Week 4 Theme
Part 1:
I’m sitting here, at my laptop, trying to do my assignment. I can’t think. I have a cold. Luckily, the house is almost completely quiet; the kids are asleep still and the dogs are keeping my feet warm. I will continue to try.
Part 2:
I’m sitting here, perched in my thinking chair, at my laptop, attempting my Creative Non-Fiction writing assignment. Clouded with an abundance of mucus, overwrought with extreme sinus pressure, I can not think. The season is upon us for colds, an Oak leaf did not land upon me when I stood beneath her limbs, and I have not been missed. I have succumbed to the inevitable; I have been touched by my first cold of the season.
My head is hot, yet no drops of perspiration can be found. Feeling chilled to the bone; icicles for fingers, frozen oranges for knees, feet as cold as a corpse - my dogs sense this discomfort, and move to curl their warm bodies around my ankles; I am warmed.
The slight breeze unhinges leaves outside my window, they tap their ‘good mornings’ to me, this is the only sound I hear.
Enjoying the peaceful morning, with my newly warmed feet, I reach for the box of Puffs and tuck the tissues between myself and my thinking chair, with one tissue torn, rolled and stuffed up into a nostril – I lean forward, resting my forearms on my laptop and continue to try.
Part 3:
A bed of nails would be more comforting then this electric chair that I have been strapped to; a dark lord has brought forth a frightening buzzing, glowing device and has instructed me to please him with words.
My body screams from with-in of the agony it had endured all week long, a week that has felt endless – centuries long. I have been tortured beyond repair.
With the aid of his hired minions, the dark lord demanded I be weakened. Eagerly with deadly hunger, they attacked me from many angles, all at once, and I could not escape.
First my head, loud noises erupted within inches of my face and I felt my skull being sawed in two; lifting my scalp, cracking the bone, a hole was drilled – stuffed with maggots and resealed. The maggots multiplied at an ungodly rate and filled all voids in my skull to the brim. Massive pressure prevented me from seeing all that His minions were doing. Jaded, the maggots attempted to slither out my nose; their attempts were thwarted as 36 grit sandpaper was stuffed into my nostrils to seal up their escape hatch.
Then my body, I was temporarily released from the binding straps of the electric chair, pummeled with gallons of water and thrown into a chest freezer. Almost instantly I began to freeze and thinking I might die, I heard a faint whisper of hope, a small clacking of sorts and only moments before what I thought was to be my untimely demise, the top was lifted. Two great beasts reached for me – a gentle aura glowed brightly around their lush, warm fur…I was lifted and slowly warmed with their affection and generosity but it only lasted a moment. The dark lord sensed this kindness within his region and aspirated swarms of fire ants in their direction with each word he spoke; I could not hear his words but I could see them, black and white before me.
His cronies raced past him, snatched me from my gentle giants and returned me to that cold, hard chair; tightening the straps until blood supply had been cut from various limbs.
So, here I sit, with the glowing device mounted to the blank wall before me, and my dark lord beckoning for me to continue on.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Week 3 Theme
Cellars are often known for being a few degrees cooler then the rest of the building, not this one. Red floor mats stretch out the length of the concrete floor. Two a/c’s rest in the front widows of this daylight basement, but so often unused, it’s possible they are broken. Weights, jump ropes, medicine balls line the far right wall; a punching bag hangs in the front right corner and an multi compact disk player rests to the far left near the main door. Four metal chairs are nestled among a cluster of flip-flops, sandals and sneakers.
“All right everyone; let’s warm up with a light jog around the room. Get those hearts pumping!” shouts the ATA fit instructor.
(She is way to chipper. I really should have stretched first – oh god my legs are killing me already!)
“Kick those legs up! Jog like there’s a fire under your feet!” said the only male participant.
(Who does he think he is? Would someone please turn up the music and drown that jerk out!)
“Grab a medicine ball, down on the floor for 20 sit-ups!” shouts the instructor.
(It’s like a hundred degrees in here and we are only six minutes into the work-out…turn on the a/c!)
The man speaks again, “Full sit-ups! Crunches are for wimps!”
“I’m trying sir!”
“Trying! I don’t want to hear your trying! I want to see you doing!”
(Can’t someone shut that ass up! He’s not the instructor, but it looks like he thinks he is…I know – those a/c’s might be good for something after all! One crammed down his throat and one crammed up his…)
“Now, flip on to your bellies and do as many push-ups as you can in one minute!”
(She must have been a drill sergeant in her past life…one, two – rest a few, three…floor – ahhhh)
“Get up – off your knees! No sissy push-ups on my time!”
A lady speaks out, “This isn’t your time bud.”
(Finally, someone speaks up! Why didn’t I think of that? Oh that’s right – I’m breathing too hard to even try to mutter out anything; well, I think I’m still breathing – wheezing maybe.)
“Enough chit chat ladies, time for jump ropes!”
(Ha, she called him a lady too! God, I hate jump ropes…think she’ll notices if I don’t swing the rope.)
That small black and white clock on the wall is ticking slowly away like a time bomb. A loud Chevy 4x4 pulls up to the front and three more ladies join this ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ work-out; the only thing missing now is Richard Simmons. In the back left corner, a toilet flushes and a fourth participant walks out carrying a floor fan.
“Lunge time ladies!”
“I want to see those legs lifted and those knees hitting the floor!” says the man.
“Woo hoo!” shout the new arrivals.
(Ya…freaking woo hoo, if you were here from the beginning you wouldn’t be woo hoo-ing. )
“Mountain climbers everyone!”
Everyone drops in unison in a push-up position and lunges one knee up under chest – one knee down – switch. Faster and faster they climb; in spite of the waves of spandex, they resemble soldiers in training.
“Up into squats ladies!”
“Did you stop at any of the yardsales on the way here?” one lady asks another.
(How can she talk? Why isn’t she out of breath? And why isn’t that damn floor fan turned on!)
Sixty minutes, eighty sit-ups, a hundred push-ups and god knows how many lunges later…
“Pick up those jump ropes! Almost done!”
“I love jump roping!” says one.
