Midnight Ride

When I first met her,
that red haired,
cabbage patch kid of a girl,
she was sitting on the edge of the couch,
sticky hot with Los Angeles all on her.
We were shooting on the hottest day of the year.
Radiating lights, equipment
filling my apartment with hotness from inside
the sun baking it from without.
She held her legs and arms wide,
a curious stance.
I asked her why and she stated simply,
if no one part of her body touched another
then, magically,
she could stay
the oppressive heat.
I understood her with clarity.
When you meet someone who speaks
your language
it is always like this.

The second time we met
we took ourselves on an adventure
via bicycle,
the skirts of our dresses whipping
the night sounds of skid row.
Zombies jeered our path
attempting to knock us down
but we ran red lights
our silence supporting us
against all odds.
Thirty miles without speech
only the sound of our toes
pushing down on pedals.
We weren’t suppose to be alone,
together left behind.
Children who raise themselves,
sisters who raise their siblings,
raising ourselves up and over the hills
of downtown,
broken streetlights and
prehistoric rats chasing roaches down
stinking, cracked sewer drains.
Thinking the same thoughts.

Now she is east,
I am west.
She asks my address
to tell me
we are exactly 2442 miles away
closer than ever, she says.
We see the best of ourselves
in strange jewelry
old postcards.
Roy Orbison sings
and we dance tipping
the continent back and forth,
back and forth
so we can feel the weight of us.

Perigree and Apogee

When I hold her hand,
Talk,
Hear the night breaths of my mother,
I check on the moon.
Is there a darkling brume,
Rivalry as in love or aims,
Reproach,
Grief over wasted time.
Cancer.
Or tiny platelets gathering in congress,
So intent on duty.
The mission clear.
Sometimes the best laid plans.

When I swim out in warm waters
I feel the moon pulling.
Salt stings me blind and
The din of a million tons of seawater
stops my ears.
I am plankton, seaweed.
A Monk Seal approaches;
Powerful jaws.
He blinks at me with intelligent eyes.
Yes, I know.

Then uninvited, a chill.
Water rushes the sand
Sinking through its porousness.
I choke against the pulse,
My limbs are not made for this.
I can feel a looming aspect
Antediluvian, massive.
It is not there,
It is.
With me.
I clamor up the sand.
And know,
I haven’t learned to float without fear.

The Night Before Driving To California

You splay your fingers wide,
An iridescent peacock tail of a hand
Waving, waving in front of my face
Like a bag that suddenly flies
At your windshield
When you’re driving too fast;
You tell your body
Be still.

I make you this
Thing of mine,
Of paper cups,
Chopsticks, term papers,
The rubber soles of my shoes
Glueing them into amalgamated form
In order that I may hold it up over my head.
So huge it’s blocking the sun,
Encompassing the entire sky,
Limitless in its immensity,
The universe wrapping around it,
Attracted
To the magnetic force it exerts.
Here it is,
I put it at your feet.
And i wish i could stop.

A Lovely Movie?

I am very excited that Peter Jackson is the man that is making this book into a movie, I hope he does not let us down. He scared the crap out of me with his orcs so hopefully he can mesmerize us into a world of sad beauty with Lovely Bones. I admit to outwardly crying all over this book leaving the pages wrinkled for the next reader and charge that anyone who does not shed a tear whilst reading the recollections of the main character has some serious issues.


Check out the trailer here. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWyNYxGZonI

10 Reasons I Love C.S. Lewis; My Favorite Irish Bloke

1. Clive Staples Lewis was born in Belfast, Ireland on 29 November one day after my birthday.

2. At the age of four, shortly after his dog Jacksie died when run over by a car, Lewis announced that his name was now Jacksie. At first he would answer to no other name, but later accepted Jack, the name by which he was known to friends and family for the rest of his life.

3. As a young boy, Lewis had a fascination with anthropomorphic animals. During a time when influenza was ravaging many families, Lewis and his brother were forced to stay indoors and entertain themselves by reading. They fell in love with Beatrix Potter's animals and created Boxen, a land inhabited and run by animals. Their stories were complete with details about economics, politics/government, and history, as well as illustrations of buildings and characters.

4. His Chronicles of Narnia inspired me to actually enjoy conducting book reports in grade school. I even acted out the scene where Lucy first meets Mr. Tumnus at the lamp post with a schoolmate for extra credit.

