Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Reading Ethel Williams Wright

I am reading, "Of Men and Trees" a book of poetry published by Ethel Williams Wright published in 1954.  The book--signed by the author--was lent to me by Joan Hightower, a fellow poet whom I met at a holiday party.  Joan is a sweet octogenarian and mother-in-law to my boss.  I'm halfway through the book, but I wanted to share a few short ones which I fell in love with at first read:

Change

This is not final;
This that is now, and I lent without choice
From opposite eternities,
To meet in time's inevitable plan,
Will not be soon, not that which follows this;
Whether it is what I want or must accept.
All is changing;
Moving forever from and toward the mystery
Of its beginning.


Wordless Depths

Each finds himself, sometime, within a sphere
Where only feeling is; and to many,
Having felt is quite enough.
Yet, others spend the poet's restless year
Up and down its inarticulate depth
Searching vainly every crevice
For a word.

"Of Men and Treens", Poems by Ethel Williams Wright, 1954 (Exposition Press)

Monday, November 30, 2009

Writing Prompt: Mushrooms

"If it's a fungus, how come it doesn't have a smell?"

Margot fingered the mushroom from the stem and sniffed it for the millionth time. She held it up to the sunlight and peered under the white curved head as if staring at it would set the funk free. Holding it up over her head like that reminded me of the clown we saw on that TV show who tried to shield himself from a downpour with the tiniest umbrella. The thought of it made me burst out laughing, clutching my stomach and gasping for air. Of course, Little Miss Sensitive took offense to my antics. She whined that I was making fun of her for asking a stupid question then threw the mushroom at my head. It landed in a thud at her feet–exactly what happened to that poor clown–which made me laugh even harder. As the baby of the family Margot thought everything was all about her. When she began to pout, I straightened up. We were having fun outside being together in the garden, trying to get along for Mom's sake.

"It's a different kind of fungus," I explained. "Not like Joe's athlete's foot that grows because he doesn't change his stinky sweaty socks or that gross stuff living in the nasty showers up at Camp Winnatonka. Most mushrooms are edible."

"Edible? What's that?"

"It means they are fit for human consumption, or in words that a fifth grader would understand, it means you can eat them."

"Oh I get it," Margot said "If mushrooms had a bad smell, we wouldn't eat them."

"Exactly."

Margot picked up another mushroom from the ground, twirled it between her fingers, sniffed at it, peered under the brim and then set it back down.

"So cancer must be a fungus like mushrooms. If it had a smell, maybe Mom would have known it was there."

I pulled my little sister close to me and said, "Maybe, Margot. Maybe."

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Today I Am Thankful For Friends Who. . .

. . .create reasons to pack my bags,
. . .teach my heart to travel light,
. . .give me clothes off backs and out of closets,
. . .inspire me to follow a creative path,
. . .read and re-read and re-read drafts,
. . .listen with warm hearts,
. . .hug with warm souls,
. . .email or text to say hello,
. . .call to hear my voice,
. . .share the beauty of art,
. . .express the depths of love,
. . .demonstrate the possibility of forgiveness,
. . .confirm the promise of happiness,
. . .dance with contagious joy,
. . .deepen my appreciation for yoga,
. . .allow me to support them at their best and worst,
. . .return the favor.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Baby Games

He turns to me and coos.
Cherubic cheeks lift,
reveal tiny pearls of white
on the bottom row.
He looks at me–then away,
looks at me–then away,
a peek-a-boo game
he wants me to join.
He writhes beyond Papa’s arms,
reaches out, coaxes me
to tickle him, sing silly songs,
smile with googly eyes.
Then his gaze turns, drawn by
the shiny silver trash bin
across the room. As he waddles
to his new conquest, I marvel
how in eleven months he’s mastered
breaking women’s hearts.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Writing Prompt: Does She Know I Have Your Keys in My Pocket?

Grandpa wants to take Nana out for a spin
in the Mercedes two-seater with the diesel engine,

to relive the moment she agreed to be his bride
in the hopes the old park would help her recognize

something from their past that matters
instead of all the random chatter

filling her brain, wearing Nana away
from the woman he knows, day after day.

I’ve heard their story a thousand times
how they made lemonade with limes,

a picnic in Pullen Park under the oak tree,
a keepsake he gave her with his picture and key,

before the Alzheimer's began eating her alive,
before the doctor told Grandpa not to drive.

He’s found everything he needs–the basket, the locket–
except for the car keys I have in my pocket.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Dying Breed

They observed signs For Coloreds Only

(and those less polite), but then took front seats

on buses, sat at Woolworth lunch counters like normal

people in defiance of accepted rules.


Though laws changed, they knew

the rules would not. They worked

twice as hard to get half as far, pushed

their children toward equal footing.


Each time they were passed over or denied

for so-called legitimate reasons proved

that their skin factored in decisions,

that prejudice colored the system.


They still do not trust the Man–

despite working side-by-side at assembly lines,

accepting his children as part of their families–

because colorblind promises remained unfulfilled.


Each time their children grasped the dream

tears gleamed in their eyes, hearts full

of gratification for success of the one,

of lament for the others who were failed.


They still sing for freedom, a luta continua

carried on collective breath with the hope

that when the last of them is gone,

the rest of us continue the struggle.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Waning Gibbous

What is it called when a smile erupts upon hearing a story of H2O molecules detected in the debris of a crashed probe signaling the possibility of life on the moon because your mind makes the leap from that scientific discovery to holding his hand under a moon, two-thirds full in the mid-morning sky, and you wonder which lunar phase looks like an oval handkerchief not quite tucked into a pocket, and then remember him say, A little bit in, and you suppose, that’s a good name for it?

Monday, October 19, 2009

Writing Prompt: Coffee Beans

The aroma of Jamaica Blue Mountain brewing in the kitchen must have infiltrated her dream. Her subconscious mind alone could not have conjured such a scene. She was behind bars again – a caged animal on display at the zoo. Usually, in these recurring dreams she'd pace the floor, look beyond the bars, past the photo-snapping tourists and ogling schoolchildren and focus on the object of her desire. If she focused long enough her animal paws would morph into human arms and legs and she could walk past disappearing walls to the thing she knew she needed. Years ago when she lived in Los Angeles, the onlookers were always the last celebrities she saw on the late night talk shows before drifting off to sleep; the object was always food, water or some other basic necessity. Those dreams stopped after she moved to another state. She figured she had found the freedom she craved.

Last night she was that caged animal again, but this time only he stood watching her. She paced the floor staying toward the back, wary of his presence. Then he reached through the bars, coaxed her closer with his treat – chocolate covered coffee beans. She ate them one by one from his left hand oblivious to the diamond-studded collar he placed around her neck with his right. She felt the collar clasp around her neck, constrict her airway until she could no longer breathe; she woke up gasping. She stared at the two carats on the finger second from the left and wondered if she had made a mistake.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Million Dollar Subway

Posting my nephew's English assignment. I enjoyed reading it so much I just had to share!

