I don't think I have any readers, but just in case one wanders in…
I've stalled. I'm stalling. I'm on pause. Again.
I realized major storyline re-writes were needed--character changes, even--and it no longer makes sense to keep writing what I know is the wrong storyline and with the wrong characters. I figured, well, I'll just go back and rewrite off-line, write a little synopsis of the changes, and then pick up online with the correct story arc.
I've stalled, am stalling, am on pause, again, offline with rewrites.
This is where things fall apart for me every single time: Rewrites. I find them overwhelming. When I draft, I take things minute by minute, letting things fall out how they want to fall out. I don't think too much about the big picture or how things fit together.
When I start thinking about rewrites, I leap ahead. I try to mastermind the details and overdirect the characters. I cut things into puzzle pieces and then lose them. I get lost in my own intentions, overwhelm, and shut down. I hate that I do this. But there it is. At least I'm consistent.
I am lost in rewrites. And feeling like a dumbass. The end.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
17. skeleton in a top hat
The tip of the cigarette grew orange and crackled when she sucked past the filter. Lilith imagined herself a skeleton, a cartoon skeleton in a top hat, and the smoke wrapped itself around the ladder rungs of her rib cage. She could finally inhale without coughing.
The park was not empty, although it should have been. They pulled the entrance gates closed at 10, but that didn't stop anyone from parking on the street and hoofing across the green. They brought pockets full of weed and backpacks of whatever whoever could grab from wherever. Rudy once brought her mother's Chardonnay, and they drank it from blue solo cups.
Lilith was alone and felt every pound of it.
Derek said he would be there by 10:15, but it was 10:45 now. They said the swings by the pool, didn't they? They did.
Voices rang from the north, the wooded hill that overlooked the petting zoo. Suzette, maybe. Breanne. Astrid and Ben. It didn't matter. They'd stopped talking to her, and it was fine. She missed the pot Suzette scored every time she sucked off her brother's friend, Samuel. But that was it. And not even that, really.
"U coming?" she typed into a text. Cancel. She would not care. The chain squeaked in its hook from the frame of the swing set. She just needed the alone time.
As if she didn't have enough already.
She had not slept with Derek like they said. It was not her fault that Derek dumped Breanne. They said that, too. Breanne was a needy little bitch all on her own.
Lilith pulled the lighter from her pocket, flicked it until it produced. She held her palm over the flame. Closer. Closer. It stung her skin. She let it go, tucked the lighter back into her pocket, licked her thumb, rubbed her burning palm again and again. Held it open to examine, although she could see nothing through the gray.
"Fuck you," she typed into a text. Send.
The park was not empty, although it should have been. They pulled the entrance gates closed at 10, but that didn't stop anyone from parking on the street and hoofing across the green. They brought pockets full of weed and backpacks of whatever whoever could grab from wherever. Rudy once brought her mother's Chardonnay, and they drank it from blue solo cups.
Lilith was alone and felt every pound of it.
Derek said he would be there by 10:15, but it was 10:45 now. They said the swings by the pool, didn't they? They did.
Voices rang from the north, the wooded hill that overlooked the petting zoo. Suzette, maybe. Breanne. Astrid and Ben. It didn't matter. They'd stopped talking to her, and it was fine. She missed the pot Suzette scored every time she sucked off her brother's friend, Samuel. But that was it. And not even that, really.
"U coming?" she typed into a text. Cancel. She would not care. The chain squeaked in its hook from the frame of the swing set. She just needed the alone time.
As if she didn't have enough already.
She had not slept with Derek like they said. It was not her fault that Derek dumped Breanne. They said that, too. Breanne was a needy little bitch all on her own.
Lilith pulled the lighter from her pocket, flicked it until it produced. She held her palm over the flame. Closer. Closer. It stung her skin. She let it go, tucked the lighter back into her pocket, licked her thumb, rubbed her burning palm again and again. Held it open to examine, although she could see nothing through the gray.
"Fuck you," she typed into a text. Send.
Monday, January 21, 2013
16. flowers instead of weeds
The seam of the kitchen tile left an imprint on Dolores's cheek. She examined it in the bathroom mirror. Morning had come and so had the sun; it washed the slate blank as much as it could. Dolores put away her suitcase, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat with Todd on the back patio. Thick weeds bullied through her aunt's pink anemones, and she could no longer tell what belonged and what didn't. Her first summer living there, she weeded the gardens until her aunt chased her out. "You don't know what you're looking for. You'll pull flowers instead of weeds. You're just like your mother."
With her coffee sloshing in her mug, Dolores crossed the yard barefoot and yanked a struggling pink bloom out of the ground, bringing its gangle of roots with it. She left it sideways in the grass.
"That's an anemone, not a weed," said a voice, plainly.
Karen stood at the side gate. An oversized purse hung diagonally across her torso.
Todd sniffed at her legs through the chain link. Dolores mouth grew dry.
"May I join you?" Karen asked with one hand on the gate latch.
Dolores nodded, and her head felt unusually heavy on her neck.
Karen held her hand to Todd as she entered the gate. He sniffed and licked her palm, sniffed her legs, her shoes, her legs again. "He probably smells my dog." She scratched his ears and patted him solidly on his haunches. "Good dog."
The two women sat awkwardly on straight-backed patio chairs. The circular glass-top table between them might as well have been as big as Lake Superior. Karen slid a large document mailer across the table. It was unmarked, and Dolores examined it without touching it. "It's your check and some other things," Karen told her.
"I don't need the money," Dolores answered.
Karen plucked up envelope and opened it, placed the check squarely on the table. "Take it. Save it. You might need it later." She pulled out a piece of yellow legal paper folded into thirds and a handful of photographs. "This is a note from Garrison. He doesn't know I'm here, by the way." She unfolded the letter and handed it to Dolores. "The letter isn't finished, but he never finishes anything. If I didn't bring this to you, you'd never get anything."
Dolores had received cards from Garrison before. They never said much. Just a general greeting--Happy Birthday--and his name. The narrow scrawl was familiar enough. She folded the letter and returned it to the table, resting her fingertips to keep the top flap from catching breeze. "I'll read it later."
"That's fine. These," she pushed the photographs toward Dolores, "are your siblings.
Dolores felt the way her teeth clamped together perfectly. Her jaw felt heavy so she loosened it.
"Here," Karen nudged the photos again and nodded.
Dolores's arms itched.
"This is your brother, Pauly. Paul. We call him Pauly. He's 27."
He was handsome like Garrison. Broad smile like the one Karen had in the photo from her birthday card so long ago.
"Natalie. She's 24. Just a little older than you."
Beautiful. Serious. She wore glasses and her hair curly.
"And Lilith. She's 17."
Dolores cupped her hands together in her lap.
"They don't know about you," Karen continued. "But I would like them to. I'm here asking for your permission to tell them."
"Why?" Dolores did not recognize her voice. She cleared her throat. "Why?"
"This has gone on long enough, don't you think?" Karen rested her elbows on the table. "You shouldn't have to be alone."
"I'm not." But she was.
"And I think you might be able to help Lilith."
The two women sat awkwardly on straight-backed patio chairs. The circular glass-top table between them might as well have been as big as Lake Superior. Karen slid a large document mailer across the table. It was unmarked, and Dolores examined it without touching it. "It's your check and some other things," Karen told her.
"I don't need the money," Dolores answered.
Karen plucked up envelope and opened it, placed the check squarely on the table. "Take it. Save it. You might need it later." She pulled out a piece of yellow legal paper folded into thirds and a handful of photographs. "This is a note from Garrison. He doesn't know I'm here, by the way." She unfolded the letter and handed it to Dolores. "The letter isn't finished, but he never finishes anything. If I didn't bring this to you, you'd never get anything."
Dolores had received cards from Garrison before. They never said much. Just a general greeting--Happy Birthday--and his name. The narrow scrawl was familiar enough. She folded the letter and returned it to the table, resting her fingertips to keep the top flap from catching breeze. "I'll read it later."
"That's fine. These," she pushed the photographs toward Dolores, "are your siblings.
Dolores felt the way her teeth clamped together perfectly. Her jaw felt heavy so she loosened it.
"Here," Karen nudged the photos again and nodded.
Dolores's arms itched.
"This is your brother, Pauly. Paul. We call him Pauly. He's 27."
He was handsome like Garrison. Broad smile like the one Karen had in the photo from her birthday card so long ago.
"Natalie. She's 24. Just a little older than you."
Beautiful. Serious. She wore glasses and her hair curly.
"And Lilith. She's 17."
Dolores cupped her hands together in her lap.
