Deadline achieved!

Well, I handed over my poetry manuscript last night, in as good shape as I could get it. I'm so curious to hear what my friend's feedback is. Now, I feel like I need another big writing project... just as soon as I go on vacation, which is in three days. I could always try and work on the Peggy-O story, so swiftly abandoned, or god forbid, even finish the freelance articles I could actually get paid for writing.

Sigh. I'm tired. It's been a pretty hectic few weeks. Miles to go before I sleep.

I'm just going to close my eyes and select a random poem for today's poetry. This is from the 'Autumn' section of my manuscript, 'The First Year'.

wardreams

she wakes again with sweat
under the fine hairs
on the back of her neck
afraid somewhere no one can see

she rises and tucks her hair behind her ears
looks out the window
into the grey, yet-to-rain morning
hands clasped to her chest
folded
as if in prayer

Oh, the holidays.

Okay, okay. OKAY.

I admit it. I have not worked on my writing every single day lately.

In fairness, I've had a shitload of other things to do for the holidays, and am insanely busy both at work and trying to get ready for family to come visit. I managed to put in a little time during a couple days, but not even according to my regular routine, so everything feels off.

However, I am still deadline-sensitive, and I think I'm pretty close to having the order of the manuscript done. I'm also printing about a dozen of what I hope are the final versions of these poems.

So, for today's poem, I'm putting up one that's just gotten what may be its final revision.

eating my words

sometimes it is not the words spoken at all
ears deaf as a pond prick unbidden
sensing quiet orchards of meaning,
stretchings of silence thick as tangerines,
sweet as clementines, bitter as oranges.

our lips stretch over our teeth as we eat
our emotions raw, choking, slurping the juices
from grimy palms. cracked nails hunt down
escaping pulp, trapped between our teeth,
to be rolled by tongue-tip and swallowed
unconsciously, as one savors recent joy.

letting the loose ends go, calming the spaces
in between, framing with hardly trembling
fingers that which leaps: boxing the silence;
its soft corners rounding my gut, fleshing
the bones of my mind peach-soft, blooming.
the words hang as branches, shaking the air,
as what you mean
drops from what you say, silence ripe and red : : :

ugh...

So, all that blase talk below about round 2 being easier than round 1 was clearly delusional. Since each round has a couple phases - putting the poems in an order, letting it sit for 12-24 hours, going back and reading through and identifying what transitions don't work - I really spoke too soon. Or maybe I just shouldn't have read through them last night, when I was exhausted and trying to de-stress from a long day. For whatever reason, it was rather painful. I nearly gave up, found myself wondering why I even bothered to write. You have to learn to ignore those kinds of thoughts if you want to be a writer, I think.

But it reminded me of when I was in college studying with Suzanne Gardinier, who is an amazing teacher, and showed me how to really take a poem apart & put it back together. There's always a 'dark night of the soul' period in that process, too, right before it comes together beautifully & so satisfyingly. So I'm going to trust to that experience and hope this sonuvabitch comes together in the very near future. (It better, since I've only got about five days to my deadline.)

Update: I just went into round 3, and it is totally coming together! Very exciting.

For today's poem, I just flipped through the pages blindly and chose one. It ended up being rather fitting, since it's supposed to snow later.

winter poem

snow falls.
the clouds hide the stars.

but in the streetlight
a thousand stars
fly towards earth.

the wind's icy teeth
rakes through my bones.

i am alone
but comforted
by the world's desolate cries.

Round 2

Well, I survived the first round of trying to order the poems in my manuscript, and have moved on to round 2, accompanied by a ton of editing and attention to titchy little details. (Dictionary.com is trying to tell me titchy is not a word. That's ridiculous.) Round 2, I'm glad to report, was significantly less painful than round 1.

Here's the poem for today; I wrote this while studying archaeology in Ireland, about 10 years ago.

Tongue of Stone

yes and even bones decay in this earth,
dissolve in patient soil, below immense
megaliths, unyielding: portals, the key lost,
tongue held. we dig under stone bellies,
two clay beads, a gold torc, a cup, a pot. we smell
soft fragments of bone, unearthed. but our tongues
seek songs, and we beg the stones for sheet music.
six thousand years ago we wrote it ourselves
with ripped and callused hands, hands weary of silence.
we faced our tombs west, to daily drink the sunset. northeast
for the sunrise. we covered the threshold in white quartz
and it blazed a holy fire in the sun. then one by one
we sealed them off, walked away with a lullaby.
place your hand on the stone. feel it breathe.
learn to listen like stone. step lightly as you circle;
try to remember, seeing from all sides but one.

the stone laughs. poor humans – do you not
cry yourselves to sleep, eradicable as you are?
walk on , two-legger. someday you too shall curl
beneath me, cradled in my womb, waiting
as I wait. time will find you searching darkly
for the passage, the slow birth of death. learn
to wait. one day I shall light the torches for you,
mark the path leading deep to our mother’s womb.
there lie the questions you’ve forgotten how to ask.
and when eons from now your children beg me for answers
I shall sing to them
how you thought; what you loved; your forgotten name;
yes and even as your bones decay below me.

Phoenix

Sorry I haven't posted in a few days. It's not for a lack of work; actually, it's rather due to too much work, of the real world variety, unfortunately. But I've still been working on the manuscript, so that's good.

We're at the part that basically constitutes the 'dark night of the soul' bit - that is, putting the poems in some sort of order. It's just utter hell. Glad the rest of the project's gone so smoothly, because this is a big fat road bump and will likely keep me occupied right up until the 18th or 19th, when I give it to my friend to critique.

