In the Dark Places

In the dark places around my home there are creatures that lurk in the shadows. They make noises, unnerving noises, when they scratch and chitter under the floorboards.

No, I am not going to tell you another scary story. I’m not because what I have said isn’t  true. There are actual creatures around and under my home.

One night, a couple of years ago, I woke up and heard scratching noises. I was alarmed because the first thing I thought was that I might have mice. Then I listened more carefully. The noises I heard were not coming from inside my bedroom. They were coming from the floor. There was something underneath the building.

A few days later, I discovered that another tenant or maybe the landlord and put out a metal cage trap in front of the crawl space of our building.  I never did find out what, if anything, was caught.

Years ago, when I moved in to my apartment building, you would see around the neighborhood the occasional squirrel or rat in the heavily foliaged places.  Not so anymore.   First the opossums ran out the squirrels.  Next came the raccoons which have become big, bad-tempered nuisances.   Until recently a family of them lived in the storm drain right outside my front door and from time-to-time we scared the bejeezus out one another when we would encountered each other in our comings and goings.

One night, a not-so-pleasant smell came wafting through my windows.  I knew immediately what it was and it was confirmed a couple of mornings later when I walked out and saw a skunk race across the street — again from the storm drain.  (I guess the skunk evicted the raccoon family).

Finally,  one morning last summer when we had record breaking heat, I went out on my front porch about 5:30 in the morning to catch a breath of cooler air.  I saw something trotting down the sidewalk towards me.  When it got in front of me, a mere ten feet or so, I was astonished at what a saw.  There was no mistaking the bushy tail, lanky legs, pointy ears and snout.  A coyote!

You have to understand why living in such a Wild Kingdom  seems to strange to me.  I live in one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world.   When I was a kid you did not see creatures like this.   And it is not only night creatures.  In the daylight, it is not unusual to see pelicans, egrets, cormorants and the like living in whatever open wet areas they can find — parks, golf courses, canals, ponds, and creeks.  I have seen red-tailed hawks hovering on the updrafts on the sides of office buildings.

The most inspiring and indeed the most unusual creatures I have witnessed lately are arrows of Canada geese flying in formation.  Canada geese!  Here?   They are not indigenous to my area — or at least they haven’t been in my lifetime.     I see them flying in the same direction at about the same time every morning.    I wonder if they are following some invisible magnetic lines in the earth and I wonder what they see that I don’t.

So what is my point in telling you this?   It is this:  we are constantly being told that our world is in peril.  Don’t get me wrong:  it is and we need to do something about it.   But what if we can’t or don’t?   I honestly think mother nature will be able to cope in the long run.    If you had asked me just ten years ago if I thought I would ever see such a parade of wildlife around and under my home in the middle of an urban area, I would have brushed you off.   But nature is coming back to claim her own.  She has been hiding in the dark places, in the shadows, for such a time as this.   Life will not be pushed aside.   It will survive and flourish with or without our help.

Life will find a way.

ljg (c) 2013

Not All Fools Are Motley

“Ah, the Queen of Swords, a very significant card.  This is you– rational, intellectual, given to coldness if you are not careful.”

Thanks, a lot, lady.  Celia shifted uncomfortably on the upholstered cushion.  She adjusted her tight gray skirt.  Seating the patrons on floor cushions was the Marrakesh Cafe’s attempt to make the patrons feel like they were in Berber tent.  It added a wonderful ambiance to the establishment at night or on the weekends, but in the middle of a work day, it was problematic, especially to Celia in her pumps, pantyhose and a tight suit.

Also, having her fortune read at the insistence of her office-mates, Phebe and Audrey, was also awkward.  The cafe had a professional tarot card reader to lend an even more exotic feel to the experience.   Actually, according to the reader’s business card tactfully placed on the table, her name was Rosalind LaBeau, a counseling intern specializing in life coaching.

Despite Rosalind’s credentials, Celia did not believe that tarot card reader could foretell one’s future.  However, the fact that her office-mates would believe any nonsense put forth by Rosalind made her anxious.  There’s no telling what Rosalind would come up with that her co-workers would immediately parlay into office gossip.

Celia grunted an acknowledgement, and Rosalind, in her wildly colorful gypsy-esque costume, flipped over the next card.

“The Fool!”

“Yeah, that’s me,” Celia grumbled.  She gave a sidelong glance at her co-workers.  I’m a fool to let those two drag me here.

“Indeed.  The Fool represents the common man or woman on a journey towards self-fulfillment.”

“Really.”

“Yes, the Fool needs to be careful though.  He is oblivious to the precipice that he is about to step over.”

