I begin to fall asleep at work. I am the in-house Fashion Coordinator and Personal Shopper/Public Relations Specialist at Robinson's in Santa Barbara. I have a huge office and private fitting room with a generous closet and storage area for the private needs of my famous and/or very wealthy clients. I begin to try to schedule long hours of uninterrupted time so I can lock my door and curl up on the soft mauve carpet in the farthest corner of the fitting room behind my office. I can lock the outer office door, put the answering machine on first ring pick-up, turn off the lights and lock myself in the fitting room. Like being in a carpeted vault. I can feel the comforting hum of the refrigeration unit in the fur storage vault right behind my back. There I am, decked out in a black wool crepe Armani suit and I just flop down on the floor in a disheveled heap and sleep like the dead, dreamlessly for hours.
The first week it happens, it is only a couple of lucky, light afternoons--no heavy schedule of speaking engagements, no special deliveries, no celebrities in town with desperate requests, no mini-shows at the Biltmore. It's so easy. And I'm so very tired. It feels like the air becomes thick, resistant, oxygen depleted, as if someone else got here first, sucked out all the good stuff and left nothing but this thick, oily stuff like sludge behind. I sink like a stone. It is like losing consciousness, not simply falling asleep. And there is no waking from it. It becomes an Alice in Wonderland tunnel. Down, down, down I go.
As I'm leaving the store late on Thursday afternoon, a mere hour after my long nap, Maggy's waiting by my car. "Where have you been? I've been calling you for two weeks. I come to the store and they tell me you aren't around. Nobody can find you. I've left you messages at home and at work and you don't return my calls. I'm worried sick. I haven't seen you since I came back from UCSB to find a pool of vomit beside my table. How could you do that and not clean it up?"
"I'm sorry I didn't clean it up but I was too sick."
"Well, obviously. Have you been to a doctor?"
"Not yet. It must be a virus. I don't have a fever. But I'm fatigued." Now she worries about me, now that I'm in my forties she's worried about me. She treats me like I'm either her employee or a baby.
"That doesn't answer the question of why you don't return my calls."
"I'm not returning anyone's calls." What I leave unspoken is, I'm never returning your calls ever again.
"What the fuck's the matter with you!"
"I'm just so tired. I can't seem to wake up."
"Maybe you're sleeping too much. You used to do that when you were a kid. It drove me crazy. I thought you were the world's laziest child. And then you'd finally snap out of it." This is news to me. I have no idea I'd done this kind of thing before.
"Did you take me to a doctor?"
"Robert checked you out and he couldn't find anything wrong with you."
"How old was I when this happened?"
"Ten or twelve."
"And did I just get over it?"
"You'd go to school but come home and sleep after school until dinner time. You'd eat, wash the dishes, and then go back to bed. We finally sent you to Texas to visit your grandparents. I asked them if you slept all the time there and they said they couldn't get you to go to bed. But none of this answers the question of why you didn't clean up your vomit at my place."
"I was just too sick. It hit so fast I didn't have a chance to make it to the toilet until after the first time. Then I just kept vomiting until I had the dry heaves. I left after that. I stayed home from work one day, but turned off the ringer on my phone so I could sleep. Since then I haven't vomited again, but I just can't wake up."
"Why is your office door locked?"
"I always lock my office door if I go to the toilet or leave for a break or lunch. You must have just missed me."
"Well, I'm here to invite you to dinner at my place and we can finish organizing the photos."
"Actually I'm starting to remember things from way back then. I wanted to ask you about a couple of things."
"Okay, I'll meet you at Lucinda's."
I've been dreading seeing her. I have to ask her about my memory, but I'm afraid she'll tell me it didn't happen. And then I'll want to kill her because I know it did. When I pull into Lucinda's circular driveway Maggy's standing beside one of the palms, waiting for me with her hands on her hips. "I thought you were right behind me. What took you so long?"
"Must have been a red light or traffic. You drive like a bat out of hell. I just couldn't keep up."
"You used to."
"I was younger then, more reckless."
"I liked you better when you drove fast but were less thoughtless, less careless." I decide not to take this poisoned bate. I follow her down the path beside the main house and into the gardens at the back where Maggy's cottage is located near the pool house. The smell of chemicals hits my nose and nearly makes me gag. "What's that smell?"
"The pool guys drained and cleaned the pool today. It's fresh water and new chlorine."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"No. And I've never known you to have a finicky nose."
"Must be this virus."
When we're seated at her table in her living room I find the little stack of pictures I want to ask her about. The one on top is of me in the swing on the porch. I pick it up and start to tremble. "You've got the shakes. Maybe you are sick."
For a moment I think, 'Let it be, don't ask,' and then my mouth opens and the words pour out, "I remember being raped by a friend of JR's when I was three. I remember you taking me to Lindsey Gardens for a picnic and having to pee. I remember you telling me, "That's what you get when you let boys do that to you." Do you remember this?
She blanches. I have never seen color drain from her face like this. For a moment I'm afraid she's going to have a stroke. She's starting to tear up. How I hate my mother's tears. I'm about to take it all back when she says, "Yes, I did tell you that. I wanted to empower you. I wanted you to be tough. It's a tough damn world. I wanted you to survive. But I never thought you would remember the molestation."
"That wasn't 'molestation.' That was rape. He didn't just fondle me. He raped me. He hurt me. And you gave me responsibility for it. How could you do that to a child? Did you tell Chuck? Did you call the police?"
"I didn't want to make a big deal about it because I thought that would just make it worse for you. I thought you were too little to remember." Now I wonder if my mother hasn't always been insane. How is it possible to know a nineteen-year-old raped your three year old and do nothing?
"Did you tell his parents?"
"If I'd told anyone in our family they'd have killed that boy. I couldn't tell his parents without telling JR. Everyone would have found out."
"Maybe he should have been killed. Did you take me to a doctor?"
"What for?" She says this with too much irritation as if I'm asking a really stupid question.
"I was injured." I'm trying very hard not to scream at her.
"No you weren't. It burned when you peed. That's all. It wasn't that bad. A doctor would have asked all sorts of questions."
"Like why I never had a real babysitter? This sounds like you were protecting yourself, Maggy."
"Your brothers were your babysitters. Don't you dare accuse me of neglecting you."
"And they were never around. I ran around that neighborhood alone at three years old. Nobody was with me. I remember some lady coming out on her porch and yelling at me because I was peeing on her lawn. I remember running off pulling my pants up. I remember hiding under my bed. I remember being left in that big house alone at night. I was terrified all the time. What was the matter with you? I remember you calling me and me running toward you, across a street and getting hit by a car. I remember getting a spanking for running in front of a car."
"I was so relieved you weren't hurt, I spanked you so you'd look next time."
"Jesus, how did I survive my childhood?"
"You were a tough little cookie."
"Holy Christ, you are insane." I grab a handful of photographs and stuff them in my purse as I push my chair back. I'm running as fast as I can for my car as I watch myself from a distance like I've split in two. Like I'm me and not me.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Phantom Family (new 3rd chapter of The Narcissist)
I have the day off and it's raining. I might as well spend it at Maggy's as sit in my apartment trying to make sense of the things I learned looking at those photographs. I spent two days at work sleepwalking through the speaking engagements and fashion shows. I keep seeing flashes of scenes that seem more real than the crowd at the Biltmore, or the ladies at the Town Club who treat me like visiting royalty. When I return to Robinsons I sit in my plush office and stare at the wall across the room from my desk watching my childhood flash before my eyes like a flickering reel of black and white film.
There are big chunks missing in my memory of those early years, the years I had brothers and we were a family of six. That seems like a large family to me, since I've always been called an "only child." I remember myself as an only child and always wished for siblings. Not necessarily brothers, not like I missed those brothers, but that I didn't really remember them. I only remember tiny bits, like snippets of film. And they are not all pleasant tiny bits.
When I get to Maggy's she's swimming, doing slow laps in a white Esther Williams style bathing suit I've never seen before. She looks lovely slicing through the water. There is a bit of slackness to the skin of her upper thighs and arms, but with her short white hair and lovely fluid stroke she could be a woman in her forties. She had her eyes done in her fifties and so her face has retained much of its youthfulness.
I sit at the patio table on the veranda of her cottage, watching her and smoking. When she's through she grabs a towel and heads toward me smiling, shaking water out of her ears. "Well, I'm a bit surprised to see you today. I have to work this afternoon."
"I just dropped in to see if I could go on looking through the photos. I think I'd like to have a few. I feel the baby book needs pictures of 'baby' and baby's family."
"I was planning on letting you pick some to keep. But I thought we were going to work on this together."
"We are. But is there any problem with my sitting in your quarters while you're with Caroline? I just want to set aside a few of the pictures we looked at Tuesday evening. I've been thinking about Jim and his run-in with the law. Now I wonder about his daughters. His wife kicked him out and got a restraining order. He did not get custody or visitation with his three daughters. Do you remember the charges?"
"I can't talk about all that now. I have to get ready. Caroline and I are going to UCSB to see an exhibition of student work. I'm going to help her pick a few promising artists for fellowships."
"So can I stay?"
"I guess so. Help yourself to tea or coke. But don't take the pictures you want with you. I want to see what you take."
I feel demeaned by her mistrust, her assumption that I will rip her off. She seems to think the whole world is out to rip her off. Is this just more of her Great Depression neurosis?
I stay on the veranda, smoking, while Maggy changes clothes. Before she leaves, she says to me, "And don't smoke inside!" She gives me a withering look. Since she quit smoking she is like a religious convert in her zeal to get me to quit. This pressure from the woman who taught me to smoke at five years old just makes me want to smoke more.
I make myself cozy in her main room at the table by the sliding glass doors. All the photos are there in stacks like we left them. I quickly find the first one I want. Its the one of Jim holding baby me under the arms as I dangle there, looking off to the side. Jim is wearing shorts and a camp shirt. He has a funny hat on, like a beany without a bill. We seem to be standing under the shade of a tree in a dirt field. It looks like an overgrazed pasture. I keep having this feeling that something terrible happened at the swimming pool. I set that one aside and reach for the one with all the boys and me. They wear swim trunks, have towels thrown over their shoulders and I wear a very baggy cloth diaper. Who took this picture? I put this photo with the first one. I'm starting to search for clues. Why did we leave Texas? Why are they, these missing brothers, in all these pictures yet I have no clear memory of us as a family? There are a few pictures of Maggy and Chuck together and they are usually quite romantic. They seem to always be nuzzling each other. They always seem to be alone. But someone took the pictures.
I look at the whole bunch of photographs of my first five years, trying to figure out who the photographer is. In all those pictures there are only a few of JR, my oldest brother. And then I feel a vivid sense of loss. It engulfs me in a tightening of my throat and the gathering of tears.
JR seemed likeliest to be the one who took most of the photos, based on his absence from so many of them. I bet he's the one who took the pictures of Maggy and Chuck in moments of affection with none of the rest of us around them except for one picture. In that one photo I am trying to get their attention. We're in what looks like a campground and the two of them are at a picnic table. I seem to be holding up a flower or weed to them as they kiss each other. They are oblivious to me, and I am but a tiny, insignificant supplicant. Maggy is wearing a white peasant blouse with short puffy sleeves and a wide gathered neckline, exposing a lot of lovely shoulder. Her long dark hair is parted in the middle and braided with the braids crossing across the top of her head. I have on shorts and a similar kind of blouse in plaid. I too have my hair in short pigtails that are pinned to my head. Chuck is a very handsome man. If it weren't for the Airstream trailer hitched to a 1942 Buick sedan in the background of this photo, I'd have thought we were on a day trip, but this is the family on the road.
