The End of the Beginning

This is for those of you die-hards who might still stop by here on occasion. Perhaps you've wondered if I gave up writing, was being held prisoner in some dark cave, or slipped loose of this mortal coil. None of those apply.

The truth is, life got busy. I spent a lot of time doing... stuff. And, consequently, ignoring this blog.

A couple of months ago, I emerged with a gnawing hunger to write a blog post again. But, this space no longer felt right. It was too filled with ghosts. The energy with which it began (largely a grieving process and even more, a growing process) is no longer part of my writing fuel. So, I started a new blog.

It feels right. Even the name change feels right. I've gone from wandering gypsy to cranky oracle (as I was once dubbed so by a dear friend). So, please join me at my new blog, The Cranky Oracle. It's still mostly my own musings about life, with a short story thrown in here and there whenever I'm so inspired. No great change there. The biggest change is that, no longer a drifter in this life, I feel I've found a place in the vastness. At least for now.

To those who have been loyal to following this blog, I thank you very kindly and I look forward to seeing  you at the new digs. Writing can be a lonely thing, so hearing you occasionally cough, or shift in your chairs, or take a sip of whatever has let me know that although I write alone, I never am alone.

Thank you again, and see you across the coffee mug,
Barb

The Stars Look Very Different Today

When a much-loved, long-time celebrity dies, those who know me have heard me say that "another chunk has been ripped from my childhood." When I woke this morning to news of David Bowie's passing, I thought to myself, "Ripped? Try ruthlessly gouged."

I can't much remember my life without Bowie's music. Space Oddity intrigued me as a little girl, especially because I have a brother named Tom. I remember listening to it and imagining what it must be like to be floating in space with no hope of return. Oddly, it was a feeling that I could understand - that feeling of distancing, of not being part of the "normal" world.

However, it wasn't until the release of Diamond Dogs in 1974 that I fell head over heels in love with Bowie's music. I was 13 and at the age where I was beginning to make my own music collection. I bought the record and I played it to death in my bedroom on my plastic portable record player. To realize the impact that Bowie had on me you have to understand that the album was a vast departure from my usual fare. Until then, I had steeped myself in the likes of John Denver and Neil Diamond. Suffice it to say, anyone looking at my record collection back then wouldn't have seen Bowie as the next logical step.

I bought it because I liked his name. Seriously - David Bowie - what a cool name! I also liked how bizarre the album cover was. I knew nothing about the music. To my credit, this - buying an album or book based on its cover - is how I've discovered some tremendous music and literature, as was the case with Diamond Dogs. I brought the album home, spun it on my shabby little "stereo" and got completely lost in it. It was different and Bowie's voice had that come-with-me Pied Piper quality. I would have followed him anywhere.

And I did. I bought nearly everything he released over the years. The forms changed from records, to cassettes, to CDs, to mpg downloads, but the music remained sturdy and steady. I never grew out of his songs the way I have with some others. They come back to me and make sense to me in different ways at different ages and moments in my life. That, friends n' neighbors, is true artistry. His recording of Little Drummer Boy with Bing Crosby made me love a song that I thought was utterly boring. He put out great rock n' roll tunes and then did a feature movie with muppets, Labyrinth, which I loved. Come on, muppets paired with really cool music and dark, creepy undertones? Nobody but Bowie could have pulled that one off.

The list could go on. It comes down to this: My love for Bowie's music and his sometimes peculiar brand of genius spans half a century. So, I sit here in tears as I type this, feeling as though something tremendous in my life has been torn away. And yet, it hasn't really. I still have all the music. I still have access to that genius. I have all the words and songs and images to feast on, and what a feast it is.

A mash up of two different Bowie tunes sums up my feelings this morning,

As the world falls down...
Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do.

Thank you, David Bowie, for the impressive soundtrack you gave to my life. "I'll stick with you baby for a thousand years."

Ten Things to Take With You on the Ride Through 2016

I first posted this list in 2009. It's a list that has stayed with me and is now well-used, crumpled, worn, and torn in a couple of spots - none of which has any effect on its usefulness. So, I present it to you again, slightly reworked and revamped, but still intact with respect to its original spirit and thought process.

I wish you all a very
Happy New Year!

Now, without further ado...

Here is my basic Life Toolkit - also known as Ten Things to Take With You on the Ride Through 2016. I promise, you'll be equipped to deal with pretty much everything if you keep these in mind.

• Never mind that the word kindness is a noun - it is an action, and it requires action. No one was ever accused of being kind who sat in a corner doing nothing. 
• Contrary to popular belief, Time does not heal all wounds. Nature does. Surrounding oneself with natural beauty reminds one that everything shares an interconnection and that sometimes the big heavy stuff (while seeming to require a mental forklift on our individual parts) is but a grain of sand in the grand schema. That doesn't mean that we or our lives are in any way insignificant - keep in mind that a single grain of sand can change everything (ever get one caught in your eye?). 
• Laughter is a requirement, particularly the ability to use it while looking in the mirror. 
• Significant events in life will happen if you're ready or not. Keep these emergency supplies handy: observation, openness, at least one good friend (with two good ears), inventiveness and/or creativity, sense of humor, water, and chocolate. 
• Love, while a useful tool, is not a possession. Give it away. The one who dies with the emptiest toolbox wins. 
• Music is as essential to survival as food is. It can change an attitude. It can fix a mood. It just plain feels good to belt out a familiar tune, or dance (even if it's alone in the living room), or close your eyes and escape to whatever desert island awaits (I hear Bob Marley and I don't care how cold it is - I'm puttin' on a Hawaiian shirt!). And so, as the man sang, "Lively up yourself. Don't be no drag." 
• Physical Fitness, Mental Fitness, and Spiritual Fitness are a triad and require strength on all three sides. Therefore on a daily "nutritional" basis:

Eat Well - We all know how to do that, I don't need to expound.
Think (outside the box will give you the best workout) - Learn something, feed your head.
Meditate - dream, pray, whatever you want to call it, so long as you take time to nurture your spirit.
Get daily exercise - Walk, get outside and get outside yourself!
Experience - give your heart a very long leash, remembering the words of Rilke: no feeling is final.

• Connect with Innocence, whether it's a child or an animal. Seeing the world through unblemished, unjaded, non-judgmental, unconditionally loving eyes is a joyful thing. If you don't have a child or a pet, visit one - generally speaking, good parents and good pet owners are happy to share. 
• Sometimes the person you need most in your life is (still) a stranger. Sometimes the person they most need is YOU. Say hello (with a smile, damn it!) to people you don't know. 
• There's no rewind, there's no fast forward, there is no pause. There is only Play or Stop. Take care to keep it on Play - you're needed more than you know. (Oh, and there are no subtitles either, so speak up!)

