CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF ANY KIND

Viewing Spielberg's "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" for the umpteenth time, it still makes my throat get raspy at certain scenes. No, it's not when the Disney movie music and merchandising floods the screen nor even when the little white dwarf aliens grab the hands of the American scientists in a loving way. It's about the idea of visions and dreams. Holding on to both when everything seems to conspire around you, re-inforcing self-doubt or fear.

I think the power of the film (Whatever your personal "takes" on it, critics that we all tend to be, it has held up, all these years and it is based on the pantheon of ufo lore...give it that much!), you have to consider the philosophical premise about the power of the individual vision. Even the "craziest" among us can be motivated by something beyond their own dementia--beyond the mood altering substances they may have ingested in the recent past. When we accept that all of us can actually carry an honest-to-God dream of "something better"--or a pure vision of something "bigger than ourselves", then we can't dismiss ...well...anyone, really.

What a world when even the dreams of the disenfranchised are given audience! Where would it lead us? How would it lead us? Perhaps it is the fear of being taken to a strange new existence that stops us dead; makes us regulate and create rules of conduct, of dress, of language and culture that homogenize us--try to make us all a bland culture, from sea to shining shore. Terror of the unknown, of "the other", of anything which hides just out of sight, or grasp, is a human hallmark. Only when we venture beyond the fear does anything really change.

On the other side of that wall, though, is the equally human tendancy to assimilate what's exciting and new...How many of us were born before cell phones, I-pods, I-pads or 4-G technology? How many of us first rode in a Prius, unnerved at the silence when the engine shut off--or seemed to? How many of us still doubt the authority of an on-line college-level class? These ideas have recently rocked the world. They are the continuing tide of technology that surely would have seemed alien, or at least "other worldly" a decade ago. Yet, none of us remain untouched by these innovations.

What once seemed crazed or in the realm of science-fiction/fantasy now is part of our daily lives--and we are thankful, demanding ever more of the same sort of "stuff". We learn how to work the technology into our schedules to make our schedules less unwieldy; to make our lives "simpler". Yet we don't consider "going back" to simpler lifestyles...hmmmmm.

What is a true vision and what is a true breakdown? Who is crazed and who is gifted? When do innovations that seem "out there" become trends that are demanded and necessary? More importantly, when will we stop ridiculing those among us who see things from a different slant? Who hear a different melody coming from the heavens? Who look or speak or think about more than the latest gossip sites and t.v. shows? Who treasure what we haven't yet been able to decipher for ourselves?

It's mainstream now, but the seeds that set-off "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" were anything but when the project began. How soon we forget...      

BATTING BATS

"There's a bat in my room! It almost hit me in the face!" Ann runs out of her bedroom, make-up mirror in one hand, eyelash curler in the other, dressed on top in hospital scrubs because she is getting ready for the ER nightshift, and her undies. "OMG, I left the dog in the bedroom!"

Ann hurriedly cracks the door about six inches and calls Maeve out. Maeve, yawning, taking her sweet Maeve-ish time, saunters into the hallway, unclear what the rumpus is about.
Ann slams the bedroom door shut, and hollars down to Dad.

"A bat just flew into my bedroom!"

"I thought I saw one down here a little while ago," Dad calls upstairs from his lounge chair--the baseball game on full volume behind him.

"Why didn't you tell us?!!" Ann is quite perturbed, barely having escaped the infamous "bat-caught-in-long-hair" scenario.

"I was waiting till it calmed down and landed..." Dad calls back upstairs.

Leaving Maeve to me, and belly-rubbing duties at the top of the stairs, per usual, Ann rushes downstairs to help Dad locate several fishing nets with handles; several heavy-duty, ultra thick leather and kevlar gloves (which reach to the elbow and are probably best used when welding metal), and to call my cop brother, Kevin, who has wrangled bats out of several houses in Gardner, while on duty. (The most reknown was the home of two of his ex-nun's from Sacred Heart School, years and years ago...)

I sit with the dog.

Mom comes out of her adjoining bedroom, garbed in a summer nightie, her reading glasses on, her slippers firmly covering her feet in case of the need for flight. "I think there's a nest in the attic--I've thought it for years! Does your father have some fishing line? Where is the thing? Ooohh...." she runs downstairs.

"Mom, they don't have nests...we haven't seen any bat dung in the attic...it probably came inside when someone opened the back door to let the dog out or when Dad brought in his American flag from the porch..."  Nobody listens. I scratch the dog's ears. She grins. We hear no bat sounds behind Ann's door. We just sit and wait on the stairs, observing.

Ann rushes back upstairs.
"Karen, you have any sweat-shorts around? I have to put on something before Kev gets here--we're gonna take the bat down...Man, I'm going to be late for work for sure!" Ann has lost the eye-lash curler and the mirror and now has her cellphone in her hand.

