Happy Holiday each and every one of you slap-happy bloggers!

the pictures i held

it was, or could have been,
the late 80s, at best,
after sex, my back,
hard-pressed against the cold,
crumbling stucco wall
of our first apartment.

i'd risen for some reason
and backed away,
grabbing a red shirt
to cover myself,
your camera catching me
dead to track.

you love me, right?!
and i surely did,
the best i could
which was never
enough to quiet
the loudest demons.

did you think
for a minute
or not think at all,
that pictures could
capture the me
you desired?

now, forgone,
far gone to future,
our conclusion
never reached,
so over-developed,
these negatives.

and i haven't been
thinking of you,
or us, at all,
i'm sorry, but
in order to go on,
okay, so not so much.

until now, when,
you randomly drive by,
this time no shooting,
just dropping off a shoebox
full of photos and this note,
"these belong to you, now."

Addendum to My Headless Horseman Snow Rant!

Wow, and so around 1:30 a.m. it began to snow, something like 2.5 inches per hour! By 6 a.m. we had an additional, solid, heavy, staying power FOOT plus!

Yeah, so I like snow, sue me!

But my perspective on this took a little bit of a twist this morning, when I read my campus email. When January hits, it will be two solid semesters since I've taken any classes, but still you are locked in and logged into campus life, while you decide if you are going to go back again, here and there, or not at all, or?!?!?!

Well the campus email that was in all caps this morning in the subject line was "FINAL EXAMS CANCELLED TODAY!"

Can you imagine?

I was thinking, how I hadn't even been considering that side of things for almost a year, and I so would not have wanted to be the student reading that email this morning, you know?!?!?! Or seeing the campus closure fly across the screen on the morning news!

During Xam time prior to Xmas, I mean really ... the week prior, and the night prior I would normally have no less than three papers spitting out of my printer, and would simultaneously be studying for additional exams! Come heck or highwater, you keep studying, because in college, there are no snow days on exam days! Unreal!

And because I had real life on the side, I would be making roll out cookies and wrapping presents, and also doing my "day job" at my desk. Yes, all this at once!

I think if that had been me, the student this morning, bleary-eyed, but dancing around the room going, "Oh, my aching ass these papers rock! I can't believe I finished! Now just let me put eyedrops in and drive off with no sleep to deliver these and take just two exams! Just two and then I'm sooooooooooo done until after break" ... well, the college student me, might have dropped over this morning! I might have been all What?!??!??! just before the room spun on its axis and my teeth fell out!

I mean what do you do with exam-prep and all that MY PAPERS ARE DONE energy when they cancel exams and close the campus?

It would be very Langston Hughes-ish, and what is a dream deferred, and all that ... yeah, my head totally would have exploded!

The room would have been splattered with syrupy rotted meat!

And after that icko image ... I leave you Langston, baby!

A Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

3:43p.m. and these flowers j
ust arrived and the card said,
"for those who love the snowman!" life rocks!

In An Attempt to Explain Things Not Going My Way ...

I feel like a split between Jeannie from "I Dream of Jeanie" or Samantha Stevens from "Bewitched" when they were betwixt and between themselves over their powers not working. Or, worse yet when they were giving themselves headaches over their strict promises to their Master Nelsons and Derwoods, respectively, that they would stop all their magic!

I've had a buggy-wuggy head since Sunday. Coming off a head cold I went straight into the series of unfortunate events that are my head some days. Since Sunday, I have been fighting that 'iffy' feeling my brain gives me every once in a while when the stroked-out sore spot in my skull starts to feel soft and a bit squishy at best. Where it likes to remind me, Hey, remember that time I scared the living daylights out of the rest of your body?!!?

During these particular trying times of my mind, in the beginning stages I have to struggle at points to stay on task, and/or complete my sentences. Bekah experienced the Mom-interruptus sentences on Sunday, which didn’t matter because she was at the helm of the vehicle and I could spill out as many partial ideas about where we should go next or what we should look for, because we were Xmas shopping, which is always a delight and kind of disjointed and over-excitable!

By Monday, I was just “goofy” and aware of the brain dys-ease which Ali and I always find loads of fun because it usually falls on a day such as Monday which just makes them ten-times that more interesting and fun!

By Tuesday it was just me and old brain hat as I continued to ride the storm out!

By Wednesday (yesterday), I was to the stage where I had a “funny headache” (the end of the cycle, woot!) and I was rambling and talking nonstop as well as also acting goofy and okay maybe it was slightly concerning when I ordered coffee at one drive-through window, but then nearly drove off with out retrieving it from the second window. It's a time for making up for as much lost time as possible while all my inner marbles reallign with the planets.

Carol and I were also Xmas shopping and grocery shopping and other shopping by this point, as is our usual routine every week or so. So, she got the brunt of the end-stage, which again factoring in the holiday spirit, we really had a blast. And as we so duly noted, it's nice to be around each other (all of us) if my head is having "one of those series of days." It is both scary and nerve-wracking for all of us, right up to the closing and the "funny headache," but the comfort of being together wins out.

And where does Walter fit in?. Well, he remains very Walter-ish and doesn't seem to notice, which is the great thing about dogs, because they are your best friend no matter what.

And what of my best friend?!!?! I'm pretty sure he was glad he traveled all week (not really, but I'm just saying ... it's difficult to watch someone you love be a head case, so to speak. And it's difficult for me to watch him watch me, if that makes sense!)

And where do I fit in? Well, I'm in, under and through all the very distorted edges, and I'm still learning over five years later to accept these parts of my self that sometimes leak out of my ears and roll around on the floor!

And to Ru, Rae and Lili, well, Granny Princess Annie can do no wrong in their eyes and hearts, and they provide the wind that always resets my sails.

I like to say this doesn't affect my work, but I have to say (despite my high standings) that it did cause problems when I returned to college and that entire juggling act (though I persevered to keep my high standings before ultimately pulling the plug to continue with my work), but it never affects my writing.

As far as any of my art is concerned, since I went all torn paper and mixed media collage after the fact, and no longer do actual cohesive one application projects, my art might in fact be imitating my brain on its best and worst days, or maybe it's the other way around?!?!?!

In the above areas, I dive deep and problems are varying ripples and glitches that I can weather with determination. My determination station hasn't been affected, thankfully, though it can be taxed during certain rough and/or unexpected landings over water!

Same with relationships and parenting. The people who really know and love me ... well, they really know and love me, pre and post stroke. Love rocks, don't it!?!?!

However, the last week or so there have been wonky things going on with the internet which have come to a head after a month of iffy connects and cable problems, which were cured finally yesterday by the service guys … or so they said, but I still feel all “prognosis guarded” in varying respects.

