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 |   Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland |
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Reflections and ruminations from a modern day Alice - Life is Wonderland  Welcome to the place were I chronicle my own falls down dark holes and adventures chasing white rabbits! Come on In, Take a Bite, You Never Know What You May Find... "Curiouser and curiouser." Alice in Wonderland    |
| My morning commute was once again cut short. After watching yet another car slide off the roadway in front on me, I turned my car around and headed home to dial into the office from there. The house is eerily quiet now save for the ancient furnance rumbling to life every so often in the belly of the basement and the snoring dogs that have burrowed beneath the blankets at my feet. The freezing rain is pelting the upstairs windows and there is a distance wail of sirens, no doubt responding to more unfortunate motorists. The baby has decided she can sleep no other place than curled up against my thigh and I've managed to get most of my paperwork done while she has dreamed and smiled and giggled in her sleep. The work phones have been quiet, only one call in nearly five hours. The business is struggling with the season more than ever before and I worry constantly about my father, how tired he must be of holding it all together by the tattered seams. I keep thinking, if the weather would hold, if one deal with solidify, I could give him good news for once. I would love to call him with good news, he needs to hear it almost as much as I need to say it. For now, I plug away at what I can feeling as useless and ineffectual as possible and hope things get better soon. I hope along with the rest of the world as the atmosphere drums up another crippling winter mix. I try to find the positive; at least I'm not out wrecking my car in a slippery crash... I'm planning to make some killer steak tips for dinner...I have wine in the fridge...I snagged a copy of Bedknobs and Broomsticks from the library...these are all lovely, positive thoughts. While the winter storm rages on outside, tonight I will have my family around me, a tasty meal, a warm home (at least while we can afford to heat it), a glass of wine (or two) and one of my most favorite flicks to enjoy. The only tricky part will be trying to convince my husband he wants to watch a Disney musical from the 1970's featuring Angela Lansbury and a host of animated characters and special effects that by today's standards would be considered pedestrian and laughable. Perhaps he will be persuaded when I tell him I can sing along to the soundtrack, that I know all the songs by heart? Well, at least my Jadybug may enjoy it. For now though, its back to work before my little one wakes up. |
| The sunsets in Key West are magnificent against the backdrop of Mallory Square. You can wander there, as the sky melts into ribbons of red and gold, and watch the street performers; the dancers, the jugglers, the crazy guy with the trained cats. Making the drive down from Fort Lauderdale, the water turns to a rich, vibrant turquoise and teems with life, just visible beneath the surface; a large ray coasting, a silver barracuda hunting in the shallows, pelicans riding the swells in the bright sun. |
| I received an email recently from Oysters and Chocolate calling for my "sexpertise". It was actually an open call for submissions and I was receiving it because I have been published on their website previously. It made me chuckle because my erotic muse has been so quiet, so undetectable I'm beginning to think it has become a casualty of parenthood. This revelation troubles me for several reasons. First and foremost, I think I am rather good at Erotica, at maintaining the delicate balance that separates erotic literature from, for lack of a better word, porn. Erotica is about so much more than the physical description of sexual acts. It is about the people, emotions, instincts and the deeper connections that drive our human behavior. Erotica can be sexy, beautiful, and moving or tragic, dark and desperate. My particular style tends run in the darker veins but so does the vast majority of what I write. It has been a genre which has allowed me to push my limits, polish my craft and explore those spaces in life that are universal, primitive and often intensely charged. In my opinion, Erotica has been a fertile genre for me in which sex, gender and physical gratification fall second to experiences, instinct and emotions. What it takes for me to write anything is inspiration but what inspires me to write Erotica is a little more complicated. It requires me to tap into what has always been a reservoir of interest in all things sensual. It is all very relative. Some people find O'Keefe's depictions of floral art to be highly sexual while some find the their inspiration in art of a more literal nature like black and white nudes or glossy foldout centerfolds. For me, sometimes its a sudden summer thunderstorm, a rolling