With one hand Celia started to fiddle with the plain silver necklace she wore everyday to work.    With the other she picked a glass of hot mint tea.  “And what cliff am I about to step over?”   She sipped from her glass.

“The card does not say.”

“Of course it doesn’t.”  Celia set her tea down.

“Don’t assume, ma’am, that the cliff is necessarily a bad thing.” Rosalind tapped the image of the motley dressed figure on the card.  “Sometimes it represents stepping out into something new and different.  Sometimes it means that we need to get outside our comfort zone.”

“I quite like it in my ‘comfort zone,'” said Celia.

“Yeah,” said Phebe.  “You would never, ever see Celia step out on a limb for anything.”   Audrey laughed.

“So what if I don’t take risks.  At least I am not worried about where my life is headed.”

“Headed towards of life of boredom and obscurity,” countered Audrey.

“If you don’t take any risks, how can you ever get anywhere? ” added Phebe.

Celia sighed.  Phebe and Audrey were the Oprahs of the fourteenth floor, dispensing advice, mostly unsolicited and usually spurious, whenever they had the opportunity.

“What is the next card?” Phebe eagerly said to Rosalind.

Rosalind flipped over the next card.   Phebe and Audrey gasped.  Celia’s spine straightened.

Staring back at them from the red-clothed table top was a sickly yellow skeleton, suited in black medieval armor, riding a pale horse.

“The Death Card,” whispered Audrey.

“That’s it.  We’re done here.”   Celia fished in her purse for her wallet as she picked up the check.   “I’ll take care of this” and motioned for the waiter to come over.

“It’s not what you think, ma’am.”

“And what do I think,” Celia said as she struggled to rise from the floor cushion.  She handed the check and some cash to the waiter and waved him off.

“The Death Card does not mean physical death.  It means transformation and change.  My take on this is that you are about to encounter a life changing event. You need to be ready for it.” explained Rosalind.

“Thank you.  I’ll take that under advisement.”  Celia turned to Phebe and Audrey. “Ladies, I’ll see you back at the office.”

Celia briskly walked out of the cafe, shaking her head.

Why did I let them talk me into having my fortune told?  

She did not like the idea forming in her mind.

Because I am not happy with my life and I really wish someone would tell me that it will change.

She frowned.   Jeez, I’ve been hanging out too much with Phebe and Audrey.  I’m starting to believe their psycho-babble.

Suddenly, she heard someone shout.  “Lady, watch out!”

Instinct kicked in and Celia threw herself against the wall of the building next to the sidewalk just in time to see a heavy plastic bucket crash to the ground next to her.  Water splattered in all directions and the bucket bounced and rolled down the sidewalk.

Celia looked up and saw a window washer about four stories above her.  “Lady, are you okay?!” he shouted down.  Celia just stared at him and then at the empty bucket.  She came just inches from getting hit in the head with a full bucket of water.   “Um, yeah, I’m good.”

The window washer looked relieved.  “Sorry, then.”

Celia steadied herself and continued walking down the street.   That was close.  Too close. That’s just it, isn’t it.   It could all end for me at any time.  So why am I wasting my life then doing the same old work day after day?  Why?  Because I’m afraid, that’s why. 

Celia felt her eyes start to tear up.  How did I get so afraid of living? 

She took a deep breath and she picked up her stride.   I’m done with this.  I’m going to do it.  I’m actually going to do something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.   I’m going to take all my accumulated vacation time and go on a real vacation.   A long one to somewhere I’ve never been.  But… But I really hate to travel alone….

Suddenly, she heard the sound of tires screeching to a halt.  Like the classic dear-in-the-headlights, she gave a long, disbelieving stare at the yellow cab that was emerging from the driveway of an underground parking garage.  Celia had unthinkingly stepped in front of the vehicle.   The cab driver leaned on the horn giving her a long, rude blast.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.  Wake up!”   He pointed to a sign on the wall next to the garage exit that said Pedestrians Must Yield to Traffic.  “Sweetie, are you trying to get yourself killed?  I have the right-of-way.”

“I’m sorry.  You’re right.”  Celia quickly scuttled out of the taxi’s way.  The driver glared at her and muttered something that she could not hear.

Two close calls in less than five minutes?   Celia’s thoughts paused on the death card that Rosalind had laid in front of them.

Could it be that?  No, no, no.  I don’t believe in that stuff.  Besides, she said the card had to do with change, with transformation, not real death.    Maybe these are all signs. Signs telling me to get moving. 

