So Many Gifts

So lately I've been playing a little game with myself where as I'm walking through beautiful Barry Park, I ask myself: What are today's gifts?  I first started this game when I randomly spotted 2 muskrats chewing up early river bank greens a few weeks ago.  I'd never seen a real muskrat before, and it kept repeating in my head: "What a gift."  So each time I returned for a walk in the park I kept my eyes open and (tried to keep) my head quiet.  Some days it was a beautiful bird that let me get real close, other days a coincidental repetition of a certain kind of tree that suddenly seemed to be popping up everywhere now that I was on the look out. 

Today - this morning - was a plethora of "gifts."  In addition to our usual Syracuse red-wing blackbirds, I saw a brilliantly orange bird with only a few streaks of black near its wings (it might have been a Summer Tanager?? Thanks Google!).  A violent rustling through a stand of old cattails proved to be a squad of hungry goslings hurrying up the bank toward their mama.  I watched a muskrat steer himself across the pond using his skinny little tail as a rudder - all with a huge mouthful of tender greens stuffed in his mouth.  Oh, and then I watched a heron stand at the edge of the pond for about 10 full minutes.  He was facing the sun, stick legs akimbo.  I got to see some neck gyrations, some graceful high stepping, and - eventually - an elegant take-off when I got too close :) 

What gifts! So many gifts!

(P.S. No pics, today, trying to not take my phone out so much!)

Too Close

Sometimes, you have to be far enough away from a great idea to let it come alive on paper.  Being too close to a new idea can cause you to hold onto it too tight, hold onto the "truth" of it too tight.  I've been trying to write the story of burying my grandmother's ashes for over a decade now, and I think I've finally forgotten enough of the actual details that I can write it without agonizing over the proper chronology, over who said exactly what.  The facts of the story had long been getting in the way of its essence--the love, the humor, a story of my grandmother, my mother, and her sisters, and me getting to witness it all. 

I've found this with a lot of my writing pieces, even when it's not a "memoir" piece.  A little time away gives me a more ruthless set of editing eyes,the ability to shape and fine-tune what might otherwise be an ungainly swathe of excess.  A little objectivity lets me get to the meat of the story, to revive the original creative impulse that drove me to write in the first place. 

What do you think?  Do your memoirs need to be as accurate as possible in order to access the truth of the story?  Can our "infallible" memories ever be completely truthful?   

Dreaming of the Orchard

finger tips tracing

thick glossy pages

shiny apples, plums, pears

apricots, peaches

peachy peaches

I wipe a bit of drool from parted lips

I want to brew herbal teas

(witch-potion green)

to pour by the bucketful

over mounds and mounds of ramial mulch

 a mulchy woodsy blanket

to snug around teeny tiny apple trees

the baby trees: "whips"

brings to mind a dormant firecracker

a pencil-thin projectile of possibility

Even the pests look colorful 

and infinitely manageable

With my weapons: 

the neem oil

the liquid fish

the horsetail tea

(witch-potion green)

the woodsy mulch

the whitewash of refined kaolin clay - Tom Sawyer style

Fun fact: fungus is my friend

At the Reservoir

We stood, hesitating for a moment in the willows together before peeling off our final layer of underthings.  I don't remember who started undressing first, but I remember thinking it was kind of cliche to be skinny dipping by moonlight.  In the prickly darkness, I faltered, fumbled, almost ripping my underwear in embarrassment--Faith had already splashed away from the bank.  Finally bare, I staggered into the water, quickly sinking to my knees to hide my nakedness in the shallows of the reservoir. 

(Eight months from now these measly thirty-six inches of water will have receded enough so we can run fast, losing each other in the moon mist, our sneakers tracing these moon cracks thrust upwards, puckered like scars racing under our feet.  I will expect these moon cracks to crumble, dusty under my fingertips, but when I press the ground, my finger sinks, making a hole whose walls are caked, neither wet nor dry.  We will leave a million shoe prints on that moonscape.)