I leave Maeve to bark at Ann and Dad, who is yelling instructions upstairs. Mom has retreated to the livingroom and turned the baseball game down a notch. I can hear her over the din: "I'm telling you, they have a nest in the attic! They have been nesting there for years! I just know it! I get the heebie -jeebies everytime I go up there! We need an exterminator!"

Locating my trusty Old Navy sweat-shorts, I hand them to Ann. She tugs them on, conversing with Kev, who is on his way over from God-knows-where. (He isn't going to be happy.)

He arrives, post haste, screaming his truck into the darkened driveway. Ann and Dad show him the arsenal laid out on the kitchen table: fishing nets with handles; three industrial pairs of huge gloves--fingers stuffed and thick as sausages; newspapers; plastic bags.

Kev grabs gloves and a net, followed by Ann. Mom stays where she's sitting, feet up, in the livingroom. Dad is at the bottom of the stairs, giving "instructions". (Ann has forbidden him to come up to her room--too many things to trip over in the excitement of the chase.) Meanwhile, Kev opens the door a crack, then slams it, refusing to go into Ann's room. (I'm not sure exactly why...fear of stacks of videos and cds? ) He pushes Ann to the forefront, after she makes a crack about this...

I exit: to the laundry room. Maeve stays to watch. (I have found that whenever there is nothing I can do to help, which is often...sigh..., doing some laundry is at least a calming and positive action.) It is also quiet and cool down in the cellar.

Twenty minutes later, Kev stomps downstairs. He doesn't say "hi" or even "good-night"--just a grunted, "I got the bat."  Then, he replaces Dad's fishing nets. Upstairs, Ann has returned my sweats and is finishing getting ready for work. Maeve is barking, just for the fun of it. Mom has continued to regale Dad about exterminators in the morning. Ann fills me in on the "hunt": Kev and she swatted the bat down, between a dresser and some books. They got the nets over it. Kev began to beat it with the gloves and the other net. Ann stopped him. By then, the little critter was dazed and more than confused. Ann made Kev take it outside and put it up high, on the picnic table, to recover, untangled from the net. "I just hope nothing eats it before it comes to..." Ann tells me, snapping her cigarettes into her backpack.

In the morning, the bat has disappeared.

Now, I have helped remove many wild and semi-tamed animals from classrooms, friends' homes, outbuildings on farms and ranches--both in the West and out here. However, my family gets much glee from "misadventures". Everyone is a fan of "Animal Planet". Tangling with animals is something I am not going to be invited to if someone else can jump in. But what they don't know is that I am also a believer that wild animals can be messengers. Like Native American Indians I have studied with and known, I have come to trust that there are reasons God sends wild things into our lives--and perhaps, if one ascribes to patterns of observation which have come down through the ages, one can decipher those messages. For me, bat coming to visit, and ending up in Ann's room, was carrying a message for Ann--and possibly for Kev, too.

Bat's presence has many meanings. Depending on the tribal teachings of any particular group, bat can bring all sorts of dimensional information. Most common, however, is the idea of rebirth--a necessary step in the creation of a healer or a shaman. Bat signifies the need to "get rid of the old" in order to be tranformed into something new: one's destiny.

In many cultures, especially in Central America, the initiation rites for healers, involve painful trials, humiliations (to destroy old ego), even sometimes a ritual "death"--the burying of a person in a shallow grave, covered by a blanket, for a whole twenty-four hours. When the person emerges, sane and intact, divested of old bad traits and habits, they have new-found healing powers and insights to help the tribe.

Ann is a psychiatric head nurse in a major metropolitan ER, on the night shift. Her trials are unrelenting. Her persona is hard-core "NURSE", and it sometimes gets in the way, after her shift is over. But her better side is gentle, caring, uber-generous and nurturing. She is everyone's "favorite Aunt"--and is a godsend to my parents, even as they are sometimes not so nice to her, in return. (That ongoing eternal critic we suffer with). Bat might be signaling to her that it is time to change a few old patterns and to accept the power that she has at her center. To acknowledge who she has been "in training to be"--and not to "bat away" her talents; to take in the positive that is offered to her and around her, not just the negative.

But, only Ann can know, for sure. Bat didn't come to me.
I also didn't remove him/her.
In the morning, I saw only the empty net on the picnic table.

Besides: I'm from California...

(I wish bat gave ME such a clear message and positive insight!) 
  

THE HUNGER OF TONY SCOTT

One of my all-time favorite movies remains Tony Scott's "The Hunger". It raised the bar for contemporary vampire/horror films, as well as romantic story-lines. Having Catherine Deneuve, Susan Sarandon and David Bowie as lovers didn't hurt, either. Based loosely on Whitley Strieber's novel, with a soundtrack that was perfect for the time (still holding up, today), Tony Scott combined this painterly look with a violent story--violence and action scenes that became his hallmark. Unfortunately, except in the arts communities, "The Hunger" was a mere cinematic "blip" on the films-for-profit American scene. But, for moi, it will remain a seminal film that haunts me, still. (In fact, if any of my vampire novels ever became a movie, the cinematography and editing would have to emulate "The Hunger", or I would pass...)

