I'm not pretending that..

1. People don't disappoint me.
2. Pictures of food are interesting.(Fucking stop posting them!)
3. I like board games.
4. I don't talk to myself. Especially when alone in the car.

The gift of fearlessness

I committed Facebook suicide this week. Totally pulled the plug. It's likely why you're getting a blog post from me today!

I used to blog a lot more. When I signed up for Facebook more than four years ago, that all ended. The time I used to spend here, or in my journal, or just in my head--pondering--dissipated. Instead I was spending my time on Facebook.

I came to realize it was not just effecting (goddam it! affecting?) my creative life, but my social life too. Instead of calling a friend, I lurked on Facebook. It was too easy. Too addictive.

How many hours did I spend scrolling through status updates, instead of playing with my son?

So I ended it this week. I couldn't think too hard about the consequences. I just had to do it. Thinking about who I'd lose touch with, or what I'd miss out on just paralyzed me. I got up early one morning, and in that hazy mind-space time when you don't really think about anything, I logged on and deleted my account.

Yay!

So now I have some time to do what I've been meaning to do for awhile. Write here. Back in January, as my birthday was approaching, I was thinking about giving myself a gift. The gift of fearlessness. I thought about the power of just posting whatever was on my mind--which I often don't do because I wonder what you all will think of me. (Ha! All three of you reading this blog.) Maybe if I write about what I really think, and really feel, you'll think I'm terrible, unworthy of friendship, a totally negative bitch.

Well, maybe you will. But I'm going to risk it. Because the consequence of not writing what's on my mind is...nothing. Nothing happens.

There is a saying: "The universe asks you to go first."

Here I go.

100 haiku challenge, 61

Two and a half beers,
Some duck boots and a raincoat.
Raindrops can't touch me.

100 haiku challenge, 59 and 60

I've been writing these for a year now. Perhaps with some effort, I can make it to 100 by New Year's day!

#59
I mourn the earthworm
on concrete, but do nothing
to alter its fate.

Self portrait
Blue light--me with pen,
paper. Animals gather,
waiting for me to rise.

You know you've got something when you cry

So I'm revising my Superman piece. And revising it. And then revising it some more.

I'd already gone through a round of revisions on my own. But then I met with my editor, and his observation was that I could use more of a set up to make the pay off at the end stronger. He suggested the intro in the bookstore to be its own little scene.

Ugh. I was resistant. I liked my in-media-res opening. But I did it anyway, just to see what would happen. And as usual, once I got over the inertia, the rewriting wasn't that hard after all, and now I'm happier with the opening.

And I knew I needed to do a little bit more with the ending, so I kept going, rewriting, and adding and tweaking so that now my piece grew by about a third.

And there was one line I added, right toward the end, that as soon I got it on the page, I burst into tears. Sobbed. And that's when I knew I'd gotten to the heart of the piece. I won't tell you what it is...I just hope that when you read it, it makes you burst out crying too.

Feedback please!!!!

Here's about the first 2/3 of a new piece. Thoughts, comments, nudges--any and all feedback is appreciated and will help me get this "done." (As much as it ever will be!)

Falling in love with Superman (or, Why Superman is my hero again)

“This one, Mama. I want this one,” Dante said.

I turned away from the shelf where a collection of Leo Leonini’s artsy children’s books had been lovingly displayed by a bookstore employee.

He was holding a cheaply produced little paperback number, flashing its vivid primary colors. Superman and the Mayhem of Metallo. The cover pictured the man of steel pummeling a giant, grimacing cyborg.

It looked violent. I stalled.

“Are you sure, honey? Look at this one. It’s called Swimmy.” I flipped through a few pages’ worth of dreamy sea creatures.

But nothing could compete with Superman’s red cape and muscles. Dante’s eyes were locked on its pages.