Still crouched, the water swirls under my armpits, swirling water, warmer than the air.  Deep or clouded waters usually frighten me, but I find I can melt my limbs, my skin, my lips into this wide, dark basin, warm like tears, like blood.  Its slippery comfort envelopes me as I hug my knees, nostrils barely breaking surface like a lazy crocodile.  I am crouched, immobile this way as young bodies splash and crash around me.  I am this way, sinking in mood mud, learning to breathe through my eyelids. 

My Grandmother's Raspberry Patch

We are weeding my grandmother's raspberry patch--my sisters and I--kneeling in the prickly weeds, sensible in our wide-brimmed sun hats.  The job, in theory, is easy: leave the woody raspberry canes, pull everything else.  Our cul-de-sac hands don't know what they are pulling--they tug with steady indifference, pulling up the earth into clods and pockmarks, small sunken volcanoes empty of their innards.  I throw the weeds into growing piles, starting new ones as I inch down the row.  My sisters work on one pile at a time, clearing each mound to the compost pile before starting a new one.  My way makes double the work, picking up the weeds twice, but I love the rhythm of pulling and throwing, pulling and throwing, marching down the raspberry aisle until I've made it to the end of the row, piles of wilting, shrinking greenery baking in the sun.  My piles plod after me, marking the places I've been in my grandmother's garden.  When I make my way back down the aisle, sweeping the whole thorny lot into a wincing embrace, stray burdocks stick to my shirt and hands, and the row is clean, tidy, cleared of my efforts--the thick brown raspberry canes are all that remain.

From Brooklyn to The Cuse!

Don't know whether my "nesting" impulse is kicking in or if it's just time to jump-start the inspiration for an alternate means of employment, but I've decided to re-start this writing blog.  Reading through my old posts - they made me smile, laugh, want to get that special something back that originally prompted me to "just write."  True, the excitements of living in The Big City (or rather it's hipster cousin, Brooklyn) probably helped get the creative juices juicing, but I have had moments of clarity wherein I've realized that inspiration can rear its inconvenient, glorious head in any environment.  So, so, so . . . I hope you'll all start reading again, and commenting again.  Thanks in advance for your time and encouragement :)

Caitlin

Sunday Fun Day . . .

lazy lazy sunday are our special-tay
for sundaY, sunday fun day!

johnny on the couch
bette davis bats her spider eyes
in black and white
jess and i slouch in white robes
fluffy, coffee

got the rundown for the fantasy matchups
i have no chance
its a learning year
its down to johnny and jess
to win the division
to kick da boys butts
or the amazings
i take on empire of doom
with his hip chugging foot soldier pic

if i win
i'll hip chug all over flatbush!

Waiting for Thunder

i'm sitting here, luxuriating in my after work ritual of checking email, facebook, and myspace; browsing my friends' blogs, seeing what online news i can tolerate sitting still long enough to read (how has my attention span deteriorated so?).

i'm sitting here, slightly sticky from the thunderstorm that's been coming on all day, sweaty beer on the table, listening to jesse play tiger woods' pga golf game on X-Box .

it's slightly adorable.

i can hear the roar of the pga crowd, the digitally enhanced whubahmp whubahmp of tiger's heart beat as he pauses before a putt, -- and jesse is talking back to the tv screen, groaning with the crowd, raising a single fist to the air as he sinks his shots

this is a fabulous course - he says, not taking his eyes from the rolling hills of the recreated st andrews, the treacherous bunkers that snap and grab for his ball . . .

ooh! he's caught me looking, now he keeps glancing over at me, the yuengling raised to his lips.

whatcha doin, hon?

nothing . . . writing . . .a post

oh, nice.

we both look back and catch each other's eyes, holding them longer this time, two smiles.

i am slightly sticky, surrounded by corn still in its husks that waits for the grill, a small watermelon, my half-drunk tasty beverage, my sweety on the couch, kicking tiger's ass on the green.

I've Been Tagged . . .

So, Faithy's been gently pokin at me for a while to get this "meme" thing done - I'm not sure I even really know what "meme" means yet - me me? Coming up with "8 random facts" about yourself is slightly nerve-wracking - the attempt to strike a satisfactory balance between humor, candor, and brevity, while avoiding self-pity, unnecessary embarrassment, and being downright boring! So here goes . . . .