It was Chuck's dream to spend years seeing the country. The boys probably thought it was great getting taken out of school to live like gypsies. Even Maggy was okay with the idea until the reality set in after a month of trying to feed us and keep us clean and from killing each other while driving from camp site to camp site.
I remember Maggy telling stories about the horrors of that year and a half on the road. All the trauma for her was a result of traveling with four kids. We were the problem that brought the perfect love to an end in Salt Lake City in the Autumn of 1946. We were the ones with the flu as they drove us across the Mojave the third time. We all had diarrhea and vomiting. We ran out of clothes that didn't smell like vomit or shit. I remember her telling me this story a long time ago. It didn't mean much to me then. But now I wish I could remember more of her stories about the past she so seldom talks about these days. She said she just couldn't take the monotony and hard work of living on the road anymore. They still had a lot of cash. The first day in that trailer park in Salt Lake when she was supposed to be doing laundry, she took the rest of the cash and put a hefty down payment on a big stone house on 9th Avenue. That was when the fighting started. I remember the fighting. Nobody has to tell me about the fighting. We've never really talked about that, but somehow I know she'll tell me it all revolved around me.
I have a photo in my hand. It's probably the last one JR took before he joined the Air Force in 1947 when I was three. This photo of me was taken on the front porch of the house on 9th Ave. I look like the child who symbolizes The Great Depression. In this picture I sag against one of the ropes of the wood slat swing at the west end of the porch, my head lolling on my shoulder, eyes staring vacantly down and off at an oblique angle. My face is filthy and the romper I have on is torn and dirty. My hair blows in stringy wisps across my cheeks which are streaked with dirt as if I’ve been crying. My arms and legs are tiny and fragile looking and as dirty as my face. Filthy bare feet dangling, toes turned inward. Limp, perfect, dirty little toddler feet.
As I look at this photo I have a flash of memory and my hands start shaking. I get a feeling like I just might die of grief right now and a scene starts unfolding as I try to avoid seeing it.
It had to be a weekend day because Maggy was home. The boys had come and gone during the morning and early afternoon. It was warm enough that I was wearing a short sleeved dress. It was probably mid-spring. I know it was before my fourth birthday. I was playing on the front porch when a man came up the stairs and rang the doorbell. The door was open but the screen was closed. Maggy yelled from the kitchen, “Come on in, the door’s open.”
He was looking at me and smiling. “Hi. Remember me? I’m a friend of your big brother’s. My names Clark, remember? I used to live up the street with my family, remember? What’s your name? I forgot.”
Maggy had come to the screen and was listening to him. “Clark, how are you? I heard you enlisted in the Air Force. How're you liking it?”
“Fine, just fine, Ma'am. Is J.R. around? I’ve got a couple of days in town to visit family, and then who knows where?”
“J.R. should be back any minute. I was just going to run to the market, would you mind watching Judy while you wait for J.R.? I won’t be long.” She turned to me . “You remember Clark, don’t you? I’ll be right back.”
“Can I go?”
“No, you slow me down.”
“I can carry.”
“No you can’t. I’ll just have to end up carrying you. Stop this! Clark will stay with you until J.R. gets home and besides I won’t be gone more than a half an hour. That’s nothing.”
Clark looked at me and said, “I can do magic tricks.” He kneeled down and looked over his shoulder at Maggy as she started down the steps. I watched her, too. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she wore a white sleeveless blouse. She had a small white purse in her hand. She didn’t look back.
Then he stood up and walked to the southeast corner of the porch. He leaned against the stone and concrete pillar supporting the roof and said. “Wanna see something?”
I backed up toward the house and leaned against its river stone wall and rolled from shoulder to shoulder feeling the bumpy surface. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and stared at him.
“I’ve got a surprise in my pocket and if you can reach it, it’s all yours.”
“A penny?”
“You’ll have to reach in to find out.”
I looked from his pants pocket to his face. He was smiling and his arms were spread wide, palms turned up. He whistled tunelessly and looked around. He shrugged his shoulders and looked down from pocket to pocket.
I inched my way around the porch from the front window to the east side of the house, edging closer until I faced him in the corner. I reached my hand up but could barely grab hold of his pocket with my fingers.
He said, “Here, let me give you a boost.” He put his hands around my waist and slid me up his leg until I could slip my arm down into the depths of his pocket. I felt around. There was a crusty wadded up hankie, a piece of paper, and a coin. I closed my fingers on the coin and pulled out my fist. He said, “Let’s see what you got,” and set me down. I opened my hand and found a coin smaller than a penny and few bits of lint. The coin was shiny and silver. I looked up and said, “It’s not a penny.”
“No, it’s better than a penny, it’s worth ten pennies.”
“I want a penny.”
“I’ve got something else that’s better than a penny.”
“What?”
“It’s a little animal.”
“A kitty?”
“Better than a kitty. Come on and I’ll show you.”
“A duck?”
I took a couple of steps toward him and he reached out and pulled me closer. Then he picked me up and moved a little to the right until his butt was resting on the ledge. One foot on the floor and the other dangling. He sat me on his lap and held me with his right arm. With his left hand he stroked his left leg, high up on the thigh. A bump wiggled there. He said, “That’s my little animal, wanna touch it?”
I shook my head no.
He said, “Look, I can make it jump. He ran the flat of his hand down the length of it and it jumped.
I leaned back in his right arm and laughed.
He said, “It won’t hurt you. Honestly, you can touch it. Here, I’ll put you down. You get right in front of me and reach up. It won’t bite.”
He gently slid me down so that I was positioned right in front of him. That lumpy, jumpy animal was above my face. He said, “Go ahead, touch it.”
I reached out my finger and poked it gently. Nothing happened. “Why don’t you try petting it, like you would a kitty?”
I patted it softly and it jumped. I pulled my hand back, and he said, “That’s ok, you can pet it, he likes that.” So I reached up and rubbed it. It moved again, and it was warm. He said. “Wanna see it?”
I looked up at his smiling face, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of showing me his animal. I shook my head up and down. He said, “I can’t take it out on the porch, I’m afraid it’ll run away. Let’s go inside.” He took me by the hand and led me to the screen door, opened it and gently pushed me in before him.
He told me to lie down on the rug in front of the sofa. Then he kneeled down at my feet and unzipped his pants. He said, “Here, move your legs a little so I can get him closer to you. I don’t want him to get lost in here. Now close your eyes. He’s shy.” He moved forward on his knees, bent down, reached up and pulled my panties down around my ankles where they got hung up on my shoes. He got them off one leg, and then he put something very warm and smooth on my tummy and wiggled it back and forth. I was nervous with my eyes closed, but it didn’t hurt. Then he pushed it at my peepee and it hurt. I opened my eyes and said, “Ow, that hurt!” I tried to scoot away from him, but he pulled me toward his animal and tried to push it in my peepee. I screamed, and he put his hand over my mouth and tried to put his animal in my bum. Then the back door screen slammed. And he was running. And the front door screen slammed. And he was gone.
Maggy came into the living room after setting her package on the kitchen table. She said, “Judy, what the hell are you bawling about?”
I was curled up facing the sofa, blubbering. Snot and tears streaked my face. My dress was bunched up under my arms and my panties wadded around one ankle. I just kept sobbing. She came around the sofa, sat down and looked at me for a minute. Then she said, “I know what will make you feel better. We’ll go on a picnic at Lindsey Gardens. I’ll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Now put your panties on and come help me. We’ll wash your hands and face and you can put the jelly on.”
I don’t remember fixing sandwiches or walking to Lindsey Gardens, but I do remember having to pee. She said, “Just go over there behind that bush, no one will see you. Don’t pee on your shoes.”
I don’t remember the bush or the picnic blanket, or anything else, but I do remember the burning. The fire in my pee. I screamed and hobbled over to her, pulling my panties up and crying.
She said, “That’s what happens when you let boys do things like that. Don’t ever let a boy do that to you again!”
And then I'm back at Caroline Franzen's house on the lovely Riviera of Santa Barbara sitting at the table of my mother's cottage with the light glancing off the blue water of the swimming pool making little rippling movements on the surface of the table like dancing light. I lean over and vomit on the floor. I run to the bathroom and vomit again in the toilet. I can't stop. I'm on my knees having dry heaves, sobbing. I know without a doubt what I have just remembered is true. I feel it in my nerves, muscles, bones. I know it happened. And I know what comes next, but I don't want to remember it. Yet I can't stop the flood of images and sounds as if a film were playing and I can't leave the theatre. I'm helpless to stop the sounds in my mind. I have to get out of here.
There are big chunks missing in my memory of those early years, the years I had brothers and we were a family of six. That seems like a large family to me, since I've always been called an "only child." I remember myself as an only child and always wished for siblings. Not necessarily brothers, not like I missed those brothers, but that I didn't really remember them. I only remember tiny bits, like snippets of film. And they are not all pleasant tiny bits.
When I get to Maggy's she's swimming, doing slow laps in a white Esther Williams style bathing suit I've never seen before. She looks lovely slicing through the water. There is a bit of slackness to the skin of her upper thighs and arms, but with her short white hair and lovely fluid stroke she could be a woman in her forties. She had her eyes done in her fifties and so her face has retained much of its youthfulness.
I sit at the patio table on the veranda of her cottage, watching her and smoking. When she's through she grabs a towel and heads toward me smiling, shaking water out of her ears. "Well, I'm a bit surprised to see you today. I have to work this afternoon."
"I just dropped in to see if I could go on looking through the photos. I think I'd like to have a few. I feel the baby book needs pictures of 'baby' and baby's family."
"I was planning on letting you pick some to keep. But I thought we were going to work on this together."
"We are. But is there any problem with my sitting in your quarters while you're with Caroline? I just want to set aside a few of the pictures we looked at Tuesday evening. I've been thinking about Jim and his run-in with the law. Now I wonder about his daughters. His wife kicked him out and got a restraining order. He did not get custody or visitation with his three daughters. Do you remember the charges?"
"I can't talk about all that now. I have to get ready. Caroline and I are going to UCSB to see an exhibition of student work. I'm going to help her pick a few promising artists for fellowships."
"So can I stay?"
"I guess so. Help yourself to tea or coke. But don't take the pictures you want with you. I want to see what you take."
I feel demeaned by her mistrust, her assumption that I will rip her off. She seems to think the whole world is out to rip her off. Is this just more of her Great Depression neurosis?
I stay on the veranda, smoking, while Maggy changes clothes. Before she leaves, she says to me, "And don't smoke inside!" She gives me a withering look. Since she quit smoking she is like a religious convert in her zeal to get me to quit. This pressure from the woman who taught me to smoke at five years old just makes me want to smoke more.
I make myself cozy in her main room at the table by the sliding glass doors. All the photos are there in stacks like we left them. I quickly find the first one I want. Its the one of Jim holding baby me under the arms as I dangle there, looking off to the side. Jim is wearing shorts and a camp shirt. He has a funny hat on, like a beany without a bill. We seem to be standing under the shade of a tree in a dirt field. It looks like an overgrazed pasture. I keep having this feeling that something terrible happened at the swimming pool. I set that one aside and reach for the one with all the boys and me. They wear swim trunks, have towels thrown over their shoulders and I wear a very baggy cloth diaper. Who took this picture? I put this photo with the first one. I'm starting to search for clues. Why did we leave Texas? Why are they, these missing brothers, in all these pictures yet I have no clear memory of us as a family? There are a few pictures of Maggy and Chuck together and they are usually quite romantic. They seem to always be nuzzling each other. They always seem to be alone. But someone took the pictures.