"Top Gun" was Tony Scott's most successful mainstream enterprise. Surprisingly, it played to a similar audience...for different reasons. While the gut-clenching flying shots, and the cool-as-beans soundtrack mark it for the time it flew into our consciousness, it is more remembered as the least- likely- successful- "romance" movie to come down the pike. However, the excellent cast pulled all that Hollywood- make-believe- passion off. I have rarely (pre-Twilight)seen so many posted movie clips as I have seen on Youtube with "Top Gun". Tony Scott had an audience, whether he understood who he had or not, and should have cultivated THAT garden...

Thanks for the memories, TS.

I am saddened you took a fast train out of here. (We surely could use another "thrilling romance" in these hard days.) You will be hugely missed--by more than your family, by a "family of fans" perhaps you didn't understand, but for whom you created fantasies that pulled us through some bleak times. You offered us new heroes. Wish we could have offered the same.

Be at peace. You WERE an artist; you will be remembered.

WAITING ON GOD

First, let me say, as I ponder what is going on around me--and my helplessness (or so it feels) to change a single thing--except my own acceptance of the situations--I have been considering all the angles...Perhaps it IS the best/cleanest approach to simply "Let Go and Let God". Clearly, I cannot change a single person's attitudes or beliefs--nor am I trying to change anyone but myself. Frankly, I don't have the energy--or the tool kit needed! Hah! Finding uninterrupted space, and time, to "sit" is problematic, but not unattainable. I may need to retreat to the middle of a lake, somewhere, floating out in my possum-scented kayak, Tortuga...but it is attainable.

Of course, part of the struggle is justification to my family--who is being supportive of my "in between time" right now. I believe part of them trusts that the many hours upstairs on my computer is surely not spent playing video games or exploring Spotify...however, their trust of the System of networking for one's next position is about as sturdy as my own...My mother still insists that I need to go around town banging on the few businesses that remain in operation, demanding interviews with the ever-absent general managers and forcing my resume down their throats...of course, she, herself, never attained a single job in this manner. But she clings to the scenario.

In her defense, when I was a teen, decades ago, and this town was a thriving furniture manufacturing hub (Gardner: Chair City to the world), I did get a couple of part-time positions for summer employment exactly that way. I also got some "after school" jobs--mostly through word of mouth--in the same vein. But that was when Gardner had an excess of employment opportunities if one was willing to commit one's life to the factory scene. At times, it seemed as if half of Quebec came to town, to push out Early American furniture. This meant the town's stores, service related industries, etc. also need to be powered up and kept growing. So, we did. But that was thirty five years ago--and the entire world has changed. Mom is well read and keeps up with t.v. news, several newspapers, and radio news...but her excursions into the world pretty much revolve around daily trips to Wal-Mart, Stop and Shop, the hospital and Church. In her eyes, I am being "lazy". Sitting with that, being patient with that continuing withering gaze and vocalized judgment, more than anything else, is the hardest lesson to deal with. My use of prayer beads, drums and chanting haven't alleviated Mom's wrath.

Fellow blogger, Terry Wolverton, points out a particularly American trait of "do it now, do it fast" and "take charge" actions to relieve our sense of pout. When things don't go as we had envision, or even as some of the metaphysical philosophies promise will occur if only we visualize clearly enough--as Americans, we take this turn of events personally and try to bulldoze our way through. Our human vision is short sighted, of course, always, and who knows what the real "best practice" or "best end" will turn out to be. (There is the Buddhist fable about the boy and the bull--check it out!)

Parts of myself (probably the parts that still need cleansing...) agree--with Terry and my Buddhist friends--but add the "if" clause: if I sit and breathe and relax into the Greatness, allowing what I cannot see to gently unfold, to trust this Void, this Invisible this Creator AND I also get right online after I meditate or chant or drum or dream or pray, continuing to rant and rave and network and reach out for human assistance--perhaps I can cover all bases. Do all things open to me. Become manic enough that even my mother will see and smile at my efforts...

It surely seems, that among my American friends, I am already sitting in the dust on the side of the road, waiting for God...for the next best thing to unfold. 

WHAT'S A WRITER TO DO?

Writers' block is not a disease that I seem to succumb to. For me, writing has been like breathing--not a wholly conscious act--but something that my body does on its own. I'm not being metaphorical here. Even before I had the alphabet down, my mind thought in story-lines and images. Since childhood, falling asleep has been a chore: how to stop those "movies" in my head: how to slow down the plots and the sensory input?

