TWO CABBIES IN NEW ORLEANS

When my husband and I visited New Orleans last October, we met two cab drivers. One black, one white, both educated philosophical types (something like the cop I wrote about in my fender bender post). Both had a lot more to offer the fortunate traveler who hopped in the back of their respective taxis than a ride.

We met Chris the first day we arrived, and he told us that if we promised to use him every day of our stay, he would give us a special rate. That first night when he dropped us off at our destination, he waved away the money my husband tried to give him.

"Don't worry about that," he said. "We can settle up at the end of the week."

"But how do you know you'll ever see us again?" my husband asked.

Chris just chuckled. "After all the years I been doing this, I know."

"Don't you want my card at least? My room number?" My husband asked. Being from the north, we were immediately suspicious. This guy was saying he trusted us? What was the catch?

"Won't be necessary," Chris said, still chuckling as he climbed back in his cab. "See you tomorrow now."

And of course, we did. Over the course of the week, we rode with Chris every day, and every day the ride took us deeper into a genuine friendship with the man behind the wheel. We talked about our philosophies of family and work; even ventured into the potential minefields of faith and politics. Every subject seemed to expand our common ground. By the end of the week, the discussions had turned passionate as all three of us expressed open concern about the direction our country was heading. It turned out he had a master's degree in social work, but hadn't worked in his field in ten years when the funds were drastically cut.

"It's okay though. I got my cab, and my little house, and a good family. Even got a little savings in the bank. Every morning I wake up, I wake up thankful."

But when we drove past the neighborhood just beyond Louis Armstrong Park, Chris's expression changed. "There's a whole generation out there that's dying. People talk about the drugs and the guns, and yeah, those things are bad. But the real problem here is people got no hope. Can't live without hope." His sorrow was palpable.

When we told him it was our anniversary one night and that we'd made a reservation at a restaurant in the Quarter, Chris pulled the car to the side of the road.

"The Quarter's got some real fine restaurants and you can go there if you want, but a wedding anniversary, now that's something special. How about I drive you to the place where my wife and I have celebrated every anniversary for the last twenty years? Check out where the local people eat--and they won't empty your wallet either." That night, we enjoyed one of the finest meal I've ever had in memorable surroundings with great music leaping in the background.

But one night when the trolley we were riding broke down, we were unable to reach Chris. That's when we met the second cabbie, a man with a horselike face, and a low, morose voice that droned on like talk radio. When we pointed out the beauty of the architecture, he laughed caustically.

"Those buildings may look nice on the outside, but they're all rotting to the foundations. And it's not just the buildings. The whole city's on the verge of collapse. Economical. Structural. And moral." As he made his list, his voice boomed like an old testament prophet

My husband and I cast furtive glances at each other while the pessimist in the front seat expounded on the corruption of public officials, the school system, the state of Louisiana, and just about everything else.

We made polite murmurings, but were grateful to escape his tirade at the end of our ride.

The last day of our visit Chris drove us by his house, a modest but impeccably maintained bungalow, and introduced us to his wife. We'd heard so much about her over the course of the week that we already felt as if he knew her. As we drove to the airport, he kept negotiating the price for his services downward, while we figured a way to add the difference to his tip.

Just before he left, he scrawled his address and cell phone number on a piece of paper. "You keep in touch, okay?" he said. Then he hugged both of us and disappeared.

Of course, we've been thinking a lot about Chris in recent days. Even though there's no phone service in the city, my husband took out the crumpled piece of paper on which he'd written his phone number. But as we watched neighborhoods that looked distressingly like Chris's fill up with water, we knew it was futile.

And of course, we've been thinking of the other cabbie, too, and how he seemed to sink lower and lower in the driver's seat as he delivered one stinging indictment after the other against the powers that be and the fate of the city that he, in his own way, loved as much as Chris did.

Maybe we should all spend more time listening to cab drivers.

CRASH

Time has been stopped at that moment
Originally uploaded by ldebonte.

Is it just me, or are there way too many cars on the road filled with way too many solitary drivers talking on way too many cell phones, all while changing lanes, yelling at the driver in front of them and of course, juggling a sandwich (make it a Big Mac) with their free hand?

Not that I'm being judgmental here, cause see I'm one of them, cell phone, sandwich and all--though in my case the sandwich is likely to be a veggie rollup. (Aren't I virtuous?) Yes, I'm out on the road with all the other stressed out, bird flipping drivers trying to negotiate the new millenium, or just get to work on time.

But I'm here to say I don't like it. And from the one-step-from psychotic rage reactions you get in ordinary traffic, I'm starting to suspect that a lot of people aren't having much fun either.

Then the other day, I had just returned from my two day seaside retreat and was feeling totally calm and zen-like. After I got off the bus, I found my happy little Honda Civic, put in my favorite CD, checked my cell phone messages one more time, and contemplated the shortest way home from the bus station. Though I'd only been away a couple of days, I was eager for the sight of the rooms where I live my life, and the people and pets with whom I live them.

However, as I was driving down the road that led from the bus station, a car abruptly pulled out of a parking spot--and crash! right into the rear door of my pristine little vehicle.

Since I'm not all that good with the practical realities of life, I tried to think of what I was supposed to do. The first thing that came to mind (probably from watching various movies and TV shows) was that I was supposed to get out and yell and wave my arms and call the other driver a MORON with a few choice epithets thrown in. But really, I'm not all that good at that sort of thing, and besides, as I said, I was in a particularly tranquil state of mind.

"Excuse me, but it seems as if you've just smashed up my car," I said politely approaching the other vehicle.

The driver was a teenage boy around my son's age. He even sported a rock shirt that looked like one I've laundered many times, and an impressive collection of tattoos. My sympathies were immediately aroused.

"I looked, but you weren't there!" he said hopelessly.

To which I could only explain that it seemed, in fact, I was there.

"Well, you were in my blind spot," he said, rubbing his goatee nervously.

"Maybe," I said, not wanting to be so rude as to point out that I was actually right in front of him.

I, too, stroked my chin, and tried to remember what they did next on the TV shows and movies.

"I think we should exchange information," the young man said, as if he'd just realized he was dealing with a less than fully functioning adult. He kindly offered to loan me a pen.

Well, that's when my trusty cell phone really came in handy. I could call my husband at work! Being better at reality than I am, he told me to get the license number, and then call the police.

Unfortunately, there was some kind of major action going on in town and every officer was out on a foot chase. The kid and I, trapped in our little mishap, would have to wait. Demonstrating an impressive awareness of the importance of first impressions, the kid promptly changed from his angry looking rock T-shirt to a plain grey one.

We stood and leaned against our cars, pretending to be the strangers we were before our fates suddenly connected us.

"Are you in school?" I finally asked, already wondering what the accident would do to the boy's car insurance premiums.

"Nope," he said, cocking his head in the direction of a nearby gas station. "I work over there. What about you?"

"I'm a waitress," I said. "But I want to be a writer when I grow up."

"You look pretty grown up to me," he said. By then, he was eyeing me suspiciously, obviously wondering what kind of whacko he'd gotten himself mixed up with.

Around that time,the officer arrived and relieved us of our faltering small talk.
Turned out he was a particularly kind man as well. He immediately reminded us that though the accident was unfortunate, the only thing that mattered was that neither of us had been hurt. A philosophical cop! I was loving it.

I then told him what happened, as plainly as I could.

"And what's your side of the story?" he said to the young man in the grey t-shirt.

"I looked! She wasn't there!" he said. "And I wasn't going fast either." I was a little disappointed that in nearly an hour of waiting, he hadn't come up with anything more inventive.

"I see, but it seems you pulled out and hit her car," the compassionate cop was forced to point out.

He went into the cruiser to fill out the accident report while the boy and I sat on our hoods and felt the breeze of a late summer evening on our faces.

In the end, the philosopher cop was right. The only thing that mattered was that no one had been hurt.

But I still think there are too many cars.

And I still don't like it.

BECAUSE IT'S SUNDAY

Because it's Sunday, let's spend a little time with the faith-filled, but clear eyed and mordantly funny Flannery O'Connor. Let's go out to see her peacocks while we wait for her to return from Mass. When she arrives, nourished by the sacrament that has sustained her through years of debilitating illness, she and her mother will serve up a proper Sunday dinner. The chicken will be fried to perfection and the biscuits will demand a lavish buttering.