"They don't know about you," Karen continued. "But I would like them to. I'm here asking for your permission to tell them."
"Why?" Dolores did not recognize her voice. She cleared her throat. "Why?"
"This has gone on long enough, don't you think?" Karen rested her elbows on the table. "You shouldn't have to be alone."
"I'm not." But she was.
"And I think you might be able to help Lilith."
Saturday, January 19, 2013
15. Phillip
The girl with the woman who glowed like a Lite Brite took the photograph under the carpet. Phillip was disappointed; he'd liked looking at it, pressing the tip of his pointer finger over each face. But he knew she needed to have it. Someone said "Cheese" to the picture people, and they smiled, but it wasn't from the inside, like Nina said smiles should be. The girl had a smile on the inside, but it never made it out. It looked like soapy bubbles in her chest. He thought maybe if he popped one it would explode and sprinkle onto her. He chased a bubble into her pocket with his favorite toy car. It didn't work, so he left the car. It would help her later. "Some good things take time," Nina said to him.
Richard was a grid, all straight lines criss-crossing. When Nina unplugged the cable, the TV made loud salt-and-pepper clouds on the screen. Richard looked like that. He kept everything so clean and so neat, square corners lined up with table edges and wall seams. But inside, he was messy clouds of salt and pepper. Phillip saw the way he arranged his outsides to not match his insides.
A lot of people did that. He saw their designs scribbled like the dry erase markers Nina let him use on the kitchen windows. But the things they said and the things did didn't match what they were. The man Nina was marrying, Steven, looked like tangled knots, always changing shapes, always tangled. But he wore pressed suits and kept his hair glued together with shiny stuff from a can. He smiled at Phillip, and his teeth stuck in straight lines. He brought Phillip a hat and a stuffed horse and blue rain boots and a remote control Hummer truck and a soccer ball. But every time Steven stretched his arms forward with a present, Phillip watched the knots pull tighter. Phillip held his breath and waited to see what would happen next.
A week ago, the two of them, Nina and Steven, pulled up to the curb in front of Richard's townhouse. Phillip's suitcase sat on the seat beside him. Steven squeezed the steering wheel and bent forward, squinting under the visor. "This is where he lives?"
"Phillip, don't forget your hat," Nina said, unbuckling her seatbelt.
"You've got to be kidding me," whispered Steven. The knots pulled so tight, Phillip was sure they would break at last.
Nina opened Phillip's car door and unclicked his seatbelt. The vinyl strap zipped into place. "Out you go."
Phillip held Nina's hand and hopped over the curb and into the grass.
"Are you coming?" she asked over her shoulder.
The window was up except for a skinny crack at the top, and Steven's face was frozen. A thin section of hair had broken loose from the gooey shine and stood up on the top of his head. He closed his mouth and pulled it into a tight line.
"He's like a spooked horse," Nina muttered.
Richard was a grid, all straight lines criss-crossing. When Nina unplugged the cable, the TV made loud salt-and-pepper clouds on the screen. Richard looked like that. He kept everything so clean and so neat, square corners lined up with table edges and wall seams. But inside, he was messy clouds of salt and pepper. Phillip saw the way he arranged his outsides to not match his insides.
A lot of people did that. He saw their designs scribbled like the dry erase markers Nina let him use on the kitchen windows. But the things they said and the things did didn't match what they were. The man Nina was marrying, Steven, looked like tangled knots, always changing shapes, always tangled. But he wore pressed suits and kept his hair glued together with shiny stuff from a can. He smiled at Phillip, and his teeth stuck in straight lines. He brought Phillip a hat and a stuffed horse and blue rain boots and a remote control Hummer truck and a soccer ball. But every time Steven stretched his arms forward with a present, Phillip watched the knots pull tighter. Phillip held his breath and waited to see what would happen next.
A week ago, the two of them, Nina and Steven, pulled up to the curb in front of Richard's townhouse. Phillip's suitcase sat on the seat beside him. Steven squeezed the steering wheel and bent forward, squinting under the visor. "This is where he lives?"
"Phillip, don't forget your hat," Nina said, unbuckling her seatbelt.
"You've got to be kidding me," whispered Steven. The knots pulled so tight, Phillip was sure they would break at last.
Nina opened Phillip's car door and unclicked his seatbelt. The vinyl strap zipped into place. "Out you go."
Phillip held Nina's hand and hopped over the curb and into the grass.
"Are you coming?" she asked over her shoulder.
The window was up except for a skinny crack at the top, and Steven's face was frozen. A thin section of hair had broken loose from the gooey shine and stood up on the top of his head. He closed his mouth and pulled it into a tight line.
"He's like a spooked horse," Nina muttered.
Monday, January 14, 2013
All the Bulls (a lullaby -- Dina and Dolores)
All the Bulls (a lullaby)
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (January 2013)
This is another case where the song came first and then inspired the chapter. Although, I don't feel like I got the chapter [14] right. I'll try again in rewrites.
All the Bulls
LYRICS
All the bulls in Spain have bullied through your stained glass door.
Left your finest china in pieces on the kitchen floor.
I can't save you, but I can illuminate.
All the mustangs in the wild west have pounded hooves across your chest.
Left your hope, your faith, without a single life-giving breath.
I can't save you, but I can illuminate.
I'll be a comet blazing across the sky.
Across the dark night sky.
One million moths tap SOS on your window pane.
You fear the flutter will summon a hurricane.
Hush dear. Don't cry. I've brought this magic lullaby.
By morning, I'll turn each moth into a butterfly.
They will save you, and illuminate.
Colored wings will bring the morning sky.
A bold new sky.
Look now, the bulls are sleeping at your stained glass door.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (January 2013)
This is another case where the song came first and then inspired the chapter. Although, I don't feel like I got the chapter [14] right. I'll try again in rewrites.
All the Bulls
LYRICS
All the bulls in Spain have bullied through your stained glass door.
Left your finest china in pieces on the kitchen floor.
I can't save you, but I can illuminate.
All the mustangs in the wild west have pounded hooves across your chest.
Left your hope, your faith, without a single life-giving breath.
I can't save you, but I can illuminate.
I'll be a comet blazing across the sky.
Across the dark night sky.
One million moths tap SOS on your window pane.
You fear the flutter will summon a hurricane.
Hush dear. Don't cry. I've brought this magic lullaby.
By morning, I'll turn each moth into a butterfly.
They will save you, and illuminate.
Colored wings will bring the morning sky.
A bold new sky.
Look now, the bulls are sleeping at your stained glass door.
14. exactly 5 minutes
Dolores did not know why this realization had rearranged her so, but it had. She had never been anonymous, her birth never covert--never rejection by omission. Rejection, all by itself.
She left the lights off; only the glow from the park's trail lamps filtered through the stained glass in the back kitchen door. She felt small.
She found her mother's old suitcase in the hall closet and dragged it into the bedroom. Todd followed. "We have to go," she told him. She opened the top drawer of her dresser and stared at rows of rolled socks. "I don't know why," she added. A red pair with black spiders printed in stripes around the ankles. The cotton was soft, and she pumped it like a stress ball, watching the veins on the backs of her hands go smooth and then plump, smooth and then plump. She had her mother's hands. Capable, her mother had called them.
And so it came then, waves of longing that overwhelmed her. Her mother would have known what to say to her and how to say it. You have exactly five minutes to wallow, Dolo. I'll set the timer. How many times had her mother done this to shake Dolores loose from the thousand pounds of worry that followed her?
Dolores threw the balled spider socks into the suitcase and wandered into the dark kitchen where she set the microwave timer for five minutes and then sat at the kitchen table. Her chest heaved three times; and then she fell quiet, waiting for the timer to ding and for her mother to arrive. Time's up. Who are you?
Dolores.
Good. That's the only thing you ever have to know or get right. Then she'd held Dolores's hands between her own. Capable. Look at what fine, capable hands we have. We can fix just about anything. Except the world. We cannot fix that, and that's okay. Now who are you?
Dolores.
The timer dinged, and there was nothing.
The quiet of the house snaked through her chest and squeezed her from the inside. She opened her mouth and the weight of it all pushed out one long scream. It blew over the countertops and rang her aunt's cast iron pan hanging from a metal hook over the stove. Grief was a sneaky trick; it was never quite done with you. She screamed again, and it tore at her throat until it felt raw. Then silence again.
Out of breath, Dolores slipped from the chair and curled up on the kitchen floor, her cheek warm against the cool tile. Something in her pocket mashed against her hip bone. She pulled out Phillip's tiny car and held it tightly in the palm of her hand until she fell asleep.