P.S. these are not in any order - aka #1 is no more exciting than #8 and vice versa


8. I enjoy being in the city (go Brooklyn!) but can't wait to move to somewhere I can see the stars.

7. I love belting showtunes and pop songs a lot more than I actually let on in every day life. (I tend to reserve such occasions for karaoke bars and when I've got the house to myself.)

6. I love the smell of skunk.

5. I want a pet mouse/rat whom I could name Octavia E. after one of my favorite authors.

4. I am becoming more and more girly in my old age.

3. I am marrying my sweetheart this coming October.

2. My two younger sisters took me on a surprise mission to get my ears pierced (for the first time) on my 23rd birthday - I was nervous sitting in the chair, it pinched and hurt a little, and I love them!

1. I am pretty lazy - I need a kick in the butt to make the time for the things that I love (dance, writing, singing, exercise).


Rules:
1. Each player starts with 8 random facts about themselves.
2. People who are tagged write a blog post about their 8 random things and post the rules.
3. At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and post their names.
4. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.


Whew! So I am breaking the rules because I don't know that many people with blogs! I tag Jesse and John because they are my roomies. Beyond that, I don't know, can I tag through facebook or myspace?

I am pretty internet illiterate - that should be #9!

Billy the Kid

William Bonney, to his mother.

Billy, to the ladies.

Billy the Kid to all those who knew his legend.

Billy burned out his eyes in the southwest wasteland, cut the teeth of his gun on the lawmen, indians, old friends. Got so good he knew how to shoot to kill a man, to make it quick, or not.

Explode it under the heart, stops the breathing even as they fall.

I think I might be Sallie on the Chisum ranch, watching Billy come and go, my barefeet blowing in the wind on the porch, biscuits and gravy and black midnight coffee for my friend, the outlaw, my man and I watching Billy, silent as he comes, a few new holes in him, silent as he goes, patched up some. We dont' ask where or what he does between waving to the back of his horse and greeting the front. No judgements; just Billy. He breathes between his teeth; takes his hat off indoors.

Lots been written about you, Billy the Kid;

here's one more.

Things I Don't Want to Forget

walking home after a long day of work down our dirty, pot-holed, dead-end street; not realizing my head had been cast down til I held it up and saw, all in one glance, our landlady's garden oasis, the stoop, dripping with the greens and purples and reds and yellows of impatients, nasturnium, pansies, asyllium, palms, and one big red crab-shaped sandbox . . . .


that first glance of the cherry tree esplanade in full bloom at the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens as Jesse led me up the winding path . . . .


yawning tulips, striped, curled, raw-edged, smooth, always open, never uniform . . .


the old jewish man, hat in his hand, pausing under a smallish tree; the white of his hair and the black of his coat perfectly matching the tree's white blossoms and darkly contrasting limbs and trunk; i hid on the other side of the tree, pretending to smell a fluffy branch in order to watch him blending into the tree; when he was gone, i walked back and stooped to read the carefully placed tag: Mary Potter Flowering CrabApple . . .


the young woman, girlish with her camera, back up against an exploding cherry tree in her pink skirt, black top - she looked like a cherry tree herself, and i offered to take her picture for her . . .


the sight of jesse conducting an as yet uncomposed symphany of scents inside the lilac grove; his nose and cheeks buried in the white, purple, pinkly curled trees . . .






the raw, raw green of the newest trees . . .

Life After Kids . . .

So, this is what happens when you leave your parents to their own devices - they run off and become pirates.

Is this just about the greatest picture ever? Too bad you can't hear the "arrgghh" Dad was making as the shutter snapped.

Sometimes I worry that my parents will be lonely with three girls away from home, at college and beyond. I really shouldn't - it seems everytime I call they're dining with friends at new restaurants, taking in stray cats (whom they've now dubbed "The Kids"), and galavating around Hunterdon County in swashbuckling attire - and dont' think mom is innocent in this; she's the one who dressed him!

All this fun they're having makes it seem all the more vital that Jess and I expedite the retrieval of our case(s) of Finger Lakes wine we've been storing in Jersey, on the premise of waiting till we found a car with which to cart it back to Brooklyn.

