ORVAL HIXON'S SISTER AND FRIENDS

Cleo is Orval’s sister. She’s the one in the back on the left, wearing the sailor collar. The little boat is her’s and the other ladies in the boat are labelled as her ‘friends’. After a brief poke-around on the interwebs, I realized that this was all the information I would find on this photo. Cleo’s older brother, Orval Hixon was a prominent photographer, specializing in vaudeville portraits, including a very young and topless Joan Crawford. There’s really not that much information out there about Orval either other than a few articles on his contribution to the art world in the Mid-west.

Everything else, the names of the other women, their relationship, all of it is left up to my imagination.

I could tell the stories of each of these young ladies.

I know by just the look on the those young faces what kind of girls they are. Cleo is just barely part of the gang, clinging desperately to the edge. She will do anything they ask of her and will employ any and all tactics just to be included. Cleo knows that the young woman, I’ll call her Agnes, in the very front is infatuated with her older brother and all she had to say at the end of her invites was “Orval will be there. He’s bringing his camera. Please come.” Agnes will be the one to persuade the others; her family is among the wealthy and elite. They vacation in Europe every March. Everyone listens to Agnes because she is the ‘it’ girl. Her sister, Agatha sitting behind her, has little choice in the matter. A year younger than Agnes, Agatha would rather be at home playing her piano, but instead is always Agnes’s chaperone. Betty, the young lady sitting next to Cleo is actually Cleo’s best friend. They have known each other the longest, spent nights on sleeping porches tracing the stars and telling secrets. Betty does not understand Cleo’s obsession with this gang of women, a gang we would label as the cool girls today, but Betty understands Cleo’s desire to be liked. Don’t we all want to be liked?

Now the young lady with the tie, that’s Penelope though everyone calls her PenPen or Penny. Both nicknames cause Penelope to roll her eyes and mumble something under her breath about not being a child. Penelope is sitting in that boat because her social climbing mother practically shoved her out the door when Agnes and Agatha stopped by for tea with their mother. Agnes opened her mouth about Cleo’s little boating excursion, leaving out the part that Orval would be there with his camera. Agnes’s mother thought this sounded like a perfectly wholesome activity; she felt Cleo was a little beneath them socially, but seemed very pious. Agnes’s mother hoped that some of her piety might rub off on her daughters. Agnes knew how her mother felt about piety and Cleo and invitations from Cleo were used often by Agnes even when there was no invitation from Cleo. Agnes made her invitation to Penelope to join them sound perfunctory and expected out of kindness. Agnes was not ever going to admit this, she thought Penelope was the prettiest girl in their class. She was also very cool, not caring what anyone may say about her. Agnes was happy to invite Penelope along. She suspected that Penelope smoked cigarettes and nicked bottles of wine. Agnes wanted to be a bad girl, but lacked the bravery required to do anything on her own. So, she latched on to people who would do the bad things for her.

Penelope didn’t do any of those things except the not caring part. As far as she was concerned she was just biding her time until graduation. Her father had mentioned the possibility of sending Penelope to a girls’ college. Now Penelope would have been happier if he had left out the ‘girls’ part, but college was college. Her escape. Her freedom, or as much freedom as a young woman could expect in 1918. Penelope wanted to be a journalist and travel the world telling the stories of war torn nations and the every day struggles of the poor. She wanted action and adventure and purpose. This is why her gaze at the camera is one of boredom. Penelope is bored with the whole affair, but most particularly with Orval himself. What a waste of a man and talent. All he wanted was to stay here and take portraits of vaudeville starlets. Penelope wondered if she could get him to teach her some basic photography. Then thought better of it. She doubted she could tolerate his postering and egotistical manner, which she was sure he would have. She also didn’t doubt that he would easily construe their lesson as something else and Penelope would spend the whole time avoiding grabs and pinches.

Penelope has a story that will reach beyond the usual dutiful housewife.

THE LITTLE FORTUNE COOKIE BOOK

Saturday morning, I climbed on to my usual chair at the counter in Heirloom and opened the Fortune Cookie journal to the very last page. Then I proceeded to write my very last tiny story based off of a fortune. By the time I had filled the page, I had emptied my plate and I sat there looking from the empty plate to full page and back. Empty plate. Full page. Full book. I put the date at the top of the page so I would have a record of when I finished. I did not think to put a starting date at the beginning. I had to go searching through my old photos to find the start date. September 29th, 2015. For nine years, I have been taking a Saturday here and there and writing a story based on a prompt from a fortune cookie.

Nine years.

I closed the little journal and walked out to my car and immediately started sobbing. Heck, I just started crying while typing this. When Michael asked me how I felt about it, I told him that I couldn’t talk about it. Now, I’m not even sure I can write about it. First of all….NINE FUCKING YEARS! I can’t believe that I have been doing this for that long. Sure the practice was inconsistent. I only wrote in the journal on the Saturday mornings I was alone and taking care of the grocery shopping. There were long stretches of summer months when this didn’t happen or weekends when I was out of town. There were limits to my writing ritual. I almost treated the ritual like I do a really good chocolate bar, eating one square at time savoring the rich chocolate for days. It’s almost as if I anticipated the ending before even beginning.

I completed a journal of incomplete stories.

Well…of course I did. That’s my modus operandi. My Google Docs folder is filled with stories yet to be finished. I am nothing but stories yet to be finished and to finish anything at all feels momentous. I thought I was on the verge of turning into Chris with a stock pile of journals each containing a sentence or list here or there, never filling one up. When Michael placed that little journal into my Christmas stocking all those years ago, he had no idea it would grow into a thing or a thing I might even finish. He started looking for a replacement journal and then started to panic because he knew I was reaching the end of this journal and he had yet to find a worthy replacement. I had four pages left in the Fortune Cookie journal and in haste, he bought a blank notebook and then carefully wrote down various well known quotes on every other page. This notebook is bigger with wide spacing, room for a story to grow. It is probably the most thoughtful gift he has ever given me.

On Saturday morning, I will climb up into the chair in what I now consider to be my spot at the counter at Heirloom. I will open a brand new journal and I will weave together a new story.

THE THINGS I DON'T REGRET

I thought I was firmly planted in the idea of living a life with no regrets. It was a philosophy I shared with Chris. No Regrets! Really, though it might not be truly possible to make it through life without a few regrets. In my dwelling on and contemplation of regrets, I’ve discovered that I have more regrets than I would like to admit to having. This list started growing after…Some of those regrets would not have changed the trajectory of the life I am currently living, but I keep them filed away for later reference anyway. Regrets don’t have to be all bad; they can be very educational. It is not my intention to list my regrets. Those regrets are mine to hold close to my chest and when I lay on my death bed, I will whisper “You will never know my regrets.” to whoever is in the room or no one before slipping away from this earth. The things I do not regret are easy.

In 2008, Chris and I had zero business buying scooters. We were broke and our credit was so bad, I had to get Dad to co-sign on my loan. It was the best spur of the moment decision we ever made. I tended to hold us back on things requiring money and timing. We’ll buy a house when the timing and our finances are more secure. We’ll have a baby when we’re financially stable. We did buy a house when the timing was right. We were never financially stable enough for a baby. My choice and for sure not a regret. Particularly now. The decision to buy the scooters at the time we bought them went against all of my practical judgements. For someone raised to be practical, to avoid buying the expensive red shoes, but instead buying the expensive shoes in a color that goes with all things, purchasing the scooters felt shocking and bad girl.

I’d do it again and again a million times over.

