Mutiny on the Open Heart: Cole

What a wonderful juggle: I've started to see the response and reality of 'The Light Stays On' making itself into the world, and I've got these new characters clanging to come out!

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I can't tell you much about the new novel. It's now twenty-five pages and sometimes it seems like it's already written and I'm just trying to keep up with the transcription. I know these chapters may well be too long and too disjointed to take the time to read. Please don't feel obligated . I'm mostly posting this because some part of myself wants to make it public, wants to introduce another character: in this case, Cole:

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Chapter ?

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My name is Cole. I graduated from NYU eight years ago, majored in Journalism with an eye toward sports reporting. My first job was for the Providence Journal mostly covering high school basketball and every now and then the Pawtucket Red Sox. I’m six foot two and skinny as a pencil, fast enough that I won the state division for track and one night I scored 63 points in college basketball. I never thought of myself as a jock because my mother insisted I would be a novelist if not a poet. Even when I was five, even before kindergarten, she would read poems at the dinner table every night, and when we were all old enough, she would award whoever came to the table able to recite a poem—any poem—from memory. Even today I listen to Joyce Kilmer’s “I think that I shall never see” poem about trees, or Alfred Noyes 'The Highway Man' and I can see my mother’s widening grin, nodding there holding her fork over our favorite macaroni and cheese, giggling when we finished our recitations, never mentioning our common omissions and periodic embellishments.

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“When you understand poetry, kids, you understand life,” she would say so often that years later my brother and I came to greet one another in airports and end our Sunday night phone calls with that quote.

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“Recite the Highwayman for me, Cole,” he sometimes pleaded.

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“Ryan, cut it out. We’re grown men. That is ridiculous.”

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“It wasn’t ridiculous at Mom’s funeral, Cole. It makes me feel better. Just the first verse. I won’t ask you again for two months."

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I’ve never told anyone about this. What dorks we both are, even now.

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The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

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After I finish this stanza, Ryan and I don't say another word for what seems like minutes. That’s how it used to be at the dinner table too, until my mother started either laughing or clapping. She would throw her head back in sheer delight.

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“Kids,” She’d say to the four of us, “never let too much time pass without reading a poem outloud. It will keep you grounded. If somebody says your ugly, read a poem. If somebody steals your money, read a poem. And for god sakes, when you get your heart broken, read a poem. You’ll be surprised.”

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I didn’t stay in journalism. My mother died the night Providence won the State Championships and twenty minutes after the game ended, after I emailed I the story to my editor, I was on my way to the TF Greene Airport, praying I’d make it back home so she could see me, so I could hold her hand, so I could maybe read her her favorite poem of all, The Country by Billy Collins, about a mouse running too fast with a wooden matchstick in his mouth who burns down this guys’ girlfriend’s house. My mother folded over whenever she heard that poem. Even when my younger brother totaled her car, the night before her road trip to see my Aunt Louise, she buckled with laughter when he told her he was so repentant he would recite The Country for her every night for six months.

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“You’re on, son,” she said, “but you still have to pay the deductible.”

I didn’t make it home before my mother died. Ryan said her last words were “Poets in heaven.” Can you believe that? My mother was nothing if not consistent.

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So anyway, it’s probably because of her that I didn’t stay in journalism. I phoned in my notice the day of her funeral, returning to Providence to finish up until my replacement was hired, I cleared out my apartment, boxed up my clothes and books, and broke up with my girlfriend all in the span of three hours. I closed my bank account and pocketed three thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. That, and my volume of John Yeats poetry, would take me somewhere I did not know.

Animal Wednesday: Emily Rabbit

It's me: Emily Rabbit. I've been a guest blogger before but I was not treated with proper respect and I did not make any money so I quit on the spot. I am back on a trial basis because kj told me I might benefit by showing up on Animal Wednesday. I might be reliable and I might not. It will help if I am paid with either jellybeans or dollar bills. Then again, ten dollar bills are okay too. I am also willing to give advice on any subject for thirty five cents per question.

Sincerely,

Emily V.V. Rabbit

P.S. Don't even ask what the 'V.V.' stands for.

Swish...