What scallywags could resist such prize booty??!!

Circus Kitties

Tried to train the cats today - Oscar and Lucy, the ultimate odd couple.

To better aid in the telling of this story, a couple of mental kitty portraits may help: Oscar is a fluffy, tiger-striped, slightly pudgy boy cat; Lucy is an anxious, tiny girl cat, snow-bunny white from the tops of her ears to the constantly ticking tip of her tail. The two alternate between devastatingly adorable snugglege and tempestuous brawls always consisting of Oscar exerting just enough effort to maintain his dominance over itty bitty Lucy. Lucy-Bitch we call her a lot. But not because she's Oscar's bitch - because she's a bitch. Period.

Anyway, Oscar has this cute habit of balancing up onto his hind legs, circus bear-like, in order to push his head up underneath a tantalizingly dangling hand, the curl of fingers a cat-speak "allioop!" So I attempted this afternoon, rare sunlight streaming the windows of our dead-end street apartment, to train both Lucy and Oscar to perform this feat on command. Miserable failure sounds harsh, but, there it be.

Having no designated cat "treats," I decided to use their usual food as my training tool of choice. Unfortunately, the cats were so excited by the prospect of a possible previously unscheduled feeding, that they wouldn't leave their food dishes, swishing and swirling amongst our cast-off shoes, rubbing up against them and each other. When I'd finally lured them away from their still empty dishes, Lucy seemed to show a thinly-veiled disdain for my high-pitched yippings and jerky hand movements, trying to signal "up, up!" Oscar, who as I said has done the trick on his own before, seemed too stupid to understand what I was trying to do. He sat and stared, blankly, stooping to eat bits of food off the floor whenever my arms movements became enthusiastic enough to let escape any kernels of the fishy smelling stuff.

My circus-ring yips getting fainter, more exasperated, I gave up and threw a bit of food in both their bowls, if only to get their uncooperative behinds out of my sight. Lucy-Bitch indeed.

blogging out loud

Blogging is like talking out loud - something I've never been totally comfortable doing. I'd rather think, write, re-write, edit, mold, tinker, tuck, pinch, nip, plump, cajole, convince the words I'm using to say what I want. If it needs to be written in less than an hour, I won't bother. Or at least, not till now. This is a new goal of mine - to be comfortable with the quickly jotted down word, the true snippet, the casual thought. Not everything needs to be born of divine inspiration. I think that way I will play more, write more, breathe more, get back in the groove. Feel like I can use my tool again. Get excited about it again. Make it a viable, present, working part of my life - give it greater precidence in my life than, say, the slightly depressing, partially maddening, pays-the-bills-job that I am grateful, resentful of. On, that lovely prepositional ending, good night. Off to West Wing it is!

Poem for a Saturday in Spring

walk through the park
see the magnolia trees in bloom?
walk to the gardens
6/15 community gardens
walk to 9th street station
you bought me a chocolate-filled croissant
(even though you thought it wasn't healthy)
walk down seventh ave to johnny's bar
it's early - i'm the first customer
i have no money
so johnny pours me glassfuls of ice cold water
from behind the bar
he prepares for the day
especially for margaritas
lime juice to wet the glass
big kosher salt to coat the rim
squeezer at the ready
he chops lemon and lime wedges while he talks
hair swinging about his chin and cheeks
slice off one end, then the other
stand the lemon/lime on one juicy cut end
slice it down the middle
notch the two halves in their center
where the seeds would be
lay the lemon/limes cut face down
slice them crosswise
into happy lemon/lime smiles
that will grin down onto salty coated rims
i pay for my water with a wave
get down off my stool, coat on
linger in the doorway
walk out into the sunshine
it's time to get a haircut
do my taxes
go to the gym
dig up the garden
clean up my room
sweep the house
(it is my turn on the schedule)
mail some magnets
do the dishes
go to the movies
crawl up to bed
my head two feet from the ceiling
close my eyes
bathed in the moonlight that is the
back alley street light
that soon will be broken
by us
with rocks

