This is the authentic voice of an old woman who hopes she has learned some things to share. It is about transformation. It is becoming our true selves. It is finally about returning to Oneness. It is also about writing and recovery.
I Wrote A Novel
I did it. I wrote a Novel in 30 days with support and encouragement from people at NaNovWriMo. I have my certificate to prove that I am a winner. I have wanted to write a novel since I was first old enough to read one. It has been on my goals list for the past umpteen years. And I finally did it. I'm not saying it's a brilliant novel. I'm not saying that it will be published and become a bestseller. It may sit forever in my desk drawer, but I'll know that I wrote a novel. I am very proud of myself. I can't wait to get started on the next one. But that will have to wait until I finish revising this one and sending it off to get printed as a book. I have a lot of editing to do. I learned how to write a novel as I felt my way along the process. I made tons of mistakes. I figured if I waited to write one until I knew exactly how to do it perfectly, I might never write one. NaNovWriMo seemed a great opportunity to just go for it, dive in and get the deed done. I'm so glad I did it.
I even sort of kept up with my freelancing work. I was late on a couple of deadlines, but I still got perfect evaluations from project directors. My apartment was a disaster and I did no laundry or dishes, but that's nothing new. Neither was the mountain of unopened mail left for me to sort or the pounds of magazines and newspapers to sort and recycle.
It was all well worth it.
Walt Whitman's quote from the preface of "Leaves Of Grass:" A Call To Free, Passionate People
"This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals,
despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the
stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants,
argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the
people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or
number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the
young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open
air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have
been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults
your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the
richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its
lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion
and joint of your body." - Preface to the 1855 edition of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass
I have loved Walt Whitman since I first was introduced to him in high school. His poetry is full, authentic, passionate, dangerous and courageous. He is never afraid to be himself and to say exactly what he feels and thinks. Yes, "stand up for stupid and crazy," I'm sure there wasn't a large following behind that exhortation, and yet it is so disarmingly candid and innocent.
"Take off your hat to nothing known or unknown to any man or number of men." Stand tall and proud and be counted as an authentic, noble and proud person who knows who he or she is and need not bow to anyone.
I love it that he asks the readers to "re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book." Learn to be an original thinker. Trust your own judgment. Don't believe everything you have been spoonfed. Don't take second-hand information to heart as truth until you have sieved it through your mind for its purity of truth.
"Dismiss whatever insults your soul." It would be fair to guess that some of what insulted Whitman's soul might have been narrow mindedness, judgmentalism, puritanicalness, false morality, hypocrisy, phoniness, bad poetry, hurting the environment, looking down on the common man and the like.
This is only a small part of the long preface. In it he writes about his love for the United States of America and his love for poetry that sings. He says about poetry:
"The poems distilled from other poems will probably pass away. The coward will surely pass away." How accurate his views. Whitman's poetry is still powerful because he had the courage to show his whole authentic self in his poems. His poems were as unique and as original as he was. The imitators' poetry we do not still study in high school and college classrooms.
To me this quote is electric in its vibrancy and power. It rings with the truth of a man's heart and soul. It is a prayer for every man, woman and child. It is a spiritual meditation on originality, art, nature, simplicity, simple people, the poor, God, the uneducated, mothers with families, and for our human frailties and strengths.
Author Notes
Walter Whitman (May 31, 1819 - March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist, journalist, and humanist. Proclaimed the "greatest of all American poets" by many foreign observers a mere four years after his death, he is viewed as the first urban poet. He was a part of the transition between Transcendentalism and Realism, incorporating both views in his works. His works have been translated into more than twenty-five languages. Whitman is among the most influential and controversial poets in the American canon. His work has been described as a "rude shock" and "the most audacious and debatable contribution yet made to American literature."
HE WAS JUST A POOR MIXED UP MISUNDERSTOOD KID
Why are they selling Michael Jackson's 911 tapes?
And crowding at the hospital where he died?
It's another media circus run by apes.
For voyeurs who have absolutely no sense of pride.
He was society's monster who never got to grow up.
Dragged too soon, too fast into the sickly green of the limelight.
Too much fame, way too much wealth, power not meant for a pup.
He was seen in every kind of pose, lit from above, and in backlight.
An aging child with no one to play with that was like himself.
He got in trouble for trying to spend time with his real peers.
He didn't mean anyone any harm. He was just a little elf.
It was hard to know that he had grown up over the years.
101 BEST WEBSITES FOR WRITERS IS OUT
The 11th annual 101 Best Websites for Writers is out courtesy of Writers Digest. Hooray for them. This year they say they went through 2,700 nominations and got the best of the bunch for the listing. This year's list features more blogs and free market listings than in previous years. There are eight sections: Creativity and Challenges, General Resources, Agent Blogs, Publishing Resources, Jobs and Markets, Writing Communities, Genres/Niches and Fun for Writers. It's easier than ever to scan for what you're looking for--blogs, chatting, critiques, classes/workshops, contests, forums, jobs, markets, e-newsletters, podcasts and content for young writers.
MY WILD LIFE IN TEN LINES, SIX WORDS EACH
1. Born breached-- had to be different
2. Wore a mini-skirt to senior prom
3. Flowers in hair in San Francisco
4. Hitchhiked naked and studied Shakespeare's
sonnets
5. Paris--Tried to drink like writers
6. Illinois--tried sobering up like secretaries
7. Fiction and Poetry Editor, Dialogue Magazine
8. First child at thirty-six; second forty.
9. Decade being lied to for living*
10 Following my bliss as freelance writer
Author Notes
*Working as certified substance abuse counselor, I used to tell my kids, "Don't lie to Mommy. Mommy gets lied to for a living." Indicating the amount of fabricating alcoholics and addicts in denial do.
10 WAYS TO LIFT YOUR SPIRITS AND GET HAPPY
"Most folks are about as happy as they make their minds up to be." --Abraham Lincoln
That quotation is often repeated because there is such profound truth in it. What mood did you make up your mind to be in when you woke up today? The vicissitudes of life come and go and life goes on. Why not decide today to let it flow on for better?
Here are ten great ways you can lift your spirits right now, today. The only thing that can stop you from feeling alive and at one with the universe is you. Don't get in your way today and you can be euphoric.
#1. Begin this day on a positive note of gratitude. Get a notebook and a pen and your morning coffee or tea. Now write down everything you are taking for granted this very moment that you are truly grateful for when you think about it.
"Just think how happy you would be if you lost everything you have right now, and then got it back again."--Frances Rodman
When you finish with today's gratitude, start on yesterday's.
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"Happiness is what happens to us when we try to make someone else happy."--Tom Bodett
#2. By now you should be ready to give a little back. Think real hard about who you can reach out to today. Is there an invalid in the neighborhood? Is anyone you know in a nursing home or hospital? Bet they'd like a visit from you. Bet that neighbor who has given up driving would appreciate a visitor popping in to ask if she needs anything from the store or if she would like her lawn mowed. There are so many things you can do for others. Go ahead. It will make your whole day.
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"We act as though comfort and luxury were the chief requirements of life, when all that we need to make us really happy is something to be enthusiastic about."
#3. Do you remember how to be enthusiastic? The next thing you should do is take a trip to a local playground. Watch those kids. Did you ever see such enthusiasm over playing on swings, slides, and teeter-toters? How do we manage to lose all that zest for life as the years go by? We should study at their feet.
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"Personally, I experience the greatest degree of pleasure in having contact with works of art. They furnish me with happy feelings of an intensity such as I cannot derive from other realms."--Albert Einstein
#4. When was the last time you spent a few hours just strolling through an art museum? You think you know what you like or don't like, but today is a new day. You may fall in love with a painter or sculptor that you never even imagined before. Stay until you find a work of art that brings tears to your eyes because it is so uncommonly beautiful.
