Thursday, December 09, 2010

Follow the Fool

The Journey of Liberation

I think back to Lake Wood and that unusually late summer’s heat. My friend and I walk down the path and down over the bank to the lake, eager for relief. Yet regardless of how much I wanted to swim in that spring feed lake, I found myself tip toeing around waters edge, barely wetting my feet,stepping slowly, cautiously, timid to move forward.

The sun has begun its descent, falling behind the tree line. I want to jump of the cliffs today, I have to jump before the warmth disappears.

I stand on the edge and look over into the deep water. My red hair illuminated by the sun, I raise my arms to embrace my choice and push off into the air. A short free fall into the unknown, I rise and take a deep breath. I treed water while I wait for my friend to jump, but that’s just the thing, some of us do and some of us don’t.

This caused me to think of the Tarot and of “The Fool,” card 0 in the Major Arcana. It pictures a man on a journey, at the top of a cliff, with a walking stick, a satchel, carefree with one foot in front of the other, just about to walk off the edge. This card represents the pure, the eternal optimist, he who takes each adventure as it comes, he who looks before he leaps, he who impulsively sets off into the unknown. This card suggests new beginnings.

I climb back up to jump another round. I stand still once more with my arms raised to embrace my choice and push off. It is truly a liberating experience to do something without delay, to move forward in an active and assertive way.

*** *** ***
The engine cuts and the plane slows, feet together, I think to myself, Matt rocks forth, one, two, and Go! Free falling for forty seconds at ten-thousand feet above the land of Mother Earth, traveling through her bright blue sky at over one hundred miles per hour. Until the parachute deploys, we are quickly jolted backward and upward.

Held together by rope, nylon and some trust we float along descending. I pull my affirmations from my sleeve and read each one by one.

“In loving memory of C. Nadeau.” I jumped in his honor. (My friend who is no longer with us, he used to jump in Pittsfield.)

“I am free.”

“I face my fears.”

“I am a risk taker.”

“My life is my own.”

“I am good and good things will come to me.”

“Let go of the past and live in the moment.”

Then I release them one by one into the aerospace and into the cosmos as we glide along. We fly in by the seat of our pants and return to Mother Earth. I shed some nervousness up there in the big blue, my first taste of liberation. I was ready, and set to go.

The universe heard me.

“I am free.”

*** *** ***
Dressed in my finest Friday night attire I stand upon the veranda, the tunes thump from the speakers, the chatter boxes continue. In shock, pissed, and clouded in the stench of cologne and body odor, alcohol and cigarette smoke, still I found clarity.

I look down at the drink in hand, take a deep haul and remove its straw. I hesitate as my heart palpitates at what I was preparing myself to do in the next moment. He is spotted seated at the doorway and he mackin’ on his next victim.

I walk right up, announced only by my heels. I interrupt his conversation by pouring coffee brandy, milk, ice and all into his lap. I bark aggressively, demanding respect and confirming he will never grope me again.

He was stunned. He just looked at me all wide eyed, his jaw hanging, and his crotch soaked, as if he didn’t know what he had done wrong. It only takes one redheaded vixen to teach a little boy a man’s lesson.

I step swiftly out the door, round back down the stairs and seek refuge at Brit’s bar. I come in invigorated, and petrified, and exhilarated. Brit pours me another drink, for the one I’d just sacrificed for my self-respect.

“I face my fears.”

*** **** ***
My left hand firmly grasps the ivory grips of “Dirty Susan” Keith’s .38 special double-action revolver. I load her up with bullets, slip my finger over the trigger, and cock the hammer back. I stare down the sights till I find the bulls-eye. Ready, I breathe in, hold my breath, aim and fire. I cock the hammer and fire again. I repeat this action with deep breaths and tight grips till the five round revolver empties. For good measure, I fire one more shot.

The pistol warm in my hand, smokes a little as I release the cylinder and expel the shells. I go down the line taking turns with my group and trying each gun of collection before us. There’s nothing like the power of a pistol in the grip of your female hand.

“I am a risk taker.”

*** *** ***
Being that I am a woman, it is often assumed I will marry and have children. The subject comes up frequently working in the public, they are a nosey bunch; older ladies especially. I explain that I don’t want such things for my life.

Their usual responses assure me that I’ll change my mind later on.

Oh yea? You think I’ll just decided that I want to stuff a pricey dress into the back of my closet, answer to Mr.’s wife and watch my female figure widen, sag and stretch with marks?

Some of us know what we don’t want, as much as others know what they want. There is no shame in an independent woman, husbandless and without child.

“My life is my own.”

*** *** ***
I dreamt of my Grandmothers house, in the guest room I noticed a bookshelf, something about it made me curious, I crouched down to scan the titles and I saw one of my books there on that shelf. The title printed on the spine “Heart Throbs.” A book that my grandmother had given to me…well actually, I think that she leant it to me.

When I moved there are a lot of things that were left behind at the folks. My mother put them in boxes “up overhead” as we call it.

When I awoke, instantly I knew it must be there.

I took a trip up to the folks in search for that hundred and five year old book; and sure enough I found in packed away in a box up overhead.Even if my Grandmother leant me this book initially, the weeks following her death, she came to me in a dream and gave me this; the old gray binding, the four-hundred and sixty nine yellow pages of wholesome good cheer, humor, comfort, hope- for I needed it to make those dark days endurable and sunny days enduring, I needed those heart throbs that make us feel better.

“I am good and good things will come to me.”

*** *** ***
The room is dark as I stand at the end of the bed looking to the place I took sanctuary. I look to his pillow on his side of my bed, where he should be and where he is not, nothing is where it should be.

The bed must be striped and the sheets washed.

I stood there sopping tears from my face, the heavy kind, that roll uncontrollably from the eyes, the kind that require no blinking, the kind make your heart ache. I look to the past through those lilac sheets stained in our sleepiness and our lustfulness of seasons spent lying there. The comforter twisted and wrapped with the sheets, all of this bedrock smothered in his scent and in mine.

I climb onto the bed and bunch the blankets into a pile. I hug this bundle of fabric, bury my face into it, lay on to it and breathe in. How do I wash these lilac sheets? How do I rinse his scent from my king sized bedstead?

When the moment was right, the bed was striped and the sheets washed. Things are more or less where they should be now.

"I let go of the past and lived in the moment."

*** *** ***
I think back to that bright blue sky that beckoned that day, those affirmations: words on paper, a few things that I wanted to embrace in my life, and a few things that I wanted to let go of.The universe heard me.

It all began on the edge of Lake Wood, peering in over the water, my red hair illuminated by the sun, I raise my arms to embrace my choice and push off into the unknown.I rise and take a deep breath.

Some of us step swiftly into action, while some of us tip toe around it. I step swiftly on this path of new beginnings, on this journey of liberation, one foot in front of the other, looking and leaping, pure and optimistic, without delay, moving forward in an active and assertive way.

Lucky Bamboo

Feng Shui is the ancient Chinese art of directing energy. The word itself literally translates into "wind" and "water." Known to the Chinese as the two life forces that flow freely over the earth, creating the central energy known as "chi.” The bringing of natural elements to the home and directing the chi throughout the home brings its occupants harmony and balance. Feng Shui applies to houseplants, this I did not know.

I have an ivy plant, a spider plant and a baby spider plant. I have had the mother plant for about five years, very resilient. I have had a few house plants throughout the years but only these three have I managed not to kill.

