I'm not Lazy! I'm Green!

      It's what we writer's DO.  We work on a piece of writing.  Rewrite it, revise, re-see, re-do, re-ray-me-fa-so-la-ti-do, and repeat.  Every mutation, every permutation of that piece of writing becomes stronger, better, more fit and able to face the world ahead. 
      I would never leave the house in a half-sewn dress. And I would never post an untried piece of writing.  It first needs the paring down and polish of a few workshops.  But recycling old writing...well, I'm not above that.

      I wrote this poem years ago, when struggling with my hatred of poetry.  Don't worry, we've reconciled.  Now I only vaguely dislike poetry and occasionally, on holidays, I let it take the children to its parents' house.    

The Wallpaper

My two great aunts stand

positioned around the room like pillars

blouses untucked and shirt-sleeves rolled up

past their dimpled elbows.  Armed with sharp scrapers

the cousins and I wait for Uncle Julius

to spray our section of wall with steaming water

from the dull gray cylinder.  We wait

while the water soaks in and the flat smell of the hot

damp paper radiates out from the wall.

It is hard work

this scraping away of memories

gouging with metallic force into layers of life.

It makes our shoulders ache.

Aunt Marie hums while she works

imagining how the new walls will look.

In only four short years she will leave this house

alone with its empty footsteps, whispers of laughter

the Thees and Thous of Uncle Julie’s formal prayers

drifting through the air like motes of dust

ghosts of child cousins playing in the creek out back.

The afternoon sun swings around the room

in a dusty golden arc.  Uncle Julie’s large white sideburns

stand out like exclamations against his work-reddened cheeks.

What a wonderful mess we are

arms covered in clots of colored paper

feet hidden by the soggy curls that slide off our scrapers.

I will remember the rustle and noise, the piles of scraps.

And sharp-eyed Aunt Elaine who once complimented me

on the shape of my nail beds and the way she stands back,

nods, and approves of the delicate clusters of rosebuds

covering the scrolls of new wallpaper

that lie like promises in the hallway.



Reason I Didn't Write Yesterday: I'm Stuck

Herbs in the 'Burbs

Sweet basil across my palms.  Thyme crushed in the crooks of my fingers.  Oregano, spicy and lemony, rubbed between fingertips.  My hands perfumed.  I could stand here all day and press the fresh, green leaves to my nose.  Fondle.  Inhale. 

What do I want to say about my little potted backyard garden?  How accomplished I feel?  How rewarded? Zen?  Like herbs in a main course, my garden is a welcome addition, a complement to everyday life.  But it is only a taste—pleasing, tempting, and bittersweet.  I long for so much more than a backyard garden can ever give me. 

While I wait, I’ll take this bouquet garni and make you something wonderful.  


 


Reason I Didn't Write Yesterday: Recovering Thumbsucker

Lazy Man's Load

I believe that it’s okay to cut your toenails in a smooth curve.  Screw conventional wisdom.  Cutting your nails straight across is ugly and dangerous.  I don’t want sharp toenail corners that can lacerate my loved ones. 

Not only do I cut my toenails curved, I cut them short—really short.  So short the flesh around them beats pink.  It hurts to put on closed-toe shoes for the first few days.  But I get a sense of accomplishment from the knowledge that my work here is done.  Pedicure, check.  It’s as if the shorter I cut my toenails, the less I have to tend to them at all.  The closer I shave my legs, the smoother they’ll be.  The harder I scrub the toilet, the longer it will stay clean. The more vigorous the dusting, the less it will start to settle again. 

                It’s like I am trying to get ahead.  One more thing, one extra inch, and this’ll save me so much more time and effort in the future.  But what happens?  The dentist tells me I’m wearing away my teeth enamel.  My vacuum cleaner burns out.  The extra casserole I made gets furry with mold.  My clothing starts to fade from too many washings.

                Does it all boil down to the “lazy man’s load”—the sing-song phrase my father used to chant from the car as he watched me pile my arms up with too many bags of groceries?  

Oh, how broken am I that all my hard work is born of laziness?





Reason I Didn't Write Yesterday: Plantar Fasciitis



So. That about says it, I think.

Yep.