“Oh wow – me too!” another says.
“I think I could jump rope all day!” the instructor exclaims.
(Ya, well, I lost my jump rope and this floor mat is lumpy.)
“Last round – let’s end this with a light fifteen minute sprint around the room!”
(What ever happened to cooling down and stretching? Hey, I don’t hear that jerk anymore.)
A hazy, sweaty atmosphere seems to linger above our heads. The temperature has reached all time highs and the floor mats glisten with smeared beads of sweat. There is something different about the room; weights are still there, ac’s still untouched, music still blaring, shoes still scattered – ah but the chairs are no longer empty; a hunched over, sweaty, breathless man rests in one.
“All right everyone; let’s warm up with a light jog around the room. Get those hearts pumping!” shouts the ATA fit instructor.
(She is way to chipper. I really should have stretched first – oh god my legs are killing me already!)
“Kick those legs up! Jog like there’s a fire under your feet!” said the only male participant.
(Who does he think he is? Would someone please turn up the music and drown that jerk out!)
“Grab a medicine ball, down on the floor for 20 sit-ups!” shouts the instructor.
(It’s like a hundred degrees in here and we are only six minutes into the work-out…turn on the a/c!)
The man speaks again, “Full sit-ups! Crunches are for wimps!”
“I’m trying sir!”
“Trying! I don’t want to hear your trying! I want to see you doing!”
(Can’t someone shut that ass up! He’s not the instructor, but it looks like he thinks he is…I know – those a/c’s might be good for something after all! One crammed down his throat and one crammed up his…)
“Now, flip on to your bellies and do as many push-ups as you can in one minute!”
(She must have been a drill sergeant in her past life…one, two – rest a few, three…floor – ahhhh)
“Get up – off your knees! No sissy push-ups on my time!”
A lady speaks out, “This isn’t your time bud.”
(Finally, someone speaks up! Why didn’t I think of that? Oh that’s right – I’m breathing too hard to even try to mutter out anything; well, I think I’m still breathing – wheezing maybe.)
“Enough chit chat ladies, time for jump ropes!”
(Ha, she called him a lady too! God, I hate jump ropes…think she’ll notices if I don’t swing the rope.)
That small black and white clock on the wall is ticking slowly away like a time bomb. A loud Chevy 4x4 pulls up to the front and three more ladies join this ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies’ work-out; the only thing missing now is Richard Simmons. In the back left corner, a toilet flushes and a fourth participant walks out carrying a floor fan.
“Lunge time ladies!”
“I want to see those legs lifted and those knees hitting the floor!” says the man.
“Woo hoo!” shout the new arrivals.
(Ya…freaking woo hoo, if you were here from the beginning you wouldn’t be woo hoo-ing. )
“Mountain climbers everyone!”
Everyone drops in unison in a push-up position and lunges one knee up under chest – one knee down – switch. Faster and faster they climb; in spite of the waves of spandex, they resemble soldiers in training.
“Up into squats ladies!”
“Did you stop at any of the yardsales on the way here?” one lady asks another.
(How can she talk? Why isn’t she out of breath? And why isn’t that damn floor fan turned on!)
Sixty minutes, eighty sit-ups, a hundred push-ups and god knows how many lunges later…
“Pick up those jump ropes! Almost done!”
“I love jump roping!” says one.
“Oh wow – me too!” another says.
“I think I could jump rope all day!” the instructor exclaims.
(Ya, well, I lost my jump rope and this floor mat is lumpy.)
“Last round – let’s end this with a light fifteen minute sprint around the room!”
(What ever happened to cooling down and stretching? Hey, I don’t hear that jerk anymore.)
A hazy, sweaty atmosphere seems to linger above our heads. The temperature has reached all time highs and the floor mats glisten with smeared beads of sweat. There is something different about the room; weights are still there, ac’s still untouched, music still blaring, shoes still scattered – ah but the chairs are no longer empty; a hunched over, sweaty, breathless man rests in one.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Week 2 Theme
He had a sweet and innocent face, full of life and full of energy; I’d decided to take him to the YMCA again for their baby gymnastics. He was so small; very light weight, just a young little typhoon, two years, two months, two weeks old…to be exact.
When we arrived the Y gym was already set up, the mats were out, as were the small balance beams and some giant landing blocks; it was a great opportunity for him to run, jump, play, enjoy his youth and be a free spirit without a care in the world.
The lady who manages the event was running late, but we parents and our little balls of liveliness knew the routine well so we began without her; right away the giggles and laughter fired up, the children were enjoying themselves immensely. Their enthusiasm was inspiring and we enjoyed watching them as they vivaciously tumbled, flipped, teetered and played in circles around us. Kids possess this magical gift of awakening the youth in all of us; they are like that warm brownie fresh out of the oven, that first star to appear in the midnight sky, that breath of fresh air in a world full of smog.
I leaned back and relaxed on a mat, jabbered with other parents about nothing at all, simply enjoying the outing, nabbing the moment; no worries, no cares, just pure sweet fun.
My moment of peace was startled by the gym doors thrusting open and a rupture of cries and screams that escaped from the hall into the gymnasium. A cluster of people surged in, the lady who supervises the baby gymnastics was at the head of the pack; frantically they all start talking, no not talking, screaming at once. It was hard to filter what they were saying and understand the gist of it all. What was happening in our small town? I was not even sure of what was going on and the panic had suddenly rushd into my lungs, halting my heart and tightening my chest. My motherly instincts kicked in, or it could have been just fear of the unknown chaos of what was going on, but I turned to grab my son.
Dozens of glowing, bright cheeks and hopeful intense eyes were frozen in their spots, their little chests heaved in and out from their play. They were frightened from the sudden adult stampede. I noticed no one was moving, not an adult or a child, I too stopped, it was as if we had all been frozen in time and to some degree we had been…we had willingly frozen ourselves in time to hold on to the play – the moment before people charged in – that happy, fun moment, that presently felt as if we would never see or experience pure merriment like that again.