and restless sea, the profile of a woman who reminds me of someone I once knew, a couple having a heated discussion in a both at the back of a bar, a rock song with a heavy, velvet beat. Sometimes its about a memory, a promise, a decision. Sometimes I am inspired by something so subtle, that what comes out when I began to write, surprises and shocks me. This is perhaps the bigger reason that I am disappointed with my lack of creativity lately. Erotica remains the one genre where I can still surprise myself. Most pieces I write begin as a story with a predestined end. When I write a piece of Erotica, often times it begins in once place but ends in other. I feel like my Erotica lives and breathes and I enjoy that, I enjoy being surprised by where it takes me. Lastly, this genre has made me a better writer. It has taught me how to "show" rather than simply "tell", which makes all the difference. It is not easy to affect people with words. It is a challenge to keep things credible; situations, dilemmas, dialogue...they way people connect. The new pace of my life, the journey to find balance of responsibilities, the quest for a solid sleep, the constant battle with my own image in the mirror...these things all affect my ability to write anything, especially Erotica. I hope my muse comes back soon, we can all enjoy life a bit more when we bring a bit of the sexy back. |
| This weekend we celebrated our daughter's first birthday. As I sat, cautiously filling colorful balloons with helium, I couldn't help but reflect on the past year of our lives. There had been low points certainly, but then there were the highlights, the moments so saturated with joy that I could hardly believe it. There have been many such moments in my life when I thought, this is what it must be like to step from a dark place filled with pain into a space of such bright, white hope that you feel temporarily blinded by it. I remembered the night when I struggled through the those first contractions. Refusing to believe the time had really come and stubbornly holding on to the belief that I would only be sent back home, I was stunned to learn that I was already five centimeters when we finally arrived at the hospital. I remember slipping into a sleepy euphoria as the epidural took hold and trying to snooze over the hushed sounds of Fatih and my sister talking and the occasional irritating squeaking as my mother-in-law shifted impatiently in the bedside hospital chair. I remember the disappointment to find out after nearly 24 hours, I had failed to progress enough to deliver Jaden and would be an emergency c-section. I remember the terror that washed over me as they rolled me into the operating room, bound my arms down and covered me with a blue tent from the waist down. I could not contain the tears and when Fatih appeared, gowned with a mask over his mouth, I saw my terrible fear reflected in his wet eyes. Then, in a few short moments, Jaden was there, small and squirming, dark and wrinkled in the nurse's hands, just a few inches from my face. I was awed. I felt complete, as if someone had taken all the empty spaces in my soul and filled them up with the unconditional love of all time. From that moment on, time has seemed to move at double-speed. I have been amazed at her growth, marveled by how her personality has developed in a series of little leaps and bounds. I have witnesses the flashes of a temper she surely inherited from me, but also the quiet moments of ease and mellowness that are trademarks of her father's personality. Jaden is the best of what makes up her father and I. She is independent and strong-willed but also loving and sweet-natured. This first year with her and been the most wonderful time in both our lives. I watched our friends and family interact with Jaden during the festivities. She is a social child, enjoys the company of people and never seems to protest to the affections bestowed upon her. We have wonderful friends and family, she is lucky to have these people in her life. I loved watching Jaden, perched on one lap or another, her pink fuzzy tiara remarkably still in place, tired but clearly content to be surrounded by the familiar faces and warm embraces. It was a special night that we will always remember. It has been a remarkable year, one that has felt from the very first moment, to be a wonderful blessing, the most amazing of gifts. |