Anyway, before I toddle off to immerse myself in utter hell for a little longer this morning, wanted to share one of my favorite poems. I wrote this when I was living in the Mojave Desert in Arizona.

phoenix

I-10 towards Phoenix unwinds like a movie reel
bowled across the desert, steep mountainsides
saguaro-carpeted, ocotillos, mesquite trees waving in the wind

far off, three, four dust devils weave across vast
flats of dirt, rocks, among windtorn cacti:

and marvel: to see so far, see the cactus skeletons fleshed
how life thrived in this barren valley. how life crept
into every crack in the desert, how it clings to rock

like a spring is about to burst forth
if a strong enough will bends to it.

I rise, hoping these wings will hold,
reborn: a new determination

my lips crack in the dry desert air
but a fount swells certain in my heart
threatening to burst, savoring
the suspense before, the air about to crack
like a rifleshot among the canyons
spooking the coyotes, frozen in the rising full moon
breathing manifest destiny in gulps of hot air.

progress

It is happening, slowly but surely... at this point, I've cut some of the weaker poems that were in the manuscript, and done some major edits on the ones I want to keep. I've figured out which newer pieces I want to include and a general idea of where I want them - in which section, at least, though not all in a specific order. In fact, it's all progressing a lot faster than I expected, really.

One difficult decision was to leave the poetry dealing with our daughter's death out of this manuscript. The manuscript as it originally stands is more about one's relationship to the world & others & oneself, and I think including the poems about Abigail would distract from that focus. Plus, a lot of the poetry deals with romantic relationships, and if this is the First Year, then jumping ahead to a child's death isn't all that thematically appropriate. I figure I have enough poems to create a book just about Abi, though, so it's not like I won't be putting them out there in the world. Tough decision, though.

Over the weekend - which is shaping up to be a busy weekend, since I have to work tomorrow for my regular job, and also have some freelance articles coming due soon - I'm going to create a PDF of the work as it is now so I can start messing around with the order of the poems. I remember during my senior year at Sarah Lawrence, determining the order of the poems was really challenging. So this could be the part where the process slows down a bit...

For today's poem, I just closed my eyes and picked one. It ended up being one I wrote this past February.

if the night be wild or calm

for death
comes to us all

and how feeble the hand
that once strong, unshaking
held back the unwanted news
warded the glancing blow
now lets the walls of time
batter past it, through it,
collapsing even the fiercest heart

and what leave you behind
or do the sands of time
draw thick to swirl and obscure
the pictures of your life
how look you to the future
through blind eyes, the eyes of art
and legend, silvered eyes to reflect
the soul of the looker?

do you sing with a voiceless mouth now,
beat your fingers muffled on the door
so that only the dogs may hear, and leap
and bark while their owners sigh?
or do those who would hear
bend their heads to a sighing wind
and hark the ancestral song
with a beating heart and glad, glad eyes?

for you too, and no less I
shall lie in the cold calm ground
or sigh as ashes in the wild wind
and shall we be sung
and shall we sing for ourselves?

poetry blitz!

I'm blitzing through my poetry, an odd sensation if there ever was one. I've been having fun working on the manuscript, though I'll feel better about my time constraints once I get a little more progress under my belt. I'm nearly done going through for the first time, making tiny revisions to most of the poems, marking some for replacement & so on.

Kind of exciting that most of the poems only need tiny revisions, actually. It's felt great to read some of these and not want to change a thing, too.

Anyway, once I'm done going through this first time, I need to look at my other poems and see which ones I want to include. I have no idea how difficult that will be. It sounds a little daunting, but what the hell. (Update: it was actually quite easy & didn't take long. Now I have to figure out where to integrate which poems; now that's difficult.)

Eventually, yes, I'll get back to Peggy-O, but deadlines approacheth. In the meantime, I wanted to share this poem from The First Year. I've always liked it. I wrote it about - oh, hell, do I even want to count? - probably 11 or 12 years ago, about a guy I was dating. (And broke up with a few months later.)

Our Hands

A sinner heaves a stone and shatters
my ribcage of glass; you gather me together
hand me a bouquet of my intestines,
crowned by my shaking heart. It is
summer, and hot. My hands languid like
dying flies, brushing the air off my skin.

You kiss my fingertips one by one.
When my fingers fall off you stoop.
You gather and arrange them in a vase.
They are like dried flowers, useless, lovely.
When my fingers fall off you hold my hand.
You talk of days to come as embers fade,
twist, curl in the grate. I shift, settle.
Days are getting cold, quick; nights colder still.

Silence; the memory of goldenrods
fills the room to the ceiling. Winter.
Here ghosts of roses absorb the space
behind my eyes, stinking up the house,
crowding out the Queen Anne’s Lace
I wear for a crown. Flower guides list me
as a common weed. Outside, forsythia and
wisteria bar the door, our watchdogs laid bare.
I pause at the window, sneak a glance out.
God help us both if you hire a gardener.
Been shaking your head for weeks now.

Come spring, you teach me to braid dandelions.
I forgot the long-lost art; you coax it
back to my grasp, silent, jealous.
What I give I give. What you give, I steal.
Cut off my hands if you can catch me at it.
When the snow thaws the dams tense, waiting:
for the point at which they take no more.

You come to me in my mind, empty-handed,
eyes burst open. I clutch at flower stalks,
at my hair; heap my arms full of iris and
orchids, one callalily for memory’s sake.
Then hold my hand as I tell you what my
lonely fingers seek; why I love wisteria;
why I love.