But it is the conversation we have come for, a conversation that has largely languished since O'Connor's death from lupus in 1964. Though her stories will probably continue to be read and loved as long as fiction exists, what she wants us to talk about over dinner is not just literary trends. It's not the exigencies of the marketplace. It's the vision that underlies every novel, every short story, every poem, a vision that either elevates or demeans everyone who reads it.

"St. Augustine wrote that the things of this world pour forth from God in a double way: intellectually into the minds of angels and physically into the world of things. To the person who believes this, the physical, sensible world is good because it proceeds from a divine source. The artist usually knows this by instinct; his senses which are used to penetrating the concrete, tell him so. When Conrad said that his aim as an artist was to render the highest possible justice to the visible universe, he was speaking with the novelist's surest instinct. The artist penetrates the concrete world in order to find at its depths the image of its source, the image of ultimate reality. This in no way hinders his perception of evil but rather sharpens it, for only when the natural world is seen as good does evil become intelligible as a destructive force.

--Flannery O'Connor from "Mystery and Manners"

GOING AWAY...

walking, originally uploaded by candytrash.

...for a two day getaway with my brilliantly alive cousin, Ali. Though Ali has been far away,teaching in Kuwait and Saudi Arabia for several years, we have still managed to share every important thought we've ever had--and yes, a few unimportant ones too.

There is no small talk in this relationship. It's all large talk. And laughter. Lots and lots of laughter.

So here is the plan: We're going away to stay at a beautiful coastal inn where we will walk the beach, sit out on the balcony and drink wine. And of course, talk. Talk until we find the unknown thing we've come to discover.

This is what I'm packing in my pink suitcase:
A camera.
A notebook and pen so when the revelation comes, I'll be ready.
My favorite wine glass.
Poetry and philosophy books to read aloud.
Some hot pink lipstick to match my suitcase.

Ali promises a major discovery that will change both of our lives, or at least one that feels like it will at three in the morning, drunk on laughter and the stars.

Okay. Off to pack.

WAITRESSING CRISIS: Should I Quit?

Utter mundane, originally uploaded by Meloses.

Two innocuous sentences, read in New Dharma Bums yesterday, spoke to me so loudly yesterday that I've been hearing echoes ever since.

When someone says I think you may be over-qualified for this job--believe them. Boredom kills the spirit."

Yes boredom kills, and living with constant disrespect ain't all that healthy either. I've been working at my current waitressing job for four years and in a lot of ways it works for me. Except for the boredom and disrespect.

On the positive side:

1. I enjoy the comraderie with my co-workers.
2. It provides me with great stories.
3. I work evenings and weekends which gives me days free for writing. (If I were doing this in order of priority, this would definitely be number one. It is also the reason I took the job.)
4. I work outdoors in a beautiful setting, and make it a point at least once a day to stop what I'm doing and experience that.
5. Humble work is good for the soul. (Or is it?)
Oh yes, I almost forgot #6: The money comes in handy when it's time to pay the mortgage or stop at the grocery store.

And on the negative side, we have boredom and disrespect. We have a mind and spirit that shrinks to fit into my uniform every time I take it from the closet. We have Rexroth's Daughter's words: "When people say you may be overqualified for a job, believe them."

Any thoughts?

FICTION TAKES ANOTHER HIT

Shakespeare, originally uploaded by Sleepy Hollow.

Fiction has been getting hammered lately. Not only have fiction reviews been cut back in the New York Times Book Review and other places of note, The Atlantic Monthly (one of the few venues that offer the starving writer a living wage) has eliminated short stories altogether from its monthly pages. Instead of inclusion in the rich stew of politics and social commentary, reviews, and well, life, it's been given its own annual issue. Does the word "ghettoization" comes to mind? (Is it even a word?)

So things are bad. Publisher's are whining about their losses. Surveys are saying people have pretty much stopped reading altogether. And writers are whining that no one's buying our novels or if they are, the advances aren't what they used to be.

Then just when I think it can't get any worse, I open the New York Times Magazine and find that V.S. Naipaul closed the gate on the artform that has served him so well and which he in turn has served. With typical crankiness, he proclaimed that novels are no longer relevent, and he doesn't intend to write them anymore. Didn't Ian McEwan write something similar after 9/11 only to prove himself wrong by producing the strikingly relevent Saturday? For a week or so I planned writing up a column listing the 5 reasons why the two literary masters are wrong and your humble waitress is right (the novel is not only relevent, it's more necessary than ever.) However, as I often do, I got distracted while serving the coffee, and never got around to it.

But what really got to me was when a blogger came out in a post called "Unrelated" and said rather sternly that life was not a novel, and maturity demanded that we stop auditioning for various roles, and live a life that's more like creative non-fiction. Like a memoir maybe? Have you ever read those things? They can be entertaining as hell, but folks, they're one side of the story. And most often it's a highly skewed self-justifying side. Give me an honest novel that respects all of its characters equally any day! Which is my point: just because novelists make things up doesn't mean they're not true. At best, a novel taps into the deepest truths of who we are and what we know. When that becomes irrelevent, then the human race is in some serious trouble.

So much as I love this particular blog, I have to take exception with this post. I think a life that doesn't allow for an occasional change of costume is a stagnant one indeed. And not a very true one.

But don't listen to me. Listen to Will.

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages."

Or as Bob Dylan said:

"If you're not busy being born, you're busy dying."

TO GOSSIP OR NOT TO GOSSIP

Gossip, originally uploaded by Auntie P.

In a recent post, I mentioned my friend Gina. Gina is so pure of heart she is almost congenitally incapable of seeing darkness in anyone else. To her everyone is "really nice," and "incredibly good;" and if they do anything to demonstrate the contrary, she's absolutely certain it was unintentional.

When we worked together, we were something of a comic duo. I would enter the break room in an inflamed state, where I would perform a lively and irate reenactment of a co-workers transgression. After I was finished, Gina would laugh. Then she'd quickly interject that she was sure they hadn't meant to do it.

That's when I would give her "the look." No further explanation was necessary, but I pulled out my stock line anyway. "I hate to break it to you, Gina, but they did mean it. And you know why? Because they're mean, and if they get the chance, they'll do it again."

Then we would both crack up, because besides being a pure spirit, Gina also has a killer sense of humor.

But despite my occasional frustration with my friend's rosy vision, every January first when I composed my resolution list (a long and redundant list indeed), number one was always the same: Be more like Gina. It was a code for any number of personal flaws I hoped to eradicate in myself: the joy I took in gossip, my tendency to let petty things irritate me, my inability NOT to see the darkness in others. And to want to plumb it, to understand it, maybe even use it to enhance my fiction with some convincing and utterly hateworthy antagonists.

Some years I made more progress with my desire to live a more Gina-like life than others. But never have I questioned the rectitude of my resolution. Until yesterday.
That's when an article in the science section of the New York Times informed me that gossip was much more than a a bunch of people gathered around the water cooler in an orgy of nasty carping. It's actually a "mutually protective ritual evolved from early grooming behavior that defines group membership." Hmmm...That's fine for the in crowd, but what about the group members it excludes? I was not convinced.

But as I read on, the case for gossiping grew more compelling. Turns out that dishing the dirt on friends and enemies alike also provides a "rule enforcing dynamic." Through gossip, people communicate societal dos and don'ts to each other in a far more colorful and convincing manner than any Sunday school teacher ever could. Cross the line and you won't just burn in some distant and perhaps metaphorical hell. Vicious tongues will wag for weeks.

Now that had my attention. Maybe a little backstabbing actually served a purpose. Even with gossip running rampant (according to the article, it provides up to 2/3 to the content of every conversation)people are still lying, stealing and cheating with abandon. Imagine how bad it would be if all the gossipers stopped their 24 hour a day broadcasting! And just think how quiet the office would be? Two thirds of every conversation? If everyone in the work place, or the bar or the Tupperware party was magically cured of the gossiping virus, the earth would practically fall silent.

Yes, it's an interesting article, and I have to admit there's a certain validity to it. And yet, somehow, I don't quite buy it. It resembles some of the lame arguments that have surfaced in recent years in defense of personal greed or overeating. They're incredibly appealing for obvious reasons, and perhaps they even provide a balance to extremism. But as far as gossiping goes, I still want to be more like Gina.

Meanwhile, on my Waitress blog, I've written my humble version of a "Letter to a Young Writer."

THE BEST JOB FOR A WRITER

however fast I write, there's always another blank white page to fill, originally uploaded by heyoka.