Dolores Dolores Dolores. My Dolo, I'm here. You don't have to go. I see everything now.
note from ph
I feel a little self-conscious about how melodramatic this scene is. I'm not completely sure why Dolores has had such a strong reaction to learning that Karen knew about her. I wrote a song a few days ago that seemed to be directing this scene. So I wrote the scene for the song, instead of the song for the scene. I'm thinking I need to go back and explore some previous interaction a bit more closely. Now that I'm 14 chapters in, I'm starting to see where I need to do a lot of rewrites, and that's starting to make the drafting process feel clumsy. My internal editor-dialogue is getting really pissy because of it. But, I'll keep going. It will work itself out eventually. This note is my way of acknowledging that this chapter or point in the story might not make any sense at all whatsoever. Oy vey.
She left the lights off; only the glow from the park's trail lamps filtered through the stained glass in the back kitchen door. She felt small.
She found her mother's old suitcase in the hall closet and dragged it into the bedroom. Todd followed. "We have to go," she told him. She opened the top drawer of her dresser and stared at rows of rolled socks. "I don't know why," she added. A red pair with black spiders printed in stripes around the ankles. The cotton was soft, and she pumped it like a stress ball, watching the veins on the backs of her hands go smooth and then plump, smooth and then plump. She had her mother's hands. Capable, her mother had called them.
And so it came then, waves of longing that overwhelmed her. Her mother would have known what to say to her and how to say it. You have exactly five minutes to wallow, Dolo. I'll set the timer. How many times had her mother done this to shake Dolores loose from the thousand pounds of worry that followed her?
Dolores threw the balled spider socks into the suitcase and wandered into the dark kitchen where she set the microwave timer for five minutes and then sat at the kitchen table. Her chest heaved three times; and then she fell quiet, waiting for the timer to ding and for her mother to arrive. Time's up. Who are you?
Dolores.
Good. That's the only thing you ever have to know or get right. Then she'd held Dolores's hands between her own. Capable. Look at what fine, capable hands we have. We can fix just about anything. Except the world. We cannot fix that, and that's okay. Now who are you?
Dolores.
The timer dinged, and there was nothing.
The quiet of the house snaked through her chest and squeezed her from the inside. She opened her mouth and the weight of it all pushed out one long scream. It blew over the countertops and rang her aunt's cast iron pan hanging from a metal hook over the stove. Grief was a sneaky trick; it was never quite done with you. She screamed again, and it tore at her throat until it felt raw. Then silence again.
Out of breath, Dolores slipped from the chair and curled up on the kitchen floor, her cheek warm against the cool tile. Something in her pocket mashed against her hip bone. She pulled out Phillip's tiny car and held it tightly in the palm of her hand until she fell asleep.
Dolores Dolores Dolores. My Dolo, I'm here. You don't have to go. I see everything now.
Read previous chapters here: HERE.
note from ph
I feel a little self-conscious about how melodramatic this scene is. I'm not completely sure why Dolores has had such a strong reaction to learning that Karen knew about her. I wrote a song a few days ago that seemed to be directing this scene. So I wrote the scene for the song, instead of the song for the scene. I'm thinking I need to go back and explore some previous interaction a bit more closely. Now that I'm 14 chapters in, I'm starting to see where I need to do a lot of rewrites, and that's starting to make the drafting process feel clumsy. My internal editor-dialogue is getting really pissy because of it. But, I'll keep going. It will work itself out eventually. This note is my way of acknowledging that this chapter or point in the story might not make any sense at all whatsoever. Oy vey.
Friday, January 11, 2013
13. a clumsy archipelago
Karen has been sending the checks? Karen?
Garrison replaced the cap on the Snapple and left the half-emptied bottle on the top shelf of the refrigerator, trading it for a beer. He popped off the top, and shuffled through the kitchen, past the breakfast table, and through the screen door onto the back deck.
You forgot to sign the check, Asshole.
He left his beer on the patio table and returned through the screen door to the island. He scribbled his name on the signature line and left the pen tucked into the fold of the checkbook. Back on the deck, he pulled muddy golf shoes from a bench in the corner. The branch from a gingko tree hung low over the hand rail, and he snapped off a short twig. Garrison dropped heavily into a patio chair and cleared his throat with a grunt.
His dark hair turned gray around his temples, and Dina saw the mole just under his left eye was gone. Over two decades had passed since she'd drawn imaginary circles around it while he slept, tapped it until he woke. "You're cute," she'd said to him then.
He scraped mud and grass from between the cleats, and clods formed a clumsy archipelago on the wooden deck floor. He used his big toe to push the dirt between the slats.
"So are you," he'd said in return, before closing his eyes again.
Dina rested the tip of her finger in the cleft of his chin. "I'm tired of borrowing you."
He did not open his eyes. "Borrowing me?"
"It's like I have you on loan."
"Like a book from the library?"
"More like a car."
"That's not borrowing; that's renting." He opened his eyes. They were watery and a little bloodshot. They'd had too much to drink in the hotel bar the night before. It was the last night of the Newspaper Association of America conference. Journalists were like that--drinking to excess as they attempted to out-importance one another.
Dina rolled onto her back and pulled the sheets to the top of her neck. "It doesn't matter. Either way, you're not mine, and I have to send you back. I don't like it anymore."
His face turned apologetic. "Dina… I feel like such a failure, here. I know--"
"Jesus, I don't want you to leave your family or anything. God."
But I did and knew you wouldn't. Aside from cheating on your wife, you were relatively decent. Are you still? What has a lifetime of guilt done to you?
The cleats sat partially cleaned. Garrison absentmindedly rubbed the spot where his mole had been. He shook his head and exhaled audibly letting his shoulders droop. "She doesn't cash them," he said aloud, shaking his head.
He returned to the kitchen and pulled a yellow legal pad from the junk drawer, then the pen from the checkbook. "Dolores," he wrote on the top line. "I hear you stopped by this evening."
This is your opener? You're a writer, for shit's sake.
Garrison flipped the page and started again. "Dolores, I have thought of you every day for the last 23 years."
Better.
"Please know I loved your mother. I feel her everywhere." He paused, spinning the pen between his fingers.
Garrison replaced the cap on the Snapple and left the half-emptied bottle on the top shelf of the refrigerator, trading it for a beer. He popped off the top, and shuffled through the kitchen, past the breakfast table, and through the screen door onto the back deck.
You forgot to sign the check, Asshole.
He left his beer on the patio table and returned through the screen door to the island. He scribbled his name on the signature line and left the pen tucked into the fold of the checkbook. Back on the deck, he pulled muddy golf shoes from a bench in the corner. The branch from a gingko tree hung low over the hand rail, and he snapped off a short twig. Garrison dropped heavily into a patio chair and cleared his throat with a grunt.
His dark hair turned gray around his temples, and Dina saw the mole just under his left eye was gone. Over two decades had passed since she'd drawn imaginary circles around it while he slept, tapped it until he woke. "You're cute," she'd said to him then.
He scraped mud and grass from between the cleats, and clods formed a clumsy archipelago on the wooden deck floor. He used his big toe to push the dirt between the slats.
"So are you," he'd said in return, before closing his eyes again.
Dina rested the tip of her finger in the cleft of his chin. "I'm tired of borrowing you."
He did not open his eyes. "Borrowing me?"
"It's like I have you on loan."
"Like a book from the library?"
"More like a car."
"That's not borrowing; that's renting." He opened his eyes. They were watery and a little bloodshot. They'd had too much to drink in the hotel bar the night before. It was the last night of the Newspaper Association of America conference. Journalists were like that--drinking to excess as they attempted to out-importance one another.
Dina rolled onto her back and pulled the sheets to the top of her neck. "It doesn't matter. Either way, you're not mine, and I have to send you back. I don't like it anymore."
His face turned apologetic. "Dina… I feel like such a failure, here. I know--"
"Jesus, I don't want you to leave your family or anything. God."
But I did and knew you wouldn't. Aside from cheating on your wife, you were relatively decent. Are you still? What has a lifetime of guilt done to you?
The cleats sat partially cleaned. Garrison absentmindedly rubbed the spot where his mole had been. He shook his head and exhaled audibly letting his shoulders droop. "She doesn't cash them," he said aloud, shaking his head.
He returned to the kitchen and pulled a yellow legal pad from the junk drawer, then the pen from the checkbook. "Dolores," he wrote on the top line. "I hear you stopped by this evening."
This is your opener? You're a writer, for shit's sake.
Garrison flipped the page and started again. "Dolores, I have thought of you every day for the last 23 years."
Better.
