This Writer's Life

One Morning

2011-11-08T05:52:00.001-08:00

“Damn!” Bud pulled the cold mayonnaise jar from the fridge. His busted hand screamed with re-discovered pain. The brawl had ended badly: Bud had broken his right hand in three places on someone’s face. The other guy looked like one of those masks: teeth and hair in all the wrong places.

Closing the fridge door, Bud saw his six-year-old son standing with his iPhone in one hand and his god dam Teddy bear in the other. “What?” Bud scowled, eyeing his son’s stuffed sissy toy, bereft of fur and missing both its eyes.

His son looked at his dad – face swollen, eyes creased almost shut, chips of dried blood sticking to heavy, stiff whiskers with a trace of gray here and there. He said nothing, stood there, watching.

“I gotta get to work. Where’s the ham?” Bud had pulled bread and cheese and mustard out, wincing at each passing.

Bud’s son pointed to the meat drawer.

“Thanks.” Bud pulled the ham out. He reached into the bread sack, counted six pieces, and put them on the counter. He made messy sandwiches, stacked them back up, stuffed them in a plastic grocery sack, and then threw the sack into a red and white Igloo ice chest. He tossed in a whole bag of Sun Chips, a box of cookies, and three beers. He winked at his son and said, “Gotta stay big and strong.”

Slamming the fixings back into the refrigerator, he hefted the Igloo, scooped up a box of powdered donuts and his coffee thermos, and started toward the garage.

“Bye, Dad. Love you.”

Brett stopped and said over his shoulder, “I’m late.”

Then, he put his cooler and thermos on the stool by the back door, crushed the donut box into his jacket pocket, and strode back. He crouched down, kissed his son’s forehead, looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Don’t turn out like me.”

The Eiffel Tower

2011-02-21T06:03:00.000-08:00

Elegant, graceful, full of herself
She likes that they call her The Iron Lady.
She spreads her stanchions wide
Spanning acres to hold her gilded girth.
A woman-structure of many colors and moods,
A phallicly androgynous creature, insouciant of the adoring fans
That crawl her frame, riding her up and down
Photographing her
Exploiting her
Day and night.
She ignores the invasions, until finally
She sleeps,
Shivering in the wintry December cold.
Lit golden, fourteen carat, she awaits sunrise.
At daybreak, her 1000-foot-high pate glistens
With the rays of a humble sun.
It warms her as it spreads down each lacy iron facet, and
The Lady preens,
Steels herself for another day
Of submission
To passionate suitors
Who wait in line
To invade her.
She shrinks not from her duty.
For she is the Iron Lady.
I adore her.

~Kathryn Atkins
January 2008

3 Smokes

2011-02-21T05:56:00.001-08:00

Smoke 1
Rancid smoke climbed above the carnage of combat. It carried death from the exhaust of the killing zone. Sucking life from the near dead, the ashes rose from the fields, scattering defeat and despair in their wake. The general puffed on the stub of his cigar, the smoke curled around his anger: he hated to lose, and he hated it worse when he lost men.
He heard the explosion from two bunkers over then saw the smoke shoot up and then fizzle. Hacking as he moved for a better view, he stopped to question the god he used to know—the one he hoped to see every night when he turned over on his cot, the one he hoped would pull him from the planet so he would not have to see any more of it, the one who kept him alive to deal with man’s hatred for his fellow man; and the one who knew what the general’s part was in it all.
The roof of the distant church huffed smoke like a teepee. The general could tell a chain of water buckets had formed on one end of the church: he had seen it before. Each hurl of a container made the smoke jump spasmodically while the fire fought the water for life. A few houses in the surrounding village had escaped destruction. From their chimneys, household smoke meandered, unmoved by the homeowner’s anguish. Fires of life—to cook food, to bathe in, to boil and clean in—reminded the general that the world did not end. It was the battle that was lost. Hopefully they had not lost the war – yet.
The sergeant drew near, a cigarette hanging from his lips. He took a drag, inhaled deeply, and formed rings on the exhalation, the last ring shooting through the centers of the first two widening rings. The sergeant said, “It was a trap.”
“No. It was murder. I pushed to be here. I let my pride get the better of me, and I wish I were dead. The lucky sonsobitches who died don’t have to live with the constant reek of the mistake I made here. My clothes smell of it, my brain stinks of it, my soul suffocates from it.”
“Geez, General. This is war.”
“No, son. It’s insanity.”

Smoke 2
Campfire smoke circled the girls’ bare legs. Marshmallow goo dripped from the insides of the smoldering dessert: the black smoke seeped around the black crunchy ash sandwiched hastily between two graham crackers laden with Hershey’s chocolate squares. Cecily jammed her next twig between the burning embers of the barbecue. She hated charred marshmallows. She had more control with coals. Her father watched the brown, gentler smoke from the marshmallow curl sideways, away from the parents’ steaks. Summer evenings lazed around the days, as easy about darkness descending as about the heat on the dirt floors in fully pitched tents.
The piquant smoke from the last bits of barbecue sauce passed through the forest, the animals sucking saliva for reasons they did not understand. Campers scattered as the campfire popped and sparked: someone had tossed in unpopped popcorn kernels.
Cecily’s uncle Bob started the “peace pipe” around the adult men. Long since a tradition at family campfires, the peace pipe created serenity and excitement all at the same time. Cecily watched longingly. She loved to see the pungent smoke expanding and contracting with the exhalation and inhalation of the men in her family. It was almost sexual. Their breath afterward smelled like real men; she imagined that their clothes had puffed out with the thicker molecules of the smoke.
“Honey. Honey. Stop staring at the men,” Cecily’s mother worried about her daughter every summer. She had no idea.
“It’s so cool, mom. The smoke stays with the men, and the men stay with the smoke. It’s like a cocoon.”
“You’re not going to be able to do that, ever. It’s a guy thing.”
“No, mom. It’s a family thing. I want to do it when I’m eighteen.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”

Smoke 3

The priestess hung behind the curtain inhaling the sweet, sickening smell of incense. She heard the hiss of the fan forcing the stench out across the chasm of sacrifice, the virgin poised ready, smoke beneath her rising from the pyre, her skin turning pink from the heat. The priestess had come to loathe the ritual. She suffocated from the memories the odors brought of deaths past. She retched.
Outside, smoke from the fireworks hung like a fog over the frenzied crowd. They awaited the death in the trance of the ignorant, expecting salvation by the killing of another. The priestess choked again, but the smoke had a different smell. There. There beyond the throne, past the gilt urn, seeping under the screen a yellow smoke oozed and parried with the incense. The priestess watched as it circled the floor, slithering along the lines of the tiles, following an invisible path to the unflinching guard. He fell.
The priestess jumped up and ran to the virgin and with the sweep of her sword released the virgin from the smoldering fire, embers catching the robes of the priestess, crawling up her legs until the blue white smoke and flames tore at her neck. Wrenching her robe from her body, she ran in gauze underwear, her breasts bared in the melee. The virgin ran naked next to the priestess, eyes shining with tears of joy and excitement. The frenzied crowd turned toward them, but they were too late. The women crossed the river under a layer of smoke billowing from the steamship carrying scientists to study the lost civilization.
The scientists were surprised to see two undressed women appear from under the mushroom of smoke at the side of the riverbank. Coughing and laughing, the women showed no shame. One blond, one brunette: they were beautiful.