  I want to travel.  I want to go to Morocco, not just eat in Moroccan restaurants.  I want to go to Spain, and France, and Italy… oooo, and Greece too.  And I’ll go alone if I have to.  Lots of people travel alone…. 

Celia began to smile.  It had been a long time since she felt excited about anything.

Yes, I’m going to go back to office and fill out a vacation request.   I’ve got six weeks accumulated so no one is going to object.   Then I’m going to start looking at travel packages.  Maybe there’s a singles tour I can take and maybe meet some new people. Life is too short to waste on dreaming.  I am going to do this!

Celia was almost giddy with delight when she reached the corner across from her building.  As she waited for the light to turn change, she felt herself getting happier and more excited.  She looked down at the steep curb.

It’s just like the precipice in the Fool card.  But stepping off a cliff is not always a bad thing the woman said.

The light turned green and “Walk” sign came on.  It’s a sign.  Another sign.  I’ve got the green light to do this.

Celia carefully looked both ways just to make sure there was no on-coming traffic.  Her new found enthusiasm had made her more alert.

I do not need to get run over by a truck just now.  She chuckled at her own foolish thoughts.

She made it across the street in one piece.  She opened the large glass door of her office building and confidently walked through.  As she approached the Security Desk, she pulled her company badge out of her purse.  She noticed the person manning the Security Desk.

There’s someone new here today.  I wonder what happened to Henry?

The guard was a tall man dressed in a black uniform and wearing an officer’s hat.  His attention was set on some papers at the desk.  Celia could not see his face.

Celia stepped up to the desk.  “Hi, you must be new.  Welcome to the building.”  She thrust her badge out for him to examine.

Then the man looked up and Celia’s face blanched.

A yellow skeleton face looked back at her and smiled.

ljg © 2013

Go Provoke Yourself

I was driving around a few days ago,  and I saw this huge banner draped over the street.  It simply said “Go Provoke Yourself” and the name of a new art museum that just opened up in my neighborhood.

I know the idea behind this slogan is to provoke in the community an interest in art and aesthetics and to get us to visit the new museum.   However, this slogan did more than get me to go to the museum’s opening day.  It has also caused me to reflect on my own internal landscape to see what is there that might be provoked out of stagnation and into action.

In doing this introspection, I have provoked myself into getting serious, really serious, about writing.  As a result, I have joined a private online group whose members are devoted to writing and making art on a regular, disciplined basis.

No more farting around and pretending.   A writer writes.  A writer writes a lot, every day.   Ray Bradbury said this:  “Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you’re doomed.”

So, if I continue just pretending to be a writer and finding all kinds of reasons not to write — I’m too busy, I’m too tired, I have relationships that suck the creative impulse out of me,  I can’t think of anything to write about, my friends will think I’m weird, blah, blah, blah, — then I am, as Bradbury says, doomed.

The fact is any excuse not to write is just disguising the fact that I have been lazy.   So I have resolved not to be anymore.

Let me ask you this: what is YOUR excuse?  Remember, I’m not buying any of the excuses stated above.  And neither should you.

Now, go provoke yourself.

ljg (c) 2013

Garden of the Glass Pumpkins

Garden of the Glass Pumpkins
Manipulated Photograph

ljg (c) 2013

Acquired ADD

Today I had a brain blip, a mind fart, a single misfiring neuron — whatever you want to call it, I had one today.

Here’s what happened:  This morning I could not sign on to WordPress.  The WordPress genie said I was using the wrong login/password information.  I tried and tried to get in, and finally worked myself into a panic thinking that someone had hacked my account and changed my password.  However, after about twenty minutes, I figured out what I was doing wrong.  I was attempting to use a login name that I use for another purpose.

This would not bother me so much except I could have sworn — in fact I did swear to some of my FB buddies — that I was absolutely using the right login information.

I usually don’t do stuff like this.  Well, I used to not usually do it.  It seems like more and more I am doing dippy things like this.

At first I thought I was just getting old and my memory was going, but one of my FB buddies suggested that it may be that I am more distracted these days.    I think she may be right.

I remember in my younger years that I could sit down and read a book for hour after hour.  Now my mind wanders after reading about a paragraph and a half.   I used to be able to sit still and work on an art project for long periods of time.  Now I am jumping up and fooling around with others things.  I meditate and even that lately has been difficult to do.  I cannot even stay focused on my breath for more than about ten seconds.

Can one acquire Attention Deficit Disorder as an older adult?

