Author: Admin

A is For Abibliophobia

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I’m nuts, must be, because I’m actually heading into the A to Z April Blogging Challenge, you know where I have to blog from A to Z for the whole month. Yikes! Right in the midst of getting my memoir, Loveyoubye ready for publication with She Writes Press! (I blogged about it here.) Believe it. Well, I’m going to try. And just so’s you know, this is the first thought I’ve given to it–well other than signing up a few weeks ago (must’ve had a few cocktails). I’m tapping Dr. Robert Beard, AKA Dr. Goodword’s, book, The 100 Funniest Words in English. I’ll see how long that lasts and then, hey, maybe I’ll switch to something else. Just know that it’s good for me to do this, like a tablespoon of castor oil-good, because otherwise I’ll obsess over the publication of Loveyoubye.

Misc 026Abibliophobia – The fear of running out of reading material.

I have this phobia. To prove it, check out the stack above; it’s beside my bed and sways every time there’s an earthquake. The top two books are Sight Hound, by Pam Houston, and The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield, which I’m reading at the same time as Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn which is on my Kindle. I have a love hate thing going on with the Kindle. It’s “unfriendly,” if you know what I mean, but it’s an abibliophobia’s dream is it not?

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Damn The Torpedoes!

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Okay, so I’ve been quite remiss in posting to my blog for the past . . . Wow! has it been three weeks already? Quelle horreur! (Haven’t a clue how I knew that meant “that’s terrible/how awful!” Mr. Oppenheimer, Kitwe High’s French teacher’s doing?)

The truth is I’m not always thrilled about blogging, well, once I get in there and do it and hit my stride, I soar and it feels so good, but getting there can be agonizing. However, this time I’ve got a good excuse for being otherwise occupied. I’ve been consumed with getting my memoir, Loveyoubye ready for publication with She Writes Press. It was such a relief to finally make that decision. And so far I’m finding they’re a class act. Plus I like the idea of having their “stable” of writers, with whom I can compare notes. (I haven’t done that yet, but it’s available.)

I had to get an author photo taken–painful–write a bio, a book description, and come up with ideas for the book cover. The latter, my friends has been interesting. Once I primed the pump, all these ideas for images came up. The book cover is a major deal.

But here’s an even bigger issue, committing to this final stage of getting my story out there brought back all those worries I had in the beginning and along the way. Will my story, the writing of which was a life raft at the time, hurt anyone, and do I honestly want the world to see me naked and vulnerable? It’s an uncomfortable place to be. But I find myself pressing forward. Is it my Taurean nature at work here, to persist because that’s what’s next? Or is there something else? Do I need to lay it on the line because someone else, maybe just one person can relate, can see herself, even himself in my experience, and feel a kinship and find comfort and hope? Lofty ideals, I know, but I believe that if you’re turning yourself inside out to find your own truth, you will touch someone else.

So. Damn the torpedoes. Off I go.

Five Sentence Challenge: Empty

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Five Sentence Fiction is a weekly writing challenge made possible by Lillie McFerrin in which to tell a story in just five sentences, a story that packs a powerful punch in a tiny fist. The word does not have to appear in those five sentences, it’s just for direction. If you’d like to learn more about what it’s all about, and maybe give it a try yourself, visit Lillie McFerrin Writes. This week’s prompt is EMPTY. (I managed it in three sentences this time.)

It was the sight of the empty bottle of her precious guava juice that made her snap, that last mouthful she’d been thinking about all day at a job she hated, the one thing she could trust that would be there for her, the one line her wife didn’t cross in their marriage.

She’d negotiated the precipitous canyons of marriage to the world’s most beautiful woman, her occasional men, her lying, her empty eyes, that empty but oh so beautiful smile, being taken for granted. But in the end it came down to juice.

The Purple Rose

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The image of this purple rose filled me with a feeling I can’t quite describe. I wanted to possess it in some way. Anyway, that was the impetus for this story I managed to wring from Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction this week. Let me know what you think.

Clive almost ran the two miles across town to give Britney the purple rose he’d rescued from the trash where it had been tossed by his mother moments before. It had been the only purple rose in the bouquet of roses she’d bought herself earlier that afternoon—her first Valentine’s Day as a Divorced Woman. Eyes bright and sipping a glass of wine too quickly she’d arranged the flowers, telling him how lucky she’d been to find that purple beauty, her favorite color. But then two glasses of wine later, she was still arranging the flowers, mainly moving the purple rose from one position to another amongst all the pinks and reds.

