Pieces Here and There

I'm writing (and rewriting) an article, "Confessions of a Drawer Stuffer" which is due 3/31.

It's a narrative of the adventure I had spelunking into my drawers, uncovering trash and treasure.

Without ruining ALL the fun, here is a brief list of things I've found scribbled on pieces of paper, post-it notes and napkins in my office drawers.

And NO I don't understand them all, either...

• Parenting feels like wearing gravity boots.
• Our friendship was like a fierce game of whack-a-mole.
• The three of us gathered in the hall, in suits, looking like we could arrest someone. And spank them.
• You are 20, and it is Spring.
• As she got up from our meeting I asked her -- because I know she is NOT a morning person, Are you going to bed? No, she replied. But I think I'll take a nap.
• If I weren't in this mess, where would I be?
• If you had balls, you could do it too.
• Dammit, I just know Teddy Roosevelt will surprise me. One day. It is his nature.
• Untangling things brings me deep satisfaction.
• Writing is 10% typing, 90% deleting.
• Imagination is EVERYTHING. -Albert Einstein

Pieces Here and There

Yes I'm swamped, and the longer article I'm writing is "Confessions of a Drawer Stuffer" which is due 3/31. It's a narrative of the adventure I had spelunking into my drawers, uncovering trash and treasure.

Without ruining ALL the fun, here is a brief list of things I've found scribbled on pieces of paper, post-it notes and napkins in my office drawers.

And NO I don't understand them all, either...

• Parenting feels like wearing gravity boots.
• Our friendship was like a fierce game of whack-a-mole.
• The three of us gathered in the hall, in suits, looking like we could arrest someone. And spank them.
• You are 20, and it is Spring.
• As she got up from our meeting I asked her -- because I know she is NOT a morning person, Are you going to bed? No, she replied. But I think I'll take a nap.
• If I weren't in this mess, where would I be?
• If you had balls, you could do it too.
• Dammit, I just know Teddy Roosevelt will surprise me. One day. It is his nature.
• Untangling things brings me deep satisfaction.
• Imagination is EVERYTHING. -Albert Einstein

Kids

If This Makes Me a Nerd, Then FINE

"He who wonders discovers that this in itself is a wonder."
--MC Escher

I love Escher.

I love philosophy.

I love art.

I love books.

I loved *Godel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid* (Douglas R. Hofstadter), a philosophy book about art, the mind and the brain when I read it during my last semester in college. Fifteen years later, Hofstadter's book still is still teaching me.

Now that's a good book.

And if liking this stuff makes me a nerd, then FINE.I'm a nerd.

Confessions of a Drawer Stuffer

Another Sign from My Inner Buddha

We're in the backyard.

Zack is standing over the pond, whacking it with a long skinny stick.

I frown.

"Hey! Zack don't do that, you'll harm the fish."

He looks at me like I'm nuts.

I smile, glad to have done something good in the world, today.

My Dad Can & Will Warm Your Cups

Dear Dad (and Mom),

Congratulations on the whole "home improvement" thing, tearing down walls, moving bathrooms around and generally imitating what all the other cool Baby Boomers are doing on TV.

Now, Dad, about that new espresso maker. Gorgeous. So now you can invite people over to buy hibiscus and then ask them if they want you to warm their cups, Italian style.





I think you two are having far too much fun, and therefore by the power vested in me, I hereby and forthwith sentence you both to one weekend at Disney with Zack and Zoe....

Dear God, About that Book......

To: God
From: Melissa Laughing
Re: The Big Talk

I didn't know I would have to address this touchy topic yet.

I thought it would come after things like the talk about boys, menstruation, picking a major, and balancing a checkbook.

As You and I discussed in our recent prayer, please review the conversation and forward any comments to me.

I would certainly appreciate if you could please work up an action plan and talking points & get it to me by noon.

PS - Thanks for Spring, my poetry garden, smart students, unexpected phone calls, wonderful friends and all that other good stuff.
*******************

Zoe, would you like to come my class tomorrow?