I think my problem has a lot to do with being surrounded by too many opportunities for artificial engagement.  Before we had television and radio, people sat around and talked and told stories.  We engaged with small handfuls of real people.   When we acquired television, we only had three or four channels.  We were not driven by a hand remote to derive companionship from  eleven hundred cable channels of talking heads like we do now.   In our leisure time, we did not jump up from listening to music on an ipod to flipping through a library of books on our Kindles.    We might have sat quietly and read a real book to the sounds of a crackling fire and a record player playing.

I could certainly blame the technology, but the truth is that the damage is happening because I refuse to unplug myself every once in a while.  By not doing so, I am losing my ability to sit and focus.  It is a kind of self-inflicted brain damage, I think…..

Huh?  What?   Sorry, I got distracted.

ljg (c) 2013

Ramblings

A prompt from the Daily Post:  Set a timer for ten minutes. Open a new post. Start the timer, and start writing. When the timer goes off, publish.

——-

I just came off of a two week routine of daily writing. I skipped yesterday just for a breather, but I realize that I need to take advantage of the momentum and keep writing.

I have no idea what to write about.

This is the sort of thing that drives me absolutely nuts. I think I am a well-read, well-educated, fairly articulate person with ideas of my own, so you would think that I would be able to present to my audience a daily bit of writing that reflects this.

Instead, I stumble, stammer, slip and slide, and generally sputter nonsense — like right now.

I suppose I could talk about my day, but I have vowed never to write about my work — my real work. That is just a good policy that I would recommend to all of you.

Second, I don’t write about family and friends. Unlike some of my writing colleagues whose families would love to be the center of attention in a blog post, I can tell you that I would be SO disowned and de-friended by mine.

I never write about sex, religion or politics mainly because I figure if my mother warned me never to bring those topics up in social situations, there must be a very good reason for it.

I always listened to my mother.

So that leaves pretty much me writing strange fantasy stories and bad poetry, with the occasional photograph or art piece thrown in when I don’t have anything else to write.

That’s not a positive attitude on my part, is it?

Okay, I have two more minutes… I am starting to ramble. Sigh. 1 minute and 38 seconds.

Oh, hell. That’s all I got.

Sigh.

ljg (c) 2013

The Write Time, Day 14: An Assessment

Here is an assessment of my experience  with The Write Time Challenge  for the last two weeks.

1)  I need the discipline of a daily writing routine.  If I don’t have it, I will just waste time screwing around on Facebook and web surfing.  It is not enough for me to be a part of the “peanut gallery”.    I need to work.
2)  I need accountability.  I can’t and I won’t write just for the sake of writing alone.   Writing for the sake of itself is a lovely idea but it is not reality for me.
3)  I am more likely to write something “good” if I have a deadline.   I would never have thought I worked better under the pressure of a daily deadline, but I do.   Not everything I posted in the last two weeks is over the top, but I am quite pleased with several of the flash fiction stories I wrote.
4)  I learned that good chemistry is highly important when you work with a group.  I used to feel that I could only work alone because of all the stupid divisiveness and petty  jealousies I have experienced in online group settings in the past.  Not so this time and the only reason I can see is that there is good chemistry with the group that participated in this project.

So, this was a highly productive and quite stimulating two week activity.   I look forward to the next time.

Thank you to all who wrote positive and encouraging comments during the past two weeks.

Miss Pelican

The Write Time, Day 13: Life and Cabbages

Life and Cabbages

They say when life hands us lemons, we should make lemonade, so it stands to reason if life hands us cabbages, then we should make sauerkraut.

Sometimes the circumstances that life throws at us cannot be made into anything so sweet and refreshing as lemonade.  No, sometimes life situations are so bad and so filled with sorrow that we cannot make anything immediately good from them.

When life throws us cabbages instead of lemons, we should take out our sharpest, most wicked kitchen cleavers and start hacking the daylights out of those cabbages.  Then we should gather up the shreads of cabbage and stuff them into thick earthenware jars.   If someone has thrown salt in our wounds, we should take some of that salt and toss it into the jars along with the cabbage and shove it all into some dark corner of the cellar.

And then we should go away and leave them for a while.

Usually, when we shove the painful situations of our lives into the dark recesses of our souls, they ferment.  Eventually, we realize we have to deal with those situations, and we pull out our memories of them, like those earthenware jars, lift off the lids, and get hit in the face with a bad smell.

But when the air clears, we realize that what we thought were nasty, rotted cabbages have actually transformed into something that is quite good for us — something even more beneficial than lemonade.

Sauerkraut is a little like wisdom in that respect.

Now let’s grill up some brats to go with that sauerkraut.

ljg (c) 2013

The Write-Time, Day 12: Breaking the Rules

The prompt:  Write less than 500 words incorporating the theme of “breaking rules.”  

