After You've Gone . . .

Dear Suitors,

I don’t understand why more of you don’t bring me cookies. Cookies, more than perfume or flowers, are the quintessential hug after you have gone.

Cookies are the smile after a scraped knee, the congratulations on sticking the landing, the high five for an “A.”

Cookies are Christmas and Halloween and the curled up on the sofa with hot cocoa after shoveling. Cookies are long hugs and the brush of corduroy. Cookies, even when hard, soften to the tongue like caramel.

Cookies hold up in the heat. Cookies, even when shattered, make a scrumptious topping. Cookies fit easily in a briefcase, a backpack, a pocketbook, a shirt pocket, the palm of the hand.

Cookies are giggles, slipped out of cellophane and shared in the closet between two friends who now share a secret. Cookies are sitting before the fireplace with my children. Cookies are counting the seconds between lightning strikes with only one bite for every roll of thunder.

More than flowers or perfume, cookies remind me of all the things I need to remember most.

Some may want diamonds and some may want Caribbean vacations; some may want fancy cars or your last name after their name. But I want cookies that are like a hug after you’ve gone.

Literature's Critical Questions - and mine

Soft September dusk gathering but light enough to sit on my deck, witness the birds visiting the bird feeder, sip some wine, have some cheese, and ponder how I got here and where I am going.

Since I bought this house, this has been my favorite spot, facing away from the actual predictable townhouse, facing an abundance of trees sheltering cardinals, wood peckers, sparrows, and other birds.

The important literary questions; where did we come from, what do we believe, how should we behave. And for me; what should I do now? What do I want?

Where did I come from? I am the product of an unhappy union – or at least that is what I have been led to believe. That my mother no longer loved my father at the time I was conceived. But I do know that she loved him once. I come from people who are Irish, German, French and a veritable mystery to me for the most part.

I come from a humble collection; not much to speak of in terms of wealth, education, or class. I come from an extravagance of affection, drama, creative thought, self-taught, and street smart survivors. I come from a life witnessing and learning a modicum of resentment, frustration, anger, and tenacity. I come from a place where love of one’s children is fathomless.

What do I believe?I believe in good; the goodness of mankind, the desire to be good, helpful, of service, meaningful, significant. My personal anthem might be Blackbird. I believe we are always arriving at the next step, evolving. I believe good always overcomes evil; admittedly it can take decades but eventually the unjustly imprisoned are freed, tortuous dictators are toppled.

I believe selfishness is necessary and as good a quality as any other that aids us in self-preservation. Selfishness drove my academic ambitions, my wish for a reasonable abode, the pursuit of custody of my children, the search for a loving life partner. Selfishness is not the opposite of sacrifice, hard work, and generosity. It is wedded to those qualities.

How should we behave? We should behave as if we are happy even when we are not. We should smile and be gracious when our shoes pinch. We should offer the last bit of biscuit while our own stomach growls.

We should not abide cruelty of any kind. We should not abide the brute. The thief is redeemable, but I am not sure about the brute. We should ask for and give second chances and third and sometimes fourth chances. Beyond that, we probably should re-evaluate what is happening.

We should not scare our children. I learned this one too late to protect my children from that. But I understand it now. A child may be scared but the child should never be scared of his/her own parent. You would have thought I would have had a better understanding of this one. We should let them scare themselves a bit as they reach for their limits.

My mother always said, “I hate a liar worse than a thief,” and I agree with her. When you lie to me, you steal something more precious than the silver service or my wallet. So we should not lie. Better an ugly truth than a pretty lie.

We should protect our bit of earth from poison and other types of destruction as much as possible We should whistle or sing when we are happy. We should protect and educate the young and protect and care for the infirm. We should breathe deeply every single day of our lives so our lungs don’t grow lazy and become like old deflating balloons, the inside layers sticking together until brittle. We should stand on one foot while we brush our teeth (or while doing something that takes about a minute or so) every day. In other words, we should care for the vehicle that we wear as we live our lives.

We should tell the people that we love that we love them. I have faltered here as well. But not without good reason. I think. Or maybe I’m wrong.

The last two questions will have to wait for another post. In the meantime, this quote is from a New York Times book review of a new novel, The Grief of Others.

Leah Hager Cohen drives home our ability to attach to something small and doomed simply because it exists.

