Reality Intervenes--Day 4

Writing group tonight. This means facing the dinner hour much earlier, and having to look human in public for several hours. My sister and her hubby are coming to check it out, too.

 Let's hope it goes smoothly, because the proprietors of the venue do not, anymore, look kindly on us.

We bring in some cash on an evening that is traditionally pretty thin there, but still, they've said inhospitable things to some of our members, and in particular, one member that often orders a full meal.

 What kind of business sense is that?

 I'm looking into several new venues, and hoping they will be accepted by the group. Our meetings have gotten larger lately anyhow, and we need more room to spread out. Plus, the chairs at our usual place are not comfortable, and they don't serve real lattes anymore.

  Wish us luck!!! 

Reality Intervenes-- Day 3

 Yesterday was not the downer I expected, as Doc Tyler, a fun and caring individual, set at rest my worries about the lump in my side, and cleared up a few things about the whole "removal" of women parts I am probably facing in the next month or so. He said I'm doing pretty well aside from those issues, which helps to know.

 Today, the abdominal/pelvic MRI happened. Not too bad, some calming techniques needed, and of course I had to forgo my morning coffee-- all food and water-- until the deed was done. They also shot some liquid metal into me for the last part-- it's called taking the picture 'with contrast.'

 I'd been prepped with a scrip for diazepam, but I only took half of one, and not sure it had much to do with my relative calm during the tests. At this point in life, I've accepted a fair amount of scary shit to get to necessary ends, and I'm certain there's worse to come. 

 On the lighter side, an online acquaintance equated paganism with immoral behavior, just by the by; and a friend screamed slanderous abuse at me over the phone, at top volume, because I gently suggested that he shouldn't rush to marry a woman who had very recently come back into his life. Note, I didn't tell him never to marry her, just not to rush into it, and I said it calmly and tactfully. But he screeched bullshit, so I hung up on him. My online pal-- a nice woman that I respect a great deal-- I asked her to notice the implied insult to all non-Christians, and I think it's leading to a potentially useful dialogue.

 The pasta I had for dinner, not so useful-- gummy and badly sauced. I didn't cook it folks, I heated it up, and threw most of it away in disappointment.
 
 Was it a good day?

 Hell yes. After not eating for 13+ hours, we went to lunch (extravagance!) and then came home and took a nap-- bad sleep last night. We're going to listen to Shopgirl on audiobook CD, read by Steve Martin, and snooze.

 Kenmore is dark, but still lively at 9:38 pm. Have a good night!


   --Mari

Reality Intervenes-- Day 1

 Inside and outside, I will have a lot of new, weird, and possibly unpleasant things happening this month. It starts out, today, with the anniversary of my sister Linda's death from cancer 17 years ago. (The year it happened I was reading The Wasteland for a class, too, and I knew the heart of that poem without being told by my teacher, believe me.)

 I'll experiment this month with a Daily Life blog, to capture the oddities of having my first MRI, and other firsts that will come after. And maybe some great things can happen too-- the writing workshop I consult for at The Oracle Charter School was on the brink of ending, from lack of participation, when one of the student writers came back and gave us a shot of new energy. We get to continue hearing from a group of kids that need to be heard, and should be heard from, for this month at least.

 Bringing kids into the power structures of their own organizations and activities, seems to me to be essential to honestly serving their needs. And now that my cohort in this venture has done that, we may have a chance to positively affect some young writers.

 It's not deeply important to me that the high school kids attending the workshop stay writers-- what's important, crucial even, is that maybe through having some recognition and affirmation of their work, they will want to keep presenting their creative selves to the world, and will seek out valuable criticism in other endeavors, too. If we can offer them an outlet for expression and build a little trust between us and them, I'll be happy.

In the meantime, my gyno doc wants to remove a now-useless part of me, and I have to find someone to stand-in for me at the workshop, should I need it in the next session or two.

Hopefully April won't be all about surgery and finding out if I have cancer; hopefully there will be good spots, spots of good news and good luck. Tomorrow my GP tells me what he thinks about the test results we've gotten so far-- that means today may be my last day not to know what is wrong with me. What wouldn't you give for a day like that, hmm?

I'm trying to prep for all contingencies, but doing one chunk at a time, so as to not be overwhelmed. Starting this month's blog theme has been a small bit crossed off my to-do list. Aren't you properly scared off for the rest of April now?