It lasted only seconds, like floodgates finally being lifted, all at once we tore off towards our children and I could not rush to my own little babe swift enough. I snatched him up into my arms, held him close and realized we were both trembling all over, frightened, terrified and I became conscious that our adult reactions intensified the fear in our children instead of soothing them like we would have had we been able to comprehend the moment but it was one of those moments that made no sense at all.
With our children safe in our arms we all moved into the hall and gathered in front of a small television and radio; the volume of both turned up high enough for us all to hear but it could had remained on the lowest setting and we all still would have heard…for we all watched and listened in silence.
On the television, I first saw people fleeing down huge busy streets, screaming, crying and debris flailing every which way, and then I saw two large towers with flames and smoke billowing out from them. The voice of Katie Couric was strong and clear and she was announcing the horrific event of two planes crashing into the twin towers. Momentarily, I forgot what the twin towers were, it was all too unbelievable. I thought it must be a hoax, like the 1938 radio show that Orson Welles did about the Martian invasion…this too had to be unreal…like a very bad nightmare.
By some means, we made it home, my trusty, baby blue, Dodge mini-van somehow transported my son and I safely back, my New Balance running shoes worked overtime as they assisted my legs of jelly in delivering us safely to the snug glider rocker facing my old Zenith. Still clutching my son close to my bosom I gingerly reached out, not using the remote, and powered up my television, we rested only a foot or so from the screen. The image off smoke and destruction appeared on practically every channel, I settled on NBC, watched and listened.
As I sat and gazed at the horrors before us, I could not seem to make it valid in my mind. I had lived through remarkable, unimaginable times before but nothing ever such as this.
I was only eight years old when I watched with my other classmates in our school cafeteria the shuttle launching the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space and I remained seated seventy-four seconds after liftoff as the shuttle transformed into a blazing ball of fire, did I see it or did I imagine it, our teacher spoke not a word but the tears in her eyes told it all.
On my twelfth Christmas I recalled unwrapping a beautifully packaged box, it could not have been bigger then a toddler shoe box and I wondered what it was….under the holiday wrapping was an ordinary brown cardboard carton, I lifted the flap and pulled from the cushioned package a small red pouch. I felt the pouch, the contents were oddly shaped with what felt like jagged, rough edges…I gently pulled the drawstring, tilted the bag and dumped its’ contents into my hand – the words of Ronald Reagan echoed in my thoughts, “Mr. Garbachev, tear that wall down!”
Hurricane Gloria, the tragic death of Princess Diana, the ice storm of ’98…nothing compared to this instant …seeing the twin towers ablaze, a camera zoomed in on one of the towers and followed the image of what appeared to be a man falling from 100’s of stories up, I thought this just had to be a hoax of some kind…some cruel, malicious, genius had finally masterminded a hoax that will go down in history. Somewhere inside of me I knew it was not a hoax, I was terrified.
My son squiggled in my arms and I reached out to phone my husband, my mother, my family; I wanted to ensure that all were safe. I needed to hear their voices, I needed to be pinched and awakened from this nightmare.
More images flashed across the screen, people all gathering in the streets watching the smoke, the fire, the madness and then gray dust detonated into the city as the towers appeared to have collapsed. People dove for cover, screeches and cries rang out and then, the voice our then President, Mr. George W. Bush, spoke out.
While watching all this commotion, I was still holding my son close to my heart, it wasn’t until now that he really began to fuss and make his presence known. I’m sure Mr. Bush meant for his words too soothe us, to bring us some sort of peace or hope in the midst of all this but in truth it only made me more afraid. At that moment, I did not think anything could ever feel peaceful or hopeful again.
My son though, that sweet little light-hearted man, brought faith to me; he wiggled, squirmed and made his discomfort well-known …I leaned back, calmed the best I could, gazed into his precious brown eyes, and settled in to nurse him.
He is ten years, two months and two weeks old now, this day of September 11, 2009.
He still has a sweet and innocent face and is still full of life and full of energy. This morning I trekked him off to karate. I took the same route I always take, utilizing the same roads I have driven on since I first got my permit when I was fifteen. As we passed the YMCA, I remembered that moment all those years ago and as I drove on a bright, open field caught my attention. It was full of elegant, emerald greens and it was shimmering with morning dew; my son commented on how it looked like the sky had opened up and dropped snow on us last night, his innocence warmed me. With my son at my side and the field passing us by, both of them being a breath of fresh air, both a precious part of life, I realized I could lose it all in the blink of an eye and I just wanted to freeze time.
When we arrived the Y gym was already set up, the mats were out, as were the small balance beams and some giant landing blocks; it was a great opportunity for him to run, jump, play, enjoy his youth and be a free spirit without a care in the world.
The lady who manages the event was running late, but we parents and our little balls of liveliness knew the routine well so we began without her; right away the giggles and laughter fired up, the children were enjoying themselves immensely. Their enthusiasm was inspiring and we enjoyed watching them as they vivaciously tumbled, flipped, teetered and played in circles around us. Kids possess this magical gift of awakening the youth in all of us; they are like that warm brownie fresh out of the oven, that first star to appear in the midnight sky, that breath of fresh air in a world full of smog.
I leaned back and relaxed on a mat, jabbered with other parents about nothing at all, simply enjoying the outing, nabbing the moment; no worries, no cares, just pure sweet fun.
My moment of peace was startled by the gym doors thrusting open and a rupture of cries and screams that escaped from the hall into the gymnasium. A cluster of people surged in, the lady who supervises the baby gymnastics was at the head of the pack; frantically they all start talking, no not talking, screaming at once. It was hard to filter what they were saying and understand the gist of it all. What was happening in our small town? I was not even sure of what was going on and the panic had suddenly rushd into my lungs, halting my heart and tightening my chest. My motherly instincts kicked in, or it could have been just fear of the unknown chaos of what was going on, but I turned to grab my son.
Dozens of glowing, bright cheeks and hopeful intense eyes were frozen in their spots, their little chests heaved in and out from their play. They were frightened from the sudden adult stampede. I noticed no one was moving, not an adult or a child, I too stopped, it was as if we had all been frozen in time and to some degree we had been…we had willingly frozen ourselves in time to hold on to the play – the moment before people charged in – that happy, fun moment, that presently felt as if we would never see or experience pure merriment like that again.