5. He was friends with J.R.R. Tolkien! Lewis’s main character, Ransom, of his Space Trilogy is based in part on Tolkien, a fact that Tolkien himself alludes to in his Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien.

6. He wrote a Space Trilogy

7. While in the army Lewis became close friends with another cadet, "Paddy" Moore. The two had made a mutual pact that if either died during the war, the survivor would take care of both their families. Paddy was killed in action and Lewis kept his promise. Lewis and his brother Warnie moved in with Moore's mother and sister Maureen. Lewis became very close with Mrs. Moore. She eventually suffered from dementia in her later years and was moved into a nursing home. Lewis visited her every day in this home until her death.

8. "Critics who treat adult as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves...When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up."

- from his On Three Ways of Writing For Children

9. The Screwtape Letters one of my most favorite

10. Because now I always check the back of the wardrobe just in case

Books to Fancy- Water for Elephants

photo reflecting truth


Painting sepia tinted colors of red and sparkling sequins, Sara Gruen's novel, Water for Elephants, creates a flashing old timey movie reel inside your head. This novel encompasses all things I love beginning with the subject matter of Depression Era circus equipped with their own fat lady, exotic animals and don't forget the cooch tent. The setting alone keeps you reading just so you can hear our character Mr. Jankowski's vivid recollections of his life on a circus train. Bright and imaginative, this novel takes you through the story of how a man's life can turn so quickly from one path to another taking him down roads that ultimately lead to freedom. Gruen does a fantastic job creating a sense of difficult characters many may not usually identify with including a very elderly man and a whiskey loving elephant. Gripping love triangles and wild animal stampedes keep you from putting this book down but ultimately this book will stay with you because of its representation of the drive for freedom that lives in some hearts despite the many constraints life imposes on us all. Read this book, you will love it!

P.S. Check out Sara Gruen's website to learn more and also donate to charities that give to endangered apes. Hello, she rules!

