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Posted on by February 25, 2020

I have no sense of direction. Give me a map, and I’ll lose you without fail. Ask me how to get somewhere, and I’ll write you a novel. “To reach my neighborhood, turn left off the Boulevard at the Liberty station, then take all the whoop-dees  until you see my messy yard. You can’t miss it.”

And yet I know, unerringly, where I am in relationship to my mother’s house. Right now, it’s five hundred miles away over my right shoulder. If I go to the kitchen, it’s sort of off my left side,  but angled back to the right. I wouldn’t trust this sense to lead me out of so much as a brushy thicket. But it’s always there.

The one year I participated in Brownies, some woman named Artie gave us a lesson on the compass and set us on a treasure hunt. My buddy had no use for me and added herself to another pair. I took the compass, turned the base around until the arrow pointed in the direction I wanted to go, and headed for home. Fifteen minutes later, Artie found me pacing along a dry creek bed and chewed me out for leaving. She didn’t understand that my buddy ditched me, not the other way around, or that I didn’t like the raisins that were supposed to be our prize. I didn’t understand that just because I’d made the compass arrow point southwest, that didn’t mean I was walking southwest, or why she thought it so important that I go east. And I didn’t even try to explain that I’d chosen that direction because I wanted my own bed, not some tent.

I wonder if this same pull applies to astronauts. Do they feel this connected to their origins? If they passed through space-time into a dimension where the natives could make money rain up from their hands, would they still experience that tiny cord? How far extends Earth’s gravity?

 

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Trifecta is having fun with the urban dictionary this week, so I got all nostalgic and weird. I appear capable of doing funny right up until someone suggests it. Let it rain people.

Balls

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Kelly rubbed the bandage on her right leg and winced. She had no spare energy to heal the wound. She hated this stretch of 331, where there were no streetlights between podunk towns, and every reflection might be him. Hell, for all she knew, every reflection was him. He managed to infect everything. In back, Amber shifted in her carseat and Luna hummed with the radio.

“Mom, stop.”

“What, Luna?”

“He’s ten miles ahead.”

“You’re sure?”

Luna didn’t answer. Kelly didn’t know why she had asked.

There was a chance to change course, head for Destin instead of Pensacola. But he surely knew that, too. If Luna could find her father, then he could find her, had probably done it much sooner. If he was standing after the fork, he wanted Kelly to take it.

He was herding her away from the haven of her sister’s house. But if she diverted, he would have to move to catch them. Anything that delayed him bought Kelly time. If she couldn’t get to Jane, she might reach the Gulf. Salt water made powerful magic.

Amber squirmed. “I can’t sleep.”

“You have to.” Kelly began a resting spell.

“No. These things are making my butt numb.”

“What things?”

“Daddy’s crystal balls.”

“Amber did you take your father’s…”

“I just wanted to play with them!”

“How many…”

Luna said, “All seven. She took all seven.” Kelly checked the rearview and saw Luna rooting under her still buckled sister.

“I’m sorry…”

“No. Good girl. Throw one out, Luna. Pitch it hard.”

“Do you think he’ll follow them?”

“I have to hope so. And their size will make them hard to find in the dark.” It was an edge she hadn’t realized she held.  “Chuck one every few miles, but keep the last one. I want to I sink it.” She turned at the fork and flexed her fingers on her bandaged leg. For the first time since Birmingham, she hoped they might reach the ocean.

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Since it’s week sixty nine at Trifecta, I thought of doing a kinky love scene. But I’ve had a sore throat and this particular nasty nightmare drifted through me a few weeks ago. I’ve been looking for something to do with it, and “infection” was the perfect addition.

 

 

Walking in Their Shoes

Posted on by February 25, 2020

My first boss died a couple of weeks ago. He was a big man when I knew him. He lost weight after I moved away. He lost more with the cancer. While I’ll remember him by his laugh, a deep gut-chuckle, his wife and kids will remember his frailty. I’d trade shoes with them, if I could.

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Sorry, sorry, I know I never make it over to ketchup with Mel and Michele, and then when I do, I’m all downer. The truth is, I’m awful at short prompts. I rarely speak in less than a hundred words, and when I do, too much is lost in the translation.

Farewell, Dave. You were a damned good boss, and an amazing man.