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"A happy person is not a person in a certain set of circumstances, but rather a person with a certain set of attitudes."--Albert Einstein
#5. Use your new attitude to appreciate the beauty of nature. If you live in a city of any size there should be a zoo. a children's museum or some place that has a living butterfly collection. (If you live in a rural area, you know where to go.) Google butterflies, grab your camera and go.
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"Act as if you were already happy and that will tend to make you happy." -- Ernie Banks
# 6. What kind of artist were you going to grow up to be? If you're not already an artist, it's time to get out the wood-working tools, paints, paper and pen (or computer) whatever. Write a poem, story or song about your happy day. Build a birdhose. Paint a picture of how the butterflies made you feel. You'll think of something if you let yourself.
#7. Prepare a dinner fit for nobility. If you don't cook, go to a nice restaurant. You deserve it.
#8. Put something on the CD player that all of you will respond to. Don't be surprised if it's something classical and you normally listen to rock. Make up your own dance.
#9. Call a friend to tell them about your extraordinarily joyous day. Invite them to hear about it while you go for a moonlight walk. The night air will feel wonderful and your body will thank you for the exercise.
#10. It's bedtime and you managed to keep your spirits high. Now complete the day by finding an uplifting. inspirational book. Or maybe you'd like some good laughs. Get a book by somebody who's genuinely funny and laugh yourself to sleep. Then have exotic and sweet adventures all night long in your dreams.
The next day repeat with variations.
"Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be."--Dale Carnegie
HITCHHIKING NAKED
You must believe that I wouldn't tell a lie
Because the tale I'm telling here sounds insane
But it really happened in the Seventies... days gone by
Back in the days when flashing and streaking raised cane.
A friend and I hid stuck out our thumbs on the main college drag
We were trying to get to a party we'd heard about.
We were both stark naked and it wasn't some gag
It was just the way things were going on that route.
And sure enough, a car stopped and let us in.
There were four naked jaybirds to join us
The driver had on a hat but the rest of him was all skin.
No one uttered a comment about our nudity or made a fuss.
We were in good, decent company in our indecent exposure
They were going to the same party we were trying to crash.
There was no need for name exchanging or other disclosure.
We were all just flashers out to make a most public splash.
We piled out of the car when we got to the party.
And went inside the house exploding with loud rock.
There we were met by forty naked people so hearty,
They all seemed to be a wholesome, hale unique flock.
We all danced our naked booties down.
No one seemed to notice the lack of clothing after a while.
Some would-be prom queen came in wearing a gown
But quickly disrobed when she saw she was out of style.
It was a naked hoedown, a nudists' bash.
A few clever men wore top hats and ties.
Some prudent girls wore sneakers in case they had to dash.
But the strangest thing was where people kept their eyes.
Everyone looked at the faces of everyone's spaces.
No one was caught in open-mouthed stares.
It was like we were all children living under the graces
Good children dancing who all had said their prayers.
It was a naked rock and roll party for dancing
And everyone got into the spirit of the thing.
Of course there was some subtle glancing
But no more than any dance floor party would bring.
We went home the same way we came.
Hitchhiking naked down the college streets.
Getting picked up by naked drivers seemed tame
The only complaint was the hot leather seats.
The next day we had to put clothes back on
And give up our childlike state of purity.
Our wilder, younger selves were gone.
Hiding behind our newfound clothed maturity.
HEALING THE INNER CHILD WITH HIS GENTLE TOUCH
Healing the Child Within With His Gentle Touch
I would trade all the kisses swept with passion
Of deep-breathing lip-locks, I'd give up my ration
And you can have the deep-diving tongue dances too.
I'd give it all up for one last gentle touch I once knew
It wasn't a tight embrace that touched my soul.
It wasn't a soul kiss that made me feel whole.
My true love had a touch like the breath of a child.
It was so sure, so gentle, so kind and so mild.
He would take my small face in his large and sturdy palm
Smooth my hair, let loose a strand, and let me feel that balm.
Rub his hand across my cheek with fingers softly floating
Tender as a mother moving a curl on a child upon whom she is
doting.
I would feel soft and small and fragile.
His loving hands were so agile.
He never failed to let me be his own loving child for a while.
I let all the love in without seduction and without guile.
Then we kissed and became man and woman, lovers again
With a secret knowledge of what we had just shared then.
I knew the gentleness beneath the steel.
He knew the way to make the child in me heal.
THE ECCENTRIC HOLDS A FREE YARD SALE
"I stay crazy to keep from going insane. Those were the words of a song, but I believed that phrase should be my motto. If I could handle getting a tattoo that I would like for the rest of my natural born days, I guess I'd have that phrase tattooed on me somewhere. People just don't always get that about me. I have to stay crazy--call it eccentric, but please don't call me normal--that way lies real sickness. You know wearing polyester blends and keeping a day planner and all.
"If I couldn't act out, dress crazy, act crazy, and just plain be my good old, let's say "eccentric" self, "I know I'd be locked up somewhere. So what if people in fancy cars stopped for a red light when I'm standing there at the curb reach over and push down the car door lock. Let them. I'd rather be living my life of freedom than their constipated lives of "I should, I should, I should." Just don't should on me I want to tell them.
"But don't give away this jazzy paper umbrella. I love it. I just found it the other day. I'm keeping it for at least a week or two. Did you notice my Pippi Longstocking tights? I just found them recently too. Can't give them up yet either.
"So anyhow. It's like I told that kid who asked if he could cut through my backyard. "Son, what is the use of living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with a waterbed in your backyard if you have to let kids cut through your yard? No, I don't think that's gonna happen."
"He seemed to get what I was saying. Glad I didn't have to spell it out for him.
"I am having one of my free yard sales today. I have about one a month. I've got too damn much clutter accumulated. As I tried to explain to one of the folks who came really early, if you have too much stuff you're likely to start thinking like your materialistic. Then you get greedy to get more stuff. You want it. You got to have it. Maybe you get some useless job to better afford to buy junk you really don't even want or need, you just think you should have it because everybody else has it. You're selling your precious time for junk. Why next thing you know I'd be buying a cell phone or some other damn fool worthless product that I have no use for. I really, truly believe that.
"Here take this big hunk of amethyst, mister. Somebody, I won't say who, told me you are a stoned alcoholic. This amethyst will protect you against the state of drunkenness. Just keep it with you. Keep it close to you. What do you mean you don't want it? It's free. Take it.
"People are sometimes suspicious if you just give things away, but why would I charge anything when they are doing me the favor of keeping me from getting materialistic?"
"Oh, you like these beads I have on? Well, then you have to take them. I have been getting too attached to them. Next thing you know I'll want more. I really believe that.
"Excuse me, are you going to be here a while looking at the books? I need to go check some dumpsters now. Could you just sort of direct people who don't know what to do or what not. Just encourage them to take stuff and remind them that it's all free. Thank you, miss, thank you very much.
"Yeah, I got to go. It's garbage day. I have to watch my neighbor's like nobody's business. They are likely to throw out brand new clothing, living plants, good food, books in good condition, you name it. They can't even be bothered to put the stuff in recycling. Right into the dumpster it goes. Talk about waste. Never saw anything like the waste in this neighborhood. Why don't you come help me if you're not doing anything right now? We can bring the stuff right back here and give it away.
"Are you hungry? We could hit Trader Joe's dumpsters too. They always have a lot of nice fresh stuff to eat. I'm in the mood to find some citrus.