The first ivy I had, I kept it out of the steps one summer, until one day my neighbors dog came running up them with her tail anxiously wagging, and knocked the poor plant down the whole flight of stairs, tumbling over, the soil down each step, till it landed at the bottom, half in the pot, half out. That was traumatic for the fragile ivy, after re-potting it died shortly there after, (clearing not my doing.)

Though the latest casualty, took a period of time. A three year old Lucky Bamboo, four stalks in all, beautiful to look at, pleasing and vibrant, then one day leaves turned yellow, followed by the stalk until it just keeled over and died. According to Feng Shui, to kill Lucky Bamboo is very unlucky.

So I thought that maybe I should do a little research to help my cause, and see how to keep houseplants alive, seems how I already know so much about killing them.

The first thing I learned was that they need to be watered. Go figure, I mean obviously this is something that I knew, but my house is so dry, especially come winter, I have failed to recognize the need to increase the frequency of watering and forgot to mist them. They suggest filtered water, or collected rainwater for bamboo rather than the tap because of the chlorine and minerals can cause the discoloration in the leaves. That was my first mistake.

Secondly, I learned about lighting; some need direct light, where others need indirect.Placement is important not only for livelihood, but also for energy flow.

Thirdly, I learned that plants also need fertilizers to be administered from time to time for nourishment to encourage growth. Bamboo have there own special liquid solution you drop into the water. I guess that was my second mistake. Where is that bottle anyway?

There are lots of variables to consider in the care of houseplants. Sometimes when the leaves turn brown it is caused by too much water not too little. Or Leaf drop, so they call it, when the leaves just fall off, this can be caused by lack of water or exposure to a draft. That would explain what happened to the avocado tree I sprouted from the pit, I kept it near the door, all its leaves fell off, then it just shivered and died.

Now considering all cause and effects to houseplant survival, I now am better prepared to monitor moisture, lighting levels, drafts, and the placement of my three surviving houseplants.I can better align and redirect my chi to find the harmony and the balance within my home.

The mother spider plant sits in the kitchen, its leaves yellowing, the babies wilting, just dangling there as I stand at the sink downing a class of water. Now that I know they are watching, I'll try to quench their thirst, when I quench my own. Thank goodness the mother spider plant is so patient with me.

As for the Lucky Bamboo, apparently it isn’t even bamboo at all. Its botanical name is Dracaena, a resilient member of the lily family that grows in the dark in tropical rainforests of Southeast Asia and Africa. Moreover, according to the last of my research; the number of stalks also have meaning: three stalks for happiness; five stalks for wealth; six stalks for health. Four stalks, however, are always avoided since the word "four" in Chinese sounds too similar to the Chinese word for "death!" I guess my Lucky Bamboo, wasn’t so lucky to begin with.

If you'll excuse me now I need to go water my plants.

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Ask the Universe

A review of the “Tarot Bible"

I keep my deck of Tarot wrapped in white silk and protected with clear quartz. By candle light I sit shuffling the worn edges of moments past, present and future; asking questions to the universe and flipping over their answers in symbolic imagery. Studying the figures, the objects, trying to understand, connect and interpret my findings.

Some of us on this plane of existence seek more than just the superficial. We are the kind who can’t take things at face value, appearances are deceiving and we know this all to well. We are provoked to seek what is deeper beneath the surface and see what truths we can reveal.Some of us put our faith in the powers of divination and in prayer; some count rosary beads, some kneel face down, and some lay spreads.

To ask and look upon the mirrors of the universe, through the study of Tarot and practice reading of prophecies, one can seek out the image of truth. From a selection of seventy eight cards, the answers will show themselves, but that is also dependent upon the reference book used to decipher.

I would flip through the small pocket size booklet that came with my deck, a few sentences about each card and it offered a ten card spread, called The Celtic Cross. I had one other book but it didn’t speak to me in the way that Sarah Bartlett’s four hundred paged "Tarot Bible" spoke. Chalk full with knowledge, a full spectrum of information that captures an audience of beginners and experienced tarot readers.

Some believe Tarot reading to be impure and for the dark arts of the occultists, fortune tellers and gypsy folk. So she begins this introduction with the roots of Tarot and how the universal language has been understood through out the decades of time. She defines their usage through history and their coming of age story by introducing different creators and artists involved in their evolution. She addresses the rituals involved with reading,care and storage of the Tarot deck.

The first half of the book explores the descriptions of all seven-eight cards of mystic symbolism, using the Universal Rider-Waite deck;she pictures each card in full color with key words and key phrases. Each card allotted two pages, the other page a deeper interpretation of the card as well as its placement within the spread this section generous to the beginner.

She further divides the deck addressing the two categories of the Major Arcana and the Minor Arcana. Major, the first twenty two cards of the deck, followed by the fifty six Minor suit and court cards, all of this Sarah Bartlett describes in full detail.

What makes this book different from others I have referenced, is that is doesn’t stop there. It continues on to the second half dedicated to layouts, thirty in all. Simple to complex spreads, sectioned off by everyday, relationship, revelation and destiny spreads, some include up to fourteen cards.

She ends the book with crystal correlation, astrological pairing and numerological aspects of tarot magick and connecting with the deck. This book is a powerhouse for the study of Tarot unlike any other that I have utilized.

My suggestion would include a spiral binding to the book, so it will stay open while you lay the spreads and read the cards. I also would suggest the usage of bookmarks within the binding, like Christian bibles. It would be helpful to mark pages during a reading while you flip between the description of the spread and the cards.

As I have said some of us on this plane of existence seek more than the superficial, appearances are deceiving and we know this, so when provoked to seek the image of truth. I ask you to put some faith in divining power of the Tarot along sides its fruitful companion the “Tarot Bible” and you too could sit by candle light shuffling the worn edges of moments past, present and future, and flipping over their answers of symbolic imagery. All you have to do is ask the universe.

Monday, November 29, 2010

They Come Just As They Go

“Welcome to Vacationland, the way life should be,” is a slogan that lures strangers from afar to this northern state of New England, to explore the great outdoors, the rugged coastline and what Maine has to offer.

The season for a coastal-tourist-town is short lived; it begins early May and ends late October. The town thrives and makes it's livelihood off these tourists. The peaks of the season come in waves.

The spring breathes life back into the village; the shops open their doors and streets fill. They come by road and by see, in car or tour bus, on boats or cruise ship.The official kickoff begins the Fourth of July and continues straight on through, till Labor Day weekend. Autumn dawns the season of the leaf peepers, the newlyweds, and the nearly deads. Harvest season begins, the cruise ships come to port almost everyday, two by two.


All season long they come all on their own adventures, with hopes of catching a glimpse of a moose or a whale, maybe to go hiking and biking, or to shop the streets of an old coastal town. Whatever their adventures may be, all these vacationers will soon grow hungry.

***

At some tables you can’t even get the words, “Good Morning” out of your mouth, and the transient diner barks for coffee. In the restaurant business, you just close your mouth, bow your head, and go fetch. But let it be know, servers are more than just vehicles to the nectar of the bean.

There are two creatures of the dining world:one
“I want two eggs, and toast.” The woman confirms. These are the kind you must pry for information.

Then there are the others:

“I want coffee black and my wife’s with cream and sugar. She will have blueberry pancakes, real maple syrup and bacon well done. I a spinach and goat cheese omelet, wheat toast dry, home fries crispy. Oh and we are on your bus tour of the park, and we need to board in thirty minutes.”

Meanwhile your standing there with one pot regular and one decafe and all you asked was, "Would ya like coffee?"

Transient diners also think that you are their tour guide as well as their server.They, too, will pry you for information, and lots of it.

They want to know, “Where is the closest Starbucks?”