"Please know I loved your mother. I feel her everywhere." He paused, spinning the pen between his fingers.
To read previous chapters, click here.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
pardon the interruption (a note from ph)
Please pardon the interruption (of silence).
I called a time-out while traveling and then Christmas celebrating. Then, I learned of a grant opportunity and have been plugging away to complete that application. If I'm successful, I'll receive funds to help complete this writing/songwriting project properly. If I'm not successful, it was time well-spent to re-focus and outline tangible goals for this project (Plenty of time to worry over funds.). And I completed a valuable practice-run for my next grant application. Win and win. And also: Win. (Optimism lives 'round these parts.)
The application is now shiny and packaged and ready to go. I completed my last day of work at my alarm-clock-and-paycheck job. And I am ready to dig into the sound and the story. Thank you for visiting and reading and listening! Cheers to 2013!
I called a time-out while traveling and then Christmas celebrating. Then, I learned of a grant opportunity and have been plugging away to complete that application. If I'm successful, I'll receive funds to help complete this writing/songwriting project properly. If I'm not successful, it was time well-spent to re-focus and outline tangible goals for this project (Plenty of time to worry over funds.). And I completed a valuable practice-run for my next grant application. Win and win. And also: Win. (Optimism lives 'round these parts.)
The application is now shiny and packaged and ready to go. I completed my last day of work at my alarm-clock-and-paycheck job. And I am ready to dig into the sound and the story. Thank you for visiting and reading and listening! Cheers to 2013!
Saturday, December 22, 2012
ember (a song for Phillip…with a note from ph)
Ember
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (December, 2012)
Ember
Lyrics
Here comes the dark. I'll bring the light.
It's more than just a flash. Will you trust me?
Here comes the fear. I'll bring the brave.
It's more than just a child like tendency to jump.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
You underestimate my voice. It may be small,
But it comes straight from Heaven's window.
I see the torture that you feel with each choice and consequence.
You know, I always fall in grace.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
**************A note from ph about this song and this character…**************
I like switching point of view in this draft, but I'll confess that I don't really know how I'm going to write Phillip's point of view, which is why I've avoided trying so far. I know his will have to be special. How do you write a character who doesn't speak?
But I think there's also something really enjoyable (in a freaky kind of way) about writing like this (*this bloggy drafty thingamabob*)--without a plan, that is. Without intention, things just pop out. This song popped out the day of the Newtown shootings and while I was in Nashville helping my cousin whose little girl is going through very aggressive cancer treatment. First of all, I didn't have access to a guitar, but I did have a lovely grand piano in a room with great acoustics. It was a nice change, but I've always worried that every song I make up on the piano sounds like a show tune. Show tunes are fine, but I don't want to sing them.
Next, I'd already been mulling over my problem with Phillip, knowing I was avoiding it and wouldn't be able to forever. Then, throughout the course of the day, caring for my son and my cousin's other 3 children, I'd sneak 2 minutes on the piano here, another 2 minutes there, and then the chords and melody popped out. I kept my lyric notebook on the kitchen counter, and when bits and pieces of them came, I scribbled them down.
I don't have a whole lot of direction when I write music (mostly because I don't know enough about what I'm doing to direct myself. If stuff doesn't happen by itself, stuff ain't gonna happen, period.). Often times, I don't even know what I'm writing about until it's done and then I look at what I did and say, "Oh, yeah. That's about blah blah blah." And so it was with this song, that although I had a notion that I was writing about Phillip, when it was done, I realized it was about Riley, my cousin's little girl, and the thought of all those children at Sandy Hook Elementary School.
So I might be cheating by including this song as part of the novel. Although, I do think it will direct how I write Phillip's narrative going forward.
And that is what I have to say about that.
Word to your mother's ship.
-ph
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (December, 2012)
Ember
Lyrics
Here comes the dark. I'll bring the light.
It's more than just a flash. Will you trust me?
Here comes the fear. I'll bring the brave.
It's more than just a child like tendency to jump.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
You underestimate my voice. It may be small,
But it comes straight from Heaven's window.
I see the torture that you feel with each choice and consequence.
You know, I always fall in grace.
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
I am a warrior. I am a child soldier.
Dust from a star, I am an ember.
And I am here to burn burn burn…
**************A note from ph about this song and this character…**************
I like switching point of view in this draft, but I'll confess that I don't really know how I'm going to write Phillip's point of view, which is why I've avoided trying so far. I know his will have to be special. How do you write a character who doesn't speak?
But I think there's also something really enjoyable (in a freaky kind of way) about writing like this (*this bloggy drafty thingamabob*)--without a plan, that is. Without intention, things just pop out. This song popped out the day of the Newtown shootings and while I was in Nashville helping my cousin whose little girl is going through very aggressive cancer treatment. First of all, I didn't have access to a guitar, but I did have a lovely grand piano in a room with great acoustics. It was a nice change, but I've always worried that every song I make up on the piano sounds like a show tune. Show tunes are fine, but I don't want to sing them.
Next, I'd already been mulling over my problem with Phillip, knowing I was avoiding it and wouldn't be able to forever. Then, throughout the course of the day, caring for my son and my cousin's other 3 children, I'd sneak 2 minutes on the piano here, another 2 minutes there, and then the chords and melody popped out. I kept my lyric notebook on the kitchen counter, and when bits and pieces of them came, I scribbled them down.
I don't have a whole lot of direction when I write music (mostly because I don't know enough about what I'm doing to direct myself. If stuff doesn't happen by itself, stuff ain't gonna happen, period.). Often times, I don't even know what I'm writing about until it's done and then I look at what I did and say, "Oh, yeah. That's about blah blah blah." And so it was with this song, that although I had a notion that I was writing about Phillip, when it was done, I realized it was about Riley, my cousin's little girl, and the thought of all those children at Sandy Hook Elementary School.
So I might be cheating by including this song as part of the novel. Although, I do think it will direct how I write Phillip's narrative going forward.
And that is what I have to say about that.
Word to your mother's ship.
-ph
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Friday, December 14, 2012
12. light, air, and intention
I suppose you're right, Child. Not empty. Not really. From where I am now, everyone looks like a hologram--a construct of light, air, and intention--even Karen. Especially Karen. I wish you would stop coming here. All these years, you keep coming here as if he'll change his mind and be someone to you, to us. Go, Dolo. I'll stay. This business has never been finished.
Karen pulled a loose wave of brown hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. The dog wagged its tail and followed her up the steps and into the house.
You look like shit, Karen. You do. Close the front door behind you. She did. Like that. It won't keep me out. I interrupted your family every time the television flickered. And here I am again. Not so easy to get rid of, am I? My girl and Garrison's is at the end of your block, and I am tapping away at you like an annoying habit.
Karen opened a drawer in the entryway console, upended bills and wrinkled post-it notes, dug past pens and pencils. Spare keys jingled. "Lillith," she said as she replaced the drawer and its junk and continued to the kitchen where the sink was full of bubbles losing their foam.
Where is he while you stand here at the sink washing dishes with your quivering hands? And why do they quiver? On any given night so many years ago, it could have been she who found you lingering in front of our house. Oh, I knew. Jesus God, woman, you were obsessed.
Brown crust clung to the sides of the pot, and Karen scrubbed. The kitchen smelled of cajun spices.
Fine, I understand. You had your family. I get it. A mother must protect. I may not have been much of one, but I understand this well. Still, it appears you were not successful. Nothing makes you feel more of a failure than a pig-headed child. This Lillith of yours, good luck. What did she take?
"Cigarettes."
"Excuse me?" Garrison wore gym shorts and a Cubs t-shirt with half-moon stains under each armpit. His bare feet made naked thuds on the hardwood as he cleared the doorway.
"She took your cigarettes."
"Who took cigarettes?" Jars on the refrigerator door rattled as he opened it. He bent in half and stared into the light.
Karen scrubbed at the pot until her forearm pulsed. "Lillith took your cigarettes--the ones you think no one knows you hide in the back of the hall console."
Garrison pulled a bottle of Snapple from the back of the refrigerator and closed the door. The cap popped when he twisted it open. He drank loudly.
I hate the way your Adam's apple slides up and down when you drink, asshole.
Garrison breathed heavily with one hand on his hip then tipped the bottle back, and guzzled again, each swallow exploding noise bubbles in the kitchen's atmosphere.
"The girl is back," said Karen. She turned on the water and watched it push soap off the pot and into the sink drain.
Garrison replaced the cap on his Snapple.
"Have you sent a check this month?"
Garrison opened the refrigerator.
Karen turned off the water, resting her lower back against the sink. "Have you?" The water seeped through her pants and cooled her skin.
