Musings

It’s Aliiiiive

Zombie (novel) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think exhaustion is the reason zombies have taken over as the “it” characters. That has to be why, cause let’s face it, vampires are much cooler.

But I don’t feel like a vampire. Hell, I don’t even feel like Sookie. I am, however, so freakin tired I’m having difficulty stringing thoughts together. Over the last thousand years or so, I’ve gotten used to a certain level of exhaustion, but every so often I go beyond my usual sleep debt, and the sound of my alarm going off in the morning makes me want to howl.

My must-be-done list is beginning to rival my to-do list. I think whatshername from the RHoNY has the right idea. Sure I have no paying job and I’m a stay at home mom, but I need interns. Including one to take Flower Child shopping for a Halloween costume. I don’t need one, thanks. I’ll just grab a sheet from the toppling laundry mountain and wrap it around myself. Call it a shroud, no make up, and voila!

Soccer Mom Zombie (Photo credit: juco)

Maiden, Mother, Crone

The fates like to play with scissors (Photo credit: shellgreenier)

A few weeks ago I read an article that referenced Germaine Greer and crone culture. If you’re unfamiliar with her, Germaine Greer is an academic, a journalist; a feminist and a powerhouse in the women’s movement. I didn’t remember hearing that term before (though I’m sure I must have, perhaps I was busy weaving flowers in my hair while I read The Female Eunich), but I fell in love with it, fascinated, and because I’m ~~certifiable~~ a curious gal, I’ve been doing some research in my free moments. Crone culture. Imagine, an enlightened world that might choose to see older women, post menopausal (gasp) women, not as impotent and invisible beings, but as valued and valuable members of society. Possible? Is it even possible for us to see ourselves in that light?

And what does it mean to be a crone? Is it pure biology? Age? Children’s age? Fatigue? Wear and tear? Cause let me jussay, this vehicle is only middle aged, but its got a lot of mileage. Is 40 really the new 30, and 50 the new 40? Why does it have to be, why can’t it just be fine to be 40 and 50?

For the average first world woman, there’s quite a bit of time, 20-40 years, in between our roles as Mother (Lachesis, if you’re into Greek mythology) and death: the Crone (Atropos) role. Is it possible to embrace that phase and use it as the period of fertility for the mind and soul, instead of spending the first half pining for our prior roles and the second half waiting to die? Is it realistic to think about using this time to deepen connections and understanding, broaden our world when we’re still fully occupied with getting by?

As I think, I’m thinking of women like myself, on the fringe. Women whose adult worth has been not just tied but knotted with wife-ing (whether you stayed a wife or not) and mothering. Women who have jobs–paid or unpaid–but not careers, who don’t have initials after their name to proclaim their continued relevance. I don’t pretend women of privilege don’t face some of the same issues, after all, they’re still women, but I think it’s different; easier to remain relevant for a longer period of time when you’re respected in a field of study, know you still have quite a bit to say that’s worth being heard, can purchase the right clothes, cosmetics, surgeries to present yourself the way you wish to be seen.

Copper-Boiler-for-Distilling-Brandy__15665 (Photo credit: Public Domain Photos)

I make no judgement about that last bit, by the way. If I had the money and freedom, I think I’d have a little tweaking done at this point in my life. Not to attract or please anyone but myself. For me. Can that be distilled, separated from the society I live in which dictates what is or is not attractive? Probably not.

There is a difference in how women of different socioeconomic brackets see themselves and present themselves. When I was at that lit bar the other night, I was chatting with a woman, another friend of the friend I was there to hear. She asked if I was a writer and I said, “Well, I’m a wannabe.” With great confidence, she told me not to say that; if I write, I’m a writer. I’m not so sure. Do I write? Yes. Do I have skill and talent? Maybe, I think so. But I’m a pretty good cook, too. I’ve left restaurants wishing I had stayed home and eaten my own sauce. But I certainly wouldn’t identify myself as a chef. Even as I argue for recognition, I question my validity.

Imagine a crone culture. A culture that valued women as they age; saw experience, caregiving, and connectedness as valid alternatives to degrees earned for 30 year old, forgotten lessons. What if those experiences could be used for opportunities?

Maybe, though. Maybe. Maybe in my imaginary world where crones are empowered. Instead of being reduced we are a reduction–as in cooking. Thickened and intensified, adding richness and bringing the individual components of the dish together.

Hecate’s Wheel, the symbol used by Hecatines, Dianics and Aquarians. It is a representation of the Goddess and of her three aspects: the maiden, the mother and the crone. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Is it Trash Day?

New York City Department of Sanitation (Photo credit: BriYYZ)

This is what I’d like, a battalion of garbage trucks for me to toss everything in my apartment and start fresh.

