Awoke this morning thinking it was Thursday and that meant only three more days till freedom! I got up, realized it was Wednesday, and still I felt good. My Brooklyn classes are a breeze and only three more days of those, one in Manhattan. My students are excited and upset with me. They keep asking me if I am going to teach in the Fall? I gulp and tell them to continue their education without considering me. I don't want to voice what they want to hear for the Universe will assume that's what I want....and what I want is to awake as this morning knowing I am free! My job is that of writing and that is what I wish to do here on out. So I awoke feeling great and with enormous promise.
I am staring at a mountain of dishes and it is my turn to do them, so I will do that and do it with a glad heart. Leila comes home tonight to put her room together with the new storage bins and garment closet. Here in NYC closets are a luxury. We have ONE in our apartment and I am constantly rethinking it. It is in Sarah's room and it has these clunky wooden doors that are always falling off the runner. I have the shelf stacked high with those space bags holding our blankets, stuffed animals, and winter clothing. But there is always clutter cleaning and organizing to be done.
For now, it's dishes and thinking about the novel and my column.
I've been saying this a lot lately but it's true:
Life is good.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Flower Power
Memorial Day always makes me feel sad. I want to go to a cookout, to some party, something, but the reason behind this day gets under my skin: We are commemorating the lives lost to war, something that I am vehemently against. Those lives should have lived out, not cut down in their teens, early 20s, and beyond. The day sits sourly in my mouth and today I spent it writing as the girls slept and then I went to the grocery store and bought enough for a nice lunch of salad and hot dogs. Appropriate to the holiday and easy to fix.
A column idea came to me Friday night and I worked on it today. It has substance and just might fly. I am going to knock four out and send them to Creative Arts Syndicate. Hold the line, as Toto says.
Chloe was over visiting Sarah today and she left without me telling her thank you for reading this blog. I grew shy. Now I wish I had said how much it touched me that she told Sarah she was reading it. That means a lot.
Thanks, Chloe.
Last night after Leila and I slammed around The Container Store for objects to contain her clothing and shoes, we sucked down the delicious Jamba Juice. She got the Green Tea variety, and I the Berry Fulfilling. I am learning to put massive amounts of fruit down me. Think it will save my life and it just tastes so darn good and for a slave to the palate it is what I need to wean myself off of sweets as I am not capable of going cold turkey.
We arrived home. You should have seen Leila with the albeit light bags of storage bins, but one of the gargatuian bags around her neck. We truly looked like pack mules! Once we had dropped each bag where we stopped, she went to the computer and I to the futon. I started to doze off and woke to see her going downstairs to the store.
"I'm hungry," she said.
"Me, too," I replied, knowing the juice was not yet digested but the phamplet did suggest it as a light meal and that would be tagged as lunch in my opinion. Now it was suppertime. So we went onto Smith Street but the beer garden was too full. Darn, I've never been in there, but Leila has and says it's good for a cheap tasty burger and beer.
Just what I wanted.
So we kept walking and ended up at another yummy restaurant: Cafe LuLuc. A little pricey for my taste; a turkey burger for $9, but we went in and that's what I got and Lee got the veggie sandwich. We drank two Stella Artois beers.
Yum.
We sat in the garden and in the center is an enormous tree that dropped trumpeted flowers on us! I laughed each time. I loved it. It was like a flower storm.
Doesn't get any better than that.
For all those who have lost loved ones, I pause and pay tribute, today. To those still alive, I pray you come home, never to travel to war again.
A column idea came to me Friday night and I worked on it today. It has substance and just might fly. I am going to knock four out and send them to Creative Arts Syndicate. Hold the line, as Toto says.
Chloe was over visiting Sarah today and she left without me telling her thank you for reading this blog. I grew shy. Now I wish I had said how much it touched me that she told Sarah she was reading it. That means a lot.
Thanks, Chloe.
Last night after Leila and I slammed around The Container Store for objects to contain her clothing and shoes, we sucked down the delicious Jamba Juice. She got the Green Tea variety, and I the Berry Fulfilling. I am learning to put massive amounts of fruit down me. Think it will save my life and it just tastes so darn good and for a slave to the palate it is what I need to wean myself off of sweets as I am not capable of going cold turkey.
We arrived home. You should have seen Leila with the albeit light bags of storage bins, but one of the gargatuian bags around her neck. We truly looked like pack mules! Once we had dropped each bag where we stopped, she went to the computer and I to the futon. I started to doze off and woke to see her going downstairs to the store.
"I'm hungry," she said.
"Me, too," I replied, knowing the juice was not yet digested but the phamplet did suggest it as a light meal and that would be tagged as lunch in my opinion. Now it was suppertime. So we went onto Smith Street but the beer garden was too full. Darn, I've never been in there, but Leila has and says it's good for a cheap tasty burger and beer.
Just what I wanted.
So we kept walking and ended up at another yummy restaurant: Cafe LuLuc. A little pricey for my taste; a turkey burger for $9, but we went in and that's what I got and Lee got the veggie sandwich. We drank two Stella Artois beers.
Yum.
We sat in the garden and in the center is an enormous tree that dropped trumpeted flowers on us! I laughed each time. I loved it. It was like a flower storm.
Doesn't get any better than that.
For all those who have lost loved ones, I pause and pay tribute, today. To those still alive, I pray you come home, never to travel to war again.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Meet Me at the Whitney
Last night at 9:45 pm, I said good-night to the last two of my students and realized I had just taught my last physical class. Next week will be finals and that is an in-class essay, no more talking, discussing, cajoling, proding, laughing, stressing, shushing, etc.
Done.
I walked up 34th Street toward the F train and I put my ipod plugs in my ears but not before waving good-night to a group of young men who some are my students. I walked past them and waited for a burst of laughter to signify someone commenting or simply accepting of the student teacher dynamic.
But there was nothing and I walked away before turning on my ipod and I thanked the universe for such a ride. I clicked on "Try it On My Own" with Whitney Houston as I've been doing the past few days and I walked, head held high, passing the Memorial Day growing crowd of tourists, and I walked strong, as I have taught my students to do these past three years.
My last physical class was the showing of "The Pursuit of Happyness." I asked all my classes this past week to take notes on it, to discover at least three ways Chris Gardner protected his dream. I am hoping they discovered he did it by NEVER letting go.
And thus in watching this movie each time with my classes I realized, "If anyone loses their dream, it's their own fault for letting go." And my process continued.
"And I am not afraid to try it on my own
I don't care if I'm right or wrong
I'll live my life the way I feel
no matter what, I'll keep it real,
time for me to do it on my own."
Wow. I just googled this song and correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks like Whitney wrote it! Good for her. I remember the first time I heard it - amidst all her controversy - I got chills.
That's keeping it real. (Thanks for downloading it, Lee.)
One more week to go and I will be officially on a sabbatical. I sat in the blue chair yesterday and wrote a short story. More of it came to me on the ride in to classes. I took out my little notebook and got it down. I have cut away, cut away, and now here I am a writer, right or wrong.
Yesterday I was searching for grants. I am already trying to lay down roots, don't want to go back into the work world I've known for 27 years
stand alone
so I stumbled upon The Brooklyn Arts Council. I read a list of artists in a directory and there at the top was a link to registering!
I clicked and inputted my info. Went to work and received an email from them, welcoming me and accepting my info. And there I was included in the list.
This artist is ready.
The blue chair beckons me.
Done.
I walked up 34th Street toward the F train and I put my ipod plugs in my ears but not before waving good-night to a group of young men who some are my students. I walked past them and waited for a burst of laughter to signify someone commenting or simply accepting of the student teacher dynamic.