After Chris died, I made a choice to say yes to everything. Even if it made me uncomfortable or I didn’t really want to. I said yes to dangerous encounters and meeting strangers. I feared that if I didn’t, I’d end up a hermit, never leaving the house except for work and groceries. I’d spend every evening eating a sleeve of crackers with a can of tuna, washing it down with a bottle of wine. This might seem like a perfectly reasonable meal for a Friday night, but not every day. Saying yes got me out of the house and meeting interesting people. I have some funny stories from online dating. I didn’t end up with some strange vitamin deficiency from limiting my diet to tuna, crackers and fermented grape juice.

The caveat to always saying yes is that it becomes a habit and when you really truly want to say no, you can’t.

I am learning to pay attention to the nos that I truly want to say no to. And so far, I can say that I do not regret a single thing I’ve said no to. This probably has something to do with being focused and intentional with my no. Recently, I was asked if I wanted a snow cone. I said “No, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get one for yourself.” I still ended up getting a snow cone and I ate less than half of it before I threw it away. I don’t like them. I’ve mentioned that I do not like them a number of times, yet that doesn’t ever seem to be reason enough for the person asking. This snow cone situation is a lesson and it has taken me this many years to figure out that the things I end up regretting are the things I wanted to say no to in the first place.

With one exception.

Ten years ago this June, I sat on a bench outside of Bella Napoli’s waiting for a date to show up. I was texting with Chad and I suddenly got the feeling that I did not want be there. I remember asking Chad if I could just get up and leave. Chad said that if I wasn’t feeling up to it, then I could leave. It was the permission I needed, but just as I stood up, the date walked up to me and introduced himself. I stayed when I wanted to leave. There are regrets within the relationship, things I wish I’d made more clear, moments I wish I had stood firmly with my no, but I don’t regret staying. Because right before that date, I had just decided that I could not ever be in another relationship, that I would never feel comfortable taking my clothes off in front of another human.

Never say never.

I don’t know what prompted me to tell you all of this other than that the month of May is turning out to be a month for memory tsunamis. I keep get knocked over unexpectedly with waves. It started the second to last day in April and it feels like I might need a bigger flotation device; something better than my current set of water wings. The other night I dreamed that I was deep under water, trying to swim to the surface, but I was wrapped up in fabric. I struggled to free my arms and legs and I could feel my chest convulse with the need to breathe. Just when I thought I couldn’t hold my breath a second longer, an orca swam up from under me and pressed its nose into the arch of my foot, driving me to the surface. I woke up gasping and sweating, tangled in my bedding.

I’m not going to drown.

This might be the beginning of something.

THE NEXT THING

Sunday afternoon, sitting in the sun in Sarah’s backyard for our final (for now) meeting of our book club, it was my turn to respond to the beginning session prompt. We start our sessions by going around the circle and asking how are we feeling, stating our names and saying what we are thinking about this week. My answer was that I was currently feeling nothing and that I was/am thinking a lot about what’s the next thing? A few weeks ago I down loaded and printed out Jumpstart Your Writing in Six Steps from Alice Bradley and it’s just been sitting untouched on my desk between a paper on 3D CLEM and a book someone lent me on making miso.

Monday morning, the dentist installed my permanent crowns which are so much better than the temporary ones I had to wear. This made me a little late to work and just late enough getting home for Josephine to pee and poop on my bed. I don’t know why she chose the bed. Panic? Revenge? This is probably the second accident she’s had in the house since she was potty trained (and that time at Deborah’s house where I was paying attention to her cues and she tried to poop under the Christmas tree). Everything including the mattress protector had to come off my bed and go into the wash. I took advantage of the situation and rotated my mattress all by myself and when I told Michael what I had done, he said “You’re the strongest person I know.”

I replied “That’s probably true.”

I am the strongest person he knows who cannot manage to finish even a shitty first draft of a writing project. I’ve woken up twice in the past three weeks from dreams that could be woven into frivolously fun romance books and each time I’ve failed to write any thing down. My brain wants me to write. My fingers do not want to have any thing to do with translating what my brain has to say. And I don’t know why I dance around and name this something other than what it really is. It’s like my own personal Voldemort.

And I'm writing a novel because it's never been done before - Father John Misty

I am writing a book. I am going to write a book. It might be one of the fifteen I have already started, but I am doing it. I haven’t figured out when or made up any kind of writing schedule but three days ago, I thought about buying some 3x5 notecards for organizing an outline. That’s a start, right? Yes…I know. Starting doesn’t seem to be the problem. Stamina and focus on the other hand are places where I could use some work. Are there notecards for that? Oh, wait a minute. I’ve been blogging for twenty three years. Consistently. Okay, maybe there were some weeks here and there when I didn’t update the blog, but I think of those as vacation weeks. We all need a break form time to time. But if I dissect my consistency in blogging, I can see that I am writing a little over five hundred words two to three times a week. That is almost 1,500 words a week. The average adult fiction book contains 70,000 to 150,000 words.

I need 100 weeks to write a shitty first draft.

NANOBLAHBLAH

I am not participating in National Book Writing Month or National Blog Writing Month. I really haven’t participated in either of those activities in a few years. I’ve also failed to complete a year of a photo a week project since the lockdown. All I had to do was take one photo a week for a whole year. The constraints of a theme, suffocated the project. I will say that I am very impressed with myself for completing a thirty one day photo challenge presented by LaSahwn Wiltz of Everyday Eyecandy. She posts a list of daily prompts for the month of October and every year, I save the list and say “Cindy, you are going to do this.” I last maybe five days.

This year, I did ALL of the days!

Recently, Michael broached the subject of scheduling an art showing for my photos. He reminded me of the one I had had on the books for 2020 when the world stopped and then asked what ‘we’ were going to do about scheduling another. I feel like every time Michael uses the word ‘we’ he really means me. I need to schedule another showing. I was on glass two and half of wine and not in the mood for this discussion. I told him that we could discuss this in 2023 and returned my attention to the game of Two Dots I was currently playing. That’s exactly how I want to finish out this year: tabling all discussion of personal growth and progress until 2023.

I spent an hour today on a website I used to buy a lot of t-shirts from, browsing for Christmas gifts. Then I spent an hour scrolling through photos from the year to see if I had anything decent of the three of us that I could turn into a Christmas Cars. I do not. The point is, I have found really good ways to keep myself occupied that have nothing to do with personal growth or goals set at the beginning of the year. Yes, I realize that we still have (mostly) two months left in this year, but if your life is anything like mine (and I bet it is) your calendar is filling up with social engagements, holiday planning and general fuckaround time. I currently feel like I’m on a runaway train, flying down a hill and I don’t see the point in doing anything other than just holding on.

I probably would have benefitted from participating in NaNoWriMo this year considering I had set a pretty huge book writing goal for myself at the beginning of the year. I can honestly say that I worked on that book regularly, like daily, for about six months. Then I stopped working on it because I got stuck in the same dang place I always seem to get stuck when trying to write this particular story. My inner critic usually pipes in right around now and tells me how much of a failing loser I am. My inner critic is so freaking mean. She/it is just plain awful, or at least she/it used to be just plain awful. Lately, that inner critic has been really quiet and only voiced an opinion recently by whispering “maybe this isn’t the story you’re supposed to be writing.” For a minute, I thought it was a trick, like being invited to the cool girl’s party so they could throw a bucket of cows blood on me. Or something like that…I never really saw that movie. Then my inner critic repeated her/it’s self with a gentle tone of voice and I thought , maybe this isn’t a joke.

My inner critic just gave me useful advice that didn’t even feel critical and was nice about it.

The thing about goals is that they are always present. In fact, I’m not even planning on making new ones for 2023. I’m just going to tweak the ones I have. More than half of my goals are the kind that are completed only if I’m dead. Those tend to be the goals I set to extend my life, like exercise and eating lots of kale. Those other goals are just the sprinkles on my life sundae. I don’t need them. The sundae is still delicious with our without sprinkles.