It lasted only seconds, like floodgates finally being lifted, all at once we tore off towards our children and I could not rush to my own little babe swift enough. I snatched him up into my arms, held him close and realized we were both trembling all over, frightened, terrified and I became conscious that our adult reactions intensified the fear in our children instead of soothing them like we would have had we been able to comprehend the moment but it was one of those moments that made no sense at all.
With our children safe in our arms we all moved into the hall and gathered in front of a small television and radio; the volume of both turned up high enough for us all to hear but it could had remained on the lowest setting and we all still would have heard…for we all watched and listened in silence.
On the television, I first saw people fleeing down huge busy streets, screaming, crying and debris flailing every which way, and then I saw two large towers with flames and smoke billowing out from them. The voice of Katie Couric was strong and clear and she was announcing the horrific event of two planes crashing into the twin towers. Momentarily, I forgot what the twin towers were, it was all too unbelievable. I thought it must be a hoax, like the 1938 radio show that Orson Welles did about the Martian invasion…this too had to be unreal…like a very bad nightmare.
By some means, we made it home, my trusty, baby blue, Dodge mini-van somehow transported my son and I safely back, my New Balance running shoes worked overtime as they assisted my legs of jelly in delivering us safely to the snug glider rocker facing my old Zenith. Still clutching my son close to my bosom I gingerly reached out, not using the remote, and powered up my television, we rested only a foot or so from the screen. The image off smoke and destruction appeared on practically every channel, I settled on NBC, watched and listened.
As I sat and gazed at the horrors before us, I could not seem to make it valid in my mind. I had lived through remarkable, unimaginable times before but nothing ever such as this.
I was only eight years old when I watched with my other classmates in our school cafeteria the shuttle launching the teacher, Christa McAuliffe, into space and I remained seated seventy-four seconds after liftoff as the shuttle transformed into a blazing ball of fire, did I see it or did I imagine it, our teacher spoke not a word but the tears in her eyes told it all.
On my twelfth Christmas I recalled unwrapping a beautifully packaged box, it could not have been bigger then a toddler shoe box and I wondered what it was….under the holiday wrapping was an ordinary brown cardboard carton, I lifted the flap and pulled from the cushioned package a small red pouch. I felt the pouch, the contents were oddly shaped with what felt like jagged, rough edges…I gently pulled the drawstring, tilted the bag and dumped its’ contents into my hand – the words of Ronald Reagan echoed in my thoughts, “Mr. Garbachev, tear that wall down!”
Hurricane Gloria, the tragic death of Princess Diana, the ice storm of ’98…nothing compared to this instant …seeing the twin towers ablaze, a camera zoomed in on one of the towers and followed the image of what appeared to be a man falling from 100’s of stories up, I thought this just had to be a hoax of some kind…some cruel, malicious, genius had finally masterminded a hoax that will go down in history. Somewhere inside of me I knew it was not a hoax, I was terrified.
My son squiggled in my arms and I reached out to phone my husband, my mother, my family; I wanted to ensure that all were safe. I needed to hear their voices, I needed to be pinched and awakened from this nightmare.
More images flashed across the screen, people all gathering in the streets watching the smoke, the fire, the madness and then gray dust detonated into the city as the towers appeared to have collapsed. People dove for cover, screeches and cries rang out and then, the voice our then President, Mr. George W. Bush, spoke out.
While watching all this commotion, I was still holding my son close to my heart, it wasn’t until now that he really began to fuss and make his presence known. I’m sure Mr. Bush meant for his words too soothe us, to bring us some sort of peace or hope in the midst of all this but in truth it only made me more afraid. At that moment, I did not think anything could ever feel peaceful or hopeful again.
My son though, that sweet little light-hearted man, brought faith to me; he wiggled, squirmed and made his discomfort well-known …I leaned back, calmed the best I could, gazed into his precious brown eyes, and settled in to nurse him.
He is ten years, two months and two weeks old now, this day of September 11, 2009.
He still has a sweet and innocent face and is still full of life and full of energy. This morning I trekked him off to karate. I took the same route I always take, utilizing the same roads I have driven on since I first got my permit when I was fifteen. As we passed the YMCA, I remembered that moment all those years ago and as I drove on a bright, open field caught my attention. It was full of elegant, emerald greens and it was shimmering with morning dew; my son commented on how it looked like the sky had opened up and dropped snow on us last night, his innocence warmed me. With my son at my side and the field passing us by, both of them being a breath of fresh air, both a precious part of life, I realized I could lose it all in the blink of an eye and I just wanted to freeze time.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself...Walk in someone else's shoes.
Once I saw something I thought was unusual in a movie, I believe it was “Ya Ya Sisters”, anyhow, in the movie a women was having an uncommon (or maybe it’s common) drink for breakfast. The drink looked like tomato or V8 juice, with a bit of alcohol and a celery stalk oh and I think hot sauce or something like that. I remember wondering why she would want to drink that for breakfast, I’ve always thought of booze as a late night, once in a while, just for fun sort of drink – not a good morning lets get tipsy type of beverage.
Well, time marches on…..
Last night we took the kids to the Blue Hill Fair, spent six or so hours traipsing through crowds in dust and muck, spending an ungodly amount of money on tickets (plus their added gas charge) for my son to ride four rides (almost five rides – but that’s another story), sitting up in the grandstand to watch a blueberry pie eating contest (the fist I’d ever seen), a vehicle stunt show (with some terribly awful jokes) and munching on the fair foods – good fun for all.
I could go on in much greater detail because some of this was so out of the ordinary and worthy of writing in more details but it will have to wait for another time...
Throughout the majority of those six hours I carried my 18 month old daughter, yes – we had a stroller but what kid wants to ride in a stroller when all they get to see are dozens of strangers tushes. No – no – she wanted to be carried and not just by anyone, it needed to be mumma (I felt honored at first). I suppose the adrenalin of the night prevented me from feeling the pain that comes from carrying around an extra 25 pounds for six hours but this morning….I feel it.