Been home for several days with sick Flower Child; raw, damp, and gray outside. Can you say aargh? A couple of days ago I was “good,” used the time at home to do some overdue sorting and cleaning. Clearly, the best use of my time yesterday was to spend hours online, cyber-shopping and buying imaginary furniture for my imaginary house. Don’t think I’m not practical, I made sure to only look at couches that will fit in my current apartment in the meantime. In varying shades of cream and beige, to really play up the dog hair and paw prints that will make it mine.

All this led me to varying blogs and websites dedicated to decorating small spaces, making them chic and practical. I don’t have this talent. Many do, and I don’t think it’s about money. I’ve been to some homes where the owner has plenty of money, but it still looks like those dump trucks are waiting at the corner. Others where the owner/renter has very little money, but a great sense of style and organization that allows the space to look and feel great when you walk through the door. I wish the latter was me, but it isn’t.

Women nest at different times. Me? I nest early in a writing phase. I’ve heard a lot of writers talk about this phenomenon, referencing it as a procrastination tactic. I see how it can be. But for myself, it gives me a reason to pace while I’m creating scenes, lets me think about what type of home my protagonist lives in. Maybe it’s easier to lose my head in the characters’ lives when I’ve got a little real life elbow room.

Snake Attacks Bird Nest (Photo credit: johnynek)

I don’t know, maybe it’s because I know if I really get going, the housework completely falls down on the priority list. Usually long before the sorting and organization are finished.

At the moment though, I’m imagining a tasteful and elegant home, with a clearly defined space for me to work in. Preferably an enclosed porch type thing, with lots of glass and screens and light. In the Florida Keys. Somewhere like that. But not here, tucked into the corner of my ratty blue couch, laptop balanced on the sinking arm, stinky from the rain Little Incredibly Dumb dog pressed against me.

I’m going to take up cigars and fishing, since I apparently fantasize about being Hemingway.

Ernest Hemingway House, Key West, Florida (Photo credit: Mat McDermott)

Mrs Fringe Is 50!

Present (Photo credit: ejorpin)

Yup, this is my fiftieth post. Is this a big deal in the world of blogging? Nope, but it means something to me.

There’s something about the number that feels like commitment. When I’m working on a full length manuscript, 50 pages is my magic spot. It means I’ve gone further than just trying an idea, seeing how it flows, can I sustain it? Nope, when I hit 50 pages I’m all in. The characters are fleshed out enough to feel real, I’m thinking about them in the shower, and wake up thinking about what they will do today. The conflicts are getting layered, serious. In the world of submissions, agents and editors will often ask for a partial; usually the first three chapters or 50 pages if they might be interested after seeing a query letter. So all of those 50 pages had better be fan-freakin-tastic. Not that you can stop writing and query at this point, don’t bother until you have a completed, edited, re-edited and re-re-edited manuscript.

Because 50 pages isn’t magical commitment for everyone.

turn page (Photo credit: andy.brandon50)

Much to my initial surprise, I’ve met quite a few writers over the years who have several 50 pages; all starts to manuscripts they never finished. I was a lot more understanding of the “rules” of publishing, warning writers (unless you are WELL established and WELL published) not to send a query if you don’t have a completed full, once I met a few of those writers.

At fifty posts here in Mrs Fringe land, I’m feeling pretty good. I’ve got fringie followers! Not quite 50, but close. I’ve got readers who come by regularly and check out what’s happening, whether they’re official followers or not. I’ve got people who stop by and take the time to comment and join in the conversation; some of whom I know in real life, and a growing number who I’m getting to know through blogging.

And that is what it’s all about. Blogging is writing, it’s a space to share my thoughts and views, and hear the thoughts and views of others. It has introduced me to other blogs and other bloggers. In other words, communicating. Connecting. Growing. The blog is growing–slowly, but steadily. And Mrs Fringe is growing.

My life outside of WordPress is fairly chaotic. Evidenced by weeks when there are only two posts, and other weeks when there are six. So I’m sending a big thank you to my Fringie readers, followers, and likers on Facebook, for hanging on to the fringe with me, finding out where it takes us.

More canoli (Photo credit: diongillard)

Have a canoli, it’s on me.

Can You See the Real Me?

The Who – Roger Daltry (Photo credit: Scott Ableman)

Sounds like I’m going to be naval gazing again today, right? Not exactly.

I was on the elevator earlier, saw a young, hip couple that live in the building. Very East Village looking, big gages in their ears, cool drapey clothes in black and odd prints, etc. We said hello, and I mentioned how much Flower Child loves seeing them; the young woman has excellent style, and there’s nothing Flower Child loves more than inspecting a young woman who’s styling. Not to be confused with stylish. They both laughed, said thank you, then told me they often admire her style. Understood, her closet isn’t so much a closet as a costume department. What they didn’t say was what I saw stamped across their pierced faces…where did FC get her style from? Certainly not me. Not Husband, either. He used to be quite the snappy dresser, but no one would have ever accused him of cutting edge fashion sense.