| I have been editing in my free time, which is admittedly in short supply. On a positive note, I believe I may have found a home for the book, at least a place where the manuscript will get decent consideration, a place to start anyway. Though the story is already written, the work of editing, polishing, turning snapshots of emotion into an actual piece of writing is difficult. The subject matter brings me back to places that are dark, touches places in my spirit that are still tender. It has made me irritable and moody. I tell myself that with every effort comes reward and not to lose sight of the goal, which is ultimately, to publish the story that I need to tell and the hope that in turn, it affects others in a positive manner. But this, this is hard work particularly as I edit through the portion that deals with very intimate musings, in particular a series a letters in which my own voice is so prominent, my observations and feelings the key focus...it is unnerving to reread the passages given who am I today. Reworked 1/9/10 Grasshoper March 7th, 2005 Today is Monday and you have been heavily sedated since Sunday morning. The nurses tell us that this phase of your detox could last twelve to thirty-six hours. Detox , I can't believe that I word has entered my life again after this past year, when you were supposed to be "living sober". The nurses inform us that it would do no good to visit, that you would not even know that we are there. Want to know what I think? I think the nurses are thinking more of us, wanting to spare us from the tragedy of seeing you on a ventilator, breathing through a tube. You were walking when I brought you in, sickly pale, your skin oddly cold to the touch yet slimy with sweat. Is it possible you could look any worse now? It took me hours and hours to clean the bathroom. I would like you to know that. You must have been vomiting blood all night, trying your best to clean up afterward but missing most of what was not immediately obvious. I got sick myself, several times, scrubbing away at the tiles and porcelain only to find more and more traces in the cracks and toilet seat cover fittings. I finally gave up, torn the old seat off and threw it in the garbage. I went through a jug and a half of bleach getting our tiny bathroom sanitized. I wonder if I could ever use it again without smelling the coppery rot of your sickness. The apartment is so empty. I have hours and hours to myself. I spend those hours trying to understand. As time wears on, my feelings have crystallized. Nagging doubts have crept in and taken residence in my heart. I realize that I never knew you, not the real you. I fear that your deceit was so broad, so entrenched, that perhaps everything was part of the act, even your love and your devotion to me. I think that it was just another part of the disguise, another part of the smokescreen you needed to continue your affair with the bottle. The betrayal is something I'm only beginning to process and the anger is kept at bay only by my constant and anguished worry for you. It has been hard to stay away. Earlier on, before the withdrawals became too fierce and you had to be restrained, you reached out to me in your delusions. You held my hand as best you could, you stared at me, you raised your eyebrows and called me "sexy", the goofy nickname you gave me that I pretended to hate. You tried to make me your accomplice in escape, in a secret smoke, in a forbidden phone call. I touched your face, it had taken me days to get even that close to you, and you leaned into the curve of my palm and closed your eyes for a moment. I actually felt my heart break and it left me gasping for air. I left you sleeping and went home. I cried most of the night without sleep of my own. God, how I want to be angry, to hate you for this, this senseless, horrible thing you have done to yourself. I want to be angry for the lies, for times I confronted you and you assured me you were fine. You offered me a steady diet of false truths and I just swallowed them and smiled. I think I could not hate you more and then I think of your face, of you lying in that bed and suddenly I can't find the fury, only tears. I can think only of the little moments of us, the things I miss like the curve of your back against me at night, the way you always held my hand while you read the paper at breakfast or the way you would always look at me as if you had never seen someone more beautiful. |
| It was the sound of breaking glass that brought the dog to her decision. In a movement that was lightning quick, Rudy stepped protectively between our bodies and barred her teeth. Seconds before, when we had pushed and shoved at each other, her soft brown eyes had darted back and forth, wary and confused. She had not known which master to align with, which one of us required her protection more. Then, you had shoved me hard with the full force of your rage, continuing to spit and curse at me as I slipped backwards. The momentum carried me halfway across the kitchen. I crashed into the glass door and it exploded. Shards of glass tore into the back of my arms, my shoulders and my scalp. I landed in a pool of sharp edges. Rudy sprang into action. She backed up into me, her tawny coat shining, the powerful muscles rippling underneath. You took a step toward me and she issued a low and menacing growl. It was the only warning you would get. There was no question that she would use everything she had in her to keep me safe. The same sweet dog that cuddled with you each night would not hesitate to take you down now. "Rudy, its okay girl.” You coaxed, but your voice only elicited volley of barking and snarling. I struggled to my feet and shook the glass from my clothes, gingerly accessed my wounds with my fingertips. Rudy fell in beside me. I placed my hand on her massive head. “Good girl Rudy.” I whispered. Your face was purple and mottled with anger and shock. You twitched with fury. “You better back off now.” I warned, “you have a decision to make. Rudy has already made hers.” |