I’m a sundae in progress.

HACKING

On Sunday, I received a Facebook message from my friend Tom that included a link for someone I might have know who recently died. I clicked on the link because I’m a dummy, but to be fair it did kind of look like something Tom would send me. Tuesday morning, when I finally opened up Facebook, I was greeted to a number of messages from people (as well as a number of text messages) of concern. So then I spent the morning securing my Facebook account and sending out messages that “no. that link is not from me.” Seriously. If you clicked that link, please go change your passwords and secure your account. The nice part of all of that was that I ended up having four different chat windows open with people I hadn’t talked to in a while. It was nice to reconnect.

I forget that sometimes.

Say what you will about the internet, but I still believe that it is a resource for good. When Chris built my first blog twenty two years ago (holy goats….I’m an old lady), he told me it was for letting our friends know what was going in our lives. By this time, we’d secured a framily but our framily members had moved to other cities and states. We all had blogs as a way to stay connected. Also, Chris saw something in me that I still struggle to really see in myself, a person with creative potential. The world of blogging had a number of benefits. First, it did make it easier to stay connected with our framily. Secondly, it introduced me a number of amazing women all across this country who blog. Some of these women, I would even call ‘friends’ even though we may have only met once in real life or not at all. Some of those women no longer blog and I miss them. Some of those women might write a new post once a year and I miss them. Some of those women have new life views that have veered radically away from my own and I don’t follow them anymore. Those who remain on my list are all women that I admire and who inspire me.

Yeah, the internet can be gross. There are some pretty awful people out there who really get off from spreading their hatefulness and misinformation. But I think there’s enough of us out there who are committed to sharing truths, light and goodness that we can drown out the voices of those awful people. Which reminds me. I need to reach out and leave more words of encouragement and support, not just for my blogging friends but for those distant friends who I haven’t spoken to in a while.

Again. IF YOU CLICKED THE LINK IN MESSENGER CHANGE YOUR PASSWORD! SECURE YOUR ACCOUNT!

MY ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND

We wandered into a very neat and tidy little independent bookshop on Granville Island in Vancouver and there was a table covered with classic books. Except, when I picked up one of the books and flipped it open, I discovered a blank page. All of the pages were blank and I knew that I had to have one of these journals disguised as books. I chose a blank copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It has been sitting on my desk ever since our return. That’s not unusual. I often buy a new notebook and then wait for a while before I start writing in the thing. I find the new, clean pages of a notebook to be the most soothing aspect of owning it. I am always hesitant to put ink or pencil lead on any of the pages for fear of messing up the beauty of the page.

Of course, after all this time I never thought of flipping that way of thinking. Instead of messing up the page, I could be adding to the beauty of the page.

I’ve been focusing on where I feel the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’ when I say them out loud and when I came across this particular journal, my heart leapt with a resounding yes. I had no idea what I would do with it, nor did I have a need for the book. I just knew I wanted it. I do recognize that I am beginning to fall into a recognizable habit of owning journals that never get filled up. I have a stack of notebooks in my cedar chest that only have writing on the first four or five pages, leaving the rest of the books blank. They are Chris’s notebooks. I never go in and read them, but I will never throw them away. Now I have become the person with multiple journals floating around the house. This one contains a story idea. That one is more than half full of yoga classes I prepared for teaching. Let’s not forget the mostly full Fortune Cookie notebook. That one, right now, is the winner. Not only is it only twenty or so pages away from being filled, it is filled with inspiration. Part of returning to our regularly scheduled program around here, includes me getting back into the Fortune Cookie notebook.

I sat down with that notebook on Saturday morning for the first time in a long time, and I didn’t know how to even begin. Then, just as the story really got good to me, I ran out of room on the page. There is a very disciplined side of me that almost refuses to even place a dot of ink in the new journal before I finish the Fortune Cookie notebook. But I have a packet of fine tipped colored markers setting on top of the Wonderland journal and a clear image in my head of drawing fanciful mushrooms and intricate flowers and maybe filling this one up with something other than words.

I am not an artist.

I am an artist.

Cindy’s Adventures in Learning to Be. That’s the true title of this book.

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

It was the kind of place where you had to bring your own beer, but the fish sandwiches were perfectly fried. I sat at the bar, with a six pack, well, now dwindled to a four pack, of Abita sat under my feet. It was odd for this fish shack to have a bar, but no booze. The owner, Eric, was dark and broody and preferred his customers to take their food and go. This would might have worked if his niece, Sally, his only employee, hadn’t started the byob rumor to get customers into her uncle’s fish shop. I sat at the bar with my Abitas every Friday evening, sharing my beers with Sally, eating a fish sandwich and playing dice with Sally in between her waitressing duties. I was pretty sure Eric didn’t like me. I’d only lived in the area for about a year. Most people were still a bit suspicious, but Eric seemed genuinely irritated by presence.

This particular evening seemed extra irritating. It was hot and muggy. The air had that electrical smell it gets before a storm. Newscaster’s and weathermen were already talking about expected damages. No one in the fish shack looked particularly concerned, but customers were more inclined to get their orders to go. At 9 pm on a Friday night, Sally and I were the only two left out front with Eric banging around in the kitchen. I handed Sally my last Abita and said “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back and then I’m packing up to go.” I could see lightning flashing in the distance. Sally pouted and whined “It’s too early. Storm season is so boring.” Eric stuck his head out the order window and looked directly at me. “We should close shop early tonight, Sally.” I headed to the bathroom.

When I came out, the place was deserted. Half the lights were turned off. I could hear Eric in the kitchen washing up the last of the dishes. “Hey…um…did Sally leave? I’m just going to grab my stuff….Eric?” I yelled hoping he’d hear me over the running water. I reached down for my bag, but the strap had gotten wrapped around the heavy barstool next to it. I bent down and tilted the bar stool with my shoulder and freed the strap, struggling slightly with the weight and number of beers I’d had. I stood up a little unsteadily and turned around and then ran right into Eric’s not so soft chest. He grabbed my upper arms to steady me and when I looked up at his face, he was looking down at me with one eyebrow raised. “It’s raining.” He said. I paused and could hear the rain hitting the metal roof. “Yup, it sure is. You know…I’m only at the end of the street. I think I can get a little wet.” I said. Thunder cracked suddenly and I jumped, again bumping into Eric’s body. This time I jumped back like I’d been scalded. Jesus, Cindy, get it together, I thought to myself.

“Look, I appreciate your concern, but really I’ll be fine. Plus, I’m pretty sure I am the last person you probably want to be trapped in a storm with.” I said. Eric chuckled. “Why would you think that? I feed you every Friday night and you talked Sally into going back to school. I’m just not warm and fuzzy, I guess, but I like you just fine.” It was the way he said that last bit. It made my mouth go dry and my breath catch in my throat. Then Eric leaned down close and said “I probably like you more than I want to like you. In fact, I knew you’d be a pain in my ass the first time you walked in that door.” I don’t know, maybe it was the beer, but at the next boom of thunder, instead of jumping back, I jumped forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and planting my lips on his. He didn’t seem all that surprised by my action because his large hands went straight down to grip my ass.

And that is when I woke up gasping and realizing that I could probably write a decent trashy romance novel. In my sleep.

THE STRETCH

She looked at the blinking cursor, interlaced her fingers and stretched them as if preparing to play an intricate piano piece. Then, placing her fingers onto the keyboard, she stared at the blank screen in front of her.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

She gently tapped her fingers on the keys without pressing hard enough to even leave behind a gibberish row of letters. What to write? What to right? Whatto right? Whattoryete? The question of what to write was now a semantic satiation. Then she mentally applauded herself for the use of ‘semantic satiation’. Sighing heavily and shaking her head, she mumbled “there is no story here.”