As late as yesterday evening, I still had wonky activities with video, sound and data files to the point where I felt an extreme sage-ing and pseudo sweat tent session might be merited in my lovely home office. I even considered throwing out a new PURPLE Lavender-scented soy candle I had been using thinking maybe, just maybe it was conjuring up odd or difficult spirits.

Things were failing to load, were loading all disjointed, not loading at all or just buggy all together. It was maddening. And today, tasks that should have taken minutes at best stretched on for hours and yet the day seemed to disappear in less than seconds. What?!!?!

In response to all that has been going on since Sunday, I've fed the dead and slept like the dead. I have even dreamt about the dead! I've also had bouts of insomnia and nonstop thoughts into the wee hours, at which point I then get up and start things all over again, which leads me around this current circle, right here tonight, wherein at this late hour on the clock (yes, that circle!), over the edge and into the new tomorrow (well past midnight!), I am now experiencing the ultimate wonkiness of all time!

After the final success of Thursday, which has thusly now passed, after I burned the candle at both ends and right up through the middle! Yes, and that meant the lavender-scented candle because I'm just that brave! ... well, after all that, there's no snow!

You heard me, no new snow! Usually, this is when I most want it and most get it, right before I toddle off to bed to await my new snow blanket. By this time, I have wished for it to such a point that we get BURIED! All-encompassing snow bunny blanket!

It's been promised, and even if I scale off a few inches from the top of the usual hype which started out at something like two feet, there is no visible appearance of anything close to what is supposed to accumulate to the 4- to 6-inch mark by 6 a.m. in order to close schools, block up driveways and thoroughfares and basically make for a yummy, comfy cozy cave-like atmosphere in our little snow globe in our wintery village cove!

We were to be reveling in snow splendor by daylight, falling back into our own soft blankets and tipping over the alarm clocks in order to sleep in!

But right now ... past midnight ... the bewitching hour to which I clearly have no powers,I see nothing whatsoever of a six-sided nature falling from the sky.

We are in serious no-snow-show trouble folks!

Yeah, so I feel like Jeannie or Samantha and I'm crossing my arms and bobbing my head and twitching my nose, respectively, and all that happens is this off-beat doink!!! sound and a great big white NOTHING!!!!!!!

I’m beating my magic powers against a brick wall!

I don't get it!

Okay, so what happened to my refill-the-snow globe powers? I'm serious, people! I can take the wonky internet. I can take the occasional days where the inside of my skull gets squishy and sore at me, I can take disrupted data, sound and video files with no rhyme or real reason for their glitches!

But this?!!??! I can’t take this!

Those who normally call after a snowstorm and say, 'You did this didn't you?!!?' will be calling tomorrow going, 'Oh, my gosh, what happened is your head broken?!?!?'

I feel like stomping my feet like Rumplestiltskin which would be very much like mixing my metaphors and fairy tales with 60s TV show comparisons, and I'm really not at all sure if testing the snow gods like that tonight truly behooves me!

But, really, where is my snow?!?!?!?!....

Let it snow, darn it! Nerve-wracking ....

I am off to bed wrapped in my new purple flouncy yarn wrap that arrived in the mail today, and I'm still holding out hope for snow, becuase I'm that big of a dope!

Air Active Minds

My fortune cookie tonight: You have air active mind and a keen imagination.

Now, that means either I'm officially an airhead, and/or the proofreader at the fortune cookie factory was on break when they made this cookie!

December Second, Nineteen-Ninety-Something

December Second, Nineteen-Ninety-Something


Week-ending,
bone-tired,
brain-sore,
multiple hour week,
rendering my thoughts,
bloodying the page,
coagulated efforts,
transcribed in mud,
fingers seizing up,
strained, fatigued,
head full to the top,
eardrums missing the beat
until the doorbell rings.

The tree arrives,
shouldered by a strong,
competent woodsman,
so said the Yellow Pages,
delivering as promised,
a beauty, in and of itself,
without decoration,
standing on its own, fir
falling out into the room,
exactly where he left it,
exploding in pine scent,
as the door hits his ass,
on his return to the woods.

I don’t recall ordering up
this full frontal ache,
the renewed desire,
once sought after dreams
of what it must be like
to turn, turn, turn
towards someone special
at the end of a wintery day,
eyes blurred, mind shutting down,
ears having heard enough,
mouth paused, a sigh escaping
in the shape of your name,
if only I knew who you were.

Hard-pressed,
I force the words out;
it could be longing
if I must choose a feeling,
put a finger to heart’s desire,
measuring for a form-fit,
eyes that meet halfway,
lips to match thoughts,
without speaking,
arms through arms
and leg woven to leg,
keeping everything good in
while the bad stuff strays.

Turn, turning into, against,
around and through,
nearer to me than thee,
another person, fresh blood,
the Mr. Right for Mrs. Me,
our day complete,
completeness;
can this be
a forgotten memory?
a lost dream?
a still deep desire?
or just another cold
December night?

art: Adrirondack Pine II by Peggy Abrams

The Art of Timing

The Art of Timing

Why when I had left
this front-most room,
off to bed in solitude,
the embers in the fire,
long-gone cold and ashen;
why have you entered now
through the far-most door,
the lock I’d long since thrown,
rusted out and worn clear through,
crashing to bits and pieces,
when you said hello?

the poem is a fresh wound, the picture i took and tweaked a bit 2004; lived in that house '81-86, cold, cold winds ... wyoming.

Feeding the Dead

feeding the dead

the grand mothers
have all gone on
and i find
my
self
empowered
yes
wearing their love
boldly
and yet
orphaned
at best
hungry from this side
a scaphoid belly
turned inside-out
as i drop the crumbs
to feed them
in-between
here to there
too weary
my own self
to begin again
the fruitless search
for a mother's love

"Everyone goes through life dropping crumbs. If you can recognize the crumbs, you can trace a path all the way back from your death certificate to the dinner and a movie that resulted in you in the first place." (Daryl Zero in "Zero Effect")

Just Kill Me Now ...

... As if our new pillowtop mattress and dual control mattress pad heating system isn't comfortable enough, I bought a new pillow yesterday! It's called the "Grandma" pillow, and it's goose down surrounded by just enough polyfill not to keep the feathers from leaking out and poking me in the eye! It's like sleeping on a cloud. And now, as if, I wasn't already sleeping like the dead, I sleep deader than a f'ing doornail, and I dream about dead people!