Your answer, “Sixty miles inland.” (You came to Maine to go to Starbucks?)

“Inland? We’re on an island?”

Your answer, “Do you remember the bridge with the water on both sides?”

They want to know why they can’t check their email on their super-duper phones. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a 3G network?”

Your answer, “A 3 G, what? Welcome to Maine!”

This happens all amongst the clamoring and clanging of dishes, and those god damn coffee cups half empty begging to be warmed, the plates grow hotter the longer they sit there dying in the window,and then there is Andy cussing behind the line at all the orders that came in all at once.

When breakfast is all said and done, the upstairs dining room opens for lunch. They sit in the dining room and answer their cell phones and yell into the receiver, telling how they spent their day in Arcadia as they look over the menu. (When in fact they are in Acadia,on the other side of the country.) They see we offer a "Taste of Maine Special:" A boiled lobster dinner.

They want to know, “Well can’t I just have the tail?”

Your answer, “You’re in Maine maim, it’s a pound and a quarter lobster,shell and all!”

“I have to pick it myself?” Some say with disgust.

Your answer, “We offer a lazy man’s lobster, fresh picked lobster meat sautéed in butter or white wine.” (For an extra charge.)

They view of the bay can be seen through the dining room windows; the sand bar exposed at low tide, the Porcupine Islands, and the boats bobbing along in the water. They then want to know,

“What’s the name of the lake out there?”

Your answer, “The Atlantic.”

Then they want to know, “How do they get all the boats to park in the same
direction?”

Your answer, “Harbor Master, Charlie does valet parking.”

Interactions with the transient diners like this continue relentlessly throughout the day. The turning and burning of tables, passing dialogue, filled with questions on each side, repeated questions and repeated answers, and inflection in tone as patience thins either mine or theirs.

The kitchen doors swing open once more. Rushing around through all the chatter, the checks that need printing, the printer that needs paper, the voids, the separate checks, and the ten percenters.

Not all your comments got you as far as you wanted; the directions you gave, the full “Taste of Maine” you just served them, the big smile and flashy eyes. No, still they want more from you; they will pry you for personal information, like those old biddies bugging about babies.After clearing the plates and presenting the check, they want to know,

“What you do in the winter?”

Your answer: “Hibernate, and wait for spring.”

***

The season for a coastal tourist town is short lived; autumn exhales the life out of the town. The shops board up their fronts for winter, and the streets empty.The leaf peepers, the newlyweds and the nearly deads have all gone back to where they came from. They have explored this great northern state of New England with it's great outdoors and rugged coastline.

The peaks of the season come in waves. The harvest is over. That’s just the thing about Vacationland and the way life should be;
They go just as they came.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

"Heart Throbs"

Book Intro

Last fall I lost both my Grandmothers, five weeks from one another;

Weeks into November I dreamt of Grammie’s house when I was a child.

I dreamt I was staying the night in the old guest room, the blankets, the crisp sheets just as they always were. The bed made just like a nurse, the bottom and corners tucked in tight and taught so the toes cannot hang out from the edge of the bed. The only thing about this dream that wasn’t accurate was the built in bookshelf at the footboard.

Something about it made me curious, I crouched down to scan the titles and I saw one of my books there on this shelf. The title printed on the spine “Heart Throbs.”

A book that my grandmother had given to me….well actually, I think that she leant it to me.

***

(When I moved Downeast from up North, there are a lot of things that were left behind at the folks in between. My mother sorted and packed many of my things and put them “up overhead” as we call it. (The space built in the peaks of the garage.) )

When I awoke I instantly knew it must be there.

***

The first pages are about ready to free them-selves from the old binding. It was a gift given to my grandmother from her friend Olivia Beal. It was given to Olivia by Lynwood Foss, January 1, 1912. I know this for it is written and dated in cursive on the first blank page.

The next page, the title page reads:

Heart Throbs-The Old Scrap Book –
In prose and verse
Dear to the American People and by them contributed in the $10,000 Prize Contest initiated by the National Magazine 1904-1905
Grossett & Dunlap New York

And on the back of that page reads:

Limited copyright, 1905
The Chapple Publishing Company LTD. Boston, Mass.

All these words squarely margined inside text boxes, the pages yellow and consistent with it’s age, the font tiny, all enveloped in that old book smell.

The next pages include the foreword written by the editor of National Magazine describing the break down of the cash prizes and the content he expected to receive:

“Wholesome good cheer, humor, comfort, hope-those things that make dark days endurable and sunny days enduring. In this way I hope to get those priceless little gems which you have always looked for in your favorite periodical. –Heart throbs-yes, heart throbs of happiness, heart throbs of courage, heart throbs that make us feel better. “

Words like this continue for the next following page until Joe Mitchell Chapple ends this foreword by saying:

“It is certain that such sentiment and humor are dear to all Americans and that these heart throbs of the sons and the daughters of the people are the pulse of the nation.”

The next four-hundred and sixty nine pages are just that, moments that make the heart throb.

At the end of the book on the inside cover, written in cursive is my grandmother’s given name.

***

I took a trip up to the folks in search for that hundred and five year old book; and sure enough I found in packed away in a box up overhead.

The cover gray with dark blue lettering across the front and the spine, it’s ripped and tattered covering you can see right down to the binding, the gray cloth on the top layer, the second layer brown paper and the third looks almost like gauze.

Come to my surprise, I had booked marked a page with a piece of paper. On that paper I had marked all the pieces from the book with titles or relation to Mothers. Imagine that.

***

I keep it close now, sifting through its pages carefully, seeking out what she wants me to discover from this vintage scrap book. It rests on the bookshelf next to my grandfather’s New Testament Pocket Bible, a gift for me when he died many years before. Now they rest side by side, aged and sentimental, together as they should be.

Even if my Grandmother leant this book to me initially, the weeks following her death, she came to me in a dream and gave me this book; the old gray binding, the four-hundred and sixty nine yellow pages of wholesome good cheer, humor, comfort, hope- for I needed it to make those dark days endurable and sunny days enduring, I needed those heart throbs that make us feel better.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

The Assumption

You’ve just finished dinner with your darling, the dishes you washed up together, two cups, two plates, and two sets of silver, he washed, you dried. The pans left to soak as things get hotter in the kitchen over the last sips of wine you had saved for some special occasion. This quickly leads hands up skirts and upstairs bedroom. You’ve strip teased each others clothes off he lay on top of you and just about to…

“Knock knock knock” You hear on your bedroom door.
“Mommmmy…Daaaddddy……...I peed the bed.” Great! Your romantic evening with your darling is interrupted once again.

***

I don’t understand “The American Dream.”

Being a woman it is often assumed I will marry and have children. The subject comes up frequently working in the public, they are a nosey bunch; older ladies especially. I explain that I don’t want such things for my life.

Their usual responses assure me that I’ll change my mind later on. I am frowned upon; it be shameful to be a woman who ends up husbandless and without child.

I tend not to get into the details of why not. I mean I don’t go around asking strangers if they have children and why they do. So I politely change the topic.

***

But if I were to respond to that loaded question of why not:

Firstly, it would begin with the simple fact that it is assumed that because I am a woman, that these are the things I should strive for in my life. There is more to life than having babies and husbands and minivans. Little girls are conditioned to believe in such things.

They are given dolls to take care of, they are taught how to hold them and feed them. They watch stories that tell tall tales about princes and happily ever afters. They are given Barbie dolls to play with. They make Ken kiss Barbie at their wedding and then rub their parts together, thinking it will make a baby.