http://www.saragruen.com

Spindly Tree- A Children's Story

Once upon a time there was a little yellow farm house next to a lake. Inside this house was a little family who's only joy in life was to spend time with each other and live off what their land gave them. Mother picked apples from the apple tree at the side of the house and sowed the vegetable garden. Father fixed up their cozy house and chopped wood from the forest across the lake. They had a little girl named Gloria who would give a hand where she could. Sometimes she would help her father fish for dinner in the lake and sometimes she would help her mother gather eggs in the hen house. Mostly she loved to pick blackberries from the bushes surrounding the house and also climb the big oak tree that grew strong and tall in the front yard.
There was one other tree that lived in the family's yard. A small spindly tree, it did not give much shade. The little tree did not bear any fruit and its skinny trunk and wiry branches made it unsuitable for climbing. Every morning Father came outside to milk the cow and shook his head thinking how unattractive this little tree was. The little tree spent its days watching in envy the lives of the other trees in the yard. It dreamed that Mother would rest herself in the shade of its leaves as she did under the apple tree. If only once little Gloria would lift herself up upon its branches and talk to it like she would often do with the big oak. But the little tree knew that its foliage was sparse compared to the heavy branches of the apple tree and its size a mere trifle to the immense thickness of the great oak. Sometimes Gloria would wrap her arms around the oak and imagine how it would take five of her to reach all the way around.
Spring came and the apple tree was glorious with blossoms while the oak shone green and majestic in the crisp spring air. The little tree tried as it might but only could sprout a few new leaves unnoticed by the family. It was during this time that Father began to wait upon Mother a little more than usual. The little tree watched as Gloria would lean her head against her mother's belly as they drank lemonade on the porch.
The months became warmer and the family spent much time by the lake soaking in the sun and splashing in the cool water. The little tree watched as Mother's stomach seemed to grow larger every day. Father began to make his trips to the forest beyond the lake to bring back firewood. The little tree did not think on this much as it brought frightening images of chopped up wood to its mind.
The oak trees leaves began to turn vibrant colors and the apples began to grow plentiful on the apple tree as the air began to cool. The little tree's few leaves turned a dull brown and he watched them in despair as they floated to the ground. Mother's belly was now very swollen and the little tree knew that soon a baby would come just as Gloria once had. However, a cloud began to form over the family because Father was becoming tired and weak as the fall slowly turned to winter.
Soon the ground began to freeze and snow made its slow progression from the sky into the yard by the little farm house. Father became so sick that he had to stop making trips to the forest and stay in bed. Gloria did not skate on the frozen lake but instead stayed in to care for both her parents.
On a particularly dark evening the snow began to flurry about and thicken until the little tree could not see past his branches. Inside the house he heard Mother cry and knew the baby was near. Inside the farm house the new baby was born while Father lay unconscious in sickness and sweat. Gloria tried to help her mother as well she could. Mother began to feel the the frozen air seep into the house as the blizzard worsened. She and Gloria shivered as they watched the last log burn into cinders in the fireplace. With tears in her eyes Mother told Gloria if they could not keep the fire going this cold night they could lose the new baby. It was up to her to go get the axe and find firewood. Little Gloria fetched her father's axe and lifted it in her small hands. Her arms could barely carry the weight but she made her way to the door to do as her mother bid. As she turned the knob the door flew open with the wind and Gloria could see the white wall of the storm. She made her way out dragging the heavy axe and realized that if she strayed far she would never be able to make her way back to the house in the blinding snow. Her heart dropped as she realized this and looked about the yard. The oak tree was far too immense for her to chop down and the apple tree in the side yard was not visible through the blizzard. Then Gloria spotted the spindly branches of the little tree through the snow. The tree watched the small figure move through the storm towards it and saw with despair the glint of metal as Gloria swung with all her might, then there was darkness.
The ground thawed and snow began to melt. Spring had arrived. Father had slowly recovered from his illness and the new baby was rosy cheeked and fat. As the sun rose Father walked out with a cane into the morning air to greet the chirping of the newly born swallows. In the yard a jagged tree trunk jutted out of the lawn. Next to it a small and seemingly insignificant sapling sprouted as the sun shown down upon it. Slowly the little tree opened its eyes from its very long rest and saw that the world was very different looking than he remembered. He was very small and could see the remnants of his old trunk next to him. Around him and his old trunk a circle of daisies turned their petals towards him in delight.
Mother came out of the house with the new baby in her arms and walked towards the little sprouting tree. She exclaimed joy at the sight of the sapling and the family gathered round. "Here, it has grown back!", she said. "This is the tree that saved your life little one", she said to the baby."Without it we would surely have frozen. I planted daisies around its trunk to remind us of that night and celebrate the little tree that gave so much."
The little tree was so happy it grew two inches before their eyes and the oak and apple trees looked upon its tiny leaves in admiration of its bravery.

THE END

Gitta's Story

photo kamil vojnar

I can hear her light voice below. She is laughing. Muffled shrieks and shrill melodies creep their way over concrete and split beams. I inhale and feel particles of dust and smoke enter my small lungs making themselves at home in places where oxygen should live. I am floating on the wave of her buried song. Everything is dark but I can feel myself rising. I am five feet above myself. I can sense this despite the everlasting darkness. Up I go twisting and twirling like a ballerina to the sound of a mother’s heart beating. Seven feet, ten feet, I break free and the light is brilliant. The sky is crisp and cool and smells of autumn. Neighbors burning leaves, burning wood, smoking rubble, burning, burning.

My gaze shifts downward and I see the place where my home used to be and suddenly realize the laughing song that lifted me upward is no song at all.
Suddenly the screaming sucks me back downward and my still and twisted body captures me like a Chinese finger trap. I am back in the dark and I can hear my mother crying softly. I can hear nothing except the silence and my mother’s sobs.

*

I am here, forever. This is where I live now. In the darkness, this place where air does not go. Where light does not traverse. I am just thirteen and I had no idea what living really meant. Now I know I will never have to think about that. This is all I know and will ever know. Now, I think I will sleep.

*

When I once was a girl I lived in **** Germany. My family and I resided in a modest home on *** Strasse. When it rained outside I would jump in puddles and when it was warm I would swim with my best friend Hannalore. In my home there was me and my older sister Anna, my baby sister Lina, Mutter and Vatter. We baked for a living and there was a shop around the corner where everyone in the town would visit for fresh bread and kuchen. My favorite was Pfefferkuchen, a cinnamon cake densely made with creamy white glaze that melted on your fingers when you held a slice up to your mouth.

