Only Silence Remains

This poem of mine was published last month on "Soft Whispers." 

I am here...right here...

just a step or two away

from you...here-

with only the distance

of the aisle to separate us.

You are looking at cans of tuna fish,

I am contemplating vegetable soup.

You turn and look in my direction and I smile

but your eyes are blank and unfocused;

seeing right through me,

not seeing me at all,

as if I have become Invisible.

Again and again I observe this 

tragic ritual 

in American marketplaces

and city streets, where a

smile and a “Hello” are rare commodities

and sometimes more precious than gold.

We are a nation of Invisible People:

frightened of any confrontation

beyond our computer and cell phone screens.

How will we re-learn the Art

of spoken Communication 

once it is forever lost?

Will our public voices continue

to dwindle into nothingness

...until only silence remains?

(dedicated to Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, who envisioned this long before I did, and wrote about it in “The Sound of Silence.” Poetry can be prophesy.)

Six Minutes

UPDATE: I have entered this story in a Birthday-themed writing contest at Deanna Schrayer's website. Here is the link: The Other Side of Deanna. I'd also like to thank my aunt, Leona Adkins, for providing me with the pictures for this post. 

I started to write this piece for #fridayflash for Mother's Day, but I was overcome with emotion in the middle of writing it and couldn't finish. I decided to start writing a new version to post for my birthday. 

There are sacred traditions that exist between mothers and daughters. Traditions which bind them together like thread on a loom.

I am my mother's first born, the first daughter of her womb, and we had such traditions. 

One of our rituals, repeated every year on July 3rd (by telephone, when we were living long distances from one another) was in the form of staged conversations that occurred during the years following my move to Florida. My mother left her home in Ohio when I was in my teens, escaping a marriage marred by perpetual violence. I left the Buckeye State and flew south to live with her when I was twenty. These dialogues began shortly after we were reunited. 

#

Mom said, "Do you know what I was doing on this night in 1965?"

Me, straight-faced: "I don't remember, actually." 

"Smart ass," she said. "I was trying to push a baby out of my belly. It hurt like hell!" She laughed then, a dry-sounding laugh that bordered on coughing. She was always very sickly. Doctors tested every year for TB. Her father died from the rare kind that attacks the bone, before she was old enough to say her first word. 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"I'm not," she replied. On the occasions when we were together, this would prompt a warm hug. 

So that the situation would not turn too mushy, I broke away with a light jest. "11:54 p.m. Why couldn't you wait six more minutes so that I would've been a firecracker baby?" 

My mother exploded in a burst of mock anger. "ME! It was YOU that couldn't wait."

"That's right. I wanted to get out and start partying!"

This was our cue to collapse into laughter. 

"You're still a firecracker," my mother said. 

We would then proceed to get uproariously drunk and argue about whichever Stephen King book we happened to be reading at the moment. These arguments would follow with my mother admonishing me for not writing stories like I used to when I was younger. 

"I'll pick it up again, someday," I promised.

"You better or I'll kick your ass."

Every year, no matter where each of us happened to be, my mother would either visit me or call for my 'birthday' ritual, although the words would vary somewhat from year-to-year. This tradition carried on through a relocation to Texas (hers), a wedding (mine), a battle with kidney disease (hers), and the illness of a spouse (mine). 

Until 1999, when the ritual came to an end. Her veins shut down and she could no longer receive the dialysis treatments. The howling misery of it all was that I could not be with her as she departed from this life. She was in Texas; I was in Florida. My husband had just come home from his second hospital stay, and we were broke. 

I can't begin to describe the pain that exists in not being able to say a final goodbye to someone you love. Especially to your mother. There are no words that cut deep or raw enough for that kind of pain. That kind of void.

My mom was my best friend, confidante, drinking buddy, and number one resource for most of the dirty jokes of my adulthood. Plus, she was my mother. There is no way to fill such a void. Ever. 

I continue the ritual alone now.

On July 3rd, at 11:54 p.m., I lift my face to the heavens and say, "Why couldn't you wait six minutes?" 