There are approximately 490,000 babies born everyday around the world. Aren’t there plenty of babies on this planet by now, plenty of birth control methods and education on the subject?

Secondly, I would address marriage.

Back in the day a marriage was a way to gain something from the union of daughters to sons, the blending of families to gain wealth, status, or materials. Women were commodities and marriages were arranged in logical fashions based upon social hierarchies. Husbands picked by fathers with the best for the majority in mind.

“Marriage” in the cultural understanding of the twenty first century means
“wedding,” And a ring.

When a woman gets engaged the first thing she does is flaunt her rock; her honey probably couldn’t afford and bought it anyhow. The first question asked to her:

“When’s the wedding?”

So the bride to be proceeds booking the caterers, the church, the reception and the honeymoon. Then first purchase, the dress; to worn one day, then stuffed in the closet as a souvenir that never returns on the investment.

A marriage only requires a license, a notary public and a witness. None of the fan-fair is needed to pronounce the union of man and wife.

Nowadays marriages gain debt. They are licenses, financial contracts, and ways to get tax cuts, (as are children.) Most newlyweds begin their life as husband and wife in debt.

A married woman no longer addresses her self as a woman or an individual, but as Mr. and Mrs. Or as Mr.’s Wife, her identity now associates her with a man. Not to mention that she drops the name of one man for another, and wears his ring to signify her ownership; for some resembles collar.

Thirdly, I would address the duties of a mother and the effects on a couple.

It starts at the crack of dawn, and ends past bedtime more or less. I hate to imagine spending my days listening to it all. The crying, the tantrums, and the toys relatives gave as gifts unapproved by you that flash and zing and rattle with noise. The screaming in the car as you pass the fake-food restaurant running errands in town, driving around in that god damn minivan.

I dread the thought of the cleaning; the spit up and the drool, the dirty diapers and the wippie dipes, the messes in the bedrooms and the bathrooms. The piles of laundry covered in who knows what. Is that poop?

The dishes in the sink and the milk crusted inside the straw attached to the bowl. How much time will it take to clean that out of there? Or the permanent marker Mr. Clean won’t take of the wall.

Think of the money on education, sports, extra curricular activities, Friday nights at the mall, the gas for the minivan. Birthdays, Christmas’, graduations.They say raising a child from birth to adulthood will cost 140,000. Think about that. Sounds like a farm house with a studio to me.

Think of the worry,on the mother, on the baby, on the father involved. The pregnancy,the doctors visits, the delivery room, the labor.

The changing of the body, the female figure widens, sags and is stretched with marks. The poor vagina no longer just a receiver, for it has given. They say most women are "less pleased" with their vagina's a year after giving birth.

***

“The American Dream?” It sounds like a nightmare to me.

Not really a response you can give while warming cups coffees for older ladies.

Which brings me back to hot nights in the kitchen long after dinner was over, those love birds could have just pounced on each other right there at the kitchen sink, if it weren’t for those kids tucked away peeing in their beds. I assure you, there is much more to life than babies and husbands and minivans.

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Vanishing Point

The distinct scent of oil paint lingers throughout the studio, my hands and forearms smeared in various color, with pallet and brush still in hand, I step back from the easel and stare with the deepest feelings of content at the freshly painted canvas.
The walls decorated in the frames of my life, the vivid images of painted seascapes, and landscapes, florals and plant life hang throughout the room.

We all have something that we are passionate about. Something that we use to express who we are, something we could not live without. What would happen to us if it were taken from us?

For me that would be my art and my ability to create. I often wondered what would happen if I lost my ability to use my left hand. So with that fear I have practiced for many years painting with the right was well. Some paintings I purposefully painted it’s entirety with the right hand. Then I wondered well what if I lost both hands? Well there are art societies of people who paint primarily with their mouth and with their feet.

I was never worried that I could lose my ability to see color, but I do have a slight fear that I could possible develop a degenerative eye condition through my family blood and go blind all together.

My grandmother on my mother’s side had this condition for most of her old age. She had to wear sunglasses inside, she wouldn’t recognize you, but would squint and follow your voice to try to identify the silhouette that she could see before her. She couldn’t sew, or nit, read recipes or her watch.

What if this happens to me? What about my paintings? If you go blind, does your memory keep that imagery for reference? Do you still dream in color?
How would I paint? Does muscle memory apply to painting blind, could you paint a flower by memory?

How would I measure my struggle to mastery? What means would I have to experiment, and discover? How would I reflect and share myself?

Then there’s the poor studio, the easels would stand purposeless with nothing to rest upon them. The pallets and brushes abandoned unused, the canvas’ still wrapped in their plastic. The scents of oils, acrylics and gesso no longer linger. The dust from the pastels swept away. How could I childishly make a mess, with nothing to play with? What would I get my hands dirty with?

My studio, my artistic nature hollowed out and emptied by a black abyss, left barren in a colorless world.

Or what if I continued to create art, but color didn’t matter. What if I began an art collection of abstract objects? Three dimensional sculptures or two dimensions paintings based upon texture. What if I then revolutionized the blind art world and opened a museum of touch? You could walk through and feel the pieces and do what you can not do at other museums.

Maybe being blind could enhance the spirituality by heightening the other senses; no longer distracted by the visual. Perhaps it would teach lessons in superficiality and could remove judgment from the mind and expand and transform the artistic nature into something else.

We all have something that we are passionate about, something that we use to express who we are. Let us take a moment, and celebrate those somethings we cherish, and let us hope that we never meet its vanishing point.

Tuesday, November 02, 2010

Nothing Is Where It Should Be.

The bedroom cluttered with clothes of dance parties and summer days. Coat hangers all about and the mirrors glazed in dust. Short skirts and high heels, bikinis and flip flops strewn about the bedroom; outfits I wore for me, but also for him.

The room is dark as I stand at the end of the bed looking to the place I took sanctuary. I look to his pillow on his side of my bed, where he should be and where he is not.

Nothing is where it should be.

I look to the past through those lilac sheets stained in our sleepiness and our lustfulness and our passions of seasons spent lying there. The comforter blue and flowered twisted and wrapped with the fleece blanket, all of this bedrock smothered in his scent and in mine.

The bed must be striped and the sheets washed.

***

I look to the days before, it took place at the kitchen table, I sat in his lap kissing him, so happy he was there; but something was off, I knew it.I stiffened, and rose from his lap and sat in the other kitchen chair facing him. Calm and quiet, I conversed with him as the tears fell and my heart sunk further into my stomach. It was so sudden, so saddening and shocking. My chin quivered as I spoke.

“How could this be?”

“Differences.” He says.

He kissed me and those same tears that rolled before began again; his mind was made and he left me.

For most of the day I sopped tears from my face. The heavy kind, that roll uncontrollably from the eyes, the kind that require no blinking, the kind make your heart ache.

The reasons he gave me I can not accept. They are ludicrous and irrelevant to us.

My heart stayed in my stomach aching and nauseating as I began the torture of mulling over the moments of where things may have gone wrong, and began questioning myself and what I may have done to spoil the happiness.

Was it because I wanted to spend so much of my time with him? I was finally in love with a man that was good to me.

Could it be the little weight I gained over the winter and couldn’t fit into my size tiny anymore?

The things I have questioned about myself have expanded and been mulled over and over in my mind; till my thoughts extended from me, to him.

Is he a fool?

Is there another girl?

I didn’t want my head to wander with such thoughts, but it did.

***

I rose from the kitchen chair and headed to the closet with my swollen eyes and running nose to the shelf of his clothes; but the shelf was empty, all his shirts and shorts, boxers and puma socks, gone.