“Mama, read it,” he commanded. And I did—reluctantly so—pausing every sentence or two to contemplate editing the roughest parts. In it, Lex Luthor commands the evil cyborg, Metallo to smash through Metropolis in an attempt to lure Superman. Little does the man of steel know that Metallo has a heart of kryptonite. Mwhaa! ha! ha! Superman is down for the count, and everything appears hopeless. Lex Luthor looks on from the penthouse in his corporate tower, laughing at Superman in his weakened state and anticipating world domination. But then! Batman makes a special guest appearance and tasers the robot into submission until Superman can regain his strength. They hurl the short-circuited metal man into space and lock Lex in a maximum security prison.

From the way Dante sat—barely breathing, eyes unblinking, his small, warm body leaning into me at the scarier parts—I knew there was no arguing, no persuasion possible, no contest. And it had all started so innocently too. A rainy Sunday afternoon. We were both bored, and Dante, three-years old, was catapulting off the furniture for fun. “Let’s go to Powell’s! You can pick a new book out!” I imagined myself browsing the literature section while Dante sat cross-legged with a new Richard Scarry book. Never did I contemplate the possibility that he could fall in love.

We bought the book and Dante scanned its pages in his car seat, all the way home.
Over the next week, we read that book—a lot.

And over that time, a very curious thing started to happen. I started liking it.

I could really chew on sentences like “The Dark Knight zaps the cyborg. Zzzzzzzakrk!” Way better than Goodnight Moon, with its bland bowl of mush!

I was loving the language, as lean and powerful as the superheroes were drawn. Taut words, sentences that hurled forward with a staccato of consonants: “Batman throws flash bombs at the metallic monster, trying to blind him. “Aah, my eyes!” yells Metallo.”

Dante had a thousand questions.

“Mama, what’s heat-ray vision?”
“Why aren’t Superman and Lex Luthor friends?”
“What’s a cyborg?”
“Mama, what’s an alter ego?”

I answered each one with pleasure—feeling like I was part scientist, part magician, part poet—explaining each of Superman’s superpowers. His freezing breath and x-ray vision, super speed and super strength, the fact that he can fly but Batman needs a plane. Together we inspect Batman’s utility belt, trying to pinpoint the pocket in which he stows his Bat taser.

I grow nostalgic for the Superman of my youth: the hunky Christopher Reeves version and find myself delighted that I can stream the movie on Netflix. It’s a special event in our house—movie night! Dante and I snuggle under a blanket while the opening credits roll by.

I forget how long the first part of the movie is. Kal-El’s home planet of Krypton, his childhood in Kansas, his angsty trek to the arctic circle to build his Fortress of Solitude. Dante asks me every five minutes when Superman’s going to show up. He is not satisfied when I keep telling him Clark Kent is Superman. I consider bailing on the movie—maybe he’s just too young. But we stick it out and the awe on his face at the first glimpse of Superman in his red and blue super suit with the underpants on the outside makes the barrage of questions worth it.

…Despite my gung-ho attitude, I’m still conflicted about the violence. There is no way around it. But more significant, this is the first time my son is exposed to that fact that some people are bad on purpose. And though Superman and Batman are the good guys, it’s hard for him to tell the difference—they use their fists and superpowers just like the bad guys. It feels odd, but I decide it would feel odder—dishonest even—to soften it. We are talking about superheroes, sure, but my boy need facts. There are bad guys in the world who steal money, destroy things, hurt others. And sometimes the good guys are just as scary.

100 haiku challenge, 58

The earth holds its breath.
But soon it will exhale, ahhhh--
and all the leaves fall.

100 haiku challenge, 57

Sweet, crunchy, fall leaves
already. It's September.
I wear my sweater.

I am/not

It's been a rough couple of weeks at work.

I am
Not a manager.
Though I may attend weekly management meetings
Where we wade through forecasts and org charts
Policies and programs
Though I’ve hired
And fired
And have now laid off
What some call human capital
Though I have nine reports whom
I hold accountable
For the duties of their jobs
And to meet the goals
We set annually.

I am
Not strategic.
Though it is
The thing to be these days
And god forbid
You like to get things done
For you may forever
Be labeled as tactical
Or merely, “good at execution.”