Off to work today, but wanted to leave a post behind. It's almost like being here in my cool little home office instead of outside, sweating in my tuxedo suit. With little time to write, and a blank screen subsituting for a blank page, I'm going to cheat a little. The following previously appeared in I'M REALLY NOT A WAITRESS, my blog on Publisher's Marketplace.

THE BEST JOB FOR A WRITER or LUCY, ADVICE 5 CENTS

Well, we all know what the best job for a writer is. It's writing! It's staying home, sitting around in your ratty black yoga pants, drinking coffee, eating chocolate, and hammering away on the keys of your computer like a happy little woodpecker. And oh yes, I almost forgot to mention -- getting paid for it. Getting paid real money. Getting paid enough that you don't have to seek outside employment to cover little things like eating and keeping the rain off your back.

Unfortunately, they don't advertise in the Help Wanted section for that particular job -- at least if you're a fiction writer; there's no place to put in an application; and when you send out your hopeful little query letters or your professionally formatted manuscript, you're usually greeted with the same response. We don't want you, we don't need you, and we're willing to bet no one else does either. (Usually, those words come in code that reads something like this: We're sorry, but this doesn't meet our present needs.) To which the strong, dedicated writer yells in the privacy of his or her own study: Oh, yes you do ! You just don't know it yet! Then she goes back to the computer even more determined to prove why the world needs her and her crazy stories.

But meanwhile, her stomach is grumbling for lunch. And if she/he has kids, their little stomachs are making some noise, too. So the writer has to change out of her yoga pants, put her computer on sleep, and seek work in the wide world. The next question becomes what kind of job will support her writing addiction -- or at least not totally crush it.

Before I began my illustrious career as a waitress, I had the brilliant idea that I would find a job where I could write at work. If I couldn't get paid for the writing itself, I would at least write and get paid at the same time.

With that in mind, I applied to become an all night desk clerk at a seedy motel, a lifeguard in a rarely visited pool (though that dream was promptly quashed by my lack of certification and my doggy paddle.) I also checked out those little carts in the mall. A lone employee sat on a stool, often reading a paperback novel, as oblivious to the shoppers swirling around her as they were to the "store" she was hired to mind. Bingo.

Since the job paid crap, you worked alone, and it was boring as hell (except to a writer who planned to find a world of excitement in the pages of her spiral notebook), I was hired on the spot.

The very next day, I packed my bookbag feeling like I was heading off to a writer's retreat, or the first day of school. Inside was my new notebook, its blank pages sullied only by the title of my novel, two pens (in case I wrote so much that the first ran out of ink), my coffee money, and an apple for lunch. This was to be a monastic regimen of serious writing and pure eating.

Things went pretty well for a month or so. The novel zipped along at a nice pace; sales at the floundering little business were so dismal they rarely intruded on my concentration, and I worked as if I were at a mountain retreat rather than in the center of a noisy mall. I felt pretty healthy and virtuous, too, as I followed Ben Franklin's advice about an apple a day.

But the second month, I ran into a couple of obstacles. First, I lost my way in the novel, and began to doubt both the work -- and myself. A common obstacle for writers, but since this was my first attempt to write a novel, I thought I was alone in the wilderness. And then, I began to make friends in the mall. Within weeks, the job went from a solitary refuge within myself to a day long talk fest. (I also developed a craving for bean burritos, which seriously disrupted my dedication to the pure life, but that's another story.

First "Tom," the candlemaker who owned the neighboring cart began to stop by for coffee every morning. As a young man, Tom had entered the priesthood, but had been asked to leave because he couldn't master Latin. (This was pre-Vatican II.) Accepting it as God's will, he married and supported five children as a machinist for thirty years. That's when the plant closed, leaving him with no pension or insurance. What little savings he had was siphoned into the dream of owning his own business. Despite his work ethic, the care and yes, love, he brought to his craft, and an unshakably positive spirit, it was obvious to me that the candle business would never make it. It closed up around the time I quit my job.

It's been years since I've seen Tom, but I think of him often -- and of the integrity and character that shone through everything he did. No matter what his life story says about him, he remains in my mind, one of the most successful people I've ever met.

Most of my new friends, however, came from the army of the dispossessed who spend a disproportionate amount of time in malls because they have no place else to go. Or because they so desperately need to hear another human voice that it doesn't matter if it's only the cashier at McDonald's saying, "Do you want fries with that?"

There was "Charlie," the schizophrenic son of a wealthy New York physician who lived in a halfway house in town. Charlie visited on a daily basis, often stopping by when he felt most agitated. I would do my best to calm him down, but I could never answer the questions that troubled him most: Why did this happen to me? Why can't I find a woman to love me? And why won't my family let me come home for Christmas?

Then there was "Harold", a semi-retarded man who also returned for a daily visit after he was fired from his maintenance job at the mall. He loved to brag about the beauty of his girlfriend "Heather".
I was glad that he had her in his life -- until all three hundred pounds of Heather appeared at my cart, and threatened to kick the shit out of me if I didn't stay away from her man. When Harold showed up the following day, bruised and bandaged around the head, I realized exactly how serious she was.

Those are only a few examples of the numerous friends and visitors to the cart that ultimately derailed my writing plans, and almost got me fired. Apparently, while I entertained the lost, other shopkeepers were watching and reporting what they saw to my employer. Eventually my boss showed up, sarcastically threatening to hang a sign saying "Lucy, Advice 5 Cents" whenever I was working. He was so angry the veins in his head were bulging, but I kind of liked the image. It was, in many ways, the story of my life.

That was around the time my career as a hawker in the mall ended for good. I took from it 103 pages of a novel that would never be finished, an addiction to bean burritos, and the lonely stories my mall friends shared with me. As a writer, how could I ask for more?

THE MUSE RESPONDS!

Photograph by Ted Lukac

So there I was on one of the hottest, most suffocatingly humid days of the year, a pristine beach lying just down the road, and what am I doing? Bustling around a stifling kitchen like some grandma from another era, with the oven cranked to 400 degrees. That's right; I'm baking a pie for my muse. Well, you know what they say about us writer people. Bonkers, every one of us.

Since I was alone in the house, I was also talking to myself. Or maybe talking to my muse. Telling her about my literary aspirations, and reminding her of my continuing struggle with sloth and self-doubt. (As if she didn't know!) If the pie came out perfect, would she do something about that please?

"Not my job," the muse responded crankily. "My job is to give you ideas, which I do in abundance--if you're too flaky to use them, it's not my problem." (If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a wiseass muse.)

So yes, I was baking a pie, but I also had the distinct sense of performing some literary witchcraft. Me and my friend, Susan, who I've never met baking the same crazy pie in the same crazy August heat. By then, I'm not only talking to myself and my wiseass muse, I'm laughing out loud all alone in the house. Hmmm...what was it I said about writers?

Anyway, the pie was magnificent. And the best thing about baking for your muse is that you get to eat the results yourself--which I did, two whole pieces. Though I'm usually a Calvinist when it comes to dessert, this was different. This was for Literature, capital L. Gorging on a couple of pieces of pie was the least I could do!

So that was Wednesday, and I have to admit yesterday was a pretty good day writing- wise. I got up to find that overnight several of my incredibly wonderful and unbelieivably kind blogging friends had left some really nice comments about my last post. Do you guys have any idea how happy you made me?

A little later, I set off to the post office to mail a manuscript off. There I ran into my friend, Gina, who is one of the few pure souls on this earth. Serendipity! Immediately, I called her to the counter so she could bless the manuscript before it was shipped off. I was going to ask Kristen, my favorite at the post office, to join in the ritual, but she looked a little freaked out by our odd behavior already.

At home, I added six pages to a long neglected writing project. And if that wasn't enough to make it a banner day, I got an email from Literary Mama, telling me that my story, "Live Pure, Live True" was up on their site. Whoa! Is this a coincidence or does my muse really like blueberry pie?

All I can say is that if the manuscript I posted yesterday is accepted, I'll apologize for calling my muse a wiseass and make her a pie every year for the rest of my life. And if it's not? Well, I'll still keep writing and baking pies. We writers never give up.

REAL LIFE INTERRUPTS MY READING ★

sunflowers ★, originally uploaded by *helmen.

CATEGORY: DAY TO DAY SURVIVAL

Yesterday, I had a chance to spend some time observing life in a doctor's waiting room.

I'd brought the novel I'm currently reading along, and planned to make some progress through its daunting (but wonderful) 500 pages while I waited for a family member.