#

This story is for my mother, Georgia (Georgie) Juanita Adkins. I love you and I miss you, mom. 

P.S. I'm writing again.

Works in (slow) progress...and a trip into the surreal life.

1.) Outlining chapters for my NaNoWriMo novel, which is to be called "Mages of Morrow." It is set in the same alternate world as my short story, "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon."  
2.) Working on finishing up some incomplete poems: "Ars Gothica", "The Thoughts of a Statue of Dead Poet in a Park Watching People", and "Blame, Lies, and Manipulations." 

I have other unfinished business, this is just the stuff I'm working on now. 

I work on these projects when I have a spare moment. And I haven't had too many of those lately. Recently my time has been maxed out with studying and writing essays for college. My term ends 7/23 and then I'll have a small break before the fall term begins on 8/23. I hope to squeeze in a little writing time during that nice break.  

I took a little field trip to the Salvador Dali Museum as part of a cultural experience for an essay I had to write for Western Humanities class. I love Dali's work. Especially those pieces from the years when he was fully engaged in doing his best Surrealist stuff.   

I feel inspired to write a story based on "Archeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus." But I need to chew on it mentally for a bit. When the time is right, I'll know it. I want to be able to do it justice.
 
This is a photo of the artist outside the entrance to the museum:

To do lists

I found an online image that represents my To Do List:

 If I were to alter this, it would read:

1.) Wake up.
2.) Breathe deeply.
3.) Thank God I'm still breathing.
4.) If at all possible, continue breathing.
5.) Do all those things that need doing.
6.) Go to sleep tired but glad I got some things done.
7.) Repeat.

This is a good one, especially for a college student taking a ten-week term. Miraculously, loads of homework and term papers and studying seems to get done and I'm not sure how. I am more exhausted than I have ever been in my entire life and have virtually no time to write or blog.

But I'm moving toward that goal line.

Pressing on.

Step by excruciating step.

Golden Warm

My new poem "Golden Warm" was published on "Soft Whispers" yesterday. Last week they published my poem "Only Silence Remains," but I have not posted that one yet because I am still trying to find an good image to go with the post. I almost have it sussed out, so it shouldn't be long now. 

Lying back on summer-green grass, 

gazing up at Heaven.

Stars are brighter than ever.

Night is blacker than velvet.

Heat lightning flashes in the distance:

far away for now, no threat now, no harm.

For now, I am warm--golden warm.

Warmed by love and wine

and the thought of you--asleep at my side.

Though sharp is the wind;

it howls and keens!

Come storm and do your worse!

I am golden.

I am warm.

Dragons and Dino's are calling me to a change of NaNo heart...

I've made a momentous decision.

It happened, as the saying goes, "just like that."

After wracking my brain and flinging a few, well-chosen and nasty adjectives at the computer (and at myself and my fickle muse--and yes, he is lower case for the moment) I decided to change gears on my NaNoWriMo plans.

I was going to originally write a very clever story about nanobe-like aliens who come to Earth and invade our bodies so they can use us to war among themselves. I still like this concept. But when I sat down to outline the chapters and plot lines of the book, I went blank and all of the plot bunnies went and hid themselves. I've been looking everywhere for them. I've found plenty of dust bunnies but not one single plot bunny could be located. They may have gone to Cleveland.

"Into the Glow, Aborning" will get written, that much I know. It's just not going to get written in November.

I have had nothing but the world of Burr on my mind lately. The muse is slamming delicious thoughts into my head about that place. Burr is the world (alternate reality) where my WIP short story "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon" takes place. The name of the world is never mentioned in the story.

I had already planned to start a first novel (thinking trilogy, certain that it will take more than one book to tell this story) based on this world. The novel is to be called "The Mages of Morrow" (with subsequent novels named along the same line: "The Sages of Sorrow," etc. all very sequel-y).

