fishing

 I love the phrase “when luck meets preparation”… to me it’s like fishing.

 Putting whatever bait you have out there in the stream in the best way you know how.  Then staying attentive to the smell of the air, the feel of the wind on my naked arm, the play of the sunlight on the water.  Alert to feeling the tiny tug if and when it comes and responding with a gentle tug. Reeling in the catch.

 And if it doesn’t come… knowing there’s another pool downstream… wandering through the underbrush, stepping over fallen trees, smelling the evidence of wild animals everywhere, stepping on the spongy moss…feeling the agility of my body to approach another hole.  Positioning to get above the hole and drop the fly in just above so that it floats by what must be the most likely hangout of the bigger fish, the sleeping fish.  Feeling the naturalness of the movement to seduce the dreaming fish to rise to the bait.  A subtle movement of the twist of the torso to propel the fish upwards toward the sunlight to engulf the fly in the whole of its mouth, so directly connected to the body. And if I’m alert, the pulse on the leader line reaches my arm and I yank the line to set the hook.

Vulnerable

V – very much the thing I most want to do

U – ultimately satisfying

L – like nothing else in exposing my soul

N – never want to go there

E – everything I need to do

R – really mystifying why it is so exposing

A – are you kidding me?

B – be vulnerable?

L – Leave it out!

E – everything else is easy

Tough times in Arizona

August 30, 2010

They say that “Necessity is the Mother of Invention”. [1]

I hope so!  I feel like so many of us are becoming extra creative now that our finances are so strapped here in Arizona (and other states).

Today is the day that I told Pat, my beloved physical trainer, that I have to give up the workouts with him; at least for now.

I am working on figuring out how to pay my bills and still have some cash to pay for fuel in France.  I am meeting up with 20 other women near Toulouse France, Languedoc region.  It is our annual gathering – number 12.  I haven’t missed a year and am proud of that fact.

On my computer stand is the colorful stone-like item that an artist created with the words: “Fortune favors the bold” encased inside the smooth acrylic.

I bought the stone last year at Phoenix Airport when I was en route to Raven’s Call (the same gathering of women) that was in Toronto.  Last year I had been in Toronto with Phil only a month before for my friend Eden’s wedding.  To be going back again was rather extravagant.  Do I regret it?  Hell No!  Last year I really went wild; scooting over to LA the weekend before Raven’s Call to hang out with my delightful niece Claire.   I wanted Phil to meet her before going to my nephew (her brother’s) wedding in Calgary the weekend after I got back from the Women’s Gathering in Toronto.  Phew – it was a whirlwind!

Nobody talks about this kind of investment.  The return is not on paper, but I believe, written in our souls.  I created something for me and a way for Phil to better understand my family and my heart.

I’m reminded of the poem called “Warning” written by a British woman named Jenny Joseph in 1961.  I wonder how old she was when she wrote it.  It has since been adopted and changed because of copyright restrictions… I found this version on the net:

WHEN I AM AN OLD WOMAN I SHALL WEAR PURPLE
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

I don’t think I need much practice; could be really scary when I get even older.  Back to the Fortune Favors the Bold quote:

The phrase means that Fortuna, the Goddess of luck, is more likely to help those who take risks or action.  In other words, people who act decisively make their own fate.

 The first recorded use of this expression, or close variations of it, are from Roman times – in the writings of Ennius (239-169 bc), Terence (190-159 bc), Virgil (70-19 bc) and Pliny the Elder (ad 23-79). For example in the Aeneis, Virgil writes Audaces fortuna iuvat (luck helps those who are brave).[2]

Oh, and I think I need a new accountant.  He looked at me as if I was from Mars when I said I really didn’t WANT to work full time.  He has never been to Europe.  He and his wife never go camping.  They are kind of pale and only go back to Indiana to see relatives.

Back to Pat.  I was very brave when I told him that Wednesday would be my last session with him.  I felt feisty and focused and like I was taking charge of my choices.