I look at the whole bunch of photographs of my first five years, trying to figure out who the photographer is. In all those pictures there are only a few of JR, my oldest brother. And then I feel a vivid sense of loss. It engulfs me in a tightening of my throat and the gathering of tears.
JR seemed likeliest to be the one who took most of the photos, based on his absence from so many of them. I bet he's the one who took the pictures of Maggy and Chuck in moments of affection with none of the rest of us around them except for one picture. In that one photo I am trying to get their attention. We're in what looks like a campground and the two of them are at a picnic table. I seem to be holding up a flower or weed to them as they kiss each other. They are oblivious to me, and I am but a tiny, insignificant supplicant. Maggy is wearing a white peasant blouse with short puffy sleeves and a wide gathered neckline, exposing a lot of lovely shoulder. Her long dark hair is parted in the middle and braided with the braids crossing across the top of her head. I have on shorts and a similar kind of blouse in plaid. I too have my hair in short pigtails that are pinned to my head. Chuck is a very handsome man. If it weren't for the Airstream trailer hitched to a 1942 Buick sedan in the background of this photo, I'd have thought we were on a day trip, but this is the family on the road.
It was Chuck's dream to spend years seeing the country. The boys probably thought it was great getting taken out of school to live like gypsies. Even Maggy was okay with the idea until the reality set in after a month of trying to feed us and keep us clean and from killing each other while driving from camp site to camp site.
I remember Maggy telling stories about the horrors of that year and a half on the road. All the trauma for her was a result of traveling with four kids. We were the problem that brought the perfect love to an end in Salt Lake City in the Autumn of 1946. We were the ones with the flu as they drove us across the Mojave the third time. We all had diarrhea and vomiting. We ran out of clothes that didn't smell like vomit or shit. I remember her telling me this story a long time ago. It didn't mean much to me then. But now I wish I could remember more of her stories about the past she so seldom talks about these days. She said she just couldn't take the monotony and hard work of living on the road anymore. They still had a lot of cash. The first day in that trailer park in Salt Lake when she was supposed to be doing laundry, she took the rest of the cash and put a hefty down payment on a big stone house on 9th Avenue. That was when the fighting started. I remember the fighting. Nobody has to tell me about the fighting. We've never really talked about that, but somehow I know she'll tell me it all revolved around me.
I have a photo in my hand. It's probably the last one JR took before he joined the Air Force in 1947 when I was three. This photo of me was taken on the front porch of the house on 9th Ave. I look like the child who symbolizes The Great Depression. In this picture I sag against one of the ropes of the wood slat swing at the west end of the porch, my head lolling on my shoulder, eyes staring vacantly down and off at an oblique angle. My face is filthy and the romper I have on is torn and dirty. My hair blows in stringy wisps across my cheeks which are streaked with dirt as if I’ve been crying. My arms and legs are tiny and fragile looking and as dirty as my face. Filthy bare feet dangling, toes turned inward. Limp, perfect, dirty little toddler feet.
As I look at this photo I have a flash of memory and my hands start shaking. I get a feeling like I just might die of grief right now and a scene starts unfolding as I try to avoid seeing it.
It had to be a weekend day because Maggy was home. The boys had come and gone during the morning and early afternoon. It was warm enough that I was wearing a short sleeved dress. It was probably mid-spring. I know it was before my fourth birthday. I was playing on the front porch when a man came up the stairs and rang the doorbell. The door was open but the screen was closed. Maggy yelled from the kitchen, “Come on in, the door’s open.”
He was looking at me and smiling. “Hi. Remember me? I’m a friend of your big brother’s. My names Clark, remember? I used to live up the street with my family, remember? What’s your name? I forgot.”
Maggy had come to the screen and was listening to him. “Clark, how are you? I heard you enlisted in the Air Force. How're you liking it?”
“Fine, just fine, Ma'am. Is J.R. around? I’ve got a couple of days in town to visit family, and then who knows where?”
“J.R. should be back any minute. I was just going to run to the market, would you mind watching Judy while you wait for J.R.? I won’t be long.” She turned to me . “You remember Clark, don’t you? I’ll be right back.”
“Can I go?”
“No, you slow me down.”
“I can carry.”
“No you can’t. I’ll just have to end up carrying you. Stop this! Clark will stay with you until J.R. gets home and besides I won’t be gone more than a half an hour. That’s nothing.”
Clark looked at me and said, “I can do magic tricks.” He kneeled down and looked over his shoulder at Maggy as she started down the steps. I watched her, too. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she wore a white sleeveless blouse. She had a small white purse in her hand. She didn’t look back.
Then he stood up and walked to the southeast corner of the porch. He leaned against the stone and concrete pillar supporting the roof and said. “Wanna see something?”
I backed up toward the house and leaned against its river stone wall and rolled from shoulder to shoulder feeling the bumpy surface. I stuck my thumb in my mouth and stared at him.
“I’ve got a surprise in my pocket and if you can reach it, it’s all yours.”
“A penny?”
“You’ll have to reach in to find out.”
I looked from his pants pocket to his face. He was smiling and his arms were spread wide, palms turned up. He whistled tunelessly and looked around. He shrugged his shoulders and looked down from pocket to pocket.
I inched my way around the porch from the front window to the east side of the house, edging closer until I faced him in the corner. I reached my hand up but could barely grab hold of his pocket with my fingers.
He said, “Here, let me give you a boost.” He put his hands around my waist and slid me up his leg until I could slip my arm down into the depths of his pocket. I felt around. There was a crusty wadded up hankie, a piece of paper, and a coin. I closed my fingers on the coin and pulled out my fist. He said, “Let’s see what you got,” and set me down. I opened my hand and found a coin smaller than a penny and few bits of lint. The coin was shiny and silver. I looked up and said, “It’s not a penny.”
“No, it’s better than a penny, it’s worth ten pennies.”
“I want a penny.”
“I’ve got something else that’s better than a penny.”
“What?”
“It’s a little animal.”
“A kitty?”
“Better than a kitty. Come on and I’ll show you.”
“A duck?”
I took a couple of steps toward him and he reached out and pulled me closer. Then he picked me up and moved a little to the right until his butt was resting on the ledge. One foot on the floor and the other dangling. He sat me on his lap and held me with his right arm. With his left hand he stroked his left leg, high up on the thigh. A bump wiggled there. He said, “That’s my little animal, wanna touch it?”
I shook my head no.
He said, “Look, I can make it jump. He ran the flat of his hand down the length of it and it jumped.
I leaned back in his right arm and laughed.
He said, “It won’t hurt you. Honestly, you can touch it. Here, I’ll put you down. You get right in front of me and reach up. It won’t bite.”
He gently slid me down so that I was positioned right in front of him. That lumpy, jumpy animal was above my face. He said, “Go ahead, touch it.”
I reached out my finger and poked it gently. Nothing happened. “Why don’t you try petting it, like you would a kitty?”
I patted it softly and it jumped. I pulled my hand back, and he said, “That’s ok, you can pet it, he likes that.” So I reached up and rubbed it. It moved again, and it was warm. He said. “Wanna see it?”
I looked up at his smiling face, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of showing me his animal. I shook my head up and down. He said, “I can’t take it out on the porch, I’m afraid it’ll run away. Let’s go inside.” He took me by the hand and led me to the screen door, opened it and gently pushed me in before him.
He told me to lie down on the rug in front of the sofa. Then he kneeled down at my feet and unzipped his pants. He said, “Here, move your legs a little so I can get him closer to you. I don’t want him to get lost in here. Now close your eyes. He’s shy.” He moved forward on his knees, bent down, reached up and pulled my panties down around my ankles where they got hung up on my shoes. He got them off one leg, and then he put something very warm and smooth on my tummy and wiggled it back and forth. I was nervous with my eyes closed, but it didn’t hurt. Then he pushed it at my peepee and it hurt. I opened my eyes and said, “Ow, that hurt!” I tried to scoot away from him, but he pulled me toward his animal and tried to push it in my peepee. I screamed, and he put his hand over my mouth and tried to put his animal in my bum. Then the back door screen slammed. And he was running. And the front door screen slammed. And he was gone.
Maggy came into the living room after setting her package on the kitchen table. She said, “Judy, what the hell are you bawling about?”
I was curled up facing the sofa, blubbering. Snot and tears streaked my face. My dress was bunched up under my arms and my panties wadded around one ankle. I just kept sobbing. She came around the sofa, sat down and looked at me for a minute. Then she said, “I know what will make you feel better. We’ll go on a picnic at Lindsey Gardens. I’ll make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Now put your panties on and come help me. We’ll wash your hands and face and you can put the jelly on.”
I don’t remember fixing sandwiches or walking to Lindsey Gardens, but I do remember having to pee. She said, “Just go over there behind that bush, no one will see you. Don’t pee on your shoes.”
I don’t remember the bush or the picnic blanket, or anything else, but I do remember the burning. The fire in my pee. I screamed and hobbled over to her, pulling my panties up and crying.
She said, “That’s what happens when you let boys do things like that. Don’t ever let a boy do that to you again!”
And then I'm back at Caroline Franzen's house on the lovely Riviera of Santa Barbara sitting at the table of my mother's cottage with the light glancing off the blue water of the swimming pool making little rippling movements on the surface of the table like dancing light. I lean over and vomit on the floor. I run to the bathroom and vomit again in the toilet. I can't stop. I'm on my knees having dry heaves, sobbing. I know without a doubt what I have just remembered is true. I feel it in my nerves, muscles, bones. I know it happened. And I know what comes next, but I don't want to remember it. Yet I can't stop the flood of images and sounds as if a film were playing and I can't leave the theatre. I'm helpless to stop the sounds in my mind. I have to get out of here.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
The Last Of The Savage Women (new 2nd chapter of The Narcissist)
Eighteen years ago Maggy moved to Santa Barbara. I'd moved there six months before, in part to get away from her, but mostly to be with Charlie. When he and I first left Salt Lake we'd lived together in Salt Lake for four years. Moving to Santa Barbara was moving home for him. For me it was moving to paradise. The climate reminded me of the Italian Riviera. The house sat on eighteen acres of Madrone, Bay, Eucalyptus and Oak forest. It had a view of the jewel that is Santa Barbara directly below with the curve south toward Montecitto and north toward Golita. On a good day we could see the Channel Islands. For a couple of blissful months it was perfect. Charlie set about improving the house and landscaping and I got a great job at Robinsons. Then Maggy started dropping in.
She'd call from Salt Lake and say, "Hi, I'm coming to see you. I'll be there next Thursday and I'll stay for a week." I'd be standing there with the phone clutched to my ear and my mouth hanging open, listening to a dial tone, heart thudding as adrenalin flooded my system. I could never beat her to the draw. She'd never been to Santa Barbara. We had room, didn't we? I could pick her up at 7:30 Thursday night. She knew how to entertain herself. She was a grown-up. Whenever I heard words like that from Maggy I could not help but roll my eyes.
Six months later Maggy has a great job and Charlie and I have separated. Now I have an apartment near Alice Keck Park on Garden St. And Maggy is living in a villa in the hills of the Riveria, looking down on me again.