If I had 10 million dollars to improve the subway stations, I would focus on changing the appearance of the station, trains and the people that work hard for the MTA. First thing I’ll do is get rid of the metro cards. Nobody likes paying for these annoying little cards. So I would have a biometric system that scans your fingerprint. If the machine reads “access granted” you’re free to go but if it says “access denied” then you have must have some kind of weapon on you and will not be allowed to move on. If so, a cacophony would go off throughout the station. Then the weapon would appear on a projector screen so it’ll be easier on the police to know exactly where to search.

Once you get through, you don’t want to walk into a hot station. So, I will make sure every station has air conditioning. Also, I want my stations to be a convenience for everybody. I will achieve this goal by inserting elevators and/or escalators in the subway stations. This is purposely for those who have any kind of leg problem or are physically disabled.

Another improvement I would make is to the trains themselves. You can’t go into a beautiful station and walk into a disgrace of a train. So, I would make all trains state of the art. I’ll have computer operated trains. My trains will be up-to-date with the latest technology and be so comfortable you’ll think you’re in your own living room.

Rush hour is horrible in the afternoon. What I decided to do is make the station much taller and a little bit wider. This is because I’m going to make the trains double-deckered. It might put me over my budget but whatever it takes to satisfy the people, I’ll try my hardest to make it happen. If the trains become double-deckered, twice as many people can get on, making rush hour much calmer and relaxed.

However, while making all these brilliant changes. I still don’t want to interfere with people’s workspace. I don’t want to take jobs away from anybody especially from those who’ve been working for the trains for about two decades. I still need to be fair to everybody else.

Now some people might be wondering, ‘Well, exactly who’s going to benefit from your brilliant improvements?’ I have one simple word for those who are still a little apprehensive…Everyone! Everyone from average Joes to multi-million dollar making celebrities. Once again, change has come to America.

--By Jabari Clarke

Thursday, October 8, 2009

Autumn Feeling

I mistook the feeling for a cold.
My loss of appetite and fatigue symptoms
of germs acquired through casual contact.

Maybe because October started on a Thursday,
without the dread a Monday brings
or the predictable end of a Sunday.

After the accident, I tuned out
all reminders of my father,
even the pennant races he loved,
which I loved because of him.

But this infection waited for crisp, autumn air
to stir up leaves that had fallen away.

In loving memory of Louis Stevenson Taylor, Sr., August 30, 1946 - October 8, 2003

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Dreaming to NPR

I am dressed up, excited.
A class trip to Barack’s and Michelle’s house
to watch the stars on the south lawn.
I walk through the market
searching for…a gift? A snack?
A rutabaga and strange fruit
weigh down my basket.

I ask a foreign lady where to pay.
Her detainee bracelet blinks green
then turns red when we go to the register.
I hold a cup in my left hand,
something clamped to my side.
I stand in line…waiting to pay?
Waiting for fried apples? Waiting for…

A train arrives at the platform.
A young man walks to the front,
shows the conductor his comic book, then boards.
I pull out the comic book tucked under my arm
and do the same. A sea of excited faces
looks back at me. They are all Black.
I overhear some students say
the school board voted out diversity.

I walk in the dark rain, my head down.
That cute boy from school bounds across the street,
lifts my chin with his finger.
We won the Nobel Prize!
He breaks out in song,
“I Love a Rainy Night” and I join in.

==============================================
The NPR stories that must have influenced this dream:
Astronomy Night on the White House Lawn
Immigration Detention
Voters Reject Wake Schools Diversity Policy
Nobel Prize for Chemistry
Jane Lynch from "Glee"

I Like...But I Never

I like that girl on the bus, but I never get a chance to talk to her. It's like fate is trying to warn me–she snores, has unresolved daddy issues, is batting for the other team. I could deal with all of those things, except maybe the batting for the other team part. But then again my sister, Paula does too, so I could introduce them. But I don't think she does, or rather, Paula doesn't think so. I had been talking about the mystery girl on the bus so much, Paula drove me to the stop in the morning to see if this girl warranted being the object of my obsession. It didn't take Paula 15 seconds to declare my girl was not part of "the family".

"She does seem–how can I say this nicely–out of your league, Jeff."

I must have had that deer in headlights look Paula says I give her when I don't quite catch her meaning because she continued.

"Let me give you an example. You like wine, right Jeff?"

"Sure I do."

"Well, she's more of a Cava and you're more like a two-buck Chuck."

I sat silent for a moment trying to absorb the meaning in the metaphor–and then I got it!

"So you're saying we both like wine, but our tastes might be different, and I might like a wine she does not like and vice versa, but if that's true, at least we have our interest in wine in common and can use that to build a successful relationship."

Paula smiled weakly, patted my shoulder. "Jeff, the bus is here. You'd better go before you miss your chance."

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Highway

It's I-40 or just 40.
No one says "the 40"
'round these parts.
His twang snaps me back–
east of the Mississippi,
south of the Mason-Dixon,
away from the Pacific Coast–
toward my home
where the sun rises.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Excuse Me

Can I get my heart back?

I need to give it to somebody else.

I thought I had taken it with me

along with the other things

I tried to salvage –

pride,

dignity,

self-worth –

I barely made it out

with those things intact.


Do you have some crazy glue?

You’d think such a delicate organ

would come with instructions:

“In case of heartbreak –

cry,

breathe,

wait,

heal.

Actual duration may vary –

A lot!”


Can you believe I’m doing this again?

You must think I’m crazy.

I do too, but not doing it would mean

giving in to the

fear,

anger,

self-pity,

misery,

and prove you right

when we both know how wrong

you were.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Answer: MFA in Creative Writing

Question: Why hasn't there been a new post on Pamela R.A.W. since July 29th?

I had a marvelous experience at the North Carolina's Writer's Network 2009 Summer Squire Residency at Warren Wilson College. The poetry workshop was taught by Cathy Smith Bowers, who also teaches at Queens University in Charlotte in their low-residency MFA program in Creative Writing. What is a "low-residency MFA program", you ask? That's the same question I had. Truth be told, Joan McLean asked the question. I merely listened to Cathy's explanation – 7 to 10 days of intense seminars and workshops on campus each semester and spending the rest of the semester completing assignments at home. Two years of this type of program seemed doable, so I decided to apply.

I've spent the first two weeks of August figuring out which poems I wanted to submit with my application packet; not all of them were edited to my satisfaction, but my fearless workshop leader may help me out when she gives me her feedback this week. This past week, I found some online resources to help understand how to critically analyze a poem, then spent the better part of today (almost 7 hours to be exact) writing a critical essay on "Blond" by Natasha Trethewey in the book, Native Guard. The poem tells the story behind a photograph taken of the author as a young child excited about the near life-size ballerina doll and matching ballerina outfit–complete with blond wig–she received as a Christmas present. I had 3 pages single-space worth to say about that poem; now I'll have to cut it down to 3-4 pages double-spaced. The last major portion of the application packet is the personal essay, which basically answers the question, "Why the heck do you want to do this?" (and which I have asked myself repeatedly while writing the critical essay).

