Dear Friend - A Bench To Sit On

The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky is my favorite book. Forever. An epistolary novel, it chronicles the life of Charlie throughout his freshman year in high school. He writes to “Dear Friend”, who is never identified in the novel, and at some point we as readers don’t care anymore. Charlie is clearly revealing his truest self – authentic thoughts and feelings to this person that even he doesn’t know very well.

I have a few friends to whom I write letters to on a regular basis. It doesn’t matter who they are to anyone but me. There are elements of these letters between us that ring truer than I could ever muster to put forth in person. Something about the false anonymity of written words makes this possible – even with, and perhaps especially with, friends (or family) with whom we cannot bear to share our dark or fanciful places face to face.

In light of this awareness, I will be printing excerpts from our letters and titling them “Dear Friend”. My hope is to bring pieces of truth about my life, and those around me, to this page – this place of our truest selves.

This first letter is written about my Aunt Betsy. I have written about this amazing woman in previous posts. "Aunty B" has literally saved me many times. She has carried all of my stories. I imagine she will again. My mom passed away two years ago, and I have carried such weight with me ever since. I wrote this letter on New Year's Day of this year. The girl “Sara” that I refer to is the main character in my novel. Sara is stuck at a bus stop with her mother. The following excerpt is part of the lengthy letter I sent to a "Dear Friend".

Dear Friend ~

I've been jotting down notes here and there - only really pulling my thoughts together at the end of a long drive. This is important to me. As you have done on many occasions, I trust that you will treat it as such. :)

[…] New Year's Eve, Betsy and I spent the entire day together. Many heartfelt and hilarious conversations; many adventures. One errand over adventure was dealing with my filthy car. I opted for a ridiculously expensive mega wash that would take about three days. We waited inside with orange painted cement benches, two vending machines, and a pay phone to keep us company. And while we sat on one of the benches, waiting for my car to get washed, I finally told the only story left to be told. "I have so much guilt about mom." We talked about blame and regret. Resentment and fear. We talked about what forgiveness looks like.

I drove 160 miles to be with my aunt Betsy today (New Year's Day). The circumstances were very different, but once again, we wound up sitting on a concrete bench. This time, out in the sun and in front of a huge beautiful fountain, we laughed loudly and whispered carefully. And I bought "A Charlie Brown Christmas" in Blu-ray. (Actually, I had literally just picked it up when your text came thru. Sort of a nice touch.)

Driving back into the city, I considered the benches where Betsy and I talked and waited over the last two days. That orange bench - at the car wash - was important not only for my life story, but also, as a compass for Sara's narrative.

I thought about Sara, sitting on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for an hour, and telling the only story left to be told. I heard Sara's blame and regret. Resentment and fear. And I wondered what forgiveness might begin to look like. For her.

Mare

Photo courtesy of Just Chaos

Flash For Your Fiction

A good writer friend of mine suggested some months ago that I post an entry every day for a month – or maybe three months – I can’t recall exactly. Anyway it was for some crazy amount of time. Like a week.

I always follow directions. Not really. However, this is my third post in as many days. I’m sure this will be the last of me.

Since I am here, and because I received my weekly installment of this author’s work, I want to share a bit about him with you. His name is Bruce Holland Rogers. Among his many accomplishments, he is the reigning rock star of Flash Fiction.

Flash, or Short-Short Stories, are generally works of no more than 2,500 words in length. As you can imagine given my fondness for the small canvas of the 10-min and one-act plays, I am enchanted with this restricted frame.

I have subscribed to his weekly shorts for over three years now and have never been disappointed. Not once. I remember many of his works long after reading them. These stories rang especially true for me: “A Poet to Watch” 4/09, “Lifeguard” 7/09, and “The Day That Bites” 9/09, “Stone Lions” 3/10.

Give yourself a nice treat. Take a break. Curl up with your screen and cup of tea. Bruce approaches the small canvas with a different palette every week.

You can follow Bruce on Facebook or through his website subscription (click on the paypal link).

Writing Forward Through the Rearview Mirror

I follow a lot of blogs, not all of which are listed on my blog roll. Need to fix that. In any event, Valerie Storey is a writer I have come to follow very closely.

This weekend I culled through her blog and found this gem from January.

Generally I'm not a fan of the Le Grande Plan so I almost blew passed this one. But before I bounced away, a couple of words caught my eye: intention, loglines, adjectives and relationships. Hmm.... now I'm intrigued.