Three-Syllable Conversation

2011-02-21T05:52:00.000-08:00

Bob: I love you.
Carol: No you don’t.
Bob: Where were you?
Carol: Walking the dog.
Bob: Are you okay?
Carol: I am fine.
Bob: I missed you.
Carol: Is that so?
Bob: Very much so.
Carol: How is that?
Bob: Not so tough.
Bob: I love you.
Carol: You said that.
Bob: I’m watching television.
Carol: What’re you watching?
Bob: Over the Rainbow.
Carol: I’ve seen that.
Bob: So have I.
Carol: Anything else on?
Bob: Meet The Press.
Carol: Who’s the reporter?
Bob: A new anchor.
Carol: Are you sure?
Bob: I think so.
Carol: She looks stupid.
Bob: Not to me.
Carol: You are outnumbered.
Bob: I am not
Carol: Yes you are.
Bob: No, I’m not.
Carol: I know her.
Bob: No, you don’t.
Carol: She’s a ditz.
Bob: Who says so?
Carol: The Chicago Tribune.
Bob: Gimme a break.
Carol: It’s a fact.
Bob: It isn’t so.
Carol: Yes it is.
Carol: Want to bet?
Bob: No I don’t.
Carol: You’re a chicken.
Bob: Can’t I pretend?
Carol: Not about this.
Bob: What’s for dinner?
Carol: Are you hungry?
Bob: I am now.
Carol: Well, I’m not.
Bob: Okay, you win.
Carol: I win what?
Bob: A big kiss.
Carol: I love you.
Bob: Love you, too.

©Kathryn Atkins 2008

The Seal Beach Sailor

2011-02-07T07:20:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the misty harbor of life, the sailor in this town, on leave for the weekend, took his sorry self to the pier--the place they called the Fun Zone--and took his chance at love. She was young. They were all young, or at least they tried to look young. This one was young. He could tell by the softness of her skin, the sheen of her hair, and the look in her eyes – a look that had not been screwed out of her yet. She was new to the west coast. She was new to prostitution, and quite frankly, not very good at it, making every guy feel he wanted to properly take care of her instead of improperly being taken care of.

The pier stood firm under the weight of its visitors: sailors, the girls, mothers and fathers, kids, old women, fishermen, and lovers, meandering and murmuring as lovers do. The fog swirled quietly around the many pairs of bare legs, hairy legs, smooth-shaven and prickly legs, long legs, short, fat legs, muscular and flabby legs. All kinds of legs walked the pier, looking for fun and finding it in that summer of 1919. Sex was the main goal, the energy, the heart and the soul of the beach-front city that day. The ocean’s waves rose and fell with the rhythm of a slow lover.

The aroma of salt water taffy settled in the air. A whiff of caramel corn, sweet and salty, floated by. Abandoned cotton candy made red sticky scars on the planks of the pier. The smell of sex—heavy and smutty, sweaty in the summer heat, and arrogant as it pulled young people from their innocence—permeated the sandy beaches, smudged the blue sky with its hatred for chastity, and nudged families to the higher ground. It stalked little girls and stole virginity from them with a hook, like a bad vaudeville act.

And so the sailor tried his luck with the youthful Phoebe from Phoenix; and she fumbled and flailed, then finally wailed at her ineptness and quailed at the thought of the Pier Madam pulling her away from her spot at the pier. The others once called it a lucky spot, but she hadn’t had much luck at it. The other spots were worse, they said, and Phoebe kept coming back to the spot that had yielded her two dinners and two fairly quiet nights: the Johns had fallen asleep.

The sailor returned, and Phoebe knew he wouldn’t fall asleep. What she didn't know was that in his civilian life, he was an actor, Douglas Fairbanks to be truthful, and he was smitten. At least for that summer, Phoebe from Phoenix had stolen his heart.

WHERE does the time go?

2010-10-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

October? You've gotta be kidding. Our yoga teacher today talked about change. Change, like change in the weather, happens whether we want it to or not. It's comforting. We change from the summer to the fall without much fanfare. The trees know. The birds know. We don't, somehow. And then we wake up and say silly things like: "Where does the time go?"

If we blink we'll miss it all. Or we don't see it in the first place until it hits us in the forehead, like the proverbial two by four.

Embrace change before it rattles you to your core. Slow time before the speed of it renders your life a senseless blur. Breathe.

Planning

2010-08-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

"Planning is the active component of beginning with the end in mind. It is the first creation in your mind before physical creation. A goal is the end point and the plan explains how to get there. To be certain you can achieve your goals, break them down into manageable tasks with realistic deadlines. The goal inspires you, but the deadline motivates you. -- Stephen Covey, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People

Consumer Behavior

2010-07-27T07:48:00.000-07:00

Did anyone else see it? The Tower of Babel image in the Wall Street Journal caught my eye. In the article "Lost in Translation," http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703467304575383131592767868.html?mod=e2tw, the article's author, Lera Boroditsky, a professor of psychology at Stanford University, suggests "language profoundly influences the way people see the world." As a marketer and writer, I see it more... as a way to identify the cognitive process a business or a writer would want to address in marketing their products/books globally.
So much hinges on our perceptions. In turn, that which we perceive hinges on the language we receive it in... and furthermore, as Boroditksy states "...does the language shape cultural values, or does the influence go the other way, or both?" How do consumers contextualize any product or service, including the books, and in fact any writing, we offer?
More heavy thoughts posited in the article: "How do we come to be the way we are? Why do we think the way we do? An important part of the answer, it turns out, is in the languages we speak."

Bare Dirt, Redux

2010-06-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

In October of 2009, I wrote about bare dirt. It became a symbol of the economic bareness, the lack of hope...unemployment, scarcity. Look at that same plot of land today. The ground is packed with color, blushing with hope, singing a recovery song. I could almost hear it. Nice.

On A Mission

2010-04-12T20:05:00.000-07:00

I'm on a mission to write a mission statement. It's an all-encompassing, soul-searching, gut-wrenching attempt at finding that which I hope will direct my life here forward. It requires that I answer questions about what I value, and in so doing, derives and synthesizes my belief system so that every moment of every day, I have something against which I can evaluate the time I spend. For indeed, one can be as busy as a bee, but accomplish exactly nothing of value.
Stephen Covey's 7 Habits of Very Successful People suggests that having a Mission Statement helps to discern whether one is working in the right jungle, not just chopping as many trees as one can as quickly as possible. In fact, in an earlier related post I cited Tim Ferriss, author of The 4 Hour Work Week, who describes a goal oriented existence that essentially makes time management, per se, unnecessary. Do what's the most important, not the most urgent. Easier said than done, because (urgent) fires need dousing, don't you think? But why do some days consist of a rash of fires? Does planning help clear the deadly brush that feeds the flames? And doesn't planning require evaluation and prioritization against some standard? Indeed, businesses are entities that work best with mission statements. People need them, too.

Brand Equity

2010-03-27T14:57:00.000-07:00

The words go together if you want to take the time to love what you do. They say "do what you love." People give lip service to it. But I don't know how to figure out how to find that thing. Like Curly in "City Slickers." Find the one thing. I'm looking for mine. Let's look together.