"No, the police hardly ever bother me. They stay away from me because they think I'm just nuts. Crazy like a fox, I say. Whose nuts? The ones doing the 9 to 5 to accumulate more worthless junk, or me with all my sweet free time just working a little to get rid of the stuff before it grows and festers and tries to take over my life? I really believe that.
"Course I work, when I want to. I work for myself as a writer. I write about any freaky old thing I want to whenever I take a mind to write about it. I follow my bliss and my bliss is my art. Everyone needs art in their lives. Everyone needs to have something in life to do that brings them joy. It's hard to call it work when I would pay to do it, but the truth is sometimes I get paid to do it by others. And the kick is I'm just doing what I want to be doing. I really think it should work like that. It was Joseph Campbell that advised people to "follow your bliss". Nobody thought he was nuts though, did they?
"Drugs? Oh I used to take drugs. Didn't like them very much. They made me insane. I couldn't be wild, crazy and free on drugs like I am naturally. I was always paranoid, greedy for more drugs, and worrying about getting busted. Yes, drugs make you kind of an ugly person. I'd rather be naturally eccentric, know what I mean?
"Okay, I'll take this dumpster. You can check that one. What to look for? Just anything that is still good. Don't let anything worthwhile get wasted by going to the dump when someone could still use it. There's too much poverty and lack in this country to be so wasteful. I really believe that.
"Would you look at this. Do you believe they are throwing out these perfectly good children's clothes? This is a crime. There are poor children who have no clothes to wear and they are just putting them in the dumpster instead of giving them to Good Will or some place like that. What did you find over there?
"Come on. Don't be shy. Nobody's watching us. They probably just think we're a couple of old bums if they are. (Laughs long and loud.) Don't you think that's funny, no? Well, it really doesn't matter what people think. Better to be yourself and be free and be happy. And serve the people. Yeah, that's it. You gotta serve the people. Bob Dylan wrote a song about how you're gonna have to serve somebody, remember it? Alright, get out of my way. I'll do that dumpster. Then let's go up to Trader Joe's. I'm really hungry now. I didn't get any lunch.
"No, keep your money. I don't need to be going to any fast food joint. There's nothing they're serving that I can't find later in their dumpsters, so don't spend good money on that crap. Besides, Trader Joe's is much healthier. They throw away things that are still good and that are wrapped. It's just like going out for dinner, I guarantee you. You won't come with me then? Suit yourself, but you're missing out.
"I think I'll grab a few of those homeless people who hang out by the 7-11 and get them to come with me. Those idiots don't know how to feed themselves if somebody doesn't give them a direct handout on the street. It's not always going to come as easy as that. You have to be self-reliant. You have to know how to take care of yourself. It can be a cold, cruel world. Not everybody is willing to help out their brother, you know. It's a rotten shame, but it's true.
"I just about got evicted for bringing one of the homeless people home with me one night recently when it was really cold out. I knew there would be trouble with my neighbors. I was trying to get her to sneak, but she was too damned worried about leaving her cart with all her junk in it outside. We couldn't get it up the stairs between the two of us and we ended up making all kinds of noise. The neighbors all ran to their doors and got a good eye view of us working that dirty cart up the stairs. Of course, they felt obligated, just obligated, to call the landlord and tell him what I was up to. He called me and told me I had ten minutes to get rid of the woman or I would be evicted. What could I do? I was so mad and so sad, but I had to ask her to leave. I can't be looking for another apartment strange as I am. I'm lucky this guy rents to me with some of the crazy stuff I do like my free yard sales once a month. I really felt like I was backed into a corner. It was terrible. I felt just awful.
"I plan to make up for it by volunteering for PADS, that's the neighborhood program that provides shelters in churches for homeless people. At least then I can tell homeless people where to go and not just walk by them like I don't see them or some damn thing. 'Let it begin with me' that's what I always say. If everyone believed that and acted on that we might just save this planet yet. I truly believe that.
"I guess I'd better be getting back to my sale. I have found you have to push stuff off on people. They're reluctant to take it when its free. They think there are some strings attached or the stuff is stolen or something. You know one of the hardest sales I had was just after my wedding. I wanted to get rid of everything I had gotten for my wedding shower and from my wedding. You wouldn't have believed all the useless junk: ironing boards, wall plaques, Cuisinarts, you name it. People were afraid to even touch the junk just because it was brand new. I knew I sure as hell had no use for it. The old man and I were headed for San Francisco to hang out in a commune. What were we going to do with all those middle-class trappings? I know people meant well and all, but gee whillikers.
"I'm going to go into the house and get my stereo. We need some music out here to liven things up. People aren't funky enough for this sale. That's what the problem is. I'll be right back with some George Clinton and the Parliament Funkadelics. We need to get down. I am going to turn that mother up to 11.
"Here plug that in for me, would you? That's good. Who do you like to listen to? How about some Super Furry Animals? Do you think the neighbors would like that? Up to 11? What do you mean I'm nuts? I all ready told you I'm eccentric. Like this hat? It's my pimp hat complete with feather. I might as well wear it a minute before I give it away. Somebody will want it, just watch.
"You want that CD? Take it please. CD's grow like dust balls. Put two of them together in a box, come back and you've got three. Don't you think so? I really believe that.
SO YOU WANT TO LOOK TEN YEARS YOUNGER YESTERDAY
Help is on the way. There are beauty products that really do work that can help you look at least ten years young and this article will tell you what they are. First off, the problem of sagging skin, wrinkles, fine lines and skin that just looks old. Is it inevitable with age or can we do something about it? Big name products sell well because of advertising, but they often don't really do much.
One thing that will knock off years for sure is healthier looking, whiter teeth. Get a good tooth whitener and give it a go. You will attract compliments right away.
What else do we know that works for sure? The secret to youth is collagen. Collagen is the key to skin that ages well. And the product that researchers have proven works to generate collagen is Retin-A or AHA (Alpha Hydroxy Acids).
Of course, we should all know by now that the number one way to keep collagen from breaking down is to avoid the sun at all costs. Dermatologists continue to warn us that up to 90 percent of wrinkles, dark spots and sun damage are caused by sun exposure. You must use sunscreen regularly. The best sunscreen in the world? LaRoche-Posay Anthelios XL, dermatologists tout it. It has a chemical called "Mexoryl" that is well-known for protecting skin from UVB rays.
However, if the damage is done, there are some products you can try. Vitamin A (retinoid) creams. These will prevent wrinkles or keep them from worsening. Look for products containing vitamin A like prescription Retin-A, Differin or Renova. Used nightly, these creams stimulate collagen renewal. They prevent skin cells from breaking down. Your skin is extra susceptible to sun damage while using these creams, so make sure you don't go out without sunscreen.
Alpha-hydroxy acids or microdermabrasion is good if you're in your mid-30's and worried about wrinkles. Try exfoliating once a week with alpha-hydroxy acid (AHA's) or a microdermabrasion kid. Don't overdue it. Make sure it's in a creamy base.
AHA's are glycolic or lactic acid formulated to increase collagen in sun-damaged skin. They will also reduce blotchiness, fine lines, redness and reduce pore size. Recommend MD Skincare Alpha Beta Daily Face Peel ($68 for 30 applications at Sephora.)
For crow's feet you need a retinoid wrinkle reducer that hydrates. Recommend MD Forte Skin Rejuvenation Eye Cream or Estee Lauder Perfectionist Power Correcting Patch.
Then throw on a nice dark denim (not light, makes you look older) pair of jeans and hit the town.
