the way it feels

the first sip of coffee
hot, throat warmth

the coolness at the bottom of the bed
stretching my legs, toe bliss

the finger paths along your arm
familiar, automatic

that kiss
lips soft, lingering long, pressure full

sleeping soundly
waking fully
bringing more of me to this
needing nothing less

lately

I am nesting. Baking. Making. procrastinating. Hiding away from production. Resolved most days to carry on. This secret we shall keep and never speak of what can be done. Thank you for what has been done. I see you. I know you. I see your full potential. The all and the sum of what you are capable of if you only had a small encourager sitting on your shoulder, cheering you on and validating how wonderful you truly are.

I am standing at intersections busy and loud.
I am content to look down each road and see the middle.
I never see the end.
I stay.

I see love and passion and touch and song.
I cuddle close, content to catch the constant crashing chords.
constant crashing
I lift myself up with your words.
Affirmations.
Thank you.

You leave long long lines of silence
and I wonder where you are
where you've gone
when you will leave
and be gone
good-bye
bad-bye
there is no good in leaving
just
absence
and
silence
cradling
crashing
cleaving
to
what?

Writing Ways

Sometimes I write with wild abandon-- forging ahead without thinking. A flow. A bite. A long, long escalation. It's explosive.

Sometimes I write with thoughtfulness-- carefully constructing an arc of words that carry meaning and weight. I am left feeling satisfied, accomplished-- A completeness and afterglow achieved.

Sometimes I tease with a nip, a tip. I flirt with an idea, a notion and just barely touch it.

Sometimes I punch the words into submission-- forcing conception.

It's all writing. It's all good. I love it.

CW

I really like Anberlin's new album and I've been listening to it all afternoon. This title has nothing to do with the words below.

Want.

You.

Lose.

You.

Take.

You.

Leave.

You.

Find.

Me.

feelings

Uninspired. Stagnant. Unwilling. Apathetic.

Why write? Why words? Form and syntax and meaning.... why? Rhythm and flow and sound... why?

Creation is just for me and me alone. And today, I don't care.

more

There should be more
so much more
of loving
of words
of being still and quiet
of waiting with happy heart
knowing the return
is moments only
to wait

Now nothing fills the space
the moments pass
with empty dread
moments pass
with no promise
of a life
of a love
that holds us both
until letting go
is painful.

Silence and Sound

If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.
    George Eliot, Middlemarch


I spent some time in the library yesterday. Reading. Listening.
I paid attention to the quiet, to the void of noise. I embraced it for its stark contrast to the ordinary noise bath that I normally prune in with mild contempt.
Then I began to listen for small scratches registering only slightly. The turn of the page. The clearing of the throat. Footsteps. The cadence of my own breath. I began to appreciate the space between silence and sound. Without one there could not be the other, like a relief in stone. There is the stone-- whole and complete yet we find the art not through addition but through removal. Without sound we would not have silence. The act of separating one from the other is where I experienced the beauty. Suddenly, I found a new appreciation for the sounds I forget to hear-- The ones that become like audio wallpaper, just part of our audible landscape. I appreciate the times of quiet not only for the respite, but because in it I find new appreciation for sound.

CW

As an aside, because this is the way my brain works and I really want to know who's brain may function like mine:

Do you think librarians secretly hope for someone to make some noise in the library? I mean yes they make a big display of disapproval at even the slightest above a whisper with their shhhshing and death stares, but I see some pleading behind those eyes for a little ruckus. I think they want it so badly just so they can exercise their mighty muscle of maintaining quiet and order... I slammed a book shut just to test my theory and considered it an act of kindness. :)

iceberg

I may or may not know what I want. I know what I feel. 

 Like a slow death. The waiting.

I have so much to say that gets choked back on that trick, that catch

that waits for my abandon and holds on white-knuckled

a death grip

I find the voice-- the one that can't speak

I float the words 

testing, tasting their tips

just the taste 

just the tip

Currently ...

1. I feel out of sync with all that is good and right on this planet because my CD player is broken in my car. 

2. I am contemplating why I have never found George Clooney or Brad Pitt attractive.





















3. I'm giving serious thought to Victor Hugo's "cure" for writer's block. His solution: “he had his servant take all of his clothes away for the day and leave his own nude self with only pen and paper, so he’d have nothing to do but sit down and write.”


4. I'm thinking of getting a servant.

5. I'm eating blue corn chips and guacamole.

6. I'm wondering how much longer I must suffer the absence of new Californication episodes. 


7. I'm a little pissed that boys get some really great smelling soap that the soap makers have obviously dedicated much time and research into how to make the scent last seemingly forever. Girls... have you found a girl soap with the same level of scent intoxication and duration without smelling like a fruit bowl or an unnatural flower? 


8. I'm considering entering the Florida Times-Union's Holiday Short Story Contest but feel incredibly irritated that I must begin my story with: "It was the largest snowstorm in Florida history..." What?!? Really? Makes me want to poke my finger in my eye...

