The Crab Chronicles

Memories of Coleman

My son had a mug in his room this morning that had been in there a long time. He was horrified by its fuzzy moldy interior. I told him to just pour in some boiling water and dish soap and let it sit, and then I would put it in the dishwasher after dinner tonight. Funny how guys will often be dumbstruck with horror at a dirty dish, and yet have no problem doing very dirty jobs that involve heavy manual labor and lots of sweating. I've never felt like after doing dishes at home I wanted to get into the shower... know what I mean?!

Anyway, the moldy mug sparked a memory. I told my son about one of my most memorable college professors, a man named Coleman Barks who taught English at the University of Georgia for many years. Coleman had a funny collection of food fossils that he brought in one day and talked about in class, much to my amusement. He had a cup of coffee that was maybe ten years old and a bag of hot dog buns that were just gray-green fuzzed, about 15 years old. He had put them atop a filing cabinet in his office one day and just forgotten about them. Years passed. They became fascinating pseudo-science projects.

The class was Creative Writing, and below you can see me and my friend Gary. I am in the middle. Gary is beside me in the white shirt.

I didn't know in the spring of 1984 that I would return to school [the University of Tennessee in Knoxville] a few years later and get a master's degree in Creative Writing. Coleman's class was so different and so much fun that it started my fascination for writing, and my hunger to learn how to write really well -- a journey I am still on, obviously, as you can see by my Amazon author page.

The class was small, about 6-8 people. We sat around a big round table and read each other's poetry and short stories and discussed our work. Most people [including me] brought in poems. Coleman always had something fresh and fascinating to say about whatever we were reading. Most people are easily readable and they say very little that's interesting or memorable, but about 80% of what Coleman said took me by surprise.

Coleman also had us reading some of his poetry, and that was fascinating. He was a masterful poet and I learned so much from him. I only remember one poem specifically. (I couldn't tell you the name of it but there was a really erotic metaphor that centered around eating a peach, which shocked my naive little self. LOL)

One day he brought in his very nice, expensive camera, and we all took turns taking photos of each other, which is why the photo below exists. He got the photos printed and then we spent another class discussing them.

There was an eclipse that spring, and on the day of it we all went up to the roof of the building with our homemade devices and looked at the eclipse. I remember it got dark, and it was a really eerie experience. Some of us might have written about the eclipse but I don't think I did..

Years later, I was astonished to discover that Coleman had become the poet that brought Rumi to the West, and you can see more about that here. The cool thing is that you can now experience Coleman's version of Rumi through several videos on YouTube, like this one. There is even a wonderful 6 minute video featuring Coleman and Mary Oliver, another of my favorite poets.

I know Coleman is still with us but I believe he is quite elderly now and no longer appears in public. I think there may be health issues. I wish I could say to him, you inspired me. You're a magician with words. I will always be grateful.

You're lucky if you know anyone like Coleman Barks, anyone who surprises and inspires you. To know such a person is a gift.

#longlivecolemanbarks, #colemanbarksisagenius, #myfavoriteprofessorcolemanbarks

What Lives Inside you Defines You

A prose poem for Michael

 

What lives inside you defines you.

Words that pierce us with stinging cruelty, shocking images seared into memory, or simply feelings that spring up like weeds through the pavement – battle them boldly into powerlessness.

Only in laboring to vanquish pain will pain stop having dominion.

What lives inside you defines you.

Pain drives splinters into our living flesh. Splinters remind us of the violence that created them. Splinters may never be removed but they can be smoothed over, by the hand trained to do it. Pull them out if possible, with guidance from a therapist.

If therapy proves elusive, rub the place and examine each splinter, making it smaller. The screaming voice. The slap. The search for mama in a vast store. The panic when the teacher talked gibberish. The fear of being unworthy of a kiss. The fear of anyone seeing your naked legs. The bills that cannot be fully paid. The hospital beds and the funerals. The roomful of eyes staring. The exhaustion. The grief. The hopelessness. We all know these.

Then there are the bigger ones that challenge us particularly; a terrible interior slide show. I am 9 years old, watching in shock as the dirt falls on my grandfather’s coffin; I am 14 years old, confused by the aftermath of a massive stroke that felled my tiny grandmother; I am 34 years old, desperate for morphine for my dying father; I am 47 years old, laid off from my job; I am 58 years old and I must send my mother to the hospital alone to die of Covid.