Burr is a wonderful place. Full of shifting black holes, magician-scientists (mages) who bioengineer sentient Dragons and prehistoric monsters to war for them, gypsies (who are lesser mages), and magician-scholars who still practice the real hocus-pocus-brew-me-a-potion type magic (sages).

I've got Burr so much in my blood (and love the place that it becomes so much in my imagination) that I have to start writing it soon.

So I sat down tonight to start writing the outline, and voilà!--the Muse is back and the bunnies have come home from their holiday. One of them is wearing a Manchester United tee-shirt. Very odd bunny. The outlines I was able to do flowed better than I could have hoped for. I wanted to get 4-to-5 done, but only got two done. However, those two are very detailed. The Muse is definitely doing his part again. Back to capitalizing.

Even now that I'm done for the night (morning, now) and, as I'm fond of saying, Morpheus keeps trying to drag me off to Dreamland (he is positively ranting now), I don't want to stop outlining this story. The ideas keep coming and coming. One thing I should do is finish writing "Tiny Dragon." This book doesn't depend on the short story, it's just that I love the story and want to finish it. And I'm so very close to the end, anyway.

So, I will be writing about dragons and dinosaurs this November, after all.

It's nice to be focused.

Paper bags, smelling salts on order as November looms...

November is coming. 

No, I'm not worried.

I have done absolutely squat on characterization or plot outlines so far. Nothing. 

I have a grand total of five, maybe six characters (main and supporting) for my grand 50K NaNoWriMo adventure. 

I have been up to my eyeballs in homework getting through my first term back at college. The only writing I've been doing has been speeches for communications class and term papers. Classes ended today for the semester, so I'm determined to get something going on my writing, and especially for NaNoWriMo. I'm starting to get just a little freaked out about being ready for 1667 per day word counts. Everything would probably go a little bit smoother if I had something more than a general idea of where this novel is going. But more on my NaNo project in a bit. 

First, the WIP's I need to advance/complete:

The poems I started as part of NaNoPoMo that I never completed: the grand gothic epic "Ars Gothica" and "Only Silence." I need to complete them so I can send at least one over to Jim at Soft Whispers. And start new poems. I need to start writing new poems. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Okay, story WIP's that need finishing:

So many. "Hold Me Closer, Tiny Dragon," whose end is so near in my mind and whose plot has stagnated there as well. I need to re-read it and get inspired. I started, but need to complete Chapter 5 of my online serial: "The Reluctant Prince." Also, chapter 2 of my #fridayflash Twitter serial 'The Roswell Revenge' called "30 Miles to Dexter" needs editing. "Mind:set," "With Teeth that Tear Flesh" (my first foray into Cthulu Mythos) and "Transcendental U" all need work continued on them. I refuse to abandon them altogether, as the muse insists they are stories worth the telling. 

New ideas:

With so many unresolved stories, you'd think now would not be the time to come up with new ideas for stories. But I can no more help the visions that the muse sends my way than a dog can help barking when he hears the mailman three houses down the street. The ideas come, and I my mind is a channel for them, hearing them whispered from afar and all I can do is write them down and sustain them with constant imagination.

I have one in my mind called "The Brothers." It is a different piece than what I usually write as it is a drama, part of which is set in WWII Poland. 

New sci-fi concept: "Eros and Matilda." Can't go into too much detail on what the story is about at this moment except to say it involves animal experimentation and is probably not anything like what you are thinking. 

Now, to NaNoWriMo.

I still want to stick with my original plan for the novel "Into the Glow, Aborning." Alien nanobe body snatchers using humans as weapons and Earth as the battleground in their civil war. 

That's all I have so far. 

Oh, and I need to find an image to use as my NaNoWriMo avatar for the forums, etcetera. My NaNoWriMo name is waning_gibbous, in honor of H.P. Lovecraft. 

I'm going to browse Clip Art.com and other sources for some possible candidates. 

If anyone has any ideas, please let me know. Keep in mind that the picture or clip art needs to be free or public domain so I can use it freely on NaNoWriMo's website.

November is looming and I'm worrying about the damn forum avatar!