“Did you know that a purple rose stands for enchantment?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Yes, indeed, when you give the object of your affection a purple rose you’re letting them know that you fell in love with them at first sight and that it’s forever.” She took another sip of wine and was silent for a moment staring at the rose, and then said in a whisper. “I wonder how many purple roses he’s been giving out lately.” And then she was crying, muttering how she’d been such a fool, still hopelessly caught in the enchantment of that first purple rose. That’s when she’d tossed the entire bunch into the trash can.

Before he knew it, Clive had rescued the rose, plump and full and breathtaking beautiful, drops of water still glistening on its petals like diamonds. He couldn’t help himself. His heart swelled with a feeling that something wonderful was about to happen. Britney. He had to tell her he loved her. He would ignore the fact that she’d always given him ‘what is your problem’ looks whenever he stared at her adoringly. The purple rose would change everything.

Trying not to strangle the stem of the rose and panting with the exertion of his run, he turned onto Stargaze Drive, two blocks away from Britney’s house and stopped in front of a small tract house not unlike the one he lived in. Lizzie Morecambe: the class brain, his partner in lab; they used to exchange the lunches their mothers made for them in grade school. And then he was walking up to the door, his heart feeling as if it would burst. He had to give the rose to Lizzie.

The Quiz

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Callie focused on the latest stack of record albums he’d brought her from what seemed a limitless supply somewhere in the depths of his apartment. She couldn’t disappoint him again. It was what she always ended up doing with men, especially ones she really liked. She had it right this time though, she was sure of it and pulled out a 1981 Rolling Stones collaboration with Muddy Waters in response to his request for “Hoochie Coochie Man,” and held it out with a flourish. Grinning, he smacked his hands together, set it carefully on an old-time turntable and placed the needle on the right track. The familiar thump of the Rolling Stones filled the room. She grinned back in relief. Three out of four.

A silly game really, begun in the small hole-in-the-wall club down the street where she sometimes ventured out to listen to live music. They’d bumped into each other, locked eyes and with heart thumping loud enough to deafen her she’d retreated to the restroom. He was there when she came out but didn’t look her way again. She returned the same night the following week and then the next, hoping to see him again. He was there every single time, never far from where she stood. But he didn’t approach her until tonight. Their words burst out of them, like they’d been saving them up for years. All about music; he as passionate about the subject as was she, from Scriabin with his idiosyncratic tonal language, to 1930’s blues artist Robert Johnson, to Ravi Shankar, to Leonard Cohen to Ry Cooder. They were kindred souls. She drank more than she should’ve, and then she was in his place, taking him up on his challenge; he would name a track of a song or orchestral piece by some artist, hand her a stack of records and she had thirty seconds to pull the album containing that track.

They sat listening with rapt attention not looking at each other. She wanted to reach out to him, wanted to feel his skin close to hers, to run her fingers through the hair on his chest she could see peeping up over his T-shirt, she wanted his arms around her. The record came to an end. One more question to come. Would she get this one right? And then what?

“Good night Irene,” he said and she jerked upright, instant tears filling her eyes. She had disappointed him. What a fool she’d been. She glanced around for her sweater and purse and started to her feet.

“Where’re you going?” he cried, jumping up and grabbing both her hands. “Maybe if I said Good night Irene, it would’ve clued you in. Sorry I’m not good at this kind of thing, I mean we had this quiz thing going, I was just trying to . . . okay, it was a ploy to get you here. The thing is, I-I just really like you and I want you to stay. Wrapping his arms around her he gave her a long tender kiss. Finally he released her, reached down and shoved a fresh stack of records into her hands. “You’ll ace this one.”

Anniversary

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Today is the first anniversary of my blog! Ta da! From my first posting, The Beach, on January 26, 2011, when I chronicled three-month-old Fergie’s first visit to the—

Wait a minute, that was TWO years ago! I missed my first anniversary!! Actually, now that I think about it, I must’ve I ignored my first anniversary because I was embarrassed by my puny output.  I didn’t exactly take to blogging. In fact I found it daunting. I had just completed a memoir about the breakup of my marriage, which of course is all about what makes me tick. But it hasn’t been published. Yet. And when it is, well, that will be another thing. A whole other thing for which I brace myself. But here I was faced with writing about myself again, this time writing on the fly, on a daily or at least a monthly basis.  What to write about? What more did I have to say? Who would care?

Gritting my teeth, I launched forth. It wasn’t too much fun. I persisted. It took over a year to realize that I was learning new writing skills, that I was becoming more facile with this shorter form, which were essentially essays, what Phillip Lopate calls “a movement toward honesty.” And isn’t that what it’s all about on every level in one’s life, aren’t we all trying to move toward honesty? It never stops. In the process, I realized I did have something to say, hopefully something that is universally appealing.