Time Management

2010-03-14T16:26:00.001-07:00

Tim Ferris (author of the 4-Hour Work Week) says this about time management: "Forget all about it." He defines effectiveness as doing the things that get you closer to your goals. Efficiency is performing a given task (whether important or not) in the most economical manner possible. Two corrolaries:

Doing something unimportant well does not make it important.
Requiring a lot of time does not make a task important.

I'm guilty of both. TO WIT-- How BUSY am I doing the unimportant?

I'm trying. I'm trying. But it's so hard.

How does this sound? "Being busy is a form of laziness -- lazy thinking and indiscriminate action." Also comes from Tim Ferriss. And: "Lack of time is actually lack of priorities."

I've even been known to busy myself making lots of priorities. Here's a trick (from Ferriss): define a TO DO list and define a NOT-TO-DO list. Wow.

Death's Life

2010-01-28T21:19:00.000-08:00

My friend lost her mom.
It changed her.
She quit the job that stole her soul.
It released her.
She doesn't know what she will do next!
It scares her.
She says she's finally beginning to know herself.
It delights her.
She looks younger, happier, calmer.
It becomes her.
Her mother did not die in vain.
In fact, she gave her daughter life. Again.

J.J. Abrams' mystery box | Video on TED.com

2010-01-23T18:55:00.000-08:00

J.J. Abrams' mystery box | Video on TED.com

Four Hour Work Week

2010-01-03T10:53:00.000-08:00

Is it possible? Is it a pipe dream? Well, Tim Ferriss, in his book, The 4-Hour Workweek, says it's possible. In fact, there are hundreds of people who approach and conquer his "luxury lifestyle design"and blog about it on his blog: www.fourhourblog.com.

It sounds like a scam. But then, I haven't tried it yet. The process requires a step out of the automaton existence most of us lead (I do), and a commitment to self-examination that few dare to engage. Defining dreams (and making corresponding goals to achieve them) takes time, honesty, and oh, trust. (Do I REALLY think this will work? I am risking FAILURE!) How can I spare the time? I am SO busy being busy.

In the book Ferriss teaches how to control the three ingredients that achieve this seemingly fictitious, (impossible?) work/life balance: Time, income, and mobility. Can I? Will I? I'll let you know.

Gratitude

2009-11-22T13:36:00.001-08:00

There we were, complaining. Again. First it was one thing, then it was another. In the end we looked across the landscape of it and acknowledged: we have quality problems. We have a (mortgaged) roof over our heads. We have a nearby family and great friends. Oh. We have food. Yes. Food. Great weather. Health.
We cast our energy into complaining because venting keeps the pressure from blowing, volcano-style, over the people around us. But this is the season of Thanksgiving and thanks-giving. Burrow into it and stay a while. It feels good.

A Sense of Urgency

2009-11-16T20:49:00.000-08:00

It's the name of a book I'm reading by John P. Kotter. It's a book about CHANGE—organizational change. Kotter posits that the main barrier (among others) is complacency. The goal is activity with purpose and the real challenge is discerning fruitful activity from that breathless, mindless doing that we attend for its own sake because it makes us feel safe. I think the principles apply equally to personal change. I believe there has to be an honest sense of urgency for both organizational and personal change to occur, More to come as I read further in this book by one of the gurus of change.

Technology II

2009-11-08T12:05:00.000-08:00

It's done. I'm a Tweeter. Or is it Twitterer? Or is it Twit? The value may be questionable, but I won't know until I experiment and see where it takes me. For if I don't try, I'll never know. Trying is doing. Doing is so much more than the words we use to prepare to do, or think of doing, or dreaming, or wishing, or wanting. Yoda said "Try not. Do." Nike says "Just Do It." I just did.

Bare Dirt

2009-10-05T22:13:00.000-07:00

I walk my dog every morning. I smell my neighborhood, feel the day, taste the seasons as they change. I tasted a new season today: bare dirt. The repetition of the theme of flowerless, dry, naked dirt startled me at first, but it's the mark of our little community, our state and our nation in both a recession AND a water shortage. I hate it. We used to take pride in the huge blocks of showy color, the carefully lined, beautifully manicured plots in front of our suburban homes. The bare dirt tells the story without words. It's a sad story; these are sad times. We wear the dirt proudly: we're doing our part because we have to. We can't afford the luxury of flowers, our water usage is slashed, and our lawns lie to us that they're proud of their brown patches. It's a season we're passing through these days and I hope it changes soon. I'm tired of looking at and feeling like bare, dry dirt. Aren't you?

Technology

2009-09-02T22:16:00.000-07:00

We need it. We want it. We are all but slaves to it. Like Hal in 2001 Space Odyssey, the Technology monster seems to be running us rather than the other way around. Our writer's group had a panel on it. Some of us have stuck our big toe in the ocean of technology, but it appears that the tsunami has us running to the high ground...wherever that is. Because the high ground keeps getting higher, and like Tantalus we keep reaching for it, but it's just beyond our grasp. Surrounded by it, neck deep, we tread water and try to go with the flow, and without surfboards, we ride until we meet the sandy beach flopping and flailing, wondering what to try before the newer wave comes and pushes us around just a little more. We are writers, though, so we have a standing chance. We don't give up easily.

"101 Ways To Promote Yourself"

2009-08-29T06:14:00.000-07:00

I'm starting a new venture. We all must if we are to progress. I'm stepping into the future because the past is gone forever. The book -- 101 Ways--is by Raleigh Pinsky -- a P.R. person, who promotes herself to a remarkable degree, a living advertisement for Public Relations. My blog has already changed, and will change more as I plow through her book. I'm on chapter one. Naming your Business. Indeed, naming oneself...a difficult first step to be sure. It's the beginning and "a trip of a thousand miles begins with the first step" or something like that. Walk with me.

Literary Orange and life in the OC

2009-04-08T21:29:00.000-07:00

The beauty of being a writer just keeps giving back. I wish everyone could have as much fun. I attended Literary Orange this past Saturday, April 4. All the speakers were awesome, the panels excellent, the dining table denizens a treat to meet and greet.
This morning I listened to my dog snoring little 11 lb dog snores. I saw the wind dapple the tiny pools of water in the gutters by our house. I felt the wind and watched the clouds billowing with promised rain. I enjoyed being alive today. Down here. On this earth. Sometimes it's "more gooder" than others.

From Up Here

2009-03-01T15:37:00.001-08:00

God I love this time of day. It's quiet. The sun is out. It's starting to smell like fall, and the world, though sullied with financial sewage, will most likely make it through to the other side, spinning at it does on its axis in the quiet -- the death quiet-- of space. "Ohm," it seems to say.
I look back at the solar system as I ride out of it and hear nothing of the cries of anguish reaching up from Wall Street, haranguing off the pages of newspapers, echoing up from tent cities, sidewalks, apartments, and the six-bedrooms houses in foreclosure.
From way up here, I'm not afraid. I float ignorantly above the roiling red ink seas. I do not smell the crimson sweat of crazed traders, and I do not see the blood-shot, staring eyeballs of investors unable to ignore the destructive tickers rolling across ubiquitous monitors.
How much nicer to see the world turning from up here. Care to join me?
(C)October 2008