But then came the shower.  There’s an old woman that’s there when I go to the club later in the day like that – when I don’t have work.  She does her swimming and then she sits quite shamelessly naked and it can take her 15 minutes just to fasten her bra.  I think that’s her husband who comes and waits for her outside the locker room.  He brings his book.  One time she asked me for help.  Today I asked her if she needed help after noticing she was struggling with the clasp again.  “No!”, she barked.  And then added, a little more calmly, “I’m just slow today, thanks”.

By the time I was walking out of the club, I was crying.  I will really miss my time with Pat.  He has helped me stay strong through all the ups and downs and trials of tribulations of living in another country and negotiating the imposed restriction of having to keep my job in order to stay legally in the country.  He also helped me negotiate the hurdle of testing for Sacred Pipe Carrier. 

It’s a loss, and my, my my;  how those losses do bring up memories of other losses.  It feels good to cry.

---

[1] “something that you say which means that if you want to do something very much you will think of a way to do it” from http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/Necessity+is+the+mother+of+invention

[2] http://www.bookbrowse.com/wordplay/archive/detail/index.cfm?wordplay_number=80

Book Blurb

Life was tumbling along like a tumbleweed, just like any other hot, dusty town in the dry heat Arizona.  Until, that is, 5 deaths occurred in the same week and arose suspicions in Madeline the detective’s mind. Benji, the local 10yr old autistic boy, had his own ideas as did Jake, the Cowboy from Casa Grande.  Add in a passing- thru- town musician/serial killer and you’ve got yourself an eventful summer.

Funeral Parlor

Jake pulled his Battered Blue Dodge Ram up to the address.  Yep, this was the spot alright.  Dern, I hate these things he muttered as he slid out of the driver’s side and his pale snake-skin boots landed on the hot pavement.  He reached in and his knarled hand closed over his pale Stetson.  The door creaked shut as he slammed it with his jean-shirted elbow.  His long arm arched up and the hat landed firmly on his head in a motion he’d repeated over and over again since he was 13.

His 60 year old legs tall and lanky as a vine unraveled and began to inhabit the new dungarees as he loped towards the door.

Sam, the undertaker stood at the entrance, wincing in the mid-morning sun. He looked uncomfortable in his polyester suit.

Jake tipped his hat in respect and then held it near his chest and he passed through the threshold of the place.  These kinda places always remind me of them slap-up cowboy sets in a movie, he thought to hisself.  Only here as a charade, to offer temporary shade.  He wondered why they didn’t feel more permanent.  Folks passin through, I reckon.

First door on the right, the undertaker informed him.

The hallway was dark and smelled faintly of formaldehyde.  The hat comforted his chest.

Ol’ Miss Jessup a fine lady, he reminded hisself.  She’d appreciate me coming to give my respects.  And he pressed on into the room.  It was small and clausterphobic… the smell of lilly’s just a mite too powerful.  He ached for the prairie wind.  He could see why those injuns hoist up their dead and let the wind blow through ‘em.  Somethin’ to be said for that.

part 2 – other voice

Grandma was quirky. That all there was to it.  She was so stubborn and wouldn’t move from that ranch, regardless of how sick she got.  And how did she stand living with that crazy coot of a cowboy all those years?  I wouldn’t trust him as far as the door frame.  Good thing the undertaker near by.

Oh shit.  Here he comes the old cowboy now.  Speak of the devil.

Look at him.  He doesn’t belong here.  Look at how he looks at her.  What does he know?  I shink back into the corner more, maybe he won’t see me.  Grandma, protect me now, you hear?  Don’t you go leaving me alone here with that big hulk of a man.  I don’t care if he old, he still scares me.

I go rearrange the flowers.  The Paisley girls be here soon.  Got to get the signin book out.

Shallowly he breathed and forced himself to look at the stuffed skin of his landlady.  Damn, sure don’t look like her now.  Ah well.  I’s here and I saying thank you, just in case you can hear it.

