frighten off the numerous deer who visit my property (Not much to weigh there, a blinding light shining in my windows or a chance to watch a small herd of deer).

So what changed? Life. It’s too precious to waste any of it on someone hell bent on stealing my time and ambiance. Some day they too will have worked hard and given of themselves for something of worth and someone will do the same to them. We all earn our lessons at one point or another.

Thank you time thug, you succeeded in enriching my life experience to feed the muse in me. Don’t be surprised if someday you play a part in something I’ve written. Just as I have my place in the world, so do you. Objects are easily replaced. Peace of mind is for those who live fully. A reminder that ignorance was never bliss, just a postponement of the reality that surrounds us all.

Writing material comes from the most unlikely places. Amusing is it not? - Indigo

Picture derives from here

New York State of Mind

2009-11-15T21:13:00.007-05:00

"Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today

I want to be a part of it - new york, new york

These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray

Right through the very heart of it - new york, new york"

- Frank Sinatra

It was bound to happen.

I spent the summer and most of autumn writing frantically with no end in sight. I was in a state of pure ecstasy as my mind emptied out on the page in a possessed frenzy. Before my first book was even on its way to an agent, I was already finishing the first draft of yet another.

Unfounded, without warning or reasoning my flood of words trickled down to a slow siphoning stream.

My mind was still creating and building, writing away as if nothing had changed. My fingers however weren’t exactly moving across the keyboard in a race against time. It was obvious in varying degrees of distracted bedlam.

Distracted bedlam consisted of being frightened by the fur covered cat toy mistakenly thrown in the dishwater instead of the bin with the other toys. Misplacing things so often; I doubt a well trained blood hound could help. The worse however, is the food I wrapped and put back in the oven instead of its desired designation the refrigerator. Take it from me, two days later the pungent smell coming from the oven leaves something to be desired.

In the midst of all this came an invitation to get together with a friend in the city. And thus begins my journey into a New York State of Mind.

For anyone who has ever lived and breathed the city at one point or another - I can't help but ask, if you have ever experienced the silence.

From the moment I emerged from Port Authority, the writer in me surged to the forefront as NYC came alive in a visual palette. I found myself turning down an offer of an umbrella in lieu of constantly turning my face upward to take in the majesty of the buildings and colorful lit backdrop. Even through the light drizzle of rain an unmistakable milieu of grandiose presented itself.

It was a miasma of bodies and cars swimming in every direction possible. I couldn’t take in enough and wanted for more. My eyes explored architecture juxtapositions and details. I took in the merging ethnicity, the heart of New York – rich and poor weaving amongst one another to the pulse of the city that throbbed from every crevice possible.

And I smiled; submerged in my silence, my deafness…I saw the city in all its visual interpretation that was possible. I imagine if the traffic and all the various voices, construction and noise that reverberate from NYC had intruded in my thoughts, I might have paused in my overwhelming wonderment. The writer in me thinks not. It would have been just one more descriptive nuance to chip away at the dam that had been holding back my words.

Therein was the hidden mystery. There is no such thing as writer’s block. It’s a simple matter of changing things up. Stalemate is nothing more than boredom or lack of tenacity.
Life has too much too offer – if you’re willing to keep yourself open to the possibilities.

NYC was the nectar in which I was able to sup for inspiration.

My muse was still operating overtime; she just needed to be visually stimulated into movement - From imagination and reality, to fingers tapping out the storyline one word after another.

I live in upstate NY. I have a feeling I’ll be making quite a few excursions into the city that literally breathes life into this writer’s mind and helped kick start my prose back into overdrive. - Indigo

Picture can be found here

From a Writers Heart

2009-10-27T11:45:00.007-04:00

“Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much a heart can hold.” – Zelda Fitzgerald

I’m a writer.

But it’s not all I am.

I’m also someone who rescues animals; strays to be specific.

Tonight I just want to be the writer. Because I don’t really know how much more my heart can take - how much more compassion, endurance or fortitude, I have left to watch another life slip out of my hands. Only to realize too little, too late and wonder was it enough?

I didn’t ask for this. Never in my wildest dreams did I foresee this for myself. Yet here I am, sitting with a heavy heart and trying my damndest to make some sense out of it all.