The First Year

And now, we interrupt this ballad-fairy tale-whatever it is already in progress to bring you something completely different....

I'm working on poetry this morning, trying to whip this manuscript of mine into something resembling shape. I created it during my senior year in college, while I was doing an independent study in poetry with Joan Larkin and Kate Johnson. Then I refined it a few years later, when I submitted it to the Yale Younger Poets contest. Now it's been nearly eight years since I first put it together, and I have a ton more poems worth integrating into it, which is great because there were some weaker poems in there originally that I needed to fill space.

Still, at times it's sort of like going back through your middle school yearbook. I cringe at the occasional turn of phrase or maudlin sentiment. But, it's much, much better than the middle school nostalgia trip because I can actually fix the lame crap in my writing.

I can tell it's been a while since I really concentrated on poetry, because when I first started looking at the poems in The First Year, I almost felt afraid to change them, like the roof would cave in or something equally dramatic. I was sitting there trying to decide if I should change a word or tab some lines over or whatever, and I would find myself speculating about it for five minutes instead of actually trying it. As long as you're smart about saving your versions, you can always get the original way back, and the only way to really improve and edit poetry (at least for me) is to really tear it apart and start messing around with it, trying different line breaks or punctuation or whatever the case may be. Actually, the editing process has always been one of the things I love most about writing poetry, which I guess is why it felt so funny to be momentarily paralyzed.

Anyway. Back to it. Cheers. Here, have a poem - this is the first one in The First Year.

she prays

let the birds shit on my head and bring me good fortune.
let the heron fly low over pine trees, o gods
let me round the curve just before it disappears.
let me be kind to the flowers & shameless as leaf-pummeling rains.
let me dance in the rain as if I am already dead.
let the music lead the way into the night’s mazes;
let me come out the other side.
let the sun rise for the first time tomorrow, and turn the sky to ashes.
let us collect the ashes and return them to the water where our loved ones rest.
o gods, let me live amazed; pores gasping, eyes wide.

Hmmm.

So maybe I've just gotten used to publishing live every day; it feels different when I'm just writing on my laptop, on boring old Word, no live audience to produce for.

I had a new story idea; like many of my stories, it's based on a song, one I've tried to write a story about before. I realized today that I could possibly have a much easier time with it if I wrote it as a legend instead of an actual, historical novel, which requires an unfortunate amount of research. Much as I enjoy researching my stories, it's time I don't really have.

So, back again to the concept of 'Peggy-O', one of my favorite Grateful Dead ballads. It's originally a folk song, I think from the war of 1812 during the Siege of New Orleans, but I'm sort of conceptually setting most of the story's action in Charleston.

In brief, a captain in an army stops on his way to a major battle. He falls in love with a local high-ranking girl - pretty Peggy-O. He asks her to marry him, promising to free her people. She refuses, saying he's not rich enough & her mother would be angry. He responds that if he ever returns, he'll burn her city down. Later, word comes back that he's died for love of her - or perhaps for lack of a hospitable station - depending on whether you hear the line as 'he died for a maid' or 'he died for a bed'. Personally I, and I think all good romantics, would vote that he died for a maid.

So, what the hell, I'll post it on here as I write day by day. I also need to work on that poetry manuscript; I suspect this could be my way of procrastinating on that...

Curses! Okay, I'm reminded of the other really good reason for writing on Blogger - it has a better autosave than my word processor, and my laptop's power supply absolutely sucks ass, if you'll forgive the poetic phrase.

It's over! Or maybe it just started.

Well, I'm relieved it's December 1st, especially since I wasn't sure I would actually finish my story in the month of November. Glad I pushed on through. The last few chapters were the toughest, without question, probably because I wasn't sure how it was going to end until shortly before it ended.

It's remarkable how much my concept of the story changed over the course of writing it. If I want to address the original premise, I'm going to have to write a sequel, because this turned into a completely different story. Not that that's a bad thing. I think the only way I was able to write this story at all is by flowing with it rather than trying to control it.

Now I'm going to work on other stuff for a month or so, and come back and edit the story in January when I've had a little distance from it. Among other projects, a friend is willing to read my poetry manuscript, but I've got to have it done by the time she goes on vacation around Dec. 19th. So I may post some poems as I go through and work on it. It's been a few years since I looked at it - should be an interesting (and possibly ego-shredding) experience.

Resources for poets & such

So, if you're a writer and you've spent any time on the Internet, you know there are an overwhelming number of resources out there. The trick is filtering out all the crap that doesn't meet your needs. For me, that means resources that complement my inherent laziness and the fact that I work a full-time job.

Case in point. My friend Soham put me onto this wonderful listserve that posts calls for submission. It's not just poetry, it's also fiction & creative nonfiction. I dig it. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/crwropps-b/

This concept, in turn, opened my eyes to looking for other really easy ways to submit my poetry. :) In the course of my research, I found this resource page, which seems pretty good although I haven't tested any of the links yet. It lists all the poetry publishers that will accept online submissions: http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~lcrew/pbonline.html

Writer's Digest has some pretty good articles. One that particularly struck my interest was this: http://www.writersdigest.com/article/28-agents-who-want-your-work/

http://www.poetry.org/ is an elegant site whose resource page has many useful links.

This site rocks as well: http://www.pw.org/classifieds

My friend also recommended http://www.newpages.com/. Definitely seems like a good site although just in posting these few links I've managed to overwhelm myself again. I need a nap. Or maybe some chocolate.

