Time Capsule/Frankenstein Love Letter...or: I never throw away anything written to me

I was looking, tonight, through a dusty box of old poetry; trying to select enough tasty morsels to read to a captive audience (I have a reading on November 18th). Within that dusty box, there was an entire history recorded, cryptically. Some of the things I wrote should not only be thrown away, they should be burned and the ashes should be stomped on, scooped up, and tossed over the edge of a cliff. But, alas, I can't do it.

In fact, I'd rather humiliate myself a little more by sharing a few things here. Oh, why not.

I'll start by sharing a strange creation of mine. I can't call it a poem. I didn't write a lick of it. Way back in the dawn of time, people used to write actual physical tangible letters to each other. There were folds and creases and handwriting quirks and doodles in the margins, tear drop stains and lipstick streaks. Well, I took a bunch of letters written by friends and family, cut them all up and pieced them back together into a freakish Frankenstien letter to my 19 year-old self.  Don't strain your eyes trying to read these! I'll type it all out for your amusement! It's been over 15 yrs since folks wrote these words to me. Some are no longer alive. Some are lost to me in other ways. But I have their crazy, wonderful, earnest and silly longings and wishes in this time capsule to myself.  

July 5, 1994 Tuesday Morning

Dear Madona, Dearest Niece Madona, Hey Tyler, Ty, To Tyler from Jon-Boy,

After you're rich and famous, I'll say

Same people, same places

Did I tell you that Aurielle lost her two front teeth on the bottom?

I can hold a pencil in my fingers.

...and I can't. Isn't that unfair? You can work 4 days a week at the club and you don't think that bothers me? But I don't say I have no respect for you. I love & respect you.

my period is very irregular lately

and the radio said Lollapalooza was rained out

Mike sounds soooooo cute, I think that blond hair and

my theory that rap music is a communist  plot to weaken the infrastructure of American society

backbites her own children, Ok? Try to give the person the benefit

computer you ganked from the family. Why you little devil.

When we were fixing to take the boys back swimming he gave me

fast cars, a nice house, a couple of rug rats, a small harem, and to in general just be happy

the children put on plays, skits, sings and dances

but we claim healing in the name of Jesus!

What do you want from life? Well, besides sex

go down the river in Mason's boat. That's one of my favorite things

and not be so possessive, I will promise to be everything to you, including your future

I do worry about you

(one was killed by a pack of dogs) then the dog catcher

He made the Dean's List.

I came into the theater today looking for a job. Do you remember?

I have emotional problems

I would rather call you Madona, but if you like Tyler I will call you that. Sometimes I call myself Chicken Wang

Cold Cold in MN tonight

you haven't found you a fella yet! there has to be one nice single cute man in Minnesota

Well we got to the beach last night, however, I never left Lake Butler

We stood on the front porch last night and watched fireworks. They were mostly duds.

watched a movie and later that night called and said you would have kissed me if I had tried

don't strike me down with your wrath

1995 will be the best

incredible friendship and relationship. I'm ready to commit myself

Forgive me for getting pissed off

housework keeps me hopping

I have the feeling you're a booty call. I like Bryan, he's nice, but 

Hot! We need the rain

Don't lead me on or use me as a security blanket

From Will The Temp Guy reading the Barbara Kingsolver book, Grandma, Love, Erica M. Freeman, I love you, Jon, Dawnnita, Your Friend, Travis, Love Always, Aunt Beth, Cousin Fritz and Cousin Biener, Love Jay, Love always and forever, Mommy, Aurielle and Smokey, Love you, Granny Erlene, Always Friends, Leslie, Love & Hugs, Shannon, Love ya honey, Mary, Love, Aunt Peg

P.S. If the pictures do not arrive soon I shall gather my tools of torture (handcuffs, whips, etc.)

P.P.S. Everyone says hi and sends their love. 

Transportation Meditations: Part 3: Public Trans.- The Metro

Maybe it's just that I'm in the honeymoon phase of my relationship with the Metro, but so far- I heart it so!

First of all, oh my, the people-watching opportunities are unbeatable. There are all kinds of folks elbow to elbow ("It's called Speed Stick- It's not expensive!"). In the mornings, people tend to be on the quiet side, waking up. But in the afternoons, whoa, what conversations (with occassional splatterings of profanity) I overhear. Sometimes complete tragic dramas are played out over a mobile phone. And I think I might have witnessed a baby being made yesterday. Are we either exhibitionists or voyeurs?