We Spin the World

We Spin the World

We, the dreamers,
we spin the world,
a constant dance
of thought, nod and doing -
a whirling flamenco,
staccato, but unbroken

We travel this space,
shattering stars
to spark fire -
lighting shrouded
theory,
leaving trails
we've wandered blindly.

We dream,
we write,
we sing,
we build,
we paint,
we dance,
we spin.

We spin the world.
~bb 2015

Oh, Death!

Pen shell stamps courtesy of Fred B. Mullett

I've come to the conclusion that it isn't death that surprises us, but the grief that follows.

We're actually very used to death. We are, after all, born dying. Every day cells in our bodies die and slough off. We watch as Summer changes to Autumn and the gardens we planted wilt and join the earth from which they sprouted. We shed a tear for the elderly when they pass and comment that they lived good, long lives. We hear about death in the news every day.

We let our dreams die--whether by choice or by circumstance. We pronounce death in marriages and relationships that don't work. Inanimate things break and fall apart and we declare them dead. Even the food we eat (unless live guppies are part of your diet) is dead.

Death is no stranger to us. We see it coming from nearly every angle. Sometimes death is a good thing. We chop up dead wood and use it as fuel to warm us. We harvest tomatoes and zucchini from dying vines. We've even learned how to transplant organs from a dead person to a living one to improve chances of survival and quality of life.

I've had great fortune to have lost many people in my life to death. Oh, I'm not callous about it. I use the word fortunate because each time I've had to say goodbye forever to someone, I have learned from it. I've learned, not only how precious is this life, but about my place in it. I've learned to live from those who have gone. For that, I am thankful, and grateful and, yes, fortunate. I feel much like Celie in The Color Purple, "I'm here. Dear God, I'm still here!"

The last time I was surprised by death was when I was in my teens and my beloved cat died. Since then, I've lost (curious word to use there... as if I've simply misplaced someone) many people in my life--beloveds all--people I was attached to whether by blood or by Universal force. The deaths didn't surprise me. Granted, many of those people were sick or elderly, so the inevitable was glaringly obvious, but still... With each of them there was a moment, just before, when I thought, "Prepare yourself. It's coming." And, as much as anyone can be prepared, I was.

So, the deaths themselves didn't shock me. It was, and continues to be, the grief that surprises me. Initially, for me at least, grief is like a vast undulating sea - I always forget how exhausting it is. I always forget those first feelings of everything feeling so weighted down and hard to breathe and seemingly unending. Like treading water, there's a frantic feeling of desperately wanting to lie down on a sandy shore and sleep, but all I can do is keep waggling my feet back and forth and hoping to come out of it eventually. 

And I always do. I wake up one day and realize that it's easier to breathe and it doesn't hurt to blink. Suddenly I'm capable of making decisions again without feeling like I'm blindly throwing darts at a board and hoping I don't take out somebody's eye in the process.

Then the rogue waves* begin. Those never go away. Not ever. There's no telling what will trigger them and there's no warning. Rogue waves are the real surprise of grief.

I lost my father well over 30 years ago, and to this day, a cold, damp, smokey Fall day will make my eyes sting with tears. I lost one of my dearest friends over 20 years ago and I still can't pick up a book by Amy Tan without feeling my lip quiver, because she gave me her copy of The Joy Luck Club (which I still have) to read. My beloved mate has been gone for over 8 years and Yes's song Roundabout nearly flattens me when I hear it because we used to sing it loudly as we drove around Lake Sammamish, looking for glimpses of Mt. Rainier shining like a diamond through the clouds. "In and around the lake... mountains come out of the sky and they stand there..." The other day I had a question about my Hungarian heritage and thought, "I'll just text Mom and ask h.... damn it. Who's going to answer these questions for me now?!"

Rogue waves, man. Rogue waves. They will knock your boat sideways and leave you dazed and wondering which is the way back home. We can handle death. It's the sorrow that comes after that's the kicker. It's the sadness that springs from almost nowhere that gets us. But I've learned from that too. I've learned that when a rogue wave hits, all I can do is let it hit, let it wash on over, wring everything out, take a deep breath, and keep paddling.

*Rogue waves are large, spontaneous surface waves that occur far out in open water. They are defined in oceanography as waves whose height is more than twice the significant wave height. Rogue waves are not necessarily the biggest waves; however, they are unusually large waves for a given sea state.

The Goodbye - A Eulogy

She put Mercurochrome and Band-Aids on my scraped knees and grounded me for playing where I shouldn't have been. She checked my forehead for fever with the back of her hand as she scolded me for going outside without a hat. She put Tabasco sauce on my tongue as a punishment for sassing; I returned the favor by learning to love spicy food. I never did learn not to sass.

She made sure I had piano lessons and was disappointed when I played anything but classical music (in her words, "Stop that banging!"). She praised me for being wise beyond my years, but told me there were certain things I couldn't understand. I learned them and understood them anyway.

She is largely responsible for me becoming a writer. Although the constant grammatical and spelling corrections were eye-roll inducing when I was a kid, the lessons stuck and they stuck for good.

She loathed swearing and despised sarcasm. Although there was much else about me, especially in my adult life, that she didn't approve of, she never failed to tell me that she loved me and believed in me.

We were diametrically opposed in terms of religious belief, but I value the solid set of morals she instilled in me.

Because of her, I have a love and basic knowledge of classical music and opera, plus I know all the words to all those old musicals. Because of her I've had a love of reading since I first discovered words. Because of her, I have loved discovering words, their meanings, how they join together to teach us or take us down a path.

She would say it's not so, but I know my stubborn streak is from her. She was downright mulish when it came to her truths. And she was fiercely competitive when it came to playing cards... as am I.

Thanks to her, I know how to cook, put up canned goods, bake pies, cakes and cookies from scratch, and, when pressed, how to clean properly.

There were things that didn't work in our relationship, as in any relationship, but we made it good. In my adult life, we enjoyed trips together and theater, and discussions about books and travel. In healthier times, she traveled the world - Europe, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, and all over the USA. Just last Wednesday I sent her a text message as I was wandering around the Olympic Peninsula with my nephew and his family. She replied within a minute, "So happy to hear from you!! My love to all!"

Early this morning my Mom (I've never called her Mother, and, dear gods, never ever Ma!) passed away. I will remember all these things about her. All these things and more. And I will, as ever, walk with pride that I am her daughter.

In memory of Kathleen R. Black

February 12, 1928 - July 9, 2015

Kill the Competition

 

I am weary of the Who’s the Bravest in the Land Competition that‘s been at the forefront this past week or so.