In short, getting an MFA in Creative Writing just feels right. One of my New Year's Resolutions was to work on my craft, take my writing and myself as a writer more seriously. When I learned about low residency MFA programs it was as if the path to that goal suddenly appeared before me, like that scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Indy sprinkles some dust and uncovers a bridge that will get him across a deep cavern to the Holy Grail. Now that the path has materialized, I have to walk across it.

========================================================
Pam's Fab 5
Converse College (Spartanburg, SC)
Queens University of Charlotte (Charlotte, NC)
Spalding University (Louisville, KY)
Vermont College of Fine Arts (Montpelier, VT)
Warren Wilson College (Swannanoa, NC)

Check out " the Guide" from Association of Writers and Writing Programs for a complete list of MFA Programs in Creative Writing.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Sangria

in a rush to make the drink he liked
my thumb got in the way
of the knife and the lime.
the blood gushed, too fast
to cup in my palm,
too strong for the press of the rag.
he walked in the door
just as the red soaked through
it looks worse than it is
but he was not swayed.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Things Go Wrong

A cozy relationship
Grew serious, disappointed, troubled -
Maintaining only a shell presence.
A close-knit circle helped,
But efforts were unsuccessful.
A lawyer was appointed;
Little hope remains.
Should have known (it) was doomed to fail.
They had everything...little...nothing.
(It) may be impossible to recover.
Should have paid more attention to all signs.

Words from the article, "Islanders let Raleigh man run scam, investors say" by Thomas Goldsmith, News & Observer, Wednesday, July 1, 2009 (front page below the fold)

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Last Day In Barcelona

Bree saw him standing near the Sagrada Familia metro station at Carrer de Mallorca. When the Blackberry buzzed thirty minutes ago, she was at the top of the sacred church memorializing the Excelsis and Hosanna inscriptions on the towers as vacation photos. Rafael said he would call her after he got off duty from behind the hotel desk - and he did. He said he would meet her at the metro station - and he did. Bree was not used to a man who followed through on his promises.

A knot formed in her stomach at the sight of Rafael’s gentle smile. He looked different in casual clothes and without his glasses - unsettled and unsure, as if taking off the uniform made him more vulnerable. Bree had come to expect his calm, confident demeanor every morning, his patience as the Rosetta Stone Spanish stumbled out of her mouth, his daily assurances that she would have a great time in each part of the city she explored. Without the glasses, Bree could see the discontent dwelling behind his eyes. It must have been what prompted him to see the States by riding cross-country on a Greyhound bus. Bree recognized her longing in Rafael’s eyes. It was the same feeling - the yearning for something more than ‘just enough’ - that compelled her to dust off her passport and fly to a place she had only seen in a Woody Allen movie.

Rafael gave her his helmet and Bree climbed on the back of his motorcycle. She wished she had worn a more practical dress, one she did not have to keep hiking up past her knees for fear of getting caught on some wayward piece of metal. They made their way through the streets of the city, whizzing past sights more familiar to her after nine days. He headed southeast toward Montjuïc, where she had visited on her second day. The guidebooks and tourist websites advised her to take the funicular to the top for the best views of the city, but from that vantage point, a familiar wave of isolation overcame her. She decided to experience the rest of the city hands on, absorb its energy through her pores.

Bree clung to Rafael tighter as they spiraled up to the top. He took her by the hand and pointed out the Olympic Village, Park Güell and La Sagrada Familia, all the places he knew she had visited. He nuzzled his nose against her neck, cheek and earlobe in a slow, winding pattern, touching all the soft places she had forgotten existed within her. She wanted to hold on to this moment longer than she knew it would last. It should have been enough for her to see his smile everyday, watch his fingers steady restless glasses on his face. But of course, Bree wanted more. She wanted to free him from the hotel desk he had chained himself behind, from the lives they both had settled for.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Poems from the Durham Herald News: Saturday, June 20, 2009

How to Make Sense

Our ability to feel on a deep level
Is the only real skill we need.
To figure out meaning,
Go into it as a clean slate;
Relate to others and the world at large.
The world is wondrous and marvelous;
Not to have expectations is undiscovered land.
The greatest pleasure is being taken
Where we have never been before.
In terra incognita, I have felt all parts of myself;
In this complex world, I have felt whole.

From the article, "Crowds Find Varied Meanings in ADF's Smooth Moves " - Interview with ADF Critic-in-Residence, Suzanne Carbonneau (front page, below the fold)

Word of Mouth

People who write encourage people
To read and talk to other people
And see what else they've written.

From the article, "Can You Believe What you Read on the Web?" Parade Magazine section.

Unused Advice

Show up now
Give control to others
Get rid of them
Take back control
Don't fall
Develop simplified rules
Just forget it
Test high
No mixing with trash

From the article, "Keep Drugs Out of the Water Supply", Parade Magazine section

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Writing Prompt: Contagious

I saw their love blossom
In nervous smiles and lingering conversations.
They hurdled over old hurts and impossibilities
Then landed in wedded bliss.
Their daring act made even a cynic like me
Cheer them on, and wonder,
If just by witnessing their triumph
It could happen to me.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Poems from the Durham Herald News: Saturday, June 13, 2009

Our Love Is...

Drama on many stages and many acts
Just above the protected zone.
To move the boundary requires change
In both parts at the same time;
We are waiting for a much different result.

From the article, "Conservationists May Get Boost in Lake Boundary Fight," by Jim Wise (front page, below the fold).

A Cancerous Growth Was Removed

A tumor, when cornered, gets aggressive -
Breeding, rebuilding the species.
The greatest threat has been trapped and sterilized,
Which is what we want to happen.

From the article, "Surgery Removes Tumor in One of Museum's Prize Wolves," by Mark Schultz (3A)

A Late Historian's Life...

...humorous
...heavy with challenge
...genius
...passionate
...murmurs and head nods
...angry happy
...happy angry
...jammed overflow
...a celebration
...many gifts
...family, friends & professional colleagues
...love of orchids
...home in Durham
...symbol of goodness -
Forever!

From the article, "Packed Crowd Honors John Hope Franklin," by Eric Ferreri (4A)

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Book Review: The Bell Jar

The Bell Jar was written by Sylvia Plath and published under a pseudonym in 1963, a month before she committed suicide. I read the paperback version published by Bantam Books in 1972, the year of my birth. The front cover tag line sensationalizes what the book is about, "The heartbreaking story of a talented young woman who descends into madness", but the quote from the New York Times book review printed on the back cover is much more matter-of-fact, "The Bell Jar is a novel about the events of Sylvia Plath's twentieth year; about how she tried to die, and how they stuck her together with glue."

I heard about The Bell Jar in high school or in my early college years, talked about like a rumor in the girls' locker room. I got the impression it was good to admire the writing, but not the writer. Plath wrote things about which most young women could relate, but you didn't want to relate too much to her writing - as if doing so would damn you to the same suicidal fate. I found the book at a used book sale last March (before the book diet). For 16 months the book sat in the closet of the bedroom I hope to one day turn into my study. Every once in a while I'd look in on it - and the other 6 or 7 books I bought that day - promising to lay my eyes on the pages inside. A writer friend suggested I read Sylvia Plath poems for inspiration, but I put it off. Then I took one of those infamous Facebook quizzes "Who Is Your Inner Crazy Bitch?" and voilá she turned out to be Sylvia Plath. Of course, this revelation was what prompted me to finally pick the book up off the floor.