It is truly Public Transportation Theater. I went to a Creative Writing Group meeting the other day, and one of the writers insisted that the Metro is the best place to get story ideas. True dat. It's also a good place, as a writer, to listen to genuine dialogue, genuine slang, speech patterns, etc. to include in your writing. You know, slang that's more current and authentic than 'true dat'. But I digress.

Another few reasons I love the Metro (so far), are: it's easy, effortless- a lot simpler than driving into DC and parking. There are so many OneWays, traffic, crazy drivers, traffic, and more traffic, and road rage. The last time I drove to DC was for a Dr's appointment for Noah...it took FOREVER to traverse 7 miles, and when we finally arrived home, I just wanted to drink. Nerve-wracking. The Metro, on the other hand, you step on, no traffic...um, yeah, the train shares it's track with nada...and then you step right off, convienently at your destination. On the way, you could read a book, listen to your Ipod, people watch, or even have a long, loud personal conversation on your phone for everyone on the train to hear, etc. Whatevs!     

Also, I adore the fact that I'm not driving a car that is idling through traffic, burning up the fuel, smogging up the air.

My only complaint is that during the peak hours, the Metro fares are a wee bit expensive. 3 bucks there, 3 bucks back. Not really expensive, I guess, if you consider that to park a car in DC, I'd be spending at least $10-15 a day! And if you factor in gas costs, car maintenence, insurance, and monthly car payments....well, that 3 bucks there and 3 bucks back is certainly the more frugal choice.

I realize I haven't shared my adventures with buses yet. Soon to come, ok!

In the meantime, I'd love to hear about any of your Public Transportation experiences/opinions/eavesdroppings.

If not now...when? Excuses for not writing.

On most Tuesdays, I have a little time to myself while Noah is at co-op. The luxury of 3 and a half kid-free hours is truly treasured. However, I must fill that time with something I deem 'productive.' Not running errands or cleaning the house or napping. No no no. I decided that I have to spend that time writing and/or reading. Not on the computer. Blog posts just don't count. I see this time as personal enrichment hours.
But there is never an ideal situation. There aren't any cafes nearby to write in. I can't go home and be reminded of the millions of other things that I should be doing, and have the cats jumping on my lap. So I sit in the grocery store cafe and argue with myself over why I should even write in the first place. After all, everything's already been said much more eloquently by someone else. And, oh yeah, I suck. By the time I finish going through my lists of insecurities and oppressions, I have a short window of time to focus on Writing. And by then, I'm hungry. Or I have to pee.
Sigh.

Excuses for not Writing (with a capital W) today:

1) Location. I am sitting in a grocery store. It's a nice enough store. I'm on the second floor overlooking the floral department and cafe. I'm surrounded by employees munching their quick lunch breaks. Chewing abounds. Carts are chug-a-lugging. Moms and babies goo goo gaga-ing. Renewing. Baptizing themselves in the flourescently lit consumerist river. Filling baskets with Thanksgiving dinner ingredients. Eyes full of hope, dread, panic, weariness.

2) Grocery store music. Just loud enough to distract. Sappy enough to sicken. Old enough to evoke associations which lead to memories. Catchy. I find myself unwittingly singing, "Oooh...aahhh...I want to be with you everyway...." and  "If you don't know me by now...you will never never never know me...ooh...ooh..."

3) Entitlement. Damn you, Virginia Woolf. I love you, honey, but should I be convinced that I need a room of my own to sit and Write (capital W again) in? If women wait for that to happen, we will go on waiting til the cows come home. And no cows are ever coming home to me. (I don't really know what that expression means.) Yes, if you want to be a Writer, a professional writer, you need time, space. But we can't all be Woolf, we can't all have wealthy aunts who give us that 600 pounds so that we can indulge in our 'art'. I'm not bitter.
My room is like a coffin full of cat fur. Nothing alive and vibrant gets written there.
So, here I sit in a grocery store. I can have a creme brulee coffee and a chocolate chip muffin for 2 bucks. A table and chair of my own overlooking bright flowers with plenty of folks to spy on.

If I want to write, I should just tell myself to shut up and write. Right?

After much deliberation, I got around to wrting a few ideas for stories/poems down. At least it's something.