I’m not a huge drinker and I did not have any last night, yet I feel as though I’ve awoken with a massive hangover. My right eye does not want to fully open due to the congested pain I feel in my right eyebrow. My forehead crinkles in thanks to the morning sun, I wince and put on my shades. I understand a whole new meaning to "Splitting headache". There is a cement block (or so it seems) in the place that used to be my shoulder blades and my neck is a frightfully strong, unbendable metal rod…the rest of the aches and pains seem miniscule in comparison.
So, I suppose the world works in mysterious ways. Why did I wonder about that lady in the movie enjoying her morning booze.... was this some higher power at work placing me in a situation that was a learning experience…to walk in anothers' shoes...judge not – less ye be judged…well, it worked because right now – all I want….is one of those drinks.
Well, time marches on…..
Last night we took the kids to the Blue Hill Fair, spent six or so hours traipsing through crowds in dust and muck, spending an ungodly amount of money on tickets (plus their added gas charge) for my son to ride four rides (almost five rides – but that’s another story), sitting up in the grandstand to watch a blueberry pie eating contest (the fist I’d ever seen), a vehicle stunt show (with some terribly awful jokes) and munching on the fair foods – good fun for all.
I could go on in much greater detail because some of this was so out of the ordinary and worthy of writing in more details but it will have to wait for another time...
Throughout the majority of those six hours I carried my 18 month old daughter, yes – we had a stroller but what kid wants to ride in a stroller when all they get to see are dozens of strangers tushes. No – no – she wanted to be carried and not just by anyone, it needed to be mumma (I felt honored at first). I suppose the adrenalin of the night prevented me from feeling the pain that comes from carrying around an extra 25 pounds for six hours but this morning….I feel it.
I’m not a huge drinker and I did not have any last night, yet I feel as though I’ve awoken with a massive hangover. My right eye does not want to fully open due to the congested pain I feel in my right eyebrow. My forehead crinkles in thanks to the morning sun, I wince and put on my shades. I understand a whole new meaning to "Splitting headache". There is a cement block (or so it seems) in the place that used to be my shoulder blades and my neck is a frightfully strong, unbendable metal rod…the rest of the aches and pains seem miniscule in comparison.
So, I suppose the world works in mysterious ways. Why did I wonder about that lady in the movie enjoying her morning booze.... was this some higher power at work placing me in a situation that was a learning experience…to walk in anothers' shoes...judge not – less ye be judged…well, it worked because right now – all I want….is one of those drinks.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself...know the place I love to call home regardless of my physical shell.
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” This is not exactly what a rooster sounds like, at least not ours. A bit more like, “kraaa-ra-ka (rooster cough)-krou” but it’s not his fault, I think ours has a sore throat.
A gorgeous morning, the sun is slowly creeping up the leaves on the trees, the roosters shouting for everyone to get up and the goats are tap dancing on the deck (with a bit of Irish in them, I’m sure they would blend in well with the River Dancers) and our dogs having a barking competition with the neighbors dog (or maybe they are just discussing in dog language the wild parties that went on last night while us humans were asleep).
My husband and I just returned from a nice small walk out on this cool morning and we were so excited to see all the wild Mallards that our pet ducks have invited to our pond. The pond is only about thirty feet in diameter and it is snugly hosting about 53 (we tried to count) Mallards and eight of our own for a tentative grand total of sixty one – now I just hope we have enough cracked corn to go around (Jimmy crack corn and I DO care)!
It would be quite fun to be a duck (until hunting season) and I don’t mean a duck like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck (though being in a cartoon would be pretty cool but I think if I was a Disney Duck I would want to be Uncle Scrooge McDuck or if not him, I would be a duck on the Simpons – what they need a good talking duck!) nevertheless I’m talking about an actual wild duck (notice I didn’t say pet duck – they don’t fly but more then two feet off the ground). I believe I would choose to be a male duck too, yes, it would be cool to lay an egg I’m sure and I realize that male ducks do not pee while standing up (it’s not fair that I can’t write my name in the snow too) but male ducks have the most beautiful feathers, especially in the fall. When all the leaves have changed into elegant shades of reds, oranges and yellows the wild Mallards fly in with their vibrant emerald greens and sapphire blues…simply breath taking. They also, always visit in pairs, the males are very protective of their mates and will fight off any other duck (or chicken) who try to make the move on their love, it’s a bit of old fashion charm really.
As a duck, I know I would be different (a duck of a different color – the black duck of the family) it is just in my reborn soul to be the odd one (duck) out. My first autumn I’m sure I would try to stay North for the winter (to try to prove to the other ducks they are just a flock of wimps) but after a close brush with death and a few frost bit feather tips I’m sure I’d humbly fly (not quite so elegantly) down South with the rest of them. However, I would not stay where all the others did (that’s what the hunters look for – the big groups of quackers) oh no, I would do some research (no – not on google, I would use my duck instincts) and travel the world. Perhaps, I would find my true love mate on the waters of Venice Italy and I would court her right there on those waters with all the gondolas floating past and we would pose for the cameras and snack on the bits of Altamura bread (not fish, yes small fish are fun but contrary to popular belief we ducks are not great fishermen – in fact we need to watch our….um tail feathers if a big Pike gets too close) the passing tourist tossed out to us. We might fly to Africa to adopt a few orphaned ducklings and eventually after a few more stops (I could dream on and on about places I would like to visit) we would fly home….to this little pond in Hancock, Maine.
So, I guess even if I was a duck I would always want to come back home. Despite the frigid snow bound Winters or the muddy mosquito infested Springs, the barely-there Summers or the magnificent blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Autumns – Maine is a beautiful place to anchor down.
Speaking of anchoring down, time to go catch the goats and put them back in their pen.
A gorgeous morning, the sun is slowly creeping up the leaves on the trees, the roosters shouting for everyone to get up and the goats are tap dancing on the deck (with a bit of Irish in them, I’m sure they would blend in well with the River Dancers) and our dogs having a barking competition with the neighbors dog (or maybe they are just discussing in dog language the wild parties that went on last night while us humans were asleep).