(A couple days later) In the meantime, I'm pretty pleased with the progress I've made so far on my NaNo novel.

Chapter Five: What would Studs Terkel say?

Time is funny sometimes. This afternoon feels like one of the longest of my life. Otto is on his third beer, making quiet conversation, and I'm barely talking. I just want to sit here and listen to him, feel the cadence of his voice rolling over me, wrapping me up. I want to believe that what he is saying he would tell only to me, but I know it's not true. Otto can talk to anyone, and does; one of those friends of the world that's nonetheless hard to get under the surface of, until he's ready. Still, like me, he's lived in this town for a long time and has a lot of friends around here. Already one of our other regulars, Theo, has come and gone again after a beer's worth of catching up.

The sunlight from the windows is ebbing, shrinking back towards the windows, and it raises a sudden yearning in me. For just a second, I allow myself to hope for this baby - not that I am pregnant, the other side of my brain chimes in - that I might get to hold it and look into its eyes and hear its voice as it squalls out its protestations at being thrust into the cold, bright world. But the image is replaced by one of my dead baby in my arms, so still and silent and grayish-white. For god's sake, I couldn't stand to go through it again - and if I'm alone this time - I look at Otto and try to tune back into what he's saying, but I can't concentrate. Who is he?

We'd really only just started to get to know each other when we hooked up at that party, even though we'd hung out in the same circles for years. He's an unknown quantity, is what he is, I say to myself, suddenly realizing that I'm a little buzzed from the beer I've been drinking. I stand up and pour myself an ice water, and Otto interrupts himself to ask for one too.

"So anyway, there we are, stuck in the middle of the fucking desert," he continues, telling me an apparently hilarious story from his road trip that I haven't listened to at all. I'd better start paying attention, I think, and try to focus on what he's saying, but all I can think about is whether what he says shows signs of being a good dad or not.

"Hey," Otto cuts into my thoughts, "are you okay? You seem preoccupied with something. You sure you don't want me to find somewhere else to crash?" My hand is resting on the bar, and he covers it with his. I look down at them; his hand is huge, and his fingernails are short and a little ragged. I lace my fingers through his.

"No, I'm good. You're welcome to stay with me." I smile at him and lean across the counter for a kiss. Might as well enjoy it for what it's worth. "I'm going to go have a smoke. Want to join me?"

We go out front so I can keep an eye on any incoming customers. This is one of the depths of the off-season, so it's not likely anyone would stop by on a late Sunday afternoon, but you never know. It's cold outside, crisp, probably about 40 degrees. Otto lights his cigarette and starts pacing up and down on the sidewalk in front of the store, gesturing with the smoke as he talks. I watch the cars going by and a couple walking on the other side of the street, farther down the block.

I feel a twinge in my abdomen and try to ignore it. The other side of my brain is circling thoughts of implantation, of the sac your body builds as a stopgap while it makes the placenta. I take another pull off my cigarette and look at it, listening to Otto talk with half my attention; I have no idea why he's on to state taxes in Nevada now. Apparently it relates to the conditions of the roads there.

Before my first pregnancy ended, it had been years since I'd quit smoking. I started again after Eric left, and had been smoking for the last two years or so. If I'm pregnant, I'll have to quit again, I thought. I look at Otto, trying to imagine him with a two-year-old perched on his shoulders, laughing against the bright winter sky.

Otto has finally finished ranting about road conditions in the Southwest and draws close to me again. "So, listen," he says, putting his arm around me, "can I take my stuff over to your place?"

I raise an eyebrow. "How much stuff do you have?" He laughs. I wasn't joking. I exhale my cigarette smoke through my nose.

"Not much. Couple duffle bags and a couple coolers in the car. The rest of my stuff's in storage, in those rental units up on Higginbotham Flats, but I don't really need it." He starts talking about learning about minimalist living on the road, and I study his face. Strong jaw; long-lashed brown eyes; that perfect, perfect mouth. Just enough stubble to look sexy as hell, and a mole right near the outer corner of his left eye.

Otto smiles, and says, "So do you have a spare key?" I stub out my cigarette and we go back in so I can retrieve my keys from my purse. I tell him where the extra key is, in the kitchen, and he promises to stop back by with my key before I get off work this evening. He pauses in the doorway. "Got any dinner plans?" I shake my head. "You do now," he grins before he walks out, the bell clanging as he pulls the door shut.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I'll pretend I'm being interviewed by Studs Terkel. "I have no idea what it means," I say aloud to the empty shop. "I'm just trying to get by one day at a time."

Chapter Four: The prodigal friend with benefits

I expected my heart to jump up in my throat when I saw Otto, but I still wasn't prepared for how good he looked. The month on the road treated him well. He has his back to me, chatting with Bob, and I take in his broad shoulders, thin waist, strong arms. He looks tan against his off-white cable sweater. His hair's grown, too; he had it back in a ponytail before, but it was only a couple inches long then. Now it almost reaches his shoulders.

"Hey, stranger," I say, walking up next to him. He turns and grins at me, and I can't help grinning back. Otto has that kind of smile. He opens his arms and hugs me, nestling his chin into the curve of my neck, murmuring, "You smell good," in my ear before releasing me and stepping back. He looks me up and down, and I stand there feeling like a fuckin' teenager and let him. Otto shakes his head.

"Damn, you look great, Ava," he says, sliding the right side of his mouth back into a wry smile as he sits down on one of the barstools. "How ya been?"