She got a job as Caroline Franzen's companion. Caroline is a wealthy widow with an estate on the Riviera just above the Mission in old Santa Barbara. Now Maggy knows every art or film luminary living within a hundred miles of Caroline's house. There is a Salon every Wednesday evening. Maggy is in heaven. She has one of the cottages with a view of the pool and a place at the table of a world she has only dreamed about. Maggy had been a fine arts major and had been named Designer/Craftsman of the year when she graduated. She wore her Phi Beta Kappa key around her neck on a thin gold chain.
I went to her place every other day or so to keep her from dropping in on me. One of the things she been saying she wanted to do was organize the photographs she's kept over the years. I'd offered to help her put them in books. So on this balmy December afternoon we are sitting at her table with the light reflecting off the swimming pool with the photographs spread out into decades, starting from her childhood. And in seeing her life laid out like that, much of it in black and white, started her on a shocking trip down memory lane.
She had portraits I'd never seen of my grandmother Savage looking like a Mexican Madonna and a young, angular, serious Gramps standing stiffly next to her looking down on her as she gazes into the infant face of my Uncle Lindon. Without a doubt my grandmother was a woman whose ancestors had been on this continent many centuries longer than most. I look from this lovely portrait of mother, father, and child, to my mothers face. She has grown more to resemble her mother than I dare tell her. She looks like a blue eyed Eskimo. Her nose is flat across the bridge and her nostrels flare broader than mine. I have my father's, uncle's, grandfather's hawk nosed face. I share their high cheekbones, and angularity, but I have my mothers hairline, mouth, and voice. People often say we look alike, but I think it's that we talk alike. We are rather direct, sometimes our blunt, to the point speech seems rude. I try very hard to soften the edges of my deep strong voice.
Maggy was the the second child. Then came Lucinda, the real baby, and the only family member I look exactly like. Maggy often calls me Lucy. I wish she'd named me Lucy. I liked my aunt. In this picture, Sonny looks so slim and earnest. Lucy seems distracted by something to the side and off in the distance, but Maggy looks straight at the camera as if taking a dare. She is the fierce one of the Savage Women. You can see it in her face even as a six-year-old.
Maggy's been telling me stories of hardship and deprivation during the Great Depression all my life, so I expect to see a family in distress in these photos. I see photos of a family that looks well groomed and glossy, if a bit serious. They stand well dressed in front of a small house or in front of a car. Gramps was a Ford salesman. She has been saying things in a voice like someone narrating a film. But the moment she starts talking about her Daddy, my Gramps, her voice grows venomous. She says, "I tried to get that stupid bitch to leave him all my life." Her finger stabs at a snapshot of Grandmother as a young women wearing a printed shirt dress that comes just below her shins. She stares unsmiling into the camera. She's broad shouldered and slender. She's wearing lace up leather oxfords with stacked heels. Her hair is in a roll at the nape of her neck. She looks very stylish to me. And I never experienced my grandmother as a bitch. Mildly annoying, but the very antitheses of a bitch. My experience of her was of a sweet and generous woman who complained a bit too much. But the last time I saw her I was fifteen.
I stare at the table and realize that much of Maggy's life has been a secret, or rather a mystery to me. She's told stories, but these photos are the illustrations, the cast of characters. There is a snapshot of her in a nurses uniform and I've never seen it before. I look across the table at her and she says, "I dropped out to marry Chuck. It was war time. I met him at a dance and I was mad about him. I had brain fever for that man. He had a big house off base in Paris, and the boys seemed like an adventure, but you were a surprise." She's looking of the portrait photo of Chuck just before she married him and he is indeed a handsome man. He looks a bit like Clark Gable. He has dark hair and a slight dimple in his chin. He has a mustache and dark eyebrows and dark lashes. But there are no wedding photos, there are no snapshots of her pregnant wearing maternity smocks. I ask about this omission, and she tells me that it was one of the worst times of her life. She would have killed anyone who took a picture of her. Besides, nobody had the money for such luxuries as pictures all the time. There was rationing of everything during the war and for years after.
Then she says, out of the blue, "Chuck was involved with a smuggling ring. He sent me money. Lots of it. I hid it. He was a Supply Sergeant. He could get his hands on anything. I saved the baby dress he sent you. But remember my star sapphire ring?" I do. It's exactly the glacial blue of her eyes. "Chuck sent that to me. I have no idea how he came by it. It's set in platinum. I still have the baby dress too, along with your baby book."
"I had a baby book? Why haven't I ever seen it?"
"Because every time you get your hands on something I never see it again." I think she's projecting here, but decide not to get into it. The message is, I'm irresponsible. I try to lose interest in the baby book. But just as I move on she gets up from the table and goes to her closet. I watch her stretch to a top shelf and she pulls down a box. It holds my baby book. She proudly carries it to the table and hands it to me, saying, "You can have it now." I open the pristine book. I leaf through the empty pages and tears start to leak from my eye. I put my hand over my mouth. Maggy says, "What the hell are you crying about?"
It was entirely devoid of photos or mention about the “baby”. The only page that had anything written on it was the page about baby’s pets. Two Dobermans, Gin and Vermouth. No pictures, no writing anywhere except that page, just the breed and names of the dogs. I have kept it as evidence.
The next batch of photos is of my first year. For the first time the boys are not just lined up like stair steps. Now there is a baby being held by one or the other. They don't looked pleased to be pressed into service like this. There's one picture of Jim holding me. My youngest half brother is about six and I am probably three months. He has me under the arms and I dangle there, a long thin baby in a sagging diaper, my head turned to the side. His head is cocked slightly to toward his shoulder. We both look really uncomfortable, but game. And as I'm staring at that picture I have a vision of a swimming pool and a feeling of terror.
"Did the boys take me to a swimming pool?"
"Yes, they took you to the pool on base."
"Just the boys?"
"Yes, why?
"I don't know. How old was JR?"
"Sixteen. He was old enough to babysit you. Chuck and I needed time alone." I feel something like an electric shock run down my spine. The hair at the back of my neck prickles. I recognize panic creeping up on me.
"Here, look at this one." She hands me one of the two of us. "This was your first Christmas. You were six months old." She beams as she hands it to me and in the picture she is lovely, she has the glamourous good looks of a film star. Her hair is black and shiny, pulled back from her face exposing her widow's peak and the broad planes of her cheek bones. She has the most wonderful smile. She has full curved lips and even white teeth. Maggy was a gorgeous woman. She's still a very handsome woman. In the photograph we're looking at, she has me balanced on her knee, her face above mine and she leans into the light of an elaborately decorated and brightly lit Christmas tree. My eyes are glistening in the light from the tree. My wet lips are parted. She looks from the picture to me and says, "You have me to thanks for your good looks."
"Thank you Maggy."
"Too bad you don't have my temperament."
"You'd have been happiest with a clone, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I think I would have."
"Why did you have me call you Maggy?" I can't believe I haven't asked this before. She hesitates for a moment and then says, "Because the boys called me Maggy and I didn't want you to feel different."
"Do you ever hear from them?"
"No, do you?"
"Not since Jim was arrested."
She'd call from Salt Lake and say, "Hi, I'm coming to see you. I'll be there next Thursday and I'll stay for a week." I'd be standing there with the phone clutched to my ear and my mouth hanging open, listening to a dial tone, heart thudding as adrenalin flooded my system. I could never beat her to the draw. She'd never been to Santa Barbara. We had room, didn't we? I could pick her up at 7:30 Thursday night. She knew how to entertain herself. She was a grown-up. Whenever I heard words like that from Maggy I could not help but roll my eyes.
Six months later Maggy has a great job and Charlie and I have separated. Now I have an apartment near Alice Keck Park on Garden St. And Maggy is living in a villa in the hills of the Riveria, looking down on me again.
She got a job as Caroline Franzen's companion. Caroline is a wealthy widow with an estate on the Riviera just above the Mission in old Santa Barbara. Now Maggy knows every art or film luminary living within a hundred miles of Caroline's house. There is a Salon every Wednesday evening. Maggy is in heaven. She has one of the cottages with a view of the pool and a place at the table of a world she has only dreamed about. Maggy had been a fine arts major and had been named Designer/Craftsman of the year when she graduated. She wore her Phi Beta Kappa key around her neck on a thin gold chain.
I went to her place every other day or so to keep her from dropping in on me. One of the things she been saying she wanted to do was organize the photographs she's kept over the years. I'd offered to help her put them in books. So on this balmy December afternoon we are sitting at her table with the light reflecting off the swimming pool with the photographs spread out into decades, starting from her childhood. And in seeing her life laid out like that, much of it in black and white, started her on a shocking trip down memory lane.
She had portraits I'd never seen of my grandmother Savage looking like a Mexican Madonna and a young, angular, serious Gramps standing stiffly next to her looking down on her as she gazes into the infant face of my Uncle Lindon. Without a doubt my grandmother was a woman whose ancestors had been on this continent many centuries longer than most. I look from this lovely portrait of mother, father, and child, to my mothers face. She has grown more to resemble her mother than I dare tell her. She looks like a blue eyed Eskimo. Her nose is flat across the bridge and her nostrels flare broader than mine. I have my father's, uncle's, grandfather's hawk nosed face. I share their high cheekbones, and angularity, but I have my mothers hairline, mouth, and voice. People often say we look alike, but I think it's that we talk alike. We are rather direct, sometimes our blunt, to the point speech seems rude. I try very hard to soften the edges of my deep strong voice.
Maggy was the the second child. Then came Lucinda, the real baby, and the only family member I look exactly like. Maggy often calls me Lucy. I wish she'd named me Lucy. I liked my aunt. In this picture, Sonny looks so slim and earnest. Lucy seems distracted by something to the side and off in the distance, but Maggy looks straight at the camera as if taking a dare. She is the fierce one of the Savage Women. You can see it in her face even as a six-year-old.
Maggy's been telling me stories of hardship and deprivation during the Great Depression all my life, so I expect to see a family in distress in these photos. I see photos of a family that looks well groomed and glossy, if a bit serious. They stand well dressed in front of a small house or in front of a car. Gramps was a Ford salesman. She has been saying things in a voice like someone narrating a film. But the moment she starts talking about her Daddy, my Gramps, her voice grows venomous. She says, "I tried to get that stupid bitch to leave him all my life." Her finger stabs at a snapshot of Grandmother as a young women wearing a printed shirt dress that comes just below her shins. She stares unsmiling into the camera. She's broad shouldered and slender. She's wearing lace up leather oxfords with stacked heels. Her hair is in a roll at the nape of her neck. She looks very stylish to me. And I never experienced my grandmother as a bitch. Mildly annoying, but the very antitheses of a bitch. My experience of her was of a sweet and generous woman who complained a bit too much. But the last time I saw her I was fifteen.
I stare at the table and realize that much of Maggy's life has been a secret, or rather a mystery to me. She's told stories, but these photos are the illustrations, the cast of characters. There is a snapshot of her in a nurses uniform and I've never seen it before. I look across the table at her and she says, "I dropped out to marry Chuck. It was war time. I met him at a dance and I was mad about him. I had brain fever for that man. He had a big house off base in Paris, and the boys seemed like an adventure, but you were a surprise." She's looking of the portrait photo of Chuck just before she married him and he is indeed a handsome man. He looks a bit like Clark Gable. He has dark hair and a slight dimple in his chin. He has a mustache and dark eyebrows and dark lashes. But there are no wedding photos, there are no snapshots of her pregnant wearing maternity smocks. I ask about this omission, and she tells me that it was one of the worst times of her life. She would have killed anyone who took a picture of her. Besides, nobody had the money for such luxuries as pictures all the time. There was rationing of everything during the war and for years after.