AGE GRACEFULLY BY ACCEPTING YOURSELF
There are a lot of different anti-wrinkle creams sold, some with "secret" ingredients that sound exotic and hike up the price quite a bit. What's known to work is Retin-A, retinoid wrinkle reducer that hydrates for the eyes, antioxidants and moisture creams. That's pretty much the basics of your full artillery programs. Things you read about movie stars using like bird poop and fetuses, just fall into that secret, but not necessarily effective ingredient category.
If you've been good about using sunscreen then you have reason to rejoice. If you haven't, you can still try the retin-A creams. And the thing about cosmetic surgery is that it is being done in epidemic proportions almost forcing you to consider it at some point. In 2007 there were 11.7 million cosmetic procedures done. That's a 457 percent increase since 1997. If everyone around you is having procedures and you're not, it's like you've aged ten years. You're the athlete who's playing by the rules. The others are using appearance-enhancing drugs, you might say.
How to make your age recede as an issue? Is your posture good? Are you in good physical shape? Is your hair nicely cut and styled? Are you wearing current clothing? Are your teeth white enough? People will forgive you a lot if the like you. You don't have to work on your appearance so much as blind people to your flaws. Do for others. Look out for others. Give to others. They won't be judging your looks. Accept yourself inside and out.
Perhaps the best advice is to find things you're interested in and that you enjoy. Don't spend all of your time fretting in front of the mirror or having work done or recovering from work. Don't waste hundreds of dollars or thousands of dollars every year on creams that don't work. Get out and explore new things. Take the focus off of how you look. Accept that you'll never look 25 again. Age in a graceful way. Be interested in what you do and be happy. People complain that once they hit a certain age they are invisible. If you just smile at people when you're talking to them, they're really happy to talk to you.
Henry David Thoreau:
None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.
THE NIGHT I MET THE LOVE OF MY LIFE
I will never forget the New Year's Eve I met George for the first time. I had recently left my husband of five years. I was 23 years old. I was broke as I could be, but I wasn't going to let that stop me from going to college. I had lived near this college town, Carbondale, Illinois, for the past five years and I was tired of just sitting by envying all those kids who got to go while I was stuck in my hum-drum boring life. I had read in the local paper that, thanks to the Democratic party, anyone who wanted to go to college now could. I took them at their word. So far they had done well by me. I had enough loans and grants to get started. There had been a problem figuring out where I was going to live and how, but then I saw an ad for someone to be a personal attendant to a paralyzed woman in return for room and board. I had never taken care of more than a turtle and it died, but I was game if she was.
So I moved into her apartment out on Lincoln Avenue where mostly grad students and alumni lived. It was kind of quiet and I liked that. The only wild one was old Janet, the quadriplegic woman I was caring for. Turned out she was a nymphomaniac which I hadn't been aware paralyzed people could be. Oh yes. One night she had invited over a man, also in a wheel chair, with cerebral palsy, and she wanted me to stick his penis in for him. I had to refuse. I tell you that nowadays after having lived quite a few more life experiences and losing most of my prim and proper mind sets, I would do it. But then I was shocked and repulsed, I'm embarrassed to say.
Anyhow I wasn't looking forward to anything out of the ordinary happening on New Year's Eve. Same old same old, but then old Janet up and surprised me. She had gotten one of her lucky wrong numbers, kept the guy on the phone, and convinced him to come over and have sex with her. I don't know how she did it, but 99% of the time she was successful. I guess it was the advantage of living in a college town full of horny young men.
So this meant, she told me in no uncertain terms, I had to get out, but I wasn't to go too far in case he turned out to be a creep or she needed me for some other reason. This meant, in other words, I was to spend my New Year's Eve sitting in the most depressing, dreary "lounge" of a TV room tacked on to the front of our apartment building. Most people wouldn't be caught dead being seen there any day, and I would be there on New Year's Eve. What the hell. So far most of my life had been spent not really giving two shits what people thought about me. I had grown up the poor and ill-dressed daughter of raging alcoholics who embarrassed me daily, and then as I grew, I became an outrageous "freak the people out" hippie myself, so I was really beyond caring very much.
I got my special celebratory bottle of Cold Duck that I had paid less than five dollars for, and a book and headed on down there. I hoped nobody would be sitting in there watching the damn TV. Watching Lawrence Welk or some damn thing--now that would be depressing.
But the coast was clear. I set out my cigarettes and filled up my water glass with the Cold Duck. Could be worse. I could be back in Sand Ridge, pop. 50, sitting with my ex-husband watching the geese run down the street, which was about the only action in that one-horse town. I'd no doubt be drinking suds from a quart bottle, and he, abstaining as usual, would be launched into his routine about "whatever happened to the sweet flower I married". It was enough to make me puke. I was so sick of him running his mouth on the same old subjects. I tell you nothing could get so bad in my new college life to equal the misery of my old married life. I had gotten married at 18. That shit ought to be illegal. Everybody and his uncle tried to warn me against it, but I knew better. I was so damn smart.
I filled my glass again and got out my book. This kind of thinking was going nowhere but down. The book was a novel by Kurt Vonnegut for English class. It killed me how they were giving me college credits for reading books I would be taking out of the library and reading on my own anyhow. What a scam--giving me loans and grants to do it too. What a wonderful world.
So I sat and read for a couple of hours. Once I got up and stood outside of Janet's door. I didn't hear anything suspicious so I guessed she was alright. Just before midnight a man walked into my solitary confinement. He turned around a few times, as though he wasn't sure where he was or why he was there.
"Hello," he finally said.
"Hello, to you," I said in a friendly voice. He didn't look like he was out picking up women that night. In fact, he was carrying a briefcase. He was also wearing a wrinkled, old black trenchcoat that Columbo would be proud to wear.
"Are you waiting for someone?" he managed. I guess he was trying to figure out why I was sitting in there by myself on New Year's Eve at midnight.
"No, well, I'm sort of waiting for my roommate to be finished with her personal business so I can get back into our apartment."
"Oh, is that right?" He had a nice country drawl to his speech that drew out his words and sentences and made it seem as if you were saying the most interesting things he had ever heard.
"You know I live here too. Right across the hall from you, in fact."
"Is that a fact," I replied. "Want some of this warm duck?"
"No, no I don't believe I do. Would you like to go out and get a real drink--it being New Year's Eve and all?"
I thought about for about two seconds but made it look like two minutes. He had such beautiful blue sparkly eyes. I imagined angels had eyes like his. And when he talked to you, he looked full at you as though he could see into your soul.
"I'd have to ask my roommate if she'll be alright without me first," I told him.
"Why don't you just go do that," he directed.
When I got into the apartment I saw that a little party had formed without me being invited. Oh, well, I was the newbie. What did I expect? Maureen, her last personal attendant was there and she had brought some mutual friends. Janet was pretty well smashed, but she assured me that Maureen would look out for her.
I went in the bathroom and tried to do something about my plain-Jane weekday looks. It was kind of hopeless without attracting unnecessary attention. What was I going to do at this late hour? Put on a sparkly dress?
I put on some lipstick and some blush and went back to the lobby. Surprisingly, he was still waiting for me. "What's your name, anyhow?," I asked him.
"George, George Mack."
"I'm Jeanine Casper. Nice to meet you."
We went and got into his very cute little orange and black, convertible Kharmin Ghia. I was such an old hippie hick it might as well have been a Jaguar for my excitement. It was then that I got wind of his pheromones. Now I had been a hippie chick hanging out with the unwashed often enough to recognize pheromones from a good, long distance, usually to my great revulsion, but these were angelic pheromones. If I guessed right he was an all-natural kind of guy and knew his natural scent was a giant turn-on and so didn't use after shave or even deodorant. And why should he? He smelled of a manly scent that reminded me of sex and heaven. I wanted to just sit and smell him forever.