Screaming in small caps

Posted on by February 25, 2020

Because I’m an academic, I learned the importance of conferences the back alley way. It’s a habit I built in relationship to my job. A couple of years ago, I realized that people do this for writing, too. I was a little slow on the uptake.

Killer Nashville pretty much jumped out of my computer screen as the perfect place for me, since I was shopping a murder mystery. I signed up to talk to editors and agents, and I sent a couple of short story manuscripts for critique by published authors.

The authors were fabulous. All of the editors and agents were awesome, but one really stood out. She was an author herself, and very well spoken. She liked my work. She invited me to submit.

I went home and panicked.

I went back to the conference in 2012.

I met her again.

She remembered me. She wanted to know why I hadn’t sent it. That right there sent me hyperventilating out of the meeting to clutch the phone and whisper to Scott. Who was on a commuter train, letting the kids experience something cool in Nashville. And who could barely hear me. And who generally was not in a position to say more than, “Wow”.

I got additional feedback from her and from an agent at the conference.

I came home last year knowing that I had to stop sitting on my manuscript and  submit it for God’s sake. But I was terrified. I don’t manage my emotions well on a steady day, and if I throw something IMPORTANT into the mix, I spend my weeks strung out like a fucking addict. So between September and January, I edited some more. I changed the ending twice. One change was three days before I sent out the final product. I volunteered madly at the ballet so I wouldn’t think about the manuscript sitting at home waiting for me to let it GO already.

And then one day, I gatheredupmynervesandwroteanemail. But I was a wreck, and so I put out a “HELP” call on facebook, and SAM was online (not MY Sam, the writer SAM!). She proofread, corrected grammar, and helped me polish. And then I put it all together with the appropriate attachment, hit send, and tried to forget it. But I failed. I woke up every day thinking about it, trying and failing to manage my emotions as I hoped and worried.

And then, on Tuesday night, I saw an e-mail from the editor in my inbox. And my stomach sank, because I saw it at 8PM, and it had arrived at 7PM. Which meant that, from her time zone, the editor sent it at 5PM. Who sends out good news at the end of the working day?

Her, it seems.

Because when I stopped hyperventilating and read the thing, she told me she wanted to begin the acquisitions process.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

(Which takes 4 to 5 months, so the next wait is longer, but less stressful. I don’t have to hope. I know.) That was when I rebooted the computer twice. I was getting ready to put the kids to bed. Sam, seeing that I had stopped doing so, went back to playing Lego Batman. Caroline, seeing that I had stopped talking and started flapping, asked “Mom, are you having trouble with your Asperger’s?” since that’s what I ask her when the words go away and the arms get urgent. (Note – I do not  have Asperger’s, but damn I knew exactly how she felt at those urgent, voiceless times right then.) I kept saying “The book, the book!” And so she brought me books. An entire random stack of them.

I texted a couple of friends, realized I was not texting actual words any more than I was speaking them, and that I would probably cause upset and panic if I didn’t calm down. Scott was at work. I called him. I handed the phone to Caroline and told her to tell Daddy about her day. She was chosen to participate in an art project with the upper school kids, which was SO cool, and she had come home from school bubbling about it. But she forgot until I reminded her, which finally unlocked my voice.

It still took four tries to tell Scott when I got the phone back. And then I called my Mom and Kaylee. And it took another couple of tries to tell them. By the time I got to Dad, I was at least speaking English as a first language again, and the e-mail was still there, and nothing I’d done had made it go away.

I told a very few people over the course of the week, and I kept minute to minute track of my days. If there were ever gaps in my memory or the list, I’d know I was dreaming. I have vivid, lucid dreams, and there are six hundred ways I check to see if I’m dreaming in extreme circumstances.

By Friday, when the e-mail was still there, and I’d run out of lines for tracking micronutia, I realized I should say something on the blog. But everything I typed felt wrong. It took at least 33 ties to come up with 33 words for Trifecta.

So that’s my story.

And I have no conclusion.

Hope Was

Posted on by February 25, 2020

I shut down the computer twice, but the e-mail didn’t vanish. It’s been four days now, and it still hasn’t gone away. My world is aslant. The editor wrote; she wants my book.