He knew this was coming.

There is nothing of his left for me to wrap myself in.

***

An explanation I have not.

Things are not what they seem.

Love is tricky; it gives just as it takes.

***

I climb onto the bed, tears fall continuously from my face. I begin to bunch the blankets into a pile, and pull at the fitted sheet. I hug this bundle of fabric, bury my face into it, lay on to it and breathe in his scent as I cry.

How do I wash these lilac sheets?

How do I rinse his scent from my king sized bedstead?

How do I let go of what was, and embrace what is now?

The bed must be striped and the sheets washed.

Nothing is where it should be.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Great Hot Mess

As a child one of her favorite things to do was to make potato soup. She would take all the pots and pans out of the cupboard and fill them with everything but the kitchen sink, which didn’t really make for anything edible or savory according to her mother but it kept her occupied and certainly made for a great hot mess.

A headstrong little girl, she couldn’t be told what she couldn’t do. She took on that “watch me” attitude and would be off proving it could be done. With great adventure in her heart she was always venturing off and exploring. Growing up in Southern Maine with the long winters, she longed to be outdoors, playing.

One winter she wanted to paint the snow but her mother said it couldn’t be done.

With her “watch me” attitude, there she was out in the yard with her watercolors, a few paint brushes, a cup filled with warm water in her snowsuit and mittens, painting the ice all the colors of the rainbow.

She didn’t let others talk her out of things she believed to be true. The snow can be painted.

***

A grown woman she floats through the bar mingling with friends, and acquaintances and lovers of nights before sipping from her glass of guiltless pleasure a “Brittany Special.”

The boys admire her from afar, when she locks eyes, that’s it they're hooked. With her fearless attitude and assertive personality, her blonde straightened and blow dried hair. Her breasts perched in her Victoria Secrets bra, bounce at the brim of her v-cut top. She walks right up to the group of young men standing and staring and introduces herself.

“Hi there, I’m Brittany.”

Warm and bubbly she stands with her big smile, bats her lashes and giggles. Her bangs fall over her scandalous eyes, she laughs wholeheartedly at whatever foolishness these handsome strangers try to entice her with.

They call her “Scandal.” Boy crazy and beautiful, a dangerous combination. She believes that the town too can be painted.

***

As headstrong as she was, she could still be talked into things that weren’t true.

Near her childhood home in Old Orchard Beach with her mother and her brother. The three were looking for treasures on the beach, picking through the seaweed and the shells and the sand. Brittany found a beautiful white oval shaped object, smoothed by time and the tide. She held it in her hands and went running.

“Look Mom, isn’t it beautiful!” She exclaimed.

“Oh Punky (Her mother called her long before Punky Bruster) do you know what it is?

She shook her head.

“It’s a Seagull’s egg!” Her mother told her.

“Really? I want to take it to show and tell!”

Unknowing to her mother she took it to school.Regardless of how headstrong she was or how able she was to talk others into the things she believed were true. This she could not convince her classmates of. Sometimes a rock is just a rock even if you are told otherwise.

A funny little girl, a little gullible but at least she believed in what was.

****

Laying on the bluffs in the midday sun with her close friends, the air warm making the skin moist, she covers her face and cringes.

“I love him you guys. I do. I haven’t heard from him. We were hanging out everyday. I stayed at his house three nights in a row.”

She keeps checking her phone,to see if there were any new text messages,any messages from him.

Her friends have tried to convince her that he was no good, and could not be great.
But she opened all the cupboards to her great hot mess, even if wasn’t savory, for she believed it could be; but sometimes a dick is just a dick, even if you’re told otherwise.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Paint Slinger

As a child I had a keen imagination and a clever a mind, I was often found making things out of other things. All by my-self drawing in the dirt or rearranging my food to look like something else. I loved coloring books, but quite often I would color outside the lines, and add things to the page because I felt they belonged there. I loved arts and crafts at summer camp, making braided bracelets and miniature cabins built out of tongue and groove Popsicle sticks.

It wasn’t until I attended catholic school, and met a crazy art teacher, did I discover that I was in fact an artist. Our assignment was a still-life; she placed a vase with two sunflowers in it on the desk in front of the chalkboard, the sunlight flowed in through the large old windows of that dark art room, illuminated the yellow and the maroon petals and warmed the brown of their center, those flowers spoke to me. That was all it took, sun, flowers and acrylics. I’ve been painting up a storm every since.

My formal training included three art classes in high school, a winter of private lessons, and one college level art course, the rest I have cultivated on my own; along with the support of my teachers, friends, and family.

My collection of paintings range from watercolors, acrylics, oils, multimedia and a small selection of gel prints, I have over one hundred canvas in this tree house, numerous other works of art, not mention what’s still at the folks.

My subjects range from landscape to seascapes, flowers to trees; animals to abstracts, to my latest personalized collection of Tarot cards; each painted on different sized canvas.

Creativity comes in waves and my heart can be measured by frames. Time will pass with no artwork at all, I’m either content with my life and don’t need to express, or so discontent that I lay baren without seeds to plant. The control and the freedom that comes with artistic expression involves just the right amount of suffering to pour the heart out in color. Art is an outlet that can frustrate, but it what’s gets you through.

The “Paradise Orchids” (one of my masterpieces.)The creases of the flowers and the ridges in the leaves painted so precisely with the fine lines of the buttery oil paint in a ton of layers. The tubes of luminous red and sap green emptied, and the three boyfriends I went through before to complete it.

The Tarot card “Death,” I created a two paneled piece in acrylic with the Ace of Cups at the end of the cemetery. The beginning and the ending, marking the fall when I lost both my Grandmothers, all the colors where mixed with a hue of gray.

An untitled piece on gigantic canvas, I painted crescents that weave into each other, one side a blue moon with the stars, the other an orange sun with a tree.This painting can be flipped either way to put the tree on top or the stars. It marks the duality of my life at that time, the pros and the cons, the nights of the old and the days of the new.

My menagerie of artwork has been displayed around Eastern Maine: Local Fest, The Mall, The River Tree Café, The Village Green Art Show, and my “Tree House Gallery”, but those must be rearranged and traded off to the closet as the walls haven’t any more space to give.

I also exhibit my artwork for judging at the annual Blue Hill Fair. In the last five years I have been awarded 4 Second Place, 20 First Place, and 1 “Best of Show” for 2010, a total of 25 ribbons; that also accompany a small cash prize and get your name in the paper.

I paint mostly during the quiet of winter, although the budding of spring often infuses me with creativity. Some of my biggest discoveries were trying different mediums not following the directions and just producing art. No premeditated ideas, no deliberation, just slinging paint onto primed linen. Sometimes that is the most therapeutic part of painting; the rules are your own; a little color here, another color there, maybe a top coating with crackle paste; or perhaps epoxying broken shards of mirror to the canvas.

The music plays loudly, the distinct scent of oil paint lingers throughout the studio, my hands and forearms smeared in various color. The music no longer heard but fallen to the background of my thoughts, as I mull over the moments and the seasons past with the strokes of my brush.

We are all born something, I was born a paint slinger.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Piece of Mind

Sometimes we try something for the first time because it scares us, or because we don’t know what to expect, but the second time it is because our curiosity provokes us into it. To satisfy our peace of mind, we think maybe our second experiences and impressions might just be different from the first.

***
The four of us in the Jimmy head out the back roads of the County, Keith and Nikki in the front, Chris and I in the back for our double date to the gravel pit.
The landscape in Northern Maine is filled with hills that roll into the horizon, houses that rest slanted, and farm equipment shiny and rusted parked in the dooryards.