What I absolutely love about this book and Plath's writing is her description of emotions in a way that is accessible intellectually, visually, tangibly, as well as emotionally. The reader follows Esther Greenwood's slow and steady descent into the depths of depression, but her feelings and thoughts seem not much different from feelings and thoughts of anyone else, including my own. Here are a few to illustrate:

Photo shoot during Esther's summer internship at the magazine:
"I didn't want my picture taken because I was going to cry. I didn't know why I was going to cry, but I knew if anybody spoke to me or looked at me too closely the tears would fly out of my eyes and the sobs would fly out of my throat and I'd cry for a week. I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and too full."

Esther's first visit to her first psychiatrist, the "perfect", Dr. Gordon:
"I hated him the minute I walked in through the door. I had imagined a kind, ugly, intuitive man looking up and saying 'Ah!' in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find the words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed father and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out."

What I found most pleasantly surprising about the book was the portrayal of young women coming of age in the early 1950's, before the ideas of women's liberation and equality became fixtures of the American mindset. These women grew up trying to keep up with the Joneses, went to college or worked until they got their Mrs. degrees, were taught to do what was practical and expected of them, and thought they were happiest when their actions were approved by others.

Esther's description of the other young women at the summer internship
"
These girls looked awfully bored to me. I saw them on the sunroof, yawning and painting their nails and trying to keep up their Bermuda tans, and they seemed bored as hell. I talked with one of them, and she was bored with yachts and bored with flying around in airplanes and bored with skiing in Switzerland at Christmas and bored with the men in Brazil."

Describing her feelings when people visited her in the mental health facility
"I hated these visits, because I kept feeling the visitors measuring my fat and stringy hair against what I had been and what they wanted me to be, and I knew they went away utterly confounded."

Esther's character questions and fights against societal expectations - from her interactions with the other young women during the internship, to her refusal to consider marriage proposal, to her resentment of the electric shock treatment prescribed by of her male psychiatrist, to losing her virginity to someone she did not love - and at the same time cannot seem to find her way out of the societal restrictions placed on her. In this way, Esther's feelings of being trapped under a "bell jar" not only describes her mental state, but the expectations of society at that time as well.

Friday, June 5, 2009

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Spain

Raindrops gently fall
On vast plains of loneliness;
I am missing you.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Writing Prompt: Uncommon Pairs

He gave her his helmet, which seemed to her the most romantic gesture. She climbed on the back of his motorcycle, wishing she had worn a more practical dress - one she didn't have to keep hiking up past her knees for fear of getting caught on some wayward piece of metal. They made their way through the streets of his city, whizzing past sights more familiar to her after nine days. He headed south toward the lonely mountain, the one she spotted on her fourth day, but decided not to visit. People told her the mountain provided the best views, but she preferred to experience the city hands on, absorb its energy through her pores. She clung to him tighter as they spiraled up to the top. She wanted to hold on to this moment longer than she knew it would last. It should have been enough for her to see his smile everyday, watch his fingers steady restless glasses on his face. But of course, she wanted more. She wanted to free him from the sinister desk he had chained himself behind, from the life he had settled for.
==================================================
Writing prompt was to use uncommon pairs of adjectives and nouns. Pairings are noted in bold.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Travel Haikus: Saturday & Sunday, May 30-31, 2009

La Sagrada Familia

Awesome to behold,
Gaudí's holy testament.
We are born again.

To Guillermo

I don’t have much time
To let you know how I feel,
But I can show you.

Shavonne Returns

Home welcomes her back.
Fertile ground to grow her dreams;
Choose a different path.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Travel Haikus: Thursday & Friday, May 28 - 29, 2009

Andorra

In the mountain lies
An oasis in the midst.
Our hearts found shelter.

Museu Picasso

Picasso's art evolved
From detail to the abstract.
His genius transformed.

El Desbande

Un piso duro;
Un abrazo ligero;
Un baile lindo.

A hard wooden floor;
The light touch of an embrace;
A beautiful dance.

Último Día

When the dancing stopped
Our last day had just begun.
Can we make it last?

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Travel Haikus: Wednesday, May 27 2009

La Campeonata

When victory came,
A deafening roar rang out.
History was made!


Parc Güell

All throughout the park
Laughter drifted to our ears,
Brilliance to our eyes.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Travel Haikus: Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The Black Virgin

Her spirit lives on
Resting in this holy place.
We take it all in.
=====================
Sitges

We can take a chance;
Pack our things, move by the sea.
Leave our lives behind.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Travel Haikus: Monday, May 25, 2009

MACBA

An atomic kiss
For the one I desire;
I am not his yet.

Inspired by "Atomic Kiss" (1968) by Joan Rabascall and "Packing the Hard Potatoes: Words by Plath and Lorca" (1974) by Oyvind Fahlstrom

Monday, May 25, 2009

Travel Haikus: Sunday, May 24, 2009

Las Ramblas

Off the beaten path
Every corner a surprise
Our journey begins

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Travel Haikus: Saturday, May 23, 2009

Saturday Stroll

One
man in the square,
Dancing for the love of it.
His joy becomes ours.


Razzmatazz

When the music stops,
We pour into streets like wine.
A city at dawn.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Travel Haikus: Friday, May 22, 2009

Flying and waiting.
Beautiful Barcelona,
You are worth the wait!

Beautiful places
How do I live in Raleigh
When the world beckons?'

On a quiet street
Church steeples pierce the dark sky
Everywhere is here.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Crimson

The pungent smell of strawberries filled the emptiness.
Mashed chunks of crimson bled so deep into beige carpets
They would have to forfeit half of the security deposit
To return the apartment to move-in condition.

He was not home when he said he would be.
She called the cellphone twice, then once again.
Each failed attempt brought sharp pains to her chest,
Shed light on evidence she had chosen to ignore.

The credit card bill for meals she did not consume;
His muffled voice through doors and walls at 2 AM;
Printouts of directions to places she had never been,
Where he had never taken her.

She had convinced herself to believe his claim -
He was being a friend in the time of need -
Until his friend showed up at their door
Carrying his child, killing their love.

She contemplated ways to move past this indiscretion
Forgive him now, hope to forget in time
But her anger, like his unborn child,
Grew until it could no longer be held inside.

Quotes of the Week: May 11th - 17th

"I like to run toward the destruction."

"Sometimes it is easier to do what you are told."

"It's the lust part I can't help you with."

"I'm not used to being awake all day."

"He did what you did, but he did it all wrong."

"The pickings do get smaller when your standards become higher."

Quote from a movie (Is Anybody There?) "Regrets stick to you like old bruises."