I was nervous with him. He'd told me that he had been at work that night. He worked at the state hospital with alcoholics. He was a psychologist. He had just gotten his Ph.D. from S.I.U. a couple of years ago. He had been working that night with his alcoholic social club that he'd set up. I was touched with how much he genuinely seemed to care about his clients.
I felt very unworldly and unsophisticated with this man with a doctorate. I noticed I was trying to clean up my language and to speak English the way I know you're supposed to. I even minded my manners and let him do things like open the car door for me and pull out a chair at the restaurant. When he ordered a rob roy, I said I'd have one too, although I had no idea what it was. I really didn't care for hard alcohol and liked beer and wine better.
But I sipped my rob roy and found myself telling him the story of my life. He knew all the right questions to ask. He acted so interested. You would think that I had about the most interesting life story he had ever heard. I chalked it up to his being a psychologist. I guessed they were just really interested in people.
Our hands brushed briefly one time when he was lighting my cigarette. I felt a spark. This man who looked like an angel with his long natural ringlets of golden brown curls could be dangerous for a nobody like me i told myself. For him it was New Year's Eve and he had missed all the regular dating and parties because of having to work. Tomorrow he would get back to his real life and forget all about the nobody across the hall. I told myself I was alright with that.
We had two drinks apiece, barely enough to get me started and I wasn't even counting the Cold Duck, but suddenly I didn't want to look like a lush. We drove back the long way. When we got to the building, he invited me to come over for a nightcap.
I was kind of surprised at the starkness of his apartment. It made me feel sorry for him. He admitted he had recently been divorced, and that his wife had taken pretty much everything. He actually used cement bricks and pieces of lumber for bookcases just like the college kids. He had a couple of director's chairs for furniture and a couch that pulled out to a bed. The rest of the place was kind of empty. He apologized for it, but it endeared him to me. I realized then I couldn't have dealt with a swanky bachelor apartment. I liked good old honest humble living.
He put on some Bob Dylan. Then later he took it off, got out his guitar and played "Lay Lady Lay" for me. It was about the most romantic moment I had had since I couldn't remember when. Then he surprised me by putting some soul into "Give Me That Old Time Religion." I liked it that he liked that old standard so much.
Then it was time to call it a night. He made some moves that I ignored. Finally I just came out and sort of told him that I hadn't been with anybody but my husband in five years, and I wasn't likely to start hopping into beds with men I barely knew now. He accepted this. In fact, he gave me a smile that seemed approving, and I went home to dream about him all night.
I wrote this poem yesterday. It reminded me of why I love being a mother.
Goodnight Stars
When you wake up you don't know
Which days are diamonds and which are stones
One diamond day I just came home from working
And my son was still up, and I got to read him "Goodnight Moon"
He was about two years old at the time and ablaze with life and wonder
The book got me thinking, "Good night stars."
I scooped him up in his p.j.'s and ran him out to the backyard.
It was a perfectly clear, brilliant night for stars.
This was early in the summer and it was warm.
I held him tight against my chest and pointed to the sky,
"Stars" I showed him with my heart full of love.
He grinned from one ear to the other, "Stars" he repeated.
Then he laughed from the pure joy of it--in absolute awe.
He totally got it and let those stars shine into his world, his life.
He laughed some more at the pure ecstasy of the experience.
I could only grin at how eager he was to let in more life, more beauty, more love.
I wanted right that minute to take him across the country and show him an ocean.
Or wait up all night and watch his face as he thrilled to his first sunrise.
Where was a bird's nest full of baby birds he had never before seen?
Why couldn't it be winter and I could take him to see the frozen waves of Lake Michigan?
The Grand Canyon would just have to wait, along with telescopic views of planets.
Goodnight world everywhere full of countless wonders for a rich mother to give.
Goodnight stars.
HAVING A BLAST AT FANSTORY.COM
Hey, kids, want to have some writing fun? I have spent four days now having a blast and I want to tell you about it. I haven't had this much fun since roller skating round and round with the big Hammond organ playing, and my favorite boy of the hour holding my hand. I have been hanging out all day every day at one of Writer's Digest "101 Best Websites 2008 for Writers" and it's called FanStory.com.
What can you do there? What can't you? You can submit a story, essay, script, novel chapter or poem and have it instantly reviewed by other writers. They will rate it on a six-star rating system plus review it in a few sentences or more. If there are any SPAG (spelling, punctuation, and grammar errors, an acronym I learned there pretty quickly), they will fill you in on these. Everyone is a writer and everyone is a reviewer. There are lots of prizes for writers and even prizes for best reviewers.
I submitted a poem on day two that won "recognized status". The next day it won "all time best status". I will include the poem after the post so you can see for yourself if they are honoring just any old thing or not.
They have monthly prizes and yearly prizes. Everyone works to keep up their numerical ranking on a one to six score.
There are a bunch of contests, most with $100 prizes. Some are free to enter and some cost "member dollars" which you earn by reviewing the writing of others. And, dig this, if you want to you can even make up your own contest and run it complete with prize money. And, yes, you can enter you're own contest, but no, you don't get to be the judge. The voting peers are the judge and you might win the prize pool of money collected for entries.
It is so exciting! I am wasting whole days over there writing and reviewing. Round and round I go reading my reviews, replying to the the feedback, reading the replies to my reviews and sometimes replying to that. Then I have to check my e-mail box there to see what's come up. I have become a fan of several people and they might have posted something new. And today I learned one of my short stories has received special recognition. Wheeee!
I may not be earning any freelance money, but the kind of writing I'm doing is personal and from the heart--just what I wanted to do before I started resorting to counting keywords or some damn thing that I don't consider real writing. And I'm in a writers' group communicating and sharing with real people who do what I love.
You sort of have the feeling that you're at the rink and everyone knows everyone. They all stop by to welcome you when you're new. The people there are anxious to see what new tricks and steps you've brought to display and to show you some of their steps--their new tricks and some of their old standards. So it's one big happy family show and tell at the ol' roller rink and it's as exciting as hell.
Oh, yeah, all the writing is not brilliant and ready for prime time. Don't ruin it for yourself by bringing your pretensions. A whole lot of it is poetry. Poetry is the majority in fact. Short stories and novel chapters are next. But you'd be surprised. Not all of the poetry is as bad as you might suspect, and some of it is very, very good. Some of the short stories and novel chapters will also delight and surprise you.
Some of the writing is written by published authors who show off their ISBN numbers and book covers. Other stuff is written by writers dreaming of getting published for the first time and even some high school kids are in there trying. It's all happening at the writing/roller skate rink where anything can and does happen.
The writers are all ages and all backgrounds. Some are retired professional people, some are working people, some are students. There are farmers, C.P.A.'s, English professors, and waitresses. It is an unbelievable mix of strange bedfellows united by the common bond of a love for writing.
Here's the poem I submitted that got all the attention despite the fact that I gather quite a few were not used to free verse and some rated it highly while calling it "more of a story than a poem":
Bunny Boy
My son, the semi-grown man-child, memorizes rap music and says fuck too much.
He wanted something to love, never having had a girlfriend and his Dad died.
Now he has a tiny, baby, long-eared, softer than baby hair, white and brown rabbit
That follows him wherever he goes.
It eats bright green, crunchy lettuce from his hand.
He makes little cardboard houses for it to crawl in and out of.
I was there the first time the little bunny let him pet her with two extended fingers.
His touch was barely there, almost above her, as though he were petting her aura.
His smile was so gentle and loving as he petted her, the door to his heart was left
wide open.
Anyone could have walked right in. I sure did.