But there was nothing and I walked away before turning on my ipod and I thanked the universe for such a ride. I clicked on "Try it On My Own" with Whitney Houston as I've been doing the past few days and I walked, head held high, passing the Memorial Day growing crowd of tourists, and I walked strong, as I have taught my students to do these past three years.
My last physical class was the showing of "The Pursuit of Happyness." I asked all my classes this past week to take notes on it, to discover at least three ways Chris Gardner protected his dream. I am hoping they discovered he did it by NEVER letting go.
And thus in watching this movie each time with my classes I realized, "If anyone loses their dream, it's their own fault for letting go." And my process continued.
"And I am not afraid to try it on my own
I don't care if I'm right or wrong
I'll live my life the way I feel
no matter what, I'll keep it real,
time for me to do it on my own."
Wow. I just googled this song and correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks like Whitney wrote it! Good for her. I remember the first time I heard it - amidst all her controversy - I got chills.
That's keeping it real. (Thanks for downloading it, Lee.)
One more week to go and I will be officially on a sabbatical. I sat in the blue chair yesterday and wrote a short story. More of it came to me on the ride in to classes. I took out my little notebook and got it down. I have cut away, cut away, and now here I am a writer, right or wrong.
Yesterday I was searching for grants. I am already trying to lay down roots, don't want to go back into the work world I've known for 27 years
stand alone
so I stumbled upon The Brooklyn Arts Council. I read a list of artists in a directory and there at the top was a link to registering!
I clicked and inputted my info. Went to work and received an email from them, welcoming me and accepting my info. And there I was included in the list.
This artist is ready.
The blue chair beckons me.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Welcome to New York
Wednesday morning, I awoke to Sarah screaming out to me from
her room. It seems in the light fixture a mouse (or
rat as Sarah dramatized) was trying to fall through
his or her self made chipping away of the ceiling.
Eegads!
I was on the phone electronically paying the electric
and gas bills. She came out upset that I hadn't run
in....she saw me there with the phone against my ear.
I pleaded insanity.
So I called the landlord and listed the things that
needed repair along with the need to remove the
critter. I'd heard something banging around in the
walls for a time, and finally it had found an opening.
Normally this would have terrified and disgusted me
but I remember - when these rare moments occur - a
tenant on the third floor whose Fedders a/c I bought
for $20 and that remarkably worked for seven years
told me "that one gets used to hearing the critters
scamper around in the night."
Glue traps become my warfare when there's any
scampering heard on floors.
So the landlord's son came and put poison up there in
the hole and remarked how clever Sarah was to tape a
huge black trash bag around the hole (I did it upon
her request, but she retaped it for good measure).
So then Sarah and I went out to do laundry. With the
clothes in the dryer for 30 minutes, we decided to
walk down Court. Two blocks down I spotted a
furniture/antique store I had totally forgotten about
but always suspected it pricey. Turns out the guy has
been written up in the New York mag for his thrifty
prices for penny pinchers!
Eureka!
We immediately found a bookcase for Sarah's first year
of college remains and then there before my
eyes sat an overstuffed wide load turquoise chair! I
squealed like the mouse will when he or she eats the
poison and called Sarah over.
"Here's my chair!"
I've been searching for an overstuffed chair for years
to replace where a thin director's chair sits in our
living room. It wasn't, though, until I saw this one
that I realized this would be my vehicle necessary to
sit in the apartment hours on end and to write. Yes, I
would venture out to all the places on my list, but
I needed a place of my own within my
own walls, too.
I was staring at my spot.
It was $100. I asked the owner of the store if he'd
consider going lower since the top of the chair was a
bit worn.
"I feel like I'm giving it away as it is," he said,
miffed.
I looked back at it and realized he was right.
It was sweet.
Turns out it is from the 1950s. Love it. It's as old
as me. Then I looked down at it and was shocked. Two
nights ago I had dreamt of my dad and he was wearing a
gold ring with three lines in it, like wings.
On the chair at both bottom corners were the same
lines.
I think I have all my tools now. T-minus 11
days and counting, and I am ready.
Besides, with this addition, now I feel like I can
have my homegirls over for dinner and gab.
Life is good.
her room. It seems in the light fixture a mouse (or
rat as Sarah dramatized) was trying to fall through
his or her self made chipping away of the ceiling.
Eegads!
I was on the phone electronically paying the electric
and gas bills. She came out upset that I hadn't run
in....she saw me there with the phone against my ear.
I pleaded insanity.
So I called the landlord and listed the things that
needed repair along with the need to remove the
critter. I'd heard something banging around in the
walls for a time, and finally it had found an opening.
Normally this would have terrified and disgusted me
but I remember - when these rare moments occur - a
tenant on the third floor whose Fedders a/c I bought
for $20 and that remarkably worked for seven years
told me "that one gets used to hearing the critters
scamper around in the night."
Glue traps become my warfare when there's any
scampering heard on floors.
So the landlord's son came and put poison up there in
the hole and remarked how clever Sarah was to tape a
huge black trash bag around the hole (I did it upon
her request, but she retaped it for good measure).
So then Sarah and I went out to do laundry. With the
clothes in the dryer for 30 minutes, we decided to
walk down Court. Two blocks down I spotted a
furniture/antique store I had totally forgotten about
but always suspected it pricey. Turns out the guy has
been written up in the New York mag for his thrifty
prices for penny pinchers!
Eureka!
We immediately found a bookcase for Sarah's first year
of college remains and then there before my
eyes sat an overstuffed wide load turquoise chair! I
squealed like the mouse will when he or she eats the
poison and called Sarah over.
"Here's my chair!"
I've been searching for an overstuffed chair for years
to replace where a thin director's chair sits in our
living room. It wasn't, though, until I saw this one
that I realized this would be my vehicle necessary to
sit in the apartment hours on end and to write. Yes, I
would venture out to all the places on my list, but
I needed a place of my own within my
own walls, too.
I was staring at my spot.
It was $100. I asked the owner of the store if he'd
consider going lower since the top of the chair was a
bit worn.
"I feel like I'm giving it away as it is," he said,
miffed.
I looked back at it and realized he was right.
It was sweet.
Turns out it is from the 1950s. Love it. It's as old
as me. Then I looked down at it and was shocked. Two
nights ago I had dreamt of my dad and he was wearing a
gold ring with three lines in it, like wings.
On the chair at both bottom corners were the same
lines.
I think I have all my tools now. T-minus 11
days and counting, and I am ready.
Besides, with this addition, now I feel like I can
have my homegirls over for dinner and gab.
Life is good.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Monday, May 21, 2007
The Orange of the Sun
After the onslaught of rain and broken tree limbs since Wednesday, this Monday brings a blue sky and the cool air lingering before summer's heat beats down. I am thrilled. My a/c has not yet lumbered into the windowsill and Con Ed doesn't own me yet.
Ahhh.
The tinglings of my reality are creeping up on me, though, and I pant for them to come.
Two more weeks and this girl is classroom free!
I have to pinch myself.
NYC and the tri-state region will be mine to roam, hike, glide, and ride! Notebooks in hand, I am as giddy as a kid before Christmas. My mind keeps thinking things up to scare me, but I've pretty much got her quieted down like a baby with cholic, tired, weary, just having to call it a day after a long crying session. The perfectionist in me keeps trying to squash things, too, but I am learning to take baby-steps and swim away from the net.
I am so thankful.
I have it all.