It was absolute bliss through the last night, I'm not kidding. I talked to dead people throughout, so much so, that I never wanted to wake up this morning. Several no-longer-breathing souls came to see me. One such dead person had died very young, and so of course I had not seen him in years, and I was still talking to him at the end of my sleep-dreamy time this morning (okay, and we might have been on the verge of making out), when Mark tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Don't you have to get up?"

I dunno what I'm saying here, but I urge you all to go out and buy a real goose down feather pillow with polyfill wrap, because you won't get poked by the feathers when they pop through the ticking, but you just might get "poked" by a dead person who is really, really happy to see you!

That's not exactly what I'm saying, but I think you get the point!

Writing is Like ... Cooking is Like ... and F'ing is Like .....

I'm having grownup stragglers in this evening for another holiday dinner, to which I have gone out and rounded up a spiral cut ham, which I plan to honey-bake. Yeah, you can go to the store and get them already Honey-Baked but I like to make love to my own ham, all by myself, if you don't mind.

Accompanying the ham will be my "tweaked" version of the green bean/mushroom dish with the crisp onion topping; steamed carrots with slivers of red, yellow and orange sweet peppers; flaky biscuits; this yummy baked yam recipe I found here http://www.simplyphoto.blogspot.com/ (a must try!); red potatoes, cubed; rich sour cream; real butter, wine and our spirits ... and then ...

...and then ... and then, and then, oooooooooooooooooooooh, and then ... well, below is a poem about how I F'! ... which is exactly how I write, which is exactly how I cook ... which may be exactly how I do EVERYTHING ... although in writing, it probably all sounds better.

In real life I'm a clutz, so there should be a line or two below where I fall off the bed, or put my elbow in the guy's eye socket, but poetic justice, I always leave those parts out. :) And you know when I'm cooking today, there is going to be brown sugar and real maple syrup splattered on my socks and orange rinds in my hair!

How These Things Happen

You say, you think
you need to be
underneath me.
And so it goes,
something like this:
You are underneath me.
Enough said, except ...
...my legs open.
I guide you inside.
I press down on you,
pulling you in.
I move on you.
You in me.
"Like this?"
Silly of me to ask.
Your face says yes.
It goes without saying,
but I look to your face
to say it again, anyway,
my breasts colliding
with your chest,
as I crouch down on you,
bringing you further into me,
me all wrapped up in you.
I move my hips, rhythmically,
and sometimes not, just to tease.
My face lies next to yours.
Your breath in my ear.
My hair across your face.
My hands gripping your chest.
My thumbs on the flick and press
of your stiff nipple switches.
Your hands on my hips,
guiding me.
My thighs hugging you,
my heels pressed to your knees.
You exploding into me,
or was that me into you?
I lose track of the sounds
that leave my mouth,
when my name
erupts from your throat.
All because, you said,
you needed to be ...
... underneath me.

a.c. 2000-and-something

How She Cooks

How She Cooks

Food is an important part of a balanced diet. -Fran Lebowitz

This much is true.
Sometimes a meal involves
the popping of box tops,
things prepackaged or
McDonald's drive-through.
Taco Smell.
Buffet diners.
All you can eat.

But sometimes,
long weekends end.
Everyone is depleted.
A kid floats in the tub,
another hovers over homework.

The kid in the tub says,
"Next time you are at the store,
buy ginger snaps and
creamy white frosting.
In Russia,
they call this parenky!?!?
It's very good!" <----[yes, we did buy/make. Yes, they were yummy!

And the child,
leaving homework
to do laundry,
passes the kitchen
and asks,
"Is it time yet?
Are you making dinner now?"

How she cooks.

Removing the plastic
from the cow that once was.
(But long weekends mean,
we need iron.)
Red meat that once roamed free,
now ground round.

She frees it from the plastic,
awakens it with things of the earth.
Rosemary.
Thyme.
Oregano.

Fresh spices,
crumbled down her palm,
off her fingertips,
bringing the beast back to life.
Sacred beef;
careful, the pan is hot.

Corn meal melds in a bowl
with milk, eggs and rosemary.
Then into papered tins
set aside.
Oven preheats.

Water set to boil with
seasoned oil.
Pine nuts.
Angel hair pasta waits
standing on end.

Salad bowl is seasoned
with lemon grass vinegar
and paremesan.
Greens torn, not cut.
Tomatoes diced,
everything romping
in the same bowl.

The spices linger
on her fingertips,
pressed now to her nose,
the pot steaming her face
as stiff angel hair relents
to the roiling boil.

Tomato sauce, three cheeses,
marry the beef in a field of thyme.

The cornbread stiffens now,
warming through in the oven.

The salad rests.
The child dries.
The other folds a shirt.

The table is set.
Three become one,
joined by the cornbread,
the salad, the angel hair pasta
and the sauce.
Everyone drops their eyes
to their laps,
taking pause,
ever thankful we are
at our table,
mindful of those seated
in remembrance of those not.

This is how she cooks.
Sometimes from popped box top,
McDonald's drive-through,
Taco Smells
and buffet restaurants.
And sometimes not.

Now, please pass the maple butter.

At the time this originally appeared, it was very close to Thanksgiving. In my family of three "little women" and me (their twice-divorced mom), we always "met" in the kitchen on the norm, but holidays especially. This was true even when there were men in the house those growing up years. It was just the place to gather.

In our latter house, we actually transformed the large dining room, which fed off the kitchen, into a sun room which had seating for everyone and a breakfast nook. It just fit the flow of the house better, since we were always together at dinner and weekend breakfasts. It saved yelling down the hallway into the living room, just to have everyone closer.

When I originally wrote this piece, I had two kids in the house (my second-eldest and my youngest). My eldest was spending a semester with her dad. And my grandmother had passed away that fall. It was a time where there were definite empty spaces in our sun room and at our table. While my grandmother had not officially lived with us, she visited/stayed often and was always somehow "there."

We were definitely re-grouping, something you do a lot over the years in a family, I've learned.

While we do not officially "pray" in any conventional manner, we do drop our eyes, hold our tongues and are forever thankful in our live, as they change and rearrange. This does not just occur at mealtimes, because life has a way of changing and re-arranging constantly, so there are many times to take pause.

Those gone from our table that holiday season, were my daughter and my grandmother (one in Wyoming, and one in Neverland, respectively). However, they were not really gone, but gone deeper into our hearts, is what we like to say.

This year, oh, the changes. My eldest has her own family. My second-eldest is engaged and marrying next year. My youngest was in the Twin Cities with her Dad's family, her stepmom and her baby sister. I have lost yet another grandmother. I live with my best friend. We have a weird-ass little dog!

Our own "official" Thanksgiving day dinner was at Mark's brother's house, and yum! Traditional, yes, but yum! Picture and food perfect. We laughed a lot! We planned Christmas. It spoke to the future. Was definitely good.