And I don’t make decisions
Based on the reality of the business.
Though I have added up dollars and cents
Cost and ROI
Weighed risk and opportunity
Because the reality of our business
Is that the business exists because of us,
For us.
We are the business.

And though it may
Not be what you want to hear,
I am
not a leader.
Because using that word
Presumes I have followers
Ready to walk with me
into the distance
When everything right here
Is worth staying for
And the only true destination
Is deep inside
And that, by necessity,
Is an unguided journey.

I’d rather dream than plan.
I’d rather love than profit.
I’d rather feel deeply than forecast.

What I am
is the one
Who unsynchs
Unsynergizes
Unfocuses
Unfollows
Wandering off to
Look for treasure
Buried deep.

I am the one
who doesn’t think of it as a job
Or a business or a paycheck
Or a career path
Because what it is
Is a craft
An art
A science
A curiosity
An itch.

I am a garden
of green light
I am a heart
A body
A thinker
A dreamer
A poet
An artist
A creator.

I can teach you
how to see
how to listen
how giving away
everything you've got
can feel like a privilege
I can teach you
how to tell the truth.

100 haiku challenge, 56

Grasshopper
No summer haiku.
I compose them in my head
then they leap away.

Coincidence?

What rock is hitting me now?

I hate being told what to do, even when I agree with it.

I'm also really annoyed with people who won't do what I tell them.

Why rock?

"The rock that hit you could not have missed you, and the rock that missed you could not have hit you."
--Sufi saying

Ceci n'est pas une haiku

Yesterday, I tried
to cut the tag from my new scarf
without ripping the fabric,
the tiny stitches defying
the dull blade of what were once
my mother's scissors,
a heavy, stainless steel pair
with chipped enamel handles
and rust-spotted blades.

I keep them in the kitchen,
where they mostly open packages.
They are tough enough
to stab through rigid plastic,
or slice through cardboard,
but not the delicate tool needed
for snipping thread.

I was too rushed, too lazy, too uncaring, too haphazard
to search for my sewing scissors,
the pair with the sharp blades
and the fine points.

Now, I'm searching for a way
to connect this to my mother.
Our relationship like the sturdy scissors,
made to do the rough work families do,
provide for each other,
see our loved ones safe and fed,
but unsuitable for the more refined work
of making each other happy.

Or maybe the connection is this:
That I never learn,
I need to learn,
that my failure to take care,
to get it done, rest later
always ends up tearing the fabric.

100 haiku challenge, 55

It took about a week for this to emerge, but I like this much better than the last grass haiku. Surprise! It arrived while I was cutting the lawn.

Suburban confessional
Forgive me neighbor,
I have sinned. It's been three weeks
since I mowed the lawn.

100 haiku challenge, 54

We let the grass go,
there was no way to mow, so
we weed-whacked it down.

100 haiku challenge, 51, 52, 53

I wrote a few haiku in Esther Short Park the other day. I need to get out at lunchtime more often.

Ering, I've decided to only give the poem a title if one occurs to me. Why force it?

#51
I have monkey-mind,
Thoughts ranging and throwing shit.
The tulips--silent.

Strange conversation
The train horn echoes,
bounces through the park.
The crow caws! in response.

#53
Sun emerges from
behind a cloud, sending light
to warm my bare feet.

100 haiku challenge, 49 and 50!

I shared some of my haiku at writers' workshop this week. One person suggested I start giving them titles.

You're up early to write too?
My neighbor Will walks
by, early Saturday morn,
writing on his brain.

Welcome to May
Azalea blooms pop!
Magenta star-bursts unfold
like party favors.

100 haiku challenge, 48

Allergy season, part 2
Whole world in my eye
Grit, sandbox, dump truck of dirt,
rock chip, in my eye.

100 haiku challenge, 47

I think I like B better.

Why bike boulevards should be closed to cars
Variation A
Honkin' Cadillac
barreling down the bike route
Get out of the way!

Variation B
Honkin' Cadillac
barreling down the bike route
no stops attract goons

100 haiku challenge, 46

Allergy season, part 1
My eye is bloodshot.
The left one, rivers of red.
The right eye, still clear.