On a sad note, our precious cat, Oscar, has bone cancer and I'm not sure how long he will be with us. The once chubby, hearty eating "handsome boy" is now skinny, drooling from a tumor inside his cheekbone, his left eye starting to swell. But he does not appear in pain, just losing ground, and so if his quality of life goes too far down, I'm going to lay him down. I'll walk with him in the carrier and take him to the vet and ask him to send him on to the Other Side. He's been a sweet boy and we will miss him terribly. He's been as Leila says, "My little man" and I am crying now just thinking of letting him go. He is the one who hugs the girls, two front paws around the neck, lower legs around the waist.
He will be missed but what joy and fun and enormous laughs that orange ball of love has given us.
I will miss my man.
Ahhh.
The tinglings of my reality are creeping up on me, though, and I pant for them to come.
Two more weeks and this girl is classroom free!
I have to pinch myself.
NYC and the tri-state region will be mine to roam, hike, glide, and ride! Notebooks in hand, I am as giddy as a kid before Christmas. My mind keeps thinking things up to scare me, but I've pretty much got her quieted down like a baby with cholic, tired, weary, just having to call it a day after a long crying session. The perfectionist in me keeps trying to squash things, too, but I am learning to take baby-steps and swim away from the net.
I am so thankful.
I have it all.
On a sad note, our precious cat, Oscar, has bone cancer and I'm not sure how long he will be with us. The once chubby, hearty eating "handsome boy" is now skinny, drooling from a tumor inside his cheekbone, his left eye starting to swell. But he does not appear in pain, just losing ground, and so if his quality of life goes too far down, I'm going to lay him down. I'll walk with him in the carrier and take him to the vet and ask him to send him on to the Other Side. He's been a sweet boy and we will miss him terribly. He's been as Leila says, "My little man" and I am crying now just thinking of letting him go. He is the one who hugs the girls, two front paws around the neck, lower legs around the waist.
He will be missed but what joy and fun and enormous laughs that orange ball of love has given us.
I will miss my man.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Suck it Up
Today, I went into work with the same straightened hair from last night (thank you, Sarah). I felt light and good. It only took about four minutes at the Brooklyn branch to start feeling icky. What bad vibes there! My ego started playing with me and I grew more and more despondent over the fact that my boss didn't say anything about the reading. The teachers who were there did, and a few others who couldn't make it responded when I told them about it. But I let my mind mess with me and I grew depressed, felt sad that all the victory of the students was ignored by management.
Then I decided to celebrate as I tend to do (at this age)...coffee and a black and white cookie. Eileen caught me and declared an intervention and marched me over to a health food store where miracle of miracles there is a juice bar in the back! She got the carrot juice that isn't so bad with apple juice and I got the very berry drink with strawberries, etc, and it was divine.
Changed my life.
Later, I found Eileen in her class, called her out and hugged her. So something good came from the day.
I was detoxed.
Then I decided to celebrate as I tend to do (at this age)...coffee and a black and white cookie. Eileen caught me and declared an intervention and marched me over to a health food store where miracle of miracles there is a juice bar in the back! She got the carrot juice that isn't so bad with apple juice and I got the very berry drink with strawberries, etc, and it was divine.
Changed my life.
Later, I found Eileen in her class, called her out and hugged her. So something good came from the day.
I was detoxed.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
"Fields of Gold"
The Reading was the bomb. At least 80 students and teachers showed up. Admin gave us a mountain of pizzas and sodas. One of my students was the "host" and I could not have done it without him. Once I passed it to him, the show ran like fire. He was great; the students read from the heart and revealed the power of their voices. They proved once again that they are "the salt of the earth." Another student of mine came in his security uniform and no one, I mean no one would mess with him or the climate of the event. And finally another student dressed in a suit and served as manager. I sat there and beamed.
It was beautiful.
I left and rode the train home, "Fields of Gold" playing on my ipod. What I'm telling you now is slight compared to the night. I will try to lay it down later or you can read it in my book of essays.
It fuckin' rocked.
It was beautiful.
I left and rode the train home, "Fields of Gold" playing on my ipod. What I'm telling you now is slight compared to the night. I will try to lay it down later or you can read it in my book of essays.
It fuckin' rocked.
"Intimate Contact with Unreasonable Beauty"
Slurping down Frosted Cheerios. Now the coffee's tasting good as I'm reading Leila her horoscope from The Village Voice as she is out the door, heading for work. Sarah's at the airport waiting for her college roommate to fly in for a visit.
Love Free Will Astrology.
Here's mine:
"Ordinary life does not interest me," wrote Anais Nin in one of her diaries. "I seek only the high moments. I am searching for the marvelous." Normally I might discourage you from pursuing that approach, Libra. You've got money to make and appointments to keep and groceries to buy after all. And doing those tasks can make it hard to specialize in the marvelous. But for a limited time only, the planetary powers that be are granting you an exemption from the ordinary. More than that, actually: They're insisting on it. You need intimate contact with unreasonable beauty, sweet anomalies, beguiling ephemera, inexplicable joys, and small changes that inspire reverence.
Tonight is the Reading for the students. I burned two cds for filler noise inbetween the readings. The students will wince but love it and be surprised I got pretty close to their cool. It helps to have modern age daughters. Nas, Lauren Hill, Biggie, and Killers makes for a good night.
I will miss the connection with the students, but I won't miss grading. I will carry them though, with me as I do my girls. I have to get these words down and speak to the World. Tonight I tell them to do the same. I show them how their voice from silent to spoken turns like kool aid to water, into color. And it tastes great.
Last night NYC had a mother of a storm. I was in a building through it all and came out from the train at 8:30 onto my block to see mounds of leaves, a tiny swatch of branches here and there. "Oh my goodness!" I said, when a man passing me said, "That' nothing...look at the branch at the park." I crossed the street and there was a branch as long as a streetlight and five times as big. If it had fallen on a car, crushed; in the direction of the apartment building, windows out.
Shocking. I missed the whole thing. But today the sky is blue, the reading tonight, and Sarah's friend's plane detained but by dusk will be here. NYC is intact.
Love Free Will Astrology.
Here's mine:
"Ordinary life does not interest me," wrote Anais Nin in one of her diaries. "I seek only the high moments. I am searching for the marvelous." Normally I might discourage you from pursuing that approach, Libra. You've got money to make and appointments to keep and groceries to buy after all. And doing those tasks can make it hard to specialize in the marvelous. But for a limited time only, the planetary powers that be are granting you an exemption from the ordinary. More than that, actually: They're insisting on it. You need intimate contact with unreasonable beauty, sweet anomalies, beguiling ephemera, inexplicable joys, and small changes that inspire reverence.
Tonight is the Reading for the students. I burned two cds for filler noise inbetween the readings. The students will wince but love it and be surprised I got pretty close to their cool. It helps to have modern age daughters. Nas, Lauren Hill, Biggie, and Killers makes for a good night.
I will miss the connection with the students, but I won't miss grading. I will carry them though, with me as I do my girls. I have to get these words down and speak to the World. Tonight I tell them to do the same. I show them how their voice from silent to spoken turns like kool aid to water, into color. And it tastes great.
Last night NYC had a mother of a storm. I was in a building through it all and came out from the train at 8:30 onto my block to see mounds of leaves, a tiny swatch of branches here and there. "Oh my goodness!" I said, when a man passing me said, "That' nothing...look at the branch at the park." I crossed the street and there was a branch as long as a streetlight and five times as big. If it had fallen on a car, crushed; in the direction of the apartment building, windows out.