Erasing massive memories often proves impossible. Even sanding the small splinters is the work of a lifetime. Remembering is essential, though. Numbness grows the pain.

What lives inside you defines you.

If you are lucky enough to survive for as many as six decades you may discover something. Even though erasing memories may prove impossible, you can crowd them out of importance. The sight of waves, advancing and retreating timelessly. The pure gold joy of a baby laughing. The velvety texture of fur beneath my caressing hand. The smell of cake in the oven. The taste of dinner prepared for me with love.

Knife memories may be dulled by the simple weight of beautiful ones. Grow beauty deliberately, with care. Seek it out every day. Notice the daffodils poking up bravely into the February air. Notice the sky, wrapping us in a bowl of color.  Notice the love in a friend’s eyes and advance it into a hug. Notice smiles and smile back.

What lives inside you defines you.

Note: I used to write a lot of poetry but this is the first poem I've written in years. Sometimes a poem is the only real way to express what's in my heart. I was inspired to write this while watching a documentary about the writer Kurt Vonnegut. He saw terrible things in World War II, but much of his work was humorous.

A Poem of Autumn

I was looking through some old photos and found this wonderful poem, which Michael did in 5th grade, I think:

He captured it perfectly..

Easter is Everywhere

An Evening of Poetry

I had a terrific time last night at Phoenix and Dragon bookstore, a really fun place to hangout. I was there for the monthly poetry reading. It was great to see my friend Cliff Brooks and hear some excellent poetry. I am always inspired when I attend an evening like that.

One thing that a good poem or a good sermon always evokes in me - reflection.

Here's one of the poems I read last night. It's a work in progress.

 

The Cowgirl

I was different from the moment I was born,

 late and scrawny,

waiting until Independence Day,

until Mama was at a barbeque,

and the cord was choking me.

(Thank God the obstetrician threw the party.)

 

Months later-

I liked to throw the baby bottles out the car window,

Sit on top of the swingset,

Bump down the stairs on my butt.

I snacked on Purina dog chow, and ran around the yard nekkid.

 

Only spanking threats got me into the ruffled dresses

and black patent leather Mary Janes on Sunday morning.

 

My brother’s 6^th birthday party: Punky’s Ponies were hired. I spent the afternoon in a cowgirl outfit and pink wax lips.

I took off my shoes and shirt because I was hot.

That was always the small me: barefoot, shooting from the hip, demanding to ride the ponies.

 

Adolescence birthed several decades of Caring About What Others Think. I wish I could go back and slap some sense into that idiot Me.

I kept notes about all my outfits so I wouldn’t wear the same one too often.

As a teen and young woman, I jazzercised, aerobicized, raquetballed, speed walked.

I wore out half a dozen curling irons, and spent a fortune on pantyhose.

One Sunday afternoon I found myself riding down Peachtree Street, after the gym, drinking a Starbucks latte and listening to a CD on the car stereo, and I thought with great horror, I AM A YUPPIE!!

Somewhere inside me the cowgirl sneered.

Years of refusal sped by. Many things were offered that I refused - sorority membership, law school, Junior League, marriage.

I realized at age 34, after Dad died, I had never lived up to what my dad had wanted for me: husband, two children, the minivan, the country club membership.  I spent my prime childbearing years in love with a man I later learned was gay.

After the fog lifted I began a long unfurling from the confines of the cubicle.

I smoked in public. Then I quit smoking.

I vacationed with friends.

I kept a loaded pistol under my bed.

I bought my first home.

I quit wearing pantyhose and threw out the curling iron.

 

I flew to Russia.

After that nothing was ever the same.

I asked God for a family and he gave me two traumatized orphans and my own mother.  

Suddenly the days were very full.

I quit watching TV.

 

Once I realized I didn’t care about getting married, or what my hair looked like, or whether or not I was “normal,” life got better.

Despite ups and downs, illnesses, trips to the ER, estrangements, personal and professional losses -

Now… well, I like me.

My house  is old and quirky and drafty. Nothing matches.

I only wear pants with elastic waistbands.

My son is 17, and has three piercings in his ears. He is saving up for a tattoo. He hates school more than I’ve ever hated anything in my life.

My bassett hound runs the house, and steals food off the kitchen counter as often as possible. We love her anyway.

I don’t own a curling iron or a pair of pantyhose.

My give-a-damn’s busted and it ain’t ever gonna get fixed.

