Ode To My Stuff


Drawer after drawer.  Shelf beyond shelf.

Stacks of my beautiful stuff.
Some of you pristine. Never to be touched by my hand since the day you were tendered.
Some of you used.  Worn with the caress of my consumption.
Long forgotten or at the front of my thoughts.
You have a place in my heart.
Or do you?
Must I keep you?
Must I hold on?
Just because you are mine?  I possess you.
You are my stuff!  My beautiful stuff.
I forgot about some of you until I had room no more.
Then, with all of my might, I knew it was time.
It was time.  Time let you go.
My stuff!  My beautiful stuff.
Then, my heart and my mind doth continue to battle the war I have set before me.

Save Draft

Save draft.  I am feeling a bit anxious this morning.  A bit in my head.  Thoughts racing.  What to do.  What to do?  I want to sit here and watch the birds outside my window.  Watch them eat.  Food provided by my benevolent husband.  It is a paradox.  We feed them so we can watch them.  They fascinate us. It is for us.  It is for our entertainment.  Is it really an act of giving? We think we must be the source of their food for the winter.  I want to watch them and escape.  I am writing today in my Gmail because Gmail will save my draft.  I woke up with anxiety this morning as I do most mornings.  I began to panic that I didn’t have the necessary backup for my computer.  I have so many things to do in 2017.  I need to ensure that my writings are saved.  I am just not up to it today.  So writing in my Gmail is my solution today.  It will automatically save this.  One thing I am good at is finding solutions.  I panic a little; then I move on.  There is no time for frying in panic.  Frying in panic.  Frying seems to be the opposite of marinating.  Marinating is stewing in something.  Letting it sit.  Panic doesn’t do that.  Panic takes a hold of you and it makes you done.  Fried.  I have a lot to do in 2017 and one thing I will do is to continue looking for solutions.

Pat Conroy Died and I am Grieving

Why am I choked up when I visit the truth that Pat Conroy has died?  I cry, not because his “promiscuous gift with metaphors” are lost.  They will continue to live through the words and characters he has given us. I cry because writing is a gift given to us by a writer.  Despite the genre, often the words we are given come from the writer’s personal pain and experience.  In the early 1990’s I heard Pat Conroy speak at a lecture series.  I was struck by his affable demeanor as he spoke and the ambiguity of the personality of the writer painting the narratives in his work, but I got it.  I got him. When I was reading “The Prince of Tides” in the late 1980’s I had to put physically down the book and throw up.  I knew those people.  I did more than get physically ill; I cried. Also, I was amused.  He….his writing….affected me.  A good writer does that, makes us feel emotions with their words.  When I heard him speak, I laughed, as he talked about his family dysfunction.  He talked about it humorously.  In 2013 when I read “The Death of Santini:  The Story of A Father and His Son”   I cried more.  His words showed me a son trying to say to his father, “I understand you more now.  I see you differently now.”  I also understood that he and his brother saw their childhood from different perspectives.  His brother didn’t see the same father that Pat Conroy saw which he represented in “The Great Santini,” the abusive dictator of their home.  I don’t think Pat Conroy’s childhood experience changed nor did his perception of his life and those around him.  I think he just understood more, and he accepted it.  I get that.  Thank you, Pat Conroy, for doing so much more than entertaining me.  Thank you for showing me how to represent what pains me and knowing that one day I may understand it.