Shocking. I missed the whole thing. But today the sky is blue, the reading tonight, and Sarah's friend's plane detained but by dusk will be here. NYC is intact.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Dream
It is Mother's Day. One good thing about living across from a small park is that you hear baseball bats connect with softballs, pucks smacked with hockey sticks, the sound of children with their parents, kids roughhousing at the ice cream truck, and on more than one occasion, and what used to shoot fear in me that now only leaves me wincing and sad for the infrequent drunk(s) or teen shoutfest.
Today I hear the crack of a metal bat (weren't those outlawed by Mayor Bloomberg) and smile. I am going outside soon, as soon as I post this and slide on some jeans.
There's a breeze coming from the East. I opened Leila's window for the changing of the room. In the summer or whenever all three of us are home, Sarah goes to her room, but we are getting ready to tell her that now with that double bed in there, she is being given notice that it has been declared an open territory and suspect to the occupation of her sister and me at various times not ruling out one at a time, anytime, and especially not on Mother's Day! Anyway, I opened the window and an enormous gust of cool, spring air flowed in as Leila blew in from the futon and I whoosed out, a can of cat food already in my hand.
And now I am panting at the thought of getting out there and walking to the Promenade. Early this morning a gameplan came to me that will not only promote my writing style, ease up on my eternal tight knotted stomach afraid the sabbatical money will run out too soon, and keep me focused on the pen and paper, Julia Cameron style ie writing first, finding a market once it's done.
Yesterday, I had a quick, dashing bite to eat with Eileen, my mentor, after school. I had waited to eat too long and another teacher was venting to me about a relationship she was in that was bombdiving and throwing her into the realization that she was a woman who was terrified not to have a man. I sat in my empty classroom, dying to go home, but I listened and felt her pain. She asked me if I was married.
Divorced.
Seeing someone?
Nope.
"You are a beautiful woman, inside and out," she said to me, and I was humbly flattered. I told her I just didn't feel it, the need to be attached with someone and that is half true. There is one I still love and always will but fate has decided that route and he's not walking up to my door and instead we meet and talk only in dreams. Maybe that's chicken shit, I don't know....but I am married to my dream, figuratively and literally. If I meet someone who wants to be my companion and both of us grow within it, we'll talk. But that is not my primary goal now. I am going pure, full force, damn the torpedos, toward my long lost love, patiently waiting all this time: Writing.
I am going to walk to the Promenade and plot it out, enjoy it, relish in the gifts of the voice of the true Self and completely and utterly stop worrying. Eileen helped me to see that. Over wonton soup and shrimp lo mein, I showed her my artists day planner, lovingly given to me by Anna, Warrior Pen, who is on her way to CUNY grad school to become a kick ass broadcast journalist, and Eileen asked suspicousy, "What is BN?"
"Barnes and Noble," I replied. "I'm going to go there on Mondays and find leads for magazine articles." She looked at me. I shifted in my chair, but not stopping the rapidfire forkfuls of noodles into my mouth. I was shaking from hunger and each bite was better than sex. I pointed to my three consecutive days of writing the novel that followed Monday.
She said, "Why don't you try a full week of novel writing right off the bat?"
I stared at her.
I had taken my first workday of freedom, June 4, and methodically - like the mind - designated it as a day to go to work to make money rather than to rejoice into doing a swandive into my patiently waiting (and vibrating) novel!
She was right. Once again, and I guess after being the provider for my daughters and me since 1990, I was quite unused to exercising my craft as the first duty and pleasure. So right then I decided to devote the entire month of June to the novel.
Thank you, Eileen.
This morning I woke up realizing how I could do that and so off to the Promenade I go to do so.
Eileen has the focus of a writer, one who can hunker down and forget the World (except for tending the kiddies) and knock children's lit out of the park.
So I have her, Stephen King, Julia Cameron, and Amy Tan in my mental camp. And the undying support of my daughters.
I am walking to the Promenade to celebrate all this before the day gets going much more and my time with Leila and Sarah continues on this anti-war holiday, culminating in us scarfing down Indian food on the Lower East Side tonight.
Happy Mother's Day to:
ALL my students who are parents. I go forward but only to spread the message. You are the "salt of the earth" and I am a better woman because of you. I am you and you are me.
My sisters, Sandra, Jo, and Mel.
My mother, the benefactor of my freedom and who has mastered more than she knows.
Eileen, my mentor and long awaited creative sister.
Anna, a writer with fire in her belly, and the best dressed woman in the room with a laugh that is healing.
Rhonda, a collage artist whose time is coming. Buy her up now while you still can.
My departed grandmothers, Violet and Milly, who the former showed up at my door in my mind's eye about three years ago and who I know is watching out for me and the latter who I adore and think leaves pennies for me.
My departed aunts, Shirley and Helen, the two sweetest women who ever walked this Earth.
And to all the new and not yet mothers. The women who will awake as I did a few weeks after conception and think they have developed leukemia when all it is, all it turns out to be, is a rousing case of love and brutal heart rendering that is to come.
And finally, to my mother of a friend, Sederwall, who I will always think of when I hear "What Might Have Been." The one I will forever miss and from this day forward remember him also on Mother's Day since he's a muther...and someone who I would not be ready to slam out book after book if not for his love and friendship. He is my dream.
Now, off to the Promenade.
Today I hear the crack of a metal bat (weren't those outlawed by Mayor Bloomberg) and smile. I am going outside soon, as soon as I post this and slide on some jeans.
There's a breeze coming from the East. I opened Leila's window for the changing of the room. In the summer or whenever all three of us are home, Sarah goes to her room, but we are getting ready to tell her that now with that double bed in there, she is being given notice that it has been declared an open territory and suspect to the occupation of her sister and me at various times not ruling out one at a time, anytime, and especially not on Mother's Day! Anyway, I opened the window and an enormous gust of cool, spring air flowed in as Leila blew in from the futon and I whoosed out, a can of cat food already in my hand.
And now I am panting at the thought of getting out there and walking to the Promenade. Early this morning a gameplan came to me that will not only promote my writing style, ease up on my eternal tight knotted stomach afraid the sabbatical money will run out too soon, and keep me focused on the pen and paper, Julia Cameron style ie writing first, finding a market once it's done.
Yesterday, I had a quick, dashing bite to eat with Eileen, my mentor, after school. I had waited to eat too long and another teacher was venting to me about a relationship she was in that was bombdiving and throwing her into the realization that she was a woman who was terrified not to have a man. I sat in my empty classroom, dying to go home, but I listened and felt her pain. She asked me if I was married.
Divorced.
Seeing someone?
Nope.
"You are a beautiful woman, inside and out," she said to me, and I was humbly flattered. I told her I just didn't feel it, the need to be attached with someone and that is half true. There is one I still love and always will but fate has decided that route and he's not walking up to my door and instead we meet and talk only in dreams. Maybe that's chicken shit, I don't know....but I am married to my dream, figuratively and literally. If I meet someone who wants to be my companion and both of us grow within it, we'll talk. But that is not my primary goal now. I am going pure, full force, damn the torpedos, toward my long lost love, patiently waiting all this time: Writing.
I am going to walk to the Promenade and plot it out, enjoy it, relish in the gifts of the voice of the true Self and completely and utterly stop worrying. Eileen helped me to see that. Over wonton soup and shrimp lo mein, I showed her my artists day planner, lovingly given to me by Anna, Warrior Pen, who is on her way to CUNY grad school to become a kick ass broadcast journalist, and Eileen asked suspicousy, "What is BN?"