When I was a girl this was my life. I went to school and learned to read and spell and I learned the family business. I was quiet, which was appreciated by my parents and others since children were meant to be observant and obedient. I was always a bit in my own mind and when I ventured out I was usually disappointed anyways. So back I retreated into myself.
I guess that is why this happened. How I came to not be a little girl, I mean. I think I spent so much time in my head that now I am stuck here. It’s nice enough here. Dark but very still and I can think of whatever I like now, uninterrupted. It’s strange though why I keep hearing my mother. She is praying to the Holy Ghost but she has become quieter.

*

She stopped. Five hundred thirty two seconds ago she stopped. I have been counting, waiting for her to start again. I don’t like this anymore. I’m very tired and I don’t want to be here. I can feel my heart beat weakly and my lungs expand slightly every few seconds. I don’t think I’m in my head at all. If I were I would wish away my heartbeat, and breathing and anything that reminded me of once being a little girl. And most of all I would wish back my mother’s solemn quiet praying.

*

The town of **** is quaint and busy. Foothills surround a small valley and right in between, like a baby chick cupped in a child’s small hands lies ****. Everything has its place. Everyone has a job to do. Even when the airplanes started flying over us like so many hideously large dragonflies, we did what we have always done.

*

Arms wrap around me, ripping me from my home. My bed of dust and broken glass falls away and a blanket is thrown around my shoulders. I’m so tired and I can’t understand what is being said. My heart leaps as I hear a woman wailing. But this guttural moan is not my mother. I close my eyes and hope I will never have to open them again.

*

On the ** day of *** 1938 an American fighter plane piloted by a twenty two year old boy from Wisconsin loses altitude and prepares its bomb doors. The boy has been ready for this moment, ready to do what he has been trained for, what he has lived for these last 5 months. The button must be pushed for the good of the world. This will work.
If only things existed in such simple terms. Douse a fire with water and it goes out. They will win this war, and thousands will be saved. A few will die; hundreds, thousands and your life will never be the same again. Ever.
Nothing remains of my home except a smoldering pile of rubble and the persistent air of death. I was wrong. I am still a girl. Every pore on my body screams this truth. I see my face reflected in a broken window shard. How can this person I see still be her. No it is not possible. This is some nightmarish ghoul readying itself for a kill. The striking blow will be at my neck and as its teeth sink in, my blood will flow warm and sticky down the front of my dress. I lift my hands and see the dried blood under my fingernails. They say I was trying to dig myself out. I don’t remember. My fingers resemble something I would liken to an animal. Sweet with blood, its last meal left on the talons. But these are my fingers and my hands, my broken leg and my collapsed lung. I own them like I own my immaturity and naivety. Like I own my pain, sprouting the seed of it within me, bracing it to grow strong.

Tids & Bits #1- Phillis Wheatley

Possibly the first African American Writer published, Poet Phillis Wheatley (1753–84), published her book Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral in 1773, three years before American independence. Wheatley was born in Senegal, Africa and was captured and sold into slavery at the age of seven. Her first name was derived from the slave ship Phyllis she arrived on.

She spoke no English but by the age of sixteen she had mastered the language and began writing. Her poetry was praised by many of the leading figures of her time including George Washington who personally thanked her for a poem she wrote in his honor. Her work revolved mostly around religious themes and mentioned many renowned figures of her time. She became freed as a result of her fame and even traveled to England to publish her works there.

In the wake of her literary praise there were still many people who refused to believe that a black slave woman could be intelligent enough to write poetry. As a result, Wheatley actually had to defend herself in court by proving she wrote her own poetry. A panel of luminaries declared it so thus becoming the first acknowledgment of African American Literature.

Patent Leather

That lamp has legs.jpg
Originally uploaded by Susan & her 5d

You hide,
move the curtains.
We will play tomorrow with sticks
and tendrils of golden hair

I'll fly away,
shut my door.
We will dance on a stage again
of ruby sequins and twisted foil

The Freeing of the Daisies

photo parke harris
During the days that follow a heavy rain the world seems to awaken from what can only be described as a grime induced slumber. Everything is rinsed of pollution and dust and becomes new shiny versions of their old forgotten selves. The paint on houses and cars gleam with renewed freshness. Trees seem to lift their limbs higher towards the sky. Indeed, the hand of nature has polished the world. Green has never looked so green and the vividness of everything glints in the eyes of the people. No longer kept prisoner under the thick nylon of so many umbrellas, they frolic along the sidewalks. At least as much as people actually can frolic in this city. OK, a much more reserved version of frolicking. But certainly within their minds they are spinning around like a million Julie Andrews.