My husband and I just returned from a nice small walk out on this cool morning and we were so excited to see all the wild Mallards that our pet ducks have invited to our pond. The pond is only about thirty feet in diameter and it is snugly hosting about 53 (we tried to count) Mallards and eight of our own for a tentative grand total of sixty one – now I just hope we have enough cracked corn to go around (Jimmy crack corn and I DO care)!
It would be quite fun to be a duck (until hunting season) and I don’t mean a duck like Daffy Duck or Donald Duck (though being in a cartoon would be pretty cool but I think if I was a Disney Duck I would want to be Uncle Scrooge McDuck or if not him, I would be a duck on the Simpons – what they need a good talking duck!) nevertheless I’m talking about an actual wild duck (notice I didn’t say pet duck – they don’t fly but more then two feet off the ground). I believe I would choose to be a male duck too, yes, it would be cool to lay an egg I’m sure and I realize that male ducks do not pee while standing up (it’s not fair that I can’t write my name in the snow too) but male ducks have the most beautiful feathers, especially in the fall. When all the leaves have changed into elegant shades of reds, oranges and yellows the wild Mallards fly in with their vibrant emerald greens and sapphire blues…simply breath taking. They also, always visit in pairs, the males are very protective of their mates and will fight off any other duck (or chicken) who try to make the move on their love, it’s a bit of old fashion charm really.
As a duck, I know I would be different (a duck of a different color – the black duck of the family) it is just in my reborn soul to be the odd one (duck) out. My first autumn I’m sure I would try to stay North for the winter (to try to prove to the other ducks they are just a flock of wimps) but after a close brush with death and a few frost bit feather tips I’m sure I’d humbly fly (not quite so elegantly) down South with the rest of them. However, I would not stay where all the others did (that’s what the hunters look for – the big groups of quackers) oh no, I would do some research (no – not on google, I would use my duck instincts) and travel the world. Perhaps, I would find my true love mate on the waters of Venice Italy and I would court her right there on those waters with all the gondolas floating past and we would pose for the cameras and snack on the bits of Altamura bread (not fish, yes small fish are fun but contrary to popular belief we ducks are not great fishermen – in fact we need to watch our….um tail feathers if a big Pike gets too close) the passing tourist tossed out to us. We might fly to Africa to adopt a few orphaned ducklings and eventually after a few more stops (I could dream on and on about places I would like to visit) we would fly home….to this little pond in Hancock, Maine.
So, I guess even if I was a duck I would always want to come back home. Despite the frigid snow bound Winters or the muddy mosquito infested Springs, the barely-there Summers or the magnificent blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Autumns – Maine is a beautiful place to anchor down.
Speaking of anchoring down, time to go catch the goats and put them back in their pen.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Week 1: Part 3...She is you and you are her - so who am I?
Occasionally, I simply allow my mind to wonder. I write when the mood strikes and the moment is available for my hands to frantically record my thoughts, it could be while I’m stuck in road traffic on the back side of an envelope belonging to some random unpaid bill, while I’m at the park with the kids writing on the first available surface – usually my hand or my jeans, or while I have the rare luxury of sitting before my laptop…my point is, I like to write. I enjoy words, expressing feelings and taking pleasure in all our language has to offer. My problems are that I often find my thoughts blocked and it takes some extreme life altering event to unblock them (or some fun prompts from a cool teacher – see the brown on my nose). I also don’t know what to do with the things I write. Yes, I do it for enjoyment but like most of us we want to share it, have them published, do something that helps us feel that all the effort of getting it down is not in vain. Stacks of journals, papers, poems, stories can be found all around my home…I would like to learn how to take it to the next step.
You rest your eyes, breath in, breath out, you remember and you dream. You want to record your past, your history and that of family and ancestors. You dream of freezing time on tangible pages that will inspire future generations. It will arouse enthusiasm deep within their blood, igniting their inner passions, triggering their desire…their need to write, as it was done to you. Your rested eyes are rejuvenated, you leisurely open them and sadly before you great dark walls rise up, you see no ladders, no doors, no windows just darkness. A part of you understands they are not authentic, they are not true physical obstacles yet they do not fade, they do not wilt or wither or diminish in any significant way. You imagine climbing over them but they reach beyond the heavens, you envision plowing them down or creating a hole to dive through but they are strong and seemingly unbreakable. You visualize digging below them – a tunnel under, but your arms ache with each foot you dig down the walls seem to extend two feet more. You remain trapped - in a world with limited light, you succumb and continue your monotonous daily routines finding pleasure in any place it can be found. Straining to keep your sanity. Breathing in, breathing out, remembering and dreaming.
“Tess, take a look at this.” her Dad gently commands. He hands her a stack of papers, scribbled writing, almost unreadable ink smudges reside on the pages she takes from him. “Read it. Tell me what you think.” He asks her with cheerless, aged eyes. She knows the routine well – she has read his creations all her life, her dad’s work has inspired her since she was a child. As she begins to read her mind wonders back in time to the rare days her dad and she spent together during their visitations. She recalls his fun poetry written about her and her first fishing experiences, his folk style songs about her siblings and their family traditions and his stories…the sad, lonely stories he would tell – her only window into what his world was like - the world that was now ending for him. This realization jolts her back to the present and she reads on. His work is good, raw and real. Why was he not fading now known as a great writer and how can she give him hope so that he may move on in peace. She sets down his papers, takes his hands in hers and whispers sweet reassurances of his great works and accomplishments. He smiles. “Read your stuff to me now.” He requests. Hesitating, she sets down his hands, picks up her notebook and reads. He relaxes, she does too. He interrupts briefly to tell her how proud he is of her and how happy he is to know they share their love for writing. They both dreamily allow their minds to wonder into her story. They read into the late hours of the night until they are both overcome and finally sleep. She is awoken to a strange noise, a difference in his breathing, the rattling – gurgling sound. This is not her first loss and she recognizes the moment – it is his last. As he struggles through his transition she climbs up beside him in bed, cradles his head, moistens his face with her tears and sings to him. It is his song, one he had sang to her many times, a song to help her sleep, a song to help her through sad times, a song about love – that he wrote – that they shared….his words, her words. The noise stops, the transition is complete, the moment is final – it’s the words that bring her comfort, she prays the words brought comfort to him too, she owes the words and they owe her. She feels her path, she knows her path and maybe that will bring him peace.