Then she says, out of the blue, "Chuck was involved with a smuggling ring. He sent me money. Lots of it. I hid it. He was a Supply Sergeant. He could get his hands on anything. I saved the baby dress he sent you. But remember my star sapphire ring?" I do. It's exactly the glacial blue of her eyes. "Chuck sent that to me. I have no idea how he came by it. It's set in platinum. I still have the baby dress too, along with your baby book."
"I had a baby book? Why haven't I ever seen it?"
"Because every time you get your hands on something I never see it again." I think she's projecting here, but decide not to get into it. The message is, I'm irresponsible. I try to lose interest in the baby book. But just as I move on she gets up from the table and goes to her closet. I watch her stretch to a top shelf and she pulls down a box. It holds my baby book. She proudly carries it to the table and hands it to me, saying, "You can have it now." I open the pristine book. I leaf through the empty pages and tears start to leak from my eye. I put my hand over my mouth. Maggy says, "What the hell are you crying about?"
It was entirely devoid of photos or mention about the “baby”. The only page that had anything written on it was the page about baby’s pets. Two Dobermans, Gin and Vermouth. No pictures, no writing anywhere except that page, just the breed and names of the dogs. I have kept it as evidence.
The next batch of photos is of my first year. For the first time the boys are not just lined up like stair steps. Now there is a baby being held by one or the other. They don't looked pleased to be pressed into service like this. There's one picture of Jim holding me. My youngest half brother is about six and I am probably three months. He has me under the arms and I dangle there, a long thin baby in a sagging diaper, my head turned to the side. His head is cocked slightly to toward his shoulder. We both look really uncomfortable, but game. And as I'm staring at that picture I have a vision of a swimming pool and a feeling of terror.
"Did the boys take me to a swimming pool?"
"Yes, they took you to the pool on base."
"Just the boys?"
"Yes, why?
"I don't know. How old was JR?"
"Sixteen. He was old enough to babysit you. Chuck and I needed time alone." I feel something like an electric shock run down my spine. The hair at the back of my neck prickles. I recognize panic creeping up on me.
"Here, look at this one." She hands me one of the two of us. "This was your first Christmas. You were six months old." She beams as she hands it to me and in the picture she is lovely, she has the glamourous good looks of a film star. Her hair is black and shiny, pulled back from her face exposing her widow's peak and the broad planes of her cheek bones. She has the most wonderful smile. She has full curved lips and even white teeth. Maggy was a gorgeous woman. She's still a very handsome woman. In the photograph we're looking at, she has me balanced on her knee, her face above mine and she leans into the light of an elaborately decorated and brightly lit Christmas tree. My eyes are glistening in the light from the tree. My wet lips are parted. She looks from the picture to me and says, "You have me to thanks for your good looks."
"Thank you Maggy."
"Too bad you don't have my temperament."
"You'd have been happiest with a clone, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, I think I would have."
"Why did you have me call you Maggy?" I can't believe I haven't asked this before. She hesitates for a moment and then says, "Because the boys called me Maggy and I didn't want you to feel different."
"Do you ever hear from them?"
"No, do you?"
"Not since Jim was arrested."
Friday, September 4, 2009
Thank You, Ms Case
I've had 99 followers for quite awhile now, and then yesterday or the day before, Ms Case became my 100th follower. I don't know you Ms Case, but thank you. I hope as a follower you'll be kind enough to start leaving a comment now and then. I'd like to throw you a party.
I've been lazy about writing posts lately. I have some terrible things going on in my little life--my friend Z, who has lung cancer (never been a smoker) has been having a terrible time. She finished chemo and radiation but seemed about to die of the treatment. Yesterday when I talked to her I realized that she might not have long to live, and whatever free time I have to spare should be spent with her. So today I'll be with her.
I do want to let you know that even in Utah, the reddest little theocracy in the Union, with only four days preparation and a very loose network of MoveOn members and this little tweeter we managed to get 350 people together for a demonstration in favor of a public option for healthcare reform. Those of you who know me well, know how I hate to go out in public. It's been years, probably three or four years, since I went out after 5 PM. I think of myself as someone who pretty much hates "people" and likes to avoid them as much as possible. But this crowd was part of my networking and we are in the same boat, so to speak. We are progressives in a state full of reactionaries. The Utah State Capitol is a gorgeous building in a lovely setting. And it was on the Capitol steps where we had our demonstration. I took my camera and have a few photos that aren't blurry to prove that we had a big crowd with homemade signs and little kids, old folks (even older than I) people in wheelchairs and on crutches and walkers, as well as young adults. I loved every one of them. I loved them for their commitment to healthcare reform and their willingness to make their commitment visible.
Twitter is an amazing place if you're trying to pull people together. Word passes from network to network like wildfire on twitter. I'm followed by 600 people there as well a Utah news source. So by tweeting for three days to Utah Progressive and Utah News we had a big crowd and news coverage on KSL, the most Mormon of the local news outlets, as well as Fox news the most reactionary news source. It didn't hurt that I called all four local news channels just before Nick picked me up. If you are not a member of MoveOn.org, might I suggest that you join. It's a very good organization.
I'm loosing readers as fast as Z is loosing pounds. She's over 5' 7" and weights 100 lbs. Please know that at some point I'll be back to writing posts on an obsessive basis, but for now, Z gets my time, and you get crumbs here. When not with Z, I'll be trying to salvage my book. But just because I'm not making the rounds to visit all of you, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you and wondering what I'm missing.
I might tweet for a minute or two, but that doesn't mean I don't love you best. I'd love to combine both worlds--all you bloggers would make great tweeters, but so far most of you haven't taken to it in a big way. I see La Belette Rouge now and then. Darkblack tweets once in awhile. Liberality is out there tweeting what she's listening to on blip. Where are the rest of you? I probably know what Randal's doing--watching sports and/or pleasuring his wife one way or another. But most of you started tweeting and them gave up on it. For some odd reason, I think of it as Facebook for grown-ups. I love it. I can find networks of politicos, reporters, other writers, literary agents, and publishers. It's one of the rare places I feel completely at home and in my element.
I've been lazy about writing posts lately. I have some terrible things going on in my little life--my friend Z, who has lung cancer (never been a smoker) has been having a terrible time. She finished chemo and radiation but seemed about to die of the treatment. Yesterday when I talked to her I realized that she might not have long to live, and whatever free time I have to spare should be spent with her. So today I'll be with her.
I do want to let you know that even in Utah, the reddest little theocracy in the Union, with only four days preparation and a very loose network of MoveOn members and this little tweeter we managed to get 350 people together for a demonstration in favor of a public option for healthcare reform. Those of you who know me well, know how I hate to go out in public. It's been years, probably three or four years, since I went out after 5 PM. I think of myself as someone who pretty much hates "people" and likes to avoid them as much as possible. But this crowd was part of my networking and we are in the same boat, so to speak. We are progressives in a state full of reactionaries. The Utah State Capitol is a gorgeous building in a lovely setting. And it was on the Capitol steps where we had our demonstration. I took my camera and have a few photos that aren't blurry to prove that we had a big crowd with homemade signs and little kids, old folks (even older than I) people in wheelchairs and on crutches and walkers, as well as young adults. I loved every one of them. I loved them for their commitment to healthcare reform and their willingness to make their commitment visible.
Twitter is an amazing place if you're trying to pull people together. Word passes from network to network like wildfire on twitter. I'm followed by 600 people there as well a Utah news source. So by tweeting for three days to Utah Progressive and Utah News we had a big crowd and news coverage on KSL, the most Mormon of the local news outlets, as well as Fox news the most reactionary news source. It didn't hurt that I called all four local news channels just before Nick picked me up. If you are not a member of MoveOn.org, might I suggest that you join. It's a very good organization.
I'm loosing readers as fast as Z is loosing pounds. She's over 5' 7" and weights 100 lbs. Please know that at some point I'll be back to writing posts on an obsessive basis, but for now, Z gets my time, and you get crumbs here. When not with Z, I'll be trying to salvage my book. But just because I'm not making the rounds to visit all of you, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you and wondering what I'm missing.
I might tweet for a minute or two, but that doesn't mean I don't love you best. I'd love to combine both worlds--all you bloggers would make great tweeters, but so far most of you haven't taken to it in a big way. I see La Belette Rouge now and then. Darkblack tweets once in awhile. Liberality is out there tweeting what she's listening to on blip. Where are the rest of you? I probably know what Randal's doing--watching sports and/or pleasuring his wife one way or another. But most of you started tweeting and them gave up on it. For some odd reason, I think of it as Facebook for grown-ups. I love it. I can find networks of politicos, reporters, other writers, literary agents, and publishers. It's one of the rare places I feel completely at home and in my element.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Editing Never Seems To End
I have been following other writers on twitter and one of them has taken an interest in my writing. She read the first chapter of the novel The Narcissist and loved it. She read, or started to read, the second chapter and sent me an email, telling me I need to work on the second chapter to show not tell that early family history. So for the next couple of days, I'll be working on it. I might post it here. If you want to help, jump in. If not, please forgive the working in public. I want to make it as good as I can. I'd like to be done with it, find a home for it and then move on to the next book.
I've been writing stories about the years that are missing from the book. These stories are written in the third person and have been a lot easier to write. They cover the marriages and the relationships with men that are mostly missing from The Narcissist. My friend Nick has wanted to know why I married the kind of men I did. Why did I choose such assholes to live with? It's a good question and in my exploration of these relationships I might find the answer that will satisfy Nick. I know why. The real answer is found in the early years of my life. But that's not enough. Plenty of us have had awful lives as children in crazy families, yet managed to find love and marry and have children. Why couldn't I? Why has living alone been the happiest time of my life? Maybe we'll find out.
I've been writing stories about the years that are missing from the book. These stories are written in the third person and have been a lot easier to write. They cover the marriages and the relationships with men that are mostly missing from The Narcissist. My friend Nick has wanted to know why I married the kind of men I did. Why did I choose such assholes to live with? It's a good question and in my exploration of these relationships I might find the answer that will satisfy Nick. I know why. The real answer is found in the early years of my life. But that's not enough. Plenty of us have had awful lives as children in crazy families, yet managed to find love and marry and have children. Why couldn't I? Why has living alone been the happiest time of my life? Maybe we'll find out.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Page, The Blank Page
Who Will Teach Me to Write?
Who will teach me to write? a reader wanted to know. The page, the page, the blankness of eternity which you cover slowly, affirming time’s scrawl as a right and your daring as necessity; the page, which you cover woodenly, ruining it, but asserting your freedom and power to act, acknowledging that you ruin everything you touch but touching it nevertheless, because acting is better than being here in mere opacity; the page, which you cover slowly with the crabbed thread of your gut; the page in the purity of its possibilities; the page of your death, against which you pit such flawed excellences as you can muster with all your life’s strength: that page will teach you to write.
ANNIE DILLARD
Sunday, August 30, 2009
My Neighbor's Bounty
This is all just picked from my neighbors big garden. I just walk over any time I want and help myself. This is the raw material for a very good, fresh Ratatouille. I already have a pepper I picked a couple of days ago and a Vidalia onion I picked up at the grocery store. This will feed me for days and I'll share a little with friends. I can serve it over rice or pasta, but tonight, I'm just having a big bowl of just ratatouille.