URBAN WILDFLOWERS

2009-02-15T13:18:00.000-08:00

The word "urban" to me means city. City like New York. City like L.A. City like Chicago. Like not suburban or country. I'd call where we live suburban, but it's rapidly going urban. When does the sub find itself scrubbed from the property and ground down into "urban?" And it's definitely a down not an up, for although some call it progress, it (urbanization) drags pollution and overcrowding, crime and stress along with it, making tranquility its victim, sanity a mortality statistic, like soldiers in a war meant to conquer poverty in a place that didn't want the ravages of civilization anyway, thanks.
"Whither the wildflowers?" we ask. Whisked away, the wildflowers would want to wave wistfully in wide women's backyards, but will waste away in the wagons with wooden wheels drawn by dirty white horses every Wednesday during the week and every third weekend at the end of every month ending in a "y."
The wagons went West, the wildflowers wilted, and Urbanity laughed to see them go, triumphant again--restaurant chains, drugstore and hardware store chains muscling each other in the background for newly paved-over wildflowers. Man's striving to have more had created a place to escape FROM on the very next plane to find the open spaces where the wildflowers grow wild, but not the people because there is peace in the wilds. Contradictions notwithstanding, the open spaces beckon closed minds formerly full but now emptied by predatory purveyors and pedantic preachers. Pus-carrying pimples on pre-pubescent people in countries no longer confined to the U.S. but bleeding globally, harbor no longer in solely U.S. ports, but spread beyond borders in electronic vastness making no one immune to the disease of progress in the 21st century.

The Day After Christmas

2008-12-05T21:32:00.000-08:00

‘Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the house
I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find my spouse.
The presents from Christmas were strewn everywhere,
With nary an empty space, sofa, or chair

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of techno-toys danced in their heads.
And I in my sweatpants and my hubby no where near,
Ran to the garage to see if his car was here.

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I ran to the yard to see what was the matter.
Away to the sidewalk I ran with a dash,
By this time, my face had become as white as an ash.

The sun on the top of the slippery, wet roof
Made me scared, and curious, and no longer aloof.
When what to my wondering eyes would appear,
My husband, was sitting up there, drinking a beer.

In his little old bathrobe, so old and so ratty,
My husband looked cute, but I fear he’d gone batty.
More rapid than eagles, his beer did he drink,
And I whistled and shouted “What will the neighbors think?”
As old wives that before the wild hurricane fly,
When we meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
So up to the house-top I dashed in a hurry.
To sit by my husband and share in his worry.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard the whole tale:
He’d spent all our money on Christmas stuff on sale.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Up the ladder came the kids, still in their nightgowns.

Their hair was all messy, their faces still wrinkled,
Their slippers were red and had sleigh bells that tinkled.
“What’s happening, what’s wrong?” the two asked quite worried.
“We heard a loud noise and then we just hurried.”
Their dad’s eyes, how they watered, his face looked so sad.
His cheeks showed his sorrow; it didn’t look like their dad!
His miserable mouth was drawn down in a frown
And the beard on his chin was grizzled between the brown.
The stump of a cigar he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little beer belly,
That I say came from too many trips to the deli.
He was sullen and quiet, not at all himself,
And we cried when we saw him in spite of ourselves.
But a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave us to know we had nothing to dread.
He spoke to us then, and gave us a smirk.
“I guess I’ve just been the silliest old jerk.”
And laying his finger aside of his brain,
Gave us a nod, and said “I won’t do this again!”

He stood on the roof, to his family gave a cheer,
And together we all hugged thanking God we were here.
But we heard him exclaim, 'ere we climbed down to the yard,
"I’m going to take and cut up every credit card!"

-- Kathryn Atkins
2005

Katella Avenue, Cypress California

2008-11-23T10:44:00.000-08:00

Don’s Turf Motel stands alongside a row of sad buildings whose demeanor can only be described as 1950s architecture, the word architecture applied loosely. The structure has an exterior of plain brown warped wood, aging cracked paint, and light brown stucco walls chipped and worn showing dirty white stucco beneath.
The requisite vacancy/no vacancy sign only “neons” the NO. And we wonder. Does that mean there are REALLY no vacancies? Does it mean people LIKE staying there? Do these people know there’s a Marriott Residence Inn less than a mile down the street? Or that Disneyland is eight miles away? More importantly, are the people that stay here the kind that would care? It is said that people check into this motel with no more luggage than several fifths of Jack Daniels, drink themselves through two or three or four days and nights, hiding safely from family and friends, for who would think to look for them there?
Are ALL the rooms filled with people like these -- the empty bottles metaphors for the chasm of addiction that alcohol creates and fills for some, sex for others, food for still another group? Perhaps there are jockeys that stay there. It is, after all, across the street from the Los Alamitos Race Track, and may be, like in the story of Seabiscuit, a place for the featherweight men and boys to hang their jockey pants, affordable for two three, or four in a room. Do we know?
On some weekends, bikers by the dozen crowd the parking lot adjacent to this seedy throwback strip of history. Hells Angels congregate here, attracted to the older architecture, perhaps being reminded of easy riders of days gone by. Or would the Marriott parking lot down the street snub the Harleys and run them out as a deterrent to higher class customers – businessmen who stay near the companies down the street – Yamaha, Mitsubishi, and more – to sell or work or avoid a commute from Bakersfield where they can afford to live?
Along the same road a few blocks down, the Finish Line Foodstore completes the ensemble of late fifties/horse racing ambiance. The flashing sign appeared one summer evening as twilight eased onto the avenue. A small crowd had gathered to watch the store’s new sign depicting horses mating at a representational Finish Line. As the crowd grew, police were called in to break up the throng that had spilled onto Katella, slowing traffic to a canter, then to a halt. In fact, the automobile cops had to call for motorcycle backup. Stalled, the motorcycle police summoned the horse-mounted officers.
It took the equine staff a while to fit out their steeds, mount and arrive at the scene. In fact, by the time they came to the Finish Line Foodstore, the storeowners had produced guns. The crowd had lobbed strawberry boxes at the sign, purchased from the nearby strawberry stand, and the humping horses had sticky strawberry pulp dripping off the sexy sign making a sloppy mess of what was an education in animal husbandry for city folk who had never seen it done in real life.
Mounted Officer Sergeant Ron Flood, an imposing figure on his horse, Flash, announced through a loudspeaker, “EVERYONE NEEDS TO LEAVE. NOW!” No one moved. Few people heard.
Suddenly from above, a pair of helicopters arrived. One was a news helicopter. A spotlight bathed the darkened crowd in daylight. Sergeant Flood waved them away because behind them was the police helicopter he had requested. He repeated one more time, “EVERYONE MUST LEAVE NOW. YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW. IF YOU DON’T LEAVE, WE WILL ARREST YOU ALL.”
The warning was ignored. Although some folks nearby heard the blast, they were actually more interested in the fight that had started near the front of the crowd. Within minutes, the fight spread. The heat of the day, the stench of recession; the outrage at the display all spilled over into a frenzy of pent-up physicality. Women and children were invisible to the men whose self-control had passed the tipping point. Teeth and hair, blood and spit flew into the air.
As a last resort, Sergeant Flood shot his gun into the sky, grazed the helicopter, and the sound of the ricochet finally woke up the heli-cops waiting to engage. Six men dropped by tether into the roiling mêlée. Billy clubs trumped fists; riot gear paddled street clothes; and finally tear gas stunned the manly to meek, hammering the testosterone-thick air and returning defiant fighters to submissive.
Names were taken, handcuffs snapped, ambulances wailed in the background as Sergeant Flood borrowed a billy club, and astride his faithful steed, destroyed the offending sign whilst a wily lawyer in the crowd clicked pictures.
Although the First Amendment was invoked at the hearing three months later, the judge threw out the case. “No one in our community needs neon humping horses at the Finish Line Foodstore at twilight or any other time.”
The gavel came down. BANG. Case closed.

