Journaling

And One Day I Went There

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wpid-fb_img_1445867653747.jpgTextures are everywhere: The rough edges of a stone wall. The smooth innocence of a baby’s cheek. The sense of touch brings back memories for us. What texture is particularly evocative to you?

I can’t remember where I heard it or when but I’m guessing it was from my friend Clyde  who knew about all things Dinosaur Related.

Clyde  was seriously into Dinosaurs- we were about ten years old at the time- and I was into Archeology and all things Mummy Related so we always had a lot to talk about.

Anyway one day we were slamming the tether ball around the pole and trying to hit each other with it ( I think it was called roping when you grabbed the rope and whipped it around ) and Clyde  informed me that the way you could tell the difference between a rock and a bone was that if you put a bone on your tongue it would stick because bones are porous and if it was a rock it wouldn’t,

I bounced the ball off his head. ” Really?”

He assured me it was true.

” You just want me dig up a bone and lick it?”

It was one way to be sure, Clyde  told me. Besides, it was the only way he knew.

I bounced the ball off of his head again. ” Good try short stack. I’m not falling for that one.”

Clyde changed when we were in high school.

We would be talking and his eyes would roll up into head and he’d start talking to God- sometimes the Devil and when he came back he would hold my hand and tell me it was getting harder to hear hear his own thoughts anymore.

One day, Clyde  was just gone- I mean the person who I grew up with. His body was there but he would talk in random words and numbers.

His family moved him to an institution in the same state his Uncle lived in. Clyde  and his Uncle had always been close and he wanted to care for him.

I went a few times to visit but Clyde  didn’t know me, didn’t know himself.

After the last trip I took I went home to my Mom’s because my dog had died ( thanks for the kick in the head God ) and I was in the backyard gathering up his toys when I came across one of Sham’s chewed up ham bones.

I thought about what Clyde  had said.

I held the bone up and shrugged.

I went to the hose, washed it off, wiped it on my jeans and set the bone on my tongue.

I’ll be darned- it did stick to my tongue.

It tasted like earth, like sadness. I chomped it a bit and wondered what it would be like to snap it in half with my jaws, what it would feel like to crunch at the shards, to spit out the remains and keep working at it until nothing was left.

My friend was gone, my dog was gone too and I was in my back yard chewing on a bone and you know what?

At the exact moment I needed it I felt very much alive.

My friend  who I called ” Clyde”   in this post died in 2001.

Here There Be Tigers

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Home Turf

Name five things in your house that make it a home.

So are these five things that make my house a home material, spiritual are they those  little Anubis Knick Knacks I picked up all over the place when I was learning to be an embalmer?

Are they memoires? Dreams? Hope? Nightmares?

The First thing that makes my house feel like a home is the lack of mirrors.

I would have to learn three other languages just so that I could fully express to you how much I hate mirrors.  I hate their coldness, their lifelessness, I hate they way they hang there and though they don’t judge you, they make it oh so very easy to judge yourself.

Mirrors are demons.

And these demons are  not entertaining  and funny ones that are on shows like Supernatural or The Kardashians

My three black cats and my dog.

Hamish, my dog and Kolchak and Darwin and Micey are my cats.

I’ve always had a dog and cats, when I was living on my own and had no dog and no cats my house was empty and scary and I only showed up there to sleep.

And that was not easy to do for a couple of reasons.

My Grandma told me cats could see and protect you from bad spirits and angry ghosts. I used to suffer from sleep paralysis and it was worse when I didn’t have cats

I have cats, no sleep paralysis.

Problem solved.

As for the dog- well, they’re there to watch over the home. I always felt vulnerable with no dog in the house.

All of my dogs have been sweet and loyal and smart and  they’ve had big freaking teeth.

Just FYI.

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My Herb Garden

I used to have an herb garden.

I tended it everyday with my cat Wolfgang.

He enjoyed walking through the plants, he loved to chew on the cilantro and mint leaves, so he always smelled like a pizza.

It was OUR herb garden and it was an important part of our home.

And then Wolfie died and most of the garden went wild and I don’t have the heart to make it what it once  was, so I let it be what it is and that’s okay.

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The Ghosts

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Call them memories or reflections, but my house is full of ghosts.

I’ve lost a lot of friends and family members to death.

