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So I feel like ranting all over this page, about how I dislike reading all the "potty mouthed" and gross bodily stuff I get the privilege of commenting on in my Grad Writing Class. I find myself wondering if high art is about base experience? I get a lot of funny "poop" talk with my three year old and it sounds more comical than the twenty-something male versions. The language is the same for all of them, but somehow each thinks he is the first to stink up the page with the details. Why the obsession and push at this topic as if it is new and enlightening? I know that art is rarely comfortable or appropriate and I guess in the end, we spend a lot of time smelling our own "shit," and politely keep it to ourselves. As I write this I realize that though I still hate reading about it, it is fun to write about, o here I go with my own story (stop reading if you too hate reading about human waste).

When I worked for Citigroup, I flew to NYC on a regular basis. One winter night, I arrived at my hotel at 11:30 pm, tired and happy to be in the hotel my husband and I stayed at on our first visit to the big city together. It was perfect on the first go and just being there, I called him to talk and then unpack and then just lay down in the luxury of the space. About an hour in to the night, as I got ready for bed, I opened the bathroom door and then lifted the toilet seat and found a HUGE surprize sitting inside. I was horrified and then moritifed as I called the front desk to ask for some assitance in handling the mess. As I explained that the toilet was clogged, I kept wishing I had checked the bathroom right away, so no one would think I had made the mess.  A guy in a suit showed up with a plunger and almost puked as he stepped into the tiny closet-like space and experienced first hand the colored water. Without saying much, he plunged into with his implement, because I suppose he had to. Somewhere in the middle of his efforts, he paused and wiped sweat off his forehead. As we had not made contact and I was nervous, I started talking. "When I opened the door I could not believe it was there," wanting him to know it was not mine. He got red and apologietic and more energetic in his activity. The next day I found a fancy terrycloth bathrobe on my bed with a hand written apology from the hotel manager. I still wonder who left it there. Someone big I would imagine. Someone angry? House staff in dire straights?  Or maybe just an embarrassed guest who shut the top and left the cleaner to believe it was never used during his stay.

Ah. I loved telling that story. Thanks for reading if you got this far.

Now for all the things I wish I were writing about:
- Dying my hair, except my three year old is angry and keeps saying not to because "That is a joke, mom."
- MFA programs - I am going to apply to EMU
- My NANOWRIMO (the novel I am writing in November) is a remake on Jane Eyre, if I ever get my character to be as good as she was (so hard for me to do!)
- Why all my stories have to be in NYC, even though other cities would be easier and perfectly legitimate. My other city could be Detroit, except I have never experienced it and can't even tell you one road that runs through it
- How I am scared to talk to anyone right now (I am really insecure - except in my words on paper (as you can tell). I just don't know what to say, though I know that I am not just talking for myself, but because I really love and want people to know that I value them.
- The lady who was standing in between the highway and onramp at 8 pm last night talking on her cell phone.
- How I am terrified to have my 20 page essay critiqued on Nov 21 (AHHH)

Experimental Feminist

I am learning so much through my Grad writing class. Here is a new idea I am contemplating and thought I would share.

Retallack, "The Experimental Feminine"

Change is Coming

I feel like I am waking out of a fog. That the unstructured spaces of improv play over the summer are now being filled with ballroom competitions. All summer, we have woken to mosquitoes and chores and neighbors knocking at 7:30 am asking to play. We have done as we pleased, going to parks, swimming at the Y, while all the time talking about the possibilities available to us within a morning, an afternoon, an evening.

My heart races forwards this week as I shift to the order of two night classes, Several Groups (Church, Writing, Reading and Moms and Meals groups), the start of "The Artist Way," and kids programs. On Saturday I decided it was time to get back into running as the weather is perfect and I am done with being sick. On top of all that, we have more community responsibilities in September then the next three months combined. The switch is dramatic and I find my blood pulsing faster and my pen constantly re-working my schedule to make sure I know where I am supposed to be right now.

My blogs over the summer feel lonely. I have written about social anxiety and the perceived cost of service vs selfishness and in the struggle I wonder if I have lost all my readers. When I began writing, the emphasis was on change and experimentation, so that I could be gutsy in my life. Somehow it has moved towards exposing guts, my bloody innards that are the undercurrents I am sucked into when I choose not to be in control.