Coffee in hand, I settled in at my satellite office (read: closest coffee shop with free wi-fi while my kids were at rehearsal) and gave myself a few minutes to investigate further. Two hours later I'd written a sheet for each objective - 21 in total - and filled in most of the pages. I'm happy to report I learned a great deal about the work, and more importantly, about myself.

To be sure, Valerie's topics provide a structure for the business of this year's writing, but moreover, for me anyway, they gave me a place to focus my intentions - all of them - for the year. A cool way to look in my own rearview mirror while watching the road ahead.

Thanks so much, Valerie! I look forward to your next post.

(And it would have been great to load this really cool rearview mirror shot of a sunset from our car driving home from Disneyland, but, Blogger was cranky this Monday morning. Sigh.)

There's Chocolate On His Ear Again!

My kids munched on chunks of chocolate at The Carnation Restaurant in Disneyland last Sunday night. My 12 year-old son has an incredible talent for getting chocolate on his ear. Of course my teenage daughter took a picture with her phone and threatened to text it to… He glared at her then wiped his face – and ear. At the next table a woman hauled off and slapped her already crying 3 year-old son’s face in front of about 20 people. Nobody moved.

The little boy with smudges of chocolate on his cheeks gulped big breaths and cried, “Mama!” She grabbed his shirt collar and wrestled him toward the door. Her right hand reached for the door –

Like the bullet in Anders’ brain, my mind reeled with a life before and after. Who will this little boy become? Will he be the kid who takes too long at the tetherball? There are thousands of kids who survive unthinkable atrocities every day in this world. I believe some – most – find a way to smile at the person behind the counter. And some of us who come from a supportive upbringing turn out to be complete assholes. It seems so random sometimes. And then I thought, what does my philosophy of “good manners and taking turns” look like in these circumstances? It’s easy for me to ask the bank teller how her day is going, or the waiter, or the nice husband and wife who own the dry cleaner – and their little schnauzer. But what about now? What was her life like? “Mama’s” life? How did she grow up? Did she take turns and hold the door? Did someone take her life away from her? Or has she always been a bully? Can I show kindness to such a woman who injured her child right in front of two-dozen people? Can I hold the door open for her? She reached for the door, struggling to keep a hold of her son’s shirt. He wriggled free then collapsed to the floor in the dead-weight move toddlers are famous for. This woman he calls Mama bent down, and my son stood up. The woman grabbed her son’s shirt, yanked him up to his feet, and reached for the door again. I quietly told my son to sit back down. He couldn’t do anything. None of us could do anything. Not really. Not really at all. My eyes returned to “Mama” as her right hand connected with the glass pane in the middle of the door. And I knew. I knew for sure that I should open the door for her. I naturally help the people I like, but I must show good manners to the people who create the hurt too. This turned my stomach when I thought of the rapist, the bully and the vicious girls in my life. How can I hold the door for them – for Mama? I blinked. Her hand pressed against the glass. Last chance I thought. Get up. Her son looks back our way. My daughter and son so upset. We need to talk. I look back toward the door. The woman had pushed the door ajar and was struggling to pull the little boy behind her. Just get up and go help her, I tell myself. It’s the right thing to do.

But I don’t.

And the worst part is that I don’t feel all that bad about it.

[Photo courtesy of Zen Cupcake]

...Is The Talk On A Cereal Box

When I came across this picture on Palahniuk & Chocolate blog I immediately knew it was true. I printed it out and put it up on my wall above my desk. It's nicely positioned right next to my favorite quote by Von Allan: Suck Less.

A couple of weeks ago - and for several days afterward - I foolishly entertained conversations in philosophy. What I am - is of the Edie Brickell school of philosophy... "is the talk on a cereal box. Religion is the smile on a dog."

I don't like kicking around subtle differences between existentialism and absurdism. Or picking apart whether life is in service to or a journey toward. Or I hold a linear or circular view of the universe, or am outer-world or inner-world dependent. And finally do I live in self-dedication to the goal or self-liberation from the false "Me"?

Okay. What. Ever.

I believe in two philosophical tenants: good manners, and taking turns.

Holding the door open for someone. Saying please and thank you. Asking the person behind the counter how her day is going. When we can choose between snarky and supportive, why don't we always choose the latter? Why would I ever walk through a door and not look to see if someone was following right behind me? Why would I not ask the young man in the parking garage ticket booth how his day is going? Having said that, I fail at this every day. Even with my own family. And my friends. I forget. Or quite frankly just don't feel like it because I'm too self-absorbed in my self-loathing to be bothered with you. Which is exactly when I need to hand someone a napkin.

