Category: Uncategorized

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

Meanwhile I travel to Egypt and have a picnic with some locals outside of the Sphinx’s dust bowl perch.  She sits in the bowl, the widening circle or hole that she is sinking into.  (Is the word SINK related to the word SPHINX?) The pyramid of Cheops looms I’m not sure how close, as it is so large and formidable, so geometrical and solid.  It looks like it was thrown from the sky to land on the earth, that it could have landed on any side, any flat side but it chose the one it did for reasons…?

I don’t think I can scale the pyramid as I observe from a distance.  The sides look rough but without purchase, no where to grip.  The Sphinx’s face is destroyed, or rather is in the act of disintegration, although she could just be wearing a bulbous medical mask, or have a protuberance on her mouth under the mask.  A giant bushy mouth beard.

In the hall I walk amongst titan columns so completely decorated with hieroglyphics as to be columnar comic books, decorated words of art extending up instead of out, telling stories I don’t know how to read.  What are they describing, the construction of this hall? Who or what is Hypostyle? The other entrance is blocked by fallen columns and debris, I can’t get though that way.  I return the way I came in, feeling small and foreign, listening and looking at language I don’t speak.

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

I wore my lorgnette and my chrysanthemum print dress to the races today, as the day was warm and I feared sweating through at the armpits.  I’ve ruined several dresses that way and have had to pass them onto Lolita, my maid.  One of my maids, there are three.  I hate giving quality to the servants but if they share the stories of the largesse of their employers theres no harm,  maybe only benefits.  To be thought of as generous even if not, not particularly, could only help if Karma does exist, as we heard a lecture at club last Thursday from an east Indian scholar who has been researching the thing for oh so many years.

I had had my hair done the day before and my hat fit very smartly on my head, as I could say fit snugly and happily.  I wished for a photo to be taken so I could appreciate visually the snug feeling I had.

So! Sam and I were at the dog races and we bet heavily between bottles of champagne.  We met with several mutual friends there and had a wonderful time winning lots of money.  My hat felt good and I wore my seed pearl necklace which I could touch as a talisman when things became tense.  Overall I was very confidant in my choices, which paid off in handsome dividends.  Until the last race;  I feared Sam would soil his pants he seemed so tense and when he whispered what he had bet I laughed and said, “Oh you always throw caution to the wind and you always come out on top!” He smiled bravely and went back to gnawing his fingers.  The dogs finished as they always do, I had no doubt about that.

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

Say my name! Tell me who I am!

The voices lie they tell me one thing and then another and another and another and another and another and

(In my right mind, not the left, I imagined the voices and they were content to remain just that, imagine that, but now and ever after I fear they come from unlikely sources like the walls and the corner of the roof, under the rug). Vicious vicious sounds accusing and threatening, condemning and

(In my right mind I can ignore the voices their shriek and timbre)

So they tell me one thing and you another.  Who is this being I am wearing, this skin that may come off at any minute, this dress, this mop of hair I put my fingers in my hair and pull and pull and it won’t budge! Won’t move! How am I supposed to–

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

Ah school days, those were the times way back when the term ‘hot flash’ didn’t mean a thing to me, I didn’t have to disrobe and robe up constantly at my internal’s whimsey.  We sat too long for the picture it seemed, in that way that time has of stretching out and losing all structure and boundaries.  When will the ending come, the finale, the rise of the photographers head.  And we were trapped in that time, asked not to move ‘one hair nor stir a skirt’, slaves to time, captives of it not knowing when release will come.

I don’t remember the other girls names.  Oh yes I do on the front row sitting is Adele yes that’s Adele, didn’t speak much English in fact, French mostly and she struggled with some words so mightily that it was our delight to hear her attempts! Not that we tried to be cruel, but when we tired of saying ‘Say this word! Say that word!” or she left crying then we knew it was time to be finished.

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

That’s me in the picture, looks like I’m sitting on a stump eh? I don’t remember what I was on, a stool under the carpet? I remember the smell of the carpet, slightly wet and the feel of it, itchy and don’t want to touch it.  Balanced on the bulk of it but feels like a princess on a miniature throne!

Isabel is next to me, big sister near so I felt safe and wanted to keep clapping my hands.  I was singing a lot of songs of that time and it was very hard for me to sit still.