I had just found my place in the book and read a few sentences when a man in his late thirties entered and made a point to say good morning to everyone.

Hmmm...I wondered, hasn't he heard of the rules of the anonymous waiting room? These people are not your friends; what's more they're ahead of you in lines so you better hope their maladies are neither too serious, nor too trivial. (The trivial ones are usually those of hypochondriacs; and we all know how time consuming their proliferating imaginary complaints can be.)

A few people grunted; I gave him a cautious smile and returned to my book.

However, only a minute or two later, I was again distracted by the entrance of a woman who carried her life through the door like a heavy sack she'd been dragging around for far too long. I immediately closed my book in deference to her misery.

Yes, she was elderly, though not terribly (70 maybe?) and perhaps sick, but the weight she carried was heavier than mere age--or even illness. I studied her flaccid arms, the downward slant of her face and voice, and wondered if she had once been pretty. If she'd ever been in love, had once entered the room as cheerily as the man who came before her. Of course, she had. As she sat down heavily beside me, the small space was infected with her private sorrow.

I couldn't even pretend to read.

Soon after the woman entered, her husband followed, complaining loudly that it would have been nice if she waited for him. Didn't she knew he needed help getting up the stairs?

"I was trying to do you a favor by checking you in," the woman grumbled.

"Well you could have at least helped me up the stairs."

He then announced to the waiting room (also in defiance of the unwritten code) that he'd hurt his acchilles tendon in a recent tennis match, and was having trouble walking.) In truth, he was tanned, wearing an explensive looking gold outfut, and looked far healthier than his wife.

The friendly younger man immediately offered him a seat, and some commiseration. "That's a painful injury. Friend of mine had that once."

The old man grunted, but his curiosity was aroused. "What are you here for?"

"My knee. After arthroscopic surgeries, I'm still having trouble. Might have to get a knee replacement."

Briefly, the miserable woman looked up from The New York Times where she had retreated from her husband's castigation. "I had one of those. It was horrible. Worst thing I ever did."

"It was her own fault," her husband scoffed. "She never did her exercises. How did she think she was going to get better?"

The question hung in the air. I wondered if he ever addressed her directly.

"You two havent' been married long, have you?" the young man smiled.

"Too long. Far too long." The man in the golf shirt shook his head, as if dislodging the years. "Never thought I'd spend my retirement like this. I've got a house on the ocean, a winter place in Palm Beach, but what good does it do me? She never wants to do anything."

Again the young man laughed. "You better watch out. I think your wife's about to give you a left hook." (In truth, the wife had once again withdrawn, and seemed impervious to her husband's words.)

Briefly, the waiting room fell into an awkward silence. I thought of taking out my book again. But once again the older man interrupted my thoughts, turning to the resolute optimist across from him.

"What do you do for a living anyway?" I had the feeling he was accustomed to sizing people up with this question.

"I'm a mechanic over at the XX Plant. You know, one of the working stiffs waiting for the trickle down."

"Better leave politics out of it, young man, because I don't think we agree."

"You're right. We probably don't." The smile never left the younger man's face.
At that point, he was called into the office, and the conversation ended.

I managed to read five or six pages before he emerged.

"So what did he say?" Golf shirt asked. "Are you going to need the knee replacement?"

By now, the entire waiting room was engaged. We all looked up.

"Afraid so."

Even the wife was interested. She shook her jowls in warning. "The worst pain I ever had. More excruciating than childbirth."

"I'll be okay," the young man laughed.

But the woman was not going to give up. Pain was her subject and she would not cede a point to an obvious amateur. "You wait and--"

This time, however, he stopped her. "No, really, I'll be okay." And as he waved and wished us all luck, I knew that he would.

Soon, the husband and wife team were called inside, too; and the waiting room was quiet. But I was no longer interested in my book. Sometimes a half-hour in a waiting room is as complicated and profound as a 500 page novel anyway.

(So what do the sun flowers have to do with it? Not much, except that they remind me of a stranger's smile that briefly transformed an anonymous waiting room into a place where common humanity overcame any number of differences.)

BAKE A PIE FOR YOUR MUSE

One of the first posts I made here on the Garden concerned a dinner I enjoyed at the home of writer, Marilynne Robinson and her former husband, Fred. I gushed longingly over a blueberry pie Marilynne had made, a concoction as magical and evanescent as the evening itself. Then I confessed I had been searching for the recipe ever since--to no avail.

After posting my entry, the magic of the blueberry pie continued. I was contacted by writer, Susan Messer who swore she had the recipe for the pastry I'd described. Ever since the pie brought us together, Susan and I have shared a wonderful correspondence; we've exchanged insights over our novels in progress, the constant struggle to balance renumerative work with the work of our minds and hearts, and much more. She even did a couple of guest blogs for me over at I'M REALLY NOT A WAITRESS. Thus the magic of the pie was spread to the many readers who were engaged, amused, and inspired by her pieces.

Since it was the magnificent blueberry that brought us together, we planned to do something special in its honor. My yard was piled high with snow and Susan was braving the legendary Chicago winds when we first began dreaming of blueberry season. Thus, the scheme of baking a pie for our insatiable muses was born.



A few weeks ago, Susan sent me her recipe. It is very much like the one I remember except that Susan layers the whipped cream beneath the blueberries, and Marilynne's hand whipped cream was on top.
Susan made her pie last week; I'm scheduled to make mine on Tuesday. If anyone else would like to join us, please do! Why? Because it's August, because the literary muses are hungry, and because they're known to have a particularly affinity for the color blue.

The recipe follows:

THE OFFICIAL LITERARY BLUES PIE

A one crust pie shell (Use pate brisee if feeling ambitious or if you have a particularly demanding muse.)
3/4 cup plus 2 tsp sugar
3 tablespoons corn starch
1/8 tsp salt
1 tablespoon lemon juice
4 cups blueberries, rinsed
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup well chilled heavy cream
1/4 tsp vanilla

Roll out the dough. Line with foil and fill the foil with rice. Bake in the lower third of a preheated 425 degree oven for 10 minutes. Remove foil and rice and bake
10 - 15 minutes more. Cool on rack.

In saucepan combine 3/4 c. sugar, cornstarch, salt, lemon juice and 1 1/2 c. berries. Cook over moderate heat, stirring for 4 -5 minutes. until it is thickened. Remove the pan from heat, stir in butter and the remaining 2 1/2 c. blueberries. Let mix cool to room temperature. Chill for 15 minutes and stir gently.

Whip the cream until it holds soft peaks, add remaining 2 tsp. sugar and vanilla. Beat until it holds stiff peak. Spread whipped cream in pie shell with a spatula. top it with the blueberry mixture. Chll the pie for 1 -12 hours.

And oh yes, don't forget the most important ingredients of all: Eat it with good company and make sure you discuss something literary while you're enjoying your pie. Then sit back and wait for the magic. I expect a full report.

IN AUGUST

In many ways, August is the sweetest month. It is clear that summer will end and soon. Children will give up their formless days and return to the structure of school. But not yet.

The deck where you have watched the birds while sipping your morning coffee, or drank in a sunset with your glass of wine will grow chill and drive you inside. But not today. Not while August lingers.

The trees that have cossetted you, enclosing you from the outside world with their abundant green will give up their protection as they grow spare. The beaches will return to their lonely whiteness, your body to its winter pallor. But not now. Not yet.

And it is the not yet that lends the waning days of August their particular sweetness. That reminds us to walk outside and see it. Taste it. Inhale it. Because like our own life, it will end. But not yet.




Shevonne & Nellie


Berlin on the Deck with Geraniums


Jake



All Photos (except Nellie and Shevonne) by Ted Lukac

THE UNLIKABLE PROTAGONIST

It is an equation that anyone who has ever sent a manuscript to an editor or agent knows by heart: Unlikable protagonist = Prompt rejection. And in many ways, the very words of the equation announces its logic. PRO means for, and how the hell am I going to be FOR someone I innately dislike? Besides, there's lots of characters roaming around lots of stories inside lots of book covers (some would say TOO many, the unpublished would say too few, but that's another subject.) My point here is why spend your vanishing leisure time with one you don't like?