"Barnes and Noble," I replied. "I'm going to go there on Mondays and find leads for magazine articles." She looked at me. I shifted in my chair, but not stopping the rapidfire forkfuls of noodles into my mouth. I was shaking from hunger and each bite was better than sex. I pointed to my three consecutive days of writing the novel that followed Monday.
She said, "Why don't you try a full week of novel writing right off the bat?"
I stared at her.
I had taken my first workday of freedom, June 4, and methodically - like the mind - designated it as a day to go to work to make money rather than to rejoice into doing a swandive into my patiently waiting (and vibrating) novel!
She was right. Once again, and I guess after being the provider for my daughters and me since 1990, I was quite unused to exercising my craft as the first duty and pleasure. So right then I decided to devote the entire month of June to the novel.
Thank you, Eileen.
This morning I woke up realizing how I could do that and so off to the Promenade I go to do so.
Eileen has the focus of a writer, one who can hunker down and forget the World (except for tending the kiddies) and knock children's lit out of the park.
So I have her, Stephen King, Julia Cameron, and Amy Tan in my mental camp. And the undying support of my daughters.
I am walking to the Promenade to celebrate all this before the day gets going much more and my time with Leila and Sarah continues on this anti-war holiday, culminating in us scarfing down Indian food on the Lower East Side tonight.
Happy Mother's Day to:
ALL my students who are parents. I go forward but only to spread the message. You are the "salt of the earth" and I am a better woman because of you. I am you and you are me.
My sisters, Sandra, Jo, and Mel.
My mother, the benefactor of my freedom and who has mastered more than she knows.
Eileen, my mentor and long awaited creative sister.
Anna, a writer with fire in her belly, and the best dressed woman in the room with a laugh that is healing.
Rhonda, a collage artist whose time is coming. Buy her up now while you still can.
My departed grandmothers, Violet and Milly, who the former showed up at my door in my mind's eye about three years ago and who I know is watching out for me and the latter who I adore and think leaves pennies for me.
My departed aunts, Shirley and Helen, the two sweetest women who ever walked this Earth.
And to all the new and not yet mothers. The women who will awake as I did a few weeks after conception and think they have developed leukemia when all it is, all it turns out to be, is a rousing case of love and brutal heart rendering that is to come.
And finally, to my mother of a friend, Sederwall, who I will always think of when I hear "What Might Have Been." The one I will forever miss and from this day forward remember him also on Mother's Day since he's a muther...and someone who I would not be ready to slam out book after book if not for his love and friendship. He is my dream.
Now, off to the Promenade.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
I Can See Clearly Now
Oy...must make coffee! I came home last night after teaching two three hour classes and a two hour break where I waited for online students who needed research help, and I just fell on the couch, er futon. Wiped out, more mentally than anything. I am done, and living in this inbetween state is wearing me down. I do like coming up with creative lesson plans, enjoy interacting with the students, but will not miss the grading, the policies and procedures of the school, and most of all am delighted to be escaping a dress code! So until the next three weeks wind down, I must find some happy place to be and get through this relatively smooth and blunder free.
I wish you could see me typing this right now. I've just tried to begin this paragraph three times only to erase. That tells me I am 1) in need of coffee badly or 2) in need of writing down my thoughts more and more as this feels really jerky and not fluid at all, or 3) having a moment of tired laziness or weary fear of laying down what is really inside me.
First, I'll make the coffee and then see where I'm at. Be right back. Make some for you, too, how bout, while I'm gone?
Back and several things dawned on me while preparing the coffee and Thomas muffin. Here's what hit me not necessarily in this order:
1. I have got to get back to my morning pages routine, meaning writing three pages of anything and everything that comes to me first thing in the morning, Julia Cameron style (sorry when I do it here as I am now). Going back to this method will help me to focus on the now, the moment and to see my next move.
2. I have been blessed with two ferociously wonderful daughters. Last night Leila texted me, asking me to stay awake till she got home, that she and Sarah had a surprise for me. I could since Friday night is my "date night" with Bill Mahr and HBO, and after that Charlie Rose, Tavis Smiley, and anything else I can find with good conversational substance. So I was still awake when she texted she was on her way! Sarah woud be home later. Let the Mother's Day titillation begin! I love that my girls cannot wait to present a gift once they have purchased it, so I knew Friday night had become the new Mother's Day.
She arrived and told me to close my eyes and a small bag was placed in my lap. Opening my eyes, I saw it was a new cell phone! Nokia, smaller than my now vintage one, but still a little chunky, the way I like it. Too thin of an electronic and as my manhandling and tearage with book covers and pages will show, a lean cell phone may soon go the way of a snap here, a drop there, and in the end, irreparable damage.
I loved the phone and called Sarah who was on her way home to thank her, too!
"Close your eyes again," she directed. I did. Now a larger bag was put onto my lap. I opened my eyes to see a Brita pitcher! Hoorah! My girls know that I take water bottles, wash them, toss the lids into a mug filled with hot water, and take our currently cracked Brita pitcher and pour filtered water into the bottles. Once the paper wrapping around the bottle falls off or the bottle itself collapses from the hot water, I dispose of them but man it saves on lugging cases of bottled water from the store.
Hoorah! Fresher water in a sturdier container!
Then came a new can opener! No, not an electric one, a hand held one, but it is a far cry from the miniscule opener I bought probably ten years ago and what I still use. Leila and I laughed hard over this gift. "Let's frame the old one for posterity, " I said, and we both agreed. So I'm going to buy a memory box and position the butterfly small opener into the center of it and hang it with laughter and pride.
Then she instructed me to close my eyes yet again! This time a very large box came into my lap and I saw, miracle of miracles, that I was the owner of a new set of pots and pans! I ripped open that box, assembled each beautiful piece and in one fell swoop bagged my old stuff, given to me long ago by a boyfriend who said he bought the new cookware for me in order to have what he needed while cooking in my kitchen. No surprise we didn't make it, but the cookware did.
"Have we given you 1950s housewife stuff?" asked Leila, suddenly doubting herself. "Aboslutely not!" I exclaimed. Well wait a minute, I thought, I am a 1950s housewife or soon to be; I just don't have a husband who comes home at night nor anyone to answer to or beg attention from. "I am Martha Stewart!" I announced to a laughing Leila.
"Well, there's more coming on Mother's Day," she said.
And here I thought we were just going to eat Indian food and catch a movie.
I am a blessed woman.
3. I survived two days of clutter upheaval as Sarah painted her room. I stepped over big piles of bedding, shoes, and books and am still looking at my granny cart perched beside the dining table, see shoes scattered under the futon and about the room, and I am still functioning, breathing evenly, plotting my escape from the agonies and ecstacies of the workplace. I can endure what I was not able to do for long (messes of any kind, piles of any substance) because I am free. The stuff of my desire, the wishes of my freedom have been stuffed down deeply inside me for decades but now my own clutter cleaning is in progress and I am okay, alright with all of it.
4. Today is my niece's 15th birthday! Happy Birthday Sienna Marie Hastings. You will always be the baby with the shock of black hair and the laughing eyes. You will always be loved by me.
And now, on to those morning pages. I feel better.
I wish you could see me typing this right now. I've just tried to begin this paragraph three times only to erase. That tells me I am 1) in need of coffee badly or 2) in need of writing down my thoughts more and more as this feels really jerky and not fluid at all, or 3) having a moment of tired laziness or weary fear of laying down what is really inside me.
First, I'll make the coffee and then see where I'm at. Be right back. Make some for you, too, how bout, while I'm gone?