A Whale Bone in the Moonlight

I dreamed I came upon a whale bone in the moonlight, massive, glistening. Thrust up on shore by moon-tide forces, this fierce-white relic arced from sand to starry sky, throwing salty whisperings, deep blue watery thoughts. The speckled black above took in this glowing, silent sight, and, commencing whisperings of its own, let fall like gentle dust the secrets of the night. And the whale bone, now so delicately entombed, seemed to heave a tender sigh before dissolving into sand and quiet sea and sky.

our christmas tree

our christmas tree is old and dry
the white cat sleeps under it
on top of a dark old towel
now fur-covered white

our christmas tree is old and dry
and smells so so sweet

Saturdays in The City

Saturdays in The City
I burrow into bed
light, warm
you've lingered in sleep an extra hour
and that's an accomplishment
coffee beckons
potatoes crisp
rosemary, garlic slips under the doorframe
the Boys are on the futon
one large X and a little curled up O
(George doesn't cuddle)
I hear boy-man voices and
creep down our loftbed ladder
clothing pressed to my front
morning light bare on my back
baggy boy clothes feel good
my hair is bedroom hair
it looks good
video games roar against the boys faces
controllers bucking under their skilled fingers
i like to watch
coffee in hand
toes tucked under your knees
rooting for the other guy to win

breakfast (prev posted at "Optimism from the Hills)

I found a quail in my peanuts this morning. Or rather, a quail-shaped peanut. It was so cute and little, with a fat little bottom and an itty bitty sloping head. I haven't eaten it yet. It's resting amongst the peanut shell graveyard that's spilling over my plate. I'll probably eat it soon. Peanuts--even quail-shaped ones--are meant to be eaten. Apparently there are lots of things you can do with peanuts, but I still think their most important use is to be eaten. How many peanuts are too many? 15? 30? The whole bag? Someone told me that eating the papery skins is good for you--fiber? I don't like to eat the skins. When I eat a peanut, I like to squeeze one end of the shell so it splits, then I pull the two halves apart and dump the (hopefully) two little nuts into my hand. The big ones are the most satisfying to crack open, but sometimes the little ones are extra tasty--I don't know why. So anyway, I like to pop the nuts out of their skins, sometimes shooting them across the table so they have to be retrieved prior to ingestion. What remains just adds to the little peanut shell graveyard. I have to dig amongst the bones and whispery skins to find more nuts, find the live ones. Peanut shells don't seem like regular garbage to me. I imagine them all getting together somewhere---peanut Heaven??--piles and piles of the stuff. Dry and light and skittering over blacktop, pooling in potholes. The saddest sight in the world is a wet, soggy peanut shell.

The Apartment

I can feel the Q train’s groaning vibrations as I struggle with the strings on our window shades. It is officially Fall, and I like to let the daylight brighten the apartment. We put down the shades at night so the crack-heads don’t feel tempted to peak into our living room, but between the hours of 8am and 7pm I like seeing the stoops across the way, our landlady’s motorcycle covered and chained to the black metal gate out front, her flowers and green things climbing, cascading over the building’s limestone.

Someone has knotted up the string ends in an effort to keep them out of the cats’ reach, but it looks horrible, and now Oscar is lusting after the tangled mess in my hands, eyes darting and tail flicking as the loops and snarls flash and jump between my fingers.

The stoop from the next apartment building over blocks a bit of our view to the left, but you can see quite a lot from these three front windows. In good weather, the Carribeans down the street play dominoes at all hours of the day. I haven’t played dominoes since the third grade, but they have it down to an art, dramatically suspending each tile in the air for a quivering moment before slamming it down to the table with a loud defiant hah! The men gathered round shout in triumph or defeat, hands in the air, clapping the stone-faced players on the back, egging on the next challenge.

I hear the squeaks of wheels on pot-holed pavement and know that John is back from the laundry mat. Through the window I can see him tottering down our dead-end street, balancing a pile of bulging, straining duffel bags his little metal cart. His tall, wiry frame is hunched over, somehow pushing the cart, talking on his cell, and smoking a cigarette at the same time and I laugh, waving between the window bars. He is probably the window shade culprit.