The Direction of My Magnetic Pull

My compass does not point due north. You will never know in which direction I orient myself on any given day...unless you move closer...closer.

If I shatter into a myriad of pieces, don't think of me as broken, damaged. This is my reset. My growth. My becoming more. I will reach out with my roots, and plant myself more firmly.

My heart yearns for truthful moments, for authenticity. In the world around me. In myself. You can't fool the wind. It will move through you, around you, make you shed your masks. Yes, this is what I yearn for.

My path is not straight. I cannot see around the bend. But I am more frightened of standing still than I will ever be of moving forward blindly.

When did we get so afraid of the wind, as it pulses through our hair, and moves us towards the edge? I can sway with the tree limbs, rustle with the leaves. I trust my roots. I won't blow away.

You lean into me, as the furthest tree branch reaches and leans towards the sunlight. Inching ever closer. That is where you belong.

Do you wish for the freedom of flight? So do I. In my arms you can fly on those winds. Just as I can expand and contract with you surrounding me. We will always know where home is, no matter how far we travel. We will always know where my body ends and yours begins, and we relish the feel of the perfect fit and the perfect separation.

My compass will not lead you in a straight line. But trust that it will always lead you home. Take my hand. See for yourself how I orient myself...here...now.

Welcome to the circus

So I've been writing again. Like, a lot. But there are different ways to write, different paths to take, and different arenas to share in. I wanted to keep this blog separate, solely for the purpose of practicing my craft. But I also wanted to create a medium for sharing other thoughts as well.

I've created a separate blog, and I'm going to give it to ya straight. I'm not pulling any punches. Real life is far more difficult to wrap up in a pretty package. I'm doing this not so much for the practice of craft, but for the sifting of thoughts, feelings, experiences, and maybe, just maybe, for inspiration.

Here's the new blog:

http://headnottheheartandotherdisasters.blogspot.com/

Hop on over and let me know what you think. No worries about critiquing grammar, content, etc., like I've asked for on this page. Unless I've committed the worst grammatical crime to be seen this century, which is to use "there," "their," and "they're" indiscriminately and without regard for what's proper and holy. Then you may tar and feather me on the spot.

Thanks.

Final Submission to NPR's Three Minute Fiction, Round 8

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

The family assembled themselves around the table, puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to quite fit, deceptive gaps appearing between otherwise harmonious links.

“Grace, you’re late for dinner. I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes.” Her mother appeared behind her, heaving a platter of spaghetti and setting it in the middle of the table, a slight tremor in her hands. Sarah avoided her daughter’s eyes, and sat down next to her husband.

“I didn’t hear you.” Grace wedged herself between her older brothers, leaned forward to eye her father through her hair, and tried to determine if he appeared different, diminished.

As her mother began the dinner prayer, Grace chewed on the inside of her cheek, worrying pieces of skin from the delicate surface.

“Did you have any trouble with your Trig homework, Seth?” Sarah inquired of her eldest son.

“No, it was fine. Took me way less time to finish it than yesterday.”

“Good! I hope—“

“Hey Dad, is Trevor coming over soon? He promised to bring those pictures of Costa Rica for my freshman geography report.” As Grace interrupted her mother, Sarah fell silent, her throat convulsing, and picked up the salad tongs.

“I don’t know when Trevor is coming over honey.  We’re elbow deep in that project at work, and he’s doing a lot of the footwork for the research we’re gathering. He’s always running around town. I imagine he’s plain worn out by the time we’re done for the day. I’ll ask him about the pictures though, alright?” Jason winked at his daughter.

“You are both going to make yourselves sick, working so hard, Jason. Are you taking the vitamins I’ve been packing in your lunch?” Sarah’s concerned tone warred with the manic glint in her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m taking the horse pills.”

Grace watched as her mother tried to grasp the strands of control she cherished so dearly. Sarah was a true template of the suburban housewife. Grace had never seen her with wispy strands of hair pulled out of a disheveled ponytail, nor had she ever seen her mother lounge in a threadbare pair of old sweats from college.  Perfectly coiffed and perfectly scheduled; Mrs. Cleaver could have taken lessons. Until today.

Grace arriving home early from the Labor Day camping trip with a friend was not on Sarah’s schedule. Having Grace walk in on Sarah with Trevor was not part of Sarah’s planned activities for the day.