"Not bad," I reply, walking around to the side of the bar and ducking underneath. "What'll you have?" I turn my back to pick up a pint glass, relieved to be able to look away. It was hard to meet his eyes and not throw myself at him. I wondered what Bob thought of all this; he's a pretty savvy guy. I pause by the taps and look back at Otto, waiting for his response.

"Hell, I don't know," he says. "What's the Sled Ride like?"

"It's a seasonal from Fountain Creek Brewery. It's not bad. Want to try a taste?" I switch the pint glass for a sampler, and hand it to him, trying not to stare at him while he considered it.

"Yeah, that's pretty good. I'll take one of those. Got any lunch specials today?" he says, looking at me with that merry glint in his eye. My heart picks up speed, and I restrain myself from saying something like "Yeah - me, on the kitchen counter."

I settle for putting my elbows on the bar in front of him and leaning in a bit. "What do you want?" God help me, I could not keep that tone out of my voice to save my life. The look he gives me in response makes me smile and look away. He pauses, thinking about it.

"Well, I guess for lunch, a cottage pie sounds good." He hands the menu back to me. "For dessert, I don't know."

"Well, you've got all day to figure it out," I reply, taking the menu. "Bob, you want another one?"

Bob pushes his stool back and stands up. "Naw," he says. "I gotta go by the store before I go home. 'Sides, I'd better get out of here 'fore it gets too hot and heavy." Otto and I laugh. Bob winks at me, throws a ten on the counter and leaves.

"I'll get the pie started," I tell Otto, and walk into the kitchen. I turn on the oven, open the fridge and retrieve a cottage pie that I made yesterday. I put it on a tray and slid it into the oven, setting the timer for twenty minutes. When I turn around, Otto is standing about four feet away from me, his hands in his pockets, just quietly watching me with that inscrutable look on his face.
I don't know why, I just walked over to him and kissed him. And he kissed me back. And I have no idea how long that timer was going off before we finished screwing, because I only noticed it after. I can barely bring myself to leave him long enough to walk across the kitchen and turn the damn timer off. I open the oven door to let some of the heat out, and return to Otto, who has one of the most beautiful mouths I've ever seen on a man.

"Lunch is ready," I say between kisses. I love this part of a relationship, the we-just-started-having-sex part, when your bodies are still new to each other and you're hungry, eating each other up.

Eventually we get back out into the bar. He tucks into the cottage pie and I put some music on the stereo. I wash up the glasses Bob used and set them in the drying rack. I move my stool from the other end of the bar to down where Otto is sitting, and sit down with my beer.

People walk briskly by the front windows. I can see the wind shaking the bare branches of the trees, making women wrap their coats around themselves tighter, making men hunch their shoulders and pull their hats down over their ears. It's warm inside the Pines, cosy. I'm glad I turned on the gas fireplace when I was getting the shop ready this morning. While Otto ate, I sipped my beer and tried to just let myself believe it could always be this easy. Great sex, peaceful mornings, an effortless, quiet togetherness.

I'm working myself up to start a conversation that was probably a very bad idea - something along the lines of, "So, want to get married?" when Otto finishes his lunch, set his silverware in the bowl and pushes it away from him. He wipes his mouth and throws the napkin on top of the silverware in the bowl.

"So," he says, looking me in the eyes for the first time since we left the kitchen. "Any chance I could crash at your place for a couple nights?" My stomach sinks. I look back out the front windows again. He didn't give a shit about me, not anything permanent or deep anyway. He just needed a free place to sleep, and some bonus sex wasn't a bad thing. What was I thinking? Friends with benefits, that's what we are, that dangerous little phrase that sounds so simple and carries such complexity with it.

But on the other hand, I think, a little bonus sex isn't such a bad thing at all. I wouldn't mind sharing my bed for a couple nights. And maybe I'll take a test and find out I am pregnant and then at least he'll be there, and we could talk about it.

Not likely, the other side of my brain says. I ignore it.

"Yeah, that's fine," I agree.

Chapter Three: Mirror, mirror...

Bob leaned against the counter, his empty glass in front of him. "Wonder where that girl's got to," he said to himself. He raised his voice. "Hey Ava, you back there?" Silence.

A minute later, he heard the back door close. He realized there wasn't any music playing. That was odd - Ava usually had the stereo on. He could tell she was worried by the look on her face before she recognized him, by the absent air she'd had while they chatted. Bob pursed his lips and relaxed them again.

When Ava came back through the open doorway into the bar area, Bob's eyes reminded her of a wizened old turtle peering out from under his shell. "What's goin' on, honey?" he asked. She put a mechanical smile on.

"Oh, I'm just kind of preoccupied right now. Jason left the bar a mess again, and I can't decide what I should do about it." She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. Bob could tell she was lying. But if she didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to give her a hard time.

"Welll, I know he's young, but he's a good kid. Seems to bring in a fair amount of business, too," Bob played along.

Ava sighed. "Yeah. I don't think I can fire him. But I'm gonna tell him to get his ass in gear." Bob laughed.

"Good for you, honey. Everything else all right?" There was that suspicious turtle look again. Ava shrugged.

"I guess. 'Bout as good as it's gonna be, huh?" she replied. Bob gave another laugh, not fooled a whit.

"Well, you know you got a friend in me, if you need to talk," he said. Ava nodded.

"Thanks, Bob. You want another beer?"

"Yeah, pour me one more, honey. Why don't you have one yourself, on me." Bob crossed his arms and sat back on his barstool, watching how tense her shoulders seemed as she moved around behind the bar.