WILD CHILD
Not the Coolest KidIt was hard to be a seventh grader in Catholic School and be as wild as you want to be, but I gave it my best shot. My peak achievement, I suppose, was coming razor-thin close to getting expelled. That happened because the nuns took the class downtown (Chicago) to watch a boring old war movie ("The Longest Day"--and it really was).
Anyhow about fifteen minutes into the movie, my friend, Joan Ryan, and I sneaked out of the theater to go pick up sailors we'd seen when we were going into the show. We had a much, much better day than our goodie-goodie classmates I can tell you. Too bad though we were embarrassed in front of the sailors on account of being in our queer old uniforms. What can a girl do? Light up another cigarette so you have some semblance of looking cool, that's what. We lost track of time, not that we were wearing watches or knew when the damn movie was getting out anyhow.
By the time we sashayed our little plaid butts around the corner and down the street back to the theater, the entire seventh grade and all its nuns were boarded on two buses waiting for us. "Way to go, Joan" I tell her. She's cool, putting out a fag like nothing is going on. Well, all the talk was about expulsion for the rest of the week. I enjoyed the week at home watching daytime television while Mom and Dad were at work. They weren't as upset as you might think since they were both alcoholics and didn't pay a lot of attention to the everyday family problems. As long as they had a bottle at the end of the day, everything in their world was just peachy.
Joan's mother was a big muckety-muck with the PTA. She was always running up to the school to help out the nuns. It was the least she could do I figured. She had nine kids in the damn school. Anyhow, Joan heard from her Mom that the nuns were cooling down now. The talk was drifting from expulsion to separating the two of us. That wasn't such great news since there were only two seventh grade classrooms: the bright class that we were in and the remedial class still reading aloud like molasses moving down the side of the jar. I had a feeling that I would get the worst of it with Joan's Mom being an Altar and Rosary Lady and every other damn thing up at that church and school.
My parents had never put in an appearance. I would be easy to sacrifice, and I could count on no parents running up to the school to complain that it was totally unfair. Hell, it was totally unfair. I made better grades than Joan. But the next six months found me living in some of the slowest time outside of the state penitentiary. I swear it took one year for those kids to read a paragraph, and I was trapped in my seat with nothing to do but stare at the page.
I'd already been caught reading James Bond books underneath my Scholastic Reader. Seventh grade was turning out to be the biggest yawn imaginable. I almost lost interest in being a rebel. One afternoon I had to set my bus pass on fire just to prove to myself that I still had the stuff. I think my protest was vaguely about how I didn't want to have to carry a little card to ride the bus or some such crap that makes no sense to me now. So as if things weren't bad enough, now I had to walk back and forth to school every day in the heat and in the cold. But lunch time was good. Our class had the same lunch time as the smart kids so I got to see some of my old friends, flirt with some boys and hang out with Joan.
I was supposed to stay right there and hang out on the playground after eating, but Joan lived nearby and one day she talked me into sneaking over to her house. It was an experience. All her nine brothers and sisters were there. It was like something out of an insane asylum movie: Snake Pit II: The Suburbs.
That was the day I was shattered to learn that the whole damn family was ten times wilder than I could ever dream of being. The funny thing was all the weird stuff that went on happened while the non-working mother was home. I looked at Joan's Mom closely and realized I was only seeing her shell. The real woman was far, far away. I guess having nine kids will do that to a person.
Anyhow, we get in the house and her brother Jimmy heads straight for the phone.
"Check this out," Joan says, lighting up a cigarette right there in front of her mother. In fact she had taken one of her mother's fags from her pack
"He's calling the convent," she tells me while blowing smoke out of her nose. "He does it every day.
I hear Jimmy on the phone, "Yeah, hello, is this the convent? I want to know what you wear under those fucking habits and I want to know now." He's laughing a little but we were laughing more. "Do you wear special nun underwear? I want to know if it's black and sexy, or if it comes down to your knees and has crucifixes on it." He has made his voice so deep it's funny in itself. Joan's Mom comes into the room.
"Hurry up, Jimmy. I need to make a call." That's all she has to say, and she leaves.
He finally hangs up, the nuns were staying on the line for some reason, and Joan's sister, Molly, picks up the phone and orders a pineapple pizza. I hate pineapple pizza so I stop paying much attention until I hear her tell the pizza place to deliver it to the Sisters of St. Joseph and she gives the convent's address. These kids don't play, I think. I get up to go use the bathroom, but I have to come right out again.
. "Joan, there's a loaf of unwrapped white bread soaking in the toilet," I scream.
"Oh, that Johnny. He's going to get it this time. Hey, Molly, where's Johnny? I'm not putting my hands in the toilet."
Then she turns to me, "Just pee on it, Mare.. It's just bread." She sounds kind of bored like this happens all the time. I watch her sneak and grab her Ma's purse and sure enough she grabs a ten-spot out of her wallet. Her Mom never glances over from where she's sitting smoking in the kitchen.
"Let's say we go out after school, huh, kid," she says to me with a wink. Joan's sister, Maggie, the polite one, comes over to me.
"Did you have any lunch?" she asks sweetly. "We've got some okay cereal you can have." I realize I am hungry.
"That would be great, Maggie," I say.
We go join her Mom at the kitchen table. Maggie hands me a box of Cocoa Puffs. Someone has written really bad swear words all over the box about how rank the cereal is. "Fuck this shit" it reads where it should say "Cocoa Puffs". Joan's Mom doesn't seem to notice as we pass the box in front of her nose. I can't help but laugh.
Just then the Dad comes home for lunch. I smell booze on his breath. I guess he starts even earlier in the day than my parents. He is full of wide smiles on his bright red face. He greets each one of us broadly, patting me on the head and calling me Joanne, the name of one of the other kids. It must be hard when you have so many kids. We eat our cereal while he drinks a beer. Maggie reaches over and gulps down half of it.
Then it is time to leave the nut house, surrender my unofficial title as the wildest girl in the seventh grade, and head back to school to spend another couple of years at my desk that afternoon. Boy, I had a dull home life--even with my parents parking in the front lawn most nights.
Call for Manuscripts (from Absolute Write) And My Manuscript In Response
Editor looking for manuscripts from people in their upper-fifties through their sixties who have something to say about their life experience. Consider any of the following jumping off points (or none of them) to write a cohesive, emotionally engaging essay or short story. (Maximum 1,500 words). If writing in story form, the events and people must be real.
True stories about your youth, heart-warming reminisces, pathos, flower power, Haight-Ashbury, Viet Nam, Woodstock, The Beatles, etc. Dynamic individuals who changed your life, were your role models, who showed you something you had never considered, who changed the course of your life. What wisdom, what insights, what knowledge have you gained?
What changes in perspective about business, religion, marriage, family, people in other countries, and the planet earth have you experienced? What have you accomplished that you, in your youth, never knew you would? What process/es brought that into being?
What paranormal experiences have you had? If you had the opportunity to say something to someone who is no longer here, what would that be? What do you hold to be unshakably true that you didn?t know 40-45 years ago? How are you different from, or how are you the same as, you were 40-45 years ago? What things that you used to disagree with your parents about do you now agree, or what things that you used to agree with them do you now disagree?
What is the most beautiful thing you?ve ever seen? What is the most beautiful piece of music you?ve ever heard? What was your favorite television show when you were ten to fifteen years old? What?s your favorite television show now? What is the greatest movie ever produced? What?s the best novel ever written? What?s the best nonfiction book you?ve ever read?
Tell about the picture you had of your life as a child and how it has actually unfolded. What is lovely about that?
Please do answer or address the following question:
If you could say or express one thing that you believe, truly believe, in your deepest heart of hearts, would change the world for the better, what would that be? Be honest and tell your truth!