I look at people without expectations,

grateful to God I’m still here,

glad for every laugh I can find.

 

Looking Back and Looking Forward

This was posted on Facebook this morning by a friend of mine, and while I certainly understand it and there's a bit of cleverness to it, I fundamentally disagree with it:

"Don't look back. You're not going that way."

Well no, you're not. Human beings can only go forward, but I propose that people who don't look back are missing a lot of things, and they often stumble blindly into the future, unprepared and vulnerable.

Shelby Foote said [I'm paraphrasing] "The southern man doesn't live in the past. The past lives in him."

From our antiques, to our treasured old bibles, to the language that persists from grandparents to grandchildren ["swap" / "my people" / "y'all" etc.] - we are tethered to the past, and it lives within us, just as Shelby said. We re-visit battlefields, and talk about old linens, and name our children for great-grandmothers long dead. We are living sentinels of the past.

my great-great grandmother, Charlotte Wood

 

I spent most of my 20's trying to figure out "what just happened?!" - in terms of my childhood and teenaged years. There was a lot of turbulence in my family, a lot of it related to my Type-A personality dad. I also wondered what to do with my life. I couldn't really move forward until I really grappled with it all. It was when I started smoking. I got into a lot of arguments with my dad. I planned out my marriage and children and home and all those plans kept getting revised because none of it happened the way I thought it would. Those were the years when I questioned the existence of God, and tried to figure out how to be a writer, and wondered why nobody would fall in love with me.

By the time I hit my 30's, I was slowly starting to figure things out, or at least make peace with not knowing.

Then I was 34 years old, and a week after my birthday, my dad died. Suddenly my entire life was jolted into a different groove, and I didn't like it. I had to re-calibrate, the way one always does when an important figure is jerked out of your life.

me, Dad, and my uncle Lewis

Once I became a parent, I stopped so much looking back. I quit trying to force people to come to big family reunions. I quit trying to write a novel or a screenplay. I became so engrossed in trying to help my daughter, and then manage a household that included my mom and a medically fragile dog, and work full time, that life just sort of crowded out everything else.

I think that happens for a lot of us. The day-to-day stops us from being reflective because we are simply too busy.

Now I am close to being an empty-nester. Michael has 2 more years of high school, but I know they are going to whiz by. 

We talked some about his trip last night, and he said he loved skiing. This is good and bad. He may one day want to live in a place where you can ski in the winter, which is certainly not true of Atlanta.

So now I am having to re-imagine my life once again. I have some time to make the transition. It won't happen instantly.

But back to the original premise of this blog: looking back. Here is what I've learned about it, after half a century on earth.

It's OK to look back and try to understand things. In fact, it's vital. Sometimes life events happen so quickly, you're like a grain of sand on the beach, picked up, pummeled, and thrown onto the shore by forces that are huge and uncontrollable. One minute you're suspended in the warm sea, drifting along, and the next thing you know you're naked and baking under the hot sun.

OK, maybe I got a little carried away by the beach metaphor, but I think you see where I'm going with this.

I don't recall what we were discussing the other day, but my mother said "We are strong. We keep going." In other words, life knocks us down, but we get back up. I think it's behavioral, sure, but it's also genetic. Generations before me have faced hardships, and nobody has given up and/or run away. We women are strong and we pass that strength to our children.

This past year has been really bizarre, for me. I was meeting with a recruiter yesterday and trying to explain what happened in 2013, and it was almost impossible. The first part of the year I was a lame duck in a job that didn't fit. Then I was home for months and feeling horrible, and grappling with health issues. The summer was all about preparing for and recuperating from surgery. The fall was trying to re-energize my blog, and looking for more work, and then all the issues with my daughter coming home and leaving again.

So in 2013 I was the grain of sand, thrown around willy-nilly, and hating it. But I keep remembering two things.

1) However random everything felt last year, there was a plan, and God saw me through all of it. Faith is what keeps me getting up every morning.

2) I am not giving up.

I don't know what 2014 holds for me. I am still trying to work it out. I do know that for me, re-examining the forces that tossed me around last year is like picking up clothes off the floor, and folding them neatly and putting them away. If I don't pick them up, I may stumble over them and fall again.

Even if I fall again though, I will rise again.

photo by Michael Thompson

the sky

lights itself on fire

as the day slips away

reminding us

night

is merely

a breathing exercise

a precursor

and morning

re-lights the way

forward -

always

forward

January Morning Poem

Noticing the Day

 

Lola has a high nasal whine that usually indicates a need to pee.