Connowingo Current

An assault of such force is
evident, but resentment, slow
and stain-glassed in smiles,
destroys utterly, given time.

Small shrug of the shoulder,
I don't mind and I can do it and
No, really, it's fine feed the
trickle to torrent strength.

Torrent bowing the head, hunching
the shoulders, driving us into the
ground, blind and bent; broken.

Author's note: I was once married to a man who when we first met cautioned that we must, above all else, guard ourselves against resentment; then he started building a case against me. Eventually I gathered a satchel of them as well. Guess he was right.

Photo by Aubrey Bodine (1936)

To turn all this around

I rarely post simply a song and the lyrics - yet here is one now.


KATE & ANNA MCGARRIGLE
"Leave Me Be"
Send "Leave Me Be" Ringtone to your Cell

Her dress it was of snowy white
A rose tied to her wrist
The words her daddy preached to her
Were softened with a kiss
They'll judge you by your company they cannot see beyond
Be careful who you choose in life
And stay where you belong

Leave me be, I'll make my own friends
Don't tell me who to love, don't tell me who to hate
I'll find out on my own, don't make the road too narrow and straight

He was on the road to Galveston
By way of Woodsboro
After four long weeks out on a rig
In the Gulf of Mexico
His eyes were like the shining sea, his hair was like black gold
She knew her daddy'd disapprove
Because he was so bold

Leave me be, I'll make my own friends
Don't tell me who to love, don't tell me who to hate
I'll find out on my own, don't make the way too narrow and straight
I'll find out on my own, don't make the way too narrow and straight

He was sleeping in his easy chair
When a call came in the night
The trooper said they'd found his girl
His little girl dressed in white
He jumped into his car and drove to the Gulf of Mexico
And found her face down in the sand like poor Pinocchio
And he remembered how she'd cried when the movie played in town
But where was the good fairy now
To turn all this around

Don't tell me who to love don't tell me who to hate
I will find out on my own

Leave me be, I'll make my own friends
Don't tell me who to love, don't tell me who to hate
I will find out on my own, don't make the road too narrow and straight
I will find out on my own, don't make the road too narrow and straight

The remains . . .

The waste to be carried to the curb,
the sand gritting up the car upholstery,
and the scruff of your morning beard
on the tender skin of my bare neck.

Bright blue plastic bins of cellulose
images, stacked and Perma-Marked;
YouTube videos, Facebook posts, and
blue ink fading in my leather journal.

Sara's first red velvet Christmas dress,
Sam's collar and dog tag, Dylan's dalmation pajamas
and letters and poems from lost loves,
pages curling back onto themselves.

Barth, Bellow, Oates, Wolfe, Eliot, Shakespeare,
Chaucer, Niffenegger, and King. Books for kindling.
Roll up the oriental carpet; smelt the garnet, the wedding
bands, the keepsake ornaments.

Keep the palm press, three presses, when we
could not speak; Keep laughter that shook tears
from our eyes; Keep the tough times eye-to-eye, or
holler to holler when we faced it together.

It's the only way I know to ask you to stay.

What do you do with . . .

My mother has been gone over a decade. I am the archivist of her memories; I have her letters to her mother (Nannie); I have the photos of her suitors and of her and my father; I have the cards and notes that my brothers mailed to her. I have her diaries.

The troubling items are the photos of her first love, Dan Brick. I have photos of him as a very young man catching his first fish, sailing, his arm around my mother's shoulders when she can't be more than 14 or 15, the early early story of their lives. I even have photos of him in a wagon as a baby boy. He was raised by maiden aunts - if there are surviving relatives, I do not know who they are.

And I have a collection of photos of a fellow who shared my life; I refer to him as nice Paul. A photo of him as a young boy in a blue polo; photos of he and I in the red chair or on a Windjammer cruise. So, someday, one may inherit these photos. Photos taken in the absolute moments of first seeing one another. But I will be long expired (and so will he). Why do we keep them? What do you do?

The artifacts of our lives - or the detritus. What is it? Who needs it? I cannot bring myself to throw out the photos of my mother's first love. Can I being myself to throw away/destroy/deny a sweet love of my life?

What would you do? What do you do?