Yes! Yes, Ma'am!!!! Can I read a book to your students?

Well... maybe. Which book?

How about "Oh Say Can You Say?"

That book of Dr. Seuss tongue twisters? Bring it on!

What if I can't find that book?

You could read them Little House on the Prairie. Or an American Girl book....

Oh! Or......... I can read my Bible!

choke..... cough.....

Maybe, Zoe. But I'm not sure that would be the BEST choice.
Try to look for that Dr. Seuss book, too, OK?

Max? Max?

He isn't my student in a formal sense, and I've known him for years, so I got a bit worried when I didn't hear from Max for weeks.

It's like *poof* he disappeared.

So I called him. At 7am.

Max? Are you OK?

Yeah. Yeah.

Spring Break was only ONE week long. You took two weeks, didn't you?

Yeah. I was having so much fun....

Oh. OK. Stop there. That's what I want to hear. Max having fun. Nevermind, glad you're alive, now get your ass to your 8am class and I'll see you later.

Photomasochism

Photomasochism (fo-to-mass-o-kiss-m)

A form of esquisite torture where the sufferer (lets say Ms. Jackson, because this is about her) looks over a series of pictures taken by the press and other strangers, pausing to notice every single teeeeny thing they might hate about themselves.

And laughing about it.

Because masochism is not for the faint hearted.

Regarding the Major, Again ~

It is an odd relationship that I have with the the Major.

I wonder if I would recognize him if he walked by. I have seen his eyes, but not directly. Just shadows of his English blue eyes reflected in the greens and blues of his sons and grandchildren.

The Major's 8th grade school picture hangs high on my office wall, hovering over me, only slightly smiling with either approval or toleration.

I do not hold his gaze long enough to ask him how he feels about me.

Now, if he came back and wanted his FSU sweatshirt back, the one that I've been carrying around like a security blanket since 1994, we might have a problem.

But other than that, we're good ~

Ending the Big Lie

Time to come clean.

I am not really a morning person.
Not completely, no.

Not at all, actually.

I wake up soooo early because I require a good hour (or two) of aloneness, thinking, writing, running, whatever, before I'm ready to be warm and kind to anyone else.

Yes, of course, there are exceptions. I dig deeeeeep and find some patience and kindness for the children if -- for example -- one of the kids wakes up too early and finds me drinking coffee Zoe's room, reading a history book or sharpening a pencil, just about to write something almost-brilliant.

I am not a morning person, so I boil myself in quiet and reflection and general shhhhhhhh leave me alone ~ until I can get traction and momentum in the right direction for the rest of my day.

And I'm Sitting Quietly, Writing ~

I'm sitting on the green chair, writing.

The kids are playing by themselves.

Zack made up his own game of sitting on an upside-down partially opened black folding barstool, tossing erasers through an opening and onto the sofa hard enough so that they bounce back and hit him on the stomach.

I'm only about five feet away, but Zack is so engrossed by his game that he is completely unaware of my presence as he coaches himself through this ridiculously hard game.

It's OK, try again.
Good try!

You can do it!
Hooray, that was soooo close.

That's it! You did it! You won!

Zoe is at the dining room table.

She just borrowed my sketch pad and diagrammed the entire solar system, correctly labelling all of the planets, meteors and a random visiting comet.

I am five parts shocked and one part overwhelmed with amazement.

Zoe misreads my reaction as suspicion, and starts telling me stories about the size, atmosphere and moons of each celestial body.

I did not know that Jupiter had 63 moons. When she told me this bit of non-trivia, I laughed and called it the pimp-planet.

Zoe rolled her eyes and asked if she could write some art poems on my sketch pad.

Fine, fine.

Go ahead kids, keep playing by yourselves.

May you *always* be so productive and challenged in the solace of your own company.

And I'm Sitting Quietly, Writing ~

Zack made up his own game of sitting on an upside-down partially opened black folding barstool, tossing erasers through an opening and onto the sofa hard enough so that they bounce back and hit him on the stomach.