"She doesn't cash them," he answered.
"It doesn't matter." Karen left the pot on the counter and dried her hands on a towel. She found the checkbook in a drawer full of miscellany, filled the spaces, and left it open on the kitchen island. "Sign it. I'll mail it tomorrow."
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Karen pulled a loose wave of brown hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. The dog wagged its tail and followed her up the steps and into the house.
You look like shit, Karen. You do. Close the front door behind you. She did. Like that. It won't keep me out. I interrupted your family every time the television flickered. And here I am again. Not so easy to get rid of, am I? My girl and Garrison's is at the end of your block, and I am tapping away at you like an annoying habit.
Karen opened a drawer in the entryway console, upended bills and wrinkled post-it notes, dug past pens and pencils. Spare keys jingled. "Lillith," she said as she replaced the drawer and its junk and continued to the kitchen where the sink was full of bubbles losing their foam.
Where is he while you stand here at the sink washing dishes with your quivering hands? And why do they quiver? On any given night so many years ago, it could have been she who found you lingering in front of our house. Oh, I knew. Jesus God, woman, you were obsessed.
Brown crust clung to the sides of the pot, and Karen scrubbed. The kitchen smelled of cajun spices.
Fine, I understand. You had your family. I get it. A mother must protect. I may not have been much of one, but I understand this well. Still, it appears you were not successful. Nothing makes you feel more of a failure than a pig-headed child. This Lillith of yours, good luck. What did she take?
"Cigarettes."
"Excuse me?" Garrison wore gym shorts and a Cubs t-shirt with half-moon stains under each armpit. His bare feet made naked thuds on the hardwood as he cleared the doorway.
"She took your cigarettes."
"Who took cigarettes?" Jars on the refrigerator door rattled as he opened it. He bent in half and stared into the light.
Karen scrubbed at the pot until her forearm pulsed. "Lillith took your cigarettes--the ones you think no one knows you hide in the back of the hall console."
Garrison pulled a bottle of Snapple from the back of the refrigerator and closed the door. The cap popped when he twisted it open. He drank loudly.
I hate the way your Adam's apple slides up and down when you drink, asshole.
Garrison breathed heavily with one hand on his hip then tipped the bottle back, and guzzled again, each swallow exploding noise bubbles in the kitchen's atmosphere.
"The girl is back," said Karen. She turned on the water and watched it push soap off the pot and into the sink drain.
Garrison replaced the cap on his Snapple.
"Have you sent a check this month?"
Garrison opened the refrigerator.
Karen turned off the water, resting her lower back against the sink. "Have you?" The water seeped through her pants and cooled her skin.
"She doesn't cash them," he answered.
"It doesn't matter." Karen left the pot on the counter and dried her hands on a towel. She found the checkbook in a drawer full of miscellany, filled the spaces, and left it open on the kitchen island. "Sign it. I'll mail it tomorrow."
To review previous chapters, click HERE.
To hear previous songs, click HERE.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Found (a song for Dolores & Karen)
Found
Found
I whisper Sorry
through a closed front door.
I feel so sorry,
but I don't know what for.
Do you?
Everything I knew
is in your closed right hand.
All I thought I knew
has turned to air and sand.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this house of bones away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
You say you're angry.
A growl becomes a roar.
You feel so angry,
but you don't know what for.
I do.
You knew everything
but you chose not to say.
You saw everything,
and you pushed it away.
Now here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes your house of fire away.
And you're lost as I am found.
I'm found.
Found.
Secrets spill into my boat made of glass.
I'm sinking deep, and it's rising fast.
I've lost home and my boat made of glass.
I'm treading water, but it's rising fast.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this heart of hurt away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman, December 2012
Found
I whisper Sorry
through a closed front door.
I feel so sorry,
but I don't know what for.
Do you?
Everything I knew
is in your closed right hand.
All I thought I knew
has turned to air and sand.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this house of bones away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
You say you're angry.
A growl becomes a roar.
You feel so angry,
but you don't know what for.
I do.
You knew everything
but you chose not to say.
You saw everything,
and you pushed it away.
Now here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes your house of fire away.
And you're lost as I am found.
I'm found.
Found.
Secrets spill into my boat made of glass.
I'm sinking deep, and it's rising fast.
I've lost home and my boat made of glass.
I'm treading water, but it's rising fast.
Here comes the tide rolling in with a furious sound.
Washes this heart of hurt away.
Now I'm lost as you are found.
You're found.
Found.
You can read chapters 1-11 RIGHT HERE.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
11. She had lost her map.
Richard had spent the entire two hours sitting in his car. Dolores knew this, but did not confess when she accepted his $20, agreed to come again in two nights, and left through the front door. She walked her bike, did not ride. It wasn't far, never had been, which was part of the rub.
In four blocks, the houses turned to brick and grew into four and five bedroom homes with fenced in yards and wrought iron gates. The trees grew wise with years and touched limbs over quiet streets. Quirky foreign cars sat clean inside well organized garages. Garrison's was the second from the end of the block on the north side of the street. The lights were on and a golden retriever gnawed on a stick under the porch swing.
A pretty blonde teenage girl slammed through the front door, startling the dog who jumped to his feet and barked. The girl stretched one arm above her head and raised her middle finger, holding it high as she charged down the driveway and stuck a key into the driver's side door of a blue Rav4.
Dolores stopped ten feet short of the girl and bent to feign tying her shoe.
"Lilith!" Garrison's wife stormed down the porch steps and half way down the drive in the girl's wake. Karen was barefoot; it was dark; she was not as pretty as Dolores remembered. Too empty to be pretty. "Lilith!" she hissed again. But it was too late. The girl named Lilith--her baby sister who did not know--started the engine, hit the gas, and left.
Dolores made adjustments to her bicycle seat, felt trapped.
Karen stood with her hands on her hips and was silent. The dog barked again and sniffed at the ground, retrieved the stick. The television was on in the house next door, and Will & Grace bickered through an open window followed by a studio laugh track.
"I see you," Karen said.
The houses, the trees, the sidewalks and waiting cars, all held their breaths as each syllable ripped through a still canvas. "I see you," Karen repeated, calmly.
Dolores re-tightened the bolt under the seat she had loosened and stood, making great effort to appear casual. She opened her mouth to say, "Hey," or "How's it going?" or "Cool. Nice night for a ride," but the words were superglued and all she could do was swallow and stare back. Her mother had been wrong: The woman was not empty. Karen was tired, had been wrung out and then filled with something Dolores could not slow her brain enough to name.
Karen did not move, did not adjust her stance, shift weight from one leg to another, blink, or lick her lips. It was Changing-of-the-Guard, and Dolores was the tourist. She had lost her map.
"Sorry." Dolores pushed the word through dry, barely open lips. She scrambled onto her bike and pedaled to the end of the block and turned left. She did not stop until Todd's wet nose greeted her inside her own front door. Her mother had been wrong about other things, too. Karen knew, and this changed everything. Dolores would have to go.
To catch up on previous chapters, CLICK HERE.
In four blocks, the houses turned to brick and grew into four and five bedroom homes with fenced in yards and wrought iron gates. The trees grew wise with years and touched limbs over quiet streets. Quirky foreign cars sat clean inside well organized garages. Garrison's was the second from the end of the block on the north side of the street. The lights were on and a golden retriever gnawed on a stick under the porch swing.
A pretty blonde teenage girl slammed through the front door, startling the dog who jumped to his feet and barked. The girl stretched one arm above her head and raised her middle finger, holding it high as she charged down the driveway and stuck a key into the driver's side door of a blue Rav4.
Dolores stopped ten feet short of the girl and bent to feign tying her shoe.
"Lilith!" Garrison's wife stormed down the porch steps and half way down the drive in the girl's wake. Karen was barefoot; it was dark; she was not as pretty as Dolores remembered. Too empty to be pretty. "Lilith!" she hissed again. But it was too late. The girl named Lilith--her baby sister who did not know--started the engine, hit the gas, and left.
Dolores made adjustments to her bicycle seat, felt trapped.
Karen stood with her hands on her hips and was silent. The dog barked again and sniffed at the ground, retrieved the stick. The television was on in the house next door, and Will & Grace bickered through an open window followed by a studio laugh track.
"I see you," Karen said.
The houses, the trees, the sidewalks and waiting cars, all held their breaths as each syllable ripped through a still canvas. "I see you," Karen repeated, calmly.