Counting slowly back through my memories, names and personalities remind me of the ones that survived, the strays I did manage to make a difference for.

I’m only one person.

They all had homes before me, a place where they lived and learned to be domesticated. The question remains, what happened to those homes?

They come to me broken and unsure if I’m trustworthy. Will I chase them away, kick them or scream at them? “Don’t come any closer,” their stance says, betraying the fear they have of humans.

Patience slowly wins them over.

I can’t describe the joy as unique personalities emerge and most importantly trust is gained. Eyes lit up in expectation and excitement to see you, until finally the one moment that gives way to all your patience, the rub. The classic don’t hurt me; I’m going to try to let you close enough to pet me move. And I melt.

Why?

Because the evidence of the road they traveled to get to me is there for all the world to see in each scar, the missing hair, the bug bites and the skinny frame from lack of food.

Yet for one moment they dared to trust and I was worthy.

I’ve seen this same scenario play out over and over. I don’t get it. I don’t understand how someone could cruelly pull up in a car and toss them out, or one day suddenly decide they weren’t worth the time and lock them out of the only home they ever knew. I don’t understand how someone can simply stop caring.

As a writer, I take my writing seriously. As a pet owner, I take their lives into account from beginning to end. There is no, I changed my mind they’re too much work. There is no, I don’t have time or patience for this.

Kittens and Puppies don’t stay that way forever, they grow up, they get old and they need to be taken care of every single day of their lives.

So the writer in me is using the biggest tool I have available to me – my words, to ask, please be responsible pet owners. Know what you’re getting into before taking that leap and falling for a pet that will be the recipient of whatever decisions you make.

If you think you have what it takes to go the distance, please consider a shelter or abandoned animal. All they want is to be loved. They never asked to be thrown away.

Maybe someday everyone who owns an animal will take that responsibility seriously and I won’t feel the need to make a heartfelt plea like this. I don’t know if my heart can take losing another stray, wondering if they had enough time to know someone cared. I’m only one person, one writer, one human being. Stop and think before you give a pet for a gift this holiday or any day and make sure you understand what that new puppy or kitten entails. Please…

(This is dedicated to “the old man - Orange”, as I so fondly called him. I had to have him put to sleep today. He had FIV – Feline Immunodeficiency Virus. He came to us too late to save.)

*Update: And the dance begins again. There was a gray long haired cat studying me from the woods. Will it stick around? Time will tell. Where one life ended, another just might have a chance.

Watercolor painting can be found here

Her Restless Elegance

2009-10-02T17:26:00.007-04:00

“My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” – Robert Frost

A few weeks before October turned the corner, I felt her cold ethereal fingers linger along my neck. Her whispered breath echoed: “Soon. Watch for me,” leaving a gentle breeze across my skin. I knew then. The crisp air with foretold promise would soon warrant the warmth of long sleeves and overcoats.

My lungs breathe heavy of the damp cold, spewing forth a telltale misted breath. The flames dance in delight as the pellet stove alights to chase the cold back outside where it belongs. I wrap myself in Indian blankets adorning the couch. Ensconsed in comforting layers, bundled warmly I smile. My tea is held between clasped hands with hot steam vapor rising. The tree limbs bow and wave outside the window, nodding as the wind and rain dance in merriment at autumn’s restless arrival.

Watch the leaves whisper, shaking in tandem with the limbs of the tree. Watch as the sun's muted days turn us umber, marigold, and burgundy, shades of orange, purple and red. Watch the wind echoes in whispers against my window pane.

Warm food becomes the norm in the form of stews, chili, and baked pies. Autumnal aromas rise from apples, pumpkins, and spiced cakes. Blazing leaves piled high, fires burning in the hearth, my coat adorned with a scarf, a happy pups delight, dance in the Autumn Equinox of my mind.

It's time to welcome her elegance, the majesty of her season, I tell my dog as we make our way outside.

Autumn whispers unbidden, tracing ethereal windblown fingers along my face again, “I am here! See me! Feel me! Smell me! Hear me!"

My step quickens along the wooded path. In a somber moment, I bend and pick up a withered leaf, crisp and burnished by autumn's chill and crumble it in between my fingers.

I finally whisper back, my voice carried on the wind. “Yes I see, smell and feel you my majestic autumn, but I can’t hear you. You can’t change it all.”