Still, she sat there, scrolling her fingers lightly across the keys waiting for a bit of inspiration, some sign or cue to strike. She marveled at how easy it was to distract herself from the art of actually writing. It was all too easy to open up the New York Times and play a round of spelling bee. She justified the game as a way of helping her brain. The puzzle of finding words may just help her find words for writing. Then, during breaks in her game, she could easily go check in on what other people were doing in social media. An hour could easily pass by while scrolling through some celebrity’s instagram feed, looking for real life images versus the carefully crafted social media image.

The question of what is keeping her from her goals was asked during her Self Care Meeting with her self care therapist and she easily answered “Me. I am the one standing in the way.” She knows that she is the one criticizing her abilities to write anything at all. She is the one saying “Well, you can’t write that. What will people think?!?” She is the one who has mastered the whole deer in the headlights action. When shit gets difficult, she freezes. All ability to make any sort of decision comes to a halt. Do not ask her what she wants for dinner today, tomorrow or next week. Do not expect her to make any phone calls. Oh, there’s water backing up in the basement you say? She is just going to ignore that and pretend that it will fix itself. Her low tire pressure light has been on in her car for weeks. Inaction during a time when action is needed or required is her superpower.

She looks at the blinking cursor and knows the thing she avoiding is not the actual writing but the actual writing down of a truth that exists inside her that she doesn’t really want to tell. If she tells it then people will know that this thing, this truth, is something that she believes. This thing she believes is more than stupid and ridiculous, but she can’t be talked out of believing that this stupid, ridiculous thing is true. So not only is she about to admit to believing this stupid ridiculous thing, she’s going to admit that she is so stubborn that you will not be able to persuade her otherwise.

She sighs and then allows herself to become distracted by the paper’s daily crossword puzzle.

HERE'S WHAT'S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW

I’m at work, drinking coffee but reminding myself to drink some water today. I currently have my work calendar open. The calendar for microscope bookings is open and my work email. Then I have my gmail page open and of course, this page is open. I also have a spreadsheet of addresses that I am in the process of updating open and then there’s a New York Times article that I opened to read entitled “Why You Procrastinate”. I’ve read the title.

Wait…I just went over and read a couple of paragraphs and now have hurt feelings.

Procrastination is also derived from the ancient Greek word akrasia — doing something against our better judgment.

“It’s self-harm,” said Dr. Piers Steel, a professor of motivational psychology at the University of Calgary and the author of “The Procrastination Equation: How to Stop Putting Things Off and Start Getting Stuff Done.”

Now you have hurt feelings too and I’m sorry.

The topic of self care really has hit its peak during the pandemic. Before 2019, self care was all bubble baths and scented candles. Then we all went into a lockdown that eventually ended, but doesn’t feel like it ended because today’s average for COVID cases is around 83,000 with somewhere around 950 deaths. If you ignore it, it goes away does not apply to COVID. We’re all wishing for a unicorn. Self care had to step up its game to deal with all of us who suddenly had too much time on their hands and discovered how broken their brains really are. As a result, I get more ads for online therapy and really expensive lounge wear. Look, I’m not going to pay $200 for a pair of pants that are only for sleeping. I might pay $100.

My house is mostly cleaned and organized. I found our menorah, which is always difficult because I never put it back in the same place every year. I have a plan for Christmas decorations and most of my shopping done. I have not procrastinated on seasonal obligations. In fact, I am ahead of schedule. I am always ahead of all of my made up schedules. This has always been my truth. Yet, I constantly feel like I am not getting ‘things’ done. I don’t know what those ‘things’ are, except I kind of might know what those ‘things’ are. I just don’t want to ‘fess up to them.

“People engage in this irrational cycle of chronic procrastination because of an inability to manage negative moods around a task.” - Dr. Fuschia Sirois

That sentence up there? When I read it, I burst into tears at my desk. There’s a whole lot of negative stuff on my pros and cons list for some stuff I have procrastinated on for years. It all boils down to vulnerability and how vulnerable I will allow myself to be. Just the thought of it makes my hands clammy and shaky and I want to throw up. Do you know how many times I accused Chris of procrastinating because his office was always a wreck?!? Look Chris…I don’t know where you are right now because you have not been seen in a dream in some time, but wherever you are I want you to know that I am sorry for calling you out for procrastinating when I was guilty of it the whole time.

That last part is a revelation I had not expected when I started writing this post and now I don’t know if I’m queasy because of it or if I’m just hungry because it’s lunch time.

IF I HAD A PONY

Cindy pulled her fuzzy robe on, tying the belt before sliding her feet into her warmest slippers. She shuffled to the kitchen and poured herself a mug of coffee which she carried with her to the covered back porch. “Josephine! Let’s go outside!” Cindy said as she held open the door for her little dog and the two of them traveled outside into the crisp Fall morning. Josephine toddled down the steps to do her morning business and Cindy dragged a chair close to the patio railing. She nestled into the chair, propping her feet up on the railing while cupping her warm mug of coffee with both hands. Josephine eventually makes her way back up the steps and settles down at Cindy’s side. Both of them sat there, peacefully staring out across the lake. It is too early out for most. The water is calm and still. The leaves have just begun to change colors and the water’s edge dances with the greens, reds and golds of the season. Cindy and Josephine can hear the honking first before seeing the flock of geese fly in for a landing near the dock next door. Josephine growls at the geese before settling back into her morning nap. Cindy smiles and rubs her foot on the top of Josephine’s head, taking a sip of her coffee.

Mornings had always been Cindy’s favorite time of day. She had always been an early riser and this allowed her access to the still quiet that can only be found in the first few hours of a new day. In those hours, Cindy had the earth all to herself. This was time for her and her alone. She often spent this time lingering over a cup of coffee while writing in one of her many journals. Since moving to the lake house, the routine fluctuates between writing and staring at the lake. Occasionally, a small fishing boat will float by. Cindy and the person fishing will exchange good mornings and then Cindy will spend the rest of the morning concocting a tale centered around the fisherman. Who he is. Why he fishes. What he’s fishing for. Who is waiting at home for him. Cindy paints a picture in her head that answers all of these questions and more. Sometimes she even writes that story down. This morning though, she is content to sit and be part of the stillness. It is late in the season and there are bound to be few boats out today at all. Her own boat has been covered and sits in the dry dock wrapped up for the coming winter. Very few people stayed or even visited their lake houses in the winter. This would be Cindy’s first winter at the lake, as the lake house was no longer just for vacations and rentals. She was curious and a little anxious to see what winter would be like here. Would there be snow? Ice? Both? She had already started a list of things to prepare. Generator. Gas tanks. Bulk food storage. Firewood.

They would be fine.

Cindy sipped her coffee while the others slept and dreamed that this was her real life.

Jack and Diane

Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Diane was surprised that she could hear the sound of Jack’s mustang speeding down her gravel drive over her mother’s shrill voice. “You keep this behavior up Diane and you’ll end up just like me. Tied down with kids you didn’t want, living in a rundown trailer in the middle of nowhere.” Diane was out and slamming the door on her mother’s ‘nowhere’. She bounded down the porch steps and hopped into Jack’s car. “Just go.” she told him as she leaned back into his cracked leather seats. Jack peeled out of the drive, spitting gravel out the back tire. He had the windows rolled down and Jackie waved her hand out the window, playing with the wind as he flew down the county road.