Dolores re-tightened the bolt under the seat she had loosened and stood, making great effort to appear casual. She opened her mouth to say, "Hey," or "How's it going?" or "Cool. Nice night for a ride," but the words were superglued and all she could do was swallow and stare back. Her mother had been wrong: The woman was not empty. Karen was tired, had been wrung out and then filled with something Dolores could not slow her brain enough to name.
Karen did not move, did not adjust her stance, shift weight from one leg to another, blink, or lick her lips. It was Changing-of-the-Guard, and Dolores was the tourist. She had lost her map.
"Sorry." Dolores pushed the word through dry, barely open lips. She scrambled onto her bike and pedaled to the end of the block and turned left. She did not stop until Todd's wet nose greeted her inside her own front door. Her mother had been wrong about other things, too. Karen knew, and this changed everything. Dolores would have to go.
To catch up on previous chapters, CLICK HERE.
10. That Patrick
Patrick. Christ. I'd forgotten about him. You know, dear, he did that to himself. They all do. I am who I am, my girl, and they are who they are. That's all any of us ever are; sometimes we just explode when we're mixed.
It had been much too hot to wear shorts in a car with vinyl seats for eight hours. When they arrived in the Black Hills, the backs of her mother's thighs were graffitied with red welts. This Patrick, this new boyfriend, pressed against her mother and moved them slowly, clumsily, through the Avenue of Flags at a zigzag. Dolores traced one welt with her finger. Her mother's skin felt slick and slimy. "Stop it," her mother said, and batted away her hand.
Concrete pillars held flags that made sounds like bed sheets from a clothes line when the wind kicked through. Blues and reds, whites and golds, stripes and stars and squiggles and circles: They waved to her. She stopped to stare, her head tipped back, her mouth open. The universe said Hello. "Hi," she said back and smiled.
She returned her attention to the walkway; her mother and This Patrick were replaced with the legs and waistbands of strangers. She rotated in a circle, careful not to inch forward or backward. "Mom?" she called. This had happened before with That Leland in Kansas City on The Plaza. What had her mother said to there then? If you're lost, stay put. Stay put. She sat, her legs, criss-cross, in the middle of the cement.
The flags above her continued to wave, no longer hello. They summoned one another, rallied. Child down! she heard them cry as the wind kicked through. Has anyone seen the mother? they yelled. Maybe one from Israel scanned the horizon. She'd heard of that--Israel--on the news.
"Sweetheart, are you okay?" a man said. His knees were locked and hairy; he bent over with his hands still in his pockets. His breath smelled like maple syrup. A woman in a plaid skirt clutched her purse behind him. She was impatient.
"I'm okay," she told him.
ETA on the mother? Anyone? Maybe it was Brazil. She'd seen a postcard from That Samuel. The people lounged by a beach and were beautiful.
"My mom is coming."
And she arrived, breathless, and with her hair out of place. "Jesus, Dolores. You've got to keep up," she said, and scooped her up by the elbow.
Patrick scowled. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to bring her."
Her mother brushed dirt from the seat of Dolores's shorts. "You know what's a good idea, Pat? You go sit in the goddamn car if you don't like it." She held Dolores's hand and pulled them forward, no zigzag, always ahead, straight line, don't dawdle. "Sorry, Dolo. He won't last. You and me the rest of the day, okay?"
The wind kicked through, and the flags cheered for you, my girl. Remember that?
It had been much too hot to wear shorts in a car with vinyl seats for eight hours. When they arrived in the Black Hills, the backs of her mother's thighs were graffitied with red welts. This Patrick, this new boyfriend, pressed against her mother and moved them slowly, clumsily, through the Avenue of Flags at a zigzag. Dolores traced one welt with her finger. Her mother's skin felt slick and slimy. "Stop it," her mother said, and batted away her hand.
Concrete pillars held flags that made sounds like bed sheets from a clothes line when the wind kicked through. Blues and reds, whites and golds, stripes and stars and squiggles and circles: They waved to her. She stopped to stare, her head tipped back, her mouth open. The universe said Hello. "Hi," she said back and smiled.
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| Photo © 2008 by Brandon Cox www.angelslanding.com |
The flags above her continued to wave, no longer hello. They summoned one another, rallied. Child down! she heard them cry as the wind kicked through. Has anyone seen the mother? they yelled. Maybe one from Israel scanned the horizon. She'd heard of that--Israel--on the news.
"Sweetheart, are you okay?" a man said. His knees were locked and hairy; he bent over with his hands still in his pockets. His breath smelled like maple syrup. A woman in a plaid skirt clutched her purse behind him. She was impatient.
"I'm okay," she told him.
ETA on the mother? Anyone? Maybe it was Brazil. She'd seen a postcard from That Samuel. The people lounged by a beach and were beautiful.
"My mom is coming."
And she arrived, breathless, and with her hair out of place. "Jesus, Dolores. You've got to keep up," she said, and scooped her up by the elbow.
Patrick scowled. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to bring her."
Her mother brushed dirt from the seat of Dolores's shorts. "You know what's a good idea, Pat? You go sit in the goddamn car if you don't like it." She held Dolores's hand and pulled them forward, no zigzag, always ahead, straight line, don't dawdle. "Sorry, Dolo. He won't last. You and me the rest of the day, okay?"
The wind kicked through, and the flags cheered for you, my girl. Remember that?
To catch up on previous chapters, CLICK HERE.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
9. across a gaping sea
Phillip went to bed at 8:15. He wore footy pajamas with cartoon elephants playing tennis and soccer and basketball across sleeves and legs and behinds and bellies. He slept easily and did not stir when Dolores crawled into the corner of the room next to the closet and gently tugged the carpet free. It gave and folded back toward her, revealing scuffed hardwood and tack strips.
Dolores flattened her hand and dug under the carpet until her fingertips felt paper edge. In three tries, the ragged flooring let loose its grip, and she pulled free the dirty greeting card envelope. Inside, a birthday card, a princess in a castle, a fairy tale window framing endless green hills and blue sky and fluffy broccoli trees. "Love, Garrison-Dad" and a photograph.
He was handsome, and his wife was pretty (…but too empty to be useful, her mother had said, before tossing the photo back to her across the kitchen table. Why would he send you this? Asshole.). The children--one just an infant--her siblings who did not know it, posed smiling on a bench under a tree with their parents, arms around one another. It was like an ethnographic study of a foreign culture, somewhere across a gaping sea where the seasons fell in reverse. Dolores wanted to understand this way of being in the world--as family, connected--but could not. Fifteen years had passed since this card and this photograph had arrived in the mail, and Dolores felt the same lopsided ache that spread through her chest then.
She folded the card and the photograph into a stiff and awkward rectangle, and slid it into her pocket along with the magnet from their trip to Mount Rushmore with a man named Patrick who had pined openly for her mother until his pride left him a ragged and discombobulated mess of bones in clothes. Her mother could do this to a man.
Once home, she would undo her treasures into a dresser drawer and pretend for a moment that resolution was possible.
Dolores flattened her hand and dug under the carpet until her fingertips felt paper edge. In three tries, the ragged flooring let loose its grip, and she pulled free the dirty greeting card envelope. Inside, a birthday card, a princess in a castle, a fairy tale window framing endless green hills and blue sky and fluffy broccoli trees. "Love, Garrison-Dad" and a photograph.
He was handsome, and his wife was pretty (…but too empty to be useful, her mother had said, before tossing the photo back to her across the kitchen table. Why would he send you this? Asshole.). The children--one just an infant--her siblings who did not know it, posed smiling on a bench under a tree with their parents, arms around one another. It was like an ethnographic study of a foreign culture, somewhere across a gaping sea where the seasons fell in reverse. Dolores wanted to understand this way of being in the world--as family, connected--but could not. Fifteen years had passed since this card and this photograph had arrived in the mail, and Dolores felt the same lopsided ache that spread through her chest then.
She folded the card and the photograph into a stiff and awkward rectangle, and slid it into her pocket along with the magnet from their trip to Mount Rushmore with a man named Patrick who had pined openly for her mother until his pride left him a ragged and discombobulated mess of bones in clothes. Her mother could do this to a man.
Once home, she would undo her treasures into a dresser drawer and pretend for a moment that resolution was possible.
8. messy piles of noise.
He was spending too much time in the car. If this were to continue, he would remember to pack granola bars and graphing paper in the glove compartment.
Richard did not like the chatter of radio and left it off, listening only to the throaty bass of his college-aged neighbor's stereo rattling window panes and mashing indistinguishable melody lines into messy piles of noise.