Breaking the Rules

Raelyn Bradford was considered by her colleagues to be something of a goody-two-shoes.  The worst thing Raelyn ever did was to get a speeding ticket. She kept all the rules and all the deadlines at work.  One person told her that she needed, for her own good, to be more of a rebel and disregard the rules.

Raelyn knew otherwise.  People may say they like rule-breakers as long as the rules being broken are not their own.  People don’t like rulebreakers when they are the ones making the rules.

The rulemakers say that everyone must have a “career”.  Well, Raelyn had a job that paid the bills and she was very good at it.  Didn’t matter, though.

The rulemakers say that everyone must have the right education.  Raelyn had put herself through school at night and got several degrees.  Didn’t matter either.   Her degrees were in the humanities, not business, not technology.

The rulemakers say that to be successful one must work sixteen hour days to make the money to buy the things that successful people have.  Raelyn had enough, thank you very much, and happily worked an eight-hour day.

Raelyn heard the snickers when she said she liked to spend her time writing and making art.  Or that her idea of fun was taking the train somewhere with camera and notebook in hand to gather inspiration.

She saw the looks of confusion and concern in the faces of people when she said was a blogger.

You see, writing and art-making and, above all, blogging were against the rules — unless, of course, you were a famous writer or artist — that was different, of course.

One day, a co-worker told Raelyn that she was “avocational” when Raelyn mentioned that she was a writer.    Raelyn had to look that word up (because that’s what writers like to do).  She read: “Avocation–  Pertaining to a hobby or minor occupation.”   Her co-worker thought her writing was a minor occupation.  She was not surprised.  It was the kind of remark to which she had grown accustomed.

But Raelyn felt compelled to looked up the word “vocation” which meant “a strong feeling of suitability for a particular career or occupation”.     Her colleague thought that writing and arting was something minor.  Raelyn, though, learned that day that her strong desire to write and make art was her vocation, her life’s dedication.

So, the next time someone suggested that she was a goodie-two-shoes, afraid-to-break-the-rules type of gal, Raelyn would smile and walk away from her desk at 5 pm with her notebook in hand.

She was beginning to like breaking the rules.

ljg (c) 2013

The Write Time, Day 11: A Knock on the Door

The Challenge:  Late one night a neighbor knocked on the front door and asked……….

The Knock on the Door

It was late when I heard the knock on the front door.  After glancing through the window and seeing it was my neighbor from across the street, I opened the door.

“Mr. Maxwell, is everything okay?”

“No, it is not!”

Old man Maxwell spent the next five minutes in a rant about my kids.  Apparently, they routinely have been making faces and catcalls from the upstairs windows at any one who walked or drove down the street.  The final straw had come a few minutes ago.

“The Missus went to put the trash out and your kids were hanging out your upstairs windows flipping the bird and mooning her.”

I did a face palm and shook my head.   “I am so sorry Mr. Maxwell.  I’ll take care of this.  I promise it won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” he said as he huffed off my front porch.

I closed the door and headed to the stairs.

What was I thinking to take in these kids?  I knew when I took them in that they had all come from difficult backgrounds and had faced things in their little lives that no child should have to.  But was I really equipped to take care of them?

I stomped up the stairs and when I got near the door to the front bedroom, I heard raucous laughter, giggling, and the sounds of tussling.    Just as I got to the door, I heard a loud bang.

“Hey!  Knock it off in there.”

I took hold of the door knob, but it was locked.

“Hey!  What did I tell you about locking doors around here.  Unlock this immediately.”

I heard muffled giggling and shuffling around.

“What you did to Mrs. Maxwell was not funny.  I had Mr. Maxwell on the porch in my face.  He is really p’o’d.  I don’t want you doing that again.  I can’t afford to have trouble with the neighbors.   Do you hear me?”  I banged on the door.

There was more shuffling and giggling.  I jiggled the door knob again.

“Open this door NOW!”

Then I heard the juicy sound of a raspberry.

That was it.  I swore I would never use this as a weapon against my foster kids but I had no choice.  I could not have them continuing to act like little hellions.

“If you don’t shape up immediately and behave yourselves, I am going to have to arrange for you to go somewhere else.  Now open this door.”

The sounds ceased and I heard the door knob snap.

I took hold again and the door opened.   I walked into the bedroom.

I looked around the room.  It was completely empty and totally silent.

“Now that’s better.  Thank you.”

I shook my head as I turned to leave the room.   Good grief, what kind of ghost whisperer am I when I can’t control them in my own house.

ljg (c) 2013