Riddled

Light bellows from the open shed;
A spinnaker sail into the deep night.
Invisible skipper, lite up inside and
Bursting stars from his fingertips,

River narrow and shallow, tortures
Depth. The far reaches gain nothing
By deep keels and strong motors. Tactics
Tells all. Barely disturb and let the wind

Cradle us up, on the cheek of the bow,
In the cup of the underbelly, Uncharted
His path, full of dragons, and the
Only passage home riddled with sirens.

Succumb and Last Hurrah

Succumb

Starved stems
brown and bitter blossoms
beset by vermin,
overcome with
pestilence and disease.
Even a hardy
plant withers,
is better dug out,
truncated, than to
linger.



Last Hurrah

Amid withered limbs,
anemic spent blossoms
and aphid savaged leaves,
is the tender blossom.

Blushing blaze red
and flourishing
bud, on paltry
stem. Dew nestled
in delicate
folds, promising
one last hurrah.

Meet Me in 1972

Meet me in 1972
In the damp Maryland pine
lined basement of my mother’s
rowhouse. Follow me down

Winans Way into the woods,
where Leakin Park hides
the fairies and discarded corpses.
Follow me to the trickle of the Patapsco

snaking at the lowest ebb. Soft earth
pillowing every step, moss dense,
emerald clotted, and sunlit gems
swimming through the leaves.

No one comes here.
Follow me to 1972

In hip hugger bell bottoms,
Hirachi sandals, jasmine scented
wrists, steel convictions, walking on
ether and the Doors; substantial ground.

The canopy thickens, the moss lush,
gather up my hair in your fingers,
braid it down my back, pull my shoulders
toward your chest. Circling

our arms, like a moon cycling
full within a grove of old Maryland
oaks, within our embrace, peace,
quiet, comfort, rapture, joy.

The falcons circle
mistaking us for carion.

Meet me in 1972, before I
ran away.

Constant Bearing

“Constant Bearing Decreasing Range” – the relative bearing to the other ship is constant, not drifting right or left, and the distance is shrinking. It’s a guarantee of a collision if one does not change course or speed. Without changes, the time of collision can be very easily predicted.

Augustine abhors sunscreen, steers for Carthage.
Now matters. Nothing matters. Life is
Now, here. Blues seas, unfettered lines,
Sultry summer heat.

Celeste seeks the shade, the chill, contemplation.
Stars navigation and silence, save the
Wave lap on the beam, the morning
Gull alarm.

Gus, seeking God in no hurry,
Sets a constant bearing on Celeste
In the Sea, bound for Carthage. Venus
To port, gusts at 25.

Celeste, face to the sky,
Under Cassiopeia, her hair in the air her tell tails.
She scents out the rocks and shoals. Levels her
Gaze, sighting Gus. Extremis setting.

A cat tail inlet that she knows well, she’s
Hard to starboard, then dead on to the wind.
Calm currents, benevolent tides, she stills,
Sails lufting into applause.

Gus relinquishes, flies past, bearing off, to
Avoid collision.

Miss Catherine Middleton stole my dress design

Yes, the classic lines were always kindest to me. My mother made certain that I came to learn that.

So it was little surprise to me that Miss Catherine Middleton modeled her wedding dress - not on Grace Kelly - but rather - on mine. See how the silk sweetheart bodice is veiled with lace to create the Edwardian collar. See how it is fitted traditionally at the small of the waist and then flairs into a modest but impressive train. See how the arms are properly dressed with the fine lace.

Yes I opted for a ring of small flowers rather than a tiara - I do not think I am a Princess regardless of the snarky rumors. And the back of her dress was a bit revealing - the times were a bit more conservative so the back is somewhat exposed beneath the lace and - what - could it be pearls! Perhaps the drop of the silk is not as revealing as the back of Catherine's dress, but back then the bride and the heir apparent to the throne did not readily live together prior to marriage. Oh, yes, I did. But not the royal class. Not then.

Classic style will always conquer. BTW, her trench coat; someone should check out Ali McGraw's style from Love Story. Or Jane Fonda from Barefoot in the Park. So, watch out everyone, here come the 60's - Catherine Middleton style.

Resilient Limbs

Rain and high winds.
Rain racing
sideways. Sprays slapping
her face,
her windshield. And night coming on. Night coming
on. Indigo pavement.
Silly woman. Indigo
thought. Shushed.
Tree limbs snapping – the old brittle
limbs, dry,
not resilient.
Shattering
on indigo pavement. Shushed
shattered limbs. Quiet,
silly old woman. Don’t
ruin it.
She ruins it.