Grace tasted blood in her mouth. It was tangy, and mixed with the bile she fought to keep down as she watched her mother chat with each piece of the ill-fitting puzzle sitting at the table. Watched as closely as she could, memorizing the way her mother squeezed the tongs to serve a helping of salad to her brother Brian, the way her mother gave a close-lipped smile to her father at his question of whether the dry cleaning had been picked up today. Memorized her mother’s game.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Grace?”

“I finished Anna Karenina. You were right. It was hard, but it was worth it. I learned a lot.”

Sarah’s eyes met Grace’s, as they stared at each other over the family table, the table that had fed, entertained, and gathered the puzzle pieces together on so many nights like this one.

“I—I’m glad. That you finished it, I mean. But,” Sarah’s marble voice cracked, the fissure in her exterior shell almost imperceptible. ”I’m sorry. That it was hard. I’m—I’m sorry.”

First attempt at a submission to NPR's Three Minute Fiction

Ok, so I'm going to try to submit something to NPR's Three Minute Fiction. For those who don't know, they do a contest every so often, where they have a published writer come on board and give a prompt of some sort, and the submissions must be 600 words or less. Supposedly you can read 600 words in 3 minutes. The prompts are usually a sentence or some words that must appear in the story. Here is what this session's rules are:

--For Round 8, Urrea wants you to start your story with this sentence:

"She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door."

In case you want to see the entire rules for yourself, here is the link to NPR's Three Minute Fiction, round 8:


http://www.npr.org/2012/03/10/148251671/three-minute-fiction-round-8-she-closed-the-book


I've done a previous round, but just for my writer's group. I didn't submit it. This time I'm going to submit to the website. Since its almost midnight, what I'm posting here may not be the final product I submit, but its a start. Its due by March 25th.


And with that being said, here is my first attempt at round 8's submission. 

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

The family assembled themselves around the table, puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to quite fit, deceptive gaps appearing between otherwise harmonious links.

“Grace, you’re late for dinner. I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes.” Her mother appeared behind her, heaving a platter of spaghetti and setting it in the middle of the table, a slight tremor in her hands. Sarah avoided her daughter’s eyes, and sat down next to her husband.

“I didn’t hear you.” Grace wedged herself into the space between her older brothers, and then leaned forward to eye her father through her hair. Does he know?

As her mother sat beside her father and began the dinner prayer, Grace chewed on the inside of her cheek, worrying pieces of skin from the delicate surface.

“Did you have any trouble with your algebra homework, Seth?” Sarah inquired of her eldest son.

“No, it was fine. Took me way less time to finish it than yesterday.”

“Good! I hope—“

“Hey Dad, is Trevor coming over soon? He promised to bring those pictures of Costa Rica for my freshman geography report.” As Grace interrupted her mother, Sarah fell silent, convulsively swallowing and picking up the salad tongs to serve everyone.

“I don’t know when Trevor is coming over honey.  We’re elbow deep in that project at work, and he’s doing a lot of the footwork for the research we’re gathering. He’s always running around town. I imagine he’s worn out by the time we’re done for the day. I’ll ask him about the pictures though, alright?” Jason winked at his daughter.

“You are both going to make yourselves sick, working so hard, Jason. Are you taking the vitamins I’ve been packing in your lunch?” Sarah’s concerned tone warred with the manic glint in her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m taking the horse pills.”

Grace watched as her mother tried to grasp the strands of control she cherished so dearly. Sarah was a true template of the suburban housewife. Grace had never seen her with wispy strands of hair pulled out of a disheveled ponytail, nor had she ever seen her mother lounge in a threadbare pair of old sweats from college.  Perfectly coiffed and perfectly scheduled; Mrs. Cleaver could have taken lessons. Until today.

Grace arriving home early from the Labor Day camping trip with a friend was not on Sarah’s schedule. Having Grace walk in on Sarah with Trevor was not part of Sarah’s planned activities for the day.

Grace tasted blood in her mouth. It was tangy, and mixed with the bile she fought to keep down as she watched her mother chat with each piece of the ill-fitting puzzle sitting at the table. Watched as closely as she could, memorizing the way her mother squeezed the tongs to serve a helping of pasta to her brother Brian, the way her mother gave a close-lipped smile to her father at his question of whether the dry cleaning had been picked up today. Memorized her mother’s game.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Grace?”