I'm only about five feet away, but he is completely unaware of my presence, so I get to listen to him coaching himself through this ridiculously hard game.

It's OK, try again.
Good try!
You can do it!
Hooray, that was soooo close.
That's it! You did it! You won!

Zoe is at the table. She just borrowed my sketch pad and diagrammed the entire solar system, correctly labelling all of the planets, meteors and a random visiting comet.

I did not know that Jupiter had 63 moons. When she told me this bit of non-trivia, I laughed and called it the pimp-planet.

Zoe rolled her eyes and asked if she could write some art poems on my sketch pad.

Fine, fine.

Go ahead kids, keep playing by yourselves.

I wish that both of you will always be so productive and challenged in the solace of your own company.

Pencil Me In ~

Until I get one good pen I'm writing in pencil.

There is something wonderfully sensuous about the foreplay involved in preparing to write with a pencil.

First, I select the biggest one from the coffeecan which should not be on the counter, but has no other home, so I took pity on it and made it useful. Then I slowly sharpen it, pulling it out every two or three twists to admire the clean bold point. Finally I sit down, most recently with a purple journal and sky-blue sketch bad, and do absolutely nothing for awhile.

That used to be the absolutely hardest part of writing for me.
The sitting still and waiting part.
Allowing all these tiny ideas to run around my brain, bump into each other and either grow or disappear.

Finally -- maybe after five minutes, maybe after an hour -- a story crystallizes and start writing. Row after row of words, arrows, abbreviations. Quickly. So quickly that the pencil's sharp point evolves into a flat chisel-tip.

I notice how my writing causes the point to reshape itself into a chisel.
A poor woman's fountain tip pen?
No.
Not really.

A meditation on the pen to come.
Mental foreplay.

I know what I want, and I'm not settling for anything less.

Dear Barb ~

OK. So I'm flattered and happy that you enjoyed draft #1 and are ready for draft #2 AND part #2.

Sorry, I'm not ready to write it.
Not yet.

It's the last month of school, and I'm up to HERE with students, grading, advising and other professorial pursuits.


I think, for me to really be able to write a WONDERFUL second draft, I might need a night (two?) alone at your Panama City condo.

I will bring my paper and pens, sit on the porch at sunset and allow the gulf breeze to tease words and stories out of me.

Deal?

A Love Like This, Once ~

Zack is completely enchanted
and smitten
by a three year old
wavy brown haired
Celtic vixen
named Iona


He often talks into the air to her
telling stories to her

asking her what she'd like to eat

admiring her pink sunglasses

laughing at their private jokes

so wrapped up
he is

in the imagined pleasure

of her company

Tick Tock (Draft 1)

6:45pm, Tuesday, March 13

I'm in the same seat, the same row as before.

This time, I didn't pack kleenex. I don't think I'll cry.

I know the story, I'm immune, and anyway, we found parking so quickly this time, I just feel happy energy all ove the place.

When Barb talked at the Death and Dying class at FSU last November, the class started about two hours earlier, and parking at FSU was much tighter. We ran a bit late, but she was cool. Much cooler than I had been. Especially telling total strangers about such personal stories.

*******************
Rewind.
5:00pm, Tuesday, March 13

Zack is standing in the living room, no underwear on, crying because he has cut his knee on a yard ornament.

The doorbell rings. It's Barb.

I hoist the howling three year old under my arm, trying to keep his knee-blood and boy-dirt off my suit.

Barb isn't worried about running late. She floats into my house, a breathe of calm steadiness in a whirlwind of whining. She stands next to him and distracts him with her purring voice and silly teasing.

After his boo-boo is cleaned, she finds a ballpoint pen (a pen! in my house! miracle!) and writes smiley-faces on his band-aids.

He is hopelessly in love.

Things are calm, I can leave. I swoop down to kiss Zoe. She hugs me and murmurs "Bye Miss Barb, I sure miss you."