As I've grown, I have questioned if I might be suffering from any of a number of diagnosable mental illnesses. However, two bouts of long term therapy and a plethora of psychologist and psychiatrist friends later, I find that that is not a valid answer. A few psychic acquaintences have also warned: 'Minns, you may, in your adult years, be accused of being crazy--rest assured--you are very sane--just 'different'... This was less helpful.

But, even as God sends angels to watch over the little children, I have been surrounded by other artists: dancers, filmmakers, painters, musicians--and of course--wordsmiths. I highly recommend finding one's "pack"--whether they be wolves or writers...

So, even as years have gone by without a major "publishing event"--the words have not dried up. The urge to put down my impressions of what was bubbling up around me hasn't lessened. The activity of the pen--now also the electronic keyboard--flourishes. (As Rita Schiano says: "Live a flourishing life!") However, a writer needs an audience. More than friends who are also struggling with putting down thoughts on paper (or in cyberspace), a writer needs readers--someone out there curled up on a lawnchair, on the beach, or in bed, with a flashlight!

Like Stephen King, I visualize my reader--see her/him scrinching their toes up in horror when I create monsters in the dark--or gasping at a particularly surprising ending. I need the "juice" of my audience, or I get parched. Other writers can offer some encouragement--or criticism--but they can't quench the thirst of being "unpublished". Luckily, I do publish smaller pieces--short stories and poetry--and of course, this blog. But it has been a long, long time since a novel of mine has hit Amazon squarely in the jaw.

On my hands, and newly revised, the most recent novel out of my brain. It is the story of a middle-aged academic on sabbatical--finding not only answers to her hysterical blindness--but also to cryptozoological questions that have plagued mankind for centuries. It takes place off the coast of Maine--on a tiny island. There are old people, young people, fishermen, cops, college students, college professors, witches, Indians, pirates, shipwrecks and huge howling storms rolling in...a village hiding a decades old mystery...murders and mayhem and voodoo aplenty...and of course: MONSTERS! 

Personally, after four years of re-writing this opus, I'm finally pleased. It is a short, intense, scary novel--with some sex and drugs and violence, of course--but mostly, a scary story. Perfect for October reading. Perfect for beach-side getaways in summer, too. And though the main character might not  be the person you imagine yourself to be, she is fiesty and funny and pretty and smart and worth following through her own adventures. So, what now?

I don't have an agent. I don't have a regular publishing house. The market has gone sour, along with all other markets around. But I do have this novel. It is ready to be read and ready to go out into the world, I think. I hope. (I pray.)  I don't want to self-publish--though that is getting more and more respectable each passing day. However, all of my novels were sold and brought out by paying presses. I'd like to keep that impetus in my life. God knows, it isn't about the monies! It's just a bit of ego and vanity--perhaps all that I have left! Hah!

I have been "shopping it around"--but it is a hard book to pigeonhole--as have all my other novels. I don't fall into a specific genre. No niche has ever fit. (My teen vampire stories were way before their time--and that has always rubbed me wrong--as I was taken over the coals by everyone, except the critics who actually read the novels. Hmmm..."Twilight",  you were nowhere near "the first".) I'm not tooting my horn, just making a point. So now, I'm looking for a press with somewhat Gothic sensibilities, open to characters on the fringe who don't usually populate your average cliff-hanger. I think the writing is thoughtful--which should appeal to women readers of a certain age, in particular (though not exclusively)--and to anyone who enjoys actual historical research into the cryptozoological realms incorporated into a riproaring good tale!

(Did I mention there is some sex, drugs and rock and roll? Yeah...well...I AM a writer of this century...) So, if there are any AGENTS, or friends of agents, or PUBLISHERS or friends of publishers, I am willing to cut a very cool deal. The novel isn't too long: about 270 pages. It moves quickly. It's intense and interesting and covers areas I haven't seen covered very much in contemporary fiction.

Contact me! karenminns@yahoo.com
This writer wants to boogie! (For reals!)

   

LONDON TRIPPING

Last night I fell asleep watching Sigourney Weaver try to win the White House, only to spring awake to the wild sight of Annie Lennox riding a skeletal Goth boat across a red-lit Olympic stadium, accompanied by the walking dead. Now, Annie and Sigourney are two of my favorite public women, so this wasn't a terrible Sunday, as Sundays go. Just bizarre. (Very, very bizarre.)

It took a few minutes for me to realize I was in my own bed and it was three a.m. The closing ceremonies for the Olympics was re-running.In actuality, Sigourney was probably asleep and dreaming of another cool film project. Annie was still celebrating with champagne and Advil. The Olympics of 2012 were finito.

 And yet, on screen, more wildness emerged.

I kept thinking that it was a mash up of every contemporary British music personality that had some sort of international audience. Then, it shape-shifted into "live- on- the- Yellow Submarine". (I honestly gasped when the head of John Lennon disintegrated into hundreds of puzzle pieces, while white tee-shirted youth knelt and signed "Imagine".)