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For the voting public, that last compound sentence probably invalidates the 33 words of first person narrative. Although I am still technically writing in the first person, I have stepped slightly outside to make generic observations. Possibly, it’s still considered appropriate or close enough for country, since the two third person statements (“The editor wrote; she wants…”) are actually my observations. But it’s too esoteric. I think it’s fair game to enter, but vote for someone else, someone who isn’t blowing their own horn, K? This post is nonfiction. I’ll elaborate tomorrow or Monday.

Monday is NOT Pretty in Pink

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“Mom, I need your help.” Sam leaned halfway out of the car, his belt still fastened, his body in almost no way restrained by it.

“What honey? Can’t you see Mommy is putting on her shoes?”  I hated the accidental third person. I wouldn’t have said, “Can’t you see Jessie is putting on her shoes”. And my kids haven’t referred to themselves in the third person in years, so I can’t claim I’m echoing them when I morph into the person I call “Mommy is”. She usually comes with a slice of “Can’t you see she’s” followed by any number of activities.

“I need you to move my book out of the way.” He pointed to where it had fallen on the garage floor.

“Don’t you want me to hand it to you?” It was his favorite, something from the Star Wars universe that made Wookies sound like they belonged in encyclopedias. He answered with his mad face. The one that usually preceded phrases like, “You already know!” and “I just said.”  But instead of lambasting me for my failure to listen to his orders, he turned violent red. Exactly what Mommy doesn’t need. A meltdown to start the day. I pulled on my left shoe and went for the book.

The instant it left the ground, Sam vomited. Craisin colored, oatmeal textured puke splattered onto the side of the car.

“Scott! I need you!” What? You can’t cope with this one ‘Mommy’?

“What’s up?”

Sam threw up again, another lily pink stream. “Oh.”

“We need a bucket out here.”

“Right.”

I scooped Sam out of the car and into the kitchen, where he deposited a final breakfast delivery just before Scott arrived with an empty trash can. “I guess take your pants off and go curl up on the couch. Looks like you won’t be going anywhere today.”

I went for old cloth diapers to clean up the car, and Scott started in on the kitchen floor. One pail of lemon cleanser later, I could finally take Caroline to school. “You want to know the most disgusting thing for me?” I told Scott as I walked out the door.

He shrugged. The answer probably was no.

“It smelled like strawberries. The thing that brought me closest to spewing myself was that I couldn’t escape that odor, and I kept thinking, “this is the most pleasant barf I’ve ever scrubbed.”

“Ugh.”

He did not kiss me on the way out.

Sam seemed fine for the rest of the day. In fact, at one point, he bounded around on the trampoline with no consequences. I had just about convinced myself that he had swallowed his strawberry toothpaste this morning by the time I went to rescue Caroline for the day.

I picked him up for a cuddle when we got home. He pushed away from me and grunted. “What honey?”

He twisted away and another pink volcano erupted onto the floor, this one smelling rankly of the barbecue sauce he had demanded for lunch. The attack continued so long that I got him to the toilet before the last chunks arrived. After Scott and I had cleaned him up, I stripped out of my own clothes, which had not been spared, and disinfected the toilet in my underwear. Scott went for the mop and some more lemon cleanser.

“You got things under control out here?” I asked him.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good. That’s one too many encounters with my children’s bodily fluids today. Mommy’s taking a shower.”

“Not a bad idea. When you get done, I think Daddy may need a turn as well.”

 


I’m joining up with the Moddest Mom in the blogosphere. She’d love it if you played, too. New post, old post, themed post, random post, any post at all is welcome!

Behind the Rising

Posted on by February 25, 2020

When I went to the University of Kentucky, the University had this little spot, it was kind of a depression in the sidewalk really, called the Free Speech Area. If you had something you wanted to spout off about, you could go there and trumpet it to the heavens. Sometimes, it drew actual protesters, and I think the odd prof might have sent classes there to say something. But mostly, the space was occupied by this old fart with bad hair and an ugly coat. He wore that coat rain, shine, or snow, and yes, he showed up in all those conditions.