The truth is, it takes a great deal of bravery for any and all of us to be exactly who we need to be. In a society that holds us to task via its own set of expectations, as well as in our individual family microcosms, standing tall and declaring, “this is me” is often something that takes courage beyond what we can fathom even as we are doing it.

I know. I know, because I've been there and I've done that. Did I expect laurels and medals and accolades? No. Did I compare, much less expect that anyone else would compare, what I did to acts of courage shown by the men and women fighting for this country’s freedom? I did not. Did I ever once allude to the notion that what I did was as difficult as battling cancer? Never. Did I declare that I was going to change and then follow through with changing my gender, thus going through countless painful surgeries, procedures, and emotional torment? No. Did I expect that people I knew and loved would make a show of moral outrage simply because what I did went against what they believed? That I did, and that much I got. Did I expect that some of the people I loved would understand and say, “good for you, Barb… good for you”? I did, and I also got that.

But I didn't go into it thinking, “Gosh. I’m feeling so brave. I think I’ll flip my life on its ass and do something radically different just for shits and giggles.” The fact is, I didn't feel brave at the time. I didn't have a vast reserve of courage (much less self-esteem or some buried taciturn resilience even). Some people, the people who championed me changing my life, cheered me on, telling me I was brave. For me, the choice was, make a move or die. Some people saw what I did and told me I was their hero; others made it known that I was communing with the devil. All I saw was that I was trying to live my life and be the best me that I could possibly be.

What did I do? Nothing plenty of other people haven’t done. I walked out on a “perfectly good” marriage. I moved across the country with 4 suitcases and $300 dollars to my name. That’s it. I was, depending on who was doing the talking, crazy, brave, ridiculous, uncaring, courageous, ballsy, morally bankrupt, intrepid, or… the adjectives were endless. I got tired of saying, “Gosh, thanks…” Or just, “But…”

It wasn't until over a decade later that I saw what I did as bravery, that I acknowledged it took a certain amount of courage even if I didn't feel it at the time. Somebody once told me, “Courage is turning and facing the dragon even if you’re trembling in your boots.”

Courage is the 16 year old kid who stands up to his father and says, “You’re destroying this family with your drinking, Dad.” Bravery is the 3 year old being wheeled off to another round of chemo, saying, “Don’t worry, Mommy.” Courage is the 22 year old woman who does her first skydive jump in training to be a paratrooper. Bravery is the 38 year old man doing his part to keep peace in a foreign city. Courage is the shaking addict standing up in front of a group of strangers, saying, “I can’t live like this any more.” Bravery is a 65 year old man weighing the balance between fear and dreams and deciding, “This is not who I am. I am going to be a woman.”

Courage was a 36 year old woman, walking against the tide of every so-called truth she’d ever been taught, saying, “I can’t be this person. I am leaving and I am going 3000 miles away.” I may not have been part of some major battle that changed the face of the earth, or a personal battle won or lost on the whim of cells reacting to chemicals, or crawled from the wreckage of a natural disaster and helped a displaced neighbor look for their lost dog. But, who are you to compare? Who are you to judge what it took for me to do what I did? Who are you, and what is so very wrong with you that you can’t simply love a fellow human and say, “I might not agree with you, but I love that you were brave enough to be you.”

When you judge a person based upon their personal bravery and when you compare their courage to that of others, you are judging us all. Every one of us.

Because, the thing is, we are all brave. We are courageous every time we step into a slippery tub to take a shower, or crank the ignition in the car and pull out of the driveway, or strap on a pair of skis and fly down a mountainside, or put on a pair of combat boots and march into a war zone, or put ourselves under the knife for any kind of surgery, or propose to the love of our life, or face cancer, diabetes, alcoholism, heart failure, etc. We are human and for all our frailties, we gird ourselves with our hopes and dreams and desires and we move forward.

So. Can we please stop with the Who’s the Bravest in the Land Competition? It’s bullshit. We can be so much better than that.

Set it on Fire

Something has been bugging me for a couple of weeks. Usually two weeks is my limit before I know I have to write it out or implode.

I was watching the American Pickers TV show. I like it because there's a profound lack of wankiness found on so many other "reality" TV shows, plus, I like the cool stuff that they find. Anyway, Mike and Frank were picking some guy's place when Mike asked the guy, "So, what do you do?" The guy shrugged and replied, "Well. I don't really do anything, so I guess I'm just an artist."

That's when I started swearing at my TV screen. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it included "...shittastic attitude and profound lack of fucking passion... artist my ass!"

I took huge exception to his statement. According to Mister Junk-Hoarding Turd, my father housed, clothed and fed a family of seven by not "really doing anything". Mister J-H Turd couldn't be more wrong. My father may have had his issues, but he also worked his ass off. Work ethic was something I learned from both of my parents - from my "not really doing anything" father and from my "just a housewife" mother.

Yeah. Because saying an artist isn't really doing anything is right up there with calling a 24/7 hard-working woman "just a housewife". (Oh, step off. I'm well aware that the job a wife and mother does is far more essential than art work. That's not the point.) When I was a nanny, I was often given the raised eyebrow and the, "Oh, you're just a nanny... do you ever think about getting a real job?" treatment. Had there not been children present, I might've become a bit stabby.

And now, here I am, an artist. A paid artist even. I typically work seven days a week. It's rare that an entire day goes by without me doing something in my studio. When I'm really into a project it takes over the day and then some. I'm still thinking about it when I fall asleep. I dream about it. I jump out of bed in the morning, look at what I've done, and think about it some more as I scrub the sleep out of my eyes. When I'm out in public, I look at everything around me for clues into some new project, for inspiration and color and, oh, how can I capture that tiny moment of wonder. When I watch movies I ignore the characters and look at stuff in the background - what's hanging on their walls, catching the light on their dresser, and look how the sun dapples the leaves in that scene.

I'm an artist and I'm never not working. And I love it. I'm passionate about it even when you see me sitting quietly and reading a book. When someone asks me what I do, I proudly state, "I am an artist." Because people seem to find artists fascinating (even those of us who are slightly less than eccentric), they always ask, "Oh, what kind of art do you do?" That's when they get the full force of my passion. I'm passionate about what I do because I love to do it - every day of the week, of the month, of the year of the decade, world without end, Amen.

The thing is, Mister Junk-Hoarding Turd wasn't without talent. He had some cool stuff sitting around that he'd done. But he sure was without the necessary passion to carry it.

Right around the same time, I had posted a quote by Pablo Picasso. A friend made a self-deprecating comment that basically said she wasn't intelligent enough to appreciate Picasso's work. I got riled.