Permission

Permission: authorization granted to do something; formal consent


In my writing I have a block. I practice restraint and constraint. I temper mood, feeling, intent, description, action and meaning. Why?


I am the captive and the captor with a serious case of Stockholm syndrome. I am constantly self-editing the content of my fiction motivated by fear of offense, misunderstanding or lack of discernment from my reader between fiction and reality. When I begin to drive a character to a place that I myself would not go, or create an action that I would not participate in, or even develop dialogue that I personally would not speak I sneak my pinky finger up to the delete key and find it hard to release it. I struggle with the role of originator of a story idea or character trait because of what that must imply about myself. If I take an idea or a character to a dark place, or create a perverse concept how will it be received by my reader... especially those who KNOW me... I cringe.
I like to write over the top sometimes-- to really go for it and stretch myself to the limit. When I am in that zone and find that creative space it is freeing to not hold back. When it comes down to then sharing the product however, I freeze and reject what I've created. I am a coward. This has been a source of much frustration for me lately. I find that I am looking for permission and at the heart of that is my need for approval in my writing. 
When I read some of my favorite authors, I notice a universal truth to their writing. I know that they gave it all. They took the chance. They gave the middle finger to whatever once may have held them back. These writers offer themselves, their characters and ultimately their readers an amazing gift-- permission. They give themselves permission to write what and how they want to write without censorship. They give their characters permission to be who they need to be for the story. They give permission to the story itself to be completely told. 


This is what I hope to achieve. I want to take my writing to a new level-- to a place of freedom and honesty. I am giving myself permission to write what needs to be written without judgement from my toughest critic... myself.                                       

Six Sentences

There's this blog I adore aptly called Six Sentences, which asks "What can you say in six sentences? That's it, that's the only rule. Say what you want; it must be six sentences long. Here's one from me:

A Man in a Bar

I fought the urge to punch him. I wanted to forget the rules, and just whack this man. I wanted to punch his face. His ruddy, fat-cheeked, pock-marked face that for the past hour whined incessantly about how much he wanted to just start over. He hated his childhood, his father, his broke down Cutlass, his wife who left ten years ago with their three-legged greyhound puppy and his inability to hold a job. I hated him.

Story twist

I love the young minds in my house. Megan, 8 and Jordan, 9 are creative and uninhibited with their writing, letting their words flow without pause. Writer's block is not in their vernacular. They both write songs and stories that always impress me. Tonight we decided to write a short story together. We each took turns penning two to three sentences. The story took on a life of its own with each voice and at times the voices were struggling to be heard first or loudest. It was freeing to just let them dictate without trying to control the story's direction. It was a nice opportunity to write strictly for fun with two of my fav peeps! Enjoy!

Skylar's Pigs
By Jordan, Megan and Cheryl

Skylar woke slowly stretching her long skinny legs as far down the bed as she could. She wiggled her toes in the cool part of the sheets and smiled, suddenly realizing that today was the day. 

Skylar jumped up excited, rushed to the window pushing back her white fluffy curtains and peered down to the pig sty below. She knew that today was the day she got more pigs on her farm. She made her bed quickly, grabbed her blue robe with pink polka dots and ran down the stairs to her older brother’s room and pounded on the door shouting, “Today’s the day! Today’s the day! Wake up Matt!”

Skylar loved living on a farm. She loved the smells, she loved the sounds but most of all she loved the pigs. And today her favorite pig, Lucy, was having her babies. To have little piglets on the farm again made Skylar want to jump for joy.

She was also really excited to get her very own piglet. Skylar thought baby pigs were so cute. She loved their cute little snouts and their curly silky tails. 

Then all of a sudden she heard a loud knock on the front door. She ran to the door, slung it open hoping it was her parents. Standing before her however, was her best friend, Amber. Friends since they were three, their six-year friendship had its fair share of highs and lows. 

Amber hated everything about farm life. She never understood why Skylar was so obsessed with those gross little pigs. All Amber wanted was for Skylar to grab her swimsuit and join her at the community pool. But Skylar was in a pig frenzy!

“I’ll go to that stupid pool when pigs fly!” said Skylar. 

“You really love pigs, don’t you?” said Amber, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you just forget about those little piglets. After all, I am your best friend.” 

Skylar looked at her long and hard. Then she said in a shrill voice, “I will never forget about those little piglets! They are the cutest things in the world!” Then she shut the door, breathed a deep sigh of frustration,  spun on her heels and walked with determination to her brother’s door once again.

This time she didn’t even bother to knock. Matt was splayed out across his bed, his large feet hanging off the edge and his head buried beneath his pillow. The room smelled of dirty socks and too much cologne. Skylar loved her brother but couldn’t understand why he was such a mess. She decided it must be a teenager thing. 