| While I have had plenty of fodder to write about, between the holiday crush and holding down things at the office, there hasn't been the time. Christmas was remarkable. It takes on a whole new dimension when you have a child. Jaden's first Christmas brought back all the fresh excitment and anticipation that fades as we age. At just under a year, I'm not sure how much she understood all that was happening but she definately enjoyed the attention from family and friends and the hustle bustle of the holiday itinerary. It wasn't hard to find and keep the Christmas spirit this year, despite a last minute shopping venture that threatened to erode it for me. For the first time in a long time, I found myself humming Christmas carols and taking extra time adorning gifts with pretty paper and ribbons. It has taken Jaden several days to recover and almost as long for me to clean up the discarded paper and boxes and find homes for the new toys, clothes and gifts. I finally feel as if things are returning to a normal pace and I can start to focus on other things. The office is quiet this week, giving me even more time to get readjusted. The last several days I've been in a showtunes kind of mood. The impressive scores of some of broadway's biggest musicals have filled the empty hallways, from Chicago to Fiddler, to Wicked. As my Pandora streams in one great tune after another, I find myself singing along to lyrics I hadn't even been aware I knew. It has been a surprising way to stay focused and with no co-workers about, I haven't needed to worry about annoying the guys with my new musical addiction. Looking toward the end of the year, I've got Jaden's first birthday party to plan and several new deadlines for some fledgling publications I would like to try to meet. I have a playroom to design and decorate and far more repairs on the house to help my husband finish. Not to mention, Jaden is very close to finding her feet and I've no doubt the first months of 2011 will be marked by her musical laughter and the sound of her tiny feet running circles around us. I can not think of a better soundtrack than that. |
| Most days I feel as I am running on empty. The last few weeks it seems I have been continually sick and tired. On the plus side, I feel like I've finally settled into natural motherhood. I feel comfortable with the duties and responsiblities and I'm no longer kept awake by fears and anxities so apparent in the early days of living with a newborn. Jaden is becoming more and more independant and it is with sheer joy that I watch her personality emerge more and more each day. With her one year birthday a month away, it seems appropriate for me to put a little more energy back into caring for myself. I need to get into better health, better shape, a better mental place. I need to embark on some new projects and finally finish few others. My novel needs to be written, if just in draft form, before the end of 2011. It is the one deadline I really need for force upon myself. My overall writing output has been critically low but I have virtually no excuse for not working on something that in essense, is already pretty well written. As difficult as the subject matter is at times, there is a beauty to it. This is the work that will speak volumes about who I am, not only as a writer, but as a person. It is important to me, it is as simple as that. My life is wonderful and full. The future holds untold opportunities and experiences to write about but if I don't preserve the past before the memories and pain fade completely away, I will have lost something very precious to me. I will have lost the chance to tell a story, not only about one man's life, but about how adversity and tragedy can give birth to hope and promise. I just need to squeeze a few more minutes out of the day to start to put it all together. Today I made the decision to start with an the ending, which when you look at the entire project, makes a lot of sense. |