I don't appreciate Picasso's work either, but it's not because I lack the intelligence to appreciate it. I get what he was shooting for. I just... don't like it. The same way that I'm sure that while liver and onions are delicious to the right person, they just aren't for me. There are lots of artists whose work I love, but I couldn't really tell you why. There are works by certain artists that I love and yet other works of theirs leave me wanting.

None of it is about intelligence. None of it is about an artist's abundance or lack of talent. It's preference. Some folks like wine, some like beer. Some won't drink anything but white wine; others give you the evil eye for even suggesting anything but red. It's personal. So is art. Art is about making people feel something, so even if you feel revulsion, the artist has, on some level at least, succeeded.

But. Passion. It has to be there. Without passion it's just talent. Talent is nice and it helps pass the time (as, no doubt, Mister Junk-Hoarding Turd will attest), but it won't set your mind on fire. Me, I prefer a nice warm blaze.

To Be Alive

Eight years ago this week my life was very different from what it is now. I was sad, so very sad - a sorrow so impossible, so inconceivable, so bottomless that there is no word for it. I was saying a long, slow good bye to the love of my life as he lay, surrounded by family and his best friend, decimated on the battlefield of cancer.

In the aftermath I felt broken. No, not broken. Shattered. Shards everywhere. Little pieces of me scattered about, glinting like tears. Daylight was too bright, nighttime too dark. Everything felt out of step. An eighth of a measure behind.

Then the moment came. I remember sitting up and saying aloud to an empty room, "I did not die with him. I'm still alive, damn it!" Those words changed something. They became a paradigm.

It wasn't so much that I woke up. I was lucid enough before that. I became aware. I paid attention to what alive felt like. I noted the moments that made me feel most alive. I don't know how else to say this but that I began to be alive in my life.

I took measures to change the way I lived my life, which had always been answering to everyone but myself. I stopped worrying that the world would end if I didn't live up to some other person's expectations. I only worried that I wouldn't live up to my own. Because alive felt fantastic, and I wanted to live alive.

That makes it sound easy. It wasn't. It isn't. But it's as vital as drinking water and breathing air.

There are other people (I recognize kindred spirits) who've come to this place without losing the love of their life. Maybe they lost some other loved one, maybe divorced, maybe had a scare, maybe hit rock-bottom on a boozy trail, maybe just woke up from an epiphany of a dream and thought, "Enough of this shit. I want alive." It doesn't always take something completely catastrophic.

What it does take is willingness. Willingness to feel everything. Because to be alive is to feel, to have awareness of each moment. It takes allowing the bad moments, even when there's nothing more to learn than, "Ouch. That hurt."

I'm not one of those that believe that there is a lesson in everything, or a reason for everything. It's just what is. It's the reality of the moment, good or bad. My days of ecclesiastical excuses for what happens in life are long gone. If I thought that way, then I'd be obliged to think that John had to die so I could meet Steve - that's not reason, that's insanity and stupid and cruel and entirely unfair to all three of us.

I digress.

Alive. To live alive. To be aware and love every moment of that awareness. It is what this life is for. Some might argue that it's selfish, but it isn't at all. If we are truly alive and aware, we are exactly who we need to be and where we need to be and what we need to be.

I wouldn't change a moment. I wouldn't smother that shattered feeling any more than I would smother the moment of pure joy I felt the first time I realized that I'd finally unleashed my artistic side. It's not the sum of the parts, baby... it's being whole. Alive is absolutely whole.

The Gel

Write it out; shake it off.

That's what I tend to do with a feeling that won't quite gel. That won't give me something tangible to fling at the wall (or canvas or blank page).

Here's the thing.

Himself is having a birthday today. A so-called Big One. I never thought I'd be madly in love with a 60 year old guy. Not because I'm so much younger and the notion is rather dodgy (yes, I wrote that with a British accent) - I'm only 6 1/2 years his junior after all, and at this age, 6 1/2 years is nothing.

At this age.

I think it's because of that very fact. That he's turning 60 today and nobody would look at the two of us, nod their heads and whisper, "Sugar Daddy..." or "Cradle Robber". We don't even qualify as a handsome middle-aged couple (because, really, I don't see 120 and 113 down the road). No. What we are is tip-toeing on the cusp of "what a nice older couple they are."

It isn't the old part I mind so much. At least, I don't think it is.

It's the speed with which we seem to be getting there. Yes. This feeling is only compounded by the fact that the eldest of the two boys for whom I was a nanny turns 35 today. (I always find it somewhat portentous when two people on my A-list share a birthday.) Thirty five. He wasn't quite 7 when I met him. Where the hell did those decades go?! I blinked and *poof*...

And I still can't pinpoint the feeling. There's no gel to this yet.

Keep writing. Keep shaking.

I don't care that I'm older and aging still. Given the alternative, I'm pretty damned happy with that.

I mind everyone else getting older.

I am not at all daunted by my own mortality.

I just don't want mortality sneaking up on people I love.

That's it. There's the gel. Nothing I can do about it. That oozy stuff will get us all soon enough.

Writing done. Shaking off commencing.

I am... rather... I get to be head-over-heels, crazy in love with a 60 year old, 6'2" strappin' sexy beast of a guy. One who doesn't give a flying monkey's ass about wrinkles or flab. One who brings me joy and laughter every day. One who loves me and supports the things I love doing. Ain't nothin' wrong with lovin' that man. Nothin' at all.

Happy Birthday, Steve!

I am proud of the 35 year old man who was once the 6 year old kid who held my hand to cross the street. That I've been privileged to watch him grow and evolve and become this magnificent human being - friend, husband, father - that he is today? What a gift. What an absolute treasure.

Happy Birthday, Jonathan!

I know it won't be long at all before I'll blink again. Decades will have disappeared and an entire generation will be gone with a new one dotting the horizon. I will be much grayer, more wrinkled... as I sit and dig through the amazing richness of the human connections I've made in my life.

Ah, yes. There it is. The tear of amazement that I'm allowed this wealth of love. That I'm allowed it at all.

The Good in Goodbye

Yesterday I quietly celebrated what would have been my 25th wedding anniversary. Would have been, but wasn't. Yes, celebrated. You'll see.

It would have been my 25th wedding anniversary had I not chosen to end my marriage after 8 years. There you have it - I was the one who did the leaving. It wasn't a decision I came to or made lightly. Five years into the marriage I realized that it wasn't working. At first I worked hard to ignore that sad little fact. Then I worked hard to fix it. Then I worked hard at being angry that nothing was working. Then I started working on myself and came to the realization that it just couldn't exist.