 If not, then here's my little tribute to Lynne, a song I wrote about her during my very first FAWM. Full of little true pieces of her, it may not make much sense to those that never met her, I suppose. She died at 44, and that makes no sense at all.

Hasn't been recorded yet but for a quick-take scratch vocal, that is not worth sharing. I am singing it as I type, though, and have sung it every year since the writing.


April Fool (The Linda Song)

C 2008 Mari Kozlowski


Impermanent
As your heartbeat was, for me
I still sing between the jumps
Recalling words you used to mispronounce--

Your voice, your voice is
A coarse melody that's faded
And your face has drifted
Down through layered time
But I still see

Your long black hair
Swinging down your back
You foxed around
In borrowed clothes you never did return

You've given me a wasteland
Of days that I can't share
But on your birthday
I will drink a cup of wine
And listen to Lou Rawls

Timeless was your scent
It was far too sweet and heavy
There's no logic in your bones
Through all these years, you're still
An April fool.


 Read a poem today!!! It's also National Poetry Month.

                                                                                         Peace, Mari 

What Happens, happens.

Or-- so many plans, so little time.

 Not strictly true. I have a fair amount of unscheduled time most weeks and months, but illness gives me less energy to complete what tasks I do have. No matter, my December blog idea centered around the inspiration of a wonderful photo from my pal Marta, and the only thing holding me back from posting it as a blog header here as I wanted, was the technical skill. My support staff was consistently unavailable (read-- busy gaming), and the whole cheery project languished along with the month. I stored it away for next year, and I'm mulling over ideas for this space, to begin again in April.

 Toying with the idea of a day-to-day life blog (gasp! shock!) such as every other person in the blogosphere has tried, or perhaps tying Oktober Ski in with some of my outside writing life: currently I'm the acting organizer for my critique group, and a consultant for a high school writers' group. That's a lot of feedback generated from little ole me. There has to be a subject or four in those experiences.

Extra detail: someone recently told me I'd make a good editor. I used to think that, too, but now that I've been living inside the process of other folks' writing so continuously, not to mention editing my own work, I can see a lot of lean spots in my understanding. No doubt, time and practice and would shore up those weak points. And there are strong points, too, which could mean the freelance editing idea is worth a try, and I'll need a place to practice, like, oh, Here.

 I'm up for ideas, too-- send me your thoughts.

Another Way to Celebrate....

Now that November, and my NaNoWriMo are over for this year, I have time and peace to resurrect this writing space. For December, I am turning these pages into an outpost of Atheist Advent, my own small contribution to the ongoing dialogue about the many holidays that traditionally hold this month in their cold, sparkly grip. This means songs of the season, from a decidedly different perspective than your average Bing Crosby croon-fest. I plan on no less than one per week, but if I'm on a roll, who knows?

 I celebrate a calm, ripely Wiccan Yule for myself, and attend a semi-Catholic (read: no church for most of us) standard Christmas with family. I have a bad history with Christmas, though, that started when I was a teen, and got worse for a decade, before it came back around. I'll spare you the details here and now, as they might appear in a song soon. 

What you may need to know to get these songs is this: I am an atheist, have been for decades now, and there is no conflict with my pagan/witchy tendencies. In fact, most of the Wiccans and pagans I've known, and there are many, are wise enough to understand that the "old gods and goddesses" are simply symbols of a nature-revering outlook; not to be worshipped, but used to the betterment of our relationship with our planet and all of its occupants, animal vegetable and mineral. I knew a pagan man once who had dedicated his life to Saint Brigid, for her ideals, not because he thought she needed a worshipper. It gave him the framework of meaning he needed in life, as most religion was meant, somewhere back at its inception, to do.

 All this is to tell you, I love the Solstice, and what the spirit of it brings to this month. I enjoy the trappings of the season, but detest how all the major holidays that shine in December have been  perverted by ever-increasing greed. And I'm here to tell you, there is no fucking war on Christmas. Christmas has as many secular traditions as it does god-inspired ones-- more, actually, but who cares? What is, is; and atheists aren't trying to keep you from putting up a tree, a creche, a star, an elf, or an angel on your own land or your church's.

 Just don't expect us, me, to bow to it. And I won't expect you to light a candle on the shortest day of the year, or spend the 25th  of December having dinner at an Indian restaurant because they're the only places that are open, as I have many a year.

 Deal?