“Where ya want to go, Diane.” Jack asked as he placed a hand on her thigh. Diane, her head turned towards her window, brushed a tear away with one hand while she brushed Jack’s hand off her thigh with the other hand. Jack, slightly miffed by the brush off, placed both hands on the wheel and increased the pressure on the gas pedal. He flew past the brown state park sign and Diane yelled ‘Stop! Circle around. Let’s go take that Spring Creek trail down to the lagoon.” Jack did a u-turn in the road and headed back to the state park entrance. He still had some hope that he’d be able to put his hands on more than just Diane’s thigh, maybe even get handjob in the woods. Diane knew what Jack was thinking. She wasn’t with him because he was bright. She was with him because he was easy, simple. He was transparent in what he wanted from her and he was way out of getting stuck babysitting her little brother and sister. Diane would probably give him that handjob he was hoping for.

Jack parked his car at the trailhead parking lot and they headed down the steep trail that led to a lagoon of emerald green water. Diane was wearing a pair of sandals she’d found in the clothing donation box outside the Baptist Church. The sandals were not made for hiking this sort of trail or walking in general, but the shoes, painted silver, made Diane feel classy. She slipped several times as they made their way down the trail, each time Jack catching her before she hit the ground. Each time, grabbing some of her flesh in the palm of his hand, letting it linger there. Diane ignored it and kept on making her way down towards the lagoon and when she broke through the forest and into the clearing near the lagoon, she kicked off her fancy sandals. Diane made her way to a tree at the edge of the water. The tree had a large, thick limb that stretched out over the lagoon and bowed like a hammock. Diane was nimble and easily climbed up the tree and out onto that branch, settling herself into the bowed section. She turned her head towards the water as she heard Jack step out into the clearing. Diane smiled to herself briefly because she knew Jack couldn’t climb out on the limb with her. She could be alone without having to constantly brush off his hands.

Jack frowned when he saw Diane lounging on that tree limb. He found a large flat rock near the base of the tree and sat there, throwing pebbles into the water. Diane stared out at the green water, hearing all the things her mother always yelled at her and wondering what she was going to do after high school. She hated that her mother might be right, that she might end up in another trailer park, with a husband who spent his paychecks on meth and one too many kids running around with dirty diapers or snotty noses. Diane hadn’t said anything about taking the ACT or even let on that she was studying for it. She couldn’t bear the ridicule she’d recieve for crappy scores. Diane was surprised when the test results came back and she’d gotten good scores, like scholarship level scores. Mr. Evans, the guidance counselor, told Diane that she’d probably get into any college she wanted and that there would be scholarships and financial aid. No one in her family had ever gone to college. Diane could be the first. She could be the first to do a lot of things.

While Diane sat on that branch staring at the water, contemplating life, Jack sat on his rock, staring at Diane, contemplating his own wants and his own life.

A FULL TABLE

I have some time right now. So I opened up my outline for the Table Stories book idea to see what was next in my list to work on. The outline read “Shrimp: Chris, New Orleans” and I slumped while whispering “fuuuuck me”. The last story I wrote in this series was hard. In fact it was so difficult and released so much buried feelings that I thought that story was going to be the worst of it. Silly, silly Cindy. You think I’m going to give up alcohol for a month and write about Chris in New Orleans during the same month in which I watched his body break down and disintegrate? Look, I ain’t no emotional superhero. I think I’m going to skip that one for now and move on to a story that I have been craving.

When we were all young and still in undergrad, Chris and I would host Breakfast Nights in the apartment we shared with Amy. The kitchen in that apartment was so small that if I wanted to make biscuits, I had to roll them out on our dining room table. I think the kitchen in my pop-up camper has the same amount of counter space as that kitchen in that apartment had. Breakfast Nights were my favorite thing. We’d start calling our friends up and tell them to come over and bring something like bacon or bread or eggs. Chris and I would stand shoulder to shoulder at the tiny stove, me flipping pancakes while he cooked bacon. The dining room table would be loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes and all the stuff to put on toast and pancakes. It was a buffet and after everyone loaded up their plates, we would all find places to sit in our living room, some of us on the couch, some of us cross legged on the floor. There would be laughter and shenanigans and sometimes, games. Everyone would leave with full bellies and it was cheap.

Breakfast Nights were my first introduction to the joy that can be had in the gathering of friends around a table. Later in life, Chris and I would share a CSA with Misti. On pick up day, we would gather in Misti’s Brokedown Palace to divide our weekly veggies. Then we’d make a dinner with some of our haul and sit around Misti’s table, eating and laughing and being silly. If the weather was good, we’d end up sitting around a fire pit in Misti’s backyard until late into the evening hours. There was so much side aching laughter. We were laughing all the time. At what, I could not even tell you. We just laughed. That is the thing that I can tell you about every gathering of friends around a table. No matter what was on that table, there was always laughter. Those of us who have been following guidelines to protect ourselves and our loved ones from a deadly virus are all really missing those types of gatherings right now. That’s probably why I am craving these memories and stories. I miss those gatherings. I miss you, but with patience and hope I know we will all have new gatherings for creating new memories.

Some day.

A MONTH OF WRITING

I am considering participating in NaNoWriMo next month. I make an attempt at this just about every year and every year, I reach a sticking place where no words come to me and I stare at the winking cursor on the screen. Type something. Type something. Type something. Then all the things I am not clouds over all the things I want to be. I give up and walk away from it. I am real good at giving up on the hard stuff. Maybe it is time to dig into the hard stuff. Maybe I should stop laughing in the face of people who tell me I should write a book.

I sat down this morning to work out an outline. The first thing I wrote is “What is the story I want to tell?” That is as far as I got. The first thing I thought when I asked myself that question was “Chris”. It always come back to telling the story of Chris. Except the story isn’t really about him. It always ends up being about me. Me me me. There is nothing extraordinary about our love story. We met in the cafe during the end of our freshman year. Books were mentioned and Chris said to me, almost mockingly “Oh, and what kind of books do you like to read?” I remember narrowing my eyes at him and thinking “I’ll show you!” Then I told him that I liked Dean Koontz, Michael Crichton. I said that I’ve read some John Grisham, but his story lines are all the same and that sometimes I like to read a trashy romance novel. The look on his face shifted from mockery to impressed. A few weeks later we went on our first ‘date’. At the end of it he said “I really like you.” Chris’s honesty completely won me over.

That was it. From that moment on we were just a unit.

There is not much of a story there. No, the story always comes later with Chris’s death. I don’t like that story. I don’t like telling a story of what it is like to not be a unit. The sadness. The depression. The day to day missing of him. That story sucks. It could be a story about discovering my own identity without Chris, but I am not sure I actually have discovered my own identity. I am still trying to figure out who I am, who I am not. I went into Target today without a list or a plan. I ended up dumping twenty dollars worth of face stuff into my basket. I bought a lip mask. A fucking lip mask. Am I now that person who buys ridiculous masks for specific parts of my face? My chin is so broken out right now. I look like I am trying to recreate my puberty. Actually, I don’t think my skin was this bad during puberty. And see what I’ve done here? I’ve completely veered off and have changed the subject.

I can’t sit down for a month of writing if I don’t even know what story I want to tell. This feels like giving up before even starting. I am leaning towards a collection of stories, one centered around food. Probably because I’m hungry, but I can see something brewing now in my brain. Not a recipe book exactly, but a series of essays centered around the table. Table Stories. It could be a mix of stories from my youth, my time with Chris and now. Little bittersweet stories of memories.

Thanks for letting me brainstorm. I now have fourteen things on my outline and I am starting to get a little excited about writing. That’s a feeling I haven’t had in a while.