Transition?
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No petty change for me. When the universe decides I need a shaking up, the winds are at hurricane level.
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I'm losing weight, looking good, beaming at the early reviews of my book.
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All good.
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What? What's that you say? I've been busted open? I can't go back?
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And where exactly is 'back', anyway? Because maybe I didn't study the terrain closely enough before I started this journey. Maybe I'm not prepared.
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What? No matter? I'm moving forward anyway? Even without a map?
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But I didn't pack either. I'm ill-prepared.
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So what? That is not a helpful answer.
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Get it together?
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Not so helpful either.
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Accept?
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Love anyway?
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Be compassionate?
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All three? All at once?
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Yup.
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Sigh.
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Dammit...
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Okay...
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Okay..
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Okay.
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Addition: They offered me blankets. They wrapped their arms around me and brought me french roast coffee. They called me every day, sometimes twice, until I sat with them on their couch, and they listened to my tale and they reached for my hands. They told me why they love me and why I am worthy. In the morning they offered me their home made jellies and multigrain muffins, on small dishes adorned with birds in flight. These are good friends, opening themselves to shelter me from a passing storm. May I remember this and give back, over and over, until I no longer feel lost within myself, rescued by the simple acts of generosity that I, and I alone, can give too.

The Hello and Goodbye Mr. Bigshot Contest

Okay: Mr. Bigshot needs another name. We are very early into the writing of this book and there so much that is not known about him, but I am hereby establishing an official CONTEST to RENAME him.

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Originally I thought it would be intriguing if he did not have a proper name per se, but I'm open to any and all suggestions. If I choose your suggestion for his new name, I will reward you with one of the following:

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--An original poem on any subject or for any person you'd like (you'll have to provide some info to me before I start)

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--You choose a character--yourself, your partner, your child, a fellow blogger--and I will somehow include/mention that person in this new book.

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Ooooh, I hope this is fun! Except that you'll have to take the time to read this next chapter:

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Claudia and Mr. Bigshot met in a laundry mat. She had just moved to Cambridge and, lamenting that the hookup of her washer/dryer was in the heartless hands of a suspicious plumber, she lugged her lingerie and favorite sweats to the Sudsy Spirit Clean-o-Mat, located on the corner of Sparrow and Cardinal Streets, where she begrudgingly banged her fists on the change machine, muttering “fuck” in the quietest and most irritated of voices.

Mr. Bigshot approached her with an amused grin on his beautiful face. At least that what she remembered, even seven years later. His chin rounded in a priest-like way and his nose looked like athletic perfection, but his most prominent feature was his eyes—blue, intense—they glistened with passion. Mr. Bigshot was hot. She remembered that too seven years later, and especially in the dark of a Marriott Courtyard or a Holiday Express, when his wild fearful breathing finally stopped, and he lay on top of her, quietly and totally fallen into her, like her eight week old niece lying on her chest.
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“Can I help you with that machine?” he grinned.

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Claudia looked up at him—he was at least a foot taller than she, and grinned back.

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“I’m not a laundry type of girl,” she purred. “I’m here because another unreliable plumber didn’t show up this morning and my… well, never mind why.” This was Claudia, often on the edge of provocation and looking like Sister Mary Margaret readying for choir practice.

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"That’s interesting,” the man said. “I’m not a laundry type of guy, but my plumber didn’t show up either and I have a sick baby girl at home who’s thrown up over everything, the kitchen tablecloth, the dishtowels, all her clothes—everything.” He paused, “I can give you some of my quarters.”

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Claudia smiled. “Sir, I cannot allow myself to be indebted to a stranger in a laundry mat. My mother taught me that in second grade.”

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“I could charge you the price of your company until the wash cycle ends,” Mr Bigshot responded. “Or I could help you bang your way through this uncooperative change machine.”
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A normal wash rinse and dry cycle is approximately one hour max. During that time, Claudia and the man with the soft chin and fire eyes sat next to each other in two of those orange plastic scoop chairs. They twisted their bodies sideways so they three quarter faced one another, and Claudia told Mr. Bigshot how and why she had moved to Cambridge and he told her how and why his wife convinced him to endure the laundry mat on a Saturday morning when, unnoticed, fate decided to stir things up.