In My Dream

2008-08-25T18:13:00.000-07:00

In my dream I was a fallen princess.
It was so quiet I could hear the wind changing its mind.
You were wearing your deep purple high tops
As we sat eating mangoes soaked in rum.
You asked, “What do you want?”
I answered, “I want freedom from myself.”
You were sure if we hid, Death wouldn’t find us
Even though we knew it was time.
My dog, Life, and I
Went out and saw the moon.
No man was in it.
He was on a break.
Or Death had found him first.
We didn’t know.
You brought your cat, Hope,
To play with my dog.
We had sex and died right after.

©Kathryn Atkins
Fall 2004

Stand Closer

2008-08-25T18:08:00.000-07:00

Orange and yellow lilies
Mixed with fuzzy brown grasses
Bend softly, ballerina style
Over the edge of the chipped clay pot.
Stand closer and you’ll smell them.

Hop-red double impatiens
Sport blooms
Pushing for attention
Against the green fichus wall.
Where rats play tag in the tangled branches.
Stand closer and you’ll hear them.

Don’t-you-love-it purple flowers
Survive
Next to the spreading snow-white alyssum.
I am the garden where they grow.
The rats are my sins.
Stand closer and you’ll see them.

© Kathryn Atkins
Fall 2004

To My Son

2008-08-10T16:09:00.000-07:00

I will not hover like a helicopter waiting to rescue a drowning soul. I will not swoop in, saber in hand, my face stretched in a fierce, threatening grimace, the shield of parental iron posed ready to fend off the arrows of adulthood, the poison darts of responsibility and maturity, the bullets of insurance premiums and car payments, the bludgeons of mortgages and credit card minimums that never reduce the maximums that shake financial houses built of straw.
I will not pave this rutted road with rose petals; nor will I continue to mask the poverty smell with money-green perfume or bank-transfer cologne. No more. I did that for a year, like a goofy lap dog, hoping you’d “get” what you needed, somehow-- an understanding of THE CONCEPT. That concept is: TO OBTAIN MONEY, A PERSON HAS TO WORK. At least unless you’re born into wealth, which few people are, and those that are do so at the behest of some poor slob who DID work. Hard.
I failed you, son. But I will not compound my error. No more. Like giving up cigarettes or alcohol, I have to do this cold turkey, take a 12–step approach, and ask almighty God for the strength to do what I should have done a year ago. Cut you off for your own good.
“Geez, Mom,” you say. “Can’t I get a free ride any more?” No. Sorry. You’re on your own. You will have to allocate your time between school, work, and music. I will not tell you which to emphasize, except to say that right now, school is #1. You will be busy doing all three, but you’re young. You’re just not hungry. I give you now the gift of hunger. I have given you many gifts. This is the hardest, but the best. Make it work. Pray for strength. Face your fears. Engage in life. Be a man. You are no longer a boy. Sorry.

August 8, 2008

Just the Ticket

2008-07-25T20:35:00.000-07:00

My husband and I love the Cerritos Performing Arts Center, and we love jazz. Just before a recent concert began, a group of three people were shown their seats by the usher. They sidestepped past us to sit in the empty seats just to our left. There were two men and one woman. The woman sat between them. She looked down at her ticket stub, and then at the metal tag riveted on the arm of her chair. She stretched forward to look at the tag on the arm of the chair where the man on her right was sitting.
“Ernie,” she said. “I think I have your ticket stub.”
“It’s okay,” the man said.
“No. We can switch seats.”
“Really, it’s okay, Wanda. No one cares.”
“Well, okay, I guess.”
Silence.
“But I don’t mind changing with you, really,” the Wanda woman said.
“Seriously. They don’t care. I’m sure.”
“Well, then, let’s switch ticket stubs.”
“I don’t remember where I put mine. It’s not a problem. I’m certain.”
“The usher gave each of us our stubs back.”
Ernie sighed quietly in our direction as he rocked onto one cheek, then the other, groping in his pants pockets. Unsuccessful there, he searched his side jacket pockets, left and right. Then his outside breast pocket.
“Wanda, I can’t find it. I’m sorry.”
“Look again. I know she handed it to you. Try that little pocket inside on the left.”
His fingers probed the satin lined pocket. “Nope. Not there either. Wanda, it really is okay. We can just stay where we are unless you can’t see or something.”
“No. I’m fine. I can see. Thanks.”
“Okay?” Ernie checked again.
“Okay,” Wanda said.
Ernie was a nice man. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Excuse me, Bart,” she said tapping the shoulder of her companion on her left. “Do you have your ticket stub?”
Bart has found a woman in the row ahead of him that he went to high school with. They were wrapped in the throes of a do-you-know-what-happened-to conversation, and he turned quickly to Wanda and said, “I don’t know,” and continued talking to his high school friend, dismissing Wanda.
Turning back to poor Ernie, Wanda said, “Maybe it’s on the floor. Did you look on the floor?” With that she scooched out of her seat on hands and knees to look for the wayward ticket stub.
The theater darkened and the music started. Wanda crawled back into her seat empty handed. She sat for a few minutes, fidgeting.
“Ernie, I think we should switch,” Wanda whispered.
“Okay. But let’s make it quick.”
They switched seats. We were glad they were settled, finally.
The lead guitar had introduced his band and started into the first piece. The music played for a couple of minutes.
Wanda, now to the right of Ernie leaned forward and across him to check in again with Bart. “Psst. Bart. Did you find your ticket stub? You might be sitting in Ernie’s seat.”
"Shh!"
Wanda continued to squirm. Ernie found his ticket at the intermission and we all breathed a sigh of relief. It was just the ticket for an easy second half of the show.
© Kathryn Atkins
July 2008

Canceling Thursdays

2008-06-07T15:38:00.000-07:00

That’s right. I’m canceling Thursdays. Of all the days of the week, Thursday reigns as the least necessary. It pales in comparison to Friday, of course. No one ever heard of TGIT, which almost sounds like an obscene reference to mammary glands, and besides it would have to be TGITH to make it different from TGIT for Tuesday. Plus: Tee-Gee-Eye-“th” sounds stupid. So there you go.
Speaking of Tuesday, it captures its charisma (though it be small, I agree) from Monday, largely because it’s a relief to have Monday behind you, and the work/school week along its way.
Wednesday, as hump day, marks the downward slide to the week’s end. We can’t expunge such an important day.
Now, Saturday, by all accounts, is cleanup day. It’s the scoop-up-the-pieces day where the life-support junk gets stuffed to attend to in a blur of catch-up that means deep breaths, sucking in oxygen from portals of open car windows while dashing from one list item to the next.
Finally, winded, you land at Sunday—the day of rest. Maybe church. Maybe a game of golf or tennis, eggs benedict, a bike ride, or a hobby. Clean the attic? Make a pie? Shop the sales? Read a book? Take a nap? Stay in your p.j.’s all day? Watch all forty parts of the Star Wars saga? Wow, how do you rest with all that stuff to do? Well, you get to CHOOSE which if anything you want to do. And that is the VALUE of Sunday.
Then Sunday night rolls around, and you anticipate the week facing the prospect of doing it all over. Except this time, there’s one less day of the week! There’s more balance: four days of work and two days of weekend. It’s not nearly so one-sided. I like it. Don’t you?
Now let’s go back to Tuesday. Should we bag that one too? What do you think?

