a ghost story

When the ghost cried, waves crashed on beaches around the world. Wolves roared, and pagans danced in circles. The ghost cried every night.

Cecilia heard the ghost crying outside her bedroom window. She would sneak downstairs in their summer cabin, spread out a sleeping bag on the floor, and snuggle into it. She could hear the ghost better from downstairs. Her parents didn’t believe her. They told her it was just the wind in the trees, fish splashing in the lake, or birds. Their explanation changed each time she reported the sound of crying.

When the ghost cried, stars shivered in the sky. Atoms split, and hearts broke. When she cried, lives altered.

When Cecilia was dating Robert, she took him out to the cabin for a romantic getaway. They paddled a canoe on the lake and held hands on longs walks in the woods. The ghost kept crying, but Robert never mentioned hearing her.  When Cecilia and Robert broke up, she went out to the cabin and sat on the back porch all night listening to the ghost.

When the ghost cried, ogres stirred beneath sleeping volcanoes. Storms gathered strength out in the Atlantic Ocean.

After Cecilia married Ted, she had a caretaker keep an eye on the cabin for several years. They spent their time working, traveling, arguing, and eventually, having two girls. Although Cecilia could not hear the ghost, when seagulls shrieked in her suburban street late at night she knew the ghost cried. When the girls were old enough, the family began visiting the cabin again. Ted hung a swing from the closest, strongest tree and the girls spent hours on it. They splashed each other in the lake, and piled into the car to drive to the closest small town and eat greasy burgers at the diner. Only Cecilia stayed up at night to listen to the ghost crying.

When the ghost cried, icecaps cracked. Fairies sang dirty ditties to each other. Rivers changed course, and fish started walking on land.

The girls eventually became teenagers who complained about spending time in the country, with spotty, slow cell phone coverage and away from an internet connection.  So after Cecilia divorced Ted, she dropped the girls off at his place for visits on the weekends and drove to the cabin. She was dismayed to see the gigantic “summer cottage” newly built nearby, clearly visible from the cabin through the now severely depleted trees. She wondered where the ghost wandered now, yet the ghost still cried every night.

When the ghost cried, planets were demoted. Trees fell, and thunder boomed. Knights kneeled in supplication before their Queen.

Cecilia became aware that the end was near, that the sickness was destroying her body.  She willed the property to a preservation society because she knew her daughters did not love it as she did, and managed to make it back out to the cabin one last time. She rocked peacefully on the back porch swing, wrapped in a shawl.

“I’ll be with you soon,” she said into the night. “We’ll cry together.”


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Oh soda, soda, wherefore are thou, soda?

As part of a required assignment this semester I have given up soda for nine weeks. I have made it through four days so far, and there are eight weeks still remaining. To put it colloquially, this sucks.

If this had been an acceptable expression in Jane Austen's time, then Elizabeth Bennet would have said it after Mr. Collins' proposal and Mr. Darcy's first proposal. Fanny Price would have said after learning that Edmund Bertram was in love with Mary Crawford. It is likely that Mary Crawford herself would have used it, since Edmund did not have the same aspirations to riches and glory that she did. Emma thought it when Harriet first told her that she was interested in Mr. Knightley. Elinor Dashwood said it to her mirror in private when she found out that Edward Ferrars was secretly engaged to Lucy Steele.

I'll repeat it:  this sucks.

Carbonated mineral water has been around for ages. Inventors started discovering and marketing ways to artificially carbonate mineral water by 1767, and shortly thereafter flavors were added. Since Jane Austen lived until 1817, she likely could have partaken of this precursor to modern day soft drinks. However, these bottled mineral waters and other types of soft drinks did not become popular (or invented) until several years after her death. She may have been the lucky one. Coca-Cola, originally developed and marketed as a patent medicine (since carbonated water was considered healthy), once contained an estimated nine milligrams of cocaine per glass, which was removed in 1903 (wikipedia.com). Nowadays, it still contains a cocaine-free version of the coca leaf (wikipedia.com).

Soda (or pop) may no longer contain cocaine, but it's still a hard habit to kick. I'm not sure if it's my current lack of all that sugar or the caffeine, but I'm tired and cranky. All I want to do is drink a can of soda, and I'm rationalizing it by thinking to myself: "It's just soda, what harm is it really doing?"

I just hope that if I make it through the next eight weeks I'll be able to stay away from it for good.

In the meantime, this sucks.