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“How many kids do you have?” Claudia asked.

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“Three,” Mr Bigshot answered. "Zoie is seven, Ryan is five, and the baby, Petunia, is almost one.”

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“Petunia,” Claudia tossed her head back, “That’s adorable and unusual.”

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“My wife begged me,” he responded. “It came to her in a dream. She said if it was a girl and we named her Petunia, she would skip dance through life and accomplish great things.”

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“How long have you been married?” Claudia asked.

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“Nine years.” For a second he broke their glance and looked away. Then he looked back her, she dressed in fitted jeans with ironed creases on each leg, a deep purple blouse with subtle black dots, black ankle boots, hooped silver earrings, and in case anybody missed the fact that she was feisty and fashionable, a scarf embedded every few inches with little pink pigs.

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“Are you happy?” Claudia blurted this out before she knew better. She corrected herself before he could answer, but not before she saw the momentary twitch in his left eye.

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“Oh jeez”, she said, “I’m sorry. What a jerk I can be. That’s not a laundry mat question,” she offered sheepishly. “I asked because I’m not married and I never know whether I want to be or not.”
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Without speaking Mr Bigshot looked at Claudia. Normally she would have squirmed, then broken the silence with her quick wit and impressive vocabulary. But instead she looked back.
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Finally, he cleared his throat. “I'd like to see you again,” he said.

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Claudia had heard this before, multiple times actually, in bars and on subways where handsome men and weird men for some reason found her approachable and safe and,--she knew not to kid herself--a probable good fuck. Sometimes she would say yes—those times being when she equally sized up the guy as approachable, safe and a good fuck. But lately she had sworn off married men: too needy, too complicated, too demanding.

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She looked at Mr. Bigshot directly. “How come?’ she asked.

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“I don’t know,” he said. “I can tell you I’ve never done this before.”

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“In a laundry mat?” she asked.

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“No, not in a laundry mat, not anywhere.”

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He reached for her hand and folded it into his. He stared ahead and she stared at him. Think, think think she told herself. Married, three kids, decent: the worse signs.

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He spoke again, “May I call you? Maybe for coffee or lunch?”

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Claudia pulled her hand away, opened her purse, pulled out the Waterman pen her boss had given her when she was promoted to Lead Designer, ripped a piece of paper from her moleskine, neatly wrote out her full name and cell phone number, and handed it to him. She did not look up and barely moved at all.

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“Claudia...”he said.

A Modern Prayer

The absolute best book I've read on how to write is by Stephen King (of all people!). He advises to chop and drop the adjectives and adverbs and let the nouns and verbs tell the story. So perhaps I was thinking of him when this prayer found its way to my head and pen a few weeks ago:

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I've done my part.
You've done yours.
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Thank you.

Mutiny on the Open Heart: Claudia

It feels abit thrilling to be starting a new novel. I have no idea how it will evolve or turn out, but there'll be at least four main characters in this new book, probably six. Claudia and her sister are two. I don't know about Mr. Bigshot yet. He and Claudia met in a laundrymat. The clandestine part is because Mr. Bigshot is married.
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Chapter 3
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Claudia and Mr. Bigshot were quite proficient in clandestine costume design. When she met him in Cleveland, he attending a software seminar aimed at school principals and administrators, she dressed the part by wearing a knee length Liz Clayborne sky blue dress with black flats and a purple paisley wrap around scarf. “I’m a third grade teacher,” she teased at the hotel buffet line, “I know how to fit in with school principals-- I used to date one: I even kept our sex notes in a special grade book, if you know what I mean.”

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Convinced that she fit in precisely well, she and Mr. Bigshot were sufficiently comfortable that they attended the seminar banquet together the first night, followed by side by side seating at the on-the-town dinner at Roxie’s by the Bay the following night. They parted ways each evening only in the hotel lobby and only for five minutes: he first on to the elevator with the New York Times folded under his arm and she, moments later, aptly moving as an exhausted, boring teacher ready to hit the bed, fluff her pillow and read a book.