 

Treed

 

Today's prompt, from P&W again, as I'm lazy from having only 4 hours sleep:

 

Disaster Revisited

 

Think about a time or incident from your past when you just barely averted disaster. Write a story about it, but change the circumstances so that the disaster actually happens.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 She almost didn't make it through the tree. Technically not all of her did make it through, or around, if you wanted to look at it that way; and likely you wouldn't, as parts of her did make it through, around, past, beyond. By 7:42 pm on the final Wednesday evening of her existence, Sheila Minkiewicz had forced the largest portion of her self, with the help of her 11 year-old Buick Regal, into and onto a half-rotted maple on her best friend's street, less than six blocks from her own apartment.

 She'd been on her way to band practice, running late. Running ten minutes late was on time, for her, but that Wednesday, she was running super-extra late, and had decided to take charge of it by not rushing anymore once she was out the door. Getting out the side door and into her car had been the hard part; getting out with her eye makeup cleaned up from crying, from another fight, from one of the fights that happened every time she and her live-in boyfriend had somewhere that they were supposed to go, together.

 What usually happened was, she was responsible for making sure that she was ready to leave, that the house was ready for them to leave it, that she had taken care of every possible problem and detail that he could have imagined (without telling her), and that she had not pissed him off in some way for a few days before they were meant to go. Which was impossible, since her least moment of contentment within their shitty life made him coldly angry. But all that was a cover for the real reasons.

 He hated obligatory social occasions but refused to avoid them. Traditional behavior, maintaining a middle-class standard, was more important to him than enjoyment, but he made up for it by making a scene just before they arrived wherever it was they were scheduled to be; or as on that Wednesday, while they were preparing to depart. Usually, by the time they had reached their destination, he would be calm, smiling when their host opened the door, or as they met their friends at the restaurant. He'd be collected, even charming, having vented his anger through her; and she'd be left crazed, upset, frustrated at having to shut off her emotion after he'd pried up the lid. She'd be a mess, embarrassed and vulnerable. She'd have a terrible time, and vow to herself not to accept another invitation or to do things differently, but it always happened again, the same way.

 Sheila was smart, well read, but she'd never heard the term "passive-aggressive." She didn't own the descriptives necessary to articulate their disintegration process, the pattern of Matt's control of their situation. She didn't have enough confidence in her instincts anymore to assert that somehow, through deliberately riling her up till she burst, his emotional needs were served. He used her to emote for him and she understood that, counter-intuitive as it seemed, but could not explain it clearly enough to avoid his rational decimations of her attempts to clarify. They'd get caught in a semantics battle, arguing about the details of their argument, caught up in a conflict that neither had the will to end. She wanted to understand, he wanted to negate her understanding of him-- there was no winning, and she was too optimistic to concede that unfortunate reality.

 That Wednesday, when she'd worked her waitress job, gone home and cooked dinner, then tried to warm up her voice while washing the dishes, the same fight started, as always, with him hinting about them being late well before it was a probability.

 He was tagging along to her band practice to hang out with the husband of one of the other girls in the trio. They'd go down to the basement to drink beer and talk Civil War strategies while the three women upstairs worked out a capella harmonies and wrote new songs.  It was a regular thing, and should have been pleasant for all concerned, except that Matt disliked any regular social schedule. He'd begun to resent the necessity of effort involved in maintaining any relationships. He resented Sheila's enjoyment as well, and so this, their one set social engagement, was beginning to pall for both of them.

 They went five or six rounds, a bout of meaningless anguish for Sheila, and then he'd stalked out, having decided to walk instead of wait for her, since she'd obviously be late in leaving. Now that he'd wasted her prep time and her throat was constricted from holding back sobs,  he was off to make sure that he, at least, wasn't going to be seen as rude. He'd be on time, if he hurried, and could blame her if he wasn't.

 When the door shut and she was left alone with her fizzing rageful grief, she let the serving bowl in her hands sink back into the bed of suds, and sat down at their round kitchen table to cry. A thought hit her then, a thought foreign to her basic premise of life, but she reached for it and held on long enough to see every edge clearly: he didn't love her anymore, really did not. And so she could leave him. She could float through tonight, and spend her day off tomorrow looking for a place to go. It didn't even matter when she found one, just that she start looking. He wouldn't be aware of any changes, because he spent all his time avoiding her company. All she had to do, was allow that. After nine years, she could let go, instantly, and feel better. There would be sadness at the loss, later. Now,  relief flowed up her arms, and neck, and back, relief and hope.