Info in this post found here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soft_drink

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coca-Cola#19th_century_historical_origins

http://www.usfirehouse.com/SodaHistory.htm

A letter to the editors of the Paris Review

Dear Editors,

Yesterday I had plans to meet a friend at a bookstore/cafe. Due to the idiosyncracies of the local bus system I was unable to attend a different meeting scheduled for earlier that morning, so I ended up at the cafe well before our planned time. I chose a few magazines to peruse while waiting, one of which was the latest edition of your publication. I was disappointed.

My purposes in choosing the Paris Review to read while waiting included:
1. To see if I wanted to buy it (if I could afford it)
2. To see if I could find the submission guidelines, and what sort of writing was included in this journal
3. To obtain more exposure to what would be considered "good" writing, as I follow the Paris Review on Twitter and understand it to be a quality literary journal. Perhaps this exposure would help in my ongoing New Year's resolution to be more creative.

I thought briefly about finding your website to see if I could find the titles of the stories and poems in your currrent issue for this letter/post, but I really can't be bothered. Call it apathy, if you like.

Upon opening this edition of the Paris Review, I immediately realized that I had already read the first story, as it is this month's Recommended Reading from the Electric Literature folks (whom I also follow on Twitter). So I moved on to the second story. A couple of pages into it I knew that I was not interested. A third story, about a character named Mr. Bruht I believe, appeared promising. Then I paused long enough to figure out that as stories go, it seemed rather long. As we were getting close to leaving the store I couldn't read the whole story, so I opted to read short excerpts to see if I wanted to pursue finishing it. Nope.

Simply put, I found these stories boring.

I read a few of the poems also. The poems by someone called Sonda or Sandra or something were choppy and downright obscure. I even showed these poems to my passionfruit-ice-tea-drinking friend, who also was flummoxed by them. Poetry presumably should not spell everything out for the reader (which is something on which I need to work if I continue to write in a format resembling poetry). Instead it should encourage the reader to become a poem detective, deciphering the poetry clues and discovering the poem's personal meaning for herself. But if the poem is too obscure, too opaque, too abstract, then the reader can not excavate any meaning for herself. The poem becomes worthless.

I did enjoy the poem Feathers by Stephen Dunn which was included in this edition. Although I didn't understand every line, I did at least get the overall feeling of the poem.

I only made it about halfway through the journal, so perhaps the content in the second half might be better than that of the first half. By the halfway mark I knew that I wasn't going to be finishing it.

This latest edition of the Paris Review ended up on top of the stack of magazines (knitting magazines, an interior decorating magazine having something to do with vintage items, and Somerset Apprentice) already gracing the table, in preparation to be returned to the magazine rack once we were done with our blueberry muffins.

What are my qualifications for reviewing your journal? None, really. My first two years of college, many years ago, were an attempt at an English degree which included various literature classes and which was ultimately unfinished. My Bachelor's degree and my current coursework are in the general area of psychology. I could be considered by some to be a voracious reader, and have been for most of my life. I obviously am a fan of Jane Austen, and another of my favorite books is 100 Years of Solitude. But I also read a plethora of mystery fiction and of the genre unfortunately referred to as "chick lit." On the bus I tend to stare aimlessly out the window instead of composing brilliant literary lines designed to amaze the world. I watch silly television. I don't listen to NPR. Perhaps my tastes are simply too plebian to allow me to enjoy your publication.

I definitely do not consider myself a writer, though I am attempting to include more creativity in my life (see previous posts). I am currently working on a story involving butterflies. Perhaps when I am finished with this story I will send it in to the Paris Review. My rejection letters so far include every single doctoral degree to which I applied. A rejection letter from the editors of the Paris Review will be an excellent addition to my collection.

Regardless of my lack of qualification to comment on the literary worthiness of your publication, I was still not compelled to pay the $14.95 purchase price. Instead, I bought a hair dryer at another store. See, I have long hair and I needed a hair dryer. Since this hair dryer was already on sale and I had an additional coupon, it cost about the same as your literary journal. It resides in my bathroom.


Thank you very much for your time. This is, after all, a rather long letter.

Lucy

Another attempt at adding more creativity to my life. A very rough (and short?) draft.

One week before the date, while they were standing in a store devoted primarily to beauty products, Lucy’s friend Cecilia cajoled her into going out with a guy named Lloyd.

“Lloyd, like the guy in Say Anything. You’ll like him,” Cecilia said.

“Maybe,” Lucy said. “But I’m perfectly happy on my own. As in not dating. At all.”