For me taking turns looks like tether ball on the playground. Remember tether ball? I used to be the neighborhood champion. Well, not really. Actually, my next door neighbor Kathy was the reigning queen for the years we had a pole in my backyard - but she was three years older than me and taller and... well, just better. In any event, remember at school when there was a line and the loser rotated out so the next kid could play the winner? And it was great because if you were winning you could play all recess, right?

But then there was that one kid. Remember that one kid who lost and said, "no wait, she carried the ball, so I want another turn." And again. And again. That one kid. Then the bell rang and everybody was a little bit angry. When it was time to share the glue with that kid, nobody wanted to, and we were less inclined to share with each other because what if there wasn't enough to go around? We'd run out of time for our turn on the playground, so what if the glue runs out and we don't have enough? Then at lunch, we took extra tater tots. We had to make sure we got our share, and who cares if the girl at the end of the line, who really did win at tether ball, got her tater tots?

The sense of paucity that seems to settle over our lives like ash from a tremendous fire is gray and thick and makes it hard to breathe. And when we can't breathe who wants to waste air on pleasantries? We might run out of air, or time, or money. Or patience. Have you ever watched people in line when someone starts to write a check for his purchase? You would have thought he pulled out coins. Have you seen the faces and heard the sighs in the people in that line? I have. I felt so sorry for the immigrant woman with her young child trying to make sense out of her U.S. dollars and coins that day in Target.

If you don't like my words: good manners and taking turns. Perhaps Von's words might be just the perfect fit for your life. Suck. Less.

Buttons

I wrote this piece in May of 2008, and it never found a home. This morning I pulled a load of laundry out of the dryer and noticed a loose button on my daughter’s shorts. I thought, I better sew this back on before it gets lost. I set the shorts aside and suddenly remembered this bit of writing. It’s a conflation of memory and a chunk of one of the “firsts” after a loss. I think it’s true. But memory and grief and regret often weave their own distinct narrative. A wish for something different.

BUTTONS

Sewing all the buttons.

I’ve sewn dozens of buttons back onto shirtsleeves, sweaters, and even doll clothes. And of course there is the inevitable “Mom, the button fell off again!”

One such call to arms came from my daughter last night, “Mom, the button fell off my shorts.” So I said, “put them on my desk. I’ll get to it later.” Then the wailing started, “But Mooom, I want to wear them tomorrow. I’m going with so-and-so to such-and-such a place after school. Mom, I need these shorts. Please Mom… are you even listening to me, Mom?” For god’s sake, how could I not be listening?

So I sat down in my office to sew this button back onto my daughter’s favorite pair of shorts. I started to cry. The more I tried to control myself, the more tears rolled down my cheeks. I tried to wipe my face and of course smeared make-up on my daughter’s shorts. Great. Now I had to wash them too. I grabbed a Kleenex to wipe my nose and cheeks.

I thought, “What is your story?” I was so irritated with myself. I wanted to get this done quickly so I could get back to my writing, but I could not pull myself together. More tears. More make-up running down my face… and suddenly it occurred to me what was happening.

We have lived with my parents for the last eight years – ever since my daughter was four years old. She was born in San Diego. As she approached school age, and since most of my family was still in Phoenix, we decided to move back to the desert. I know what you’re thinking – visit… and suck up the school situation like the rest of us in the state of California! Yeah, we know.

There was another reason we wanted to come back to Phoenix. My mother had been suffering with Multiple Sclerosis for nearly 30 years, and we wanted to be closer to her. When the opportunity to live with them came along, we just couldn’t pass it up. So, here we are with no ocean, no marine layer, and no freeway system. But at least it hits nearly 120 degrees every year, so we have that to look forward to!

Last night, while I sat there holding the needle and thread, the tears started to make sense to me. Since we moved back, my mother did all the mending. Mom sewed all the buttons. I lost my mother nine months ago. Not from complications related to MS, but because she was consumed by cancer. Mom lived two weeks from diagnosis to death.

Sobbing, I realized that though I miss my mom every day, and I can still smell her perfume, and hear her laugh, I need to let her go. I needed to sew this button for my daughter, tears and all, and let my heart… and my mom… rest. Now it’s my turn… to sew all the buttons.