We turn down Cow Tail Road. A white fence follows, and dips with the peaks and valleys of the green pasture. The sun shinning, and the cows grazing, this peaceful scenery is smothered in the stench of caw patties as we cross the narrow bridge over the brook. We veer right down the dirt road.

Keith sets out to inspect the area, by walking about the pit. Determining its safety, he sets up the target by hammering it into the sand pile, and staples on the paper bulls-eye. He then unloads his collection of arms and ammunition.

We create a firing line. Keith steps up first with his brand new Springfield XDM, 9mm semiautomatic. He locks and loads and assumes the position. We all pull our ear protection over our ears as he fires. The sound echoes through the pit, and can be felt in the air. An excellent shot at that, beautiful grouping at the bulls-eye.

We each take turns firing.

This being my second time to ever fire a gun, I step up to the firing line, and stand tall with my arms out in front of me. My left hand firmly grasps the ivory grips of “Dirty Susan” Keith’s .38 special double action revolver. I load her up with bullets.

I slip my finger over the trigger, cock the hammer back with my right thumb and stare down the sights till I find the bulls-eye. Ready I breathe in and hold my breath, aim and fire.

The barrel tipped upward as the bullet ejected, my shot didn’t even make the target. My hands, my wrists, my shoulders all absorb the recoil. Recoil was a concept I had yet to experience.

A little flustered I take a deep breath, peer down the sights and aim a little lower than the center. I cock the hammer and fire again. I make the target this time. I repeat this action, with deep breaths and tight grips till the five round revolver empties. For good measure, I fire one more shot. The pistol warm in my hand, smokes a little as I push the release with my thumb. I open the cylinder to expel the empty shells to the ground.

Exhilarated, pumping with adrenaline I reach for the next gun. I go down the line taking turns with my group and trying each gun of collection before us. A .22 Rifle, .38 special revolver, .357 magnum, 9mm semiautomatic, and a 12 gauge shotgun to boot. We shoot up all the targets that we had and most of the ammunition.

***

Sometimes we try something for the first time because it scares us, or because we don’t know what to expect, but the second time is because our curiosity provokes us into it. There’s nothing like the power of a pistol in the grip of your female hand. I certainly found my piece of mind and I keep on the nightstand.

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

The Beast of Breakfast

“Welcome to Vacationland.”

“The way life should be.”

Slogans that lure strangers from afar to this northern state of New England to explore what it has to offer. Autumn being harvest season, it’s when we reap the rewards, it is the season of the leaf peepers, the newly weds and nearly deads.”

They come by road and by sea, in car or tour buses, on boats or cruise ships. All on their own adventures with hopes of catching a glimpse of a moose or maybe a whale, or to explore the great outdoors; whatever their adventures may be all these vacationers will soon grow hungry.

Melissa and I begin our opening shift by brewing coffee, icing creamers and lemons, setting up plates with butter packets and miniature pitches for maple syrup. And checking our sections for full sugar and jelly caddies.

The fog rolls up the street, and enchants me with its mist, can’t even see the cruise ships in the harbor. Today's passenger and crew totals over 7,000; now that’s not to say that they all tender in, or that they are all coming to the restaurant for meals or for our bus tour tickets, nonetheless we prepare.

At some tables you can’t even get the words, “Good Morning” out of your mouth, and the transient diner barks for coffee. I just close my mouth, bow my head and go fetch. I am more than just a vehicle to the nectar of the bean.

There are the diners that say good morning back to you, and ask how you are; as you take your breath to reply they cut you off and tell you what they will have. There are two creatures of this world,one:

“I want two eggs and toast.” The woman confirms.

“How do you want your eggs? I ask.

“Sunny side-up.”

White, wheat or rye? I ask.

“Wheat.”

“And you have a choice of homes fries or grits?

“Yes.”

“Which?” I must ask.

“Oh, um, home fries.”

Then there are the others creatures;

“I want coffee black and my wife’s with cream and sugar. She will have blueberry
pancakes, real maple syrup and bacon well done. I a spinach and goat cheese omelet, wheat toast dry, home fries crispy, and orange juices with our meal.”
Followed by, “Oh and we are on your bus tour of the park, and we need to board in thirty minutes.”

Meanwhile I am standing there with one pot regular and one pot decafe and all I had asked was, “Would ya like coffee?”

Interactions with the transient diners like this continue relentlessly throughout the day. Passing dialogue, filled with questions on each side, and repeated answers, and inflection of tone as patience thins either mine or theirs.
All amongst the clamoring and clanging of dishes, and those god damn coffee cups, half empty begging to be filled and to be warmed.The checks that need printing, the printer that needs paper; those plates in the kitchen grow hotter the longer they sit dying in the window, the voids, the separate checks, and the ten percenters.

Then there’s Andy cussing behind the line at all the orders that just came in all at once. Tis the season of the leaf peepers, the newly weds and the nearly deads; we survived another grueling day of cruise ship season and the turn and burn beast that is breakfast.

Saturday, October 02, 2010

Family Portrait

We lived in a ranch style home, built from starch by my father, grandfathers and other member of my family. Like your typical family portrait out in the country included the family dog. We called her Sheena, a beautiful golden retriever with reddish long hair, deep brown motherly eyes, a wonderful companion for us kids.

Sheena was a roamer, but always knew her way back home. There were no sidewalks on the road I grew up on. We’d just walk along side the dirt and tall grass, or we could walk the four-wheelin’ trails through the woods, as did the dog. She was never spaded so when the times came when she went into heat, she would run frantically around the house dripping droplets of blood onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor, just begging to be let out.

We spent many of our summer days out to camp and Sheena usually would come with, but not in this condition. On hot days, we’d leave the back door open, and latch the screen door to keep her in. There were lots of other dogs around these parts, in heat, it didn’t take her long to scratch through that screen and find herself doggy-stylin’ it in some yard down the road.

*** *** ***

She had several litters in her life time I remember one in particular. Mum made a bed for her to lay her pups in the corner; she was very territorial of this space. Curious little children we sat in the middle of the living room floor watching inching our way forward till we heard Mum’s voice yelling from the kitchen, “You kids better leave her alone!”

When they were born six in all, they were covered in mucus and some blood, and there was this little sac that came along with them. We watched from a distance as she licked them clean with her motherly instincts. They were tiny whitish and blackish things, their eyes still shut, whimpering, shaking, and huddling together; and their scent very distinct yet indescribable.

Soon thereafter we were sent off to bed. I woke in the middle of night, to the sound of a puppy yelping repeatedly. The house dark and quiet, except for a lamp, I climb down off my bunk-bed and head down the hall. Sheena lay with all her pups nestled up to the warmth of her belly, except this little one all by his lonesome, shaking and whimpering.

I try to nudge him up to the rest, Sheena wrinkles her snout at me. The action that occurs just before a dog shows their teeth. With her fatigued body and protective instincts, she softly growls at me under her breath. My eyes swell with tears.

“I’m just trying to help you Sheena.This puppy wants you too.” I lie on the floor and watch as she nudges him away again, she just doesn’t want him near. I didn’t understand, and took my sleepyhead back to bed.

The next morning, my brother, and my little sis and I sit around looking at them. We discover that one of them only has three legs, so he is appropriately named Tripod. I pick up the little one from the night before, hold him coupled in my hands; tiny, black in color not really hair just pigment, covered in that scent. I hold him and admire his cunningness, when suddenly his body goes limp. I breathe in, in shock and hold my breath. His little heart beat stopped, the movement of chest seized and that little pup died in my hands before me.