You may have to grin and cluck at a boss you can't stand, may even be stuck in a marriage with a spouse who has revealed sides of his or her character that were in shadow before the ceremony. Aside from the messy business of quitting your job or getting a divorce, you're stuck with those particular "characters". But the characters in a book? If they grate on your nerves, you can close the book with a triumphant thump, and never encounter them again. Go hang out with someone sweet and quirky like Holden Caulfield, or turn to the ever sage Atticus Finch to elevate your character.

The only trouble with the equation is that sometimes a dark, self-centered, miserable protagonist can be frankly fascinating. Especially when they're honest about it. You find me narcissistic and vaguely despicable? this type of character says. Guess what? So do I. And what's more, if you stick around I'll tell you why.

Such is the case of Eva, the protagonist of WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN. She's selfish, she's a misanthrope; she's a deadly poor mother, but I hated for her story to end. In fact, this grim but absolutely absorbing story gives you no one to root for. Besides Eva and the sociopathic son who is the product of her genes and her coldness, there's her All-American husband, Franklin. Though he is painted as the good guy, I found him positively infuriating. In fact, I couldn't see what Eva--who possessed a fine intelligence despite her flaws, ever saw in this dolt. The constant excuses he makes for his son's anti-social behavior are supposed to bespeak all-American optimism. To this reader, they merely suggested the willful blindness that is perhaps the worst of our flaws. And even the blandly sweet Celia hardly comes off as a likable character. Her vapid and fearful nature is so cloying that this reader ended up preferring the company of her malevolent brother.


I know I recommended this dark, provocative and utterly brilliant novel when I was 100 pages into it. So why have I returned to do it again? Because it's that good. Good enough, in fact, that maybe some of those editors should reconsider the Unlikable Protagonist equation when it comes to the work of lesser lights than Lionel Shriver.

FIVE THINGS TO DO ON YOUR BIRTHDAY

Balloons on summer house
Originally uploaded by dancityofsound.

1. Buy someone else a present, preferably the person who makes you most happy to be alive.

2. Eat cake if you're under 18 or over 75.
If you're in between, these are your years of discipline and clarity. Look at that pretty mass of sludge and goo for what it is.

3. Ask yourself where you came from and where you're going. If the answer is, "I don't know," spoken with marvel and wonder, you're on the right track.

4. Thank your mother. Chances are the occasion you're celebrating was a pretty arduous day for her.

5. Be a child. Hang balloons outside your door. Announce to random strangers that it's your birthday. Okay, even eat the artery clogging, blood sugar elevating, thigh thickening cake if you have to. And if there aren't any random strangers around, announce it on your blog: Hey, it's my birthday! Aren't I cool?

WRITING IN THE SAND

Writing in the Sand
Originally uploaded by Martin Burns.

I had planned to call this entry "Writing vs. Blogging" but once again, the photo tag proved more telling. It captures everything I love about blogging. It's impermanent. It's both free and freeing. And if anyone happens to be walking down the beach and enjoys it, so much the better. You can even embellish your sandwriting with a castle or a mermaid wearing seaweed jewelry if you want to.

What's even better, no one can send you a curt rejection letter saying, "Lots to admire, but didn't quite meet our needs." Nope, you take out your stick and speak your truth on the beach and bingo, you're published beneath the wide blue sky. No angst spent wondering if it's good enough. If it will be accepted. You live, you breathe, you create. What's so complicated about that?

Well, try telling that to my agent who wants to know why I'm so behind on my current project.

"Yes," I say. "But have you seen my blogs? How about that photograph of the little girl in the yard? Those colors were incredible!"

"Blogging's fine, but you've got to be disciplined about it," my agent advises. "Real work first. Then your little hobby."

"But I've met all these wonderful people. I read their blogs, and they visit mine. You have no idea how much fun I'm having."

"Fun? When people start getting paid for having fun, or blogging, for that matter, then we'll talk."

"But can't you just look at it? You might like it. Really, just last week one of my commenters said--"

"Sorry, Patry, but I'm a busy woman. And if you have any chance of making a career of writing, you should be, too."

Okay, so now I'm off to do my real work. Right after I check in on a few of my favorite blogs. (Is there a 12 step program for this yet?)

BUY SOMETHING RED...

She Dreamt of Roses
Originally uploaded by lorrainemd.

My two favorite colors. Red and blue. Emotional opposites. The red of passionate life, and the blue of melancholic--or maybe just serene--meditation. I wonder if the color of a personality is coded somewhere in the genes. If so, my father was clearly red, my mother blue. And I their red-blue daughter.

Maureen Dowd's tribute to her mother which appeared in Sunday's New York Times was wonderful in many ways, but I particularly like her concept of "the red badge of courage."

From Dowd's piece:

Peggy Dowd died last Sunday at 6:30 a.m. I'm not sure if she was trying to keep breathing until the 8:30 a.m. Mass for shut-ins or Tim Russert's "Meet the Press."I just know that I will follow the advice she gave me in a letter while I was in college, after I didn't get asked to a Valentine's Day dance. She sent me a check for $15 and told me to always buy something red if you're blue - a lipstick, a dress.

"It will be your 'Red Badge of Courage,' " she wrote. And courage was a subject the lady knew something about.

MY NEIGHBOR'S DIVORCE, Part 2

I Thought You Were For Real
Originally uploaded by MaD Gi®L•™.

His Story: They met when they were only fifteen, and have been together ever since. Thirty years! He thought they were happy, planned a cruise for their twenty-first anniversary, but she had other ideas. It seemed there was this man she'd met at work...twelve years younger; he reminded her of the way she used to feel, the way she never knew she could feel. But no, I'm speculating on that last part, writing fiction. There was a man she met at work, 12 years younger. That's all I know. She's living with him now. Left her husband and children until things can be worked out, the house sold, custody assigned, assets divided.

He doesn't know where he will go, who he will be, if not her husband, if not the man with the most perfect yard in the neighborhood, if not a daily father to his children.

He does not know who to talk to, where to go.

Her story: Unknown.

My story: I walk past the house and peer fleetingly in the windows. I listen sympathetically. I go home and say my life with its messy gardens, its stable marriage, its raucous music, is not like his. But of course it is. Which is why I look, I listen--but not too closely.

I NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN

CATEGORY: READING AND WRITING

"Bird on baby head" detail
Originally uploaded by Tara's Art Camp.

The last time I wrote about a novel before I finished it, I ended up changing my mind long before the characters had a chance to unspool their story in my head. After raving about 'The History of Love', I promptly and disloyally lost interest when the narrative shifted away from my favorite character. By the time he reappeared, if indeed he did, I had left the theatre.

So where is my copy of 'The History of Love' now? It sits on my night stand in the "maybe someday I'll finish it" pile. Unfortunately, the fate of the books in that pile is predictably bleak. They sit there for a few months, inciting vague feelings of guilt. Then when a respectful period of remorse has passed, they're moved to the shelf of good intentions(a bulging shelf indeed, loaded not only with books but all my other failed resolutions.)

Finally, when the shelf begins to buckle, I donate the books to the local library, a practice that somewhat ameliorates my guilt. But I wonder if the potential readers who pick up my deserted books, the characters and stories that were not loved quite enough, don't sense the taint of rejection in their unmarked, unfingered pages? Do they wear their abandonment like some of the despondent singles who shop their hope in bars until their dejection glows in the dark?

But this is a blog, dammit, not the freakin New York Times, and I'm so excited about 'We Need to Talk about Kevin' that I, well, need to talk about it. And him. And Lionel Shriver, the author who won the Orange Prize for writing it. Right now. I can't wait until I turn the final pages. Besides, there is just so much in this novel, that it could easily be the topic of several posts:

1. There is the subject of the unlikable protagonist, the selfish character with whom the reader cannot or simply does not want to identify. I don't love Eva Khatchadourian, don't find her admirable, would not want to drink coffee with her in real life. So why am I taking her into my subconscious late at night right before I go to sleep? Because she's damn interesting, in spite of her negative attributes.

2. Then there's the fascinating issue of maternal ambiguity. What happens when a mother doesn't have the requisite feelings for her pregnancy or its result? I've never read such a rich or honest examination of this question.

3. And what about the child? What about Kevin? Is there such a thing as an utterly unlovable baby? A child who is bad from birth? And if so, how does a parent deal with that, both internally and externally?

4. How much responsibility do parents bear for monstrous acts committed by their offspring? Clearly, we blame them. I remember looking at the Columbine parents and judging them. Why didn't they know? Why didn't they do something? How did they raise such children? And beneath all that, the larger, more frightening questions loom: what if it's really not their fault? Who do we blame? How do we reassure ourselves that it couldn't be us? Couldn't be our children?