When she returned with both beers, she gave him his Guinness with her brilliant smile. "Now that's a real smile," he said. "You looked worried before." Ava shook her head.

"Just a couple things on my mind." She flashed another smile. "It's always something, running this place." They clinked glasses and drank. Ava set her glass on the counter and tilted her head. "I think that's my cell phone. Be right back."

She pulled the phone out of her bag, now hanging from a coathook behind the bar, and walked back into the kitchen. She glanced at the caller ID and froze, mid-stride, then flipped the phone open and said a cautious, "Hello?"

"Hey Ava, it's me, Otto," she heard, and her heart jumped up into her throat. "What are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm at work," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "What are you up to?"

"I just got back into town, was thinking about getting some lunch," Otto replied casually.

"Well, you're welcome to come by the Pines, we've got the best lunch menu in town," Ava said, mentally smacking herself as she heard the words coming out of her mouth.

"Cool. I'll be down in a few," Otto said, and hung up. Ava stood there holding her cell phone for a second, then sprang into movement. She came out of the kitchen, dropping her phone in her bag on her way to the bathrooms.

"Doing okay, Bob?" she called out as she passed by. Bob was reading one of the weekly local papers and gave an absent wave in reply. Ava shut the bathroom door and flicked on the light, approaching herself in the mirror until she was only a few inches away.

She rarely looked at herself in the mirror anymore. Not since the baby died. She did a quick check each morning to make sure her outfit didn't look stupid, and that was it. At first, she just hadn't wanted to see all the weight she'd gained. She was counting on nursing a baby to help lose the weight - everyone said it worked like a dream - but her daughter had died five weeks before her due date, and when all was said and done, all Ava was really left with was an unending, gaping sorrow and about twenty-five extra pounds.

After Eric left her, it got even worse. She sank into a deep, quiet depression, going through the days like a glass-eyed robot, packing her flask and one-hitter along wherever she went. She'd stopped eating, for the most part, forcing some food down about once a day; people congratulated her for getting into shape. She bit her tongue to keep from laughing in their faces and carried a travel-size bottle of mouthwash in her purse so they couldn't smell the alcohol.

Now as she looked at her own face in the mirror, meeting her eyes for the first time in she couldn't remember how long, her tears welled up again. She willed them back down. "Just stop it," Ava whispered fiercely to herself. "Get a fucking grip, girl." Whenever she cried, Ava got what she called 'tomato nose', and she most definitely did not want Otto to see her looking wretched right now.

She heard the bell attached to the front door ring and froze again. The front door slammed shut. "Hey, Bob, what's goin' on, brother?" Otto's voice rang out. That was fast. Ava met her eyes in the mirror again. She splashed some water on her face and dried it, then quickly leaned over so her hair hung down, fluffed it with her hands, and flipped it back as she straightened up. He called her before coming over. He wanted to see her. What am I so worried about? Ava asked herself. She took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

Chapter Two: Numbering the Days

She liked to save opening the windowshades for last, filling the front of the shop with elongating squares of light that make the hardwood floor gleam. Today, Ava was so busy cleaning up that she didn't open the shades until just before she unlocked the door, at eleven o'clock. She tensed a little to see someone standing right by the front door, waiting for the shop to open, but then she realized that it was just Bob and Ava relaxed, opening the door for him with a welcoming smile.

"Come on in, Bob. How's it going?" she greeted him. Bob is one of Ava's favorite regulars. He comes off as a crusty old bastard, but inside he's just a softie. He even volunteers at a local elementary school, helping the kids that have trouble reading, but Ava'd known him for more than two years before he ever told her about it.

"Hey, Ava," Bob drawled. He was originally from Savannah, Georgia, and still had his accent after 20 years in Colorado. "I'll be doin' a hell of a lot better after I get a beer in me, I can tell you that, honey."

Ava gave the obligatory laugh and ducked under the bar, picking up a clean pint glass and filling it with Guinness, his usual. She set the Guinness on the bar to settle for a few minutes before pouring the final inch.

"Trudy's up in Denver all day today, at some damn craft show or somethin'," Bob said. They bullshitted while Ava waited for the Guinness to settle. She topped it off and handed it to him. His face broke into a smile, and he reached for it with both hands and a happy sigh. Ava laughed.

"Guinness is good for you!" Bob protested after his first swallow, smacking his lips and setting the beer on the counter. Ava shook her head.

"I know it is, believe me," she said. "Hey, we got in some new NYT bestsellers yesterday, did you see them?" Bob got up and wandered over to browse the bookshelves, taking his beer with him.

Ava wanted nothing more than to hide out in the kitchen for a while and try to think about what to do next. The nausea had passed, leaving her even more certain in its wake. "Just holler if you need me, Bob," she called over to him, getting an answering wave over the bookshelves.

In the kitchen, Ava leaned against the counter and took a long gulp of her beer. What now? Take a test, right, that was the first step. She looked at the pint glass in her hand, thought about the pot and cigarettes in her purse. She thought about the long, long journey of her first pregnancy and how it had ended. She moved quickly, suddenly, to get her cell phone out of her bag, but stopped herself before she reached it. Instead, Ava turned and crossed to the fridge, pulling out bowls of prepped vegetables and setting them on the counter.

"What good would it do to call Eric?" she argued with herself. "He's gone. He left. We've been through this shit already. It's not even his kid. Not that I'm definitely pregnant." She found herself staring at her hand moving aimlessly back and forth across the counter, as if it belonged to someone else. She could feel the wounds reopen, feel the raw grief welling up inside her again. The memory of laying on that table was so vivid, the ultrasound technician nervous and trying to stay professional, waiting for her daughter's heart to start beating again, not understanding that it never would.