REVERSE PAGE OF PENTACLES, THREE OF RODS AND FIVE OF SWORDS

Abby sat at the end of the cot, cradling a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hands. She stared down at her shoes that had grown into a patchwork of duct tape to cover holes. Abby wondered how it was that her shoes had so many holes, yet the shoe laces were still intact with no frays and neatly tied. It was as if the manufactures had put more care into making the laces than they had the shoes. Someone on the cot next to Abby coughed. She turned to look at the mound of a person curled onto their side, then she looked up and around her. Most of the cots were occupied with maybe only one or two still unclaimed. She new there would be a fight over the few remaining cots what with the temperatures promising to drop below zero for the night.

Abby wasn’t sure she would consider herself lucky to have gotten the cot she was now sitting on. There was time she had slept on silk sheets piled with down comforters. If she closed her eyes, she could picture the lace pattern of the canopy above her old bed. Then she remembered the way it had appeared to melt when she had accidentally, on purpose, set it on fire. That had been the beginning of her end. After that, Abby shaved one side of her head and pierced her nose. Her mother, who was already furious over the whole bed canopy fire, had nearly exploded over Abby’s new look. Abby responded by rolling her eyes and then finding ways to avoid her mother. This hadn’t been too hard. Abby’s mother spent most of her time fixated on herself with her work outs, massages and face lifts. Abby hated how her mother fixated on the perfection of her body and how that fixation would sometimes spill over onto Abby’s body. Abby had hated a lot of things about her mother, but Abby had also hated every thing about her own life as well. School was the worst. All of the girls were the same vapid carbon copies of each other. The teachers were just as bad. None of them ever listened. No one in Abby’s life had ever listened.

Except Jared. He listened to Abby. Jared had made Abby feel seen, like she was someone special. Cool. He had paid attention to the things she said, how she railed against how fucked up society was and how she wanted to make really important art. Jared was the first boy to kiss her, to touch her. He taught her about sex and how to roll a joint. Abby had liked both of those things probably too much. One night, while they were high, Jared said that they should just pack a bag and run off. Abby thought about it for a hot minute before agreeing. She ran home, threw a bunch of things into a bag and left with Jared thinking she would never look back. The next five years had been a blur of bus stations, alleys and drugs. At first Jared had told her that they would get jobs and find an apartment. They hitchhiked to Chicago where Abby found a job at a fast food place. Jared found them a place to stay in an abandoned building. Abby worked all day frying things in a deep fryer. She came home smelling like hot oil and Jared would be laying on the bed they had made from an old mattress, the needle resting on the floor where he’d let it drop. When he’d finally come to, he’d ask Abby for her paycheck and then get mad at her when she’d tell him no. He’d yell and throw things. A few times he hit her. Every time he took the money from her bag any way.

All of Abby’s money went to drugs. She used Jared’s leftovers when she could. Then Abby started stealing food from work. She managed to get away with it for over two weeks before the manager caught on. The manager told her she could keep her job for a blow job and he’d let her keep the food that went into the garbage at nights. Abby was surprised by how numb she felt when she agreed to the manager’s terms. She needed money and food. So what if she had to suck this creep’s dick. Of course it wasn’t just a blow job. That one act turned into multiple acts, each more degrading than the other. Then one day she came home from work to find the building they had been living completely boarded up with signs posted for demolition. Abby pried off a board near the back of the building and climbed in one of the many broken windows. Jared was gone, along with all of their belongings. He did not leave a note. Abby roamed the city parks and alleys looking for Jared that first night. By the second night, she realized that she was on her own. No Jared. No clothes. No drugs. No place to sleep. Abby dragged a box into the alley next to the fast food place where she worked and slept there until she was discovered a week later, again by the manager. This time, the manager tired of Abby showing up late and dirty, fired her. Now Abby had no job.

Sitting on her cot with a now cold cup of coffee, Abby realized that she should have never listened to Jared. She thought that maybe she should call her mother. Maybe she should just try to go home, back to her old room with silk sheets and comforter on the bed and lace curtains. She thought about her collection of plastic ponies lined up neatly on a shelf in her room. Abby hadn’t touched them in ages, but now she had the strongest desire to brush each one’s hair with a tiny comb. She wanted feel the soft carpet of her bedroom under her bare feet. Abby wanted to be home.

Maybe she would call her mother.

Maybe.

COMPLETE THE STORY

Complete the story

Someone asked me recently what I was doing with my writing. I replied with “I don’t even know. Nothing?” That someone then told me that I was too good of a writer to just do “nothing”. That’s nice. I mean, I didn’t say that, but I thought it. I also thought “I am not ‘too good’ of a writer.” I am not much of a writer at all. Where’s my book? Where’s my audience? Why do I even do this? “I am worthless!”, I say to myself as I dramatically shove everything off my desk. Not really. Probably only about 98% of my ‘actions’ only happen in my head. My head is filled with zings, bams, kapows, and yowzas. Every time I pick up the fly swatter to kill a fly, I am mentally drawing a Samurai sword and I’m killing Bill. Move over Herman. You have nothing happening inside your head that is more action packed, crazy pants than what’s going on in mine. Bonus points to who ever gets that shout-out to Herman.

Part of me wants to tell you that I am really good at wasting time. That is why there is no book. That is why my writing is going no where. The other side of that is that I am not necessarily wasting time. I mean, give me a break. How much more things do I need to put into my day?!? I am already focusing on doing my actual job that pays the bills, my mental and physical health, feeding my creativity with a daily photo, and reading some important books. On top of that, I’m staying informed with the daily news (not your rumor mill telephone game news, but actual news) and keeping up with scientific papers. I’m cooking healthy meals and taking care of animals. I’VE GOT LAUNDRY TO DO! WATER TO DRINK! And some where in the middle of all of that I should be doing something with my writing. I recognize that I don’t have to time for writing a book is also an excuse. Really, what has happened here, is that I have not prioritized my writing. I have placed all other activities above my writing.

Saturday afternoon, Michael returned home from a shopping outing with the Cabbage. She’s turning ten next week and Michael got her a phone for her birthday. Don’t even. The phone is necessary for some independence. She currently only has phone numbers, no apps or social media, on this phone. After they got the phone, the two of them went over to Five Below because she loves all the crap you can buy in that place. Michael nabbed me a new journal. It’s one of those writing prompt journals where you are given a few sentences and then you complete the story. I thanked him and then wedged the journal into a group of other journals/notebooks on my desk. That is when I noticed the title of the journal, boldly written on the spine: Complete the Story. The title of that journal knows things. I have probably half a dozen incomplete stories sitting in a Google drive folder right now.

Maybe this a nudge for me to change some priorities and complete a story.

THE NINE OF SWORDS, THE LOVERS AND THE ACE OF SWORDS

Diana stared at her reflection in the full length mirror while her mother adjusted the veil that had been painfully pinned into Diana’s elaborate hairdo. She felt a tightness in her chest, her breath restricted by the tight bodice of her dress. Diana did not recognize the woman staring back at her. For one thing, she had never worn this much makeup in her life. Her hair was a stiff tower of curls. Diana felt herself sway as she balanced herself in the white silk heels she had on her feet. Feet that you could not even see unless she lifted the thousands of layers of silk and tool that made up her skirt. Diana closed her eyes and tried to tune out the chatter of the women that filled the room. She had only one thought: This was a terrible mistake. That thought was now looping through Diana’s brain in various iterations. The dress was a mistake. The veil was a mistake. All this god-awful makeup and towering hair was a mistake. She was making a terrible mistake.