I pull back. "I'm your MOM not Miss Barb!"

Zoe laughs at her mistake, a little embarassed for being caught starry-eyed, and kisses me on the cheek.

*******************
Rewind Again.
Thursday, March 8, afternoon

It's the Thursday of Spring Break, and Barb picked me up to go to lunch. She drives us in the milf-mobile, which feels ridiculously high compared to my Hyundai. I clown around, pretending to be a rock-climber, checking for my safety ropes.

After sushi, we go to Wal-mart. I had just gotten a new pond, I wanted to look at yard decorations. I've never actually had the impulse to even consider yard statuary, so Barb volunteered to chaperone me.

While I was sorting through the statues of bunnies, turtles, and other silly yard-creatures, Barb stood in front of something else.

"We need to get a new one of those for the graves." I stood completely still, head cocked like a friendly dog.
She continued, "Well, things outside wear out."

They do. They do.

I didn't really want to actually buy anything, so we kept meandering.
I think she bought cat food and paper plates.

You know, Wal-Mart stuff.

************
Fast Forward
7:10pm, Tuesday, March 13

Before we entered the auditorium, we went to the cramped florescent-light bathroom. I'm used to rotten lighting, so I just wash my hands, smile at myself while I gloss up my lips and left the bathroom to make a call.

I waited about five minutes then returned to the bathroom on a search-and-rescue mission. Barb was standing in front of the mirror, pulling her blonde hair back, scowling at herself in the mirror.

She was beating herself up, focusing on perceived flaws.

Maybe she does that when she's scared. I don't blame her one bit.

Barb is sitting up front now, cool and calm.

Looking more gorgeous than she probably should, given the topic and situation.

****************
7:20pm

The professor spent the first 35 minutes of class taking roll and answering questions.

I cannot decide if he is a saint or a fool, but given his line of work -- grief counseling -- I have to lean toward saint.

He introduces Barb in these exact words, which I know for sure, because I am sitting in the back row, writing them down.

"This is Barb C. She is here to talk about her life. It is a sad story, a tough story, a story about resiliency."

He pauses, and I see about sixty heads turn slightly toward Barb, probably nodding, smiling, checking out her gorgeous dress.

And then, before Barb can tell the story herself, he tells the class how and when Barb's children, Ryan and Rachel died.

I understand that he wants to prepare them for her story, but I resent it the tinyest bit.

It's her story.

She's earned the right to tell it.

As she starts to ask the audience questions, warms them up, builds her credibility as a speaker, my mind goes back to the reason she brought me here tonight.

It's my job to figure out what we will have for dinner.

Yes, it'll be a late dinner, since this Death and Dying class doesn't end until almost 9.
I am sure we won't leave the building until almost 10.

By that time, after telling about the accident, answering student questions, and walking a room full of strangers through the darkest days and years of her life, Barb will be elated and exhausted.

And hungry.

When it's all over, and she's through bearing her soul, we will eat.

No, we will not just eat.

We will have a mini-feast, celebrate life, enjoy being happy and healthy today, and -- I am sure -- laugh loudly together.

One

I write with whatever pen I can find. Rollerballs, ballpoint, felt tip, whatever. When the words come, I need a pen, and there's no time to be picky.

But I want more. I need more.

I need one good pen.

A strong, dense, pen, one that is a subtle work of art.

One that would be worth hanging on to.

I would buy it refills.

Any color.

US Foreign i-Policy

Miraculous Transformation

Something amazing is about to happen.

In the next 15 minutes, I will shake off my Spring Break fog, stop admiring my tanned legs, and shut off all daydreams about gardening, bunnies, ponds and sunshine.

In 15 minutes, I will enter a classroom, turn on the computer and stand in front of a room of tanned, rested students who, hopefully, chose wardrobes which cover up their tan lines.

The HUGE screen behind me will light up and we will enter World War 2, which begins the best part of the entire semester.

So, here I am, 13 minutes to show time.

Still admiring my tan....