5. And finally, as in all great novels, there is the simple and complex pleasure of the words, the sentences, the connected constellations of thought. Such pleasure is immense in this novel.

So yes, I'm only 109 pages in and I'm raving. And thinking. And looking forward to taking the unlikable but fascinating Eva Khatchadourian into my bed and my mind again tonight.

A MONKEY ON A BICYCLE

Photograph by JF Poole via Flickr

Today is my father's birthday. Though he has been dead for five years, July 21st still belongs to him. The date of your birth is one of the few things that can never be taken from you. Even after you've been forced to abandon your body, your possessions, the group of particular predilections and quirks that comprise your identity, your birthday remains. On this date, at this time, you WERE.

But no, this is not going to be another post about death. This is a post about insomnia--the mind's refusal to let go of consciousness even for a few hours. The body folds itself into the position of rest and courts restoration, the lights go out,the house pulses with silence--but the mind skitters and darts like a monkey on a bicycle. While you watch the clock, desperately counting out the hours and minutes left to sleep, the monkey whizzes by, tongue protruding. "I'm not finished with you yet," he says and laughs demonically. Meanwhile, the clock continues to tick, the silence of the house becomes a roar.

I first encountered the monkey when I was still a child, waiting for my mother to come home from work, worrying excessively about school projects, or squabbles with friends. Over the years, I've gotten older, but the monkey is as young and vigorous as ever. He circles the house when I most need rest. Sometimes he is a one night stand; other times he settles in for weeks. He has been known to defy the strongest of sleeping medications.

This summer the monkey has been a nightly visitor. I turn on my right and put my pillow over my head, and he is there, his constant taunt, echoing in my ear. Think! Think! And of course, it is thinking that is both the arch-enemy of sleep and the monkey's most potent spell. Think, damn you!

I can't tell you how many times I've been tempted by magazine articles that promise an end to my affliction, and then offer the same useless pablum about eliminating caffeine and going to bed at the same time every day. Don't they understand this is a fight to the death duel between my exhausted body and a mind that refuses to obey the STOP sign?

Then the other night, after weeks of dealing with the monkey, I remembered the advice my father had given me many years ago when I was still a novice insomniac:

"Can't sleep? Lie down and forget you're alive; you'll be asleep in minutes," he said one night when he was annoyed by my night prowling. Then he slammed the door to my room. Not a suggestion, but a command. I don't think it worked that night. Maybe I was too young to understand the implications of his words. But the other night, and for several nights that followed, the command mesmerized the monkey like a hypnotist's watch. Within minutes of the remembered order, I was asleep.

Have I whipped insomnia for good? Probably not. As I said, the monkey has prevailed even over powerful narcotics. Undoubtedly, he will return with a counter spell. But at least for now, I've relearned the skill that babies and animals practice so effortlessly and often. Sleep.

Thanks, Dad. And one more thing, it's July 21st and I still remember.

WHY POETS WRITE ABOUT DEATH SO MUCH

stones of light 3
Originally uploaded by annavs.

I wanted to write the Sunday Optimist Report yesterday, but I worked a lot this weekend, slept little, and when I searched my poetry books for inspiration, the poem that spoke to me in the clearest voice was this one by Jorge Luis Borges. Is it optimistic? You be the judge:

TO WHOEVER IS READING ME

You are invulnerable. Have they not granted you
the powers that preordain your destiny,
the certainty of dust? Is not your time
as irreversible as that same river
where Heraclitus, mirrored, saw the symbol
of fleeting life? A marble slab awaits you
which you will not read--on it, already written,
the date, the city, and the epitaph.
Other men too are ony dreams of time,
not indestructible bronze or burnished gold;
the universe is, like you, a Proteus.
Dark, you will enter the darkness that awaits you,
doomed to the limits of your traveled time.
Know that in some sense you are already dead.

I know I wrote about a death in my last post, and perhaps it is the demise of a woman I didn't quite like, but whose life meant something to me and perhaps even something to the universe, which is still affecting me.

Or maybe death really is the great subject for poets. The monumental news we're sent here to proclaim over and over to our disbelieving readers. To our disbelieving selves. We die! Look, it happened to my sister, we say when we pen an elegy. Or to my lover. Even to the one I considered worthy of hate, but who turned out to be nothing but a poor human, governed by the same cruel laws that I am. It will happen to me and you. No matter how infinitely real and important our lives feel to us, they will be extinguished suddenly or with torturous leisure. We know not why or when or what follows. Even if we say we know or think we know, we don't know.

And it is precisely this dark wind at our backs that makes our days so thrilling. Anyone who thinks they have time for boredom or envy or antipathy is only half awake. It is up to the poets, the musicians, the artists to shake them up and spin them around and jolt them toward wakefulness. We are here in this amazing time. This amazing place. See it. Listen to it. Drink it up to the final drop.

Meanwhile, I have a new poem up on Sigla if anyone is interested. It's not even about death...or then again, maybe it is.

sunrise

sunrise
Originally uploaded by killthebird.

I had various titles in mind for this post, but have decided to let the title of the photograph stand. sunrise, small s.

As for the category it belongs in, I'll let you decide. My subject, besides sunrise, small s, is how you feel when someone you knew quite well, but didn't really like dies, and why death--as mundane and common as the bread we eat or the grass on which we walk still has the power to shock us.

C. was a former co-worker, with whom I struggled to get along, but frequently failed. Unkind words were said, grudges held, hours spent rehearsing comebacks to her next rebuke. Once or twice I scored petty victories, which I retold eagerly to friends and allies on the job.

But there were pleasant times, too. I sat outside and drank coffee with her on breaks. The inevitable plume of smoke encircling her head, she reminisced about the many boyfriends she'd had and the way heads had once turned whenever she walked into a room. We also shared a mutual love of children and animals. Though C. was not a mother herself, she had a relationship with the son of a former boyfriend that exceeded many mother-child bonds in affection and generosity. A couple of times I attended the annual themed birthday party she threw herself, laughing as she said "no one else was going to do it." She always served Mexican food, her favorite, and posed with me for pictures. Her friend who was not quite a friend.

Once she told me her favorite month was July; and she usually took the whole month off to bask in her love of beach and sun. It seemed meaningful that I would hear of her death on a bright July day.

I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, not since I left the job. Last summer when another former co-worker called and told me C. had been diagnosed with lung cancer, my "good intention" reflex was activated along with my sorrow.

I carefully chose a card--one that was neither too falsely cheerful, nor too gloomy--and stared at the blankness inside for fifteen minutes. I could not think of a word to write. I would send the card tomorrow, I said, putting it in the drawer where it still sits. Every time I drove past her street, I thought of dropping by--maybe picking up some Mexican take-out for us to share, bringing a potted plant. But I didn't.

Yes, I knew she was ill. I knew she was terminal, but I was still surprised by the phone call this afternoon. In the end, our common humanity transcended all our petty differences. Why didn't I know that before?

So now I will open my desk drawer and throw away the card I never sent. Then I will go out and buy another one to send to her brothers. On Monday, I will pay the visit I never had the time or generosity of spirit for--to the funeral home.

If I'm lucky, I will wake up tomorrow to another July morning and see the sunrise, small s; and probably sometime during the day, yet another opportunity for kindness will pass me by.

MY NEIGHBOR'S DIVORCE

CATEGORY: Every day survival

Mostly houses are secret places. We surround them with well tended lawns and tiny fences and color coordinated flowers, but inside life grows wild.

Last night, I was walking my dogs. We took our usual route, looping past rows of secret houses, contained gardens and uncontainable lives. Jade and Starski explored with their noses; I inhaled the night and thought about my unfinished novel, my usual preoccupations.

Outside one such house, a familiar, but largely unknown neighbor, climbed out of his jeep. I have long admired his orderly yard, his blond children, the scent of family barbecues and the laughter that sometimes wafted through the air when I passed. While my dogs sniffed his petunias, I offered my usual perfunctory greeting, adding a meaningless "How are you tonight?"

The only trouble was that he really wanted to answer the question. How am I? he repeated, walking toward me, one hand raking his thick hair. Not good. Not good at all. The house would be on the market soon, and he didn't know where he was going.

By then, my dogs were tugging at their leashes. An extended stop, a genuine conversation was not in the program. "I'm sorry to hear that," I said.

Last week was my twenty first anniversary, and my wife surprised me with a divorce.