You rest your eyes, breath in, breath out, you remember and you dream. You want to record your past, your history and that of family and ancestors. You dream of freezing time on tangible pages that will inspire future generations. It will arouse enthusiasm deep within their blood, igniting their inner passions, triggering their desire…their need to write, as it was done to you. Your rested eyes are rejuvenated, you leisurely open them and sadly before you great dark walls rise up, you see no ladders, no doors, no windows just darkness. A part of you understands they are not authentic, they are not true physical obstacles yet they do not fade, they do not wilt or wither or diminish in any significant way. You imagine climbing over them but they reach beyond the heavens, you envision plowing them down or creating a hole to dive through but they are strong and seemingly unbreakable. You visualize digging below them – a tunnel under, but your arms ache with each foot you dig down the walls seem to extend two feet more. You remain trapped - in a world with limited light, you succumb and continue your monotonous daily routines finding pleasure in any place it can be found. Straining to keep your sanity. Breathing in, breathing out, remembering and dreaming.
“Tess, take a look at this.” her Dad gently commands. He hands her a stack of papers, scribbled writing, almost unreadable ink smudges reside on the pages she takes from him. “Read it. Tell me what you think.” He asks her with cheerless, aged eyes. She knows the routine well – she has read his creations all her life, her dad’s work has inspired her since she was a child. As she begins to read her mind wonders back in time to the rare days her dad and she spent together during their visitations. She recalls his fun poetry written about her and her first fishing experiences, his folk style songs about her siblings and their family traditions and his stories…the sad, lonely stories he would tell – her only window into what his world was like - the world that was now ending for him. This realization jolts her back to the present and she reads on. His work is good, raw and real. Why was he not fading now known as a great writer and how can she give him hope so that he may move on in peace. She sets down his papers, takes his hands in hers and whispers sweet reassurances of his great works and accomplishments. He smiles. “Read your stuff to me now.” He requests. Hesitating, she sets down his hands, picks up her notebook and reads. He relaxes, she does too. He interrupts briefly to tell her how proud he is of her and how happy he is to know they share their love for writing. They both dreamily allow their minds to wonder into her story. They read into the late hours of the night until they are both overcome and finally sleep. She is awoken to a strange noise, a difference in his breathing, the rattling – gurgling sound. This is not her first loss and she recognizes the moment – it is his last. As he struggles through his transition she climbs up beside him in bed, cradles his head, moistens his face with her tears and sings to him. It is his song, one he had sang to her many times, a song to help her sleep, a song to help her through sad times, a song about love – that he wrote – that they shared….his words, her words. The noise stops, the transition is complete, the moment is final – it’s the words that bring her comfort, she prays the words brought comfort to him too, she owes the words and they owe her. She feels her path, she knows her path and maybe that will bring him peace.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself....Know Pain.
I faced a flying oompa loompa tonight! Result - the toe next to my big toe really hurts. Ok, so he wasn't really a little man who churns chocolate but he did do this funky little routine like a good Mr. Wonka employee might do (without the catchy little jingle).
He was dressed all in white except for his black padded head, black pads(metal - I think) on his miniature hands, and black padded protectors (made of cement - I'm sure) on his elfin feet and that nice tight black belt wrapped twice (maybe three times) around his tiny little waist. There I stood, a bit of disbelief clouding my memory, would I remember my form - high block, low block....front...what? In lieu of this little man, my memory was betraying me. Despite my own protection - a padded red sweat producer that snugly fit on my head, red protection on my flimsy fists and red (Side Show Bob sized) feet protectors adorning my tiny feet, I felt exposed, vulnerable. There I was clothed in white with a white belt wrapped around my waste (only once) and the ineffective red 'armor' that flawlessly matched my red face, I felt like a fly in a spider web (the sticky sweat helped with this mental image).
We faced one another, bowed, shook hands and wished each other luck (like he needed it - pfft!) and then directly into fighting stance - YAA!
Like a flash of lighting this miniature man (ok so he was only about 9 or 10) came flying - full speed - across the mat, lunging about 12 feet (ok maybe only 3 or 4 feet - but that's still pretty high) off the floor at my head (more like my shoulder since I'm 5'1) and missed me by one miraculous block from my new best friend (my awesome left arm). Still, despite the block, in the face of this evil oompa, I cowered like the lion that Dorothy met while on her way to Oz.
A charming supportive (naive)fellow white belt shouted to me, "Embrace the tiger within!" What freaking tiger?!!! Where was he - where was he hiding??? Here kitty kitty kiWHAM! Ouch! I was so busy looking for that darn tiger (and I guess my new friend - my left arm - was busy looking too) cause that time young karate kid (I swear I heard our instructor call him Daniel-Son) - flying ninja boy, the amazing airborne oompa nailed me! Three points - that's match!
"Good game, mam."
(Breathless response)"Good game, sir."
Off I went to find that darn cowardly tiger to beat it with a Sshang Jeol Bong...and, just my luck, I stub my toe!
He was dressed all in white except for his black padded head, black pads(metal - I think) on his miniature hands, and black padded protectors (made of cement - I'm sure) on his elfin feet and that nice tight black belt wrapped twice (maybe three times) around his tiny little waist. There I stood, a bit of disbelief clouding my memory, would I remember my form - high block, low block....front...what? In lieu of this little man, my memory was betraying me. Despite my own protection - a padded red sweat producer that snugly fit on my head, red protection on my flimsy fists and red (Side Show Bob sized) feet protectors adorning my tiny feet, I felt exposed, vulnerable. There I was clothed in white with a white belt wrapped around my waste (only once) and the ineffective red 'armor' that flawlessly matched my red face, I felt like a fly in a spider web (the sticky sweat helped with this mental image).