Images of the child I was crunching through the piles of leaves along the sidewalk, that sound of long ago haunts this moment. A silent reminder that some things don’t change with the season. A wet nose is suddenly in my hand, sniffing at the remnants of fallen leaf. With amber brown eyes of innocence she looks up at me as if begging to know my heart.

It is nothing more than a moment, I whisper, just enough to remember that some things change and some remain, through winter, spring, summer and now fall. And some of those changes come with a price to be paid and some, like Autumn come free and beautiful.

Yes, my majestic Autumn, I see you laid out in visual splendor! Yes, my majestic Autumn, I welcome, welcome these restless changes of your seasonal heart!

- Indigo

Picture Found Here

A Writer Writes

2009-09-21T21:02:00.014-04:00

"The difference between fiction and reality? Fiction has to make sense." - Tom Clancy

I’m looking up at the rust colored seam, the stigmata left from the rain that poured down my living room ceiling last night. I wasn’t going to post about that ceiling.

Today’s post was supposed to be about my side kick and writing partner – Pickles. I had proof in hand on my digital camera to show just how helpful she can be.

With my deafness, visual is the next best thing to listening. Visuals freeze and save moments, settings, movements, expressions. I can take my time studying images. Images call forth words, words that I use, words that comfort, words that show, words that tell a story.

But I can’t upload the pictures.

Who would have thought dropping the gadget in the dog’s water bowl by mistake would be a problem?

So what does a writer (specifically me) do when she gets in a foul mood? I write.

Bits of angst drip on the page. Words boil. Distress is fuel. I use words instead of visuals to describe what I want you to see:

A silly grin from a canine friend lets me know that under no circumstance do I dare settle down until I’ve paid her fee, her due, her right. A wet nose sits wedged between my laptop and my lap, making sure I don’t forget. She’s there if I need her and I am to be there should she need me. That’s the pact. Working dog, time piece, companion, a warm body that takes up 2/3rds of everything, leaving me the rest. Reach out at any given moment, she says, and feel the movement of my breathing. Standing on all four legs on the couch she tells me it’s time. She reminds. It’s time. Her breathing allows life to move beneath my fingers before words move from fingertips to key strokes to screen. She breathes life. That’s her story. That’s what she writes. Compared to her, no foul mood, no rusted ceiling, no busted camera is much, in comparison - at all.

A writer writes.

-Indigo

Today...

2009-09-11T08:53:00.009-04:00

In light of today, in quiet remembrance:

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." -Ernest Hemingway

Let us also remember:

"An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind." -Gandhi

Peace today, tomorrow, and always - it's the only solution that makes sense. May today find you safe and loved.

-Indigo

It's all in your Mind

2009-08-17T19:29:00.040-04:00

"Nothing happens unless first we dream.” – Carl Sandburg

Walking up the stairs today was akin to stepping into an inferno. How is it we think of hell as being down, not up? (Heat rises.) Makes you wonder if there wasn’t a major blunder made somewhere along the line. At the top of the stairs, I delicately step over furry bodies spread-eagle across doorways, floors, any place that might offer up a slight hint of a breeze. Downstairs is cooler, yet every animal I own is upstairs with its tongue hanging out, playing dead. (Once again, I’m wondering about the insanity of nature.) So where am I? Where else? I’m upstairs with the rest of the insane posse getting ready to take a shower.

“It’s hot,” I whine pitifully.

A human body rounds the corner and I start in with another pitiful, “It’s roasting up here!”

"It's not that hot," he says, so that I can read his lips. "You’re not dying, it’s been worse.”

“It was ninety-eight degrees downtown!" I yell. "I’m DYING!”

I imagine myself as the melodramatic Stanley Kowalski yelling "Stella!" in A Street Car Named Desire, with my hand thrown across my forehead for effect.

The other half of the conversation walks back downstairs chuckling, probably mumbling something in the way of "You're nuts!"

I never said I didn’t have a touch of melodrama in me, now did I? Truth of the matter is, I used to deal with the heat quite well. Nine years of living in Florida with a half-broken-down-fan, which squealed in protest more than cooled, taught me all about what HOT was. Growing up poor, never away from my small town, the local library and free books were my escape. I could travel to cooler worlds I would never have imagined possible. Books taught me to dream, to remove myself from whatever was going on in my life, to wish and hope for things that were only real in my imagination. Books are like that.