Not too many people in my life saw me for who I is, but miss Jessup, you one of them.  I appreciate it, he said out loud, and then caught himself.

The woman in the corner shuffled her black shawl closer.

Diner Scene

She slid into the orange booth with the flexibility of gumby.  Sarah the waitress gave her the eye.  In fact, everyone slid an eye at her at some point.  She commanded that kind of attention in her thin ripped jacket and wispy black hair.  And yet there was that air of solidity about her, her having had the strength to live through much.  George, the detective slid an eye over and took in much, discerning if she qualified for “reasonable suspicion”.

Sarah had been waitressing too long and knew it.  Yet the tips came easy and the routine was as comfortable as the well-worn ruts in the linoleum… she tipped up the white diner cup and slapped down the plastic covered menu.  At least Sambo was good at cleaning the grease off.  Sarah’s veined hand slipped into her gingham apron and fished out two creamers.

The young slip-of-a thing tipped the sugar jar into the coffee and looked up at Sarah with an understanding thank you.

“Two eggs, over easy, bacon crispy.”  The young girl spoke without looking at the menu.

“You got it” replied Sarah who had no need to write anything down.  Despite their decades of age difference, the two women understood each other.  Surviving in a hostile world, taking comfort where comfort good be had.

George looked over at the two women and felt agitated, an outsider.  He felt he was always looking for something and never found it.  He’d never been able to connect to any waitress in that way, especially Sarah.  She always felt stand-offish to him.  Was that he who created it… his awkward searching creating the gap?

He turned his attention to his pad of yellow lined paper.  Okay, suspects – 1,2,3… how to test where they are… somehow it helped him to think here in this diner.  Sarah left him alone, only discreetly filling up his coffee cup when it reached ¼ empty.  He hated when they topped it up all the time – upset the balance of cream and sugar.

The young slip-of-a thing looked relieved to be inside, safe.  She shifted in her black hoody, almost relaxing.

Sarah turned back to the counter, wrote the order on a slip of green paper and clipped it to the rotary.  Constantine would prepare it perfectly she knew.  She sent him an appreciative half-smile before turning back to her customers and the street.  It had been one of those bitter days… not cold enough to talk about but still enough to put everyone on edge, as if the other shoe was going to drop.  No one knew what caused the first shoe to drop, but could feel the other was coming soon, and would take you by surprise, no matter how much you prepared for it.

Things were looking up, thought Jasmine, the lithe slip of a thing.  She knew better than to expect too much from Jason, her new-found artist mate, but at least things were moving in a fresh direction, or so she could let herself believe, at least since it was still morning.  Much easier to be hopeful in the morning.  The detective-looking guy in the next booth was kinda edgy and that bothered her somewhat but she was able to put it out of her mind.

Just then Sarah slid the oval plate of eggs, bacon and homefries down in front of her.  She really was hungry and welcomed the accompanying plate of white buttered toast.  Sarah expertly extracted 2 grape jelly packets from yet another apron pocket.  Anything else? She asked… nope shook Jasmine’s head.

The Skin of My Teeth

Five speeding tickets in one week.  Okay – gotta slow down.  Cruise control only.  It’s weeks later.  K and I are  just coming out of Payson… dark beautiful night.  The moon rising over mysterious Ponderosa Pines on the mogollon ridge.  Damn!  Distracting… K talking.  My brain tracking parallels’ – the ways that I can relate to her experience of meeting a man in Senegal… barely speaking the same language… he French… little English… she English… no French.  He tiny, compact, wiry.  She large, adventurous, curious.  She went for the energetic of it… the rightness of it… the hugeness of it.  they marry.  Move to Canada.  He’s muslim… she comes from a huge family of Mormon’s… okay… pay attention… We’re coming up to Star Valley now… that’s where I got photographed speeding last time… it was in rain… they change the speed so abrubtly at the bottom of a hill!  Damn!  Shouldn’t have  paid it!  photo wasn’t clear.  I could’ve denied it I found out $265 dollars and 3 points later.  I told myself it was good to pay it to not be at the effect of others.  To not hurry.  My pace. My way.