We loved to run and play in the fields, we loved to sing and jump rope.  Mama did my hair for me, helped me sit on the stool and balance there.  That was a real tree stump behind me! It smelled like outside and freedom.  When I saw the background I was amazed, it looked like I could run out into that world, it was hard to understand that I couldn’t just go into it.  Isabel said, ‘No Macy, it’s pretend, it’s not real’.  But how would a real tree stump be there? The line between imaginary and real was perplexing to me,

How could those stumps exist beside each other? One real and one pretend? One that looks unreal next to one that looks real but isn’t? And what did that make me? I often had philosophical arguments such as these going through my head.

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

See that fence in the background, the split rail one.   I wanted it in the picture with me because that’s how I sprained my ankle, being funny, climbing over it and thinking I was so clever, trying to jump off and didn’t see that hole in the ground, stepped in and Ouch! Howl! I fell over then, into the wet grass, skirts tangled.  Joseph carried me back to the house and Doc came in a few hours, I had a small packet of ice and had made a compress of herbs to soothe it.  I could feel the twisting, my leg seemed to want to go the other way then it is suited for.  Left foot up on the ottoman, feeling useless as Marie bustled in the kitchen, thank god this was her day to come in.  I felt so young clambering over that fence,  and so betrayed by a limb that decided to fold into itself.

So I want you to see that fence behind me in this photograph, four rails high – this was my undoing, my enemy, my windmill, all the battles against which were folly.  Was my mind so deceived that I could not foresee any consequences? A grown lady, a woman in full skirts and of an age to know better, clamoring like a six year old.  it serves me right to have gotten hurt, I deserved no less.  In my life an injury is a liability, it will keep you down and—

*Writing practice: to take a provocative image and immerse myself in the imaginary world, writing from a particular character point of view, emotion, or etc.

Wisconsin Death Trip image

The family was all together for that picture, Ricky who now goes by Richard, Stella, Andrew, Bacon, Molly, Eliza, Betty and me, Mattie or Matilda if I don’t know you.  Ma and Pa had been long dead but Stella really wanted us to pose for a family portrait before we were “scattered to the winds” as she likes to say.  Elia and Betty and I coordinated our colors of dresses, maroon or a deep red, but Molly decided she wanted to wear green.  Ricky talked about the possibility of pictures showing the real colors of things and not just black and white and everyone laughed at him except for me, I can imagine that future where the colors of everyday life are preserved and cherished by those to come.

Stella tried to boss us all into place as she always does, thinks she’s the mother which I guess makes sense since she did take over after Ma and Pa died.  What is a true miracle is that they didn’t take any of us with them in their sickness.  They just went to sleep one night and never got up. What was their sickness anyhow? We will probably never know, that’s what Stella says.

Why am I staring? Why am I making those faces? Well I’m glad you can’t read my mind girlfriend! I like to keep this close, I like to turn it over and over, caressing each moment until it becomes as smooooooooth as water in a bowl stroked by a gentle hand.

No! It’s mine I won’t tell you!

Ok ok.  I can give you some hints.

A smell; woodsy,  cedar ish or sandalwood, a cleanly bathed hippee.  Earthy and sweet, dirt in the spring, boy-sweet.

A look; soft but piercing, blue, inquisitive and sure at the same time.  Rays of love, of warmth and lust.

A feel; strength, possession, desire.  Protection, reassurance, the World.

Well now that you know do you understand? What have you conjured in your mind’s eye?  I’m glad you asked me about this, it’s moved from my brain to guts when I thought I would lose it completely if I shared.

When I was younger I thought nothing I did could really matter, so I did whatever I wanted and knew I could get away with it.

Wow does that even make sense? I was a dumb kid.

But I didn’t know what consequences were.  You can’t really blame a kid for trying to find out what the limits of their world are.

As I got older, the consequences came more frequently.  I felt like I was punished for things I did, things I thought and things I never thought and never did! So literally, everything.

(I’m so nervous writing this, my stomach is knotty and my hands are sweaty.)

I was so afraid that people would find out what I was up to, even when I wasn’t.  I was in a constant state of paranoia and fear.

Finally I let go.  I developed a moral code and tried to live by it.  I released the idea that I was a victim of the universe and that life was waiting for the shoe to drop.

Maybe love really does exist.  Maybe humans can be compassionate.  Maybe I can be useful, and loving and authentic.

Has god forgiven me?