“Mum…Mum…” The tears swell in my eyes. “He just died, I was only holding him.”

Sheena lost two that day, few hours later Tripod went with his brother. Mum and Dad explained to us that they were runts,and survival of the fittest.Together we packed the two dead pups into cereal boxes, dug holes in the earth and buried them near a rock out in the backyard.

*** *** ***

Few years later, our family went on a road trip, something we rarely. I brushed Sheena out on the back deck,. She took her paw and placed it in the palm of my hand, almost like a goodbye. I hugged her and told her we would be back in a few days.

Then we were off to the White Mountains in New Hampshire. My grandmother had gone over to feed her and let her out, but the day we returned she didn’t come back when let out. Dad made a quick stop at Doug’s, and sent my sis and I, to the meat department to get some marrow bones for her for when she returned.

We pull into the yard, the driveway dark and there she was under Dad’s truck. Something she always did to hide from the sun and cool herself in the shade. The headlights still on in the minivan, but she hasn’t come to greet us yet. She just lay there. She too had died. I recall the moment days before when I brushed her, and she placed in paw in my palm, it was a goodbye. So we prepared for another burial in the backyard.

How we could be so young and watch life and hold life and then to watch death and hold death in the palms of our little hands? Sheena was more than just a companion for us kids she was an anchor for some of life’s lessons learned. One being that portrait of the ranch style home out in the country along with the family dog, sadly includes a shovel.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Ready, Set, Go!

Its 4:55am as the first alarm of my cell vibrates on the nightstand. I wake with a flutter in my chest on this day. I turn off the alarm and snuggle up with the covers to repeat the same process, for two more alarms. A morning ritual I have practiced for many years now, I suppose it’s another expression of how I ease myself into things.

5:20 the flutters continue, I’m up out of bed and getting ready for the big day ahead. Alex already up, dressed and standing in the kitchen waiting. I dress warmly, in wind pants and a fleece; brush my teeth, and wrap up my long red hair. Lastly I slip on my sneakers, and lace them tightly. My cell vibrates again, a text from Tania wishing me good luck for the day. My bags packed the night before we head out the door and down the stairs. Both the flutters of nervousness and of excitement move from my chest to my belly.

Ready.

We cross town in my vehicle and pick up his. One pit stop in Trenton, I don’t dare eat anything, just a strawberry protein shake. We head northeast up Route 3 to catch I-95. Southbound we head down the highway seeking exit 150. I photograph the sign as we exit to document today’s adventure. Were looking for Harrison Avenue; the sun just high enough to shadow the sign and we miss it. We turn around just up ahead, right across the road from a cemetery, that’s not very reassuring I think to myself. Back in route we take a left and head on down to the end of Harrison and park at Curtis Air. The directions instruct us to walk across the aircraft parking area and warned to watch for airplanes!

A pretty chilly morning, not a cloud in sight and the bright blue sky beckons. We walk on the edge of the runway and head up toward the tree line where we are greeted by a man driving a golf cart.

“Hey there!” He shouts, “You going skydiving?”

“Yes!” We reply with smiles and giddy laughter.

“Hop on.” He invites and gives us a ride up to the Central Maine Skydiving building.

We enter the barn like structure; harnesses and parachute packs hang the length of one wall, the other hangs helmets, jumpsuits and goggles and such gear. A few funny posters and stickers stuck here and there, a tiny operation down this way. We are immediately handed waivers to sign over some of our rights.

“Be sure to read and check each of the boxes.” The lady explains.
These documents confirmed our willingness to chuck ourselves out of a perfectly good airplane. These rights we gladly exchanged for the experience to fall from the sky. Being our first jump we must jump tandem, harnessed to an experienced skydiver.Matt our instructor begins to explain the process and the steps we must follow. We listen closely and attentively, and discover that only one of us can jump at a time. I impulsively claim the liberty of jumping first and Alex complied.

I’m geared up in a jumpsuit, goggles, and a cap. The harness has been fashioned snugly around my petite frame. I collect my affirmations from my purse and stick them up the sleeve. A few words written on paper, things I want to embrace in my life and a few things I want to let go of. I give Alex a big hug, a tight squeeze and I’m off.

Set.

Another ride on the golf chart we head across the grass back to the runway to the plane. As instructed, I sit back-to the pilot, this being the tinniest airplane I’ve flown in and probably the oldest, a 1965 Cessna 182. Matt climbs in behind me and the other two jumpers follow suit. We taxi on down the runway, full throttle ahead, we take off. With wind beneath our wings, we elevate off the earth and into the air. Matt video tapes the view out the front windshield and I watch out the sides at the trees and watch as they slowly become blobs of color divided by lots of land, and water and buildings.

Jim is jumping first, at 5,000 feet. Jim unlatches the door and it swings open. The wind speaks loudly and nips at the face with its crispness, the engine cuts along with its sound. Jim steps out with one hand on the bar under the wing, one foot on the platform and the other foot behind him in the air. Then he steps backward and disappears from view, falling through the sky beneath us. I turn to the other jumper, Randy he looks at me and says, “Your next!”

Matt wears a wrist band altimeter, a digital device that calculates the level of elevation. I watch the digits rise.

“How are you feeling?” Matt inquires and turns the camera to me. Now this is when the nervousness hit me. Anticipating the next moments, I just sat there with my hands folded in my lap, calm and collected, peering out the window, anxiously awaiting my turn to fly.

“Your not gonna chicken out?” He asks.

“Hell no!” I shout and shake my head assertively.

“There no turning back now?” He asks

“No’sah.” I confirm with Downeast conviction.

I turn around to be harnessed to Matt. He tightly fastens the buckles to their straps and clasps the hooks to their loops. The door opens, the wind and its noise make the moment real. Still seated we turn together and I step my feet out onto the platform. The engine cuts and the plane slows. Feet together, I say to myself. Matt rocks forth, one, two, and

Go!

Free falling for 40 seconds at 10,000 feet above the land of Mother Earth, traveling through her bright blue sky at over 100 miles per hour, the video cam seated on his left arm captures this all. The look on my face, the air as it fills my mouth and puffs out my cheeks. I swallow that air and come to and greet the camera with a wide smile.

Randy is then seen free falling just a short distance away. We fall 5,000 feet of the sky until the parachute is deployed. We are quickly jolted backward and upward rapidly reducing speed.

“The chute was the scariest part!” I yell and Matt agrees.

Held together by rope, nylon and some trust we float along descending. I pull the pieces of paper from my sleeve. I read each one by one to myself and release it into the aerospace and into the cosmos.

Matt hands me the reins of the multi-blue colored parachute, I grip them evenly as we glide on down, I hand them back as the ground grows closer. The blobs reemerge as trees, and branches and leaves, Alex and a small group stand staring up at us. My legs straight out in front of me, like instructed and we fly in by the seat of out pants across the grass sopped in dew and we return to the earth.

“That was so much fun!” I exclaim and giggle repeatedly, grinning from ear to ear.I am over come with this sense of calmness, like I shed some nervousness up there in the big blue. I just learned how to fly, and experienced what goes up must come down. Devoured the taste of liberation, I was ready, and set to go.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Scorned Woman

It’s Friday night in the Village, and I am dressed like the cat’s meow, in a strapless Victoria Secret dress, the color of chocolate; complemented with a pair of strappy high heels and golden arm bands.

A group of us have just left the improvisational comedy show. I had just gone up on stage in the last bit. I was asked to describe my day, they then used this information to make a crazy dream skit by scrambling up the events.