The only thing I won't use is the little spaghetti squash. I'll cook the squash and have ratatouille on it like it was spaghetti.
First I'll make a tomato sauce. While its cooking I'll slice and salt the eggplant. Pat and wipe off moisture, turn and salt. Repeat.
Then cube big and gently brown in olive oil.
the rest is easy as pie. Oh next week I'll make eggplant pie.
Advise On How To Write a Query Letter
How to Write a Query Letter to a Literary Agent
Posted by Chuck
Queries and Synopses and Proposals
Posted by Chuck
This is a "Blast From the
Past" post. To celebrate the
GLA Blog's 2nd birthday, I am
re-posting some of the best
"older" content that writers
likely missed.
I talk to a lot of writers about how to compose a good query letter. Make no mistake - it's no easy task, and it will take a lot of work. But what I can tell you right off the bat is that a good query has a distinct structure, and I can show you it right here below.
Think of a query as a three-part monster, broken down into three paragraphs. At the top of the page, you will have your contact info, as well as the mailing address info for the agency and the date. After that, you have your three paragraphs:
Paragraph One:
1. Explain what the work is. So - what are you writing? What is the genre? The length? The title? Is it complete? State all the basic info upfront so the agent will immediately know if this is a type of work that she represents.
2. Explain why you're contacting this agent. Did you meet them at a conference? Were they recommended by a friend? Did you see an interview online where they said they were looking for steamy romances and you're writing one such steamy romance? Show them why you picked them out of the big pile, so they have a reason to pick you out of a big pile.
Paragraph Two:
1. Pitch Your Work. This is the most difficult part. You have to boil your book down to about 3-6 sentences and explain what makes the story interesting. You've got to get to the hook. What is the irony - the catch - that makes this story interesting? If your story is simply about a police officer who retires and adjusts to a new lifestyle, that has no hook. But if you say that this newly retired police officer decides to get a sex change, and finds that the police union wants to cancel his pension, and his old friends won't speak to him - then you've got a hook. You've got a unique, interesting idea for a story.
Paragraph Three:
1. Explain who you are and why you're qualified to write this work. Do you have publishing credits? Are you a journalist? Have you won any awards? Have you had short stories published? If you're pitching nonfiction, this becomes the most important section of the query because you will have to prove that you are the ideal person to write this particular book.
Keep in mind that if you don't have anything to say or brag about, you can just keep this section short. Tout your accomplishments quickly and humbly. You want to say "I'm not brand new and I take writing seriously." You don't want to say "Yoo-hoo! Look at my accolades! I'm the man, if you didn't know it, sucka."
2. Thank them. Thank the agent for considering your project. Ask them if you can send more. "Can I send you the first few chapters or some pages?" "Can I send you the full book proposal?"
Want more on this subject?
Think of a query as a three-part monster, broken down into three paragraphs. At the top of the page, you will have your contact info, as well as the mailing address info for the agency and the date. After that, you have your three paragraphs:
Paragraph One:
1. Explain what the work is. So - what are you writing? What is the genre? The length? The title? Is it complete? State all the basic info upfront so the agent will immediately know if this is a type of work that she represents.
2. Explain why you're contacting this agent. Did you meet them at a conference? Were they recommended by a friend? Did you see an interview online where they said they were looking for steamy romances and you're writing one such steamy romance? Show them why you picked them out of the big pile, so they have a reason to pick you out of a big pile.
Paragraph Two:
1. Pitch Your Work. This is the most difficult part. You have to boil your book down to about 3-6 sentences and explain what makes the story interesting. You've got to get to the hook. What is the irony - the catch - that makes this story interesting? If your story is simply about a police officer who retires and adjusts to a new lifestyle, that has no hook. But if you say that this newly retired police officer decides to get a sex change, and finds that the police union wants to cancel his pension, and his old friends won't speak to him - then you've got a hook. You've got a unique, interesting idea for a story.
Paragraph Three:
1. Explain who you are and why you're qualified to write this work. Do you have publishing credits? Are you a journalist? Have you won any awards? Have you had short stories published? If you're pitching nonfiction, this becomes the most important section of the query because you will have to prove that you are the ideal person to write this particular book.
Keep in mind that if you don't have anything to say or brag about, you can just keep this section short. Tout your accomplishments quickly and humbly. You want to say "I'm not brand new and I take writing seriously." You don't want to say "Yoo-hoo! Look at my accolades! I'm the man, if you didn't know it, sucka."
2. Thank them. Thank the agent for considering your project. Ask them if you can send more. "Can I send you the first few chapters or some pages?" "Can I send you the full book proposal?"
Want more on this subject?
- There are lots of articles about queries on this GLA blog. See the whole category here.
- The newest issue of Writer's Digest (September) has some real query letters that worked to snag agents, as well as tips on writing good queries. If you're not subscribed to the magazine, please sign up.
- Looking for a literary agent for your work? I'm teaching an awesome webinar on Thursday, Aug. 27, called "How to Land a Literary Agent." Sign up today!
Queries and Synopses and Proposals
Saturday, August 29, 2009
You Kill Me
Two of my favorite actors are in the film You Kill Me. It's a quirky little dark romance about an alcoholic hit man sent to San Francisco to clean up his act and a strange female client he meets in a mortuary. Terrific performances from Tea Leoni and Ben Kingsley. This is the second time I've seen it and I like it even better this time.
I've Become a Bengals Fan
I know, Randal, it's just unbelievable. But I've been feeling a little mean and snarly. And in this feelingstabby phase, I've started to watch the Bengals on HBO.
The Sound Of Crickets On A Hot Summer Night
In Arlington National Cemetery the night they buried Senator Edward M Kennedy there were
crickets chirping and the low murmur of voices waiting at the gravesite.
I, an unbeliever, was moved to tears by the prayers and answered aloud
Hear our prayer
Hear our prayer
It grew dark and lightening off in the distance over the hill where
A lone soldier stood gun held in white gloved hands waiting for the
Final Salute flashed off and on as a gentle wind blew the
Eternal flame in the growing darkness
And then it was over
crickets chirping and the low murmur of voices waiting at the gravesite.
I, an unbeliever, was moved to tears by the prayers and answered aloud
Hear our prayer
Hear our prayer
It grew dark and lightening off in the distance over the hill where
A lone soldier stood gun held in white gloved hands waiting for the
Final Salute flashed off and on as a gentle wind blew the
Eternal flame in the growing darkness
And then it was over
If You've Got The Money....
This is a song for the healthcare system we have. If you're loaded and can afford the insurance, your doctor and hospital will take great care of you. If you're busted and broke, good luck on finding a quiet place to die.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Why Do I Love Paul Krugman? This Is But One Reason
Heredity, environment, justice
Oh, Kay. Greg Mankiw looks at a graph showing that children of high-income families do better on tests, and suggests that it’s largely about inherited talent: smart people make lots of money, and also have smart kids.
But, you know, there’s lots of evidence that there’s more to it than that. For example: students with low test scores from high-income families are slightly more likely to finish college than students with high test scores from low-income families.
It’s comforting to think that we live in a meritocracy. But we don’t.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I've Gone Missing
In many respects I've been absent lately. Missing from my own blog, off tweeting or rewriting and otherwise tinkering with the first chapter of the novel and giving it a new title. It feels so familiar that I keep searching Wiki looking for it already taken by a better writer and published long ago. The Narcissist's Daughter is what I call it, but I'm haunted by the feeling that I didn't get it first. I have read so many novels over my amazingly long reading life that I often buy or check books out of the library that look interesting only to find, about a quarter of the way in, that I have read the book before. I've heard others of you say the same thing. I'm glad I'm not alone is this forgetfulness. Finally I Google it and what do you know, there it is, on sale at Amazon.com. I don't think I've read it because the author's name isn't familiar. Maybe one of you has posted it on Good Reads or Book Blogging. I get updates in my email. I go and look and I'm overwhelmed by the little bit I've put into Good Reads. I probably haven't updated it in a year or more.
I've stopped visiting most of you or only spottily, now and then. So obsessed with the news, that I tape all my favorite news shows so I can watch them without the commercials. Yet most of the day I'm tweeting with the news playing in the background. I'd be better served by listening to NPR or AirAmerica, rather than listening to what I'll watch later.
There is a bit of method in the madness to my obsessive tweeting. There are so many literary agents and publishers on twitter. They tweet tips for first time novelists. It's due to these tips that I decided to rewrite the first chapter of the the novel, The Narcissist.
I know, it was Maggy, but I like the ambiguity of The Narcissist. Who is the narcissist in this book? Judy, Maggy, or is it Chuck or Brent? Is Gramps the first and most important of the men, or is it Brent, probably the most damaged of the very damaged men who populate this novel? Men like those who, sadly, have populated my rather emotionally barren life. I say barren because sadness and failure do not make for a rich and happy emotional life nor do these emotions feel like healthy children. Fearing and eventually disliking the men you live with does not make for a happy life, and no matter what the other successes or adventures I've had, it's those failed relationships with men that have been most painful. But trapped like a bug in pine pitch my relationship with my interesting and difficult mother sent me on the search for men as damaged as the men in her life, the men who fathered me and later in her life, the men who tried to get between us. Families are sure full of good material.
If you have time and the inclination, take a look at the newley edited first chapter and tell me what you think. Is it better or worse for my tinkering? Leave bread crumbs.
I've stopped visiting most of you or only spottily, now and then. So obsessed with the news, that I tape all my favorite news shows so I can watch them without the commercials. Yet most of the day I'm tweeting with the news playing in the background. I'd be better served by listening to NPR or AirAmerica, rather than listening to what I'll watch later.
There is a bit of method in the madness to my obsessive tweeting. There are so many literary agents and publishers on twitter. They tweet tips for first time novelists. It's due to these tips that I decided to rewrite the first chapter of the the novel, The Narcissist.
I know, it was Maggy, but I like the ambiguity of The Narcissist. Who is the narcissist in this book? Judy, Maggy, or is it Chuck or Brent? Is Gramps the first and most important of the men, or is it Brent, probably the most damaged of the very damaged men who populate this novel? Men like those who, sadly, have populated my rather emotionally barren life. I say barren because sadness and failure do not make for a rich and happy emotional life nor do these emotions feel like healthy children. Fearing and eventually disliking the men you live with does not make for a happy life, and no matter what the other successes or adventures I've had, it's those failed relationships with men that have been most painful. But trapped like a bug in pine pitch my relationship with my interesting and difficult mother sent me on the search for men as damaged as the men in her life, the men who fathered me and later in her life, the men who tried to get between us. Families are sure full of good material.