“No offense, but I’ve always thought that was a little weird,” Anna said, as she sniffed a perfume sample.  As a friend she belonged more to Cecilia than to Lucy.

Three days before the date, Lucy went shopping for a new outfit, urged on by Cecilia.  She spent the three days before the date with itching and peeling skin from a sunburn acquired during this shopping trip.

The morning of the date Lucy woke up with a feeling of dread. She took out the dog, slipped into the new dress, slapped on some makeup, and sighed. She sang loudly and off key as she drove to the date.

Lucy met Lloyd at the farmer’s market.  He carried a blanket and a picnic basket.

“Hello,” she said.

They threaded their way through stalls selling honey, homemade bread, dog treats, and vegetables. They inched around screaming children, people carrying cloth bags stuffed full of organic produce, and dogs barking incomprehensible poetry at each other. Lucy wished that she could be talking with the dogs instead.

“So, it’s Lucy, right?” said Lloyd.

“Yep,” Lucy replied.

“Ok, let’s find some food to bring to the park,” Lloyd said.

Lucy chose a smoothie, Lloyd purchased a sandwich and some fruit, and on their way out they grabbed some popcorn. They then headed across to the park where the outdoor concert was already starting.

“It’s jazz,” Lloyd said. “Do you like jazz?”

“I’ve heard some,” Lucy said. “I honestly don’t know much about it. It’ll be fine, though.”

Lloyd spread the blanket out on the grass and they both sat down. He opened up the picnic basket, removing his sandwich, the popcorn, the fruit, juice, and glasses.

“You don’t say a lot, do you?” he asked.

“I guess not,” Lucy said, while thinking to herself, “Say what?”

The sun shone, the crowd chatted, and the saxophone wailed.

“Why is it that a saxophone wails?” Lucy asked. “Does that sound like wailing to you?”

“I guess so,” Lloyd replied.

“Well, I like it.”

After the band finished, they packed the picnic basket back up and found a recycling bin for the plastic juice bottle.

“Ice cream?” Lloyd asked. “There’s a place across the street.”

There were several places across the street. They browsed the folk art store, scrutinizing polka dot dachshunds. They wandered through the fair trade store and the store filled with ecologically friendly products, pausing at the purses made with recycled seatbelts. They passed by the store displaying presumably overpriced turquoise jewelry.

Lucy’s skin itched.

They entered the ice cream shop.

“Chocolate,” Lucy told the pink haired woman behind the counter.

“Just chocolate?” Lloyd asked. “There’s a ton of flavors here.”

Lucy chose not to point out that a ton contained 2000 pounds, and therefore it was not likely that there actually was a ton of ice cream flavors in the shop.

“Chocolate,” she repeated. “With cookies, chocolate sprinkles, and peanut butter pieces mixed in.”

“Wow,” Lloyd said, “that’s quite a selection of toppings you added.”

“I like it,” Lucy said.

Toward the bottom of her bowl of ice cream, Lucy started dreading the end of the date and the potential for an awkward goodbye moment.  

Lloyd lightly kissed her cheek and said, “I’ll call you.”

Lucy heaved a sigh of relief and climbed into her car.

A few blocks later, she realized he didn’t have her number. She laughed out loud, and the sound flew out her window and rose like a balloon. She sang loudly and off key as she drove home.

Lucy climbed the stairs to her apartment, slouched on the couch, petted the dog beside her, and picked up her knitting.
 

Her skin stopped itching.



 

I am untitled, as is this post

Last month I repotted my two plants.
They don't have names, though sometimes
I call them Fred and Bob as a joke.

They desperately needed bigger pots
to let their roots continue to grow.
I chose organic potting mix
and sunk my fingers in the loose dirt.

I chopped off my own roots years ago.

I dug a deep hole and buried my family in it,
and walked away, smiling
and free

No pictures remain, though memories still exist.
 of screams and slaps and thuds
 of early mornings spent getting my hair wrapped
      in curlers in preparation for competitions
 of bicycles and hay bales and ponies
 of my grandmother crying beside her daughter's death bed.

I have Emily Dickinson'ed my life
cleaning and sterilizing it
placing my childhood memories on the back burner
smothering any gas fires that erupt
sweeping the drama under the bed
turning on the robot vacuum, watching it avoid any furniture
and dangerous emotions

I have created, increasingly and deliberately, a small life
out of dust and cobwebs

Yet I stand tall in my living room, towering over my personal space.