Monday, May 11, 2009

Quotes of the Week: May 4 - May 10th

"It was done, and then she said, 'Sayonara, suckers!'"

"They're gonna be so be transparent, we won't even know they are cooperating."

"I find it best to use fake names."

"We don't have speed bumps in the cafeteria - that was my foot."

"The help tool is not helpful."

"I like helping other people spend their money."

"Life isn't an accident - it is a summation of choices."

"Your pelvis is your powerhouse."

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Preening

She stood in front of the mirror
Showered and patted dry from a long plush towel.
Geometric shapes in lime green and melon
Matched the concentric swirls of color
Dancing under pedicured toes.

She lathered her skin in slow rhythmic circles
With honeysuckle-scented shea butter,
Traced fingers from instep to inner thigh,
Making pit stops at the roundness in front and behind
Before proceeding to the juicy bend of her neck.

She fastened a ruby red padded bra over C-cups,
Slid the matching hipster over her bottom,
Pausing to admire the fruits of her labor.
The v-neck top and jeans followed -
Hugging curves as if to justify their existence.

The doorbell signaled his arrival.
She took another long look in the mirror,
Rotating the view from all angles.
Her lips parted in a soft smile
As she wondered how he got so lucky.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Quotes of the Week: April 27th - May 3rd

"He usually does his confession in the morning."

"We've got forms!"

"The people we deal with either own one, have a family member that owns one, or has a friend that owns one - and all of them are friends with a legislator."

"Yelling at me won't help me understand."

Friday, May 1, 2009

The Tango Embrace

The Tango Embrace: The Influence of Traditional and Non-Traditional Gender Role Attitudes (Taylor, Gebhart, Boggs and Omarova, 2009)

This study examined attitudes toward gender roles and how such views support or conflict with the traditional roles of male as leader and female as follower in Argentine tango. We hypothesized that dancing partners with congruent gender role attitudes would be more likely to have a favorable experience of the tango embrace. The Bem Sex Role Inventory was administered among participants attending a tango festival western North Carolina (N=100) and used to categorize participants into traditional and non-traditional gender role attitudes. Four males and four females scoring as highly traditional and highly nontraditional were randomly selected from the group of participants to dance with each other (N=16); the partner order was also randomized. After each dance, individuals rated the embrace on several factors: comfort, sense of connection, musicality expression, line of dance navigation, and likelihood of partnering again. In addition, tango instructors were asked to observe couples as they danced and rate each couple on the same factors. Analyses controlled for the following factors: height difference, weight difference, race/ethnicity, age, level of overall dance experience, and level of Argentine Tango experience. Results indicated that male gender role attitudes influence the experience of the tango embrace. Couples with a traditional male leader and traditional female follower had the most favorable rating of the dance experience, followed by a traditional male paired with a non-traditional female. A non-traditional male paired with a non-traditional female had the lowest rating. Looking at the dance experience for individuals, females rated dances with traditional males higher than dances with non-traditional males. The dance experience rating for males was not related to the gender role attitudes of their partners. Observed experience of the tango embrace was not related to the congruence of the couple’s gender role attitudes; only the level of Argentine tango experience was positively correlated with tango teacher observations of the tango embrace. Future research should examine whether these findings are generalizable to individuals having androgynous or undifferentiated gender role attitudes and same-sex tango couples.

Monday, April 27, 2009

Writing Prompt: Red

I'm waiting for Mars, my ruling planet, to align itself in the seventh house - the house of love and partnership. You would think I would want Venus there. Surely, she could bestow upon her loyal subject the grace and beauty of true love. But the goddess of love has not granted my wish. The queen of all things feminine has softened my heart into putty for commitment-phobic hands. It has taken me months to recover from the meltdown of the fickle flame that fizzled out as soon as the word "exclusive" came out of my mouth. And it wasn't a question like, "Can we be?" or "Are we?" It was simply a statement of fact - " I am seeing you exclusively." I said it as a way to say, "I like it here. I'm not going anywhere."

Of course, I wanted a progression - a year long construction on a solid foundation, not a house hastily built during the frenzy of the real estate bubble. When he said, "This is not working out," he might as well have flung a brick at my head and knocked me unconscious. Unconscious was the way I felt - walking around numb to the pain and suppressed anger - vulnerable prey for the next vulture singing promises of friendship and love.

Venus made me too weak for the game of love. She told me to let down my defenses, wear my heart on my sleeve. I need Mars to take the reigns - reinforce the troops and bolster their spirits. He will invent a different strategy and plot out a new course of action. He's an expert at the game of love - and he plays to win!
==============================================
Writing exercise for Written Word - pick a color and write down what you associate with it, then right about that. This version is slightly different from what I read during the workshop.

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Love: A Strategic Approach

Love has been a series
Of bad fits and false starts.

I parachute in backwards and blindfolded,
Then wonder why I miss the mark.

Sex is fast and furious -
Outweighs the obvious bad parts

I convince myself to accept old drama
By pretending it is modern art.

Hope clings to the fantasy of us
Even as our real world falls apart.

Pain comes in as lovers walk out,
Leaving my body submerged in darts.

So for now, I will change tactics -
Keep it light, play it smart.

Too bad they don't make condoms
For those who lead with their hearts.

============================================
Inspired by one of last week's quotes. Title suggestions are appreciated!

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Quotes of the Week: April 20 - 26th

"This goes with ying-yang and other things."

"We're not asking for much - just everything."

"He follows me on the bike to pick up the pieces."

"I can hurt myself without anyone around."

"They're parallel, but in different directions."

"That idea had legs, but they fell off."

"I'm crazy and I may need more medication, but I'm not THAT crazy."

"A little wreckless love can be a good thing."

"Every moment that I spend keeping you company is a moment I don't have to find a girlfriend."

Monday, April 20, 2009

Quotes of the Week: April 12-18th

"We have to get them all sugared up, so they are ready to EPP!"

"Sometimes bad timing happens to good people."

"Even nice guys can be a bad influence."

"Too bad they don't make condoms for your heart."

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Good Hair Days

I Can’t Remember Exactly When. . .
I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on a good hair day.

December 1972
The first Christmas photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Late 1970s
After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that’s tender.

Early 1980s
A photo of me taken at church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth.

Summer 1985
Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

Fall 1994
I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

October 2003
Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day.

April 2006
I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

December 2006
I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

November 2007
I got my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

June 2008
I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.
__________________________________________________________________
Thanks to the participants in Duke's Poet's Workshop for their helpful feedback.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Quotes of the Week: April 6 - 10th

I'm collecting good quotes to use as writing prompts. Here are the best ones I heard last week:

"It's hard to get anything done when you don't have much to do." (said by MB when I asked her why she hadn't boxed her files from her old project)

"You can't sell a used care with dirty floor mats." (said by a woman at the gym who dropped 30 pounds after dropping her husband)

"I can fail all by myself." (said by YS when I asked her if an employee in another department would be a good study partner for her stats class)

"Cooking has a history; it goes way back." (said by KM as part of lunch time conversation on long-standing recipes)

Saturday, April 11, 2009

A LASIK Story

My LASIK story starts in 1989, my senior year in high school, when I saw an episode of 60 Minutes on a new surgical procedure in the former Soviet Union. The procedure was called Radial Keratonomy (RK), which involved making small incisions in the cornea to change it's shape to correct a person's vision. I remember watching the show in complete amazement. I had recently convinced my mother to let me get disposable contact lenses - thanks in large part to the fact the NY State Employee Health Insurance Plan finally started to cover them. Even though the Cold War was still on and all that cutting kind of freaked me out, I knew having better eyesight was possible and by the time I grew up the procedure would come to the US and be much safer than cutting your eyeball.