If you have time and the inclination, take a look at the newley edited first chapter and tell me what you think. Is it better or worse for my tinkering? Leave bread crumbs.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
An Email From The President and First Lady
Peggy -- Michelle and I were heartbroken to learn this morning of the death of our dear friend, Senator Ted Kennedy. For nearly five decades, virtually every major piece of legislation to advance the civil rights, health and economic well-being of the American people bore his name and resulted from his efforts. His ideas and ideals are stamped on scores of laws and reflected in millions of lives -- in seniors who know new dignity; in families that know new opportunity; in children who know education's promise; and in all who can pursue their dream in an America that is more equal and more just, including me. In the United States Senate, I can think of no one who engendered greater respect or affection from members of both sides of the aisle. His seriousness of purpose was perpetually matched by humility, warmth and good cheer. He battled passionately on the Senate floor for the causes that he held dear, and yet still maintained warm friendships across party lines. And that's one reason he became not only one of the greatest senators of our time, but one of the most accomplished Americans ever to serve our democracy. I personally valued his wise counsel in the Senate, where, regardless of the swirl of events, he always had time for a new colleague. I cherished his confidence and momentous support in my race for the Presidency. And even as he waged a valiant struggle with a mortal illness, I've benefited as President from his encouragement and wisdom. His fight gave us the opportunity we were denied when his brothers John and Robert were taken from us: the blessing of time to say thank you and goodbye. The outpouring of love, gratitude and fond memories to which we've all borne witness is a testament to the way this singular figure in American history touched so many lives. For America, he was a defender of a dream. For his family, he was a guardian. Our hearts and prayers go out to them today -- to his wonderful wife, Vicki, his children Ted Jr., Patrick and Kara, his grandchildren and his extended family. Today, our country mourns. We say goodbye to a friend and a true leader who challenged us all to live out our noblest values. And we give thanks for his memory, which inspires us still. Sincerely, President Barack Obama
Teddy Died
Statement from The Kennedy Family
August 26, 2009
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
“Edward M. Kennedy – the husband, father, grandfather, brother and uncle we loved so deeply – died late Tuesday night at home in Hyannis Port. We’ve lost the irreplaceable center of our family and joyous light in our lives, but the inspiration of his faith, optimism, and perseverance will live on in our hearts forever. We thank everyone who gave him care and support over this last year, and everyone who stood with him for so many years in his tireless march for progress toward justice, fairness and opportunity for all. He loved this country and devoted his life to serving it. He always believed that our best days were still ahead, but it’s hard to imagine any of them without him.”
Press Contact
Anthony Coley/Melissa Wagoner (202) 224-2633
"The work begins anew, the hope rises again and the dream lives on," - Ted Kennedy
Monday, August 24, 2009
Dirty Fucking Hippies Were Right
Found on twitter. I'm not kidding. Twitter is rich with insurrection.
I'm Having An Upside Down Day
This morning while talking on the phone to Z, half asleep at 11:30, I took my pills. I always wake up, get coffee, pee, take the dogs outside and then open my weekly pill minder, take the day of the week container out and slam that handful of pills back with a swig of coffee. There are two doses: the one for morning contains the mood stabilizer Neuronton, the blood pressure drug Lisinopril, the blood thinner Warfarin, Estradiol, the drugs that keep my heart in normal rhythm, Diltiazem and Flecainide, and one tiny aspirin; and then there are the night time drugs that include a dose of Lisinopril, a Flecainide, two of the Neurontin, a whopping 80mgs of Simvastatin, and my antidepressant Doxepin. For the first time ever I opened the pill minder upside down and took my night time dose by accident. I didn't realize it until I got off the phone. Then I looked at the pill minder in my hand and realized my mistake. I had to take the morning drugs that I don't take at night, like the Warfarin, and the Diltiazem. It's a fuck-up, but not disastrous. The worst that will happen is a minor doziness today since my antidepressant is slightly sedating.I called my therapist Fred, the minute I realized what I'd done. I left him a message. He'll check with my psychiatrist to confirm my decision skip my usual evening dose since I took it this morningish. I'm going to try to avoid double dosing if possible. The worst that will happen if I take another Doxepin will be a mild hypomania. And like most normal people I kind of like a little hypomania. It sure won't kill me and I just might finally get my house clean. I was going to grocery shop today, but now I don't think driving is wise, so I'm going to stay close to my bed as I may be flopping down and sleeping as if this day were night.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Is It a Novel or a Memoir? This Is the Question
The book has been written, the second book started, but the query is killing me. I started the first book as a memoir then changed my mind and called it a novel. 2,000 people have read it and they think it's a memoir. These 2,000 people don't know me, but they say it makes them cry and reads too true to be a novel. That says something sad about the novel as a form.
Many of the readers were men, and even the men said, "This is my family you're writing about." That seems to be the most common comment. Readers can relate to my characters. So now what? Can I market a memoir as a novel or should I look for an agent who specializes in memoir? I can't really write my query until this question is settled. Can I call it Autobiographical Fiction?
I was married to a writer who called his writing Autobiographical Realism. It got him a PhD and a life of slavery as a university professor. That was not the life I wanted. I just wanted to write. Now that I've been writing for 20 years I want to publish. Any suggestions?
Many of the readers were men, and even the men said, "This is my family you're writing about." That seems to be the most common comment. Readers can relate to my characters. So now what? Can I market a memoir as a novel or should I look for an agent who specializes in memoir? I can't really write my query until this question is settled. Can I call it Autobiographical Fiction?
I was married to a writer who called his writing Autobiographical Realism. It got him a PhD and a life of slavery as a university professor. That was not the life I wanted. I just wanted to write. Now that I've been writing for 20 years I want to publish. Any suggestions?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
First Healthcare, Next Dental Care
As you age, not matter how good your teeth were, they will start to fail. Most of us eat too much sugar and since dental care is expensive and not covered on all employer plans, a lot of you will be having significant dental problems in your thirties. It just gets worse over the ensuing years.
Dental care is way too expensive. I know. I've poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into my mouth. And now even the teeth that have had root canal therapy and porcelain crowns abscessing in the bone. Currently the last three bottom molars on the right lower side are abscessed and the whole right jaw and lymph node on that side are swollen and tender to the touch. I grind my teeth in my sleep, but every mouthguard I had made ($100+ a pop) needed to be replaced with every bit of subsequent dental work.
I am trying to hang onto these bottom molars since they are my only remaining chewing surface. It is your bottom molars that really take a beating in chewing. When a tooth abscesses under the tooth in the bone, the tooth rises slightly making any contact that much more painful. This is probably the tenth time I've gone through this trauma with these teeth. I should have had them pulled a couple of years ago, but a round or two of antibiotics gives me another few months. And since my last experience of having teeth pulled and replaced with a thing like a retainer with teeth has been a complete disaster, I am loathe to lose these teeth. I like chewing. I hate pain. And this time it's really painful. It used to be that if you lost your molars, you got a partial plate and that was that. No more cavities. But like watch makers, it's a dying art.
Now dentists are all about the implants. An implant starts at $2,500. That's just for the tooth. These are the variables. The implanting itself is a separate charge from the implant. You may need bone grafts. You may get infection, and you may have problems of alignment. I can't afford any of this and I'm not sure if I could afford it I'd risk bone grafts. My jaw is rather delicate.
What I need is a dentist who is a partial plate artist. I just don't know how to find such a dentist. In the meantime, I'm on antibiotics again and in pain again. Thank god for Compazine and Hydrocodon. I'm sedated, the pain is still there, but I don't mind quite so much and I'm sure to start itching soon. And day after tomorrow I'll be able to chew again for a month or so.
Dental care is the next big need for the elderly, the poor, and children. Dental infection can kill you. And if you can't eat, you won't survive.
Dental care is way too expensive. I know. I've poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into my mouth. And now even the teeth that have had root canal therapy and porcelain crowns abscessing in the bone. Currently the last three bottom molars on the right lower side are abscessed and the whole right jaw and lymph node on that side are swollen and tender to the touch. I grind my teeth in my sleep, but every mouthguard I had made ($100+ a pop) needed to be replaced with every bit of subsequent dental work.
I am trying to hang onto these bottom molars since they are my only remaining chewing surface. It is your bottom molars that really take a beating in chewing. When a tooth abscesses under the tooth in the bone, the tooth rises slightly making any contact that much more painful. This is probably the tenth time I've gone through this trauma with these teeth. I should have had them pulled a couple of years ago, but a round or two of antibiotics gives me another few months. And since my last experience of having teeth pulled and replaced with a thing like a retainer with teeth has been a complete disaster, I am loathe to lose these teeth. I like chewing. I hate pain. And this time it's really painful. It used to be that if you lost your molars, you got a partial plate and that was that. No more cavities. But like watch makers, it's a dying art.
Now dentists are all about the implants. An implant starts at $2,500. That's just for the tooth. These are the variables. The implanting itself is a separate charge from the implant. You may need bone grafts. You may get infection, and you may have problems of alignment. I can't afford any of this and I'm not sure if I could afford it I'd risk bone grafts. My jaw is rather delicate.
What I need is a dentist who is a partial plate artist. I just don't know how to find such a dentist. In the meantime, I'm on antibiotics again and in pain again. Thank god for Compazine and Hydrocodon. I'm sedated, the pain is still there, but I don't mind quite so much and I'm sure to start itching soon. And day after tomorrow I'll be able to chew again for a month or so.
Dental care is the next big need for the elderly, the poor, and children. Dental infection can kill you. And if you can't eat, you won't survive.
To All My Writer Friends
This is one more reason to tweet. I'm following Writer's Digest on twitter and woke up this morning (10 AM is still morning) to this email notice. Get your stories out and start editing. I am not a genre writer but I think I have at least one story that can be considered horror or suspense. There is an entry fee of $15. but even I can afford $15.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Barney Takes On Bat Shit Lady
Just another light hearted town hall meeting.
Another tidbit from Twitter.
Another tidbit from Twitter.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Tweeting My Life Away
I spent all day yesterday on twitter tweeting. I am learning the fine art of the retweet. I find an interesting tweeter and follow them, then they follow me. It's just all so smart and fast moving and takes a certain wit so say something smart in 140 characters. You know me as a rather long winded whiner, but I can pitch snark with the big boys on twitter. There are certain bloggers who are natural tweeters. Tengrain is one, ConecticutMan is another.
For every cause there are a group of tweeters who make it their own, who do the research, follow the news for up-to-the-second updates, and for every profession there are tweet networks. I think it was just a few months ago I started tweeting and now I have almost 400 followers. I wake up every morning to 10 invites to follow other tweeters. Throughout my day at twitter I find smart and interesting tweets from people I follow home to follow, then next morning there they are, following me. I think this is what they call "going viral." I could be wrong; I often am.
For every interest there is a twitter network. I'm following reporters, and pundits. For instance I follow Rachel Maddow, David Shuster, Don Lemon, Anna Marie Cox, Contessa Brewer, Jake Tapper, and many many more. I follow the NY Times, The Nation, NPR, MSNBC, CNN, The LA Times, The Washington Post and more. I follow too many news sources to remember them all first thing in the mid-day upon just waking. Twitter's an interesting place. I could follow Sarah Palin, Karl Rove, and every other right wing nut job if I choose, but I let others follow the crackpots and relish their skirmishes with them. It's a fast, wild ride on twitter.
I tend to be a bit long winded when I write. That's one of the reasons writing a one or two page query letter is such agony. So much to say, so little space to say it. Twitter forces me to condense my writing. I think it's a good discipline for me.
And after I have an experience like getting together with an important person from my youth to find myself shaken to my core, twitter is the kind of meditation that keeps me focused for a day on something else and breaks the cycle of painful looking back and wondering why.
There are twitter rooms for those with very specialized interests. I have found agents, publishers and other writers. I even follow The Writers Digest. The networking aspect is one of the reasons for tweeting. Find an agent who handles the type of fiction or non-fiction you write and then follow them to their blog site where you will be able to read about all the agents in their agency and what each is looking for. I've found tips on how to write a query letter and who accepts chapters with a query letter. I can't imagine another social networking site that would let me move so quickly and freely through these many diverse worlds.