Again, I murmured my regrets. I would miss them in the neighborhood, I said, though my words must have seemed as empty as his future looked at that moment. I had never really known them.

He took a step backward, reestablishing the distance between us. If you know anyone who's looking to buy a house...

"Not off hand, but I'll think about it."

From the window, a girl of about ten peered out at us, but when she caught me looking, the shade snapped shut.

I continued my walk, but I was no longer thinking about the number of words I'd written in my novel. I was thinking of the secret life, the private longings and unknown sorrows that exist behind the walls of every house I passed.

THE THREE STUPIDEST THINGS I'VE EVER DONE

Photograph: Arrebato by ccdd via Flickr

I was so excited when I found out Jeannette from Musings of a Middle-Aged Woman fame had tagged me for another meme. It's almost like being picked for the softball team in the fifth grade--something that didn't happen all that much for a kid with my athletic (in)abilities. But here I am playing on another meme team, with a third waiting in the wings. (See comments under THE SUNDAY OPTIMIST.)

Question number 1: What are the three stupidest things you've ever done in your life?

This is the most interesting question of the bunch. I believe stupid things are repeated over and over until we get it right. (I still haven't.) Thus, I started with the first three I could remember, and wrote my answer in the form of a poem: I WAS FIVE.

Question number 2: At the current moment, who has the most influence on your life?

Whoever I allow to influence me. On some days, my skin is so permeable that a rude cashier in the grocery store can ruin an otherwise perfect day. Other days, I feel so good I'm (almost) invincible.


Question number 3: If you were given a time machine that functioned, and you were allowed to only pick up to five people to dine with, who would you pick?

Might as well make the discussion interesting. How's this? Jesus, Napoleon, Aristotle, Buddha, and John J. Heney (my grandfather).


Question number 4: If you had three wishes that were not supernatural, what would they be?

The least interesting question because we pretty much all want the same things.

Peace, love and understanding for myself.
Peace, love and understanding for those I love.
Peace love and understanding for what the Buddhists call "all sentient beings."



Question number 5: Someone is visiting your hometown/place where you live at the moment. Name two things you regret your city not having, and two things people should avoid.

I'd rather tell you two things we DO have, and since this is my blog, that's what I'm gonna do:

The ocean.
Beautiful sunsets.

And two things you definitely shouldn't miss:

Swimming at midnight.
Shell collecting.




Question number 6: Name one event that has changed your life.

I learned to read.



Question number 7: Is not a question. It's a command. Tag five other people.

Anyone want to play?

THE SUNDAY OPTIMIST'S REPORT

Last week, as you may or may not recall, I went searching for good news in 10 prominent newspapers. It turned out to be a pretty dispiriting exercise. Either there's not a hell of a lot of good things going on in this world (which I absolutely refuse to believe) or the newspaper-reading public isn't all that interested in it. What that says about human nature--well, we won't go into that, this being the optimist's report and all.

While I'm hoping that last week was just a bum week for news and the news isn't always that grim, this Sunday I decided to turn to a more reliable source of good news: poetry.

This, from Mary Oliver's Rules for the Dance is enough to make anyone searching for hope on a Sunday morning smile:

"No poet ever wrote a poem to dishonor life, to compromise high ideals, to scorn religious views, to demean hope or gratitude, to argue against tenderness, to place rancor before love. Not one. Not ever.

On the contrary, poets have, in freedom and in prison, in health and in misery, with listeners and without listeners, spent their lives examining and glorifying life, meditation, thoughtfulness, devoutness, and human love. They have done this wildly, serenely, rhetorically, lyrically, without hope of answer or reward. They done this grudgingly, willingly, patiently, and in the steams of impatience.

They have done it for all and any of the gods of life, and the record of their so doing belongs to each one of us.

Including you."

BEST OF THE BLOGS 7/1 - 7/8

1. I love PostSecret (see sidebar for link) so much I used to look forward to Sundays just so I could see the new secrets. Lately, however, they seem to be getting a little redundant. Or maybe the secrets of the human heart are just more limited than I thought. In any case, these were my favorites of the week:

In the best first line for a novel category:




In the existential angst category:




And this week's all round favorite. Just the photograph of that little house is enough to make me weep for my lost childhood:



2. M.J. Rose, one of the most innovative marketing minds on the literary scene, premiered this vidlit on her blog, Buzz, Balls & Hype this week. For every blog that features the vidlit before July 19th, M.J.'s supporters will donate I five bones to the Reading is Fundamental program. Another brilliant marketing scheme? Absolutely. But it also helps a great program.

The video only asks a minute and a half of your time. After you've seen it, I'd be curious to know your reaction. Would it
a) Make you more likely to buy the book
b) Less likely
c) Not influence your buying choices one way or another

In my house,out of three occupants, it was a draw. However, one thing it definitely accomplished: it got us all talking about The Halo Effect.

3. In our secret hearts, most of us pity the writers of former generations, sentenced to toil away on archaic typewriters or even worse--in longhand. But arguably, the world's greatest masterpieces were written in these primitive ways. The proprietor of Tingle Alley poses the question: How much time to we lose to the distractions of the internet by writing on a computer. And is it worth it? The answer is thoughtful, and well worth your time, even if it is, ahem, another distraction from writing.

4. And finally, Natalie D'Arbeloff (see sidebar) posts a very poignant and personal photograph of her frail and suffering aunt in a post called "For the Unseen and the Unsung." She asks us to "take a moment, and go via imagination to the side of all the little people and stroke their foreheads, hold their hands." It is a worthwhile trip.

5. I know that #4 opened with the words "And finally...", but just found "Slow=Know," a wonderful piece of advice to artists on Danny Gregory's blog, Everyday Matters. (Scroll down to 7/7.) The advice is intended for visual artists, but I can't imagine anyone who wouldn't be inspired by reading it.

11 STEPS TO A BETTER BRAIN

Just read a terrific article in The New Scientist called "11 Steps to a Better Brain". Since I'm always in the market for a brain upgrade, I was totally excited. In fact, I was so excited about the possibilities of brain expansion that I'm not only going to pass the link along, I'm going to sum up what I learned. In that way, I can test myself to see exactly how desperately I need this information. Besides, reviewing what you learned might be one of the 11 steps. Then again it might not be. Crap, I'm already starting to forget.

Okay, so here's my clearly defective brain's version of the 11 steps.

1. Pharmaceutical enhancement. I'm not all that interested in the subject at this point, so I skimmed, but I think they're talking about Ritalin and stuff like that. Wasn't that just linked with increased cancer risk? Nah, definitely not interested.

2. Eat Beans on toast for breakfast. Apparently the combination of fiber and protein really clarifies thinking. While the idea of smearing beans on their morning english muffin would probably gross most people out, it sounds pretty good to me. But then again, I'm a vegetarian, and beans are practically my favorite food.

3.There's also some food called Marmite, which I never heard of, but it has a lot of brain building B vitamins, and hmmm, I think you can spread that on toast, too. Marmite. Kind of sounds like marmalade. Which brings me to...

4. Word association games are good. So are crossword puzzles, memorizing poems, and similar mental gymnastics, but you knew that, didn't you?

5. Knitting. Ever wonder why you see so many old ladies knitting those ugly afghans no one wants. They're keeping their brains in shape for God's sake. So be nice. Buy an afghan at the next church fair.

6. The best lunch is a salad and an omelette. The eggs have hmmm...choline, I think it was, and the salad's got anti-oxidants. Top them off with some yogurt for dessert and you'll be going strong all afternoon.

7. Exercise, especially the rhythmic kind that teaches your body patterns is good for the brain as well as the body.

8. You heard that stuff about listening to Mozart. Well, far as we know, that's still true.

9. Eat the right fats. Nay to the transfatty acid fake stuff found in cake, french fries, and everything your parents gave you as a reward for being good. Yes to fish and flax oil.

10. I think there was something about chewing gum, but how on earth that helps the brain, I have no idea.

11. Going without sleep for days on end doesn't help at all. Very bad news for insomniacs like me who will now have another reason to stay awake and worry.

But wait, wait, I've already got 11 and I still remember more. What about eating lots of berries and getting a job or trying to keep the one you have? And I'm sure there was something about nuns with positive attitudes in there and something called neurofeedback which sounded a lot like meditation to me.
Damn, maybe the article was actually called 17 Steps to a Better Brain.

Or maybe I shouldn't be so quick to rule out pharmaceutical enhancement.