Mr Bigshot had occasion to attend several conferences a year, each coordinated with Claudia’s vacation time and each elaborate in its design and execution. Mr. Bigshot was first to volunteer for new business accounts, the theory being he would not be recognized and could thus integrate Claudia somehow without obvious risk. On the occasions when this was not possible—the Apple Convention in San Diego every year, for example, Claudia had the benefit of three distinctive wigs: blonde, auburn, and jet black. One year she appeared as a advant garde journalist, black pattern leather boots that reached her knees and a tight black sweater and tight back skirt, black rimmed glasses, hair pulled back, large hoop earrings.
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“I’ve been propositioned in this outfit seven times so far,” she chuckled to Mr. Bigshot over coffee, “and the day’s not half over. Maybe I should change professions—I could never wear this to my office.”
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“No,” Mr. Bigshot chuckled back, “But you could wear it for a very short time to my office, which I might add is private and secluded.”
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“Oh no,” Claudia said, “I've already have my wardrobe planned for that appointment. Let me just say it’s a good thing your office has window shades.”

Mish Mash # 103 (or close to it)

1. Happy Belated Valentine's Day. I bought these little cards to send to a few special people and ended up mailing not even one. Still, perhaps I can convey the broadest sentiment of Valentine's Day right here right now. I say "broadest" because I can remember too many years when I felt alone, was alone, and longed for a valentine. Now I know one from a good friend or a four year old child counts just as much.

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2. JB and I flew home from vacation a day early and spent yesterday at the funeral of my just-30 year old nephew. The saddest part was seeing my brother and sister-in-law enveloped by such grief and loss. I know how much they appreciated their family and friends being with them, and I am glad to have the relationship I do with my brother. I can't resist a word about gun control: New Hampshire is a state where a young man can walk into a gun shop, buy a lethal weapon without a background check, and make an impulsive decision at a tough moment. Not right.

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3. Look what certain Christmas cactus decided to bloom in February instead of December:

4. I never knew cheese enchiladas weighed a half pound each. But that must be so since I ate eight mouth watering authentic enchiladas in California and gained four pounds...

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5. I will not despair. I've lost close to forty pounds and two sizes on the South Beach diet, and I'll lose another twenty, until I can tuck in my shirts and strut as I wish. I finally can see the difference in how I look. I'm not there yet but honest to god, I want to be cute (more accurate substitute: hot) and fashionable.

6. I still can't get over those energy windmills in Palm Springs. I finally figured out they looked like cemetery crosses to me and that's what made me so uncomfortable. Here's a shot to show you how damn many there were in the desert: it looked like this for 2-3 miles, maybe more...

7. ...and here's a shot to show you how HUGE each one actually is.
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8. Mr Ryan, who is now officially two years old, is talking in sentences. He can tell you what he's thinking, feeling, wanting, seeing. Just incredible!
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9. I am enjoying the release of my book more than I ever imagined. I am going to celebrate when I reach one hundred sales, which I hope will be sometime this Spring. I have begun to concentrate on contacting independent bookstores, but soon I will be mailing copies to book reviewers throughout the U.S. And libraries. And book fairs. And special events. And signings. And readings. And book clubs. It's all good.
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10. It's no secret my Christmas holidays weren't the best. Still, I pushed myself to follow many of my traditions and upon coming home two days ago JB and I were rewarded with this--in full bloom:

11. One of the characters in my new book is a woman named Claudia who has maintained a passionate affair with a married man for years. She meets him at the specialty conferences he goes to for work and dresses up in various costumes and wigs to look like an attendee and not be recognized by his colleagues. She's turning into quite an imaginative vibrant woman and I'm becoming quite fond of her.

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12. I can sense Spring readying itself. There is still plenty of snow on the ground but even the trees look like they're ready to spurt. I expect the change in seasons will do me a world of good, and for that I am quite grateful!

13. A final word about Valentine's Day: my dear blogfriend Human Being sent me a valentine that included the following message: If you wake up in a red room with no windows and doors, DON'T panic..you're just in my heart.

Last Stop: The Desert

Here she is again. I don't get to see her often enough so she merits another public display of love and affection, still in the dress her great grandmother made. Hannah is one of my favorite people on the planet, and I think her smile explains why. We said goodbye in Seattle, where she lives, probably to meet up next in New England, where I live.