That's all there was to it, really. There was no affair, no deception, no violent fight, no real nastiness of any kind between us. Together we were going nowhere. Separately, perhaps, we could. I kissed him on the cheek and wished him all the very best the day I moved out. I had no idea what was in front of me; my only scope was what lay behind.

I read something a couple of months back that has been rattling around in my brain. The idea is that there are three basic ways that people deal with being lost. One is to immediately try to find a way out -- to find a way back to the safe, known zone. Another is to make a place -- to turn the lost place into something known, thereby rendering oneself no longer lost. The third is to venture deeper into the unknown -- to turn it into adventure and discovery.

If I had been as honest with myself back then as I am now, I would have known that what I was feeling through most of my marriage was lost. I was wandering in a not entirely uncomfortable fog. So, for a time, I made it a place that was known. When I thought about getting out, my first thought was of going back to Michigan where I grew up. But if there is anything I've consistently adhered to it's to not go backward. That left me with venturing deeper, discovering what else was in the fog and what might be beyond the fog.

I'm so glad I did, and that's why I was quietly celebrating. I'm not one of those who ever says, "I just should never have married him." It's sad and painful that it didn't work, but it also brought something to both of  us that we needed at the time. I needed that fog. For a while. I needed a safe, quiet place to land. And let's be honest here, even the best, most pristine moment is tinged with regret of some sort. It's what makes those moments so sweet.

Sometimes the thing we're trying so hard to fix isn't what's broken. Sometimes there's not even anything broken. You can't teach a goldfish to ride a bicycle. You can have fun watching the fish swim around. You can have fun riding the bicycle. But to try to amalgamate the two into something beautiful and productive... it doesn't work. Even so, it doesn't mean you stop appreciating either one.

Twenty-five years does a lot for a person. Forget what they tell you; you never stop growing up. You never stop learning about the world you live in, about yourself, about other people, about love, about forgiveness, about joy. Have I exited the fog? I'd like to think so. Has the adventure stopped? Nope. If you're awake and paying attention, every moment is a surprise. Every moment deserves its own celebration. Even if it's a quiet celebration.

Muses Never Sleep

Funny where inspiration will rear its head (and nethers, as is often the case). I was sitting in a coffee shop, minding my own business, reading a wonderful book (Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan... go get y'self a copy). Amid the comforting din of coffee making sounds and background chatter, I heard strains of a country song. Sorry, I have no idea which one or who sings it. As I listened, the first words that came through to me were, "Who's at me..." In the context of the rest of the song, it was clear that I'd mis-heard. Even so, "who's at me" stuck. And struck a chord. Whenever I create, I feel like someone is  "at" me, picking through my stuff, staring over my shoulder, nodding approval or clucking disappointment -- in the vernacular of the present day, gettin' all up in my business. That'd be my muses -- they've got the energy of a toddler on nine hours of sleep and four espressos. And they're always "at" me.

So. From that, this...


Muses Never Sleep
who’s at me
peering into a
languid Sunday noon
sniffing wood smoke on
my lover’s hands
riding on a wave of murmurs

who’s at me
leaning into canvas
checking still wet paint
and crawling words
dancing to the beat of silence

who’s at me
wandering the foggy cedars
folding
unfolding
and refolding dreams
flitting through origami

who’s at me
prying at the edges
of grainy dreams
pushing, always pushing
the cart full of if
reaching for a handful
of trembling air

who’s at me
you constant
you ceaseless
you ever
you daring
bold, ethereal enigma
you, who’s at me

©Barb Black

Can We At Least

I always find myself sadly amused when people claim they are not prejudiced. I find myself doing the wry, one corner of the mouth smirk, eyes rolled up at the ceiling thing when people are shocked to see acts of prejudice.

I don't care who you are, what road you've gone down on the walk of life, how compassionate and loving you are. Somewhere in your life prejudice holds sway. Even if you despise it and do everything you can to counter it, it's there.

We're humans. That's why. We're humans and we are full of all kinds of fears. Some fears have a certain rationale, some are completely irrational. Most of what we fear is born of ignorance and becomes the bedrock where hate, intolerance and that insidious little bastard prejudice make a stand.

Even when we educate ourselves and get past the ignorance, we still fear. Think about it like this... you've lived in the same house for ten years. Your furniture is in the same position it was this morning, and probably where it's been for the past few months, at least. Nothing has changed. Same old place you come to and get cozy in every evening. Suddenly, the lights go out. It's not so cozy now. Every noise seems amplified. What if someone is sneaking in? What if you trip? Yet, they're the same noises you've been not-hearing with the lights on. Someone could sneak in with all the lights on. You could just as easily trip with daylight streaming through the windows.

For a few minutes, you were taken out of what is normal. And you felt fear. Being human... oy... it's the way of it.

It hit me last week... the idea that we don't always get past our fears. I gave up mulling over all the current anger and hatred in the world and decided to watch Mockingjay, the third in The Hunger Games series. Katniss and her comrades were hiding out in a bunker as bombs were going off outside. The room was shaking and plaster was crumbling and sifting down onto their heads. People were screaming and crying and cowering. Then the power went out and people screamed and cried louder. But. As soon as a few of them turned on flashlights and they could see again, they seemed to decide that the noise and crumbling plaster wasn't so bad, at least as long as they could see it happening. One fear outweighed the other.

One fear outweighed the other and I think that's how we get past our own crap. I fear that I won't have loved enough, or loved right at the moment someone needed it most. I fear that I won't be showing compassion at the exact second somebody requires it. I'm human. I'm not always right on point, y'know? I get self-absorbed and crabby just like everyone else. However, by and large, the fear of not having my arms wrapped around the right person at the right time? That makes me push past any fears and prejudices I may feel.

I also try hard to rise above it, because I've been on the receiving end. And it's not nice, so I don't want to perpetuate it. As a woman, as a serially overweight person, even as someone of above-average intelligence, I've been the target of some real nastiness. I've even confronted it on occasion with a, "Look. You don't even know me. What makes you hate me so much?" That's when the conversation starts. That's when the understanding kicks in. That's when the fear and prejudice gets put to rest.

We don't have to love everybody - hell, we don't even love everything about the people we really love! We're probably not ever going to be completely without fear. We're always going to be ignorant about something.

We are human. All of us. So...

Can we at least agree to approach each other with a deep breath and an eye toward what we can learn from each other? If we're going to prejudge (and we are), might we at least begin with, "Now, there's a human being..."