Dear Dad (more) ---

Dear Dear Dear Dad,

What kind of father sends his beloved daughter construction photos which illuminate in irrefutable detail the fact the above-mentioned father is tearing down the above-mentioned daughter's childhood room???


Fine.
Whatever.
You made me tough, I won't cry.
Not in public at least.

I'm still coming home when I feel like it, so there.

PS --->
http://nymag.com/nymetro/news/features/n_9495/

Saffron and Spices

It is early Sunday when Zack begins his ritual of kicking me until I wake up.

For the record, I wake up with the first kick, which lands right on my left kidney. But I try to buy time, play dead, stay still until the sun rises.

After about 20 minutes, the combination of hugs, kisses, kicks and cajoling get me out of bed.

Zack clings to me like a koala bear until I drop him at the kitchen table with some apple juice and Frosted Flakes.

He fell asleep at 5:30 yesterday, four hours ahead of schedule, so I can't blame him for getting up at 6:02am today.

Only, it's 7:02am. According to some clocks, at least.

There is not yet consensus in the house as to what time it is, but that too shall pass.

Zack watches Dora the Explorer while I grind the coffeebeans and gaze out the window.

My Poetry Garden looks a bit stark. The roses have been pruned to sticks, the jasmine uprooted and deported to another corner.

Most artists proclaim their work is never done -- it is true.

The longer I stare at the chair, the more beautiful I wish for it to become.

It is an object of love, of whimsy, and working on it brings me great joy.

In the morning light I see the answer.

I will paint the red parts of the chair yellow.

Not just any yellow, but a deep rich saffron. The realization is so intense, so tangible that I decide to get out the saffron from my spice cabinet. Today, with the kids around, I cannot paint.

Instead, I will cook arroz con pollo.

I get out the chicken, the onions, the garlic and spices.

I will make feast of it, with banana bread, cake, and whatever else catches my appetite.

That will be my art, today.

Dear Dad ~

Mr. Hibiscus, it's Spring and I would love if you would send me a few easy, hardy, happy plants.

After 20 years as your apprentice, I am ready for a few hibiscus of my own.

I know the drill, but correct me if I'm wrong.

Keep them in pots because they like to be rootbound and they have to come in when it's cold.

They like their soil loose.

They love the sun.

Talk to them when I water them, and water them alot, they are tropical plants who like their feet wet.

OK? Did I pass the test?

http://www.fancyhibiscus.com

Pictures I Promised My Mother, Continued

I Did NOT Go to Lowe's

Nope. I stayed home and sat still. Very still. And I thought and thought. Then I painted a chair. Which was ridiculously satisfying.






It was a good Spring Break, but now the kids are home, and it is over.

One Last Day

So here I am. The last day of Spring Break, home, alone.

I could write.

Yes.

I've written SO MUCH this week it's daunting to go through it and decide which first drafts, scribbled longhand, deserve to be typed up, framed, posted for the world.

Or I could go to Lowe's. That's always so much fun.

I mentioned that to Zack's preschool teacher when I dropped him off this morning.

Me, alone, at Lowe's is a grand adventure.

You'll be there two hours, Zack's teacher warned me.

I twisted my hair around my finger and batted my eyelashes, "Maybe if I get lost some big strong man who is there to buy powertools would have to hold my hand and lead me back to my car!"

She laughed and added "I grew up anAir Force brat. It's men in flight suits that do it for me...."

The woman is stuck at work with a bunch of three year olds while I'm free.

I'm up for an adventure.

I guess I owe it to her -- and to ALL other women who still have hormones racing through their blood -- to get up from my chair, get out of the house, drive to Lowe's and at least go look to see of there is anything there worth writing about.

Then again, no.

I'm always doing things. Running around, working on the next thing.

Today, I'll sit quietly.

Enjoy what I have.

A pond with fish and a fountain.

A wonderful house that is both full and quiet.

And a huge, limitless well of creativity and imagination.