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JB and I headed for LA, where we stayed for one night in this luxurious room. The Marriott Hotels have the best beds ever: hard mattresses with soft covers. Many years ago JB and I bought a Marriott vacation timeshare, which essentially means, since it's paid off, that for a yearly membership fee, we can check in for free. And we do.

ValGal lives in the most beautiful area. I won't risk her privacy except to show these towering cypress trees which spike up everywhere along the streets and hills, looking so stately and proud. These happened to be to the left of some one's driveway.

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We drove for several hours toward Palm Springs and Palm Desert, where we would stay for the remainder of our vacation, complete with sun, pool, Mexican food, and lazy days and leisurely books. We are indeed in the desert, as you will see. Driving for miles along a flat desert highway, we were shocked to be surrounded by these structures, by the hundreds, lined up in rows over miles of dry desert land:

I don't know if these shots show you how actually erie the whole scene looked: like some futuristic sci fi movie. I've never seen anything like it, and I later learned these modern "windmills" will power the entire city of Palm Springs and the surrounding valley. If you're interested, here's a lesson in energy conservation:
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Increasingly popular as alternative sources of energy, wind turbine generators are a type of windmill that produces electricity by harnessing the wind. Wind turbine generators are much less harmful to the environment than burning fossil fuels, but they do require average wind speeds of at least 21 km/h (13 mph). The largest of these windmills stands 150 feet tall with blades half the legend of a football field. The compartments at the top containing the generator, hub and gearbox weigh 30,000 to 45,000 pounds. A wind turbine's cost can range upwards to $300,000 and can produce 300 kilowatts an hour - the amount of electricity used by a typical household in a month. Almost all of the currently installed wind electric generation capacity is in California. The high-tech megatowers are engineered in cooperation with NASA and nursed by federal and state subsidies. This wind farm on the San Gorgonio Mountain Pass in the San Bernadino Mountains contains more than 4000 separate windmills and provides enough electricity to power Palm Springs and the entire Coachella Valley.
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And now I'll let the desert and the mountains speak for themselves:

Tomorrow we head home. We're leaving a day early because of an unexpected and very sad death in our family (my nephew). It's been a strange vacation for that reason alone. Plus I've found that I'm not a big fan of the desert. I like lush and lively a lot more. Still, a week away is a good thing. And if you're lucky, heading home is even better.

Next Stop: LA

This is my niece Hannah. This photo does not do justice to how beautiful she is inside and out, but the real point here is that she is wearing a dress handmade by her GREAT GRANDMOTHER. Hannah's mom gave it to her this weekend and it fit like a glove. The dress has a zillion pleats and has survived years of storage before making it to a new and improved body. Classic...

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And while munching bay side in Seattle, I see these ducks and think of Anonymous Bird (Anon). I think of her often and I hope she is well and happy. My head and heart miss her one-of-a-kind blog, and my feathered education has come to an unhappy standstill.

From Seattle JB and I fly to Los Angeles, rent a car, and take our place on the five lane LA Freeway. We will head for Palm Desert for some R & R, but not before we travel to a special place to meet a special person for a special reason.

TA DA! The highlight of my vacation: Time with ValGal! She is wonderful, adorable, engaging, compelling, peaceful, wise, beautiful, talented beyond description, and she is my friend.

Next Stop: Palm Desert

First Stop: Seattle

It's a long way from the East Coast to the West Coast--to get from here to there, the better part of the day is spent flying.

I'd never been to the Pacific Northwest before. Although I was only there for two days, Seattle lived up to its reputation for being a vibrant city with incredible coffee, great city living and urban design, and grey skies and frequent rain. I was there to see my niece Hannah star in her 25th play, and she was fanfabulous.

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Seattle is the home of Starbucks. The first shop was opened there, and here it is, located just outside the Public Fish Market.

Of course, life is not just about coffee (though first thing every morning I often think that's all it's about!) I don't drink anymore, but I still love the romance and elegance of wine bottles.