Saturday, I'm making a second meal, just for the heck of it, for whoever and come what may.

Yesterday, I spoke to my two oldest by phone. Carol's dinner went off without a hitch. Bekah had some trouble with her deviled eggs which made for an excellent story. Ali I could not reach due to iffy cell service, but I know everyone who she had gathered with, since that is also part of my past, and I knew what a great time she was having. [As I'm writing this, she just texted ... sweet!]

When I got home, I had to pull some reports off a hospital system in New Jersey, and this is when I really stop and think, because holidays are not fun for everyone. Not everyone has that "let a joy keep you, never mind the little deaths" feature in their hard drive.

For some people, holidays suck ass.

It kind of starts at the end of the calendar year, with Thanksgiving, progresses into Christmas and the New Year, and by Easter, I don't have words for how bad it is, or can be for some people.

Over the years, I've never seen it be any different in it's progression, and by Easter people actually are killing themselves and punching each other, stealing each other's meds and over-doing and over-eating knowing full well their body is a time bomb and could kill them at any second.

Last night, and this was five emergency room admission notes into it, there were 4 that were psychosocially and/or suicidal thought related, and one guy had too much on his plate and his diabetes and failed kidneys were kicking his ass (but I bet he had fun!)

But, it only gets worse, which is sad.

Even without that live feed over the years, giving me the true pulse of what people are going through across the country, I think I'm hard-wired with the "let a joy keep you" switch, because I have experienced the little and big deaths that come with a life, fully lived, day in, day out.

And that is my toast for everyone I know, and those I haven't even met ... "let a joy keep you, never mind the little deaths." [sandburg]

Whatever your Turkey Day was, and/or whatever you hope for things to be, off to the side, just be!

I Cook Like I Fuck ...

That being said, "Happy Thanksgiving" everyone!

I'm going to a very generic dinner this afternoon at my significant other's brother's house, with "his side of the family." I didn't get asked to bring anything. Mark got asked to bring their traditional fare of "scalloped corn."

I know how to make this corny delight, since like all good food whores I swap recipes on the first date. And this corn is ultra-yummy! Dare I say, it f'ing rocks!

But, even though I've been with Mark for over three years, and widely accepted by his family since day one, I'm not allowed this year to bring any food because ... well, because I screwed up the Labor Day picnic by bringing my baked beans this year, instead of "Mark's Baked Beans" which in translation are the ******* Family Baked Beans.

My beans ... okay, they rocked the house and the backyard! And it wasn't as if the crock went untouched. Everyone ate the beans, had seconds and returned to scrape the cold dregs from the side of the crock onto tortilla chips until there was nothing left!

But at the end of the party, his sister said, "Your beans were really good, but not what I was expecting."

And I was thinking, Okay, I did not drink enough at this party, and was glad I was holding my BOB (Bring your own Bottle) of gin which I planned on slugging down the remainder of its contents while Mark drove us home.

What the F?!?!?!?

Then the next day, just goofing off, I related to Mark's Mom, that I guessed I screwed up and **** was freaked because I brought my beans instead of the family beans to the Labor Day thingy, and she goes, "Yes, those beans were good, but not what we were expecting!"

What the F?!?!!?

Previous to this, I was the best thing that ever happened to her wayward, lost empty son, and now I'm the person who brought weird-ass baked beans to the traditional family gathering.

I mentioned this to Mark's sister-in-law (who by the way is having the ****** Family Thanksgiving at their house this year, and she inasmuch as said,"Now you are catching on to the behind the scenes rules of being in this family, " and then we both drank shots!

Of note, I had the ***** Family Thanksgiving here last year, in our new place, and nobody died (but now I wonder how many weeks his mom and sister talked about all the "weird food she made!")

So when the ***** Family Thanksgiving was decided upon this year, emails were sent out (not by his sister-in-law who ultimately ends up having it at their house this year) but from his sister. Obviously, his brother was not going to organize the affair or the fare.

When we got ours it said, "Have Mark make the scalloped corn," and down at the bottom of the email it trailed off and said, "You guys can also bring some kind of Jello if you want." Translation: "Don't for, for fuck sake, Man!!!!! let Anne mess with the corn recipe, and if she starts whining, point her to the pantry and the Jello gelatin stores, but please, gods and goddesses, nothing crazy!"

What the F?!?!?!

And so, folks, I think this weekend there will be a lot of eating, fucking, writing, fucking and reposting/re-fucking of some earlier works that I've written and fucked around with over the years, that are all about ... you guessed it! Food, fucking, writing, fucking and sometimes just fucking and fucking!

And I shall begin with:

Voyage of the Damned Jello

When it comes to "dishes to pass,"
the once, twice or thrice divorced,
and otherwise unencumbered,
are often told or scolded ....
"Why not just bring some Jello."
It's as if they think we can't hold
even the simplest things together,
but they trust us with hot water,
and packages with instructions.
Even we can't mess that up, right!?!?!
---the thick of summer having arrived,
and you know what that means ...
pending holiday weekend picnics,
everyone offering up tricks or treats.
Loser votes are cast for the Jello prize.
I wonder will I win again this year?
Anticipating, I await the count,
that seals the deal on what dessert
I'm entrusted to provide for the holiday.
The chips and dip fall, and the Jell-O goes to ...
May I have the envelope please ...
and these words in careful script,
"Anne: Bring some jello, dear,
and this year, put some fruit in it."

I originally wrote this in the early 2000's and have revised it several times, but it was in honor of myself and two of my brother, because in a family of four sibs, we were the only "divorced ones."

Every family gathering it was always assumed that I was "too busy and too stressed out because I couldn't keep a man" to bring anything other than something store-bought or package-driven, and my brothers always got asked to bring the chips, or "bring some extra soda."

Any really big dinners or shin-digs had to be at my still-married brother's house, because our houses were obviously made of cards, and my big married bro's house was made of glass.

What the F'?!?!?!

One of my younger brothers lived very nearby and he was a single-parent with two kids, and we used to share a lot of meals together and a lot of holidays, game nights, whatever with our kids. And he could cook!

Over the years, I had seen potato salads, coffee cakes, and one year on Scrabble night, he called to say he had a "buttload of rhubarb" he didn't want to go to waste, so he was probably going to bake a pie.

And yet, over the years, he was listed as "chips," even though on another list my family had already written me off as a "dip," and I got asked to bring the Jello to any and all events ... and one, year by Golly!!!!!! they even trusted me to put fruit in it!

Holy Fuck!