We faced one another, bowed, shook hands and wished each other luck (like he needed it - pfft!) and then directly into fighting stance - YAA!
Like a flash of lighting this miniature man (ok so he was only about 9 or 10) came flying - full speed - across the mat, lunging about 12 feet (ok maybe only 3 or 4 feet - but that's still pretty high) off the floor at my head (more like my shoulder since I'm 5'1) and missed me by one miraculous block from my new best friend (my awesome left arm). Still, despite the block, in the face of this evil oompa, I cowered like the lion that Dorothy met while on her way to Oz.
A charming supportive (naive)fellow white belt shouted to me, "Embrace the tiger within!" What freaking tiger?!!! Where was he - where was he hiding??? Here kitty kitty kiWHAM! Ouch! I was so busy looking for that darn tiger (and I guess my new friend - my left arm - was busy looking too) cause that time young karate kid (I swear I heard our instructor call him Daniel-Son) - flying ninja boy, the amazing airborne oompa nailed me! Three points - that's match!
"Good game, mam."
(Breathless response)"Good game, sir."
Off I went to find that darn cowardly tiger to beat it with a Sshang Jeol Bong...and, just my luck, I stub my toe!
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself...the journ(ey)al continues
It's in the middle of the day - this is huge! I rarely get a moment to sit and and think so this will come as no surprise that this is not one of those rare moments... Yes, I'm sitting but not thinking. I wanted it this way though. Since I do most of my writing late at night I thought it might be cool to try it during the day.
Pause Pause Pause...............................................................
Ok, I'm holding back -first difference. I guess writing at night when I 'm so tired I don't care is a bit like writing after having a couple of drinks (you know what your doing but you don't care how it comes across...well, until the next morning that is).
Ever feel like the wind? I'm fortunate that my laptop and I are sitting in a way that I get to dreamily stare out the window that faces our back yard and all I see is green leaves with a few tree trunks tangled amongst the green. But I can hear....It's like the sound of soft rustling of crumpled brown paper bags. Maybe it's more like the waves of the ocean - you know when you are lying on the sand (and rocks - like most of Maine beaches) staring up at the bright blue sky shielding your eyes from the sun...you can't see the waves but you can hear them....as the tied comes in - you know the cool ocean water will soon touch your toes and you don't care..... Ya, that's how this wind sounds right now. The wind, this end of summer breeze is just like the waves after a bit they feel like they are inside of my chest - helping me to breath and I feel like they are me - I am them.
It's nice to take this moment and notice that.
Like the wind though - I must blow on...time to move my two little green leaves onto their next task.
Pause Pause Pause...............................................................
Ok, I'm holding back -first difference. I guess writing at night when I 'm so tired I don't care is a bit like writing after having a couple of drinks (you know what your doing but you don't care how it comes across...well, until the next morning that is).
Ever feel like the wind? I'm fortunate that my laptop and I are sitting in a way that I get to dreamily stare out the window that faces our back yard and all I see is green leaves with a few tree trunks tangled amongst the green. But I can hear....It's like the sound of soft rustling of crumpled brown paper bags. Maybe it's more like the waves of the ocean - you know when you are lying on the sand (and rocks - like most of Maine beaches) staring up at the bright blue sky shielding your eyes from the sun...you can't see the waves but you can hear them....as the tied comes in - you know the cool ocean water will soon touch your toes and you don't care..... Ya, that's how this wind sounds right now. The wind, this end of summer breeze is just like the waves after a bit they feel like they are inside of my chest - helping me to breath and I feel like they are me - I am them.
It's nice to take this moment and notice that.
Like the wind though - I must blow on...time to move my two little green leaves onto their next task.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Week 1: Know thyself. Know thyself?
Where did summer go? Why do I hear Brian Adams singing Summer of 69? Oh maybe that's because since I've started this blog some old friends are popping up and sending me the "remember when..." e-mails. Let me just save some time here - No, I don't remember. Ok, well maybe I do but maybe the flashbacks are just too painful (painfully hilarious) and really who wants to remember Penny Days - that poor jogger did not have it coming Cathy. Maybe Becca was right and Life does go on....then again Mr. Leary could have sent out his warning about Life and how it's like a well working vacuum a little sooner and perhaps we all would have embraced the Belushi ending...
Is it the New Year yet? It should be...in fact, I'll pretend that it is and here is my new years resolution (for this week) I promise I will write at least one journal entry before midnight...before I'm so tired that words come out of me in the form of some sort of mental spew.
Maybe I'll jump on while the little one is zoned into Barney - ya...Barney in the background, that should make the journal entry much more interesting (yes, I'm rolling my eyes - but they are dry, sleepy and almost closed - so actually it was a half roll for the right eye and a three quarters roll for the left eye...now they are stuck and the computer screen looks odd....)
Wait - just remembered...this is titled 'know thyself' after all of this rambling what do I know? Hmmm....got it - that I have kids and I have to work after they are asleep if I want to try to concentrate (and if I want to avoid little fingers helping me type and all my words having a few extra i's, some numbers or plus signs in them). I also know that if I don't go to bed soon - I will never be able to wake up with them and function...so for now - good night.
Is it the New Year yet? It should be...in fact, I'll pretend that it is and here is my new years resolution (for this week) I promise I will write at least one journal entry before midnight...before I'm so tired that words come out of me in the form of some sort of mental spew.
Maybe I'll jump on while the little one is zoned into Barney - ya...Barney in the background, that should make the journal entry much more interesting (yes, I'm rolling my eyes - but they are dry, sleepy and almost closed - so actually it was a half roll for the right eye and a three quarters roll for the left eye...now they are stuck and the computer screen looks odd....)
Wait - just remembered...this is titled 'know thyself' after all of this rambling what do I know? Hmmm....got it - that I have kids and I have to work after they are asleep if I want to try to concentrate (and if I want to avoid little fingers helping me type and all my words having a few extra i's, some numbers or plus signs in them). I also know that if I don't go to bed soon - I will never be able to wake up with them and function...so for now - good night.
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