Resilient limbs, knocking
wood with next door limbs.
Injured branch find support, caught
in the y, the why, the y, caught
in the y, of the limb. Easing winds and receding
tides, and the limb,
cradled.

Morning sun glazes pale thin
Birch skin, like ravaged bones,
A giving tree, riddled with
Remorse, parasites; amputated,
High winds, rain and high winds.
Snapping. Brittle. Quiet.
Quiet.

Southern Charm 1942

He came as the gift; a boy finally
after all the girls. He crawled,
walked, ran - untempered. Full of
temper. that came
later. Here is the boy;

alone in a sea of women,he
finds the dirt, the space under
the house, the worms, the scent of
dog feet, the ambition to lift the
desk, the grain, the back of the car.

He does not disappoint.

Here is the boy, discovering the nest,
abandoned. He finds a funnel, chews the worms
himself. Forges a brace. Sets the feeder.

Watching the fledglings
fly.

No one needs to know. No one
needs to know.

Finite Numbers

Last night, I wrote the entry below and learned this morning that my father died. Life fools us. It's a magician's trick, a slight of hand:

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

Each of us has a finite number of hours – breathes.
When someone invites us to share hours, and we decline, the hours are lost.
That is all. Those hours will not pass again.
This life isn’t ours to keep
It might now even be too late for human kind;
Kind – kindness – milk of human kindness

What is it like to live in a cage?
Literally – crippled by impairment or emotional –
Is it where we all live, until we die?

Evolve or expire -- publishing

Where will the computer disadvantaged writer thrive?

Will they thrive? Will all the writers who failed to transcend foolscap pads to typewriter be the prototype of those who can not leap from typewriter to keyboard; and then will those who are perfectly skilled at technology miss the leap from the big publishing push to the "genuine" social marketing connection that makes all writing sell (regardless of the quality of the writing but based primarily on the connection)?

The current market for writing is one of both feast and famine; an unknown and inexperienced writer can quickly produce an 80-100 page "novel" and promote and sell it on Kindle (et al) for $0.99 and so long aas his "blub" and social marketing skills are well tuned, the writer will make good money in a brief period of time.

However, within the next three to six months, the social market that made it possible for him to sell a poorly crafted, ill-conceived and unplausible plot with unlikely dialogue and no character development will drop into the abyss of less than worthy slag on a reader's Kindle/Nook just as in the plethora of yard sale paperbacks that sell for 5 cents.

In twenty plus years of nurturing emerging writers, I have always been struck that those who possess amazing imaginations, natural ears for capturing meaningful dialogue, and fabulous stories to tell have ever been stymied by the best seller list. A best seller is not the best book. The best book is not even the one that wins the Pulitzer or the Booker or any other prize that applies to that genre. The best book is the book that no one could write as that writer has, the book that is both a mirror through which the reader discovers themselves in a manner they did not know before, and a book that is a window into a world the read is struggling to understand.

A finesse with social media will not achieve the qualities that a good book will. Write your best book. Then tell people about it and trust that they will tell other people about it. Yes, social media is key in building the relationships so strangers will earn about your book -- and it is also how you will meet strangers who turn out to be experts in helping you find your best book.

Evolve or expire,
Mary

Ever in the current . . .

Revelations: this is the season of revelations, of understanding, of grand gestures, of endings.

Winter’s haunches like a chastity belt clutch my heart. And winter is kind to lend me this sanctuary. Because I am a criminal; unrepentant and unredeemable. So the unseasonable inch of snow on the deck and the neglected pumpkin on my porch on December 19th set travelers racing to greener and warmer and more timely abodes.

But, whatever you want, whatever you want. I don’t question you.

Everything is going away – everything must go away. Me too.

Sluff the detritus of your life to uncover the new life; scour the skin til it is as pink and fragrant as your origin. Leave no blemish, no historical relic. Start fresh. Scour the steps where you scarred your knee; scour the window where in reflection, you recognized betrayal; scour the voice that strangled in your own throat when the attack raged; scour (most importantly of all) the lyric voices of love – the sweet echoes of endearment. Scour. Toss it all.