This, I Know ~

Five years from now, I will live in a house on a lake. There might be a dock, there will definitely be a swing.

There will be plenty of shady trees but not so many that I can't lay on my back and get lost in the stars.

The kitchen counters will be granite, the cabinets might be cherry, the pulls could be art deco. I am not completely sure of those smaller details, but I know that there will be a gorgeous backsplash behind the 6-burner stove.

It will feel warm and bright and smell like love.

I will live in yoga pants at home -- maybe skirts sometimes -- and wear my hair in a ponytail when no one is around.

There will be no TVs in the public areas.

I cannot imagine being happier than I am now, and I know a new home would not bring me joy or a sense of accomplishment.

It is, after all, just a house.

Not a life, not a career, not a goal itself.

My new house, my warm sunny dream home, will be a symbol of my great leap forward.

(((Dear Chairman Mao, sorry for stealing this slogan - maybe I'll find a better phrase in a later draft)))

No Thank You

I hate all commercials that associate a sterilized house with effective and satisfying parenthood.

We all know the best part of being a parent is tucking and retucking blankets around sleeping kids.

Now that's love.

And it doesn't involve Lysol.

Yardwork!

Morning Story

This morning I did not get up when my alarm went off.

I wasn't really tired, but I just wanted more dream time.

I looked and looked but could not find the door to my last dream, so I finally settled into a new one. A surprise party one.

A surprise party for me. Definitely a first.

My abuelos were there, the kids, my brother and his children. Family only, except a few random students.

The party was on a dock, a tight small dock, and it was unbearably hot, crowded and loud.

I needed to change my clothes so I found a pagoda-walk-in-closet and undressed.

No clothes to put on. Shit.

I fell into a pool of claustrophobic anxiety, combined with a bit of righteous anger.

What was this party about?

Why couldn't we have it somewhere we could all fit?

And whose house was this? (in the dream, this is the point where I realized the answer, but I'll let YOU imagine the absolutely worst case scenario)

OH MY GOD, I had to go home.

I had to get out of the closet, out of the party, naked or dressed.

Then the dead body in the closet kicked me.

Hard.

On the head.

That's when I woke up. It was Zack beating me on the head with the bucket he slept with last night.

The sun is almost rising, and I can't help but wonder what kind of day this is going to be.

A writing day, probably ~

Intermission

Shocking Truth

I'm shocked.

Shocked and devastated.

Apparently daylight savings time DOES start this weekend.

Since I found out about it through email, I **knew** it was a hoax.

Something like "LOL, let's see what idiots actually turn their clocks back in MARCH. Ha, serves them right. Bet they're the same people who send their bank account info to help Nigerian widows launder lotto winners."

Today I got a "don't forget to set your clocks ahead" postcard from Karla Heine ( http://www.karlaheine.com ) and I know it's true.

True. True.

Thank you for saving me from making an ass out myself, living in my own tiny world of denial.

PS - Zack said he wants you to be his new Mommy. Get back to me on that, OK?

Oh, Just Some Video....

Pictures I Promised My Mother

Pregnant, 2000

OK, just like I promised -- me, 2000. Remember I was teaching full time, too. These were taken the day that a few friends came to paint Zoe's room about 6 weeks before she "appeared" ~

Dear Major, About those Pictures...

After many years, I am finally looking through your pictures.

Yes, I wonder if I would recognize you if you walked by.

Probably not.

Until recently, I would have imagined you in your 50s. A retired major who moved to a tiny Southern town, teaching 7th grade, barely holding together your third marriage.

That's who you were at the end, when you died, the week before I stumbled into your world.

These pictures help me to imagine you the way you WANT to be remembered.

Flying.

Happy.

Young.

Soaring over Vietnam (and, yes, let's pretend you were over Vietnam, not across any forbidden boundaries, OK?) -- and YES you're one of the few men in the world who actually has pictures of himself being rescued the day he was shot down over enemy territory.

Wow, Major.

I will make sure that you are remembered for this ~

Sketches