 The costumes kept coming, as did the characters. Peter Max and "Willie Wonka" mixing it up with the reunion of the Spice Girls; motor-cyclists and scooter-riders; Vespa chicks wearing Union Jacks; top eschelon female models walking runways-- after being let loose from truckbeds; beauty queens and lycra- clad men with eight-packs; high- wire guys shaking hands with flaming dolls; Brazilian vocalists (gliding by in skirts constructed of something like giant flower petals piled ten feet high); all the while fireworks and motor cars and psychedelic light shows created alien languages across the Olympic audience.

I thought, briefly, in my stunned stupor : "All that's missing is Eric Idle--I mean, even Freddie Mercury's ghost has appeared long enough to lead the masses in song!"

Suddenly, Eric WAS there.  Climbing out of a hundred foot circus cannon; surrounded by every member of British society that one has come to love--including flying nuns on inline skates--some of whom had to be actual linebackers, in drag! All the while, Eric blithely bellowed his favorite tune about looking at the lighter side of life! (Lighter side??!)

When the circus cannon actually shot a performer across the stadium, safely into a net, it was almost anti-climactic. Almost. But it was the stupid, flat looking, wire sculptured "Phoenix" which arose from the dying Olympic torch flames, that seemed to put a lid on things. What should have been the greatest hurrah was a bit of a downer, after all the other antics.

The usual Olympic Committee boys and their "thank all thank God" speeches were the expected buzzkill. (Cameras panned the crowd, showing most of the athletes weren't even listening--nor was the crowd. Who could blame them?) After an exhausting and wilding show of several hours, on top of seventeen days of competition (and whatever travel plans everyone had to deal with), old gray men, however prestigious, will never get our full-attention. (What were they thinking?)

Perhaps that's the key. They weren't thinking. It was a full-blown London acid trip meant to be simply staged and then organically loosed.

(I had come in earlier, from coffee with a friend, to find both parental units watching the closing of the Olympics. I knew they were avid fans, having the games on for twenty-four seven, all seventeen days. This was to be expected. I paid it little mind.) However, upon waking up in the wee hours and experiencing the hoopla in exactly the mindscape that I was, I have to wonder what the hell they thought?

Since 1974, Dad has categorized all music into two branches: Church music (which can also include military, opera, classical, any large chorale group, etc.) and Screaming.

Nothing else exists. I don't think he even has a preference for anything particular in the first group. I know he detests everything in the second.  I have no way to decipher the closing of the Olympics of 2012 from his perspective. Perhaps it was simply background to his nodding off after dinner (and a particularly hard family weekend)? Perhaps as they sat through it, both parental units daydreamed about the athletes; their lives; their families; how none of us were ever sporto enough to take that track; how Gardner has never produced an Olympic medalist; how this may be the last Olympiad either of them witnesses...

I should ask, but I won't. It just seems too private, somehow. They get defensive when they get confused and I can't see as how they would not be confused over the spectacle in London, last night.

Entertaining: yes.
Loud and brilliant: yes.
Expected: never.

Perhaps London feels the predictions of 2012 are already in motion.
This IS it.

(But, if the English have any say, we are going out with a bang--NOT a whimper.)       

WHAT'S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?

Coming off of two weeks of family drama that I wouldn't have believed possible (but should have guessed was probable)--including telling folks at the house in Maine, on the little cove, that I was going out kayaking and would be back in three hours, in time for dinner reservations--only to find, two and a half hours later, standing on the cliffs and shouting into the fog, not only my familia, but visiting friends and their kids, all looking madly over the surf, trying to spot my wrecked kayak or my floating body! The visiting cop suggested calling the Coast Guard, until my sister informed him, off the cuff, "Well, she IS an experienced kayaker..."

Yeah, for thirty years, in the surf AND still- waters of CA, as well as NE...

It is nice to be worried about, but it is even nicer to be listened to. To have people suspend their own practiced responses and really listen to a comment, concern or shared perspective. Why is it, in families, this is so difficult? Why is everyone so competitive, always trying to "up the ante", always trying to layer your comment or narrative with a better one of their own? Is it that they feel one is  trying to prove one's life more interesting? Valuable? Intense? Or, are they simply still competing with the eldest--to claw their way to the top of the emotional heap? I know for a fact that praise, in our family, at least to our faces, remains negligible.( My parental units still fear that we will be spoiled if told that we had succeeded in some small area of our childhood...Or that questioning authority, ANY authority, (The Church, the City, the School, Them...) would result in instant failure; in embarrassment for the clan.)

 Love means constant correction and criticism.
"We wouldn't do it if we didn't care."

Yeah. Hmmm. Well, well done then. Because constant critiques seem to be a way of life back in New England--not that I'm not used to this, as an artist and as an educator. However, it makes me wonder how much dysfunction does not arise from this mantra?