Payment, at present, is shared revenue of profits, specifics to be determined by number of participants, and other minor details.
Send via email, either in body or as attachment (Mac or RTF/TEXT) to:
susie@alighthere.com. Put SUBMISSION: ?What I?ve Learned?
in subject line. Failing to do so may cause your manuscript to be lost as spam.
I thank you beforehand for your heart-felt work,
Susie Wolfington, Assistant Editor
ALightHere.com Books
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Here's my manuscript:
My honest, deeply held, belief about what will change the world for the better is not a pipe dream. It is happening now among people of my generation as well as other age groups. Consciousness is being raised (without drugs this time). People are realizing that we are all One. People are becoming multi-sensory-- limited to the five senses. We are far less left-brained and much more intuitive. We know on a profound level that mother earth is emitting her death throes and that it is up to us to do something and soon before global warming and violence put an end to us all. This miracle will be brought about by a generation of people that have transformed themselves from fear-driven, ego-run automatons to human beings in touch with their souls who believe love is the solution to every problem. As one neighbor forgives another at home and across the world, just as a butterfly's motions in one pole are felt in another, healing will come to the world. Harmony will reign when love rules all. There are signs of it happening now everywhere if you look.
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I am 59 years-old and consider myself an old hippie. I am self-employed as a freelance writer and an online bookseller. I don't really make enough money to support myself without my disability check. My work is the result of following Joseph Campbell's advice to "follow your bliss". I love books and I love to write. I haven't sold out and I'm proud of it. I don't have to get up every morning, hate my life and put on nylons. I try to only write articles that I can be proud of. I sell books I don't have to be ashamed of. I attempt to practice the same integrity in my businesses that I practice in my relationships with friends and family.
I have worked to remain true to many of the idealistic beliefs I had when I was young and in the movement. I have turned my back on materialism. I own next to nothing. I think I may be one of the last Americans standing without a cell phone. I do not have a car. I buy things when I must at thrift stores. I can't remember when I last bought something new. I have no money in the bank--no savings or stocks for a rainy day or for my retirement. I trust God to take care of me and the lilies of the field as He has all these years. I eat simply, healthily and avoid meat. I don't drink or take drugs except for prescription drugs I must take.
I went to my first rock and roll concert when I was 15. I had to go by myself because no one at my high school that I knew wanted to see the "dirty and disgusting" Rolling Stones. It was their first American tour. I sat so close to the stage I could see Mick Jagger sweat. I didn't miss a Stones concert after that until after my kids were born and I was in my 40's. I even caught them in Europe once.
I married my childhood sweetheart when we were both 18 and we left Illinois after the wedding and headed to Haight-Ashbury to live. I remember driving across the country with nothing to eat but a jar of homemade pickles his aunt had given us. We had all our wedding gifts packed into a little Ford Falcon and no real money or job prospects. We weren't worried. We figured everyone took care of everyone else and the universe took care of those that got looked over.
When we got to San Francisco, we immediately met a young man from Illinois. He told us he wasn't doing anything that day except planning to jump from the bridge and kill himself so he would show us around. After the tour we went back to his place and, sure enough, he had written a suicide note on the mirror.
The next time we moved it was to Northern Minnesota in the Superior National Forest where we built a lean-to and planned to "get back to the land", a popular movement at the time. We were city kids with no camping experience and we floundered a lot. We spent three months in those woods in 1969, and missed Woodstock because we didn't know anything about it. Boy, were we mad.
I never knew I would graduate from college. I didn't start until I was 23, after I divorced my husband. There was a time I had to work three part-time jobs while in school, and I always worked at least one, but I was able to put myself through college. College was the most fun I never imagined growing up. My counselor kept bugging me to choose a major, but I wanted to learn it all. Unlike the kids who went straight to college from high school, I was thrilled every single day to be there. Finally I realized that as an English major I would be getting college credit for reading books that I would have been home reading anyhow. What a scam I thought. Those sun-drenched days reading Shakespeare beneath shade trees with the smell of pot smoke all around me from other students--those were golden days.
I specialized in creative writing. I didn't want to teach. I learned that I loved to write short stories and poetry. I wrote some of both about my hippie days with my by now-ex husband and our adventures. The professor said they were some of the best of that kind of stuff he'd read. I only knew then what I know now: when I write there is no time. One minute it's ten o'clock in the morning and when I look up it's six a.m.
I have learned quite a few things in my life, thank God, that I didn't know or appreciate 40 years ago. "To thine own self be true" is a maxim seriously worth living by. Forty years ago I wanted to be a non-comformist, a flower child, then a hippie, so I wore my hair long and straight, wore paisley and fringe, and said "Holy Shit" a lot. I lived in fear some fellow hippie might not think I was cool enough. I was pretentious as hell. I had to be up on the latest music and pop cultural icons or I was nobody. I thought I was so damn free and I didn't know how to be spontaneous. I couldn't be silly because I was too hip. I thought like others, talked like others--probably even walked like other people. All the posturing robbed me of my youth.
Today I know who I am and I really don't give too much of a good hot damn what other people think about my somewhat strange ways, whereas when I thought I was being so outrageous as a kid I sometimes was bothered by "straight" people's reactions to me.
I re-married when I was 36. I managed to find another aging hippie. He was, of course, like I was at the time a bit crispy. We met in A.A. He died about eight years ago from a cancer that started in his eye. I have wondered if it was the result of the time he dropped acid and stared at the sun all day.
Now that would be something I finally agree with my mother about today, and my father if he were living. I wouldn't want my two kids, ages 19 and 22, doing all the drugs I did. I am thrilled that they only smoke pot. They both deny ever getting close enough to cocaine to have ever seen it. I have told them the truth about my drug experiences in the hopes that they might listen, learn and save themselves some suffering. I think I took LSD over 250 times. I would not want my kids taking it once and that sort of surprises me but it's the truth.
Other things i have learned in the past 40 years are that I don't want a life that is ego-driven. I need to meditate to hear the still small voice within. I can follow inner guidance and act lovingly or I can fall asleep to my soul and end up being self-will run riot and make a mess of my life if I choose. I have learned that romantic love is a trivial pursuit compared to practicing compassion. I am open to the idea of a spiritual partner but not a love interest of the romantic variety. I am too old for such nonsense and wasted far too much time on it in my salad days. I have learned more about respecting my body, and I regret a lot of the abuse I put it through back then. Neil Young is still one of my rock and roll idols, but I spent one Christmas utterly moved by "The Messiah" and wanted to hear it over and over.
I would like to read the finished compilation of these manuscripts.
FINDING YOUR TRUE LIFE'S WORK: "DOORS WILL OPEN WHERE YOU DIDN'T KNOW THEY WERE GOING TO BE"
"If you follow your bliss," Joseph Campbell* said, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there a while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. When you can see that, you begin to meet people who are in your field of bliss, and they open doors to you. I say, follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be."
Oprah Winfrey also is a big believer in people establishing new careers by following their bliss and she is a perfect example of the theory herself. People who love what they do, do it well, and are well rewarded for doing it. Life is far too short to stay stuck in a dead-end job collecting a pay check and being unhappy.
We were all given talents. Many of us lost our belief in our gifts because they weren't encouraged when we were children. We may have lost them by feeling inferior and unworthy as a result of thoughtless criticism from teachers or even parents.
We are not supposed to hide our light under a basket. We need to free ourselves-to return to our childhood exuberance and become the very one we truly are. George Eliot wrote, "It is never too late to be what you might have been."
It really is never too late. We have only to get in touch with our spiritual side. But then as the philosopher Teilhard de Chardin wrote, "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience." It is only that we let our human side, our ego, our lesser self, get in the way of the spiritual self we are created to be. That being is not motivated by fear and resentment but by love.