Again, Happy Thanksgiving everyone, it's all about the food, the fucking and the families, it's not about arguing about whether the Native Americans saved our butts (although the Natives!!!!! always, always get my vote!), it's about families, and families have been around since caveman days!

So, eat, drink and be merry!

And look for more posts from me this long regarding food, fucking and writing. I'm making another T-day dinner on Saturday, a "my way or the highway" dinner for stragglers who couldn't get here on the actual day.

But right now, because my work world seems never to sleep or take a holiday, I must work ... which I love my job so you know what that means, it's so totally like f'ing, you would not believe!

HELLO my name is Anne...

<----(Anne did you know that when you went into the bathroom after writer's group to peel off your contacts and put on your glasses, "mirror, mirror on the wall," what did you see? Large eyes, flushed cheeks, hair in curls and waves. You looked all sexed up, sans razor burn on your chin. You were sizzling, electric. You didn't need the car to get home, you could have flung yourself to the cosmos.)



In the year 2000, I attended a writers group held at a local bookstore. I still remember, my nervousness, when I signed up. Yeah, nervousness! I really had to self-talk my damn self into going to the first meeting.

When I got there, it was a circle of chairs around the bookstore fireplace. Three of the chairs were comfy occasional chairs, part of the bookstore's daily arrangment where people could sit and leaf through books in front of the gas log fireplace.

For our writers group, there were an added 10 folding chairs.

For someone who had to talk her own damn self into going, I got there early, and I got one of the "real" chairs, and plopped down with some relief.

I remember thinking, I'm coming early every time, that way I don't have to sit on a folding chair! Woot!

That's also when I realized, as much as had to talk myself into going to this very first meeting with "strangers," I'd be back!!!!

I got up, took off my jacket and left my backpack on the floor to "mark" my spot.

I went to the end table and got my styrofoam cup of coffee, and filled out my "Hello my name is:" sticker and stuck it over my left breast, my badge of courage.

I was carrying around a leather-cover notebook at that time, and it still holds all my "Hello my name is" stickers to mark those glorious every-other-Monday nights.

I have a zillion-and-one notebooks, and they are all like that. They all hold some secret or capture some time period, or tell me something that I didn't already know about my own damn self! When I page back through any one of them, I find many things I didn't realize I was even looking for.

But this notebook is one of my favorites. I've gone back to it, more than any other notebook. It's like a "lost and found" box when I'm looking for my other mitten on a really cold night.
This notebook, this essential part of me, came to mind a few nights ago in a coversation with a friend, when I said, "Writing is like fucking ..." and he was all what?!!??! ... oh, yeah, wait, I GET IT!!!

And I remember, when he "got it," I felt just like I used to feel in writers group. I felt immediately surrounded by a like mind that felt as I did. I felt the commonality and the shared value of another soul.

Lost is found.

In this same leatherbound notebook, I had written about my writers group that it was much like AA ... I mean, really, the bitter coffee in styrofoam cups, the chairs, the name tags! Everyone, with every piece they exposed of themselves, essentially saying ... "My Name Is [insert name here] ... and I'm a writer."

And then, what the hell ... apply one or two of the ten steps:
...be loyal to your values.
...please myself first.
...rid myself of anger and resentment (we all know we can do that to a page!)
...express my ideas and feelings instead of stuffing them.
...attend meeting and keep in touch w/friends in fellowship. (see?!?!?)
...be realistic in my expectations.
...make healthy choices (write, do not use the pen to stab your eyes out!). ...be grateful for my blessings and responsibilty to others.
...extend and welcome newcomers.
...to be of service.
... to recognize that others have a right (write!!!!) to live their lives.
...to listen not just with my ears but with my heart. (hello!!!)
...to share both joy and sorrow .....

Need, I say more ... My name is Anne, and I'm a writer.


"words caress"

The Root Cellar

This Theodore Roethke poem has been winding its way through my head since the beginning of November and the deer hunting season. It winds its way through my head every year at this time, or least ways if not this poem, these exact murky earthy feelings litter my emotional landscape.

Deer hunting in Wisconsin, from what I've seen and heard, is not what I'm thinking about when it gets to be this time of year.

I see a lot of orange.

I hear a lot of talk from the men I know and love.

I haven't seen a lot of deer over the years.

The men sit in stands.

They come home empty-handed.

I don't get it.

I try to understand.

Every now and then someone plunks down a processed deer sausage and I'm all what?!?!?!?!? Then, I'm told, "Oh, that's from Joe Blow's deer, he got one this year," and I'm all, "Well, why the hell would they do that to it?"

I always think back to the autumn months of '81 through '83 when I lived in Wyoming at the base of the Big Horns, barely 19 and heading into my 20s.

I went hunting with the men, one of them my husband at the time, his best friend, his brother, his uncle and his uncle's wife.

It was all about the long drive out, three guys in the cab, and the rest of us huddled in the truck bed, pitch black bitter cold predawn, hot coffee, just as bitter and just as black, splashing on our jeans.

No matter how many layers of flannel and long johns, our ass and back bones hit metal at every bump, off-road. At that age, I hadn't had a child yet, so when the truck bounced, there was nothing on my body that bounced back.

When we parked, in the still dark, it was a lot of walking, little talking, sitting in draws alone, and watching for the mule deer, tracking, spotting, shooting, slicing and gutting.

I can still hear the the sound of the gut bag swooshing loose when you unzip a deer, tug hard with your bare hands, and turn it, literally, inside-out onto the cold ground.

I loved that tug-of-war, the letting go, and the deer giving birth to its own death.

I remember the sting of my tail bone hitting the hard earth, when it all came loose in my hands, knocking me off balance.

I remember the ground steaming and prairie dust motes.

I remember Theresa taking her hat off and "bagging" the liver, and my thinking, Bitch! I wanted that!

I remember the blood on the ground, the smell of still warm meat, even though the heart had discontinued its beat, the dried blood under my nails, my dusty face, streaked here and there, by an escaped long lock that fell from my wool cap.

I remember dragging the deer the miles back to the truck, into the new dark, driving back, same three guys in the cab, the rest of us and whatever deer we "bagged" huddled in the back of the truck, Theresa with her hand in her pocket, protecting the liver, and it really pissed me off, because she always had good intentions, but I knew that liver was going to rot and not be eaten.

The rule was, we shared our "take," never mind who shot, tagged or ultimately bagged the biggest or the best, but every year fucking Theresa fucked up the liver. I swear I am still borderline anemic because of this!

I remember the deer, sprawled in the cold, at our feet, its tongue lagged to one side, dry mucous membranes, stone cold dead eyes.

I can feel the beat and bleed of my heart.

