Thursday, February 11, 2010

my mouth

Peggy’s Prompt---my mouth tastes like---15min.

My mouth tastes like Eclipse wintermint gum, or at least it does to me. I have no idea what it might taste like to someone kissing me, or doing dental work on my teeth. It’s nowadays much more likely to have dental work done than be kissed. Let’s see, when was the last time I was kissed, as in kissed so that my mouth could be tasted. I’m not sure my memory goes back that far. I was a big fan of kissing in my high school and college years. That was before “hooking up” became the standard in dating, and kissing wasn’t even done on the first date—usually. Like many if not most females, I liked/like the build-up, what’s so crassly called foreplay, which somehow reminds me of foreskin, which doesn’t seem romantic or even sexy. Anyhow, I liked “making out”, the slow teasing arousal that preceded “heavy petting”, which I was much more ambivalent about, so by today’s standards I would be considered outright prudish. And of course “heavy petting” preceded “going all the way” which was as dangerous as it sounds. For lots of reasons. Possible pregnancy (this was pre-birth control pills, and guys didn’t all carry condoms in their wallets). Possible STD (which we called VD). Possible damage to reputation, which was probable, especially in high school. Possible damaged psyche, especially if the other partner turned out to be in it for the thrill and not for the long run. So there was a lot at stake. Which partially explains why I liked “making out”. Far less dangerous, at least to me.

from Sylvia Plath and me

Peggy’s prompt--020410


Quote for Today:

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. ~ Sylvia Plath

In some ways, I personify the quote from Sylvia Plath. I write about “everything”—cancelled checks, childhood memories, the contents of my wallet, chemotherapy, my doubts, my cats, my fears, my high moments, and on and on. But what I don’t do, because I don’t have the outgoing guts to do it, is post them all to my blog. I’m very selective about what goes “public.” I could never write an interesting memoir, because I’d censor myself in every other paragraph.

For example, I was once, for an extended period, a participant in a therapy group. This group was noted for “exposing” the parts of our past that have shaped our current view of ourselves, and was often pretty intense. After months of this, and having talked about my father, my mother, my husband, my son in more intimate detail than I have ever disclosed before, I realized that I was getting down to the core of my being, and I announced to the group, “well, I guess I’m going to have to talk about sex next.” And then I was saved by being diagnosed with breast cancer, and that took precedent, and then I dropped out of the group for financial reasons and there you are. I’ve skirted that issue again.

I read other people’s memoirs, and am fascinated by them, and yet I wonder how their revelations have affected the other people mentioned in the memoir, and I think how unfair, unkind it would be to those who chose to keep those memories private. My outgoing guts disappear in empathy for others.

I suppose that’s why people write novels. If they occasionally include fictionalized versions of their own life, well, who’s to know what is fiction and what is memoir? In my writing group, we are exhorted to keep confidential what we hear other writers have written, because “it may or may not be true.” And spreading fiction might be even more damaging than the truth.

Which is to say, I identify more with the withholding of private information than with the broadcasting of personal “secrets” via memoir, Sylvia Plath notwithstanding.

smart

Peggy’s Prompt—“smart” Jan. 26, 2010 (Daisy’s 2nd month birthday)

Sweet little Daisy. Will she be smart? Will she be beautiful? Probably both, given her parentage. Does it matter? Some would say it shouldn’t, and it probably won’t affect how much she is loved, but we all know that smart, beautiful people have an edge in this world. And we want the best/the most for our Daisy Leona.

A flower and a lioness. She’ll be a handful, I predict. Little Miss Daisy, rolling her tongue and smiling, and, of course, crying. She’s teaching her parents how to avoid the all-out wailing by giving them little warm-up fusses and cries, so that they’ll rush to do something, anything to avoid the all-out wailing. Not that they can’t stand the wailing, they can if they have to, but they don’t want Little Miss Daisy to be unhappy or uncomfortable.

It is such a miracle to see life beginning again, so innocent, so helpless, so appealing, so promising. And such a blessing to have lived to see this generation arrive, guaranteeing some sort of immortality, at least of the species. I hope she’s a smart girl.

doing the dishes

Peggy’s prompt----doing the dishes---15min

You’re doing the dishes like you always do. Far be it for anyone else in this household to do dishes. No, it might mess up their nails, or interfere with basketball practice, or from the Mister, it’s squaw work, and he’s a warrior. I’d like to just one time see him do anything that smacks of being a warrior. But anyhow, you’re doing the dishes, and of course, your mind wanders. I mean, it has to wander, right? Even Buddhist monks must have a hell of a time staying in the present while they’re doing dishes, don’t you think? All that baloney about making each simple thing that you do an opportunity for meditation, for sacred joy. These are people who haven’t washed dishes in a long time. But anyhow, you’re doing the dishes and your mind wanders to what if---what if you hadn’t got married before you finished college, which means you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant while you were IN college. What if you had actually gotten that teaching degree and were right now a fifth grade teacher with ten years of experience under her belt. And no husband and no kids. Just a nice little downtown apartment over a deli, and a cute little previously-owned Mustang convertible, and a closet full of clothes and shoes, and a refrigerator full of healthy greens and yellows and reds and purples, all bought at the farmer’s market on Saturday morning. Wow. Of course, there’s always the chance that you’d be a fifth grade teacher with ten years of experience under her belt and a husband and two kids and a mortgage and cabinets full of snacks and pizza makings, and a refrigerator full of soft drinks and beer, plus a laundry room filled with smelly dirty clothes. Sigh. Tell you what. It’s my what if. I’m going with the nice little downtown apartment, the cute little convertible, and all the rest. Why mess up dish-washing with reality.

Open

Peggy’s prompt---open---15min—012810

Open. What a wide open prompt. Open mouth, insert foot. Open door policy. Open and shut case. Open, sesame. Open for business. Open for guests. Opening night. Open the door.

The door stood open, or more accurately, it stood ajar. Not wide open, not shut. But open enough to appear inviting. Or maybe discouraging, as in “I’m here but not to be disturbed.” Probably the latter. Russell never left his door wide open, not even when he was leaving the room to get something from the kitchen, or go to the bathroom down the hall. But he left it cracked a little bit, ajar, as I said, perhaps to show he had nothing to hide in there. But, peering through that opening in the door left ajar, showed little to see inside. Trust me, I’ve tried. The door is at one side of the room and the way the door is hung means that all you see when you peek through the crack is wall and ceiling, and precious little of that. All the real action is behind the wall next to the door, but no one in this house knows what’s in there. Probably not a kitchen or bathroom, because Russell comes out to use those.

Russell has been a boarder in Mama’s house for two years now. He came one day in early November, after school had started for me, because when I got home after swooshing through the leaves on the sidewalk, Russell was already set up in the downstairs room, just to the right of the front door and off the central hall. Once upon a time, that room was a parlor, Mama says. The fancy people who lived here hardly ever used it, so when we came, Mama and me, she said it was a shame to let it go to waste, what with us needing money so, and so she put a sign in the front window. Russell was the first person to ask about it, and Mama let him have it. She said she didn’t care if people talked, if they didn’t want to talk, they should give her the money for heating oil and the light bill. Mama could sound mean, but she was mostly sweet to me. Even when she didn’t have money for me to go on school trips with my class, she’d say, I’m so sorry, honey. You didn’t get a Mama with deep pockets…….To be continued