"You could go to the store," he said aloud. But he didn't need anything, and it was not like him to shop without aim or spend without purpose. It also was not like him to exercise indiscretion and invite strange young women to his home to watch his son. He would remain parked and ready should it all turn south--fires, intruders, disallowed parties. Harm to Phillip would reflect unfavorably on him. A judge in a black robe would shake her head while reviewing his file of psychiatric diagnoses and wonder how it had ever been allowed to pass that he should be granted charge of a child without supervision.
Thirty-two minutes had passed. The woman who lived kitty-corner from him backed out of her driveway in a red Grand Prix and waved in her rearview mirror before pulling ahead. Richard was unsure if she was waving at him behind her or at something he did not see before her, and so he did not wave back.
Richard did not like the chatter of radio and left it off, listening only to the throaty bass of his college-aged neighbor's stereo rattling window panes and mashing indistinguishable melody lines into messy piles of noise.
"You could go to the store," he said aloud. But he didn't need anything, and it was not like him to shop without aim or spend without purpose. It also was not like him to exercise indiscretion and invite strange young women to his home to watch his son. He would remain parked and ready should it all turn south--fires, intruders, disallowed parties. Harm to Phillip would reflect unfavorably on him. A judge in a black robe would shake her head while reviewing his file of psychiatric diagnoses and wonder how it had ever been allowed to pass that he should be granted charge of a child without supervision.
Thirty-two minutes had passed. The woman who lived kitty-corner from him backed out of her driveway in a red Grand Prix and waved in her rearview mirror before pulling ahead. Richard was unsure if she was waving at him behind her or at something he did not see before her, and so he did not wave back.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
7. 6218 Oak Hill Drive
She didn't need directions, and when she arrived, nothing had changed. She turned left down the drive and mentally ticked past 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 tan garages before the sidewalk branched into the front lawn of 6218 Oak Hill Drive. The familiarity of it sucked the air from her lungs.
Phillip sat waiting on the front step and smiled broadly. She wished she had brought Todd.
The walls were white inside the foyer, and in the living room, too, and beyond, Dolores guessed. Her mother would never have conceded to white. It lacked courage, she said. Her mother was here in spite of it; her mother was everywhere.
Phillip led her through the living room, past the kitchen, and into the guest room. It was an office, and Richard sat at a desk too bare to be useful, Dolores thought.
"You've arrived on time," Richard said.
Dolores noted 6:57 on the digital clock atop the filing cabinet beneath the window.
"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" he asked her.
"No," she said.
They had no idle, scripted chatter before Richard pulled a manila file folder out of the top right drawer and handed it to Dolores. "Some instructions," he said.
A detailed schedule of Phillip's eating, toileting, dressing, reading, and bedtime routines, was typed and bulleted in 12-point font. "This is very thorough," she told him. Jesus.
Dolores followed Richard into the kitchen where he affixed the schedule to the unadorned refrigerator using one familiar, Mount Rushmore magnet. Richard pointed out his cell phone number, starred, italicized, and left-justified at the bottom of the page, pulled his keys from a delicate hook nailed into the wall beside the door to the garage, and left.
Dolores heard the mechanical grind of the garage door opening and the car start and shift into gear. Behind her, Phillip ran a small plastic car across the tiled floor. Dolores pulled the magnet from the refrigerator and turned it over. "D, D, P '92" it said, in black marker. She dropped the magnet into her pocket and left the schedule on the counter.
"Wanna go upstairs?" she asked.
Phillip drove his car straight up the front of the cabinet door under the sink, a perfect 90-degree angle from the floor, then flew it like an airplane to Dolores, where he tucked it into her pocket with the magnet. He took her hand. Together, they climbed the carpeted stairs and then turned into the bedroom just to the right of the landing: Phillip's room.
Dolores took in the narrow, twin-sized bed with the simple navy-blue comforter and plaid pillows, fastidiously made. Phillip ran to the opposite end of the room to a black trunk centered perfectly under the window Dolores knew overlooked the front lawn and drive. He flipped open the lid and began to pull out stuffed animals and colorful, plastic odds and ends with movable parts.
"This used to be my room," she said, joining him.
Through the open curtains, she saw Richard sitting in his car, parked on the other side of the street.
Phillip sat waiting on the front step and smiled broadly. She wished she had brought Todd.
The walls were white inside the foyer, and in the living room, too, and beyond, Dolores guessed. Her mother would never have conceded to white. It lacked courage, she said. Her mother was here in spite of it; her mother was everywhere.
Phillip led her through the living room, past the kitchen, and into the guest room. It was an office, and Richard sat at a desk too bare to be useful, Dolores thought.
"You've arrived on time," Richard said.
Dolores noted 6:57 on the digital clock atop the filing cabinet beneath the window.
"Did you have any trouble finding the place?" he asked her.
"No," she said.
They had no idle, scripted chatter before Richard pulled a manila file folder out of the top right drawer and handed it to Dolores. "Some instructions," he said.
A detailed schedule of Phillip's eating, toileting, dressing, reading, and bedtime routines, was typed and bulleted in 12-point font. "This is very thorough," she told him. Jesus.
Dolores followed Richard into the kitchen where he affixed the schedule to the unadorned refrigerator using one familiar, Mount Rushmore magnet. Richard pointed out his cell phone number, starred, italicized, and left-justified at the bottom of the page, pulled his keys from a delicate hook nailed into the wall beside the door to the garage, and left.
Dolores heard the mechanical grind of the garage door opening and the car start and shift into gear. Behind her, Phillip ran a small plastic car across the tiled floor. Dolores pulled the magnet from the refrigerator and turned it over. "D, D, P '92" it said, in black marker. She dropped the magnet into her pocket and left the schedule on the counter.
"Wanna go upstairs?" she asked.
Phillip drove his car straight up the front of the cabinet door under the sink, a perfect 90-degree angle from the floor, then flew it like an airplane to Dolores, where he tucked it into her pocket with the magnet. He took her hand. Together, they climbed the carpeted stairs and then turned into the bedroom just to the right of the landing: Phillip's room.
Dolores took in the narrow, twin-sized bed with the simple navy-blue comforter and plaid pillows, fastidiously made. Phillip ran to the opposite end of the room to a black trunk centered perfectly under the window Dolores knew overlooked the front lawn and drive. He flipped open the lid and began to pull out stuffed animals and colorful, plastic odds and ends with movable parts.
"This used to be my room," she said, joining him.
Through the open curtains, she saw Richard sitting in his car, parked on the other side of the street.
6. alarm, but not exactly
It was not like him to speak without thinking, and this was the third time in less than three hours he had. Richard had no need for a babysitter. He worked as a certified public accountant out of the first floor bedroom, which he'd furnished with a desk and called an office. He did not leave in the evenings unless it was to the grocery store or to the movie theater where he had taken Phillip twice before. What would he do? Where would he go? Would the girl need a ride? If she did, what would they discuss in the car?
"Um," the girl responded. Phillip's hand was still in hers.
Richard read her face. Confusion.
"Not normally," she continued, and then cleared her throat. "It's not, uh…"
"This is my address," Richard said, abruptly, pulling the READ bookmark out of Phillip's library bag. He penned his address in hasty block letters along the side and handed it to Dolores, feeling suddenly very bold. "I have need for babysitting services tomorrow evening from 7:00 to 9:00. I will pay you fairly. Will you need a ride?"
Dolores dropped Phillip's hand and stared at the bookmark. Richard tried to read her face, but it had changed, and the expression was unfamiliar. Alarm, perhaps, but not exactly.
"You…" she began. "How is this…" She shook her head.
The large side door of a mini-van, parallel parked along the street, slid open, and delivered three teenage boys and a football.
"No," said Dolores.
"But, I will pay you," countered Richard.
"No, I don't need a ride." She looked again at the bookmark, shook her head, and slipped it into her back pocket. "I'll see you tomorrow at 7:00." She smoothed Phillip's hair.
No Good (a song for Dina)
No Good (Dina)
Lyrics
You got a million different words for a woman like me.
Trouble is, not a one fits exactly.
The weight of your words, like feathers in space.
Now I'm shooting down satellites while you state your case.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
You and my daddy are like two peas in a pod.
Picking at every which way you think I'm flawed.
Well, go ahead and keep picking, 'cause I'm already gone.
I've got a million different ways to prove you wrong.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can see me.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can hear me.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can see me.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can feel me.
A woman like me doesn't disappear so easily.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (November, 2012)
Lyrics
You got a million different words for a woman like me.
Trouble is, not a one fits exactly.
The weight of your words, like feathers in space.
Now I'm shooting down satellites while you state your case.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
You and my daddy are like two peas in a pod.
Picking at every which way you think I'm flawed.