Hey love – that’s the word we never use – Hey Love, abandon this ship. She founders. She needs not a storm or some blind jetty – she founders.

Drop her anchor deep; she knows where she’s wedded, in the deep. Uncork the plugs and let her fall. She wishes it. The deep is her home. Suitable for the criminal heart, ever in the current and never arriving.

The Night of the Shooting Stars

One would not tread lightly here -- but we are drawn so to where we do not tread lightly.

Reflections on watching the film are complex. Usually I reject any film outright wherein a child or a woman pregnant with child may die. I am constructing a pretty picture of life, and these events (actual or not) do not promote a happy scenario. I am no Pollyana - rather I construct (when able) a positive, constructive, happy, cooperative world.

I wish to stay in the slim hope I found in this film (albeit Italian and so given to extreme swings between emotions and events). Despite the demise of unborn children, brotherhoods betrayed, fallen loves, and a butchered child as the father suffered witnessing, despite that the movie is hopeful.

Near the end, an aging couple who would never be allowed access to one another does comfort, hold and enjoy the loving ring of each other's arms. And despite all the brutality, villainy, and loss, at the end, a girl, nine years old, raises her chin to the sky to catch the rain on her tongue.

I like to think that I am like her. Come what may, I will still want to taste the rain on my tongue (and also like her, I will recite things in my head when the world is too much with me - I will escape the ugliness in the cocoon of verse).

"The Night of the Shooting Stars" is not for the feint of heart and barely for the stalwart. I am glad I watched it. But I would not watch it again. I will, however, continue to catch rain and snowflakes on my tongue!

Paralysis

Her earrings don't match; her skirt is too long or too short; her lamps sit broken for weeks so she lights candles; she cuts the blossoms to see the lush green leaves; she'll be leaving soon anyway; she's always leaving.

And in this gypsy life, she packs up and moves on, carrying her trinkets and treasures, her stolen booty, her small reserves. And at the end of the trail, she parks her wagon, merely exchanging ground. Everything the same. What looks like the unencumbered life of adventure is a body drowning and a paralyzed heart.

A childhood tragedy rendered her paralyzed. Surely that is why. She was thrown from a horse and broke her back; she leaned from a window and a bounce in the road sent her hurtling beneath the wagon, the wheels snapping her vertebrae; another gypsy intruder carved out her heart and packed it in concrete or dug it out and fed it to the dogs replacing it with a simple clock. She doesn't really remember anymore and creates stories to entertain her callers.

She doesn't cry alone at night; she's not even sad. Once in a blue moon, Missing slips into the space beside her. Missing. Only missing. It's as close as she gets to loving. Missing is the only fishhook in her heart. She avoids having. She won't miss you when you are gone. Except when the late day sun reaches across the floor, the losing light. That's the time to move on.

Dear Mom,

Happy birthday, Mom. Lorraine. Lani. Marcella.

Part of what we leave - you left - is your five year diary - in your own hand.

I value that portion - the slide of ink on paper - our own force driving the words on the page - "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell . . . " Ah, the poet your bore in me.

My mother would read, out loud, poetry, plays, stories. The word was the beginning of everything - for me. She and I read with my brothers; later I would read with my children so that words mattered. If we were painters, it would be a pallet heavy with crimson, vert, white and all the shades between. Lorraine did not leave out the nuance - although she could be heavy handed. Here she is - just a girl - a girl - loving her children - discovering herself.

Here she is in a another light, perhaps a fantasy light but one where she was full of joy.

She gave me some remarkable take-aways:
1) You will never be beautiful; you must create an illusion (ah, writing)
2) Men like women, pretty women. You can be smart or pretty; go for pretty smart.
3) Learn to cook (she never did and I was slow coming into my few special dishes)
4) Don't worry about things. Things are what you pawn when times are tough.
5) "You can be anything you imagine." And she believed it. So I did.

So, there is my mother. Don't misunderstand - my mother had many faults - but when she regarded her children - they would be kings, presidents, writers, explorers, rock stars, whatever could be imagined - she believed in them. If there is any energy from my loving mother's soul - it is still true.

You put a child into the atmosphere; anything can happen. But you have a choice - to make it strong. Lorraine made strong children.

Sailing Video posted

I went sailing last weekend on the Archimedes; Captain Robert Eichelberg.

My video skills are not very good yet. ">