Diana’s skin felt like it had just gone up in flames and the room began to tilt. “I need air!” Diana gasped as she shoved her way past her bridesmaids who consisted of a gaggle of cousins Diana barely knew, leaving her mother gaping at her. “Diana! Wait….” Diana didn’t hear the rest of what her mother had to say. She had already made her way down the hallway that led to an exit door. Diana pushed hard on the double doors that led to the outside and felt the doors bounce open. She felt like she had just busted out of jail, except she still couldn’t breathe. Diana fumbled with the zipper at the back of the dress, frantically turning in a circle as she tried to reach the zipper. “Do you need some help?” Diana jerked her head around at the voice. He stood there, in his suit, a cigarette casually balanced between two fingers in his right hand. Roger. Diana continued to struggle for her zipper as she snapped “No! I’m fine. I got this.” Then she immediately fell over on the lawn, a puddle of tool and silk. She felt hot tears beginning to well up in her eyes and she still could not catch her breath.

Roger dropped his cigarette to ground and stepped on it to put it out. Without saying a word, he bent down, placed one hand on her shoulder and grabbed the zipper with other hand. He tugged on the zipper and undid it down to Diana’s waist. Diana gasped in the first full breath she’d been able take since her mother had zipped her up in this stupid dress. Roger pulled his colored pocket square from his suit pocket and handed it to Diana. She carefully blotted under her eyes with it and sniffled. “Thanks.” Roger sat down on the lawn next to Diana, knees bent so that his wrists could rest on the tops of his knees. Casual and comfortable even in his suit and dress shoes. “This is all your fault you know.” Diana said. “Which part?” he replied. “I would have gone through with all of this if you hadn’t showed up.” Diana said as she reached for her feet and started pulling off her shoes. She tossed them one at a time as far as she could throw them. They both landed in a hedge that had been trimmed into a shape of a rabbit. “Well, now, you see that sounds like I’ve done you a favor. You can thank me for keeping you from a joyless, miserable marriage.” Roger leaned back onto his elbows and looked up at Diana, squinting a little into the sun.

Diana snorted a laugh. “Why the fuck did you wait so long? My parents are going to be pissed you know. Derek’s family has paid for most of this extravagant fiasco of a wedding, but Dad is still mad at Mom about the money she spent on all of the dresses. Mostly her own dresses, but still. And Derek’s mother. She’s terrifying under regular circumstances. I wouldn’t be surprised if flames literally shot out of her mouth when she finds out I’m not walking down that isle.” Roger hopped up and then extended a hand to Diana. “Well, then I guess we better hurry up and get out of here before they try to stop us.” Diana looked at Roger’s hand and started to smile. She placed her hand in his and he tugged to help her up. Diana shook her head, looked Roger in the eye and said “Where’s your car?”

WHEEL OF FORTUNE, A REVERSE FIVE OF RODS, AND THE KNIGHT OF PENTACLES

Story time

Ella slumped back into the Adirondack chair and watched the flames leaping up from the large fire pit. She was the only one out and had the patio all to herself. Tucking her feet up under her, she let her shoulders relax and she sighed, looking up at the night sky. It really was beautiful here, even better than the pictures in the brochure. Ella reached down for her metal water bottle and took a swig of the vodka she’d filled the bottle with. She winced and thought she should have filled it half with vodka and half with grapefruit juice. Instead, she’d filled the bottle to the top. Ella shrugged, took another gulp and savored the warmth of the alcohol as it travelled down her throat. The fire continued to crackle and pop. An owl hooted in the distance. Ella took another sip of vodka.

The vodka was contraband. The brochure had strictly prohibited drugs and alcohol of any kind. This was a health and spiritual retreat with a strict vegan meal plan, morning meditation and yoga, and mindful nature walks. When Ella arrived, she had been handed a journal of handmade paper and a rubber band bundle of colored pencils. The woman at check-in, Rain, had handed them to Ella with a smile and said “it’s for writing and sketching your visions.” Ella had taken the journal and mumbled a ‘thank you’ as she gathered her bags to head to her cabin. “You have free time until six. Then we’ll have our opening ceremony with our evening meal. I so hope you enjoy your time here with us.” Rain said, her focus already turning to the next guest in line. Ella had then followed the path that led to her cabin, which looked a little run down. Once inside, Ella threw her bags on the bed that was covered with a calico quilt of blues. She was pleasantly surprised to find the inside did not match the outside. The place was rather nice in a rustic sort of way. It was clean and she had her own private bathroom with a beautiful copper soaking tub. Ella thought this completely met the definition of ‘glamping’. Ella wasn’t much of an unpacker, but she had taken the time to empty out the small bag of groceries she’d brought with her, putting things in the mini-fridge and setting stuff out on the little kitchen counter. Then she had taken a look at the things she had brought, particularly the bottle of vodka and the family size package of Double Stuffed Oreos. She gathered those up and shoved them into the cabinet under the sink before heading out to explore the rest of the camp.

Ella took another drink from her water bottle. She was going to have to pace herself if that bottle was going to last her the week. Her stomach grumbled. Dinner had been lacking in substance and mostly kale. Ella fished an Oreo out from the pocket of her hoodie and was just about to take a bite when she heard the sounds of footsteps. Ella shoved the whole cookie into her mouth just as another camper walked into the light from the fire. “Oh! I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here for some reason. Is it okay if I join you?” The woman asked Ella, whose mouth was still full of cookie. Ella nodded her head while trying to swallow down the chewed up cookie that had by now turned itself into a ball of mush. She took a large drink from her water bottle, forgetting that is did not contain water and nearly choked before managing to squeak out “sure!” Ella noticed that the woman had her own metal water bottle and wondered if it was also filled with contraband like her own. “I’m Diane.” she said as she started to take a seat next to Ella. “Ella. Please to meet you.” Diane leaned back into her chair, opened her water bottle and took a sip of some dark red looking ‘water’. “Cheers!” Diane said as she held out her bottle for a clink. Ella chuckled and raised her water bottle, clinking it against Diane’s bottle. “Cheers!” Diane was wearing a pretty stylish wool poncho. She fished around in the front pocket and pulled out two Snickers bars. “Want one? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving after that bowl of grass clippings they called dinner.” Diane said as she waved one of the candy bars, eyebrows raised. Ella pulled the sleeve of Oreos she’d stashed inside her hoodie pocket. “I’d love one. How about some Oreos?” Diane grinned as she pulled two cookies from the sleeve. “I think we’re going to be friends.” Ella smiled and replied “I think so too.”

The two women sat quietly for a moment and then Diane asked “What made you decide to come to this retreat?” Ella groaned “It’s a long stupid story involving a boy. Or a man child. It was a bad relationship that ended just as badly. I saw the brochure at my corner coffee shop and for some crazy reason thought this was exactly what I needed in that moment. What about you?” Diane took a sip from her bottle. “My last kid has just left for college. Empty nester. That and I found out my husband has been sleeping with his dental hygienist for the last seven years.” Ella winced and said “ouch.” They both took drinks from their water bottles. Ella looked at Diane. She did not look old enough to have a kid in college let alone multiple adult children. Ella handed over the sleeve of cookies and said “I would never have guessed you were old enough to have adult children.” Diane took another cookie. “My husband, soon to be ex, is a very popular dentist. I haven’t had any major plastic surgery, but I usually spend a week at a particular spa every year and I have a personal trainer. Who I should totally start boning.” Ella laughed and agreed “Yes…yes you should.”