| Prologue - Draft 1 I am conscious of how empty and hollow my heels sound on the linoleum, echoing as I make my way down the hospital corridor toward your room. I am aware of everything around me, the antiseptic smell, the bustling nurses, the dinging elevator doors and my own increasing anxiety as I round the corner and scan the placards for one that reads 216. It's the last room on the left and I can tell from the outside, that it is dark. I ease the door open. You are sleeping. It is a small mercy. I can pity you for a few luxurious moments without concern for your feelings. I can roll my eyes over your yellow, bloated body. I can be free to feel it all, the shame, pity, anger, resentment and that resilient compassion that I have always seemed to harbor for you. Suddenly I am interrupted by the nurse. She asks me politely if I would order your dinner for you. The request flusters me. It has been so long since I concerned myself with such duties. I know I must seem a nervous mess as I paw through the paper menu, suddenly clueless about what things you liked to eat. Has it been that long since I shopped for your meals? "I don't know what kind of diet he's been on." I say lamely, as a way of explanation. The nurse stares back at me, waiting, a sympathetic smile on her face. I decide on some chicken dish with a diet coke. A healthy choice, I think sardonically. The nurse bustles out and we are alone again. I sink into the oak rocking chair by your bedside and debate about waking you. Is it better for you that you know I came? Is it better for me? I think about writing a note but after a few seconds of searching in vain for both an instrument and scrap of paper, I give up. Instead, I set the chair quietly rocking and watch you. Your life has been such a strange and sad journey. I feel every bit as old and tired as I should, having come all this long, long way with you. I stretch my hand out into the void between us, not yet ready to touch you but desperate with the want of it. In the bed, you groan and shift your body. You come awake and know it is me there beside you in the dark. "You came." You say, in a voice that is a tormented whisper. "Of course, Grasshoper." I say, finding your outstretched hand and covering it with my own. |
| There was a time that I knew more of life, days that I sparkled in the sweet spring sunshine of April and long afternoons when I wore the juice of fresh-picked strawberries and toiled in richly scented potting soil. There were hours spent nestled in woolen mittens as snow blanketed the ground and Christmas lights twinkled in neighborhood yards. These memories, so vivid and wonderful, fail to light the world inside this dark place where I have been banished. One memory, above all others, brings me back to joy and leaves me with a bittersweet modicum of hope in my exile. It is a feeling. The feeling of being slipped, virgin and new, on her delicate finger by the shaking hands of a youth whose eyes were pooled with pride. It is the memory of being wrapped in warm flesh as they walked hand in hand in the days when love was bright and brimming with passion. I twinkled in the twilight of their humble home as they planned their lives together. They had happy voices that talked of all the life to come; of splashing dogs and Indian summers, of frozen lakes and gardens filled with flowers and of children laughing. They often spoke of children. They pondered how they might look, what their names would be and how they would raise them. Sometimes their conversations were loud and boisterous, bouncing down the hallways and filling rooms with a playful energy, other times, they became the soft and intimate pillow talk of lovers. It was a love was bound by faith in dreams and they loved and dreamed with an astonishing fierceness. After a few years though, those hushed and secret conversations stopped. They rarely held hands. I longed for the embrace that was so frequent in the earlier years, the years that were full of promise. There were gardens and frozen lakes but the laughing children chasing running dogs, did not appear. The house expanded and filled with all the material trappings of success but it became less of a home and more of a space into which they both retreated. I no longer felt the thrum of her heart, the life beat of her love. It was as if I had become dulled by the pallor that seemed to hang over her. She spent silent moments looking down at me, twisting me slowly around her thinning finger. She was lost to me, lost in a world of empty hallways. The children she could never bare became phantoms that haunted her. That fateful night the argument had started slowly, like a licking flame. It grew and grew until the words became brutal weapons that inflicted mortal wounds. She lashed out in anger and disappointment. He shot back at her with blame and resentment. In the end, there was a slamming door and then a hollow, aching silence. She wept for hours into her hands, bathing me in anguished tears. As the morning sun crept through the curtains, she opened eyes that were red-rimmed and clouded. She stood before her dresser looking down at me for a long time before she slipped me off her finger and dropped me into this cold pine box. I've been here with my memories for a long time, longer than you would think that love could survive. I still believe it is there, lying dormant, waiting for a kind word of forgiveness or a sudden tender touch to resurrect it. Despite the years alone, I have not given myself over to tarnish. My metal has not faded or lost its resilience. I live with the persistent hope that one day she will lift the lid of my prison and find me once again, a band of gold, shining with the promise of a million happily ever afters. |
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