ESSES

2008-05-31T14:33:00.000-07:00

Suffering sadness, Sarah stood beside Sally’s sedan, slid sideways. The slick snowy streets were sown insufferably with slices of the senseless suicide. Sarah saw Sally’s sleeveless sweater settled stiffly on the silvery icy surface.
She said to sister Samantha, “So sad. Sally’s son Steve saved for six summers so Sally could sail the Salton Sea in September of seventy-seven.
Samantha sniffed as she said, “Suicide sucks.”
Sheriff Sol Sydleberg shuffled aside the sisters saying, “Sally certainly selected a superior site. She seemed sure she shouldn’t survive such a smashing.”
“Yes,” Sarah said, “Sally studied seriously. She seldom assumed success. She sincerely sought specifics.”
Samantha sobbed, “So stupid! Someone should have seen Sally’s sorrow!”
Sol Sydleberg shaking his snow-swathed scarf addressed the sisters saying, “Sometimes we seek sunshine, sometimes sorrow. Sorrow was a side of Sally we seldom saw.”
“Shit, Sheriff,” Sarah said, “Easy to say. We should’ve seen it sooner.”
“Should’ve’s seldom save sanity subsequent to suicide.”
“So you say,” Samantha shot hotly.
“Yes, I say,” Sol seethed.
“Screw you,” the sisters shouted simultaneously.

©Kathryn Atkins
May 2008

How Long is a Stoplight?

2008-05-31T14:04:00.000-07:00

You’re late leaving for work. You think you’re going to make the light, but the dillweed in front of you slows, hesitates trying to decide, then speeds up at the last minute, leaving you to HAVE TO STOP at the light. Your sphincter tightens, your teeth grit, your mind seethes. Scientific studies show that lights do not, in fact, purposefully change more slowly when people are late, but what, for God’s sake, does science really know?

For the working busy, the inverse relationship of time to get to work and traffic light length is well known and most assuredly documented. In this great example of relativity -- YOUR TIME AT THE STOPLIGHT DRAGS ON INTERMINABLY. Another example: “Time flies when you’re having a good time” Indeed, the concept of time elasticity has been true since the saying was penned, which was right after good times were invented.

Since you are busy, we’ll cut to the chase. There is a cure for stoplight angst. Relativists (not your relatives) have devised a method to make sure that your time at the stoplight flies. How? By having a ready list of things to do while you’re waiting, of course!

Just how long is a stoplight? Long enough to...

1. Put on lipstick
2. Touch up the eye make up
3. Swipe on clear nail polish
4. Read the headlines
5. Fill in 1 down on the crossword
6. Make a To-Do list
7. Find a better radio station
8. Write part of a thank you note
9. Send an e-mail
10. Say a prayer
11. Untangle a personalized license plate
12. Whistle a theme song
13. Check out the person next to you
14. Blow your nose
15. Look for boogers
16. Slather on hand cream
17. Smooth out the cowlicks in your eyebrows
18. Call anyone
19. Plan a party
20. Practice a speech
21. Organize the glove box (may take 2 lights)
22. Add a contact to your address book
23. Snooze
24. Scratch the dried mustard off your tie
25. Solve a problem
26. Take a slurp of coffee
27. Decide to quit . . . anything
28. Pay a bill
29. Pen a short poem
30. Memorize a couple of lines
31. Think up a title
32. Clip off a hang nail
33. Munch a bite of breakfast
34. Read a paragraph in a good book
35. Think a thought.
36. Endorse a check
37. Recite state capitals
38. Jot a reminder post-it
39. Pick your teeth
40. Dig through your briefcase or purse
41. Slosh on sun block
42. Comb your hair
43. See if your shoes match
44. Make a reservation
45. Laugh
46. Count your blessings
47. Cross the stuff you’ve just gotten done off your To-Do list.
48. Try to listen to your heart beating
49. Breathe in deeply. Let it out slowly.
50. Wave at the poor soul behind you who’s honking to get you to move.

ENJOY YOUR NEXT STOPLIGHT!

© Kathryn Atkins ~ May 2008

Butt Crack

2008-03-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

Musings on a Butt Crack

I wonder if she felt it. Almost the entire split of her backside bulged out over too-tight pants as she sat on the picnic table bench across from a Jack Spratt skinny man. The table was situated alongside the busy road carrying workers and moms, students and musicians, athletes and gardeners to and fro. I mean, didn’t she sense a draft back there? Didn’t the tightness of her southerly waistband cut off circulation so that her legs would tingle like when you sleep on your arm wrong? Does she not have nerve endings in the back of her body? Oh, well then. She MUST think it’s attractive. Or maybe sexy. Jesus, there ought to be a law.
How can people a) get that way or b) think that the exposure of such corpulence is appealing? Maybe her man likes the publicity, as in “my wife has a wonderful derrière, and I want everyone to see it.” Has he ever looked at a Playboy? The centerfold has to be unfolded vertically for a reason. They don’t require a horizontal unfolding as well. I have never seen a “large” print version of Playboy. Maybe there’s a market for this mature AARP version. Call it Aging Ass for Retired Playboys.
Back to my friend at the park. She had a long, thick braid descending almost to the top of her bare buttocks--the kind you see in K Mart and 99 cent stores--or at health food stores draping down the backs of gray haired male and female hippies in their sixties and seventies wearing sandals and no bras. I kind of like that idea, though. There must be an age at which it’s okay not to care any more. Or rather, there must be a time when you can choose to dress to the nines OR roam around in the slovenly furnishings of the rich and famous when you’re fixed-income poor and decidedly unknown, or want to be.
Maybe my new acquaintance was a starlet in disguise wearing a Mrs. Doubtfire body suit and a Sacagawea wig for a privately public picnic in no-name Cypress, California on a Thursday afternoon. Or not. At forty miles and hour on the way home from work, I didn’t take the time to circle around for a closer view. After all, it looked dreadful the first time around. However, it DID garner my attention in the sick way writers find grist for the writing mill in just about anything.

Why No One Does Windows

2008-03-15T15:38:00.000-07:00

Washing Windows

You don’t know what you’ve missed seeing until
You wash your windows and
Watch your dingy world clarify itself.
You hum as you work and ask yourself
“Why don’t I do this more often?”

The outside looks great until you’re inside
And you see a smudge--a streak that got by you.
You mosey outside, sure it will be the last time
And you look through, assuming perfection.
Now it’s smeared on the inside.
The smudge that wasn’t there is there now.
Crap.
Back and forth; in and out. And then finally…
It looks good!

--BEAT--

You start to walk away; and turn your head
For one last look at your beautiful, flawless windows.
But from this new angle --
Crap!
Another streak.
You walk back-- rag in hand.
You are no longer humming.
In fact, you are cussing.
You think, “Newspapers will do the trick.”
You will win. You know it.
You can smell sweet victory.
You wipe feverishly,
Holding your breath until you are ALL done.
You step back, gasping. Your arms ache.
A smile twitches at your lips.
“HA HA. I Win,” you say to yourself until --

--BEAT--

Your laughter slows. Your grin frowns.
There. In the corner. Right near the bottom.
What is that?
Damn!
There’s another.
One more.
Oh, to hell with it.