Back and several things dawned on me while preparing the coffee and Thomas muffin. Here's what hit me not necessarily in this order:
1. I have got to get back to my morning pages routine, meaning writing three pages of anything and everything that comes to me first thing in the morning, Julia Cameron style (sorry when I do it here as I am now). Going back to this method will help me to focus on the now, the moment and to see my next move.
2. I have been blessed with two ferociously wonderful daughters. Last night Leila texted me, asking me to stay awake till she got home, that she and Sarah had a surprise for me. I could since Friday night is my "date night" with Bill Mahr and HBO, and after that Charlie Rose, Tavis Smiley, and anything else I can find with good conversational substance. So I was still awake when she texted she was on her way! Sarah woud be home later. Let the Mother's Day titillation begin! I love that my girls cannot wait to present a gift once they have purchased it, so I knew Friday night had become the new Mother's Day.
She arrived and told me to close my eyes and a small bag was placed in my lap. Opening my eyes, I saw it was a new cell phone! Nokia, smaller than my now vintage one, but still a little chunky, the way I like it. Too thin of an electronic and as my manhandling and tearage with book covers and pages will show, a lean cell phone may soon go the way of a snap here, a drop there, and in the end, irreparable damage.
I loved the phone and called Sarah who was on her way home to thank her, too!
"Close your eyes again," she directed. I did. Now a larger bag was put onto my lap. I opened my eyes to see a Brita pitcher! Hoorah! My girls know that I take water bottles, wash them, toss the lids into a mug filled with hot water, and take our currently cracked Brita pitcher and pour filtered water into the bottles. Once the paper wrapping around the bottle falls off or the bottle itself collapses from the hot water, I dispose of them but man it saves on lugging cases of bottled water from the store.
Hoorah! Fresher water in a sturdier container!
Then came a new can opener! No, not an electric one, a hand held one, but it is a far cry from the miniscule opener I bought probably ten years ago and what I still use. Leila and I laughed hard over this gift. "Let's frame the old one for posterity, " I said, and we both agreed. So I'm going to buy a memory box and position the butterfly small opener into the center of it and hang it with laughter and pride.
Then she instructed me to close my eyes yet again! This time a very large box came into my lap and I saw, miracle of miracles, that I was the owner of a new set of pots and pans! I ripped open that box, assembled each beautiful piece and in one fell swoop bagged my old stuff, given to me long ago by a boyfriend who said he bought the new cookware for me in order to have what he needed while cooking in my kitchen. No surprise we didn't make it, but the cookware did.
"Have we given you 1950s housewife stuff?" asked Leila, suddenly doubting herself. "Aboslutely not!" I exclaimed. Well wait a minute, I thought, I am a 1950s housewife or soon to be; I just don't have a husband who comes home at night nor anyone to answer to or beg attention from. "I am Martha Stewart!" I announced to a laughing Leila.
"Well, there's more coming on Mother's Day," she said.
And here I thought we were just going to eat Indian food and catch a movie.
I am a blessed woman.
3. I survived two days of clutter upheaval as Sarah painted her room. I stepped over big piles of bedding, shoes, and books and am still looking at my granny cart perched beside the dining table, see shoes scattered under the futon and about the room, and I am still functioning, breathing evenly, plotting my escape from the agonies and ecstacies of the workplace. I can endure what I was not able to do for long (messes of any kind, piles of any substance) because I am free. The stuff of my desire, the wishes of my freedom have been stuffed down deeply inside me for decades but now my own clutter cleaning is in progress and I am okay, alright with all of it.
4. Today is my niece's 15th birthday! Happy Birthday Sienna Marie Hastings. You will always be the baby with the shock of black hair and the laughing eyes. You will always be loved by me.
And now, on to those morning pages. I feel better.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Airing the Dirty Laundry
Yesterday the school where I teach had a Victory Day to celebrate the homecoming of the Allied Forces during World War II. Okay. That's when you know you are working in a) NYC and b) an international school. The promoters begged us to take our classes and I said, "sure" since I'm already gone, but it being a gorgeous spring day, a third of my class showed up and I sent them on their way and decided to wait in the empty classroom to see if any of the latecomers might show up.
I wanted to be still and it was glorious.
I sat in the classroom and stared out at Downtown Brooklyn, really the backside of a huge Burger King and another building where a lawyer for Jacobi and Meyer sat in his chair, the sun pouring gold through the blinds as he talked on the phone the entire hour I sat there.
I realized while there that I have returned and circled back to the soulful days of being a student at UT El Paso. I felt the stirrings, the reason I was at peace, happy, hopeful, earnest in who and what I was.
I have returned.
Came home to an email from my brother, Steve. He said he had gotten a horoscope but it sounded more like for me...stating I was feeling like giving up, like maybe it wasn't all really going to happen. But to hold on, keep going. I smiled and knew it was right. I was feeling shaky, because while in the classroom and feeling the tremendous swelling inside my heart, I also felt the frettings of the mind pestering me with "what if you fail? what if you can't make money off your writing? what if you have to scramble back into the workforce," what if, what if, what if, arggghhhhh!
So Steve's email was a welcome relief and made me smile and resolve to go on, to stay in the moment, to relish in my renewed skin. No more freaking out, listening in, second guessing.
A student last night during a free writing spell wrote about her father, how she thought he was so thoughtless and lazy. I was walking to the laundromat this morning and two guys walked between me, the older one saying to the younger, "Life is too fucking short!" and I had to laugh. Hearing messages all over. I hear and accept. No laziness nor forgetting the shortness of life. As my towels dried, I resolved to pull out my notebook and journal this experience, to keep track of this momentous movement to the center of where I began.
I wanted to be still and it was glorious.
I sat in the classroom and stared out at Downtown Brooklyn, really the backside of a huge Burger King and another building where a lawyer for Jacobi and Meyer sat in his chair, the sun pouring gold through the blinds as he talked on the phone the entire hour I sat there.
I realized while there that I have returned and circled back to the soulful days of being a student at UT El Paso. I felt the stirrings, the reason I was at peace, happy, hopeful, earnest in who and what I was.
I have returned.
Came home to an email from my brother, Steve. He said he had gotten a horoscope but it sounded more like for me...stating I was feeling like giving up, like maybe it wasn't all really going to happen. But to hold on, keep going. I smiled and knew it was right. I was feeling shaky, because while in the classroom and feeling the tremendous swelling inside my heart, I also felt the frettings of the mind pestering me with "what if you fail? what if you can't make money off your writing? what if you have to scramble back into the workforce," what if, what if, what if, arggghhhhh!
So Steve's email was a welcome relief and made me smile and resolve to go on, to stay in the moment, to relish in my renewed skin. No more freaking out, listening in, second guessing.
A student last night during a free writing spell wrote about her father, how she thought he was so thoughtless and lazy. I was walking to the laundromat this morning and two guys walked between me, the older one saying to the younger, "Life is too fucking short!" and I had to laugh. Hearing messages all over. I hear and accept. No laziness nor forgetting the shortness of life. As my towels dried, I resolved to pull out my notebook and journal this experience, to keep track of this momentous movement to the center of where I began.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
"Everybody's Working for the Weekend"
Last night was a magical evening at school. The topic opened up like a flower and the conversation flowed from voice to paper like a mountain stream. Everyone participated. It is on nights like these that make me proud to be a part of the dynamic. In one of my free writes I announced my summer off and some of the students are upset that I am shoving away. But I see it in their eyes, saying, "She's really doing it, practicing what she preaches." And I am. And I can't wait. Halfway through the fourth week, I am growing more and more excited over breaking free.