I sigh, leave the desk, and clatter down the stairs to fetch

The much chewed leash.

Out into the mid-morning January day.

Be a good girl, I mumble, wishing I had brought my cell phone.

At least I could see my emails.

 

Lola walks deliberately to a spot in the sunshine.

This is the third time in an hour we have made this small walk.

I am not patient. I have a headache.

However, something about her gently waving tail

stops me from muttering a cuss word.

 

I simply stand.

Lola waits, head up, for who knows what.

I notice the angle of her velvety head.

chittering birds, a far off car,

the lazy puttering of a small plane.

The slight breeze tickles my arms.

 

I decide to see how long it will take

for Lola to move again.

We stand there, noticing the day.

I remember doing this as a small child,

Swaying slowly on a swing, in my sun-filled yard.

 

Lola lifts her head, sniffs.

We amble into a patch of stronger sunlight.

I notice an impossibly blue sky,  

beyond our towering pines.

Loveliness exists in the urban suburbs,

even here.

Lola sits.

I remove my shoes and feel grass, cold earth

Waiting for me to love it again.

 

 

 

January 2014

Blogging Monday

I decided since it’s a rainy, cold, nasty Monday, I would post blogs on every one of the many personal blogs I write, just as an exercise. Some of them don't get anything posted on them very often, so this is a little personal challenge, but a fun one.

What most folks don't understand about blogging is that search engines like blogs that are refreshed often. So if you blog only occasionally, the search engines will not feature you very well. You may post wonderful content, but if it goes up only once every few months, not many folks are going to see it.

The easiest was my blog for southern poets, The Word Ocean. I posted one of my all-time favorite poems, The Lake Isle of Innisfree, and a gorgeous photo by my friend Lisa Amos. Here is the result. I am still looking for southern poets who would like to be features, so pass this along to anyone southern who loves to write poetry.

I gave some quick tips on how to improve your writing over at The Write Rainmaker. This is the blog for my business, but I also like to just discuss writing in general sometimes, and/or marketing.

Over on my funny dating website I wrote about The Breakup Ultimatum. I am aware of a dating situation regarding someone I know right now and I’d like to just shake them and say ULTIMATUMS DON’T WORK! I can’t really, though, because the Breakup Ultimatum worked for my mom, many years ago. However, the “don’t try this at home kids” admonishment is appropriate here…

I talked about one of my fave actors of all time, Christopher Walken over at Scribblerchick's Movie Dish. If I ever get a chance to watch a movie with him in it, I do, even if the movie isn’t great. Walken is always fun to watch.

Finally, just as an added bonus, if you want to watch something to get in the holiday mood, check out this awesome video:

 

Happy News

Lots of things going on in my world, all of it good. Yay! Lots of new writing work coming down the pike, and that makes me very happy.

My most exciting announcement is the creation of a new blog featuring southern poets and poetry, The Word Ocean. My first featured poet is my friend Cliff Brooks. Check it out!

Michael asked a girl to the Homecoming Dance at his school, which is this Saturday. He is a wee bit excited, as you can imagine.We went shopping yesterday and ordered the corsage, and found him a couple of nice dress shirts and some dress shoes. He is looking so grown up and handsome!

He tells me last night at 8:30 [!!] he has a test in English today, on Of Mice and Men. He admits he has not really read the entire book. I stifle the urge to wallop him, and instead we watch the movie, which is about all we can do. It's an excellent movie, but pretty depressing. I am not a big fan of Steinbeck. I hope Mike didn't flunk the test, though...

Here's the test run on his outfit for Saturday. He has a tie, which he is quickly learning how to tie himself, with one hand. His date's dress is beige and black, so I told him the khaki pants and dark coat would look right. I just hope it's not too miserably hot in the gym. 

Tomorrow is Halloween! I'm trying to stay out of the candy...

 

Living Outside the Box

I guess I have never been a person who worried too much about what was proper, except when it came to morals.

When I was small, I was the kid running around wearing my brother's old shirts, putting the cat in the tub with me, completely unconcerned about what shoes I wore, when I even wore them.

My friend Gary came over last night and we had a good visit. He used to do a lot of creative writing, but not in recent years, as he has a demanding job at UGA. "I don't want to start writing when I only have 10 minutes. That's not enough time to do it right," he said.

