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
KATHRYN ATKINS: Atkins Business Communications
Monday, August 25, 2008
Stand Closer
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
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
Sunday, August 10, 2008
To My Son
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
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
Friday, July 25, 2008
Just the Ticket
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
“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
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Canceling Thursdays
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?
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?
Saturday, May 31, 2008
ESSES
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
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?
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
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
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