Seattle has a huge indoor/outdoor public market, and I found myself looking for signs (as I'm prone to do these days):

The "sign" here is simply how beautiful oranges can be...And the "sign" here is how beautiful JB can be trying on hats:

I apologize for not including a city history lesson with this photojournal, but it's the best I could do at this late hour as I now sit in Palm Desert California, the third stop of a week's vacation. I can at least tell you this is Seattle's Space Needle, for which it is very famous, followed by another weather report and photo of a typical Seattle landscape.

More to come....

An Official Debut...

To my surprise I got my first official book review this week. It appeared in the Provincetown Banner, a regional weekly newspaper serving the four communities that make up the outer Cape on Cape Cod.
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Some of the review was a bit hokey, as you will see, but I am pleased and thankful. Here's a portion of the review:

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'The book is a telling probe into relationships and the complications that accompany them. It is an exploration into family and the dynamics that bind loved ones despite the differences and hurt than can disrupt the unit. And this book is a story with a twist that comes unexpectedly at the end accompanied by love letters from the heart delivered from the grave long after death.'

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'A complex story written with a steady hand, 'The Light Stays On' is not a dark offering despite the subject matter, rather a ray of hope for those on a mission to reap the rapturous sting that Cupid's arrow slings.'
(Note from me: that last sentence is hokey, huh?)
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I have never had a book reviewed before. I have never written a book before. So this is hopefully the beginning of quite a ride. I hope the story of Alex and Lily is well received--I can vouch that their love for each other is real and enduring and that's what I wanted most to convey--but no matter what, I will learn and be grateful.

Next, my steady friend Bill prepared the most wonderful postcards announcing the book. If you want one, just email me your address and I'll mail one out to you. (And if you by chance have the desire or means to circulate many, I'll mail you a wheel barrel full!)

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"When one door closes, another opens." I suspect this is true. I and the tulips will look ahead to the breaking of the ground in spring.

To my blog buddies: thanks again and again for your support of my work and writing. What a difference it makes.

Smidgin...

My blog is becoming boring. I don't post nearly as many photographs as I used to, I've been stuck in my own version of what's-wrong-with-me?, and I'm fast forwarding through too many good people and good things.

Here's what's going on when I change perspective:

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1. I've just finished another precious Big Yellow weekend writing group. We meet twice a year, write, read aloud, sing, eat and socialize. I've begun a second novel, centered around four, perhaps six main characters, and centered around the theme of devotion and betrayal.

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2. It took me months, maybe even longer, to come up with the title for the story of Alex and Lily. This time I'm starting with a title: Mutiny On The Open Heart--and I love the sound of it!

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3. So far I've sold about fifty copies of 'The Light Stays On', it's prominently displayed in the window of my downtown bookstore, and I think there will be three magazine or newspaper book reviews in the next month or so. I've starting marketing and I'm meeting the nicest people along the way. It is quite an experience to accept myself as a "writer" and an "author". Yippee!

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4. My friends have rallied around me during the last few months. Sought me out, sent me love, given me advice, reminded me that all will be well. For much of my life, I don't think I really appreciated my friends, and it is wonderful to know how much they matter. My friends are a good bunch.

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5. On Friday JB and I will head to Seattle where we will see my beloved niece star in a play. She will finish graduate school this year in Drama and will be a card-carrying actress.

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6. Then we're off to LA, off to meet a special friend who paints like an angel, and then off again to Palm Desert for lounging by the pool, seeking out Mexican food, and no small matter--playing the slot machines late into the night.

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7. I haven't said much about my beloved daughter Jessica lately, so may I now announce that Mr. Ryan will have a baby brother before the tulips break through the ground.

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8. How is everybody doing with the worldwide financial mess? JB and I have lost more than I can count, and yet I'm not losing sleep over it. Maybe somehow I know what's really important, and our portfolio isn't it.

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9. I love my work. It is very hard and very sad work sometimes: children abandoned by their mothers, addicts digging their way back into respectability and hope, poverty choking opportunity in ways that drive me crazy.

But I seem to be able to do what's needed. The kids I have as clients really like me. I think they're surprised by that, and it tickles me to no end.

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10. I love Studio Lolo's art. I'm too rushed to create a link for her right now but you can find her through my comments. She has a light touch and a huge heart.

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11. Did you know that I am a writer? I am a writer! Finally, I know it's true.

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12. There. That's better, kj.