She grabbed a hold of his feet and pulled as hard as she could but couldn’t budge him. So she jumped on the bed until he woke up. Matt woke up startled and threw his pillow at his annoying little sister. He got up knowing if he didn’t his sister would just keep on bugging him.

After being butted out of her brother’s room, Skylar walked to the kitchen and found a note on the fridge. The note said:

Dear Skylar and Matt,

We will be gone for a little while. But we will be back at 10 a.m. Before we get home, eat breakfast, make your bed, get dressed and brush your teeth. 

Love,

Mom and Dad

Skylar looked at the time. It was already 9:45 a.m. so she went to the fridge got some milk, went to the cupboard, got some cereal, a bowl and spoon and quickly made her breakfast. 

Shoveling in the Frosted Flakes as fast as she could she then ran back up the stairs still chewing her last bite. It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet and she felt like she’d run three races. All of this running around and excitement was making her sweat. She threw off her robe and nightgown and hopped into her jeans and threw on a T-shirt. In her bathroom she managed to brush her teeth and hair simultaneously. She made it back downstairs just as the clock chimed 10 a.m.

Her parents were right on time. They all went out to the pig sty where Lucy was pacing around her piglets. There were 5 baby pigs there. They were all cuddled together. They almost looked like a donut.

They were so cute, Skylar didn’t know which one she wanted. When she looked over she saw her brother, his black hoodie covering most of his face. When she looked to her other side her dad looked a bit cross because he was sad he wasn’t there to see the babies being born. But her mother was crying tears of joy and smiling a big fat smile.

This was one of the happiest moments of Skylar’s life. How wonderful she thought to live on a farm and get to raise pigs.

The End

autobiographical self-deprecation

self-deprecation: Disparagement or undervaluation of oneself and one's abilities


I had lunch with a dear friend today. We delved deep into our psyches, diagnosed our problems, discussed Hemingway, mountain climbing and the importance of whipped cream, while simultaneously taking pictures of my three-year-old and making sure her precious Dora episodes never ran out on my iPhone. . . multi-tasking at its best.

At one point our conversation turned to me and my writing. I have, as of the past week, committed myself to writing again- to exercising the severely atrophied creative muscles in my head, heart and soul. The crux of the conversation was how much a writer should borrow from themselves, their experiences, their relationships, their feelings, their life for the fictional narratives they pen. His argument was that he would find a story borrowing heavily from my own life pretty darn fascinating. My argument was that nobody really is interested in someone else's life. We all find our lives way more engrossing then we think our friends, much less perfect strangers, ever would.

I am 33, I have two children, a failed marriage, some stories to tell that may pique your interest for about 10 pages. But to devote an entire story arc to my life would be mundane at best. As an example, and on a much simpler platform, I cringe when I update my Facebook status knowing that my "I actually made it to the gym today" or "I love peanut butter" proclamations are never pondered for more time than it takes to read the words, if they are even read at all.

Our society on a whole is quite obsessed with putting it all out there for other people to digest, however. Is it because we want people to know we are really living? If we refrain from Tweeting, posting, blogging, emailing, uploading the photos to prove we were there then are we really living? Or worse, will others think we are boring?

I will confess my need for validation. I started this blog to write, to produce something and call it my own. My deep, dark secret though is that I hope to be read. Not for notoriety... for connection. And I believe that to be important since all of us are participating in our relationships largely from in front of a computer screen or cell phone-- reading emails, texting, and scouring profiles on social networking sites. Our connection with each other is so heavily dependent on the written word... I want mine to be read because in essence my words are me.

From Nothing we can create Everything

Merriam-Webster defines 

NOTHING as:  not any thing : no thing 

and

EVERYTHING as: all that exists

We must start from nothing to achieve everything. Everything is always there. Nothing only exists when we empty ourselves of the labels and loosen that strangling grip we allow our past to have on us.

If we say we are guilty then innocence is not possible.

If we say we are stupid then intelligence is not possible.

If we say we are a liar then honesty is not possible.

I say everything is possible because I am nothing...

"From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all."
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

"I used to believe that anything was better than nothing. Now I know that sometimes nothing is better."
-- Glenda Jackson

and the originator of these thoughts in my mind tonight is the author of the following quote: 

"One creates from nothing. If you try to create from something you're just changing something. So in order to create something you first have to be able to create nothing."
-- Werner Erhard

Goodnight! I must now find the nothing behind my eyelids... so sleepy...

CW

There's a word for that

Uxorious: Extremely submissive to one's wife. 

I am in awe first of all that there is even a word for this concept. Not to say I will opine about it... I am just marveling at its acuity. There is actually this 4-syllabled word for our use, to neatly wrap up the fact that some man out there will do anything for his wife at her command.

And there's more...

Check out this link to other interesting words that may be just what you are looking for when you need to talk about someone's well-toned buttocks, or your fear of the color purple...Interesting Words