In A Moment

Did I think about it? Of course I did. Unless one lives under a rock and/or is brain dead, it's impossible not to. Since neither of those scenarios apply to me, yes, it was on  my mind. Like millions of others, I can tell you exactly where I was and what I was doing when it happened. I can do that with all of the more defining moments in my life.

Those kinds of memories don't have the grainy, aged film look that many other memorable moments do. They are high definition and they are larger than life. They are so big and so well defined that not only can I see the peach fuzz on a face, but each individual hair that makes up the peach fuzz.

I know each line on the back of my father's massive hands as the tremors of end stage lung cancer shook them. Shook them so much that he couldn't unzip and re-zip his pants when he had to use the bathroom. So he asked me, his then teenage daughter to help. I did so willingly, but with a tremendous, painful lump in my throat. I understood all at once what it must have taken for him to ask for my help. No man should ever have to ask his daughter for help zipping his pants. In the few short seconds it took me to help him, his hands trembled at his sides. And I remember every line on the back of his hands.

I remember the way the sunlight hit the dust on the monitor the day I clicked open an email from a friend only to read that a beloved mutual friend of ours had died very suddenly. Six words stole the air from the room, "I'm afraid our girl is gone." As the world spun away, the dust and the sunlight and the monitor remained, and only those three things. Jesse was gone, dust, sunlight, monitor, Jesse gone, sunlight, dust, monitor, how can that be, monitor, dust, sunlight. I watched as the first chuff of a sob broke free from me and made the dust dance in the sunlight.

I can see the reflection of my office building in his black truck. The building number above the door is backwards. I approach the driver side window with a smile. He's early. I'm happy to see him. Then I see his face, the streaks of gray in his mustache, the way his lower jaw is working - he always did that when something troubled him deeply. I stop short at the look on his face. "What." I say it not as a question but more as a definition of some great heavy beast standing between us. His look is one of mixed shame, fear, and almost anger. He knows he's going to break something in me as he answers with one word, "Cancer." I sigh, and then I can move forward to grasp his shoulder. "Oh, my love." It's all I can say. It's enough. I look down and notice that the backwards number is wavering. I don't want him to see my tears. Not yet. He has enough to deal with.

September 11, 2001. I was finishing an early morning workout on one of the treadmills in the small gym that was part of the apartment complex where my late mate and I lived. There was a woman on the other treadmill. I think she had blond hair. We had TV turned on to the news chatter of local weather, traffic, blahblahblah... "We interrupt your regular broadcast... breaking news..." We both watched as the first plane hit the tower. "Oh, my god..." the woman next to me said softly. "That didn't look accidental," was my response. I finished up and went home to shower and get ready for work. I walked in the door and told John to turn on the news. "A plane just ran into one of the World Trade Center towers," I said. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. I heard the tell-tale click of the TV as John pushed the on button of the remote. The image of the tower, smoldering in the middle, filled the screen. "Holy shit!" he exclaimed. "I don't think it was an accident," I repeated. I couldn't shake the heavy feeling in my chest. I was taking a sip of coffee when the second plane hit. I quickly set down the cup and propped myself on the edge of the sofa. I remember thinking, "Smoke and ashes... oh the people... smokeandashesohthepeople..." as if I was about to write a poem. There was nothing poetic about it.

Yes. I thought about it yesterday, the same way I often think about those clear, hard-edged moments of my life. The moments that show me how easy it is to feel wounded and how tough I can be despite that. I thought about it and proceeded with my day in the only way I know how to honor those unthinkable times, those people who have suffered agony that I can't completely understand, the people I've loved and the people I'll never know who have been taken in death.

I thought about it. I thought about it and then and set about living deliberately. Bringing honor isn't so much in a totem or a memorial or a moment of silence. Honor is in living anyway. Honor is in living well and fully.

When They Were Humans

It began a couple of months ago when I came across an old wedding photo of my parents. It's one I've seen many times before - two fresh faced "kids" to whom I bear a vague resemblance, dressed in wedding garb, smiling as they look out of the back window of the get-away vehicle. A thought I'd never had before while looking at that picture came barreling through, "They're looking out the back window at all their friends and family waiving them on and wishing them well. Meanwhile, the car is speeding forward to an unknown future. A future that is as wide open as any can be." I can imagine them as newlyweds, nervous about their first night together, excited about building a home together, maybe even wondering if they'd just made a tremendous mistake (c'mon... they wouldn't be the first couple in history!).

I stared at those two in the picture, familiar yet so completely foreign to me. I couldn't help but wonder, not for the first time in my life, "Am I at all what they had in mind?" I mean, my parents were Catholic. Barring any medical issues, they were going to have children. They ended up having five. I was the fourth. It's not a matter of self-doubt or self-loathing or anything like that when I ponder this question. It's more of a..... *sigh*... I wonder if they pictured a family beyond babies or school aged children. I wonder if they ever pondered an adult child, female, headstrong, creative, emotional, funny, intelligent and nowhere near perfect and entirely okay with that.

I could ponder this very question with regard to any of my siblings, again, in no way implying anything derogatory. "Is he what they had in mind? Is she? Were we?"

Because it isn't in their eyes in that picture. The look in that picture is the perfect mash-up of  here-we-go and dear-god-now-what-do-we-do. That was back when they were humans. Before they became parents. Before the world stuck its big nose and its meaty fist and its grimy foot in the door. They had dreams. She had dreams of being a teacher; he had dreams of being an artist. In a way, both of those dreams came true. She ended up with a captive classroom of five; he became a commercial artist - a sign painter.

How many times over the years have I forgotten that they were humans? Countless. They were my parents. As far as I was concerned, that was their identity and their only identity. Put a seal on it, and call it done. I wonder how many times they sighed heavily and thought, "I wish I was something besides a mother doing something besides housework and raising children. I wish I was still a human." Or. "I wish I was a guy going off to the woods to fish and do artwork and that I didn't have to worry about protecting and feeding these people. I wish I was still a human."

Am I what they expected? After all that.

I know my aged mother is proud of her children, of that there is no doubt. I know my father was too. That's not in question. Was this person, the one sitting here typing at you, was she in any of the imagery of some distant future? I just wonder about that. That's all.

I found myself delving further back. There's an old adage that says you can't know where you're going if you don't know where you come from. I traced a line back to my father's great great great grandparents - the Blacks in my lineage who first came to this country from Ireland, Archibald and Sarah. They would have been young, early 20s at best. Yes, back when they were humans. They came on a promise of land that they could own and work themselves and upon which they could build a family.

Am I what they expected?

Are any of us ever?