Today, I let my imagination loose on the page in front of me, creating an alternate reality that comes into being with each word, each sentence, each paragraph. Give me a place, a time, an object, and my mind will create and shape something. I can imagine the best or the worst of any given situation, build on it, and make it into a story. Like real life, my characters will fail or beat the odds. Depends on what side of the field my imagination is plowing that day. My character can be in a deep dank forest and hear screams coming from all directions or take that first step from friendship to the first kiss. (Or am I talking about the same story?) Anything is possible in the imagination. In my imagination, I can be eccentric, or a jokester, or take life too seriously.

Insert the topic of heat into my mind and what happens? I find myself imagining I’m in the sticky hot Louisiana Bayou. I can even smell the dark loamy dirt, the damp musky smell of the water as a splash is heard and a gator goes after something on the silt shore. Tiny gnats buzz in droves around my head, up my nose, in my ears, and I’m batting them away furiously, desperate for some relief, prose blasting like a heat wave through my mind.

(I can even imagine myself as a superhero! If only I could create a rainstorm. No jokes about my being native and a rain dance: Hero Factory)

-Indigo

Words Fail, Music Speaks

2009-07-25T11:59:00.009-04:00

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent”-Victor Hugo

"Words fail. Music Speaks." That phrase resounds in me, reverberating, carving a space in my head. "Words fail. Music speaks." A strange sentiment for a deaf woman to have emblazoned on a small painting above her desk. There are days when I read about yet another writer’s soundtrack, the musical inspiration that played in the background as they fed the Muse within them and penned thought to keyboard, imagination to monitor backlit in soft white. For a moment I envy them, I ache for that backdrop, that cadence of music, vocalizing emotions while I weave words. It’s folly to lose myself in the "what if’s", and more folly to believe that expressing emotions is based soley on what one is able to hear.

When all else fails, the lid of my laptop closes and I hit the open road by car. There, I have a venue to by-pass my inept hearing. I can crank the stereo and feel the music, jumping off door to windshield, floorboard to dash, thumping, vibrating. The very air hums, the pulse bathing my skin and kissing my fingertips. I’m ensconced in the music, a passenger in the tempo, feeling the road move beneath the tires, the dips and cracks in the road dance with the rumba, the boogie, the foxtrot, the tango, the salsa heart of me. It’s all there, every echo and nuance of the music. I almost hear it more than I feel it.

Now, a few hours of sound vibrations can wash over me. Never enough. The need to write gets its hooks in my psyche, pulling me back to the keyboard, to play prose with my fingers....What is that in the background? Silence. Memory recalls pieces of song and music, lyrics come to me like broken bits of poetry. My brain fights to remember, pushing fragments of songs to the front burner and hoping it will suffice as a snack to entice my mind enough to enter the story, struggling for dominance in a brain soon overwhelmed. It’s a rarity to have the whole tune I want to soothe and inspire my senses for the dish I wish to serve. Sometimes frustration wins and the lid to the laptop closes once more. Out the door with a hyper-vigilant friend on a leash I go, to the woods I go, whispering a prayer to whatever deity favors a writer: "Please, let this trek feed my prose...."

Feather light wisps of breeze, varying hues of green thread in and out of my visual perception. The canopy overhead cools and heats up as we go beneath shaded trees. Silence. The light plays a simmering dance across a black gloss of canine hair. The wind bends the stalks of the bamboo. The grass plays with my feet, not unlike a maestro’s baton, as an opal butterfly flitters from leaf to leaf, orchestrating the woodland chorus. A cat prowls in the underbrush. My laughter echoes, pulsating beneath my heartbeat, a chuff from the wonder dog Pickles, the vibrato of life around me. Thump-thump-ratta-thump-thump-shhwick-shhwick-tumthrum-tumthrum-wee-whip-snap! Breathe in, breathe out. It is the new soundtrack that plays in my life, perhaps more enriched. The world has gone quiet, and now, because silence was never meant to be so silent, I hear and feel and see and express a different kind of music.

Peace and Love.

-Indigo

Lyrics to 1000 Beautiful Things by Annie Lennox