K carrying on… stories… real… live… not coming from my CD…we make it through the town of Star Valley.  It’s dark and beautiful again… we’re getting closer to our destination…. About to take the turn off… I know it’s coming up soon.

What are those pretty blue and red lights… oh No!  A cop car.  I pull over right away.  Damn!  No way to get out of this one.  To not pay the lousy picture.  I’m done for… I could lose more points or even my license.  Stay calm.  Stay calm.

Did you know you where going 65 in a 45?

How to answer that?  Well, no, I lamely reply.  The dark is all around us.  Night full and crisp.

He asks to see registration, driver’s license and insurance.  K digs in the glove box and I’m praying they are there and up to date.  Ah yes, relief… we find them.  I am so grateful for the part of me that pays the bills and files things in their place.

He takes the papers and walks away.  Dread.  Silence.

I lament to K how I really can’t afford a ticket in any way shape or form.

Miraculously, the nice, kind, polite man says “I’m just going to give you a warning”.  He shatters my image of cops making their quotas.  My image of the country cop catching the city slicker.  “out here we go 45 he says”,,, “you need to slow down:”.

I am stunned.  A warning!  It’s at least 3 points!

I smile, thank him, and my silent hybrid creeps forward into the night.

Questions you don’t usually ask

Why the heck am I hanging out with you?

What size is your G-string?

What do you call a group of Javelina’s?

When was your last poop?

Are you incontinent?

How many magazines make a rack?

Why is a woman’s breast called a rack?

When was the last time you rolled in the sack?

Why is a taxi called a hack?

Why do English folks mean when they refer to a shag?

How many wart’s make a women a hag?

Why is a cigarette called a fag?

What do you call a fag with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth?

What does it mean if someone went south?

When was the last time you washed your shirt?

Where doesn’t it hurt?

Why is it not good to lie?

How many rules are you willing to defy?

Story Starters

The wind blustered and whipped the leaves around in a rising circle with an ominous scratching sound.   I listened mournfully as his bootsteps diminished on the cold sidewalk.

The woman I once knew opened her mouth but no discernable sound came out.  I didn’t know how to ask her to repeat or ask her what was wrong.  I felt I should have known.  She had been a vivacious woman the muscle degeneration had forced her into a wise grandmother overnight.  Only speaking when absolutely necessary and having a sister beside her read at other times.  My deciphering of her sounds improved within a day.

The man beside me filled his airline seat completely.  Solid, he was, with a black baseball cap.  A working man wearing a red shirt which fit tightly around his ample but solid round belly.  Laying flatly and as loud as a broadcast was the gold cross jauntily slanted on his upper chest.  I knew I would ask him of his profession, but not yet.  Hands thick like a butchers rested on his stout knees.

Something prompted me to ask his name.  The body creates it’s own entanglements before reason can engage.

story starters

The wind blustered and whipped the leaves around in a rising circle with an ominous scratching sound.   I listened mournfully as his bootsteps diminished on the cold sidewalk.

I knew it was a pattern repeating itself when….

The woman I once knew opened her mouth but no discernable sound came out.  I didn’t know how to ask her to repeat or how to ask her what was wrong.  I felt I should have known.  She had been a vivacious woman.  The muscle degeneration had forced her into a wise grandmother overnight.  Only speaking when absolutely necessary and having a sister beside her read out her thoughts at other times.  My deciphering of her sounds improved within a day.

The man beside me filled his airline seat completely.  Solid, he was, with a black baseball cap.  A working man wearing a red shirt which fit tightly around his ample but solid round belly.  Laying flatly and as loud as a broadcast was the gold cross jauntily slanted on his upper chest.  I knew I would ask him of his profession, but not yet.  Hands thick like a butchers rested on his stout knees.  I watched Angels and Demons on my air seat console.

Something prompted me to ask his name.  The body creates it’s own entanglements before reason can engage.