Yet we, as Lionel Ritchie once said of his own heritage, "stand on the shoulders of greatness."  Never mind the personalities that didn't always see eye to eye, never mind the occasional clash in ideals. Generations sacrificed without once thinking, "There will be a woman named Barb. We're doing this for her." No. They just did it. They persevered through adversity and never wasted time in complacency. They did what had to be done and now, here am I.

I owe a tremendous debt to those who cleared a path. I owe them my own dedication to the work I do. I owe them my own tenacity when faced with impossibilities or inevitabilities. I owe them an authentic life.

I may not be what they expected, those people, back when they were still humans. But I'm determined to make sure they're at least pleasantly surprised.

The Inevitable

Change. It happens every millisecond of every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day. Nobody is immune. In the words of that inherently brave Cowardly Lion, "Not nobody, not no how."

You'd think we'd get used to it, or at least get used to expecting it. We never do. I don't care how Zen you pretend to be. We ignore subtle changes, the slowly creeping lines across our own faces, grass straining to grow tall enough to reach the sun - things like that - until one day we take time to notice and, "Holy shit! Where did those wrinkles come from?! And when?!" Or, "I swear I just mowed that lawn. I guess it has been a couple of weeks..."

What I'm really talking about is bigger, more sudden change. The stuff that comes with no warning, flying straight at our foreheads from a clear blue sky. There is not enough Zen in the Universe to hold that shit at bay. All we can do is acknowledge whatever it is and try to live our own truth in the midst of it.

This is why I am writing about the death of Robin Williams when I swore to myself I wouldn't. The fact is, I feel like I've lost a nearly life-long friend, a friendship that began in 1978 when that crazy alien burst into view on the TV Series Happy Days (Mork & Mindy was a spin-off).

Here's the thing. I understand suicide. I understand it, but I don't like it - understanding doesn't necessarily make me a proponent, y'know? I know what huge physical hurt feels like and I understand completely why some people would do anything and everything, even that ultimate thing, to end that pain. I've endured some pretty hefty emotional pain too, so I can only imagine what a tremendous weight of that kind of pain it takes for someone to want that pain to end at any cost. I can only imagine. Thankfully, that's all I can do, but I do understand wanting it to stop, just once and for all... fucking stop.

This isn't a post about addictions and mental illnesses and suicide prevention. This is, simply, about change. Some of us have the ability to change, some of us don't. Some things we can change about ourselves very easily, some things, oh boy... no so much. Sometimes we fight hard to make changes within ourselves and sometimes that change even takes hold... until some inner truth or some old wound or some ancient desire trips us up and sends us headlong into the pavement. And sometimes some stuff just stays stuck no matter what we try. Sometimes that fight for change becomes exhausting.

So. Change. Or don't change. You are human, and in that humanity you are allowed to be all the you that there is.

That brings me to my favorite Robin Williams movie. Sure, I like a lot of them. Scratch that, pretty much all of them. Who can deny the power of Dead Poet's Society, or Good Morning Vietnam, or (this one always gives me goosebumps), The Fisher King? But the one that really struck me is a little known movie called House of D. I stumbled upon it a few years back in video form (yes, video... remember those?) and my interest was piqued not so much because of Williams, but because it was written and directed by David Duchovny. My curiosity drove me to see just what kind of chops Mr. X-Files possessed. Turns out his chops are pretty damned tasty.

I was more than pleasantly surprised by a lovely film about a teenage boy, Tom Warshaw (played to perfection by a young Anton Yelchin) who comes of age surrounded by a rather peculiar group of dysfunctional friends. One of those friends is a woman who yells dating advice to him from the window of the Women's House of Detention. Another friend is sweet, loving, mentally challenged Pappass, played with beautiful understatement by Robin Williams.

This is where I leave you with the quote that, for me, sums up not just this post, but how we approach change... and how I'll approach the change of a world bereft of my on-stage friend, Mr. Williams.

Pappass: I'm not retarded anymore.
Tom Warshaw: Oh really?
Pappass: Really.
Tom Warshaw: When did that happen?
Pappass: 1984. Sometime in the spring. I went from retard to mentally handicapped. And then in 1987-88, I went from handicapped to challenged. I changed again. I'm probably changing right now. Who knows what I'll be next?

Your Good Went Bad

Ever have one of those moments when your first thought is, "Yeah, right on!" And then that thought is immediately followed by, "Oh, hell no!" Kind of like cheering for the guy on your team who just knocked the bejeebers out of the baseball, only to realize that the guy on the other team, at the far edge of the outfield, has magic in his jump and a glove that seems to stretch an extra foot into the air, and by golly, he's gonna catch that fly for the out, damn it!

It's like that. Only worse. Because this has effects that reach much further than the outcome of a baseball game. I was just cruising around on Facebook when I saw the meme below and had that very reaction. I know, it's just a meme - one of several gazillion - and I could have ignored it and gone on my merry, internet-surfing way. But the damned thing pushed my buttons.

My first reaction was that Dr.Gail Dines had a profound point. (I still think that.) But then I took a good look at the picture. Hence my "Oh, hell no!" reaction. Following Dines' sentence, which basically encourages women to like their bodies, is a naked woman. A flawless, naked woman. A thin, flawless, naked woman with perfect hair, perfectly lit perfect skin, well manicured fingernails and toenails, perched in a position that suggests that when she's not on a photo shoot, she's on a yoga mat.

I've got nothing against flawless. I'm an artist, aesthetics are never lost on me.

I've got nothing against thin people. They're just people, and I tend to like people.

I've got nothing against nudity. In my mind, clothing should always be a function-first, optional thing.

I've got nothing against perfect hair. Hair is pretty. I love looking at hair.

I've got nothing against perfect skin. Some people are just blessed with good DNA.

I've got nothing against photography, photographers, or the photographing of beautiful people.

I've got nothing against yoga. Not my first choice of an exercise regime, but I know a lot of people who benefit from it and enjoy it.

What I am against and my big problem with this is that whoever created this meme didn't think it through enough to realize that they are, in essence, contributing to the very problem they were trying to solve. Unless I'm seeing the whole thing all wrong, the issue at hand is that women need to accept their bodies as they are, and not just accept, but celebrate and love. And that is wonderful. I long for that day for myself and for others.

However, you can't tell women to feel good about their bodies and then hold up a picture of what every woman thinks their body should look like. Especially when... what... maybe only the top 2% (and I'm guessing high, I think) do look like that. And even then, only in really good lighting and perhaps with Photoshop skills thrown in.

What the above meme says to me is, "Feel good about your body! As long as it looks like this. However, don't feel good about your body if your hair is a little frizzy; if you have blemishes; if you're fat; if your thighs or ankles aren't shaped like those of a 15 year old supermodel; if your breasts are too small, too large, asymmetrical; if you're in any way disproportionately shaped." That's what that meme says, and that is a shame because Dr. Dines's message is spectacularly good and so needed in today's society.