Italians

2008-03-08T14:50:00.000-08:00

I am half Italian. But I missed out on the beautiful half. Having been in Rome in December, I can honestly say that there were some astonishingly handsome men there. Sexy, dark, sculpted, swarthy, alive with youth or wizened with smug self-knowledge and worldliness. They did seem self-absorbed, but then who wouldn't be with their dark and curly hair, black-brown eyes ringed with luscious, thick eyelashes; lips full and Latin, the whites of their eyes and teeth made whiter by Mediterranean dark skin? And cheekbones. God, the cheekbones. No wait. Check out the tight, telling jeans.
On their arms, or in a clutch of young people, there stood the equally striking women -- long, straight silky how-do-they-do-that-all-day-long? hair with complexions from magazine ads, rouged just right, full of lips, dark perfect eyebrows with just the right arch and no stray hairs, because it would detract from their oval-esque, dreamy, green-brown eyes, perfectly shadowed and lined. Complete with natural beauty marks, dressed in short fur jackets, no-scratch boots, designer jeans, and tight, full tops, they laugh perfect-teeth laughs, not working-class London grins, but affected, Italian grist-for-paparazzi laughs. And they probably spend way too much time in front of mirrors to look that way, say I, middle aged, and with hugely different values, a lot less free time, and thank-you-very-much wrinkles.
In short, men and women of any age can enjoy the eye-candy on the streets of Rome, in a country that struts lust-for-life with its head tilted back laughing. Or at least I'd like to think so.

Writing Reference Books

2007-07-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

In this post, I submit yet another couple of citations from a recently purchased how-to book --as if I didn't already have enough. I wish to quote from Noah Lukeman in his book "The First Five Pages -- A Writer's Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection Pile." Lukeman is both a writer and an agent who is not accepting new authors. That said, the book remains replete with tips and reminders for all writers who wish to publish, indeed all writers who wish to write well. In chapter 1, Presentation, Lukeman puts your manuscript into CONTEXT. "The unknown writer's manuscript [unlike Stephen King's] will be read by an angry, overworked intern or editorial assistant, one hoping to be able to find the tiniest fault so he can get it out of the way and move on to the next five thousand manuscripts."

Here's an example of how to avoid the "tiny faults" they might find: "When rewriting, pretend that someone will give you $100 for every word you are able to cut ... which makes for a tighter read." Which words to cut? Start with Adjectives and Adverbs, the title of Chapter 2 of his book.

I heard about the book from Barbara DeMarco Barrett’s “Writer’s On Writing” Radio show, 88.9 FM. Both her show and this book are musts for the serious writer. See ya.

From "This Year You Write Your Novel"

2007-06-24T10:04:00.000-07:00

The author of TYYWYN, Walter Mosley, writes "Poetry is the fount of all writing. Without a deep understanding of poetry and its practices, any power the writer might have is greatly diminished." Why, I asked myself, does this prolific author who claims not to be a poet even address the issue? He says, "Of all writing, the discipline in poetry is the most demanding. ... In poetry you have to see language as both music and content. ... If the fiction writer demands half of what the poet asks of herself, then that writer will render an exquisitely written novel." Wow.
Mosley recommends a poetry workshop. Where do I sign up?

Writing Workshops

2007-05-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

I can't help myself. I'm starting another writing workshop here in Chico, nine hours from my home. And the people who are coming tonight are SO excited. Why? Because many people want to write, but they don't know where to start. I want to help them get started, because there is, in my world, just a handful of things that transcend the pleasure of writing. And so, we will draw from Janet Burroway's book Writing Fiction and throw out such subjects from her page 11, such as: from the first seven years of your life, make a list of events, people, your self, inner life, characteristic things. Or, Burroway tells us that a tenth century Japanese courtesan had the following list of Things that she used: Things I wish had never been said. Red things. Things more embarrassing than nudity. Things to put off as long as possible. Things to die for. Acid things. Things that last only a day. These subjects start the fire. Our imaginations can fan the flames and result in a wonderful story -- real or fiction. It doesn't matter, as long as we're dropping it on the page, word after word after word.

My Pushy Muse

2007-05-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

Work is a four letter word and an excuse not to write, but it pays the bills. Not working is more fun, but is more the challenge, because my writing muse taps her foot, arms crossed, waiting in the corner, no make that, waiting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear: write, damn it, write.
She's not patient, my muse. She taketh away the right to procrastination and giveth harsh criticisms for all the many ways I can avoid the hard stuff: putting one word and then another and then another on the page, word by word, bird by bird, until the work is done and has to be redone and redone and redone (OY) until it's as right as it's going to get, and even then we want to fiddle with it some more, now don't we?
Enough. She's no longer whispering. She's shouting. IT'S TIME TO WRITE NOW!

Quotes of Note

2007-04-15T12:05:00.000-07:00

I pulled these from Dennis Palumbo's website. These are some of his favorites Quotes for Writers.

"The best way out is always through." Robert Frost

"How do I work? I grope." Albert Einstein

"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for." John A. Shedd

OC Metro OA article

2007-04-04T18:54:00.000-07:00

Check out www.ocmetro.com for my article on Osteoarthritis. Click on the Health and Fitness tab and voila--there I am.
Thanks for dropping in to my blog, by the way.

While

2007-04-04T18:50:00.000-07:00

While I’m showering, I’m thinking about my workday.

While I’m working, I’m preoccupied with dinner.

While I’m eating dinner, I’m hoping to avoid doing dishes.

While I’m doing dishes, I ponder how I can escape the laundry.

While I’m folding laundry, I’m musing about shopping.

While shopping the next day, I review my to-do list for the weekend.

While shtupping on the weekend, I think about the movie I saw.

While watching the movie, I was comparing it to the book.

While reading the book I was thinking about dying

While I’m dying, I’ll be wondering what it was like to live.

I missed it.

Kathryn Atkins

Riding Life

2007-03-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

“In the end, we’re all just riding bicycles.” The buzz in the room stopped. We all knew we were in the presence of a deep philosophical certainty. We internalized the analogy, knowing that sometimes, the road of life is so steep that it is insurmountable. We may pump and strain, slipping into lower gears. We struggle to hang on. Some people can ride longer than others. Some people walk their bikes at the first tiny grade that impedes their progress, the first rotten apple that life throws at them. Others dig in, set their brains for the battle, every muscle straining, every bit of resolve steeled against the challenge. Some days, the roads are littered with abandoned bikes and broken dreams smashed in the little baskets that hang off the fenders. We loathe this ride we call life. The damn bike doesn’t have the decency to have a flat tire, so we cast it aside. Bike lock? Forget it. We hope someone will steal it. We want to walk all the way home, maybe even to die.

We like the ride when it goes down hill. We don’t have to pump. We don’t have to pedal. We can relax. Sometimes this ride lasts for days. Maybe weeks. It feels good. Too good. It has to end. The hill down is the back side of an up hill. There’s no slacking off without eventually paying the piper, right?

We ride different bikes. Some have ten-speeds. Some are road bikes. Some of us wear bike pants, prepared for the long haul. Others don’t know they make hand pads, soft seats, and toe holders, and we ride in pain the whole way, discomfort slowing us down as if we had sand bags on the back fender, or a two-ton gorilla breathing banana breath down our necks. Some people go through life with their own personal gorilla slobbering, leering, and slowing to depression the manic ride down hill.