I’m not saying they walk my hallways and hide under the bed or stand in shadow choked corners ( it surprises me more that they do not ) but their presence is there.

I can feel it, sometimes I catch a wiff of perfume or a drink and I know they’re there.

Sometimes my cats and my one year old Lab Hamish refuse to sleep where Domino and Cerbie used to sleep. They’ll start to and then they’ll jump up like somebody just poked them with a pin and they’ll tear out of the room,  on other days they’re fine.

But these ‘ghosts’ are part of my home too and it would be less of a home without them.

So those are the things that make my house a home:

Memories, security, stories, people who have been there and have either moved on and some ( both living and dead apparently) come back sometimes for a visit.

My Home.

It is so much more then lumber, wires and stuff.

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She Went There

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DAILY PROMPT

Doubters Alert

What commonly accepted truth (or “truth”) do you think is wrong, or at least seriously doubt?  Why?

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When I started to write again I joined a few Writing Groups.

One was a mixed bag- various genres and there was almost an equal number of male and female writers.

I liked that group. It was supportive and competitive- not so much with each other but when we read our work you know we were working to take the room over, which is good. We were competing more with ourselves then each other.

Then I spent some time in a women’s group.

Cheese and wine and poetry and writing about deep feelings  were involved.

For this group I got dressed up.

I didn’t focus on my horror writing which was ok, but when I went for straight up drama or journaling  and read what I wrote I felt like I was going for a job interview.

In my other group I went straight from work and I work in a warehouse.

Dust and Pringles were involved.

I read whatever I had been working on that week.

What I found interesting was that in the Women’s group I got  criticism  where the listeners felt obligated to tell me before the offered their advice  where they went to college.

And then:

” I’d have done it this way….”  I heard that a lot in the women’s group.

I’m firm on this:

” I’d have done it this way “is not a criticism.

It’s showing off.

It felt like they were taking my story and making it your own. It was like watching someone flirt with my husband.

Ugh.

So I started to wonder about this concept about ” women helping women” thing.

The best advice I got was from my mixed group, I’ve worked in what were non-traditional fields ( Funeral Industry, Warehouses) and at the time there weren’t a lot of women doing that work.

So I wasn’t helped or hired by other women.

I was hired and mentored by men.

On one hand I understand that when you feel secure you don’t mind holding that door open or giving the advice because you’re feeling good about your position.

So I’m wondering, is this idea about women helping women and ideal we’d like to accomplish?

Is that important?

Or should we be helping and encouraging each other no matter what sex we are?

When I meet other writers who excite me I don’t care if they’re men or women, young or my age. I want to read them, engage them and encourage them.

Shouldn’t it be that way?

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I Write Because…

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I WRITE BECAUSE…

I wish I could come on here and write some deeply moving tale about why I write, but the bottom line is I learned to tell stories and write them because I liked the attention.

In my Mom and Dad’s family everybody had a talent- they could sing or play an instrument or paint or draw and a couple of them- both of my Grandfathers in fact- could tell stories.

They could tell scary stories, they could tell jokes, they could tell you about their trip to the store and those stories were better than anything in the stories I read or on TV or at the movies.

No matter how good the food, how fine the wine, how wonderful the music when it came time to tell stories the storytellers owned the room.

In my mind there was nothing better you could do or be then that.

Both of my Grandfathers helped me learn how to tell a story- all the way from how to stand or sit and when to make eye contact with my listeners  and to always, always weave something from the moment ( something someone was wearing, the color of the room, anything ) into your story.

They also both agreed on one thing- ghosts always made the story more interesting so at least work one of those into your story no matter what.

That’s a challenge- the first of many as I writer I would learn to take on- and most of the time I won.

It was funny, my Grandfathers never really knew each other- they lived in different states, came from different countries ( Canada and the Philippines ) had different temperaments and I couldn’t tell you if they even liked each other but when it came to the story telling and me wanting to do the same they were on the same page.

They were both so proud when I was reading by the time I was eight years old, writing by  nine, and what was I up to they would both say, ” she’s a writer”

They said it before I did or anyone else for that matter. So when it comes to that question, why do I write-  am I really a writer?

I write  because my Grandfathers said I could, that’s why.  And if they were here they could tell you all about it and you’d soak in every single word. You’d be eating out of their hand.

That’s what I want to do every time I write…for them.

Apo Grave

Bert Godfrey