How do we get in touch with our higher self? Many religious people are not spiritual. Also, many spiritual people are not religious. If you can formulate a concept of a power greater than yourself that you are comfortable with, that is a great start. If you already have one, so much the better.
Begin tuning into the spiritual simply by being still and quiet. We cannot hear the small voice within each of us that directs and guides when we are noisy and all over the place jumping from one activity to the next. Slow down.
Then begin to meditate. Any meditation method will do. Just still the body and mind so the spirit can come through. Focus on the breaths. Take in deep breaths and watch each go in and out. If you think a thought don't be discouraged, just watch it float over you like a cloud and say "Thought." You will notice an improvement in your well-being and in your life almost immediately once you start a discipline of regular meditation.
Pray. Even if you aren't sure who, if anyone, is out there, act as if. Talk to this entity, perhaps beginning by saying, "Hey, I don't even know if you're there, but if you are will you show me the way home."
Begin to notice the increased coincidences in your life. Coincidences, they say, are just miracles God doesn't sign his or her name to. Things will begin to change in your life. Something, call it the universe, is trying to get your attention and miraculous events are taking place more often the more you notice them and wonder what message you are supposed to take from them.
Then all things become possible. If our lives are based on love rather than fear, we can no longer show up just to collect a paycheck because we think that's what we're supposed to do in life according to the way we were brought up. A new career direction may begin to reveal itself to you. A life transformation might start with quitting a much-hated job.
You can help this process by using your non-physical guides. Who are they? Some believe they are old souls we knew in past lives. Others believe they are the departed souls of friends and family members from this life. But we all have people watching lovingly over us just waiting for a word or sign from you to begin to help directing you. You can ask them questions as you would ask a friend. Ask, "What is my motivation for continuing to stay in the same old dead-end job and what can I do about it?" Then pay attention. Keep an open mind. Say to them, "Help me, please, I lack courage, strength and direction. Guide me. Show me the way." Doors will open that you didn't know were there.
Spiritual awakening has to mean a new direction in your career or a new career because being spiritual means that you cannot conduct business as usual unless you conducted your nine to five life authentically and honestly. You will want to act from a higher ground of love which means honesty, integrity, responsibility and compassion direct our actions. You will not want to work with the notion of "What's in it for me?" anymore and this will change everything.
You can develop your innate psychic abilities to further direct you. Practice re-learning what you were taught to forget as a child. Guess who's on the phone or at the door before you pick it up or open it. Predict what mail you'll be getting that day. Work on empathy. When talking with a friend try to feel what he feels Then state the feelings to him and ask if you are correct. There is nothing weird or odd about psychic abilities. They are gifts that everyone has but let wither from disbelief and not using them.
The more loving and compassionate you become, the more you will be on the path to following your bliss. Far from serving as a permission to anything you will desires goes, instead of selfish pursuits you find that you want to serve. You want to contribute to your community and to the world because your heart is full. This is how we are going to change and save this poor planet-by transforming ourselves one by one. We are evolving as human beings. Can you feel it in the air? More people are choosing freedom to be who they are and do what they really want to do. It always ends in bliss and love.
Following your bliss will put you in touch with the dreams of your real self. Remember that soul? You will find yourself doing things called work that feel more like play. Like Joseph Campbell experienced, invisible hands will reach out and take yours and show you the way to your new life's work.
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*Joseph Campbell--American mythologist, writer and lecturer, best known for his work in comparative mythology.
MAID'S DAY OFF
Housework is anathema to me. I am literally and metaphysically allergic to it. The only slightly larger waste of time I can even think of offhand might be building sand castles on the beach as the tide is coming in. To me it is pointless, petty and doing it is only a harbinger of what I imagine hell must be like.
So, of course, I live in chaos and a bit of filth. Yet I try to keep up some sort of pretense of domesticated life when people come over, an event I attempt to thwart at all costs but which sometimes conspires beyond my best lack of welcoming.
For example, one lovely Saturday afternoon my lover dropped by. He should have known better by that point in our relationship than to do the "drop-in" but he was playing dumb, I suspect, to get a gander at how his little mystery woman lived behind the door she always kept carefully closed. Not only had he broken all the rules by doing dropping in unannounced, but, horror of horrors, he had brought his two young adolescent sons whom I barely knew having only met them once briefly. What a way to make a good impression!
I listened to them calling for me on the other side of the door, and looked around my destroyed living room which led to the mutilated bathroom and then to my slaughtered bedroom. My Gawd, what was I to do?. It was too late to pretend I wasn't home. They had heard me talking on the phone, unsuspecting guests, when they came up the stairs. What a fool I had been. Now I was stuck. I needed to be resourceful or I was about to be thoroughly humiliated.
A gleaning of an idea came to me. I messed up my hair and pulled my blouse out from the waist of my pants. I picked up a nearby floorful of items and threw them across the room. Then I was ready to face the music which was definitely in the genre of punk.
"Oh hello Jim. Hello boys. How are you all?" Their six eyes were wide as platters as they frankly took a good look at the unravelings of my mind and the physical form of the ennui of my domestic spirit.
The younger boy muttered "Holy S**t" under his breath but I heard him clearly and took it as my cue to go into my unrehearsed act.
"Isn't this something, boys? Can you believe this? I came home last night and this is what I found. I don't even know what all is missing yet. I'm afraid to find out. What kind of animals could tear up a place like this? What were they looking for I wonder? I just can't believe it!"
Their slack jaws drew shut and their eyes focused on me with something that looked like pity. It was working. Hot damn! It was working.
"Someone broke in here last night?" asked the slower of the boys. "Did you call the police?"
"Oh, yeah, sure I did, but they were long gone. The police didn't do much because I am not even sure if they stole anything yet. I mean my computer is still here, and my TV and my stereo."
Jim decided to step in and be my hero. "Well, you are coming to stay at our house tonight. You can't stay here in this mess. Who knows if they'll come back?"
Uh ho. I realized I had gone too far. I wasn't ready to leave my happy home where I could roll in my own mess like a pig wallows in mud. I mean I'm quite comfortable in my squalor. I sure didn't want to leave.
"Oh, I'll be fine. They're not coming back. For what? They already know there's nothing here to steal. They've had their fun trashing the place."
The older boy spoke up, "Well, they sure did trash the place. I never saw anything like this before."
"I know," I replied. "Ain't it a shame."
I hate housework.
WRITING SLAVES OR "ARTICLERS"
Two want-ads for freelance writers I have recently seen that strike me as a new low for real writers. Today's, on Elance boards, was for an "articler" who, of course, would write articles. The other was for someone who could produce articles at 50 cents each. I tell you it's no wonder I'm on Prozac. If I wasn't already I'd be starting out on it now.
All I really want to write for are "Field Reports" which, unfortunately, is having major construction problems and not operating at this time, and "Skirt" Magazine. Both of these publish only personal essays for pay. The question I keep asking myself is do I still have the heart and soul to write personal essays after punching out 500 words here and 600 there on everything from the dieting drug Alli to dining out while dieting?
To be continued.
WRITING SLAVES OR "ARTICLERS" Part 2
I just found another new market (new to me) for authors not articlers: Orato.com. It, too, is strictly first person stories. They call them news stories, and, do, in fact, prefer stories that have to do with sizzling news taking place right where you the writer were. But they will also publish stories about love breakups and working at Burger King. You can either pitch your story to the editors or self-publish it. You get paid outright, plus there is something called "tips" for the writer at the end of your story where cash tips can be left. Read the guidelines here. I joined up because it seems to be an informative, edgy and fun website for writers and readers.
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