Riding a bike upsets your crotch. Life attacks all our parts, eventually. Riding life is mostly uncomfortable. It’s a long haul, and there are high years and low years, high gears and low gears. Some of the best parts of life are in the low gears, when you think all is lost, that every intersection you come to has cross traffic, stoplights, and people who get in your way. As you look back, those years sometimes provided the map for the easier, higher gears ahead. How else can you learn? How else could you have known what it took to get what you wanted had it not been for the bumps, the curves, and the hills? Then, there are comfortable times—squishy, soft-seat, downhill times. They help us hang on when the crotch-grabbing times won’t go away.

I’m riding a bicycle with five gears today. It’s on flat ground. I have to pedal, but I am going somewhere. I don’t have to struggle today. I have to keep pedaling, sure. But I find routes that avoid the hills if I can. Sometimes, I can’t. The terrain is not always a choice. It lies before me, and I must take it to find the reason I am here. But ride, I will, for that is what we do. In the end, we are all just riding bicycles. What’re you riding?

March 13, 2007

Mom

2007-03-09T15:40:00.000-08:00

Being with my mom, 95, in Chico always makes me realize how lucky I am she's still here. And how lucky we all are that she's doing so well. Largely, her wit and personality more than make up for the body parts that fail her, and we wonder: will we be nearly as well preserved at her age?
Everything slows way down when I'm here. We do jigsaw puzzles together, we read together, we play dominoes. We watch "Millionaire" and "Wheel of Fortune" and yell out the answers when we know them, patting each other on the back for how smart we are. It's a quiet hoot.

On Families

2007-02-26T09:01:00.000-08:00

"The family seems to have two predominant functions: to provide warmth and love in time of need and to drive each other insane."
~ Donald G. Smith (contained in "Sunbeams" from THE SUN magazine)

Pepper

2007-02-24T14:55:00.000-08:00

Meet our dog, a poodle-terrier mix (they said) that we picked up from the local shelter. All we know is that he's a ten pound wonder, and does all the good things dogs do for families.
He's the best dog in the whole world, I tell him, but then, I'm biased and I worry that it will all go to his head.

2007-02-24T14:34:00.001-08:00

Impatience is a form of control.
~Anonymous

Serious Writers

2007-02-22T10:19:00.000-08:00

There comes a time when you pause and look in the mirror, wondering why. After reading the current issue of The Writer magazine, I am in that horrible space of self doubt, longing to be better, reading how it should and could be done, knowing I have come a long way, yet painfully aware of just how far I have to go.
This magazine offers me month after month of great writing advice. The magazine hails from 1887 (eighteen eighty-seven), so they are doing something "write."
I struggle with yet another rewrite of the elusive novel, using Carolyn See's tried and true revision technique, ( See this done on Barbara DeMarco barret's log at http://penonfire.blogspot.com/) and I pause before I push on, procrastinating by writing this. Back to the trenches for me.

Reading Stacks

2007-02-20T15:16:00.000-08:00

How many reading stacks do you have?

How high and how wide are they?

How many gosh darn magazines

Can accumulate every day?

How many books are sitting there

Waiting to be read?
There’s a novel, a history, a self-help, and a mystery

Piled up by your bed.

“I’ll get there,” you say.

“I’ll read them some day.”

“I’ll do it when it’s raining.”

The rainy day promise just never comes

And the reading stacks keep on gaining.

“I’ll cancel subscriptions.”

“I’ll never renew.”

Until the kids next door

Come selling like they do.

Your friends know your weakness.

They know you won’t say no

To books they have read,

Or meant to months ago.

They pass them unconscious

Of the burden they bring.

You love them; you hate them

You’re afraid you’ll miss something.

Then one day you rise

To the smell and gag of smoke.

To your credit you grab your cat, your hat, and a coat.

You run out the door

Leave the stacks on the floor

You bid your house adieu.

And the reading stacks, too!

April 24, 2006

2007-02-19T08:26:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"And the day came when the risk to remain closed in a bud became more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
~ I'm sorry I don't know the author.

2007-02-16T15:06:00.000-08:00

Substitute Teaching

Substituting at the local high school for a freshman English class returns memories not only of high school as a previous substitute, but also of being in high school. Was I ever that young? Could I ever have been so disinterested in a subject as most of the kids seemed today? Never mind that we reviewed independent and subordinate (dependent) clauses, with no Santa's to be found anywhere, it was abundantly clear that they largely held no curiosity for the concept, and in completing the day, I wondered if indeed, even as a writer, I really need to know the difference. I like to think I know how to use one, but labeling? Oy. On the other hand, if these kids are to continue on into college and graduate school, they should (I love the word) at least be aware of parts of speech in their own language. If they learn foreign languages, they'll learn a lot more grammar than in English. I sure did. Maybe they wondered what in the heck a substitute teacher knows anyway. The answer is: a lot. I had The Answer Book, so I dubbed myself The Expert. Which, by the way, is one of the secrets to succesful substituting. The other is The Seating Chart. It was, all in all, a good day.

2007-02-15T11:16:00.000-08:00

Quote of the Day

"Do not confuse activity with accomplishment."
-Anonymous

Flash Fiction Fun

2007-02-14T11:50:00.000-08:00

Paradise

“Scout to ground. Scout to ground. Come in please.”

The tiny plane fought to make the last turn for landing in the driving rain at the Lihue airport. The Hawaiian storm had appeared suddenly and attacked violently. Dwight Scout tightened his seat belt against the buffeting winds.

The airport was empty. All the employees had gone home to save their families. Scout thought he saw the runway lights and headed down. He never saw the hotel.

People, some in nightclothes and some naked and in pieces, lay strewn among the coconuts on the ground. Paradise indeed.

Flash Fiction Fun

2007-02-13T13:32:00.000-08:00

Terminal

“Is it …?” The word stuck in her throat.

The doctor nodded, then said, “There are things we can do . . .”

Mary’s thoughts raced from herself to her two young daughters who sat in the waiting room with their grandmother.

“How long do I have?”

“Six months. Maybe a year.”

“I can’t tell them.”

“Then, don’t.”

“What?”

“Lie,” the doctor said.

“I’d rather die.”

“Indeed, you will.”

Mary strode to the window and threw herself out, wondering as she passed each of the ten floors how it was going to feel at the bottom.

Kathryn Atkins

2007-02-13T12:54:00.000-08:00

Fogged In

2007-02-12T14:57:00.000-08:00

A dense fog makes the trees weep, heavy or sad from the extra weight, we're not sure, Pepper and I, as we tiptoe in the eerie quiet, losing each other in the gray of it all. Shapes appear suddenly but softly in the blur of mist pulsing gently as fog does, as if it's alive, because it is, and covers our little park as efficiently as a righteous fog bank can hide San Francisco from itself--pyramid, bridges, and towers subdued by the rolling tide of a hearty pea souper, controlling traffic and people, spectres with headlights and foggy spectacles easing gingerly wondering if they will back-end or head-on collide into other moving or stationary objects. Light bounces off the thickened opaque air, not seeing through to the other side, a wall of molecules collected and convened for the purpose of hiding, causing havoc for travelers and filmmakers, haven for writers and lovers, cloakage for criminals and spirits, trademark weather for cities like San Francisco that wouldn't be San Francisco without it.