It had been three years and three months. Ava crossed the kitchen again, pulling the calendar off the wall, flipping through it. November 11th. Three years, three months and three days exactly from August 8th. "Eight eight," she said aloud, staring at the calendar without really seeing it. "Eleven eleven." And she could not keep the tears from coming.

Chapter One: And so it begins.

Except I don't really know where to start. There's so much to this story. Every so often, as I look back on my life, I can see the line of my path winding and twisting through the world. It's almost like that Family Circus kid, but on acid. There's the hospital, there's the Pines, there's the shitty old apartment I used to live in, still infested with roaches and flaking lead paint from the walls.

You hear people talking about 'walking the line', but I'm not sure we really have much choice. Seems like I can't get off the line, no matter how hard I've tried. Sometimes the days flow into one another, slipping by like a slow fast-forward, but some days stand alone, proud sentinels of the crises in my life. Those are the days I'd rather forget, but instead, it seems to work the other way ‘round.

Some days, like today, just feel like a complete waste. I found a parking space in the alley behind the Pines and shoehorned my old Accord into it. I should've walked, but it's freezing out, literally; I can see my breath in puffs as I stroll up to the back door. I start bouncing on my toes a little, to stay warm while I search in my cavernous bag for my keys. I can hear my mom's voice, "What I do, sweetie, is I would find the keys before I got out of the car. Especially when it's so cold out." "Bite me, mom," I mutter around the cigarette I just placed between my teeth. Now I'm looking for the keys and the lighter. I find the keys first.

I love the way the Pines smells first thing in the morning. Since the front half's a bookstore, it adds this lovely tinge of dusty books to the air. I drop my purse on the kitchen floor and set my unlit smoke on the counter above it, moving forward through the dark kitchen towards the bar. Jason was supposed to close up last night, but he usually leaves a few things undone, especially if it was slammed.

Sure enough, there's still a half dozen pint glasses in the sink, and the mop looks all lonely setting in the corner just as I'd placed it two days ago. "Fuckin' kid," I say aloud to the empty room. Doesn't look like he even swept up. I make a mental note to read him the riot act when he comes in tomorrow.

I decide to have that cigarette before I start in on cleaning and all the rest of it. I go back through the kitchen to where I left my bag, and start rooting around trying to find the lighter again. If all else fails, I can just light it off the stove. Finally my hand touches the lighter, but just as I'm standing up, a wave of nausea hits me like a fuckin' brick and sends me flying to the sink on the kitchen wall. I just barely make it.

I wipe my mouth and can't help a small chuckle at what the health inspector would say to puking in the sink. But my stomach is churning and it's not just from the nausea. I know what this feels like. I know exactly what this feels like. I couldn't be pregnant again... could I?

I turn on a thin stream of cold water and cup my hand under it, putting the cold water on my face and rinsing my mouth out with it. I replay the last few times I've had sex, trying to remember whether condoms were involved. Two months ago, when I laid Brian again, I know we used condoms because the first one broke and we had to get another one. A couple weeks after that, I'd hooked up with Christian, but we didn't sleep together; he was too drunk to even get it up.

But as I'm staring into the sink, watching the water stream down the drain, I feel a cold chill run down my spine. There was that party a month ago, at Jason's. I'd felt ancient, out of place among all his fresh-from-college hipster friends. I drank too much. Way too much. And then Otto showed up, the only other thirty-something there, and, well, I sort of have a weakness for guys like Otto anyway.

My stomach turns over again. I couldn't remember if we'd used a condom. I could barely even remember the sex. We must’ve both passed out right afterwards, because we woke up still intertwined the next morning. He could’ve taken the condom off the night before, I tell myself, but even I don’t really buy it. I retched into the sink again, watching the water take it down the drain, hiding the evidence of my fucked-up life. Finally I put my mouth to the thin stream of water coming from the faucet and I drink as if my life depended on it. Then I straighten up, reach unsteadily for my cigarette and lighter again, and half-stagger outside. The cold air shocks me, brings me back into the present. I light my smoke and lean my head against the brick wall behind me. My hands are trembling. My brain is racing around at a hundred miles an hour. Maybe it's just from a hangover, I tell myself; I had a lot to drink last night and that's just the leftover beer my body couldn't digest. ...It didn't feel like a hangover, part of my brain responds that I wish would just shut up. I couldn't possibly be pregnant, I tell myself, scoffing at the thought before it's even finished.

I need to remain calm, I tell myself. "Be cool, Av," I say aloud. Panicking isn't going to help either way. I stub out the cigarette at its halfway point and leave it on the little brick ledge that runs shoulder-high around the building. Stepping back in, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, then step over to my purse and feel around til I find my one-hitter. I take a couple hits of pot and exhale into the still, quiet air around me. I sit for a moment, then go back out into the alley to finish my smoke.

When I come back in, I feel a lot calmer. "Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that I am pregnant," I debate with myself. "Otto's not such a bad guy. He'd make a good dad. Not a good husband, but he's cool with kids. And I don't need to get married. What the fuck - we'd probably kill each other." But I am not talking about what is rising in my throat, the hellish feeling of dread threatening to choke me. Because if this ends up anything like the last time, I might as well go to the abortion clinic right now.