So, in a world of feel-good, inspirational memes, I've created my own. Here's hoping the sucker goes viral.

The Elephant Has Left the Building

Yesterday left me gasping for air.

It's ironic that it felt that way, because seven years ago yesterday had me feeling that there was no air to breathe.

You see, yesterday, I completely forgot about seven years ago yesterday. The significance of the day didn't even occur to me until late in the afternoon, at which point I took in a deep breath and thought, "Well, I'll be damned!" I did that with a smile on my face.

Now you're giving me that look like I forgot to wear my pants again. I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was a nice restaurant.

Okay, really. Yesterday, I got up, had copious cups of coffee, did a little online shopping, joked around with friends on Facebook, laughed a bunch, checked my email, did some writing, did some chores, put on some chili to simmer for dinner, and worked on a project. During all those things, over the course of about 8 hours, not once did it occur to me that the day was significant. And it was. It is.

It was seven years ago that my much loved mate, John, passed away after a very short battle with cancer. In each year since, when May 7th rolls around, I'm always acutely aware of the day and the resounding clang of sorrow that always tolls. Except for yesterday. I was aware that it was May 7th, but the number didn't trigger anything. I didn't at all stop to consider.

When it did finally dawn on me, I had a moment of, "Geez, woman... how could you forget? Have you gone cold?" No. No, I haven't. Not in the least. What's happened is that I've undergone some tremendous healing in the past few months. I attribute that healing to writing.

Funny thing is, I haven't been writing about John, or my experience with him, or my experience after him. I've been writing fiction (you know I'm writing a book, yeah?). However, I've been writing fiction that comes from a well that is deeper than I initially suspected. Way deeper. So deep. Fathoms. In doing all that writing, in giving my characters voice, I've been able to give voice to so many things that I'd kept hidden. Hidden is probably the wrong word, because are you really hiding something if you're not aware of its existence? Or, at least, the level on which it exists?

Writing, even writing about unrelated stuff, has freed me - not from memories, but from my own unwillingness and fear to confront those memories, as well as from the need to repress them. These fictitious people that I'm getting to know have taught me a lot about forgiveness, letting go, facing the mirror, loving. Sure, they're all things I've been learning anyway, but somehow creating them in a different scope of existence (in fiction) gives them clarity and credence.

I haven't forgotten about John. I couldn't ever love him any less. But the pain is a soft pain... a dull, barely perceptible ache somewhere in the vicinity of my left rib cage. I've come to a point where I would much rather celebrate and write the 46 years of his life into something tangible than to be grieving for the day he died.

I think he understands that.

I think he's pleased.

"Live and love," he always said. "Just live and love."

At the Beginning

First things first and then we'll get to the meaty stuff. Yes, I ditched doing the A to Z challenge early on. I found that it was too much of a distraction from doing what I really needed to be doing, part of which was working on my novel.

So, as a sort of apology for leaving you stranded and as an enticement to come back for more, (and, let's face it, because I like to tease) I'm offering you the opening couple of pages from my novel. The working title of my book is I've Seen Rain.

And now....

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

“I’m Luke. Luke Horvath.” I held out my hand to her and at the same time I realized that it still had blood all over it. I withdrew it, giving her a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, I…”

She gave me an understanding smile and a slight wave in return. “It’s okay. My name is Annie. Masters.”

We were standing by the back of my truck. I picked an old rag from the bed of it and tried unsuccessfully to wipe the blood from my hand. I breathed a heavy sigh. “Well, Annie Masters. All things considered, it is nice to meet you. I really appreciate you stopping to help.” I paused. I knew what I was about to ask, so I had to steel myself for rejection. “Annie Masters, would you consider having dinner with me tonight?”

She laughed, and I can tell you, it was everything I’d hoped her laughter would be. It was clear, and loud, and it sang through the air like angels doing opera. “Is this how you pick up all your women?” she asked. “You find somebody’s poor, wounded dog by the side of the road, wait for a fair damsel to come along and offer help, and then whisk her off her feet with your strong, sensitive male…” She waved her hand up and down at me, searching for the right word. “Uh… thing?”

That got me laughing. “My male thing? We just saved Ol’ Pooch from certain death, returned him to his grateful human companion, and you want to discuss my…“ I cleared my throat. “My male thing? Oh, this is off to such an auspicious start. You could at least agree to have dinner with me before we go there.”

I loved her smile already, the way it lit up her eyes, the way one corner of her mouth curled up slightly more than the other. If she wasn't careful, I was going to be thoroughly in love with her in the space of ten minutes. “Well,” Annie said. “How can I say no to a flannel wearing, blood-soaked guy with a strong, sensitive male thing. My dreams have been answered!” She feigned swooning, raising the back of her right hand to her forehead.

I looked down at my boots as though they were the center of the universe and muttered, “A smart ass. She would have to be a smart ass, wouldn't she. She’s probably more trouble than she’s worth.” The boots said nothing. Annie, however, coughed politely and whispered, “I can hear you, you know.” I looked back up at her, grinning. “How ‘bout I pick you up at 7? Play it casual, nothing fancy. That gives me plenty of time to clean up and stow the gear I was hauling back before I came upon Ol’ Pooch.”

Annie was still smiling. She tilted her head to the left, making no attempt to hide the fact that she was studying me. That kind of boldness in a woman gives me goose bumps. The right kind of goose bumps. Finally she nodded, as if answering some question to which I hadn't been privy. “Seven works for me. You know the old red caboose up on Mountain Loop?” When I nodded, she continued. “That’s my place.”

“Are you kidding? I drive by there all the time. I've always been intrigued by it, wondering who lives there, what it looks like on the inside, how they managed to tote a caboose onto that land. Wow. You live there.”

“That I do,” she answered. “Play your cards right and not only will I tell you all about it, but I’ll give you the $1.67 tour.”

“A buck 67? Boy, that’s pretty steep.” I gave her my best aw-shucks-I’m-just-a-poor-boy face.

“Yep.” She winked. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, what with the scarcity of eligible guys waiting by the side of the road.” With the flat of her hand, she smacked the side of my truck twice, then walked back toward her own truck. “See you at 7, Luke.”

“See you then, Annie.” That smile.

© Barb Black

D is for Dowsing

Dowsing

I want to live
      deep
where the sweet water flows
     and taste
         the clear,
             running dream.

I want to burrow into, and
dig down through the layers,
dig through all the layers

until

a whisper
    and a trickle
      begins the flood

Oh, quench my dowsing soul.