“I finished Anna Karenina. You were right. It was hard, but it was worth it. I learned a lot.”

Sarah’s eyes met Grace’s, as they stared at each other over the family table, the table that had fed, entertained, gathered the puzzle pieces together on so many nights like this one.

“I—I’m glad. That you finished it, I mean. But,” Sarah’s marble voice cracked, the fissure in her exterior shell almost imperceptible. ”I’m sorry. That it was hard. I’m—I’m sorry.”

You Gotta Rip the Band-Aid Off, or Didn't We Almost Have It All?

When I was a small girl…

I thought I was the next up and coming lemonade stand entrepreneur, with  candy bracelets and candy necklaces as my secret weapons of mass appeal.
I thought the movie The Fly documented a true event and shrieked every

time a fly would land on me. I still do.

I broke my leg falling from the neighbor’s monkey bars, after attempting to outshine her heart-stopping, awe-inspiring fabulous dismount.

The art of pleading must have been instinctive, for a five-year-old, for I begged my mom to take me with her when she left.

           

When I was a young girl…

I voraciously consumed books from the library and discovered it was possible to escape the ordinary, the mundane, the tragic, the hypocrisy for five minutes, for an hour, for however long was necessary.

Acceptance from a group of people who believed birthdays and holidays were evil became a lifeline, became hope.

I asked my dad why he didn’t care for me anymore.

I said boys were icky, and secretly wished my glasses weren’t so thick, and that I knew how to make my hair pretty like the girls at school.

When I was a teenage girl…

I discovered the new life with my mom held more freedoms, and more fears, than I had anticipated.
My reintroduction to celebrating holidays was a smashing success.

I had to change schools for the third time in my middle school career, and found friends that ended up staying with me to this very day.

I thought I would never have children, because I’d surely screw them up with my mommy issues, and daddy issues, and religion issues, and whatever other issues I could assign myself at the time.

I wished I was thin and willowy like my two best friends, and not the size 6 I was.

Mrs. Woodbury, a senior Contemporary English teacher, gave me hope and believed in me, and my writing, even though I couldn’t turn assignments in on time, or at all, to save my life.

I thought my high school boyfriend would be the love of my life.

When I was a twenty-year-old woman-child…
                I thought making money was more important than going to school.
                I had aspirations of becoming an actress.

                Living with a man-boy boyfriend, and a man-boy roommate was both

entertaining and frustrating, and oh-so economical. Why was there NO food in the house before I moved in??

I knew I had more to offer than what was required of me as a Hot Foods girl at Bel-Air.

When the pregnancy test turned pink, tears seeped from my eyes, and manic laughs escaped my lips, as I sat on the bathroom floor and stared at the plastic stick.

I was a woman-child no more.

When I was a twenty-five-year-old woman…

I knew I had more to offer than what was required of me as a Call Center Representative. And was going to night school to prove it.
I thought my man-boy would NEVER grow up. Never Never Land, anyone?
Having cried when I’d found out I was not having a girl, I never imagined

having a boy would be that much FUN!

Bugs and dirt, cars and trains, The Incredibles and Finding Nemo, pirates and cops and sirens. These were my life and my sonnets and my daily directions and my heart was open to it all.

I knew that even though my mom couldn’t force her frail body to chase after her four-year-old grandson, those precious, quiet moments when she’d read to him at night were sweeter and more holy than any marathon romp.

I learned how to be a nurse. And therefore thought I could be one indefinitely.

I sang to my mom as she slipped from this world with a smile on her lips.

Now that I am a thirty-year-old woman…

I know I have more to offer than what is required of me as an Engineering Designer.

I realized that, yes, my man-boy had to grow up, but I also had to stop expecting everything to be on my terms. And once I did, my man-boy became a man, and a husband, and a partner.
A barbell became one of my dearest friends and most trusted confidantes.
I made a commitment to write. I constantly struggle with that commitment.
Discovering that I was NOT a natural teacher, I began to pray that I would be

able to help my son through school, through those formative, aggravating, inspiring years of learning and adaptation, and be able to show him the wonders of this world and how he fits into it. I pray every day.
I fight for balance and fear I may never find it.
I fear waking one day to find life has passed me by and I’d have nothing to

show for it. No journeys, no accomplishments, nothing but a commonplace existence.
I fear turning thirty-five and still having nothing to show for it.