I wonder if I should call Eric. What would I say? "Hey, I got knocked up again. Hope this one doesn't die." Fuck's sake. I walk briskly to the bar sink and start running the hot water. I have 45 minutes to get the place clean before we're supposed to open. I decide the pint glasses can wait and hook up the short length of hose we use to fill the mop bucket. While it's filling up, I pour myself a beer. It's 10:15 in the morning.

My hands are still shaking.

A rose by any other name

I'm not sure about the name Anna. It's been bugging the hell out of me, to be honest with you. I want her name to be palindromic, but Anna feels too close to my name, and while this character and I share a very intense and personal experience, she's not me.

So this is why I love the Internet: I googled 'palindromic names' and within about 2 seconds was reading a list of all the palindromic names out there. Ava? Emme's a pretty name, but I don't really want to ride on the coattails of Jennifer Lopez.

Ava might be good, though. Hmmm.

I've always taken exception to Shakespeare's assertion that a name doesn't mean anything. I don't disagree with the Bard on much, but the whole 'rose by any other name' thing is a crock of shit, in my opinion. I doubt that he really believed it himself; I think it was just a rhetorical device.

In other news, I've been getting my writing playlist set up - had to load up both discs of Telltale Signs on my laptop. I might put some selections from Golden Vanity on there too.

NaNoWriMo ponderings

Well, I've officially signed up for the mass lunacy that is NaNoWriMo, along with my friend Kirsten. Should be fun! I've been thinking a lot about what my subject should be, and I think I've come up with a workable idea...

My main character will be Anna, a 33-year-old woman who several years ago went through most of a pregnancy, but ended up having a stillborn. During the pregnancy, she'd worked really hard to do everything right, but the baby died. Now she's single and pregnant again, but basically acting like kind of a fuckup. She's a cook/bartender at a local pub and bookstore in a small, artsy/touristy town. She's lived there for years and has a big group of friends in the community, but she doesn't want to tell anyone she's pregnant for as long as possible. The story will basically focus on her emotional & mental journey through the pregnancy.

The other thing worth noting is that I think the theme song running through my mind while I write is going to be this beautiful version of the Bob Dylan song "Mississippi". We recently got a CD where he performs a really quiet, sweet, husky acoustic version of it that has been haunting me.

These are the song lyrics:

Mississippi

Every step of the way we walk the line
Your days are numbered, so are mine
Time is pilin' up, we struggle and we scrape
We're all boxed in, nowhere to escape

City's just a jungle, more games to play
Trapped in the heart of it, trying to get away
I was raised in the country, I been workin' in the town
I been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down

Got nothing for you, I had nothing before
Don't even have anything for myself anymore
Sky full of fire, pain pourin' down
Nothing you can sell me, I'll see you around

All my powers of expression and thoughts so sublime
Could never do you justice in reason or rhyme
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well, the devil's in the alley, mule's in the stall
Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all
I was thinkin' about the things that Rosie said
I was dreaming I was sleeping in Rosie's bed

Walking through the leaves, falling from the trees
Feeling like a stranger nobody sees
So many things that we never will undo
I know you're sorry, I'm sorry too

Some people will offer you their hand and some won't
Last night I knew you, tonight I don't
I need somethin' strong to distract my mind
I'm gonna look at you 'til my eyes go blind

Well I got here following the southern star
I crossed that river just to be where you are
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well my ship's been split to splinters and it's sinking fast
I'm drownin' in the poison, got no future, got no past
But my heart is not weary, it's light and it's free
I've got nothin' but affection for all those who've sailed with me

Everybody movin' if they ain't already there
Everybody got to move somewhere
Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow
Things should start to get interesting right about now

My clothes are wet, tight on my skin
Not as tight as the corner that I painted myself in
I know that fortune is waitin' to be kind
So give me your hand and say you'll be mine

Well, the emptiness is endless, cold as the clay
You can always come back, but you can't come back all the way
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

(Copyright ©1997 Special Rider Music)

I've decided to just write the story on this blog, so that I can access it from anywhere and I don't have to cart my laptop around all month. I keep having these little vignettes appear in my head, and I'm dying to write them down, but that would feel like cheating.

Reemergence...

So, you might wonder why the 10 and a half month hiatus on this blog... well, here's the deal.

The day after my last post here, I found out I was pregnant. Talk about kicking off the new year with a bang. Suddenly all of my energy was pouring into research about having a healthy pregnancy. In the meantime, all my creative energy disappeared - I think it was all going into building our daughter Abigail.

But then Abigail died, about five weeks before she was due. Suddenly all of my energy was pouring into grieving, and grieving hard. But as usual, when the chips were down, my creative energy came flowing back and I wrote a ton of poetry, which helped me heal.

It's been a couple months now, and I've mostly passed through the fog of grief and am returning to normal, or my new normal, I suppose. Close enough to normal that I am actually considering the insane task of participating in NaNoWriMo with a friend of mine. If you're not familiar with NaNoWriMo (I wasn't, until my friend mentioned it), it's basically this mass insanity where people try and write a 50,000-word novel during the month of November. For all you non-math-people out there, that would be nearly 1700 words a DAY. (Why they couldn't do this on a month with 31 days, I have no idea. I guess I should be grateful that they didn't chose February.)

It's kind of a cool concept, though. It pretty much leaves no room for second-guessing oneself or procrastinating on writing by eternally re-editing what you've already written. Now if I can just settle on a story idea, I'll be set...

I do have several half-ideas floating around in the transom of my brain, but none of them have really spoken to me. Don't think I want to restart my GAN, necessarily... Guess I still have a couple weeks to figure it out...