Something to stop and consider--in a kayak, or out. 

FRIENDLY FIRE

My best friend from college, a dancer-turned-psychotherapist, just sent me her first "book". I finished it around three a.m., this morning. Then, I sat in the dark, trying to figure out how I felt; what would be my first response.

"Samantha" is the kind of woman who enters a room and both men and women look up. Though she will give you a hundred reasons why her body is not moving the way a "normal dancer's body should move", they are all clinical. She is a ballerina. At fifty-six, she is still, a ballerina.

Though French and German, mostly, she looks like there is Native blood flowing in those long, slender veins. She knows this and makes the most of this shocking truth: her hair is long and straight, dark as a moonless night. She tans and retains it easily. Her huge eyes are a deep brown that convinces you you might actually fall into them. She is the kind of woman who must always prove herself intellectually, because upon first notice, all one can see is this stunning exterior.

At college, because of being cast in "Godspell" together, we became friends. She, a transfer student, and me the campus politico. My "Virginia Woolf" tee-shirt  caught her eye and she made the first move, tentatively approaching from stage left. I was holding a recorder, for my solo in the show. "Samm" asked if she could see the instrument. Her hand slipped and the recorder went flying across the stage. It didn't break. Neither did we. An awkward beginning to a complicated friendship.

Over the years we have flown to each other in times of celebration and in times of stress. Only one huge misunderstanding--a turning point in her life--caused a rift that kept us apart for a while. However, it allowed her to focus on a new husband and a new child and her growing practice. I continued with my books and my adventures. Our fate, however, was to reconnect. To mature a bit. To reach back and reaffirm.

Last time we compromised and met up in Arizon, she told me she was writing a novel--based, of course, on her life. (Aren't all novels based on our lives, really?) I was in it, as were her husbands and her first child. There are her family and childhood buddies and the woman who she calls her "shaman-mentor"--her first dance teacher (and oldest friend). She promised to let me see the "book" when it was finished.

It has been years and we are both back on the East Coast. We are in constant connection--thanks to e-mail and cell phones. We plan our catch-ups like strategies in battle--moving the troops and the positions even as we handle the assaults of the enemies surrounding us. So far, however, we haven't negotiated a time when we can travel and meet on neutral territory. Invitations are in place on both ends--it is logistics--time and jobs and family that prevent the journeys. So, we wait.

Now, she's completed "the book".

When I was living in L.A. in the eighties, I began writing my first attempt at a novel. Of course, I incorporated everyone I'd met since college--trying to assimilate the West and to understand it on all the deeper levels one struggles through in one's twenties. My roomie at the time read the first few chapters. She was furious.

"Do not put me in this!" She threw the pages on the kitchen table.
"It's only a novel--I changed your name--this stuff didn't really happen--" I sputtered.
"Yeah, but thoughts are things! Words can make stuff happen--really happen! I don't want what you wrote to manifest in my life...please! It's, it's like a curse, Minns!" She was shaking.
"Okay, okay. I didn't know you'd feel this way..." I apologized.
The first attempt at becoming "A Great American Novelist" went into the trash in Silverlake.

From that point on, I was very careful around my friends. Characters were amalgams of people, manipulated to add color or depth to a plot. No one I wrote was actually a full portrait. Mosaics were my mantra. And I never wrote non-fiction...at least not my books.

There have been times when all I wanted to do was to write prose: prose that would "blow the top off" of a variety of institutions, organizations, situations. Prose where I "got even" or "claimed justice" for the underdogs of the world--including myself. However, for the most part, I stood down. I cooled off. I turned the essays into poetry or fiction. (Letters to the editor don't count.) I would remember C., in Silverlake, and pull up short. I didn't want the karma of cursing anyone--not even an enemy.

Now, "Samm" has sent me her manuscript. Packed up by her husband and mailed Fed Express to my family home. I cannot ignore it. Too many people have witnessed its arrival. I asked for this--told her I wanted to read it. (I did.) I have. Now, I owe my thoughts. "Samm" wants my feelings. Of course, she wants my approval. (I have done the same to a few close friends over the years.)
Turnabout is fair play.
Karma.

In her "novel", "Samm" has done what several writers from my school  years suggested: to take our lives and to make them turn out the way we wish they had. Making gold from coal, as it were. Transmutation. Alchemy. Human magic. There are scenes where I appear and I don't remember the words she has chosen as coming from my lips. (I don't recognize the words she speaks, either, frankly. There are a lot of technical, clinical bits where I often feel everyone is at a psychology convention. But that's her style.) When I hit these scenes, it takes me aback. I have no power of the character that is me--obviously me--the me she told me she was putting in there.

There are historical situations that I remember from a different perspective. Wholly. I read and watch myself (my literary "self") acting in ways I don't think I did act. Or, worse, fully removed in key scenes--scenes that meant so much to me but don't make the cuts in her re-worked life. I have to admit, my ego is bruised. It stings. Don't we all want to be the hero in the lives around us? (Is it just me?)