Fast forward to October 12, 2008, my 36 1/2 birthday. I attended Myron and Anna's lovely tango-themed wedding. Weddings always get me thinking about the future (usually along the lines of, "He'd better show up soon. I'm running out of good eggs.") and my half-birthday always gets me thinking about the next birthday. For three years running, I have done something BIG on or around my birthday. In 2006, I cut off "all that beautiful hair" and went natural. In 2007, I threw a party for my 35th birthday in my new house. The 2008 birthday present was a skydiving adventure with my good friend, Natalia. What would it be for 2009?

A confluence of events prompted my decision to finally try LASIK:
  1. Running out of contact lenses, which meant I needed to go to the optometrist and get my eyes checked. It would be a good time to see if my eyes even qualified.
  2. Annual Enrollment, which meant I had to decide how much money I was putting away for my health spending account.
My eye doctor took a picture of my retina and confirmed the health of my eye for LASIK. So I opted to put away three times as much money as last year in my health savings account.

March 2009 rolls around. I know I want to get LASIK this year, but don't know if it will be scheduled in time for my birthday. I convince myself that doing on or around my birthday is not the point; waking up and seeing clearly for the first time in a long time is what matters. I schedule the appointment with the eye doctor for the first LASIK consult. She confirms I am a good candidate and recommends Duke (I already knew I wanted to go there). She also advises me to stay out of contacts two weeks before the consultation, since contact lenses affect the shape of the cornea. Thus, the dreaded glasses for the month of March. I HATE glasses. I can only see what is directly front of me. Once I move my eyes up, down, or to the either sides - all clear vision is lost. So I suffered through those weeks before the appointment (though my vanity did not allow me to go to the milongas with glasses on).

March 23rd - LASIK consultation appointment at Duke Eye Center. I took a series of tests to measure the thickness of my cornea and gauge the overall health of my eye. Then I waited to see the doctor. And waited. And waited. Almost finished Paulo Coelho's "The Witch of Portobello" while waiting. I waited so long, Karen, the care coordinator, took pity on me and didn't charge me for the visit. Then Dr. Carlson came in. He looked through all of my results and said everything looked good, but then asked, "Do you rub your eyes?". I told him I didn't think so. He looked at one test in particular and said, "I should be seeing red, yellow and green on this one. These results tell me you're an eye-rubber". Suddenly I felt like he was assigning me to special ed classes and I had to ride the short bus with the other drooling kids. He advised me to stop rubbing them and then said I could schedule the surgery whenever I was ready. Whenever I was ready. The words floated above his head like a balloon. I went there prepared for the worst. I had been a contact lens wearer for 20 years. Maybe my corneas were badly misshapen. I didn't want to get ahead of myself and think about scheduling surgery, only to be disappointed by the test results. I closed my mind off from thinking about the future, but here it was. I needed time to think about it a decision that would change my life.

April 1 - After a wonderful weekend at the Atlanta Tango Festival, I decided I was ready. I called the care coordinator to schedule the appointment. I was fully prepared for the next available appointment to be some time in May, but she said, "I have an opening on April 10th and April 17th". Naturally I chose April 10th - two days before my birthday, Good Friday, and a state holiday to boot! In nine days, what began as a glimmer of hope for a 17-year old would become a dream fulfilled for her almost 37-year old future self.

April 8th - T minus 2 days. I stood on the corner of Salisbury and Edenton in downtown Raleigh waiting for the TTA Express Bus back to Durham fighting back tears. My mind had settled down after the day's distractions to contemplate the enormity of it all, the potential risks and complications. Was I sure? Was wearing contact lenses that bad? Was it going to be worth my entire Federal refund check? I went to the Poetry Meetup not too sure how long I would stay or how much I would participate. I normally bring my own poems to share, but since the LASIK consultation I haven't been in the creative flow (I'm sure my subconscious mind had been thinking about the surgery all along). On the way home, I filled up at the Sheetz gas station on TW Alexander and Miami. I had a fleeting thought to go to the tango practica at Triangle Dance Studio; I wanted to see my friend, Janet - a nurse anesthetist, for some moral support. But since was already emotionally drained, I just drove home. Janet called me when she got home from class. It was late, but I was glad she did. I was starting to freak out, which meant I wouldn't be able to sleep. She reminded me I had done the research (though I was too chicken to watch the FDA video) and chosen the best doctor, local anesthesia reduced the risks of surgery, and that she knew of and I knew of other people who had had LASIK and absolutely loved it. That was enough to soothe my nerves for the evening.

April 9th - I read through all the instructions and warnings about the surgery before heading to work. Bad idea! I got hung up on the statistic that 98% of people saw 20/40 or better after the surgery. 20/40 is what I could see in my glasses. I wanted to see better than that. I wouldn't be satisfied if I could only see 20/40. By the time, I got to work I was almost in tears. I stopped by the front desk to talk to Doris, our admin. She had cataract surgery recently and now only wore glasses at night for driving. I stood talking to her for over 30 minutes - coat on, bag in hand. Like Janet, Doris talked me down from the ledge - reminded me I had done all the research; reassured me that I would be just fine. The busyness of the day took over and my mind concentrated on the tasks in front of me. After work I attended my first Passover Seder at Yana's house and got home close to midnight (who knew those things lasted so long?). I got more well wishes and reassurance from my friend, Susan in California and my writing friend, Wes, which was enough to help me sleep.

April 10 - My mind, on the other hand, was still working things out. I had a dream I tried to call home to NY but couldn't get the number right. I woke up thinking, I'd better let someone in the family know what is going to happen. I had thought about telling my mother before I had the surgery, but after the sky diving incident, I decided not to worry her. I called home and my sister answered, which she NEVER does before going to work. She asked, "Hey did you get my email? I was wondering what big thing you were going to do for your birthday." I said, "Funny you should mention that. I'm having LASIK surgery today." She was excited for me. I told her I would text her when I was done.

I piddled around until about 11 am - ate breakfast, replied to email, chatted on Facebook, called my old professor to wish her a Happy Birthday, posted to the dream blog - then it was time to get ready. I got dressed, made some Yogi Tea and threw an apple in my bag. My friend, Lanea, who struggles with timeliness, made it a point to be dressed and ready to drive me to the appointment. There was a line to check in and the lady at the reception desk seemed to be taking her sweet time. I waited patiently - I had waited this long to see clearly. What was another 10 minutes? There was a young woman in the line ahead of me with glasses and a nervous look on her face. I thought, "She must be here for LASIK too". Finally it was my turn to get checked in. The lady looked me up in the computer and then looked around for my chart. She got up and looked in another cabinet and still nada. A momentary thought flew in my mind, "Maybe this is a sign. I bet I could run out the door and to the car before anyone noticed I was gone." The receptionist sent another nurse to the back and the care coordinator appeared with charts in hand. I guess I was going though with the surgery.