I don’t know what I want to be. One minute I want to quit my job and write. The next minute I want to jump headfirst into school and become a scientist. Then I think I’m neglecting my family and I need to stay home and be with them, be Mom and Wife and make everything comfortable and cozy. Balance is elusive and I am forever chasing it. I can’t possibly have it all, can I? 

I realize this is not a literary piece. I just had to jump back in or else continue to lose ground in my fight to stay in Blogland. I do think I may explore more non-fiction narrative in the future. That might help me continue writing, when I’ve got blocks on the fictional front. Stay tuned. And thanks for reading.

When Pigs Fly or When Hell Freezes Over

When I was young, I always thought I’d be a writer. I had notebooks full of beginnings, middles and ends of stories and lists of character names, places I’d want to set stories in, and even descriptions of characters. Even in high school, when thoughts of more interesting things like boys and driving and BOYS occupied an abundance of my mind, I still had that thought tucked away in the deep recesses, ready to be pulled out once I was ready. Like when I had decided it was time, I could say, “Oh! Now I can pull my career out of my junk closet where I stuff all the items I don’t want to throw away, dust it off, and I’m good to go!”

What’s that saying? Life doesn’t always turn out the way you’d planned? DUH! That’s always the understatement of the year, isn’t it? Well lately, I think that idea has been slapping me upside the head like your best college buddy does when you do something to earn yourself a spot on the Douche Chair.

This post isn’t going where you think its going. Trust me. I’m just sitting here thinking about the last month, and I’m having one of those moments. One of those moments where you think about what could’ve been that one decision you’d made that changed it all. The direction you were going. Maybe it’s a succession of decisions, each one independent of each other, but when strung together can bring you to a place you’d never thought you’d be.

For example. I have felt the weight of hundreds of lives on my shoulders these last few weeks. No, I’m not a doctor, as you all know. No, I’m not anything important to the general public, and I’m not even alone in my responsibility. But nevertheless, I feel as if I’m holding up this gigantic weight above my head, and I sure as heck don’t have my arms locked and I’m not sure I’ve got my core tight, and this has to be the heaviest weight I’ve ever tried to lift. It’s the weight of a man who has a pregnant wife at home, hoping that when the baby’s due in February, they will still have the ability to go to the same doctor for delivery. It’s the weight of a single mom who is only working part time hours, and is just trying to get a foot in the door of a better life, but can’t seem to wedge her foot in far enough. It’s the weight of my friends and their trust in me. It’s the weight of my team and their confidence in my abilities to do my math right. It’s the weight of a man who’s got a few years left before retirement but may decide to go sooner based on my inability to secure his immediate future.

I know it’s unrealistic to take on everyone as my own personal burden. But I have a hard time thinking of my “members” as faceless names on a sheet of paper. Even those I haven’t met trust my team to protect their livelihoods.

And I don’t know how.

Without saying much more than this since this is on a public forum, and just in case more than six of you are reading, I won’t go into many more details than this for now. We haven’t quite finished negotiations.

But I have to say, I never wanted to be in politics. I never wanted to run for an office. Heck, I never thought I’d be an Engineering Designer either. I was going to be a writer. Where did I take the wrong turn? When did I start caring about people so much more than my beloved books? And how can I make those two seemingly contradictory paths merge into one broad road that I can comfortably traverse?

I don’t have any answers tonight. We will deal with the work issues as they come, just like we’ve been doing. I just really wanted to write tonight, even if I didn’t have anything truly inspiring or entertaining to write about. Maybe that’s the kicker. To just write. Even if I’m not technically a writer.

Goodnight, vast world. Goodnight.

John F. Kennedy Dr.

He peers at me, twitching his head to the side,

a bird with an inquisitive gleam in his penetrating onyx eye.

The park benches whisper, “He touched us,”

awakening the dormant monster of envy from within a deep well.

The air has a thick, sludgy taste of smog and exhaust,

I smell the leather encasing his arms

as he swings his hand up to take a drag.

This boy loves to eat San Francisco.

Mist engulfs him as he loiters by a fountain in the Park.

The crap of pigeons dresses the lawn.

I glare at him as he calls me Barbie.

Those plastic dolls have nothing on me.

Je le desire regarder moi.

Grasping my hand, he raises our arms,

wings flapping, trying to take flight.