At the time, I knew perfectly well that I was bipolar, but I didn’t have a formal diagnosis, and I wasn’t about to waste the time to go get one. But I had so much anger, the kind of anger that saps sleep and blasts good ideas out of your head. So when my vitriol had built up in my system enough that I was losing the ability to function, I’d go down to the Free Speech Area and shout back. It didn’t really matter what we argued about, it just gave me a place to vent my rage in public without causing too much of an uproar. Friends who saw me were sympathetic, “Give it up, Jessie, he won’t go away,” and others thought it an amusing pursuit. I was the only person who knew that my bloody anger wasn’t directed at the man at whom I was shouting, and it kept me out of an institution when I desperately needed to be writing papers.

The third or fourth time I did this, I realized that, where I was getting catharsis from heckling this guy, the man himself was gleeful. He wanted, needed an opponent to make his speeches more fun. He could only spew so much random bullshit before he got tired of hearing himself speak. But if someone would ENGAGE him, then he had a whole bag of Deuteronomy and Revelations to throw at his enemy. It reduced my own guilt about hassling a man who was obviously more messed up in the head than I was, even though I still hated the guy and loved to use him as my venting board.

Fast forward to last Christmas.

We took a train to Tennessee. It was called the Blue Ridge Express, and it took us from Blue Ridge Georgia to this place on the state line of Georgia and Tennessee. We’ve done this before, and it’s always very fun. This Christmas, there was a prosthelytizer standing right on that state line (which runs through the middle of town) in front of the little Christmas Village the kids wanted to visit. People were steering clear of the guy, because he was clearly not quite right. As we walked past, he met my eyes and said, “And Jesus [blah blah blah]”.

I said, in my most irritable, sarcastic voice, “Christ.”

He said, “Jesus’ last name is NOT Christ.”

And I said, “Oh, and I bet the next thing you’re gonna tell me is his middle name isn’t H, either.”

And I drew from my husband and fellow passengers snickers that reminded me of the Free Speech Area at UK. Sam brought all of this to my mind this week because he repeated to me one of my own oft bellowed oaths, “Jesus H. Christ on a Motherfucking Crutch.” (He’s not supposed to cuss just because I do; we’re explaining that those are adult words and he needs to learn how to use them right. But when he does it in the appropriate context, I don’t get all riled up. When he doesn’t, I just try not to encourage him.) So I thought I’d try to encapsulate them in a story.

So, to those who thought I was including my own opinion yesterday, yes, of course I was. I always am.

Rise Above

Posted on by February 25, 2020

The Pascagoula River ran into its banks as if the Gulf of Mexico had oozed narrow fingers inland. At the I-10 rest stop, tourists bound for New Orleans debarked and snapped photos of each other and the muddy water.

A woman complained, “I don’t know why we stopped here; we’ve got toilets.”

“Grab a snack. Look at the bayou.” The driver walked towards the men’s room.

At the far corner of the building, an old man in a heavy coat shouted. “Repent!” He brandished a Bible like a weapon. “How shall you answer when He calls your name?”

He had an audience of one, a dark haired woman in short sleeves and jeans who had not arrived on the bus. A young couple in matching purple shirts ambled across the parking lot. The old man turned his attention to them. “The Lord Jesus…”

“Christ.”

“What?”

“Isn’t his last name Christ.”

“Your impudence will exhaust His divine patience! Recant your words of despite!”

The purple shirts put their heads together and snickered. “Too easy.”

Soon, the driver emerged from the bathroom. He detoured towards the old preacher, who began afresh. “The Lord’s fire burns in my heart!” Now, he clutched the Bible to his chest.

The driver said, “Pipe down.”

A rousing debate ensued, with much heckling from the crowd and thunderous condemnation from their victim. At last, though, the driver moved everyone along. He caught the dark haired woman’s eye and winked as he passed. She nodded acknowledgement.

As the tourists got back on their bus, she approached the old man.

“Come on, Daddy. I think they’ve had enough this week.”

“Yeah. I reckon so. Next week, I’ll try again at that college you teach at.”

“Come on, now. Mama’s had enough of a break, and you need to take your pill.”

The preacher nodded. “I’m coming,” he said. But he turned his face to his chest as he hobbled to her car. “Repent,” he murmured. “Repent, repent, repent.”

Of speaking and silence

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“Caroline, help Lisa with her seatbelt.” I handed my daughter her classmate’s buckle.

Lisa said, “I got it,” in her nasal, robotic voice.

Caroline tilted her head and moved her mouth, but nothing came out. Her words had gone away again.