My desire today is to look for the bounty. To give thanks for my hour to write. To rejoice in the precious time I get to play lego's with David. To let go of my striving and anxiety and the barking cough that still lingers.

I keep reading blogs of others and am struck by the spaces they create in words. Karen Schreck sits on the train watching a woman draw a humming bird, then shares her own connection with the robin outside her window. The book my mom's group is going to be referencing is "1000 Thank You's," about someone who starts listing every little thing that is good.

So to start my list, I am thankful that a friend in my meals group said she did not get to making her meal, giving us all permission to have more time to get our food together. It helps me realize I do not have to accomplish everything. Another is having my son not want me to leave, because though I know he will be fine without me, I still love to be close to him and spend time loving him. A third is getting time to run! I am surprised I have not written more about that, seeing as it is my best anti-depressent money can't buy and my all-time favorite activity.

Today I am glad for deadlines and structure in this new season!

I am an Imposters

"It is because we are all impostors, that we endure each other." Emile M. Cioran


My son creates visions of his Halloween costume over and over again. He starts with, "It will be a box with big holes to get my legs in and out, a mask with slats for eyes, black boots, legs, buttons on my fingers for the lasers. . . " With every new version, he speaks with absolute certainty about the blinking lights and ball shooters, not wondering about design challenges or if it is possible to build. He knows how it is going to be and does not notice the smirks or winks exchanged by his adult audiences. He has also decided that "daddy and mommy" will be the bad guys he will fight and kill. I correct him to say, the bad guys he will capture, take to the police and ultimately, the judge." 


My halloween costumes were more simple. A mini skirt and big pony tail with the explanation that I am a "valley girl." In college I went tricker-treating with no costume and a just begged neighbors for candy. Now I can buy my own junk to be delivered in a brown box with no label exposing my lack of self control.


I am the cardboard package, not quite a servant willing to give my free moment to another, not quite a writer who will abandon a phone call, not quite a wife who will take care of the dry cleaning. I am greedy for free time. Dripping sweat that people might realize my efforts to be helpful make me resent myself. That sometimes I avoid people's eyes, so I am not forced to tell them "yes" and myself "no."

Sinking: A Short Story

The first time Tuck walked on water, he lost one of his favorite shoes. He paused as the sun speckled surface blinded his eyes. Feeling his wet foot, he caught sight of the brown leather sneaker bubbling down into the murky abyss below. His body froze as his eyes tried to react. In that second, he slumped, knowing he missed his chance to grab it. Sighing, he watched the shadow grow faint and the color of the sea swallowed his shoe whole. 

The teacher warned them not to break concentration with the trees on the other shore. In preparation for this moment, they had spent hours imagining themselves, "Floating on specs of sand," "Hovering over mountain tops," "Stepping onto clouds," and "Hopping on the moon." 

As he stood, his ankles pulled on his body. His pants sucked in water and his knees became millstones of the corpses they would sink in the middle of the lake. He forced his dense arms over his head in the "O" shape they had taught as a sign for rescue. The effort caused his chest to sink under. He gulped air and closed his eyes to the light. 

The first moment he remembered was the one when he stepped over the railing of the boat onto the sand. His legs fell through the crust and he grabbed at the pebbles with open palms. Hands gripped his armpits and hoisted him onto his legs. Embarrassed, he tried again to make his muscles firm, bending knees to keep from tipping. Someone behind him yelled, "get used to the weight. It's what happens to those who look down."

He heard the words and fell backwards onto his bottom, the hard impact shattering his bones. Looking at the road beyond the beach, he saw his father's face looking at him through the Chevy window, waiting for him to get in. 

[A bit from Matthew 14:22 - 32]

Jesus walks towards them on the water

Disciples: "Its a ghost."

Jesus: "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."

Peter: "Lord, if it you, tell me to come to you on the water." 

Jesus: "Come."

Peter steps onto the water and walks towards Jesus. Seeing the wind, he becomes scared and starts to sink.

Peter "Lord, save me!"

Jesus takes his hand and says, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?"