And then there were all the new friends I made and the old ones with whom I reconnected for which I am eternally grateful.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award

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I was surprised and delighted (and inspired) to discover that I’d been nominated for the “Very Inspiring Blogger Award” by writer and artist, Uvi Pozansky.  She’s on Facebook as well, under Uvi Art Gallery where you can see more of her fabulous art.

It is especially gratifying to receive this award as I have not been blogging regularly lately. Instead, I’ve been catching up on some reading, wrestling with an essay idea for a Brevity magazine contest, circling that novel idea I hatched during NaNoWriMo, as well as taking flights of fancy on what to do for my birthday this year. Thanks, Uvi for inspiring me in so many ways and for nominating me.

The rules of the award are as follows:

1. Link back to the blogger who nominated you.  Accomplished in paragraph one.

2. Post the award image to your page. See above.

3. Share 7 facts about yourself. Hmmm. Here goes…

  • I was an apprentice “window dresser” as a teenager.
  • I love getting together with friends and/or family and cooking a meal together.
  • I’m loyal to a fault, can’t help it.
  • I could never have a relationship with anyone who doesn’t love animals.
  • According to family lore, my German great-grandfather’s family owned a castle in the Black Forest region in Germany (he emigrated to South Africa).
  • At six years old and again at eleven, I won Best Ballet Repertoire at an Eisteddfod held at the Women’s Guild Hall, in Nkana.
  • I always wanted to be a professional dancer.

4. Nominate 15 other blogs and inform them about it. (I’m nominating 8). These are blogs that interest me.  Please take the time to take a look; I think you’ll like what you see.

Multiverse Man/Woman

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A poem by Adam A. deFranco

Multiverse Man

What has called life to origins

From the fiery furnace of primal chaos?

What has set the elements of nature a tremor

And combined them in sublime order?

If there is consciousness

And the primal impulse

Streams through entire creation

How is it we

Clothed too in

Immaculate matter

Escape the grandeur of meaning and truth?

What fear

What outworn garment

Has hidden our naked splendor,

When the universe has woven itself

In the ripple of our very fabric

And threads us through all that exist?

Back to Zambia

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I blogged two days ago that I’m thinking of returning home to Zambia for a visit. You can read my account here. A surprising change of mind to be sure. A big factor in my consideration is a desire to visit Shiwa Ngandu, a magnificent “Out of Africa” type estate in northeastern Zambia, http://youtu.be/SUR6NupcP1o

I first learned about the place on Facebook’s “Kitwe” site, or I thought that was the first time I learned of the place. Until I saw the YouTube video above. Did my family stop here on our way up to East Africa that time when we spent three months touring Malawi, Tanzania and Kenya? Or am I mistaking it for the Vumba Mountain Hotel in eastern Zimbabwe? Hmm, I am going to have to try harder to make this trip happen to find out.

Unexpected Birthday Plans

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In my October 2012 blog, titled Milestone Plans, I wrote about doing something stupendous for my birthday this year, either celebrating with my childhood friend Joan (same age) over in England where she now lives (with maybe a longer trip to Scotland), or tooling around the States with Jake and Fergie in a rented teardrop trailer.  The latter is out, those cute little teardrops are way too expensive to buy and to rent (as is gas). England is still a probability, but I did that last year. I want to go somewhere different this year, somewhere I’ve always wanted to visit, somewhere I haven’t been before. Somewhere totally unexpected. So I’ve been thinking and thinking and thinking . . . road trip up the East Coast starting in Savannah, Georgia? Portugal? Japan? Stick a pin in the map of the world? (Lest you think I have bags of money, I don’t. I dream big and sometimes I can make them come true.)

And then today a preposterous idea hit me, hit me hard. A trip home to Nkana/Kitwe, Zambia (now just called Kitwe). Why preposterous? Because for one thing, I couldn’t wait to get out of there, plus, as everyone knows, you can never go home, especially after you’ve seen all the changes that have taken place in photos on Facebook’s Kitwe site. It would kill me to see all the neglect and deterioration:  once tarred roads, now potholed or mostly dirt, buildings in ruin, as well as some of the houses because the poor African occupants can’t afford to keep them up. No thriving copper mining company to subsidize, like it did for us. And it’s not like my parents still live there. They died many years ago.

So, why, you ask, am I entertaining the idea of going back? I’m not exactly sure. But it is unexpected, you must admit.  Perhaps, it’s something I need to do to come full circle with that part of my life. Perhaps I can persuade my eldest son, who was born there, to join me. And Joan. She’s been back countless times. She loves the place. And Donna, too, of course. That’s if they can make it. But if not, perhaps I’ll go alone. Perhaps that’s part of closing the circle. More on my still-forming plans, tomorrow.