This past Sunday, I decided to take a walk. I started out going to the bank to transfer some money to Sarah's account and from there went to buy mailing envelopes for the cds I burned for my mom and sis for Mother's Day. Then, I decided just to start walking, wasn't sure what I was going to do. Should I eat? No! Enough already with the emotional eating! Something clicked inside and I decided to walk to Barnes and Noble and to check out the magazines for articles. Along with knowing I have some reprieve coming in the next four months, I also know I have a huge window of opportunity to begin again and I indeed plan to upgrade and spark life into my shabby state of freelance writing. It's now or never, so off I went.
There was a small streetfair going on, but I didn't walk in the middle of it, but instead kept my stride. No time for getting sidetracked with trinkets and funnel cakes. It was breezy. I was wearing my Comic Relief t-shirt, the one I paid $25 to help Hurricane Katrina victims. My arms were growing cold. I should have worn a jacket. I'll never understand the Northeastern air.
Walking about six more blocks, I saw an American Apparel store and realized I could buy a hoodie there. Damn the torpedos, I was going to buy one even though American Apparel is pricey, but it was windy and I on an adventure and in possession of the $38 for the purchase, so in I went.
I quickly located one in my size and took it to the register and waited for one of the two workers there to take my money so I could be on my way. Barnes and Noble was on the next block and I was anxious to spend an afternoon there enriching my career. After several minutes in the empty store, a guy walked up to the register. He was young and urban hip and reminded me of a latter day hippie, but when he started talking I could tell he was no where near the old 'peace, man' days. He watched me pull out my debit card still possessing the orange sticker with info that Citibank puts on their cards with instructions for activation. A few weeks ago I was notified by the bank that a new card was coming. Since then, I had discovered I could use the ATM and such with the sticker intact, but as I stood there, feeling free and happy, I decided to yank it off. Part of the white underside of the paper stayed on.
The dude watched me and reluctantly took my card. He asked me for identification. I reached into my coin purse and pulled out my ID. In the photo, my hair is lighter. He looked at the photo and then at me. I smiled nervously. Was I heavier there or now? I couldn't remember. Suddenly I felt ashamed. What was going on?
He asked me, "Have you been to this store before?" I looked at him and around the store, dumbfounded. The bastard thought I was trying to pull something. I still felt in shock and incredulous that he was making such a big deal when all I wanted was a hoodie to warm me as I continued on my way. I said, "I dont think I've ever shopped here, but I have been into your store on Smith street." (The street over.) He flinched but still wasn't convinced. He commented on how it had grown cold outside, "Yes, that's why I came in here to buy a hoodie," I replied.
"What's your zip code?" he asked trying to sound nonchalant. I told him, but even after he heard me I think, if he had had his way, he'd have revoked that too. Like a petulant child he finally completed the purchase, handing me back my debit card.
I told him not to bag my item, I'd be wearing it. He reluctantly clipped off the tags and handed it to me, avoiding me with uneasy eyes. I felt poor. I kept trying to rationalize that maybe he'd recently had been burned or he was just an unexperienced salesperson, someone not comfortable dealing with money, someone who couldn't read someone?
I walked out, ashamed and humiliated, I put the jacket on in front of the glass so he could see me. I flipped the hood down my back and walked to the bookstore. I tried to shake it off. Very soon, I did lose myself in a stack of poetry and fiction journals and assigned myself five or six essays and a short story. I purchased "A Course in Miracles" and Amy Tan's new memoir. I also sprung for a book on "Body Clutter" and knew these items were meant for my growth into my new World. But from time to time I came up for air, and when I did, I imagined - as I still do every time I walk by that American Apparel store - marching myself back in there and telling him, "This has been my neighborhood for ten years, buckeroo! And back when you were still in junior high, I remember when this store was a restaurant!" And then in my fantasy I walk out, my head held high and his mouth dropped open.But what would that have prove?The kid had decided my fate way before I'd ever opened my mouth on that brisk and windy day in May, one of the sweetest Sundays I've had in a long while. He had sized me up.
Two hours after leafing through magazines at B & N, I stopped and bought boric acid to keep the bug situation in the kitchen at bay, a burrito for dinner, and watermelon and clementines for Sarah. I walked in my new hoodie and decided that now was the time, once and for all, to shed the skin of being offended. I had no more time for it. No need for it, as pointless as wanting to lose weight and then eating a funnel cake at a streetfair.
This past Sunday, I decided to take a walk. I started out going to the bank to transfer some money to Sarah's account and from there went to buy mailing envelopes for the cds I burned for my mom and sis for Mother's Day. Then, I decided just to start walking, wasn't sure what I was going to do. Should I eat? No! Enough already with the emotional eating! Something clicked inside and I decided to walk to Barnes and Noble and to check out the magazines for articles. Along with knowing I have some reprieve coming in the next four months, I also know I have a huge window of opportunity to begin again and I indeed plan to upgrade and spark life into my shabby state of freelance writing. It's now or never, so off I went.
There was a small streetfair going on, but I didn't walk in the middle of it, but instead kept my stride. No time for getting sidetracked with trinkets and funnel cakes. It was breezy. I was wearing my Comic Relief t-shirt, the one I paid $25 to help Hurricane Katrina victims. My arms were growing cold. I should have worn a jacket. I'll never understand the Northeastern air.
Walking about six more blocks, I saw an American Apparel store and realized I could buy a hoodie there. Damn the torpedos, I was going to buy one even though American Apparel is pricey, but it was windy and I on an adventure and in possession of the $38 for the purchase, so in I went.
I quickly located one in my size and took it to the register and waited for one of the two workers there to take my money so I could be on my way. Barnes and Noble was on the next block and I was anxious to spend an afternoon there enriching my career. After several minutes in the empty store, a guy walked up to the register. He was young and urban hip and reminded me of a latter day hippie, but when he started talking I could tell he was no where near the old 'peace, man' days. He watched me pull out my debit card still possessing the orange sticker with info that Citibank puts on their cards with instructions for activation. A few weeks ago I was notified by the bank that a new card was coming. Since then, I had discovered I could use the ATM and such with the sticker intact, but as I stood there, feeling free and happy, I decided to yank it off. Part of the white underside of the paper stayed on.
The dude watched me and reluctantly took my card. He asked me for identification. I reached into my coin purse and pulled out my ID. In the photo, my hair is lighter. He looked at the photo and then at me. I smiled nervously. Was I heavier there or now? I couldn't remember. Suddenly I felt ashamed. What was going on?
He asked me, "Have you been to this store before?" I looked at him and around the store, dumbfounded. The bastard thought I was trying to pull something. I still felt in shock and incredulous that he was making such a big deal when all I wanted was a hoodie to warm me as I continued on my way. I said, "I dont think I've ever shopped here, but I have been into your store on Smith street." (The street over.) He flinched but still wasn't convinced. He commented on how it had grown cold outside, "Yes, that's why I came in here to buy a hoodie," I replied.
"What's your zip code?" he asked trying to sound nonchalant. I told him, but even after he heard me I think, if he had had his way, he'd have revoked that too. Like a petulant child he finally completed the purchase, handing me back my debit card.
I told him not to bag my item, I'd be wearing it. He reluctantly clipped off the tags and handed it to me, avoiding me with uneasy eyes. I felt poor. I kept trying to rationalize that maybe he'd recently had been burned or he was just an unexperienced salesperson, someone not comfortable dealing with money, someone who couldn't read someone?