I climbed in up front and scanned the permission slip. “Crap, Scott which thing are we going to?”

Scott finished clicking in Sam. “Which what? Yogurt shop?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you knew.”

“Well, I don’t, and the paperwork doesn’t say.”

“I’ll go in and ask.”

“The teachers are right there. Ask them.”

A minute later, with the right destination in hand, we started out of the lot. “Everybody buckled in back there?”

Caroline said, “Ah… ahh.”

Sam clarified, “Sis still has Lisa’s seatbelt.”

“Well, Caroline, either hand it to her or help her out, honey.”

“Ah!”

Lisa repeated, “I got it,” in exactly the same tone as before.

Caroline handed over the buckle as I watched. Scott remained parked at the top of the school’s driveway, the teachers’ car waiting to go behind us. Lisa did not fasten herself. “I got it,” she assured me, her voice unchanged and uninflected.

“Well, go ahead and get it.” I hoped my voice didn’t betray my impatience. We were almost the last car out of the lot, and everyone would be there waiting for the teachers to go inside, while we sat here holding them up.

Lisa stared at the seatbelt. “I got it.”

Caroline said, “She… she…”

“Oh, I give up!” I handed Scott the permission slip and got out of the car with a wave to the minivan behind us. I opened up the backseat and I fastened Lisa in.

“I got it,” Lisa said.

Sam said, “No, my Mom got it.”

Caroline added, “Lisa can’t do buckles!” Which was probably what she had been trying to tell me all along.

We drove to the yogurt shop in relative peace. Caroline was quiet; Lisa announced, “I got it,” at periodic intervals; and Sam stopped countering her after the third declaration. I felt certain she had it. But whatever it was, I could bet it had nothing whatsoever to do with my car.

We arrived in time to see the rest of both classes, a total of fourteen students, waiting outside as we had predicted. Our three would make seventeen kids in all, with a total of nine chaperones in addition.

As soon as I opened Sam’s door, he bellowed “I’m going in with Miss H!” and took off across the parking lot.

The teacher took his hand and scolded him about running near cars while Scott let the girls out the other side. Lisa stopped Caroline with a hand and said, “I got it,” for the umpteenth time. Caroline, sitting with her feet hanging out onto the pavement, cocked her head, wordless once more. Lisa bent down and tied my daughter’s shoe in a perfect double knot.

I mouthed Can’t buckle? to Scott.

He shrugged. “Thanks for getting that,” he told Lisa.

Lisa nodded crisply. “I got it.”

Inside, we dispatched the kids in pairs to get their yogurt, one chaperone for each set of children. They ranged in ages and ability levels. Some of them could manage their bowls with ease, while others would have tilted and spilled without an adult to help dispense and top. One machine ran out just as Miss H pulled down the handle.

Beep beep

“Here’s another vanilla,” the teacher assured the little boy whose large eyes were fastened on her hands.

“Beep, beep, beep, beep.” Ten little voices picked up the machine’s chorus. Caroline and two others covered their ears. An employee, one of the three who had not reacted to the initial sound, ran over to hit a button and make the racket stop. She looked at the chaperones, clearly unnerved because none of us silenced the kids when they squeaked along with the computerized noise.

Another one of the mothers rolled her eyes behind the staffer’s back.

“Sorry for the delay back there,” I told Miss H. “We had trouble with the thing … the …”

“Seatbelt,” Scott supplied.

“Yes, that. Lisa couldn’t buckle it, but she couldn’t tell us, and Caroline had run out of words even though she knew what was wrong. Caroline’s whatever was in full force.”

“Her what?” Miss H paused in adding cherries to the little boy’s bowl.

“Um. Thing. Her… she loses track of words and can’t remember even very common ones. It’s the language disorder that interferes with her ability to talk when she’s feeling almost any kind of stress… the…”

“Aphasia,” said Scott. “She has aphasia.”

“Yes,” I said, blushing. “She has that.”

 

Sam’s Lament

Posted on by February 25, 2020

“Let’s break this down, Sam. Caroline didn’t play Wii on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. It’s Friday, and she has had five minutes. That’s not the longest turn in the history of forever.”

 

 

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This weekend, Trifextra is Over The Top…or they want us to be anyhow.