The two women were quiet for a bit, both staring at the flames that were beginning to die out. “What do you expect to get out of this week?” Ella asked. Diane made a face and thought for a minute. “You know…I’m really angry at Allen, my husband. I worked a crappy job to help put him through dental school, had his children, gave up my own hopes of furthering my education and having a career of my own because he thought it would be best if I stayed home and took care of the home. I love my children, I really do, but I also wanted something of my own and I’m really angry that I let him take that away from me. I guess, if I get anything out of this week it would be figuring out a way to let all of that anger go.” Ella nodded thoughtfully. “Wow. I’m just hoping to lose ten pounds and have some nap times.” Diane laughed and said “I’m hoping for those things too, but I doubt that’s all you expect from the week.” Ella stared at the glowing embers of what was left of the fire. “That terrible relationship? Well…for a while I let that boy make me believe that I was worthless and lucky to even have him notice me. He made feel small and he crushed every artistic endeavor that I came up with. I was talentless. I was nothing. The stupid thing is that I knew none of that was true, but I let him do it to me anyway. I probably could have let him emotionally abuse me for a really long time, but not the physical abuse. He beat up pretty bad. That’s what it took for me to leave. The leaving part made feel strong and brave for a very sort amount of time, but I’m still afraid. I’m still hanging on to that fear of being talentless and nothing. So…maybe this week will give me some sort of roadmap to bravery.”

Diane raised her water bottle and said “Here’s to a week of angry bravery!” Ella laughed and clinked her water bottle with Diane’s and shouted “Angry Bravery!” They each ate another Oreo and watched as the fire finally died out.

ACE OF SWORDS, KING OF SWORDS AND THE NINE OF PENTACLES

Today's short story

Carrie adjusted the collar on her blouse and smoothed her hands down her skirt as she turned sideways in front of her full length mirror. Her roommate, Martin sat cross legged in the middle of Carrie’s bed. He had wrapped one of Carrie’s silk scarves around his head and was flipping through an old deck of tarot cards. “Where did you get these old cards? And why do you of all people have them?” Carrie pulled off the blazer she had just tried on, flung it over her shoulder and struck a pose. “They were my grandma’s. I guess you can say they were my inheritance. And what do you mean me of all people? Blazer? No blazer?” Martin looked up from the cards. “No blazer. And I just mean, you’re very practical and don’t go in for lala shit.”

Carrie looked at her reflection in the mirror. She had on a teal blouse with a high slightly ruffled neck and cap sleeves. The blouse was tucked into a pin striped pencil skirt. Carrie was now standing on one foot which was sporting a black, low heeled dress shoe. She set her other foot down which was wearing a high heal the same color as her blouse. She continued to alternate between the two like a flamingo. “Girl, you know the high heel looks the best.” Martin said this without even looking up. Carrie sighed and plopped down on the bed. “I just want to look professional, yet feminine. I am also really nervous. What if Roberts is calling me in to fire me? Or demote me? What if this meeting is a disaster?” Martin held up a card with an image of a beautiful woman wearing an elaborate necklace of pentacles. Martin raised an eyebrow and said “Do you know who this is?” Carrie snatched the card from his fingers. “Of course I don’t know who this is. My Grandma Ester was crazy pants. Did I tell you she left all of her money to her cats? Dad was furious. Still is. Any way, Grandma could tell you who this is, but we both know I don’t go in for this crap.”

Carrie tossed the card back into the pile that was forming around Martin. She absently started picking at a cuticle and worrying about this meeting her boss had called. Carrie had worked her tail off at this company for the last five years. She stayed late, worked weekends, said ‘yes’ to every project, even the ones she thought were pointless and stupid. If her boss Jason Roberts, asked her to summersault through flaming hula-hoops, Carrie was prepared to tuck and roll. There’s no way he was calling her in for this special meeting to fire her. Not when she had worked so hard. Yet, Carrie could not allow herself to hope that this was something good, like an important promotion. She just couldn’t. For one thing, Carrie was a woman and from what Carrie witnessed at this company was that women did not move past administrative assistant. Carrie was the only woman on her floor that worked on client projects and did not schedule executive lunches. Carrie hadn’t really paid attention to this during her first week at the company, but then there had been meetings where Carrie had been asked to bring coffee or pick up donuts. To which Carrie had put her foot down and told them that was not in her job description, but she would be happy to ask one of the AA’s to assist them. Carrie thought about all the events and activities she had been excluded from for not being ‘one of the guys’. Though she had zero interest in hanging out in a sports bar watching basketball tournaments, she probably should have gone anyway just to boost her career. Instead, she had stayed at the office, working. What if Roberts saw this as not being a team player?

Martin picked up the card Carrie had just tossed aside and read the description. “Well! This is the Nine of Pentacles and she represents financial power, material domination and family inheritance. Think about it. It’s a card you inherited talking about power and domination. I bet you’re getting a promotion.” Carrie smiled and checked the time on her phone. “Well then, have the champagne ready.” She stood up, smoothed out her skirt and slid on her high heels. Then she grabbed her briefcase and confidently walked out the door.

THE KNIGHT OF CUPS, THE KNIGHT OF SWORDS AND THE FIVE OF PENTACLES, ALL UPSIDE DOWN

Well... what to write about this...

Welcome back to Instagram. Sign in to check out what your friends, family & interests have been capturing & sharing around the world.

Vivian laid the cards out for her paying tourist and grimaced. Even the most beginner of Tarot Card readers knew that cards were placed down on the table the way they were drawn. If the card facing the reader was upside down, that card stayed upside down. Usually the upside down definition was the opposite of the right side up definition and it usually wasn’t good. Vivian’s tourist had laid down the Knight of Cups, the Knight of Swords and the Five of Pentacles all upside down. Vivian looked at her tourist. She was a well dressed middle aged woman, Gucci sunglasses were perched on top of her perfectly coifed head. Her clothes looked expensive and she had several shopping bags arranged around her. What tipped her off as a tourist was her husband standing just behind the woman, looking bored while scrolling through who knows what on his phone. The husband looked expensive too, but he also sported a very expensive camera that hung on a leather strap around his neck. The two of them were most definitely tourists.

Rich tourists.

Of all the kinds of people to sit down at Vivian’s table in Jackson Square Park, rich tourists were the worst. They always expected more than a simple reading. They wanted a show, a grand display of the cards and those cards all better be the best cards one could pull from the pile. Their fortune telling and future was to be perfect, filled with only the very good. And they never tipped. Never. “Oh! Smile for the camera, Sweetie!” Vivian looked up to see that the woman was in the process of taking a selfie that included Vivian. Vivian half smiled as the woman pressed the button, taking the picture. “Getting my cards read in Jackson Square, y’all!” The woman spoke as she typed with her perfectly manicured hands. The woman looked at Vivian and said “Sorry about that but I just had to Insta this!” Vivian was pretty sure this woman ended every sentence in an exclamation point. Vivian smiled politely and returned her focus to the cards, contemplating her reading.

“What do you think? I mean, they look like pretty great cards. Two knights! And that woman cradling the wounded man. That has to be me. I am so nurturing. Isn’t that right Charles? I give money to all of the animal rescue groups. Right Charles?” The husband, Charles, mumbled something in agreement while he continued to stare at his phone. Again, Vivian smiled politely as she nodded her head. This was the part Vivian did not like about reading the Tarot to tourists. There was always the question of when to tell the patron the truth or flat out lie. Vivian looked at the woman again, really studying her. The woman seemed nice enough. Just because she was rich and most likely clueless didn’t mean she was a bad person. The sad truth was that these were not good cards, but did the woman really need to know that? Vivian had to decide if she should tell the woman that her husband was most likely cheating on her and all of those expensive purchases were leading them both into financial ruin and that her extravagance was going to bring chaos into her life. Or, thought Vivian, she could spin a false tale where the woman and her husband had the strongest of relationships and that only good things were ahead for them. That would be the nice thing to do and who knows? Maybe this woman would actually tip her.

“How long is this going to take, Claire? I don’t want to wait around all day for you to hear some mumbo jumbo crap. You’ve already taken your selfie. Let’s just go.” said an impatient Charles, not even taking his eyes from the screen on his phone.

Vivian decided to tell Claire the truth.