I walked out, ashamed and humiliated, I put the jacket on in front of the glass so he could see me. I flipped the hood down my back and walked to the bookstore. I tried to shake it off. Very soon, I did lose myself in a stack of poetry and fiction journals and assigned myself five or six essays and a short story. I purchased "A Course in Miracles" and Amy Tan's new memoir. I also sprung for a book on "Body Clutter" and knew these items were meant for my growth into my new World. But from time to time I came up for air, and when I did, I imagined - as I still do every time I walk by that American Apparel store - marching myself back in there and telling him, "This has been my neighborhood for ten years, buckeroo! And back when you were still in junior high, I remember when this store was a restaurant!" And then in my fantasy I walk out, my head held high and his mouth dropped open.But what would that have prove?The kid had decided my fate way before I'd ever opened my mouth on that brisk and windy day in May, one of the sweetest Sundays I've had in a long while. He had sized me up.
Two hours after leafing through magazines at B & N, I stopped and bought boric acid to keep the bug situation in the kitchen at bay, a burrito for dinner, and watermelon and clementines for Sarah. I walked in my new hoodie and decided that now was the time, once and for all, to shed the skin of being offended. I had no more time for it. No need for it, as pointless as wanting to lose weight and then eating a funnel cake at a streetfair.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Happenings
I'm one of the lucky ones. If you live in NY and your children grow into young adults and choose to stay in the City then you are one of the lucky ones, too: Your kids crash now and then at your pad.
I love it.
Sarah is home for the summer and I see Leila when she's not working or out and about. Let's be real: NY rents are stooopid. Why not dogpile in one apartment. My goal is to ride this wave until one or both are rent stabilized and can run with this place while I run around.
Role reversal methinks.
I have four weeks left of teaching and then on to my purpose. I have thoroughly enjoyed aspects of it, mainly being inspiring and being inspired by the students. All of this has condensed into creative works that as my brother, Steve said last night, I do not even know the works I am about to do.
I am ready.
People at school look at me like I am a ghost and I look back at them in the same way. I'm already gone. There is a peace about me that comes with ferocity. I have found my dharma and shall never lose sight of it again.
And I have a summer with Leila and Sarah. This time, though, throughout summer, they will be shaking their heads and saying, "Where is that old woman?"
Peace.
I love it.
Sarah is home for the summer and I see Leila when she's not working or out and about. Let's be real: NY rents are stooopid. Why not dogpile in one apartment. My goal is to ride this wave until one or both are rent stabilized and can run with this place while I run around.
Role reversal methinks.
I have four weeks left of teaching and then on to my purpose. I have thoroughly enjoyed aspects of it, mainly being inspiring and being inspired by the students. All of this has condensed into creative works that as my brother, Steve said last night, I do not even know the works I am about to do.
I am ready.
People at school look at me like I am a ghost and I look back at them in the same way. I'm already gone. There is a peace about me that comes with ferocity. I have found my dharma and shall never lose sight of it again.
And I have a summer with Leila and Sarah. This time, though, throughout summer, they will be shaking their heads and saying, "Where is that old woman?"
Peace.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Skinny Cow, Orange Cat
Came home and ate a skinny cow. Mint. Sarah's home. Yay. Last night I had a meltdown. Flat out melt down. Our cat is sick. Oscar. A handsome boy. Orange. One of two cats we got on July 21, 1999, when upon a walk home from the doctor, Leila asked when we'd get another cat. Our first and last attempt, Nell, had lasted six months, and ended with feline leukemia. The girls' father had died in January and their Apa in June of '98. It'd been a bad a year and a half. So on the walk home we'd seen a flyer announcing that a cat needed a home. I called and we were the only ones to inquire.
Oscar came and the owner told us he'd been paired up with a black and white cat since kittens: Russell. We took him, too.
Now Oscar is sick. It might be cancer. He has a tumor under his right facial cheek.
This cat hugs the girls. I kid you not. Hugs them. Two front paws around their neck and the hind legs around their ribcage. I've always suspected these cats were sent from above.
So last night I had a meltdown after bringing him home. Threw my water bottle onto the floor with a loud thud and shocked Leila. I was upset over something Sarah had implied. Wow. I hit the roof. Lots was said and I went to bed crying.
This morning it all made sense. I'm living in the pain body, looking always for drama. I am not used to this freedom and one twist of ugly fate and I'm a mess. So I pulled myself together, apologized to Sarah, and announced this woman was determined to cross the barrier known as disappointment and sadness, dismissal, rejection. I was through with it.
I put the pain body out to dry.
I will mourn and miss Oscar when he goes. I, along with Sarah and Leila, can't go there right now. So I will do what I tell Sarah as she tells me from her room that she is sad for him.
"Love him everyday," I say.
Love
every
day.
Oscar came and the owner told us he'd been paired up with a black and white cat since kittens: Russell. We took him, too.
Now Oscar is sick. It might be cancer. He has a tumor under his right facial cheek.
This cat hugs the girls. I kid you not. Hugs them. Two front paws around their neck and the hind legs around their ribcage. I've always suspected these cats were sent from above.
So last night I had a meltdown after bringing him home. Threw my water bottle onto the floor with a loud thud and shocked Leila. I was upset over something Sarah had implied. Wow. I hit the roof. Lots was said and I went to bed crying.
This morning it all made sense. I'm living in the pain body, looking always for drama. I am not used to this freedom and one twist of ugly fate and I'm a mess. So I pulled myself together, apologized to Sarah, and announced this woman was determined to cross the barrier known as disappointment and sadness, dismissal, rejection. I was through with it.
I put the pain body out to dry.
I will mourn and miss Oscar when he goes. I, along with Sarah and Leila, can't go there right now. So I will do what I tell Sarah as she tells me from her room that she is sad for him.
"Love him everyday," I say.
Love
every
day.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Much to Sing About Everything
Come and hear my buddy Chris Belden sing at The Bitter End on Monday, May 7, 8 pm. I looked up the address and turns out The Bitter End is the oldest rock club....well, I'm still older! Criminy. I met Chris at last year's NY Writer's Coalition's Write-a-Thon where I had a great breakthrough in learning there are many, many endings, and why stop at the first? I kept thinking my free writing essay was done and yet there was still time to go, so on I went and blam! another great ending, more info, another fantastic ending, and still the time wasn't up! That's when I learned to take it to the limit. And the rest has been gravy (and lots of ambitious and soul satisfying work).
Chris was a workshop facilitator. He reminds me of Bob Newhart, quiet but when he speaks, funny as hell.
Come hear him!
Chris Belden at The Bitter End (a place still younger than Sheela)
Monday, May 7, 8 pm
147 Bleecker Street (between Thompson and LaGuardia)
New York City, NY 10012
Voice: (212) 673-7030
Monday May 7th
NY Songwriters Circle ($8) with:
Richard Clark
Mary Jennings
Monica Ott
Chris Belden
Ben Scheur
---plus----
Emily King
The Oz Noy Trio ($10)
Chris was a workshop facilitator. He reminds me of Bob Newhart, quiet but when he speaks, funny as hell.
Come hear him!
Chris Belden at The Bitter End (a place still younger than Sheela)
Monday, May 7, 8 pm
147 Bleecker Street (between Thompson and LaGuardia)
New York City, NY 10012
Voice: (212) 673-7030
Monday May 7th
NY Songwriters Circle ($8) with:
Richard Clark
Mary Jennings
Monica Ott
Chris Belden
Ben Scheur
---plus----
Emily King
The Oz Noy Trio ($10)
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