Remember those fantastic Choose Your Own Adventure Books from when you were a kid? Well they are back- in app form! Check it out here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/aug/01/choose-your-own-adventure-iphone-app

Bus Stop

It was the way he looked at you, the way it made your arteries twist into bleeding knots and then, at once, leave you thin and stretched like the film on too-cold soup. You use the toe of your boot to push a piece of gravel into a shallow puddle on the sidewalk, making sure you look up every few moments to see if the bus is coming. Water is making its way through the seams of your left boot. Your sock is absorbing it so that you can feel the coldness slowly climbing your ankle. Again, you raise your eyes to the street, but just in time to see the bus flying past and your body moves in automatic motion, hands flailing outward while something like, “Hey!” or “Stop!” attacks the push of air from the massive vehicle. The driver sees you and swerves towards the curb some ten yards away, slamming the doors open as you approach. The sock in your left boot is particularly wet near the toe-seam and is bunching under, making your movements asymmetric.

Almost missed you there!

Yeah me too.

Moments

This is the story of how I came to be a piece of furniture. Once upon a time I was a girl. Just the type of girl who loved to swim. The type who wore two braids in her hair because, otherwise, the curls would wrap themselves into ratty knots that drove my mother mad. I was the girl who once broke her arm jumping over a wheelbarrow, the girl with recurring dreams of being chased by horses after witnessing a young soldier being struck in the face by the momentous force of hooves, the blood sinking into the dirt beneath his still head.

At that time, I played mostly with the neighbor boy, Huntz, who was a year younger than me. His parents were lovely and always had treats for us, like salted licorice, even though the war made such things rare. In their home, the war seemed a far-off thing.

His mother would let me sit upon her lap and fold me in, softly, like fresh laundered towels, her hands smelling of potatoes. His father was constantly laughing, with a pipe sticking out from between his lips, he seemed to laugh from his cheeks which would become pink and shiny with the effort. The pipe lived there, in his mouth, and I imagined when he slept, his snores would escape through the small opening and ashy tobacco bits would flit about in the moonlight.

Huntz was alright, but it was his parents that I loved. They were the reason I would come every afternoon and play marbles, stealing glances through the windows while Huntz clicked the glass balls into each other, me watching his plump mother move about in the house. She glided around with the sense of possibility, the vigor of hope.

My own parents kept a bakery and, on one particular day, my father, coated with rye flour and sweat, would not permit me to go to Huntz’s house. He bade me to help my mother around the shop despite my protests. I did small things, like emptying ashtrays. The soldiers smoked more than anyone. They rarely noticed the thin, moonfaced little girl, stepping between them to switch out the dirty tin containers with the clean. Sometimes one of them would be lost in conversation and move to ash his cigarette before I had the new, empty can in place. I would use my hand to catch the grey falling cinder and then wipe my palm against my apron, my hand dusty and smelling of wasted time.

When Huntz and his mother stopped by the bakery, I had been helping all morning and I pleaded with my mother to let me go home with them. Huntz’s mother requested sourdough rolls and a honey cake and I pulled at the edge of my mother’s skirt as she filled the basket with breads. There were two soldiers sipping coffee in the corner, talking in low voices that would erupt into rumbling laughter every few minutes. Jan Meyers came in, delivering our eggs, and walked backwards through the small swinging door with crates in his hands. I heard my father greeting him and talking like men do to each other. I grasped onto my mother and watched her face as she worked, waiting for her to look down with exasperation, which would mean I had won my release. Just when I could sense her wavering, my father came from the back.

“Stop hanging onto your mother like an infant, you are too old for such behavior,” he said.

My cheeks warmed. I had a sense of every single body in the bakery. My father’s face, sweaty with work, and mother’s, worn away in fatigue, somehow made it all so real and humiliating. Huntz looked at me sheepishly. The soldiers were silent. I even felt the presence of Jan Meyers, in the back. But Huntz’s mother, she had a countenance of such compassion that, when I saw it, I ran from behind the counter and buried my face in her side, sobbing in self pity. My indulgent tears lasted only moments but I left my face in her skirt for fear of my parents’ admonishing.

When I finally lifted my eyes from behind the safe folds of fabric I saw my mother’s expression, not angry but pained. To illicit such emotion in her was rare. I followed Huntz and his mother to a table at the other end of the bakery and she let me eat a bit of honey cake while I made a pretense of recovering from my fit. I watched my mother’s every move. She and father had gone back to work and she ignored me now. I wanted to go to her. I wanted to sit with her and put my hands on her face, to follow the creases of her eyes and forehead with my fingers and feel the slight pulse of blood in the veins of her temple but could not find a way towards her, I could not find the momentum. So I stayed with Huntz and his mother at the little table and just followed her purposeful motions with my eyes.

The air raid sirens started only after the bomb hit. I could hardly differentiate their inhuman screaming from my own, beneath the caved-in roof. Those of us at the table were buried for thirty-four hours before we were dug out; but alive and dug out we were. Only ashes, smelling of rye and flesh, remained of the far end of the bakery where the counter and back room had been located. In the end there were no graves- only one small plaque, put up years later, where my parent’s names were listed with the rest of the dead.

But that is not when I fully transformed. That was merely the moment my insides hardened and I gained a capacity to store pain in secret places. The moment, so many years in the future, would be far less violent, unspectacular. Like the look from a mother to her silly child, the look she may give a thousand times over the course of that child’s life. The significance of insignificance. The tiny moment when small things converge just at the right time to make that time the time when everything changes.

So I sit here now, as furniture, in my own home, thinking on that day. I am pushed from table, to kitchen, to bedroom, like there is a manic decorator that cannot decide where to place me. Visitors address the people around me, look at the people around me, their eyes roaming past my uneven countenance, like the battered chair I have become.

That day I had baked a cake for my best friend’s seventy-fifth birthday, placing the green plastic cover over it to protect the frosting while I drove it to her house. After coffee and a game of dominoes I went alone to the hospital to get a biopsy of a suspicious spot on my lung. I went alone to keep the truth safe from reality. The surgery went well and I was up and about, thinking already about returning home. And in that moment, when certainty reveals itself as nothing, all the moments in my life collected and glued themselves to the insides of my arteries, so that they stopped up the flow to my brain. In this moment, so small, I am changed forever into solid wood and springs and dusty rotted stuffing. I am no good even to sit on, to rest weary bones. I am that chair, that gets put in the corner, the chair, possibly, you might put your purse or coat on, but nothing more than that.

Twenty some years before this, when I was fifty-one, I traveled back home for the first time since the bombing and I walked down the streets I had once ran through as a child. I pressed my palms against the bricks of the rebuilt wall of what once was the bakery, some of the bricks reused for this new structure. I moved my hand along to see if I could sense a warmness from the ones that had made up my home, some sort of sensation but there was only a porous coarseness against my flesh.

I stopped in a market to buy cigarettes and there was a man in there, flipping through some magazines and holding a pack of chewing gum in his hand, it seemed, he intended to buy. The way his face moved was so familiar and I felt a gritty sparking inside. Our eyes met and his recognition of me was undeniable, his face shook as if in tremor, his cheeks so much like his father’s. Putting down the magazine, he walked out of the store in such a hurry that he unintentionally stole that pack of gum. Huntz, even after all that time, could not look at me. I think he saw what I see now, when I catch a glimpse of reflection, and there is that drooping face, that old peeling fabric; the pain and consequence of the singular moment.

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