 She freshened her face makeup, thinking about a new apartment, a new roommate maybe, and changed into clothes that didn't smell of pizza grease and soda. Then she took up her tambourine and her song sheets, got into the car and drove, slowly, appreciating the cool of early Autumn, feeling huge pleasure at the sight of each tree and house she passed. Often she and Matt walked to Anna's place, since it was so close, but walking back home after a long rehearsal, after work, was too tiring. Matt would expect a ride, too, & be expecting her to act normal the minute he saw her-- and she would, right up till the day she walked out. So she drove, stopping at the corner convenience store to pick up a six-pack to loosen her throat, for singing. Her mood was high, now, and she drove faster, eager to get going on a song she'd just introduced to the group last rehearsal.

 A block away from Anna's, Sheila noticed a group of cute college guys walking, talking-- they were a couple years younger, but what the hell? When they waved and called to her, she waved back, feeling saucy, smiling and watching them in the the rearview mirror as she went forward faster than she'd meant to, into her new life, into the tree.

Oktober Again... Oh So Promptly.

  Last year I began this blog as a way to prime my writing pump for November, with no intention of using it for other purposes. Since then I've come to enjoy the challenge and changing needs of a blog that takes up a new meaning each month, while remaining, at heart, a writer's space. I spent a month here writing daily poetry, a month with old and new songs, a month with true stories, and had a short month of fiction writing problems.

 This Oktober, I' ve decided to use a new writing prompt for each post. As always here, the work will be fresh, with little done in the way of editing (I can't avoid all editing). Expect about 3-5 posts per week only, as this will be an unusually busy Oktober for me. Join in if you get the urge, and share how the prompt worked for you. And we can all get ready for another NaNoWriMo!

 I'm excited about this year's NaNo project-- a character and setting that have been waiting their chance to be written, in a fiction novel that may crossover from mainstream to YA.

 And now, for today's prompt, taken from Poets & Writer's website:

Flash Nonfiction

 

Write a nonfiction piece of no more than 500 words. It could be anything from a single scene to a complete micro essay—either way, try to utilize the same techniques and structure that you would for a full-length piece. For inspiration, check out Brevity, an online journal dedicated to the art of flash nonfiction.

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Biscotti Murders



 You know you've found a good recipe when men still fear it three years later.

A few years ago, for our family Christmas dinner, I brought a nice, creamy pumpkin lasagna as a main dish for the vegetarians among us, (three & counting!) and a plate of gingerbread biscotti for dessert. Note: I warned everyone that the cookies were quite spicy, and not safe for kids.
 
 My BIL John, being a tender tongue, took several bites of a biscotto, and has never forgotten the burning in his mouth, nor the upset to his delicate inner organs, which apparently went on for days afterwards, as he tells. He reminds me of this incident pretty often, and makes a big show of being terrified of all my cookies. Why, he asks me, should cookies kill? They aren’t even supposed to hurt or maim, and they shouldn’t have the same ingredients as a high-grade explosive, blah, blah blah.

 He admits, though, that the bisk-hotti, as he calls them, were delicious, and if only they hadn't burned out his lungs, he'd love more.
 
 I take his terrified attitude towards my baking as high compliment. John isn’t a wuss; he’s strong, capable, handy, discreet— a man’s man. He watches the Sabres religiously, can build a porch, was a volunteer member of the Fire Department for years, and sired five children. He’s got another creative side, too, as an award winning painter of military war machine models. The incredibly accurate but innovative details he uses add an energy that makes those plastic war birds or aircraft carriers come alive.

 So his praise, when given, means a great deal to me, as does his opprobrium. To know that one of my own, personal foodie creations struck a fearful memory so deep into his heart that it has lasted through over a dozen other family holidays and celebrations since, is a wicked satisfaction and a positive source of pride. Not to mention, it’s a neat piece of leverage to use against him— come help me fix my shower tiles, or I’ll make biscotti! Can we borrow your best hammer for a week, John— better say yes, I’m in baking mood. How could any woman not enjoy that kind of power? It’s the perfect threat to heave around, because I win either way; I get what I want, or I get cookies, my wonderful homemade gingerbread biscotti recipe.

 Now, if I had just written the damn thing down.



By Mari Kozlowski, 10/8/2012