Less than 5 minutes later, I hear my name and then nervous girl's name. They took us back to separate rooms. The surgical nurse repeated the tests I took during my initial consultation, then put me in the waiting room. Another nurse came in. She introduced herself as Dee, but the name on her badge said Debra. She was there to explain about post-op care and gave me a sheet of instructions to read and a bag of items I would need for my recovery. Nurse Dee left the room while I looked over the materials and through the bag. When she returned, Dee explained she had the surgery done 10 years ago and shared what to expect based on her personal experience. Immediately after, things will look milky - not blurry - just foggy, but that will clear up as the day goes on. She wanted me to keep my eyes closed as much as possible - I should only open them to go to the car, go to the bathroom, eat dinner and put the drops in. She went through the eye drop regimen for the evening - Vigomax (antibotic) and Omnipred (anti-inflammatory) - one drop in each eye, 10 minutes apart. Nurse Dee said I would see an immediate improvement the next day, but my vision would fluctuate for the first week. After 3 months, my vision should get better and after 6 months my vision should be great. She told me tissue takes about 6 - 12 months to heal and that I shouldn't be concerned if my vision is not where I want it to be immediately afterwards. Dr. Carlson was running late because he had to do a corneal transplant over lunch. Once he was ready, she'd bring in the Valium and I would be on my way. In the meantime, she helped me put the blue caps for my head and shoes, dimmed the lights, wrapped me in a warm blanket and reclined the chair. During the time I spent waiting, I set up the "LASIK went well" text messages to send to those who had wished me luck and napped a bit.

I probably waited for another 40 minutes before Dr. Carlson came out. We went through the consent form. I initialed and signed, acknowledging my risks at the appropriate places. At least I didn't have to sign away the rights of my heirs to sue like I did for the skydiving adventure. Then Nurse Dee came back in the waiting room with the Valium. She told me to dissolve the pill under my tongue to help the drug act faster. She put some drops in my eyes, and told me they would give me a local anesthetic in my eyes when I got into the room. Then the care coordinator nurse came back and put me in the first room. She helped me to lay down under the first contraption, got another warm blanket to put over me and left the room. I said aloud, "I'm not quite sure the Valium is working." I heard my own voice, but it took about 5 seconds for my brain to process what I said. Then I said, "On second thought, maybe it is..."

Before that sentence could process, the doctor and surgical nurse came in. They helped me position myself under the first device that makes the flap in the cornea. I saw the doctor swab my eye, then suction ring come down over my eye and I felt the pressure. My body immediately tensed up, so the surgical nurse scrambled to give me a stress ball. I concentrated on squeezing the stress ball, while I breathed deeply and relaxed my body from the shoulders up. Then it went black for a few seconds as the laser went over my eye and then I could see again. The suction ring was released from the right eye and put on the left. I knew what to do and expect this time, so it went much smoother.

The team moved me to the next room. Someone positioned under me the laser. The doctor put the forceps on my eye and told me to concentrate on the green light. Yana told me earlier to pretend it was a staring contest and really try to win. So I did. I saw the doctor peel back the flap, I heard the laser come on and then I saw him fold the flap back. I knew the Valium was working then because it all just seemed so fascinating. I was observing what was going on as if I was watching a show on television up close and not my cornea. The knowledge of what was happening and the fact that it was happening to me seemed to be in different rooms within my head.

Before I knew it it was over. Dr. Carlson looked at my eye and then the opthamologist, Dr. Feldman. Someone grabbed my purse and my post-op bag and walked me to the waiting room. Lanea walked me to the car like I was an old lady. Everything was milky, just like Nurse Dee said. My eyes just wanted to close. I could smell and hear the rain outside as I got in the car. I saw clearly enough to send the text messages out as we drove to CVS to fill the prescription for the antibiotic. As we waited for the prescription to fill, text responses came through. I held up my phone for Lanea to read them aloud to me.

I got home and went to bed - setting my alarm clock for 6 pm when I had to take the first dose with dinner. I woke up and looked at the clock sitting on the nightstand on the left side of the bed. I could actually see it from where I was on the right side of the bed - the first time EVER! Other things were still not too clear and I was still very much under the influence of Valium. I took the drops, ate quickly and went back to sleep. I woke up around 9:30 after a dream about recovering from my LASIK surgery, where the corneal flap in my left eye kept flipping up and would go down. Since I couldn't open my eyes to write it down, I called my home number from my cellphone and described the dream on the voicemail. I took the second dose of drops around 10:30 and called home to talk to my siblings until around 1 AM.

April 11th - 6 AM I get up and walk around the house, seeing things clearly as soon as I open my eyes for the first time in a very long time. I can read the items on my bathroom counter and in the shower - not just rely on my memory to recognize their shapes. I can see the clock on the microwave from the other side of the kitchen, the clock on the dining room wall from the bottom of the staircase, the three black boxes that spell out my initials PLT on the shelf above the television. I can see these things clearly - not in which the foggy haze that I had become accustomed to living. The best test was the public notice I removed from my front door. I could read every word from arm's length - not 6 inches away, like I would have to do without glasses.

Janet arrived at 8:45 to take me to the 9:00 post-op appointment. We arrived at the same time and older couple did. The wife had dark sunglasses covering her eyes - most likely from cataract surgery. The opthamalogist called us back at the same time. It wasn't long before Dr. Carlson came and checked my vision. He said my left eye was inflammed more than he'd like it to be and increased the number of drops I was taking. (The left eye was the one in the dream). Eighteen hours after surgery I had 20/30 vision. I asked him what my vision was before and he said, "Oh you were off the chart - something like 20/1800". And my vision will only get better.

P.S. Please forgive me if I annoy you by reading everything in sight. I'm seeing everything for the first time!

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Twin Poets

Read an interesting article about identical twin poets in The New Yorker magazine on the bus. I thought I'd share: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/04/06/090406fa_fact_mead

(to read the whole article use my user name and password: drpamtaylor@yahoo.com)

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Middle of Nowhere

Did you forget how you got here?  
You were encircled by strong winds from the east,  
Dropped miles from where life makes sense.  
You have been surviving since then - 
If you can call it that - 
Waiting until it's safe
To emerge from the shelter.