I remember hanging the deer in the root cellar, for its several-day blood drop, the straining sound the rope made, the groaning beam, whitewash chips falling in our hair.

I remember going back the next autumn afternoon, knife in hand, to undress the deer. I always offered to "skin" the deer. Don't ask me why, but it was my favorite part, like peeling an apple and getting the perfect spiral.

I remember my husband's best friend, following me, as he always did, and no one every noticing, except me, because he was just "one of the guys," and I was "one of their girls," which had some protective quality to it, except when it didn't.

I remember how hard he pressed, as he always did. This time, my back was against the rooted wall, cold mud hard-packed at my neck, the deer thumping his back, as he rushed past its hollow carcass, the extra push the deer gave him on the rebound, which caused him to slam harder against me.

Thanks, a lot, dear deer.

That was our only deer that year, the liver already spoiled, the rest left for everyone to share.

Going down the stairs with my knife that afternoon, I remember thinking ahead to the deer being on the newspaper-covered oak table, across the yard, in the house and somewhere up above.

I loved the care and effort we took, piecing it out, cutting those fine steaks across the deer's backbone, setting them aside for the evening meal, freezer-wrapping the rest, saving off piecemeal parts to grind later with beef fat. Full bellies, we'd split up the wrapped cubes marked, "stew bits," "roast," and "flank," readying to return to our respective homes and freezers.

I remember him pushing his tongue into my mouth and telling me that I didn't belong with his best friend, I belonged with him.

He used words for this at the start, but mostly his tongue to drive home his point.

I remember the drill. I had heard and felt it before. It was old bloody hat.

I remember the sound of our teeth hitting. Even now, it causes a "funny bone" kind of ache, and I wonder why the earth didn't crack open and reveal us.

I wonder why no one came to my aid, then, or any other time Cody had me up against a wall.

I remember asking my buried self, What kind of guy does this when I'm carrying a hunting blade?

I remember thinking, like I did in other places when he pressed against me, and said the very exact same things, Could he be right?! Or, more probably he was nuts, and I said the same thing I always said, "Cut it out, Cody! I want to skin this thing. My hands are cold!"

I remember pushing him away, my sweater steaming and my armpits cold with sweat.

I remember telling no one about this, until today.

The Root Cellar by Theodore Roethke

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
--Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

photo "cellar stairs" by s. sroka

Words and Pictures

"embrace" by beate emanuel

thief in the night

wind-mixed
clouds
all but
conceal
the moon
and I hide
just as well
as anyone,
except tonight,
sheltered by
the crook
of your arm
and all its good
intentions
i've decided
to steal away
with you.

a.c. 04/08

*******************************************************************

"spirit of death watching" paul gauguin

spirit of death watching

face down
wretched soul
ankles crossed
just so
wishing to be
more open
backside to breeze
breasts to sheet
hair cascading
the pillow slip
beneath
where i lie
wishing to
tell the truth

a.c. 03/08

Easier Said Than Done ...

... enough said, I've got to get back to done-ing ...

The Yellow Wallpaper

John does not know how much I really suffer. He knows there is no REASON to suffer, and that satisfies him.

Of course it is only nervousness. It does weigh on me so not to do my duty in any way!

I meant to be such a help to John, such a real rest and comfort, and here I am a comparative burden already!

Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,--to dress and entertain, and other things.

….But I must get to work.

I have locked the door and thrown the key down into the front path.

I don't want to go out, and I don't want to have anybody come in, till John comes.

(The exerpts above reign and rain down hard, today, from the short story "The Yellow Wallpaper." with my companion art piece smack dab in the middle of it. I was looking at this piece today, in a whole new way, because I'm obviously in an entirely different mindset than I was on the day I created it. It sooooooooo reminded me of the short story and Gilman's words.)

Read it on line:
http://www.pagebypagebooks.com/Charlotte_Perkins_Gilman/The_Yellow_Wallpaper/index.html

Don't stay in bed, unless ...

Don't stay in bed, unless you can make money in bed. George Burns

Bed shopping and bouncing and delivery have proved successful. However, it takes everything I have to lift the billion-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets off of my body in order to get out of our new bed every morning.

I'm all, "Just one more minute on this supreme cloud!" and I could "one more minute" myself into the poor house, my last child will have to go into foster care, and who's going to let the dog out and feed him?!?!?!

In the olden days, before the new bed, I always looked at the clock and did my mental figuring. And my hard and fast rule has been for years, no belly-aching, come what will, come what may, any sleep beyond two hours is "better than a nap!" Four to six hours was just plain dreamy. But now ... NOW!!!! ... eight hours will never be enough. Never!

This thing, has an evil siren call that cuts short what used to be my long stints at the desk. Last night, our cable internet went out, and normally I'd get on the cell (home phone is cable as well) and talk to a tech and then go through a series where I plug and unplug, boot and reboot, until things return to normal, the entire time with ants in my pants because I'm usually in the middle of something I really, really want to finish, so I can start the next best thing!

Last night, I became all okay, whatever?!?!?! at just slightly before nine.

When I came upstairs Mark said, "Well, why not watch a movie with me?" which he called from his new leather recliner (which he also cannot remove himself from), and I said, "Nah?!!?! You know what? I guess I'll just go to bed!"

To bed. The bed. My new lover, which I will have to wire for internet access or I'm totally screwed!

Screwed! The both of us.

Mark typically travels all week, and this week he said, "Luck of the draw, I'm local this week." I'm not sure he's telling the truth. I think he's being seduced by his leather recliner. I think he's been driving around the block, for what seems like a significant period of time, and then all of a sudden he's home, going, "I have a little paperwork to do, and I'm done for the day." Then he, Walter, the laptop and the remote get in the leather chair!

So, that's three of us screwed now!

I'm pretty sure he put in his resignation! I'm about to do the same.

Being grownup with really comfortable beds and furniture is hard.

The pain, the pain ... the horror!

And don't think I'm telling a tall tale. Our previous bed went to my daughter's room on Sunday, after all our furniture rearranging and sheet and electric blanket purchasing, etc. And the whole process really was great fun! We moved into our new house a year ago, and this weekend, with all the new purchases and rearranging, it was like getting to move in all over again.

And now ... make it four of us who are screwed! Screwed!

Ali is a top student who will likely scholarship wherever she wants to go, including a senior partial year exchange in Germany because she is just that fluent!

However, when she got up for school Monday, she said, "I'm going to need my old bed back."

To which Mark replied, "Yeah, I know our new bed is evil too!"

And I called from the new bed, "Can you drive yourself to school and possibly continue raising yourself ... zzzzzzz!"