Well, go ahead and keep picking, 'cause I'm already gone.
I've got a million different ways to prove you wrong.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
I'm no good. I'm no good.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can see me.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can hear me.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can see me.
I'm gone, but I'll stay where you can feel me.
A woman like me doesn't disappear so easily.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman (November, 2012)
Monday, November 5, 2012
5. mountain pose
Depositing Garrison's money felt like collecting hush-hush fees, a quiet, under-the-table tap tap tap, as if she were born into the mafia and wasn't to tell. Her mother scoffed at this. Money didn't care where it came from. Life cost just the same. Dina deposited the checks into a savings account; it added up. After her mother's death, the checks arrived in Dolores's name. She considered burning them but didn't. Don't be foolish. The right amount of money gives you freedom. You can do what you want when the bills are paid and your refrigerator is stocked.
She traveled. She went north because most young midwesterners went south. She reached Minot, North Dakota as residents pulled block heaters out of their garages. There was nothing of interest in Minot, but she was tired. She spent two weeks at the Traveler's Lodge where she met a man named Willie at the continental breakfast. He asked to take her to dinner, and she decided it was time to leave.
Dolores checked out and turned her car south and west, meandering along narrow roads that scissored through the Black Hills and then Wyoming. Snow began to fall, and the landscape looked alien. She dreamt of Mars while sleeping in her car at rest stops.
While eating pancakes at a diner in Casper, her Aunt Regina called to say she was entering the hospital and expected to die soon. Two days later and thirty minutes outside of Denver a nurse named Diane called to say that she had. Because there was no one else to tend to her aunt's affairs, Dolores set her course back east toward home.
Truth be told, Dolores did not like to travel, so when she learned she had inherited the house, she pulled up the peach-colored Berber that stretched across every room in the house, including the bathroom, painted the walls white, and moved in.
It was a small house, but it was nice. The back sliding door off the kitchen opened into a fenced-in, oversized back yard with three trees, a shed, and a row of lilacs her aunt had kept pruned into fat eggs. A gate in the back fence opened to a walking trail; and across the walking trail, a carpet of green yawned across two acres. A setup like this needed a dog, and so she brought one home from the shelter. Because most of the dogs she knew were named Buddy and Bailey and Murphy and Lou, she named hers Todd. His breed was anyone's guess; when she was asked, she said "Bastard" and left it at that.
She noticed the boy first, holding the hand of the odd man with the untucked shirt. They stood motionless where the sidewalk met the grass, the sun behind making them featureless like paper dolls. Dolores threw Todd's tennis ball. The boy broke away from his father and ran swinging his plastic library goodie bag beside him.
It always alarmed her to see the same random stranger more than once in a day, made her feel as if God were shuffling chess pieces and she was missing the play. In this case, it alarmed her more in that they seemed to be watching her. (GJE-3: Reappearance of ego. Start again.) And then the boy there, Army crawling under the shrubbery for Todd's tennis ball, her head started to buzz. He reappeared, ball in hand, and threw it back toward the picnic table where his father appeared to be stranded.
"Wonderful! Thank you!" she told him. They both followed Todd.
The boy's father seemed trap, caught, stuck. The buzz grew--vibrations, up threw the heels of her feet. Mountain pose, mountain pose, mountain pose, she told herself. Center of Earth, where are you? The man stammered something in response to something she had said. What had she said? Was this what it felt like to lose ego, finally? That in fact, the moment ego left, one drifted into the ether, finally consumed entirely by energy? If GJE-3 is a success, how will I note it? She noted the irony of wanting to celebrate the accomplishment of a project that would eradicate the compulsion to celebrate accomplishment. And then she began to panic, feeling herself tangling. Overgrown vines in chain link. The buzz grew to a pounding. Unbearable.
And then it stopped. The boy's hand slipped into hers. It was weightless. "Oh," she said. Green fringe from the shrubs stuck in his hair. He had a cowlick at the crown of his head, just as she did, and she resisted the urge to smooth it down.
The boy's father exhaled audibly and unballed his fists. Todd yawned, stretched onto his belly, and sighed with his snout on his front paws, the tennis ball in between.
"This is Phillip. Do you babysit?" the man asked, stiffly.
Phillip. "Sure," said Dolores.
Phillip squeezed her hand, and somewhere in between, she felt her mother say Yes.
She traveled. She went north because most young midwesterners went south. She reached Minot, North Dakota as residents pulled block heaters out of their garages. There was nothing of interest in Minot, but she was tired. She spent two weeks at the Traveler's Lodge where she met a man named Willie at the continental breakfast. He asked to take her to dinner, and she decided it was time to leave.
Dolores checked out and turned her car south and west, meandering along narrow roads that scissored through the Black Hills and then Wyoming. Snow began to fall, and the landscape looked alien. She dreamt of Mars while sleeping in her car at rest stops.
While eating pancakes at a diner in Casper, her Aunt Regina called to say she was entering the hospital and expected to die soon. Two days later and thirty minutes outside of Denver a nurse named Diane called to say that she had. Because there was no one else to tend to her aunt's affairs, Dolores set her course back east toward home.
Truth be told, Dolores did not like to travel, so when she learned she had inherited the house, she pulled up the peach-colored Berber that stretched across every room in the house, including the bathroom, painted the walls white, and moved in.
It was a small house, but it was nice. The back sliding door off the kitchen opened into a fenced-in, oversized back yard with three trees, a shed, and a row of lilacs her aunt had kept pruned into fat eggs. A gate in the back fence opened to a walking trail; and across the walking trail, a carpet of green yawned across two acres. A setup like this needed a dog, and so she brought one home from the shelter. Because most of the dogs she knew were named Buddy and Bailey and Murphy and Lou, she named hers Todd. His breed was anyone's guess; when she was asked, she said "Bastard" and left it at that.
She noticed the boy first, holding the hand of the odd man with the untucked shirt. They stood motionless where the sidewalk met the grass, the sun behind making them featureless like paper dolls. Dolores threw Todd's tennis ball. The boy broke away from his father and ran swinging his plastic library goodie bag beside him.
It always alarmed her to see the same random stranger more than once in a day, made her feel as if God were shuffling chess pieces and she was missing the play. In this case, it alarmed her more in that they seemed to be watching her. (GJE-3: Reappearance of ego. Start again.) And then the boy there, Army crawling under the shrubbery for Todd's tennis ball, her head started to buzz. He reappeared, ball in hand, and threw it back toward the picnic table where his father appeared to be stranded.
"Wonderful! Thank you!" she told him. They both followed Todd.
The boy's father seemed trap, caught, stuck. The buzz grew--vibrations, up threw the heels of her feet. Mountain pose, mountain pose, mountain pose, she told herself. Center of Earth, where are you? The man stammered something in response to something she had said. What had she said? Was this what it felt like to lose ego, finally? That in fact, the moment ego left, one drifted into the ether, finally consumed entirely by energy? If GJE-3 is a success, how will I note it? She noted the irony of wanting to celebrate the accomplishment of a project that would eradicate the compulsion to celebrate accomplishment. And then she began to panic, feeling herself tangling. Overgrown vines in chain link. The buzz grew to a pounding. Unbearable.
And then it stopped. The boy's hand slipped into hers. It was weightless. "Oh," she said. Green fringe from the shrubs stuck in his hair. He had a cowlick at the crown of his head, just as she did, and she resisted the urge to smooth it down.
The boy's father exhaled audibly and unballed his fists. Todd yawned, stretched onto his belly, and sighed with his snout on his front paws, the tennis ball in between.
"This is Phillip. Do you babysit?" the man asked, stiffly.
Phillip. "Sure," said Dolores.
Phillip squeezed her hand, and somewhere in between, she felt her mother say Yes.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Ledge (a song for Richard)
Ledge (a song for Richard)
I'd try if I could, but the world is precarious
Tilting and pitching and spinning and whatnot.
You're squirreling your nuts in the belly of chaos.
Don't mind if I do keep my hands clean.
One must stay protected when under the elements,
Hurling their daggers on heads without hats.
Punching the suckers with faces unguarded.
Watch your step, son.
The world is a ledge, and you're bound to fall off.
Time is a bomb, and it's bound to go off.
It's not paranoia if it's just the truth.
My mind's full of caves too dark to explore.
If I can contain, and I can control,
I won't slip in.
Your youth makes you careless; it binds me in knots.
You're playing with knives and fire in traffic.
The earth is ready to open its jaws.
Watch your step son.
The world is a ledge, and you're bound to fall off.
Time is a bomb, and it's bound to go off.
Words & Music by Patresa Hartman, 2012
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