Inspired by the CD Middle Cyclone by Neko Case

Monday, March 16, 2009

Rug Burn

He asks about the dark mark on my back
As if this was the first time he had entered me from behind
As if this was the first time he had ever noticed me
He touches the mark, "It looks like a burn"
I hesitate to answer

I drove him home from the airport
He welcomed me inside with kisses
I stood up against the wall
His mouth visited the places he missed
I don't remember sliding to the floor
I do remember losing myself in green eyes
I felt the sting after we wore out our welcome

After a pause I say, "It was a burn"
I don't say it hasn't quite healed


Sunday, March 8, 2009

Snow Drift

Miles plays an offering to the gods
My thoughts drift to him
While I wait for snow

Last time our bodies curled together
Arm hung over waist
Back pressed against chest

He read Anne Sexton over my shoulder
I listened to her words on his breath
With eyes closed

I imagine him at the small desk
Curled over in concentration
More edits to chapter one

I sit at the dining room table
Surrounded by stacks and stacks
Bills to be paid, papers to be filed

He sends a message
Once he reaches a good place
The precise moment my life feels in order

I want him to come over
But Miles has already begun
To work his magic

Suitcase

Revised based on input from the Poet's Workshop
==========================================================

He watched as she took her suitcase down the stairs
It bulged with her last-minute possessions,
But she didn't seem to struggle with it.
She continued down the flight of stairs
Her left hand on the handle on the top
Her right hand on the side;
She bore the weight against her right hip
Using the railing to maintain balance and control.

She looked up at him
From his perch, he could see her tears.
He couldn't understand why was she crying now.
She had gotten everything she wanted -
The movers packed up all the things that were hers,
Most of the things that were theirs and his bed;
Only the computer and his clothes remained.
She had it easy
She got to move on
He had to start over.

She wheeled her suitcase to her car
He watched from the balcony of the empty apartment
She willed herself not to turn around
He didn't see her lose that battle
He had already gone back inside.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Why I Love "The Sun"

There was a point in time where my mailbox was littered with magazines - weeklies, monthlies, bimonthlies, special issues - more than my two eyes (even with the aid of contact lenses) could read before the next batch arrived. So I made a conscious effort to cut back. I opted out of the killing of trees to support my information junkie habit by allowing subscriptions to come to their natural end and turning a blind eye to renewal notices. I whittled my subscriptions down to the four I thought most supported who I was - or at least the person I was trying to be: 1) The New Yorker, 2) Poet’s & Writers, 3) Yoga Journal, and 4) Black Enterprise. Alas, even these four magazines were too much. I replaced the hard copies of the last three with their electronic newsletters, and struggled to find time to read more than just the weekly fiction piece in the New Yorker. So when the idea to subscribe to The Sun came to me last May, I had to seriously question my motives.

I learned about the magazine in my weekly writing group (our fearless leader works there) where we wrote a few times on the "Reader's Write" topics, but really had no clue on what was in it. I took a leap of literary faith when I signed up for a year's subscription - and am so glad I did because each month I get to read things like this:

“The train shuttles past 125th Street and into a dark tunnel. There is just the feeling of forward momentum, the train car jostling on the tracks, and the sound of mechanical squealing. Then suddenly there is light again, the yellow surge of Grand Central ahead.” (from Boston to New York by Christina Fitzpatrick - March 2009 issue p. 25)

I read this passage about five times on the bus yesterday. Reading this paragraph brought me back to the countless number of times I have ridden the subway, LIRR, Metro North, and Amtrak in my lifetime. I felt like I was on the train - right there with the main character, which is what great writing should do - deposit the reader in the moment. Just about everything I've read this past year has done that for me - even the photo essays. And that's why I love the Sun!




Monday, March 2, 2009

Good Hair Days - Two Versions

I wrote this poem as a homework assignment for the Poet's Workshop I've been taking at Duke. The assignment was to tell your life story in three or more incidents involving hair. My first thought was "A sistah can tell a thousand stories about hair!", but I tried to restrain myself. Duke's classes have been cancelled due to the snow in Durham, so I will have to wait another week to get this poem workshopped. In the meantime, I am posting two versions here: the sort of stream of consciousness version the poem came to me as and the chronological version of the events. It would be great to get feedback on which one I should present to the poet's group next week. Also, any suggestions on what to change/cut would be helpful. Let me know what you think!
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Good Hair Days – Stream of Consciousness

I Can’t Remember Exactly When: I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on a good hair day.

Summer 1980s: My father finds a woman near my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn who cornrows my hair into Princess Leah designs.

Late 1970s: After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that is tender.

November 2007: I get my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

October 14, 2003: Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day, but I’ll never forget the gesture.

June 2008: I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.

December 1972: A photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby, drooling infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Fall or Winter Early 1980s: A photo of me at taking church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth. Every now and then I still see myself as that little girl.

Summer 1985: Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

April 5, 2006: I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

Fall 1994: I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

Every Morning Since April 2006: I look into a mirror and see my father’s face staring back at me. Some days I find it comforting; other days I am startled by the ghost’s reflection.

October 2006: I start looking for good hairdresser as soon as I move to Durham. I don’t want to go home for Christmas looking like Ben Wallace.

December 2006: I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

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Good Hair Days - Chronological

I Can’t Remember Exactly When: I read an article about racial differences in women’s self-esteem. White women had higher self-esteem on days they felt skinny; black women had higher self-esteem on good hair days.

December 1972: A photo of the Taylor girls - me, a chubby, drooling infant, held by my 6 year-old sister with afro puffs. Years later our little brother will refer to this picture as Princess Leah meets Jabba the Hut.

Late 1970s: After trying to hot comb my hair, my mother spits out the label “tender-headed”. I cry. My head is not the only part of me that is tender.

Fall or Winter Early 1980s: A photo of me at taking church wearing two chin length braids fastened by barrettes at top and bottom, a plaid jacket with sleeves two inches from my wrists, round black glasses and an awkward smile to hide my buck teeth. Every now and then I still see myself as that little girl.

Summer 1980s: My father finds a woman near my grandmother’s house in Brooklyn who cornrows my hair into Princess Leah designs.

Summer 1985: Mommy takes me to her hairdresser to get my first relaxer. It takes forever for the roller set to dry. When I shake out the long, straight hair, I think I am grown.

Fall 1994: I see a “Black Hair Care” sign on Broxton Avenue in Westwood. I climb the stairs of the salon and sit in Ana’s chair for the first time. I find my way to her chair every two weeks for the next 12 years.

October 14, 2003: Natalia drives up from Virginia for my father’s funeral in Brooklyn. I don’t remember what either of our hair looked like on that day, but I’ll never forget the gesture.

April 5, 2006: I look at myself in the hand mirror after Ana cuts off the relaxed hair. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks happy.

Every Morning Since April 2006: I look into a mirror and see my father’s face staring back at me. Some days I find it comforting; other days I am startled by the ghost’s reflection.

October 2006: I start looking for good hairdresser as soon as I move to Durham. I don’t want to go home for Christmas looking like Ben Wallace.

December 2006: I cringe when the church ladies ask me, “What happened to all that beautiful hair?” I tell them, “I cut it off!”

November 2007: I get my hair braided to grow out my curly ‘fro. The long hair draws attention from the guys, but it is short-lived.

June 2008: I sit perfectly still in Crystal’s chair as she lops off five inches with scissors. I feel myself come back with every snip.