I’m just glowing, high on endorphins and a little buzzed off the brandy.Smiling and still laughing the four of us strut up Main Street in search for one of the hot spots in town, Brit’s tending bar tonight. We arrive and cross the packed patio to make our way inside. Quite a few of familiar faces to mingle with,so I hang for a while, and sip from my glass until it empties.

My party members have already gone upstairs to check out the DJ and the only dance floor in town.I slip out the side door and up the front steps to The Veranda. It’s always packed up here on Friday nights, late especially. The drinks are stiff and the music loud, it’s where the bodies touch and the ruckus unfolds. The Veranda and Brits bar are where you’ll find whoever you’re looking for, come last call.

I don’t pay any cover, I just strut on through. I make my way pass the bodies to the bar and indulge in another drink. I step out on the veranda and greet my friends. The music bumping, the chatter of the voices growing louder and louder, the ladies dressed and pressed for a night of provoking boys, the boys dressed and pressed and wanting to be provoked.

A boy approaches me and remembers my name but his I do not. His face familiar, yet unsure of how I recognize him. He tells me his name is Brian and then tries to engage in what I think, he thought was flirtation, but really what just turned out to just be bad game.

He asked me what sign I was, and said he too was a Scorpio and began rambling off about their compatibility. I am a third generation, redheaded Scorpion woman, I know a lot about the zodiac and what he was saying frankly, was not true. So I called him out.

He corrects himself by saying, “Yeah but the sex is good.” Followed by the statement, “You should give me your number. “

In response, I zipped up my purse, turned back to and began conversing with my friends. I guess he didn’t catch my drift. He interrupts, says something that I didn’t hear and then whole-handedly grabs my ass. Impulsively I smack him on the arm and he just walks away.

I turned to my party in shock, “He just grabbed my ass!” I exclaimed. None of the boys in my party would say anything. I turn to a neighboring acquaintance and convey with conviction, “Ross you need to control your boy!”

“He’s not my boy.” He shrugs.

The tunes thump from the speakers, the panes of glass vibrate. The chatter boxes continue, mostly just yelling over each other at this point. The veranda clouded in the stench of cologne and body odor, alcohol and cigarettes. Still in shock, pissed, and not a man around to stand up for me, I seek a resolution.

I look down at the drink in hand, take a deep haul and remove its straw. I hesitate as my heart palpitates at what I was preparing myself to do in the next moment. My eyes scan once more, he is spotted seated at a table directly at the door, and he’s mackin’ on his next victim.

I walk right up and interrupt his conversation by dumping coffee brandy, milk, ice and all into his lap. And bark aggressively, “You need to learn some fucking manners! And don’t you ever do that to me again!”

He was stunned. He just looked at me all wide eyed, his jaw hanging, and his crotch soaked. Like he didn’t know what he had done wrong. With no back up to aid me, I swiftly step out the door, round back down the stairs and seek refuge at Brit’s bar.

I come in invigorated, and petrified, and exhilarated; announcing,“Brit, you’re not going to believe what I just did!!”

Monday, September 06, 2010

Some of us do and some of us don't.

It is one hundred degrees on the island and it’s the first week of September! This is unheard of ‘round these parts, yet creates a blessed day for a dip.

My friend Alec and I arrive eager for relief from the heat. We walk down the path sprinkled in dried pine needles, and down over the bank. In some places the roots of the trees have grown across the path creating steps, as if Mother Nature were helping us to reach the water. We plop our things down and undress to our swim clothes.

Alec wades in first, I find myself tip toeing around the waters edge, barely wetting my feet. Slowing I step, cautiously and deliberate, timid to move forward.

Eventually I lunge ahead and swim into the refreshingly cool spring feed lake; finally, the relief I was seeking. We play around for a while under the warmth of the fiery sun, in this unusually late summer’s heat.

Alec then decides he will swim across the width of Lake Wood; me on the other hand, I retreat and sit lakeside on a rock watching. I watch him as he ventures, he appears as just a dot floating on the water. The sun still high, its reflection glimmers. I lose sight of him as he disappears into the cast shadows, but spot him once more as he climbs up on the rocks, on the other side. He too sits and peers across.

I bath in the sun and blow bubbles. At that moment, I recognized all the elements present. I sit upon the earth, the sun and its fire, the water and its depth, and the breeze that carries these bubbles.

I look across the lake and think of summer camp. In the morning all the cabins would line up. There was a series of morning rituals that went on, one being to yell across the lake in unison, “Gooooood mornnnning West Side!” To the boys side of the lake; and they would respond in unison, “Goooooood mornnnnnning East Side!” This caused my thoughts to wander. To think of boys and girls, day and night, the good and the bad, the duality of this world, and its constant companionships.

The more time spent in the woods, with Mother Nature, and the elements, the more you feel filled with insight and inspiration. Possessing the ability to draw in that positive energy and channel it and manifest it in your life is the tricky part.

I watch Alec submerge for the trek back across. That’s quite a commitment to swim across unknown waters, knowing that you have to swim back. I think about the commitments I make in my life. The time is spend in limbo, deliberating. I acknowledge my approach in the water, timid and cautious.

Forthcoming Alec arrives. Breathless he sits and rests.

The sun has moved across Lake Wood and has begun to fall behind the tree line. I want to jump before the warmth disappears. I have to jump today. Alec collects himself, we walked up bank to the bluffs.

I stand on the edge and peer into the deep water. My red hair and my freckles are glowing, illuminated by the sun. I raise my arms to embrace my choice, and push off into the air. A short free fall until I am submerged once more in the water. I rise to the surface and take a deep breath.

I tread water for a while, looking back up at my friend as he still stands peering in. He stood for so long, till finally he just sat down on the ledge. So I swam in. He couldn’t bring him self to do it. He just couldn’t.

The sun is well hidden by the trees as this point. I climbed back up to jump another round. I stand still once more with my arms raised, and push off.

It’s truly a liberating experience, to do something without delay, to move forward in an assertive and active way. These thoughts take me back to the boys on the West side, and the girls on the East. Some of us do and some of us don’t.

Friday, September 03, 2010

Intro of Self

I reside in a crooked little tree house, on an island off the coast of Maine. I serve up the Downeast experience to tourists by summer and attend classes and paint during the quiet of winter.
I grew up out in the country. My siblings and I had fourteen acres of woods to play around on. Mind you though, living out in the boonies isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. We had to find ways to keep ourselves entertained. I spent a lot of time coloring and playing with school supplies; trying to make things, out of other things.
I blossomed after a two experience at catholic school. Seventh and Eighth grade I discovered that I was not only an artist but a painter, and not a catholic at all.
When I returned to public school, academically I enjoyed it, but it turned a little rough for me socially. I wanted out. With the support of my advisers and family, I sailed through rough waters as an honor roll student and graduated as a junior.
I continued my education attending college classes as a non-matriculated student. It suited me at the time. It provided me with the opportunity to take a whim; to come and go as I pleased. I have traveled across the country coast to coast by plane, by car, and once and only once, by greyhound bus. I have been to thirty one states in the U.S. I have wintered in warmer places.
Having spent that time collecting my wits about me, I eventually became a matriculated student.
I am now a Phi Theta Kappa member, enrolled in the Liberal Studies Program at Eastern Maine Community College. I have been picking away at this for some time now. I’m down to six classes to earn my degree. I am also an award winning artist at the annual Blue Hill Fair.
After it’s all said and done, I intend to leave this island and this crooked little tree house. I aspire to weave together my passion for academia and for art into one and to venture off to a school of art.