It could have been worse. "Samm" is mostly kind. Supportive. A clinician to the bone--always always always analyzing the people around her--from the passing client to her two husbands to every boss or supervisor she has crossed paths with...we all come under her lens. Her first born son is the only "character" given a free pass. He is her joy. Her angel. Her reason for life. There are no marks against him nor shadows beneath him. That's probably as it should be, if one is re-framing and re-telling one's past. "Samm" does love her children unconditionally. It is one of her best attributes. But the rest of us, well, we are sort of "diagnosed" against the crises of "Samm"s life.
It is uncomfortable to be diagnosed.

When I found a single sentence in her memoir that laid her "take" on my character out on the sand, I e-mailed and asked her if that is what she really thinks of me--if this is her professional opinion of my psyche?  Her immediate response was a firm "No!" Followed by an assertion that if she did, in fact, think this was the truth of my character, she would have, long ago, shared it with me--and found me help....Little comfort.
No, she decided, along with "omitting a lot of what happened around us", to come up with this "diagnosis" to move the book along. I needn't worry. (About the diagnosis, that is.)
Phew.
Hmmmmmm...

Other key scenes that have been cornerstones in our friendship don't get mentioned. That is always difficult--we tend to think we are far more key in the reality of the people around us than we possibly are...But this is a "novel" about her clinical development as a psychotherapist and as a Mother and as a wife. Her focus is clear. In five hundredplus pages, she maps out her trek--or her character's trek. I might flinch, a bit, but this isn't my story. It isn't even my "character's" story. It is "Samm"'s tale.
For "Samm".

I suppose the lesson here, is that for all the people I've caused to flinch--in this blog--or in my novels and short prose--paybacks have arrived. And, as I hope they are, I find myself a bit flattered. I am important enough in "Samm's" life  to appear on her pages. Flawed, funny, somewhat removed from the action, but present. She has created her personal mythology--at least the first volume. She has gotten it down; made it concrete; holdable. Her achievements are laid out and viewable--her blessings able to be numbered.

For all these reasons, I sent a note of congratulations. (There will be no editing suggestions...I have learned my lesson on that one!) So, one more friend has become a writer.
Welcome.        

WEIGHING IN

What goes into a blog post?
What are the goals? What are the pitfalls?
Who is out there, reading it?
What is being added to the sum of noise in cyber-space, by my words?
Who cares?

When I began "Streetrap", I was first in Los Angeles. My tiny loft was in the middle of the Wilshire District, surrounded by multi-cultural centers, The County Art Museum, The La Brea Tar Pits, an ethnic restaurant of every variety every twenty yards, the GLASS Day Program Complex, several neighborhood bars--one working class, one Gay and one Hispanic, and more homeless than I could count. I was employed as the Arts and Education Director of the foster-kid agency, GLASS, Inc. I could walk to the Day Program from my loft. For almost five years, I was happily engaged in the lives of fifty foster teens plus the support staff and Admin of GLASS, Inc. Then CA tanked and GLASS went bankrupt. We all dispersed--the kids hurried off by social workers and parole officers to various facilities--some locked down--others cut free to roam the streets of L.A. Staff scrambled. Many left the city and sought respite far away.

At the time, I had savings, unemployment insurance, and decided to stick around, to see if anything shook out of the mess. There were friends close by; several people I was dating; and the possibility that "something" would come from Heaven to explain how this predicament had occurred. (Hadn't I been recruited for a "forever" job, by the Director of GLASS, Inc.?) The only reason to move away from the beach and beautiful Orange County was because I felt I could contribute something to GLASS; I believed in its crusade of making better lives for ALL kids, regardless of gender, race, ethnicity or HIV status. (A position not all foster agencies were comfortable with...) I felt we were also making history--again. Then, the crisis in California, which began to finally be owned up to across the nation (and which will someday be acknowledged as "The Second Depression"--I am sure!) hit and there were no more jobs for white girls in the inner city, at least not with my credentials and experience. (There were precious few for any women, actually...) Childrens' programs, support groups for families, arts and education resources were drying up. My time of unemployment grew. I needed to get back to doing something--my "break" was getting boring and worrisome.

Back to writing full-time. A novel I've wrestled with for four years, now, and still work on...not exactly Gothic, but not pure horror/fantasy, either. Not a romance, though it is romantical. Definitely not a vampire chapter...Lots of research, lots of plot lines and characters...but it was a stewing mess. The poetry wasn't coming. It's "tap" had been turned off. As my writing non-fiction expanded, my creation of posy decreased. I began to co-write a screenplay. Co-writing is tough--the one thing a writer relies upon: absolute control, is foregone. I did a few reviews and some short fiction, but nothing was connecting my reality with my writing.