Then, around 11 a.m., the school called, and Ali was all inside out and vomiting in the nurse's office, so I picked her up and brought her home, and she proceeded to turn inside out and hasn't until just now been able to keep food down, some sprite and a few oyster crackers this morning.

A little while ago, I went out and got her a Whopper Junior and a chocolate shake, went into her room and stuck it on her wicker bed tray and said, "It's okay, sweetie. I understand. You can stop making yourself sick. Stay home! Stay in the bed forever. I'll home school you by cell and laptop from our room because I don't want to get out of our bed either," my voice trailing off as I ran back our room and jumped back into the supreme cloud.

Yeah, this family, it ain't what it used to be. At some point, I was thinking how cool it would be when this blog really fleshed out and I covered all the topics areas where I've championed, trialed and tribulated over the years ... stuff about parenting, writing, work, cooking, the arts, travel!

Yeah, right!

Night! Yeah, it's still daylight, but I hear they have these room-darkening shades that run by remote!

So sue me!

(p.s. in case social services is reading this. ali really was sick. at one point, she was lying on the guest bath floor yesterday because the tiles were nice and cool, and i told her, welcome to college life!!!! to which she moaned no way would she ever get herself into a gastrointestinal situation like this on purpose! aw, out of the mouths of 15-year-old babes! she will be returning to school tommorrow, and she is at this moment, out of bed, in the leather recliner sipping sprite and having some chicken broth and oyster crackers. so far so good, unless mark comes home early and tosses her from the chair!)

(p.s. 2: social services, please note that the mention of "tossing" a minor child from a leather chair was merely a turn of phrase.)

A Place Called Home and ....

... moving on up, on all kinds of levels:

A Place Called Home

I hear ..

...the radio,
on low-play.
...the windchimes,
inside and out.
...the fridge humming
...my near-sleep breathing.
...the quickening of my heart,
louder than any self-doubt.

I smell ...
...shampoo and cream rinse
...the cool sweat of love spent
...ginger, spice and citrus
...a burnt incense and sage
...warm shoulders

...chilled August air
...beeswax lip balm
...you underneath my skin.

I see ...
...the skewed pattern of an afghan
...a myopically blurred ceiling
....the glow of the porch light
...the future looming
...less of the past in trespass
...a long journey's end
...the sign post
that says,
"Time to begin again."

I speak ...
...less and less evil

...closer to my own tongue
...words laced with certainty
...no angry words against self
...when spoken to and when not
...with purpose, on purpose
...with levity and spirit
...because I am.

I feel ...
...a heart's heat like wildfire
...a place called home
...promises can be kept
...bricks will begin to crumble
...sticks and stones not an issue
...less trapped, less scared
...happiness in the first place
...joy for the keeping.

a.cunningham (08/05)

When I met Mark, I was living in a two-bedroom apartment in this "village" I've previously mentioned. I lived there with my youngest daughter. We called it the "dorm" because I had recently given up our three-bedroom house out in the country in the neighboring town where we used to live in a lovely rural setting, huge yard, surrounding marshes, bike paths, etc.

We loved it out there, but the time had come to move because there were only two of us left, I was planning on going back to school, and so downsizing and lowering our monthly costs in housing and other was essential.

It was the thing to do at the time, and it was exciting for us. We loved the "dorm," where we moved in the late spring of 2005, and it was "big enough" for what we needed.

So, that being said ... careful what you wish for!

When we moved to the "dorm" I didn't even bring my double-bed. I didn't need it, afterall, who was I to start yet another relationship? I mean, really, folks that was THE LAST THING ON MY MIND!

In the very the earlier time being, I used my new bedroom as my office and studio since I had obviously lost that space, moving from the "big house."

I intended, at some point, to move in a daybed or something ... or not! I just wasn't sure.

At one point, there was a foam or blowup-y mattress on the floor because I thought I might dive into a relationship, but then I changed my mind (yeah, he's probably still mad, but I just couldn't do it!!!). And I eventually got rid of whatever makeshift bed some well-meaning friend had lent me, just in case.

I wasn't ready in any case!

I spent most of that summer alone, or at least living alone. I didn't even have cable! I was using dialup internet, and I wasn't working much. I was taking a break of sorts. The first time ever in my life. My daughter was gone for the summer, and every day could just be every day with no plan to it ... although, as it turned out, there was some very necessary shit I had to go through.

At the time, I was also dealing with some brain chemical issues, was off my rocker, and was off meds, which in my stubborn will I thought was a "good thing, and in many ways, it was I suppose.

It was, anyway, a learning experience to the fact that I must remain vigilent about keeping my head screwed on straight, whatever it takes, and yeah sometimes whatever it takes doesn't work, and that's just the way it is.

I do not, however, regret a single moment of that summer. It was three months of "all about me" which may sound selfish, but those who know me, know full well that selfish is not part of my framework, and what I grew to learn in that three months was for the most part necessary, but on the whole very, very difficult. (I did say, necessary, though, right?!?!?)

I would not wish that summer on my worst enemy; however, I was my own worst enemy and so it was necessary that I wish the full scope of that summer onto my self, and I thank my self for it. If that makes sense.?!?!?

The summer progressed and among my small circle of friends, the fact that I didn't have a bed was somewhat of a joke. My apartment was all very Mary Tyler Moore-ish, and all I needed was a big wooden "A" on the wall. I already had all my favorite things around me (except for Ali who was gone for the summer, and is not really a thing), but in downsizing our house, we had come up with a place that really spoke to our core as a family and as individuals.

That small group of friends, well, I forced myself to expand the group that summer, as well, at which point my not having a bed became an even bigger joke. To this day, you will still hear this or that odd person in my life go, "Oh, my god, Anne, remember when you didn't have a bed?!?!?"

Yeah, because that was weird!

Late May through late August of that summer I was adamant that I didn't need a bed! I was adamant that I didn't need a whole lot of things, and what's interesting about the whole situation is that this is also the summer where I did actually increase my friendship base, and I found out there were a whole lot of things that I really, really needed to not be giving up on yet.

So, here's where we get to the "careful what you wish for part," because this is when I met Mark, during my I'm all up in my own face, and I don't need anyone or anything beyond what the next day will bring me, and I ain't asking for a whole lot! I mean, look at me, I don't even have a bed!

Yep! That's when he walked in to a place where I was hanging out with all my new friends, and when I saw him, a big word went off inside my head ... FUCK! Honest to my gods, I thought I was having another stroke!

Now, that may not sound too romantic, but if you ask him he'll say the same thing. He walked in and he saw me and he said he just knew something was up, and his brain did that same thing where his heart flew up and slapped him in the forehead and his immediate thought was, "Fuck! I'M FUCKED!"