Well most of them at least. Sam was not as elated as his neighbors about the lack of water falling from the skies above. In fact he was a little sad about the whole affair. He often enjoyed passing the time watching people run frantically from the safety of their vehicles into the store, or from their front doors to the mailbox as if moving faster will somehow magically create a shield protecting the runner. Now he had to deal with remembering to bring his sunglasses everywhere and to water the plants his girlfriend had unceremoniously abandoned when she left him. Or was it that she left the plants when she abandoned him? He could not decide who was more helpless, him or the vegetation. He considered this. Definitely there was a sadness about the Gerber daisies residing in a pot on the front step only a few feet from the actual earth. It seemed similar to a gorilla in captivity able to see the rolling green mountains through the steel bars of its cage. And this was the thought that ran through Sam’s head on this fine Saturday afternoon that caused him to feel a lurch in his stomach and thus rip the daisies out of the pot and begin to dig furiously with his hands at the front lawn. He glanced up at the fern hanging from the roof rim and considered what natural habitat of his yard would support the needs of the fern. Finally he broke through the thick layer of sod and found he had created a hole large enough for the daisies to rest in. He placed the red flowers into their new home and patted the earth around it. Suddenly he was tired, a nap would be nice. He would retire to his second hand couch as soon as he dealt with the fern.

Rescue - a love story

The soft pads of her feet hit strong and silently against the ground and then stopped, arrested and motionless as her nostrils flexed to take in a smell. Familiar. She smelled danger. There was also something different, mild and underlying. She stayed motionless and took in all that surrounded her. The stiffness of the frozen earth, the moisture of the evening air and unnatural quietness of the trees but mostly the odor of something out of place. The need for food was slowly overpowering her desire to stay clear of the smell. The smell meant danger but also meant the possibility of food. She was tired from her recent labor and this turned her mind towards the warm nest in her den and the necessity for food then overcame her weariness. She moved on.

It was safer to approach from the side of the clearing where the odor was emanating. Like a secret stalker she moved around tree trunks and over fallen limbs expertly. Her hot breath smoked against the cold air as she progressed. Slowing, her ears adjusted to sense any movement in the clearing. She could hear something quiet and small. It registered nothing familiar in her mind. This was unusual indeed so she moved forward with caution dipping her head below the foliage to obtain a clear view.

The source of the recognizable smell was visible. A human body lay silent against the moss and dirt of the ground. A tangle of dark hair masked the face and a ghostly damp hand lay outstretched as if grappling for a hold of some gnarled root of a nearby tree. She waited for some sign of danger but her need for food began to take hold of her mind again. Bravely she approached the still body at a slow pace. Sniffing, she could sense that her fear was unjustified. It was not alive. The smell was pungent to her acute senses as she nosed around the head and neck to make certain. Her trained ear tuned quickly and she froze as a muffled sound broke across the thick winter air. Her eyes followed to the origin focused and unblinking and she saw a small mound of blanket some distance away. A soft breeze kicked leaves into the air and as they circled and twisted back to their resting place on the ground the delicate scent of something strange filled the air. Reaching the mound she nudged it gingerly with her foot and felt a familiar warm softness that was reminiscent of the den and what waited there for her. Nuzzling the blankets free from its prize she backed away slightly as two eyes stared into her own.

It was not thought or desire that made her collect this thing into her mouth and move away from the clearing. It was some basal instinct separate from reason. As for the child it knew only that it seemed as if familiar eyes looked down upon it. One blue and one golden brown although the face appeared somehow alien. She felt the hot breath of the mother dog as its strong jaw expertly lifted her above the cold forest floor. When they looked upon each other, this child of man and this beast, a piece clicked into place inside the animal. This felt the most natural of things and she had already forgotten the cold body that lay far behind in the clearing . She only knew that she was following her path towards home and what she carried was hers and it had always been so.