Charles Bukowski, the irreverent Los Angeles icon, lived on the edge, until his death. His novels and his poetry sustained my "outsider status" when I first arrived in the late seventies. Feminists were horrified that I loved his prose--that I attended his readings and bought his books (mostly used). I didn't care. It balanced out my superbly "politically correct" life in other areas. Secretly, I felt like Bukowski. Women made me crazy--I didn't understand them. Men made me feel hopeless--the ruling elite made me powerless. I lived among the insane, the homeless, the prostitutes and drug addicts in a big city. I saw the life force sucked dry by the drying palms on Sunset and Santa Monica. I was part of the picture, even as he was, and we both were trying to write about it. Bukowski gave me a kind of template to frame my best work, I think. But now, he was dead. The city had turned a corner. I needed something new.

"Streetrap" became my on-line communication in cyber-space of what I was witnessing and feeling.
When I finally realized it was time to return to "the clan" and try to reconnect before the parental units were off to the next lifetime, I just kept writing.

My goals were to post at least an entry a week--more if I had something interesting to say. I wanted each blogpost to stand as a separate entity: to be able to be read by itself, not knowing who I was or what biases I contained. Almost like mini-short stories. Like Bukowski, I wanted to illuminate the exceptional in the ordinary. I wanted to write what I could not find anywhere else.

Unlike Bukowski, my boozing and drugging days are long, long ago. I have no place to pour out my frustrations or sadness or anger--except the page. Sometimes, long stretches of time pass and there is nothing really "interesting"--except in a Zen way. I try to take those moments and expand them--examine them--make them plain and plainer--to understand the simple, powerful Truth that is contained there. Does it make for great writing? I'm not sure. Often I feel that I've captured a nuance, a mood, a character, a plotline. Other times, it feels empty. I try to move away from the emotional examination of each blog...unlike when I do write a finished short story or novel. This sets the blog apart. I think it makes it more raw, immediate, useful.

A pitfall is that when a potential employer reads my blog, depending on what values, belief systems, religious or spiritual affinity or history the person contains, I can be judged without debate. People often feel that they "know" a writer after reading some of her/his work. (I do!) This may or may not be true...A potential employer holds the writer's life in his/her hands, economically speaking. Telling the truth, unless it lines up, is sometimes dangerous in these times.

At a job that had been promised to me, recently, and then was snatched from me, the given concerns were not what I really think were being mulled over. I was simply told: You're too much of a writer.
What did that mean?
Most writers I know make their economic livelihoods via teaching in some capacity. Wouldn't it be a plus to have an English teacher on staff who is a published, commercial and award-winning author? It has always translated as a plus to my students--but evidently, not so much with my Administrators. Why? (The person who had made this statement had read nothing of my fiction; none of my poetry; none of my essays or reviews. He made this statement, supposedly, based solely on my blogs...)My blogs are now tracing the life of a returning "outsider" to her hometown, thirty plus years after leaving. In New England, the fact of "leaving" can be seen as a sort of travesty. I am also dealing with an aging, extended family; with a father twenty-five years in the middle of local city politics, now retired; with a mother battling cancer; with nieces and sibs, each on their own voyages of self-discovery and survival. How this  might be viewed as controversial remains to be seen...for him, it was, and something that helped make his decision to rescind the proffered position.

Beyond employment, the downside to writing about one's familia is obvious. We all see things through our own filters. My experiences, as an adult, have been mostly on the West Coast, past the fault lines and "leftists" that are the biggest fears of my bloods. California is a cartoon wasteland. Disney is still King. (Judging by the reality shows shot there, it is hard to argue against this interpretation.)Excess is the law of the land.

My re-entering, especially as I fight the historical economic downsizing around me, is the stuff operas are written about. I don't write lyrics,nor music. This blog is my "opera". And as we all know, not everyone is a fan.

People that I know are reading my posts are of course, far-flung friends; professional and personal contacts; evidently employers (for better or worse); my familia; Facebook attendees; long lost connections; some fans who follow me, not on Twitter, but via Google; the odd surfer of the Net; old lovers; old enemies; the curious; the sleep deprived. I welcome all readers. I welcome debate and discussion and comments and hope to grow from this exchange. Unlike poetry, there are no "performance blogs"--at least, not to my knowledge. So, this, then, is the podium. My hope is that these posts give people something to talk about--show a detail of life which they have not yet encountered; give them pause and make them wonder. Wonder--in the best way.

My dream is that someone, somewhere, on a particularly lonely or cold night, will stumble upon these posts and lose their worries in the short, short stories I am living out. It will make them feel less alone; less weary; less sad. Perhaps there will be some laughter, too, or a realization that what they feared was a personal tragedy happens to all of us, in some disguise. This is what Bukowski's weird tales did for me when I arrived out west, alone and scared and very young.

I am a writer. I breathe. I think. I write.
This is the new frontier.