We were fucking FUCKED!

This is how the stubborn me without a bed to stand on met the stubborn him.

To top it off, two of my new friends (a couple) were very old and dear friends of his, and they were all freaked out because they hadn't seen his stubborn hide in 'round about 6 months, so they were so happy to see him, and also their brains were all going how perfect is this? We love her, we love him!

Now, pause here to be nauseated, but that's pretty much how it went, except that we are not the nauseating types.

Mostly what happened is everyone started seeing more of Mark again, and Mark and I were inseperable! As it turned out, we knew a lot of the same people, and I had in fact gone to high school with his little brother ... I just had not ever known that there was an older brother. I had, I suppose, been doing that "looking for love in all the wrong places" kind of thing, except I don't regret that process either. But really folks, how do you leave home the day after high school, live a bunch of different places, meet all kinds of people, marry a couple of them, and then end up back at home base to find someone who started there too!?!?!?

So, where is this getting us, and why the posting of the earlier poem above?!?!?

Because, when I met Mark, hello?!?!?!? I still did not have a bed, and for the last week of August and partially into September we spent nights on my couch, a long, but narrow affair (the couch, not the actual love affair) but somehow we fit, and we slept like dead people, only we were very much alive.

The poem above, is me waking up, bleary eyed and without contacts or glasses, into a whole new world end of that August, where ...Fucking crap! I'm going to need a bed!

When Mark moved in totally, we got that bed, one he had in storage from earlier years when he, too, had a bigger house and a bigger life, but had downsized. But, this wasn't the biggest bed. It wasn't even full size, was way short of queen, and two of them together wouldn't even be a king. I'm not even sure what you call it, but it was less than a full-size bed.

However, since we'd been sleeping on my long, narrow couch, and we obviously were a good "fit," it didn't matter, until today, three years later. Three years later we have made it through some shit, I'm tellling you, left that apartment, moved to a townhouse, and now bought this place ... and today ... well, today, we bought a real bed, a queen! I mean, we'll f'ing be swimming in it trying to find each other!

The joint-ownership folder sits here right now in front of me on my desk, shouting out in purple letters "Welcome to the Steinhafel's Family," and my name isn't even Steinhafel! ... and neither is Mark's, but that's the name of the furniture store where we not only bought our new bed, but a new chair for the living room, which leads tomorrow to the delivery of these items, a lot of rearranging, and the purchasing off all new sheets and comforters and ...

... all of this because I was stubborn the spring of 2005 and downsized out of my house into something that was "just the size Ali and I needed," no bigger, no smaller, no nothing ... firm in my thought that we would not, I repeat, we would not be adding any extra anythings or any bodies!

And let me tell you, I'm a grownup. I'm 46! I've been through some shit, but this ... this ... um, this here new bed thing ... um, well, errr, it's kind of freaking me out!

But in a good way ... so goodbye to the less than full bed, which I'm not kidding we can't stop talking about how badly we will miss it, even though it's going right across the hall into Ali's room, and she's getting rid of her twin.

It's just weird to be welcoming in the queen bee bed because we don't want to forget the couch summer (and that couch has been upgraded too), or the way we ultimately fit, no matter where we sleep.

I think things will be okay though, because my heart still races up and slaps my forehead every day with a great big, "Who the F' knew?!?!?" ... and if you ask Mark, he'll say the same thing, just don't tell all his friends, because he's the tough retired Navy dude! so he's so far beyond this mushy stuff!

I mean, really ...

One from me, and one from he ...

The Cul-de-sac

This calm evening,
wind is barely breathing,
leafless trees standing firm,
bark bones slicked by mist,
street lamps playing
in long comet dot smears
on the black satin drives,
everyone warm inside.

One of my earlier poetic posts this week was very cold within, so this one is a bit warmer, don't you think, despite the fact that it is very cold and rainy/sleety without.

The weather of late has me channeling T.S. Eliot, which made me think of this poem last night:

The Winter Evening Settles Down

The winter evening settles down
with smells of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
the grimy scrapsof withered leaves about your feet
and newspapers from vacant lots:
the showers beat
on broken blinds and chimney-pots,
and at the corner of the street
a lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

... Last night, driving out for more caffeine due to more work yet at the desk, I had just finished my piece and re-read Elliot's piece.

I'm anal that way. One thought leads to another, and I couldn't just get up from the desk after my piece was written, up and out of me, because my brain was going, Wait, uummmm, that poem by Elliot, the one Professor Bozo made us discuss TO DEATH!!!!!!! in his lit. intro. class several semesters ago. The class I took for "fun" because of its poetry component, and then he made us discuss poems to such a point, that I wanted to stick pins in my eyes and never write or read a poem again! The poem that so speaks to the winter season pending in the heart!!! That poem, where is it?!?!?!? Damn it, what's the title?!?!?!

And then I, and my fucked up brain, get up and I go right to the exact bookshelf (even though it's been moved AND rearranged over the weekend), where there rides the big fat Lit. text, where I can just about "see" the poem on the page, and I flip right to it (making a note to order a collection of Elliot from Amazon, because I don't seem to have one), and I plop back down in my chair, and I'm in rapture, for the short time I take to relive the poem, the steaming and stomp, stomp warm breathing of the horses, the lighting of the lamps .....

... and then I go out, and drive through the misty black night in the small village I live in. Yeah, village. I love that term, and I do in fact live in a "village" as opposed to a "town" or a "city," by zoning and such, and I'm probably the only one in this town ... ooops village, that gets a kick out of that wording, because for me, nothing is ever simple and words rock long and hard into each and every night, dancing till dawn!

Anyways .... driving the rain-slick streets, two days' past garbage pickup day, I see things that make me want to write a parody poem on my own work, and the work by Elliot. I wanted to put in it all the unique things that are still sitting curbside that the garbage man did not take ... a broken chair, a Little Tykes picnic table, the unfortunate pile of now wet and soggy moving boxes that were not properly flattened/cut/bound for pickup, a footstool, etc. and the streets are littered here and there with chunks of broken pumpkin heads, poor things, where is the vinegar and brown paper when you need it?!?!?!

Absolute crazy BLISS, as I rock and roll through the quiet darkened streets, get my coffee, and go back to my warm office downstairs, where I can hear the thump of the surround-sound on the big screen upstairs, where my daughter is watching "Sweeney Todd" for the second or third time this week, and still NOT CLEANING HER ROOM, and the dog is snuggled in a warm furry pile on her lap, so glad that she's not cleaning her room, and so am I!!!! ... I mean, it's "Sweeney Todd," for crying and loving out loud!

And I smile for a long while ...