It reminded me of a conversation I had years ago with a longtime friend who chided me about not praying properly. "I wouldn't bother God with anything so trivial as a parking place," she had said.

I've always been impatient with that kind of thing.What's wrong with asking God for a good parking place? No matter what words I use, or where I am, I firmly believe God knows my heart, and nothing is out of bounds with him. He isn't some guy sitting up there in the sky. He's within me. Within us all.

Back to writing...

I don't write because I think everything I write is going to be perfect. I'd say probably less than 10% of anything I write creatively is even good, much less awesome, or important, or proper.

But here's the thing: if you get hung up too much on propriety, you will stagnate.You will quit moving forward.

The irony is that Gary and my friend who made that remark are both hugely intelligent folks, highly accomplished. Gary has a Ph.D.

In comparison, I have only an MA. My life is sometimes messy and I veer off in improper directions all.the.time. But I am not complacent. I charge ahead, even if it's in the wrong direction. I MOVE. I make some people quite uncomfortable, I know.

In my defense, I've always tried to remember my manners, and not hurt anyone else when I am blundering around.

I told Gary to just sit down and write for 15 minutes every day, even if he never shows anybody what he writes. The only real way to learn to write is to DO IT.

Since I've become friends with fellow poet Cliff Brooks, I've felt re-energized, in terms of my writing. I've been writing a lot of poems. They are not great. I will likely never get them published anywhere. Yet, they nourish me. I can't define how. There are things bubbling away in my subconscious sometimes that I'm not even aware of until I think about writing a new poem.

When I was chatting Friday with my surgeon and telling her about some of the leakage from one of my incisions, she said basically, if wounds don't drain they can become infected. Later, I realized there's a metaphor there, and it applies to all of life basically.

Sometimes Michael confides things in me and I realize, he is letting that wound drain. I can see the relief on his face as he speaks. To me, this is the most important part of being a parent. If your child can't confide in you the things closest to their heart, you are denying them the chance to heal. You are risking infection, perhaps even risking terrible consequences. Sometimes I feel that's what happened with my daughter, and I regret not being a better listener with her.

Then again, I never could get her to really trust me, no matter how hard I tried.

Oh well, I can only move forward...

I showed Gary a poem yesterday that I wrote recently. It's not a great poem [see below]. It won't win any prizes. But writing it helped me remember that my basic nature has always been to be fearless, to reach for things that others say are impossible or dangerous.

Sometimes I want to say to some of my very proper friends, just GO FOR IT. If you want to write, write. Don't worry about it being perfect. Don't worry about pleasing anyone but yourself.

My friend Lesleigh left last year to go back to school and learn a completely new profession. She did something incredibly scary BUT she followed her passion.

You cannot grow as a person if you are always comfortable, and proper. Get messy. Screw up. Try again. Don't let anyone trample your ideas.

"If we don't change, we don't grow. If we don't grow, we aren't really living."

-Gail Sheehy

 

Home By Dark [a work in progress, like my life]

I remember the formica countertop beneath my hands,

My wiry arm muscles bearing the brunt of it, swinging my leg up

To the countertop, the land of the cabinet.

I was a climber.

Nothing was out of reach.

 

I surveyed my kingdom, the back yard, from atop the swingset,

while still in diapers.

 

As a toddler, I grabbed a flat-bottomed cotton basket and rode it down the front stairs.

 

At two, I hated clothes.

The bosses’ wife found me sitting atop the fridge, wearing nothing, listening to party sounds from the den.

“Aren’t you cold up there, hon?”

 

Only the threat of a spanking got shoes on my feet in the warm months.

 

One day when I was 7, my brother and I hiked a long way down the nearly-dry creek bed

without shirts. We were on safari in Africa, and our pack mules had died.

Some neighborhood boys saw us, pointed and laughed at me. Brother threw me my shirt and we trudged home, slapping mosquitos.

 

I made mud pies, buried green plastic soldiers,

Fashioned masterpieces with light brites and Legos,

Cheated at Operation and Candyland,

Coveted slingshots and bikes.

Beat all the boys at

Front yard football, kickball, and hide and go seek.

 

We had to be home by dark, or when called for supper.

 

I was always home

 Before the moon shone high and clear.

 
Gary and me, around 2001

"Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession. Friendship is never anything but sharing."

- Elie Wiesel