Some of you have invited me to join FaceBook. I tried it once and then realized quickly that I didn't want any of the people I knew in High School or College to find me. I've been hiding from them for fifty years. And social networking takes time. So choose the place you want to spend your time and jump in with both feet. Hope to see you on the twitter.
For every cause there are a group of tweeters who make it their own, who do the research, follow the news for up-to-the-second updates, and for every profession there are tweet networks. I think it was just a few months ago I started tweeting and now I have almost 400 followers. I wake up every morning to 10 invites to follow other tweeters. Throughout my day at twitter I find smart and interesting tweets from people I follow home to follow, then next morning there they are, following me. I think this is what they call "going viral." I could be wrong; I often am.
For every interest there is a twitter network. I'm following reporters, and pundits. For instance I follow Rachel Maddow, David Shuster, Don Lemon, Anna Marie Cox, Contessa Brewer, Jake Tapper, and many many more. I follow the NY Times, The Nation, NPR, MSNBC, CNN, The LA Times, The Washington Post and more. I follow too many news sources to remember them all first thing in the mid-day upon just waking. Twitter's an interesting place. I could follow Sarah Palin, Karl Rove, and every other right wing nut job if I choose, but I let others follow the crackpots and relish their skirmishes with them. It's a fast, wild ride on twitter.
I tend to be a bit long winded when I write. That's one of the reasons writing a one or two page query letter is such agony. So much to say, so little space to say it. Twitter forces me to condense my writing. I think it's a good discipline for me.
And after I have an experience like getting together with an important person from my youth to find myself shaken to my core, twitter is the kind of meditation that keeps me focused for a day on something else and breaks the cycle of painful looking back and wondering why.
There are twitter rooms for those with very specialized interests. I have found agents, publishers and other writers. I even follow The Writers Digest. The networking aspect is one of the reasons for tweeting. Find an agent who handles the type of fiction or non-fiction you write and then follow them to their blog site where you will be able to read about all the agents in their agency and what each is looking for. I've found tips on how to write a query letter and who accepts chapters with a query letter. I can't imagine another social networking site that would let me move so quickly and freely through these many diverse worlds.
Some of you have invited me to join FaceBook. I tried it once and then realized quickly that I didn't want any of the people I knew in High School or College to find me. I've been hiding from them for fifty years. And social networking takes time. So choose the place you want to spend your time and jump in with both feet. Hope to see you on the twitter.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Talk To Me
I've been taken back to my youth by a visit from the woman who was most influential in my young life. She was a rebellious and unconventional young woman who grew to be a classicist, an academic, an intellectual, and ever more conservative in her lifestyle. I want her to talk to me for as long as it takes to make me understand this journey toward the right when traveled so far from her radical youth. I was not as radical as she in my youth but have grown ever more so in my old age. We still have the same affinity for each other but we have moved past each other and are on such different journeys now. I can't bear the thought that the thirty years since we last saw each other is a marker for how far we've grown from each other. She, as much as my terrible family, influenced the journey I took toward this now, this here, this fascination with words and their power. We won't have another thirty years. We are old women striding toward death and time is of the essence. What sent us on these philosophical trajectories? Why are we here now at this time in our lives and in the vast scheme of things and places, so near and yet... Thirty years is a lifetime and for us like a blink of the eye.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Tarot Cards
Back then when we were young and after I'd had a lover or two
I wasn't looking for a man at all but if I were I'd want one
Who didn't want to fuck me
Like looking for an honest man in college or a bar or a truck stop
But you found the glance with slit eye and the slow slide down
Found your body of great richness and utility anywhere like
The wall of the bar just outside the back door, the bushes plumped
Like pillows for your hips. Strange men, old friends, ex lovers,
All comers. You fascinated me so unlike were we
I was the girl they all wanted to fuck
You were the woman who fucked them all
Married with children, it didn't change a thing
You were the one expelled from the campus coffee shop
Obscene language, solicitation and other outrages and I
Worshipped you. Let me live with you.
I'll watch the children, I'll wash the dishes, I'll be the nanny
I'll be the bait and then we'll switch
You read the Tarot Cards and you were the Queen of Cups.
You drew the The Tower reversed, bodies flying through the air
You insisted I was only a Page. I'd had no children. I would always
Be a page, a child, childless, no matter what my age. A Page
I drew the Devil upright and the Hierophant reversed
For a costume party you would go as Medusa, and knew
Enough to call me Persephone. I was that girl, the mere Page
Carried to the underworld by Hades, another name for Daddy
(I told no one your real identity, Daddy, King of the Underworld)
And yet the Queen of Cups knew the ghost of you in the circles
Under my troubled eyes too damn pretty to really be seen.
Ice girl Holding The Devil's hand wearing a well pressed black dress
The Page of Swords in love with the Queen of Cups
I still am.
Happy Birthday Tom
It's First Love/Last Love's birthday today. He turns 65 today, finally old enough to get Social Security and Medicare. Woot! Hurrah! Happy Days Are Here Again!
Where ever you are, Happy Birthday!
Where ever you are, Happy Birthday!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Amazing Things I Get In Email. Thanks JackieSue
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Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Friends and Time
I have a friend coming to town I haven't seen in over thirty years. She was, along with Z (a mere girl, like me) my first grown-up female friend. I met her in the Huddle Room at the University of Utah. She has been a Professor/Tutor at St Johns University, Santa Fe campus, and is now retired. She's coming to town for a high school reunion and I get to spend Friday afternoon with her. So I'll be cleaning house and cooking up a storm.
I have raided the large garden next door; I gathered loads of fresh organic eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, parsley, and basil. The bag of purloined vegetables had to weight at least fifteen pounds. Yesterday, after my doctor appointment (I am still clotted just right) I stopped at a fruit stand and bought a Utah watermelon, two cantaloupes and five peaches. I have enough food for a small army, but I just want to feed these two very important women a lovely lunch. I'll fix a very fresh eggplant parmigiana, a fresh chilled melon plate, and fresh peach cobbler for dessert. My bar is well stocked and there is beer in the fridge. I have soft drinks and two varieties of iced tea. I could fix a great iced coffee. And last but not least, I have a HUGE bouquet of late summer flowers. I think I've got all the bases covered.
It cooled off for a few days last week, but it's very hot again now. Our days are in the 90s; our nights in the high 60s. It's too hot to do a lot of cooking in the middle of the day, so I'll probably get up very early Friday morning to cook the peach cobbler. I will make the tomato sauce this evening. Then while the cobbler is in the over Friday morning, I'll cook the eggplant and assemble the eggplant parmigiana. Once the cobbler comes out of the oven, I'll slip the eggplant dish in the oven for about a half hour--long enough to melt and lightly brown the cheeses. Then a quick shower for me, and I'll be ready. Even if neither of them feels like eating, it won't be wasted effort. My friend Tracy and I shared the last fresh eggplant parmigiana I made. She's ready for another such treat, and her husband, who didn't even get a taste of it last time, is planning on leftovers this time.
I am frantic to get my house clean, but things just keep popping up that can't be ignored. Am I making excuses? Probably. I used to go to group therapy where one of the women in the group always talked about getting up and vacuuming and mopping all the rooms in her house, cleaning all the bathrooms and doing laundry EVERY DAY! I thought she was especially crazy.
I'm a once a week sort of cleaning lady. I change the bed, clean the bathroom, vacuum and dust and call it good. Then another day I do laundry and think I've done a good days work. I try to keep things neat, but I hate vacuuming and mopping floors. I just don't ever plan on eating off my floor. I would like to get all the windows clean, but that's optionaly given time constraints.
For some odd reason I seem to be very popular the last little while. Phillip is coming back for another pit stop on his way back to San Francisco, and Larry, my boyfriend when I was twelve, is also coming to town for the reunion. It's a hive of activity here, and drastically cutting into my blog reading time. I've become an addicted tweeter too. I need a little cooling off time there.
Z is having a very rough time of it right now. She has radiation burns on her chest and back. She's allergic to sulfa drugs and when they treated her burns they didn't check her chart and put sulfa/antibiotics in a salve on the burns. She had a very bad reaction: high fever, chills and shaking, and extreme pain. All of this makes her dislike of western medicine more intense. She hates them all. It was a nurse who dressed her burns with the sulfa drug and didn't check her chart for allergies. Every interaction with a medical professional turns into another trauma. She is going to take a radiation break this week. She still has two weeks to go on radiation, but just can't take it anymore. I'm not sure she's going to feel well enough to get together. I'll just have to clean house with my fingers crossed.
I have raided the large garden next door; I gathered loads of fresh organic eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, peppers, parsley, and basil. The bag of purloined vegetables had to weight at least fifteen pounds. Yesterday, after my doctor appointment (I am still clotted just right) I stopped at a fruit stand and bought a Utah watermelon, two cantaloupes and five peaches. I have enough food for a small army, but I just want to feed these two very important women a lovely lunch. I'll fix a very fresh eggplant parmigiana, a fresh chilled melon plate, and fresh peach cobbler for dessert. My bar is well stocked and there is beer in the fridge. I have soft drinks and two varieties of iced tea. I could fix a great iced coffee. And last but not least, I have a HUGE bouquet of late summer flowers. I think I've got all the bases covered.
It cooled off for a few days last week, but it's very hot again now. Our days are in the 90s; our nights in the high 60s. It's too hot to do a lot of cooking in the middle of the day, so I'll probably get up very early Friday morning to cook the peach cobbler. I will make the tomato sauce this evening. Then while the cobbler is in the over Friday morning, I'll cook the eggplant and assemble the eggplant parmigiana. Once the cobbler comes out of the oven, I'll slip the eggplant dish in the oven for about a half hour--long enough to melt and lightly brown the cheeses. Then a quick shower for me, and I'll be ready. Even if neither of them feels like eating, it won't be wasted effort. My friend Tracy and I shared the last fresh eggplant parmigiana I made. She's ready for another such treat, and her husband, who didn't even get a taste of it last time, is planning on leftovers this time.
I am frantic to get my house clean, but things just keep popping up that can't be ignored. Am I making excuses? Probably. I used to go to group therapy where one of the women in the group always talked about getting up and vacuuming and mopping all the rooms in her house, cleaning all the bathrooms and doing laundry EVERY DAY! I thought she was especially crazy.
I'm a once a week sort of cleaning lady. I change the bed, clean the bathroom, vacuum and dust and call it good. Then another day I do laundry and think I've done a good days work. I try to keep things neat, but I hate vacuuming and mopping floors. I just don't ever plan on eating off my floor. I would like to get all the windows clean, but that's optionaly given time constraints.
For some odd reason I seem to be very popular the last little while. Phillip is coming back for another pit stop on his way back to San Francisco, and Larry, my boyfriend when I was twelve, is also coming to town for the reunion. It's a hive of activity here, and drastically cutting into my blog reading time. I've become an addicted tweeter too. I need a little cooling off time there.
Z is having a very rough time of it right now. She has radiation burns on her chest and back. She's allergic to sulfa drugs and when they treated her burns they didn't check her chart and put sulfa/antibiotics in a salve on the burns. She had a very bad reaction: high fever, chills and shaking, and extreme pain. All of this makes her dislike of western medicine more intense. She hates them all. It was a nurse who dressed her burns with the sulfa drug and didn't check her chart for allergies. Every interaction with a medical professional turns into another trauma. She is going to take a radiation break this week. She still has two weeks to go on radiation, but just can't take it anymore. I'm not sure she's going to feel well enough to get together. I'll just have to clean house with my fingers crossed.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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