So go to the New Scientist, then come back and tell me how well I did--or at least remind me of what exactly marmite is and where I can get some quick.

ASHES

"Everyone else can leave, but not you."

This week's New Yorker introduces a strong new voice in fiction. Ashes, a story by Cristina Henriquez enters the consciousness of the reader harshly. In the middle of her shift at the Casa de la Carne, the narrator, Mireya, is informed that her mother has died suddenly. She finishes the shift before calling her brother to get the details. At this point, I feel like I am on foreign soil, both geographically and emotionally. I'm not sure who is more heartless, Mireya's employer or the stoic daughter with whom I'm being asked to empathize. But the prose is sharp and concise and I'm still reading. Lucky for me.

This story rewarded me for my time in the way that only the best fiction does. It started with a blank and unknown heart, and then illuminated it so brightly that I felt like I had walked the streets of Panama City with Mireya, worked a few mind numbing shifts at the Casa de la Carne, and then gone home where a shiftless and unfaithful boyfriend named Armando waits for her to provide him with supper. It soon becomes obvious that the only meaningful connection Mireya has is with her mother.

"Everyone else can leave, but not you," her mother told her once, and now it seems that she has renegged on her own bargain. By the end of the story, even Mireya's taciturn response to her mother's death is seen for what it is: a reflection of the grief that ultimately derails her life. In rapid succession, she loses her job, and pummels Armando in the street when she sees him with another woman.

In our final image of Mireya, she is alone with her mother's ashes, but she is "looking out on what she can see." As bleak as the scene appears, there is something particularly hopeful in it that outward vision. Hopeful is also the way I would describe the future of this new writer, whose first collection of short stories will be released in September. I, for one, will be watching for it.

11 THINGS TO DO ON THE 4TH OF JULY

1. Light a sparkler. Or better yet, be a sparkler.


2. Barbecue something, maybe even a tofu hot dog.


3. Be a good citizen. Smile, let someone go in front of you in traffic, turn down the music when the neighbors are sleeping.


4. Kiss someone who loved their country enough to become a Veteran.



5. Kiss someone who loved their country enough to protest an injustice.



6. Sit in the backyard with friends and family and enjoy the day. Don't have any friends or family? Look for the house with the most cars around it, and join the party. Chances are no one will notice.



7. Celebrate water. Go to the beach. Run through a sprinkler. Conserve.



8. Do one thing to make your country a better place.


9. Improve the national literacy rate. Find a nice spot and read something.


10. Relax


11. Celebrate freedom, but don't be naive about it or ever take it for granted. The folks who brought you the 4th of July weren't and didn't.


All photographs by Ted Lukac

SEARCHING FOR GOOD NEWS ON A SUNDAY IN JULY

CATEGORY: Good vs. Evil

I had an old friend named Marie LaPorte, who died just shy of her ninetieth bithday a few years ago. Marie was one of the pure souls I've met in my life, a relentlessly positive person, who never encountered a situation that couldn't be improved by a little humor. At the restaurant where Marie used to have breakfast every morning, they used to save a page from an old newspaper for her. Then while all her friends buried their heads in their morning papers, she read hers. Due to a printer's error, the page was blank. "It's the only paper that's not filled with bad news," Marie said, as she returned it to the proprietor for safekeeping every day.

I spent the morning trolling through about ten newspapers on-line in search of five pieces of good news to share; and I'm beginning to think Marie was right. If the battle between Good and Evil is being waged in newspaper headlines, then Good's in big trouble. All I could come up with was three pieces to share.

1. The Live 8 concert, was reported world wide. Though a few cynics tried to knock it for various reasons, most praised it for raising both money and awareness about poverty in Africa, and providing some great entertainment in the process.



2. The city of Portland, Oregon has had successfully and dramatically reduced carbon emissions while booming economically proving once and for all that good environmental policies and a strong economy are not mutually exclusive.

3. The Toronto Globe and Mail has a great multi-media piece called AIDS in Africa: A Turning Point. (I couldn't figure out how to link it directly, but if you go to the website, you should be able to find it.) It doesn't whitewash the tragedy of AIDs in the sub-Sahara; in fact it asks you to take an up close and personal look at its face, but it's full of hope. And hope, wherever you find it, is the best kind of news there is.

The scarcity of good news has left me feeling pretty depressed so if anyone has any to share or a positive link to post, I'd love to hear from you. Meanwhile, the next time I go searching for good news, maybe I'll try my friend Laura's bathroom wall.

FIVE THOUGHTS ON: Tom Cruise

CATEGORY: Hmmm...sanity vs. madness maybe?

At least once a week something comes along that completely changes my life. This week, it was Technorati. (I'd provide a link but I'm sure everyone in the known universe discovered it long before I did--or at least knows how to find it.) Technorati's fun for a lot of reasons, but one feature that particularly intrigues me lists the most commonly discussed issues on the internet.

Now we all know there's a few significant issues going on in the world right now--wars, famine, nuclear proliferation, global warming to name a few. There's even a few amazingly good things happening, though they're much less talked about, and off the top of my head, I can't come up with one.

But what are people talking about? Tom Cruise. That's right. For weeks it's been Tom and Katie, Tom's appearance on Oprah, Tom's expert psychiatric advice to Brooke Shields. Oh, and don't forget, Tom helpfully reminding Matt Lauer that he shouldn't shoot his mouth off about things he's doesn't understand.

So having railed against the overabundance of all things TOM for the past two weeks, I now find that I have all these unauthorized opinions on the subject roaming around in my head. Pardon me while I release them.




1. As I learned that in communications class, it's always best to start with the positive, so here goes: Even in a landscape of glittering white perfection, your teeth stand out. I also really loved your performance in "Born on the Fourth of July".

2. I know Middle-age is a bitch--especially for people who make their living, at least in part, on their good looks. And I understand; I really do. But standing on chairs? Making inane comments about anti-depressants? There's got to be a better way...

3. Now this Katie Holmes--she looks like a nice girl, and hey, if you're happy, great. But honestly, it's not the first time in human history that anyone's ever fallen in love. It's not even the first time you've--well, we won't get into that. All I'm saying is that all this jumping around has got to stop. We're getting tired of this relationship just watching it. How must Katie feel?

4. I also understand about the need to market a product. Namely your new movie, "War of the Worlds." And not just that, you're marketing yourself, too--the movie star TOM CRUISE, whose inner life may or may not have anything to do with anything you've said and done in public lately. But seriously, I think you should have been a little more polite to Matt Lauer.

5. Hmmm...Marketing a product. Marketing yourself...And the whole world is talking about it...Maybe Tom's a freaking genius after all.

BEST OF THE BLOGS 6/24 - 7/1

So what were the five best things written on blogs in the past week? It's an intriguing question, but straight out of the box, let me admit I haven't got a clue.. And what's more, neither does anyone else in the known world. There are so many blogs floating through the sphere at this point that trying to find the five best posts would be something akin to trying to name the five best thoughts anyone had on the planet this week.

In fact, I visit so many blogs and invite so many diverse voices inside my head in the course of a week that these may not even be the best things I read. What they do represent is five things that stayed with my scattered brain after my mouse pressed me relentlessly onward. And in this age of pervasive A.D.D. and virtual wandering, anything that sticks to the brain has got to worthwhile.

1. The always intriguing Sarah Weinman's thoughts on the BTK killer. Chilling is the word.


2. The following quote which I found on Postcards from the Imagination and promptly transcribed into my notebook:

"My self-confidence comes from the fact that I have discovered my dimensions. It does not behoove me to make myself smaller than I am." Edith Sodergran, Swedish Poet

And while you're there, do a little scrolling and read the excerpt from the Jorie Graham poem.

3. The wonderful Dave Pollard, who aspires to no less than saving the world has a great piece on "Business Advice for Young People and their Parents" which is more like life advice for everyone. You'll need to print and read since it deserves much more of your attention than a typical blog post.



4. Dan Wickett's blog. Yes the whole thing. It's new, it's good, and anything coming from Dan is a must-read for anyone who is even mildly interested in contemporary literature.

5. Train to Chennai. Hey, we all love a train ride, and this particular one written by a blogger called mangs will take you from Outrage, through Indignation and all the way to that rare destination called Justice.


Meanwhile, if anyone sees the woman pictured above, will someone please tell her to come out of her study and head for the beach that's only a mile down the road. She's looking awfully pale.