I’m actually pretty good at knowing what will look good on other people, how far they can push the envelope to make a statement. For me, not so much. This all started me thinking about “seeing” myself. Physically. I’m terrible at it, and I wonder, is it just because I’m not especially visual? Is it an American thing? A female thing? An adoptee thing?

When I took psychology 101, I learned about a study that had been conducted, showing photographic representations of the different ways one woman was perceived.

[ M ] Johannes Adrianus van Maanen – Self-portrait with a girlfriend in a funhouse mirror, France (1947) (Photo credit: Cea.)

How she saw herself, how her husband saw her, how others saw her. My money says she was divorced within 6 months of the study being published. But, whether these perceptions are positive or negative, this made sense to me, and it still does. I’m very lucky in this regard. Husband and I met when I was about 14, and I’m pretty sure that he sees me forever the way I looked when I was about 19. Well, plus the gray hair, which he likes and doesn’t associate with aging, since many in his family are noticeably gray by their early twenties.

We all know about body image issues, the way perceived flaws can appear tremendous and exaggerated to the one looking in the mirror. Who among us never had a zit we saw as the size of Mt Everest?

But, where I seem to differ from friends is that I can’t see myself in other people, either. I hear all the time that Nerd Child looks exactly like me, “Did you make him by yourself?” I know we’re shaped similarly (why yes, I could be confused for an adolescent boy from behind); we both blow out the right knee of our jeans before anything else, both have long inseams for our respective heights. Man Child I hear about his eyes and mine, and Flower Child, while not considered a carbon copy, I often hear she looks a lot like me. I don’t see it. At all. I see the similarities and differences between the three of them. I see Mother In Law’s dimples on one, Husband’s chin on another, but me? Don’t see it at all.

Do you/can you see physical resemblance to yourself in others?

English: Vogue magazine cover, May 1917 Español: Portada de la revista Vogue correspondiente a Mayo de 1917 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Telling Stories

Quiet Please (Photo credit: bixentro)

Do you ever just feel quiet? For someone who has too much to say most of the time, I go through periods (a few days or a few weeks) where I need to be quiet. Minimal phone, internet, writing, talking. Just quiet. Often, these quiet spells precede a productive writing time, so if I don’t let it morph into self indulgent and mopey, I’ve become ok with this side of myself.

When I’m done being quiet, I want stories. I like hearing them, telling them, watching them on tv. I loved the way my grandma called the daytime soaps “stories.” Not too many soaps left anymore. I think about the soap stars I used to pass on the street regularly when I was picking Man Child up from elementary school, and they’d be on their way home from work. What are they doing now? It seems like the Housewives franchise has taken over the soap slots. Not in time period, but in the need they fill for the viewer. Bad behavior, some over the top Mrs Thurston Howell III accents, weddings, divorces, torrid love affairs, fabulous clothes….Fun. I enjoy them without reservation, and yes, I’m rooting for Theresa.

AIDS Project Los Angeles (APLA) benefit, Los Angeles- Sept. 1990- She played Mrs. Howell on Gilligan’s Island (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I woke up today thinking about a short story I wrote years ago. More than thinking about it, I had to find it, print it, hold it in my hands, read it, and begin tearing it apart and reconstructing. I’ve lost and discarded plenty of writing over the years; poetry, stories, aborted attempts and poor execution. Some I saved because they represent something I may want to revisit later, or have a line or description I like, if nothing else. I knew I had to have this one somewhere. Two file drawers and three flash drives later (Hey Nerd Child, I found your flash drive!), I located it. I suspect I flipped past it earlier in the day, but since the working title is “Title Here” (clever, hmm?), I probably clicked right on past. I suck at titles, always leave them for last, sometimes only bothering if and when I’m going to submit a piece.

This story, I like the opening. Where the opening leads, oof! Lucky for me, there’s plenty of little edits and corrections to make while I decide where it should go, how to reshape. I enjoy those little edits, slashing all those extra “thats” and ugly adverbs. These give me time and head space to really think about what I’m saying and why. Is it necessary? Of course, here lies the danger of self editing and reflection, how quickly the questioning of a word, phrase, or scene can turn to questioning the necessity of the story.

Why do I do this? I think it’s a mental detour, to see if I really need and want to finish the work. Maybe I’m not sure I’m sponge worthy. Cause what else would pop into my head other than a show that was scripted to be about absolutely nothing–certainly no necessary moral story– that was absolutely brilliant? Because fiction tells our stories. All of them, and all of us.

red pen (Photo credit: Mad African!: (Broken Sword))

Way Over Yonder

For someone who isn’t going anywhere, I spend a lot of time thinking about where I’d like to be.

Hawaii (Photo credit: jmauerer)

I’ve never been to Hawaii, so it’s pure fantasy to say I’d like to live there. But I know I love warm weather, and sun, and the beach. I’d have to give up my mixed reef tank, it’s illegal to buy most corals there, but I could have an excellent softie tank, with some beautiful fish. Besides, I’d be able to see the corals in the ocean. Wouldn’t that be something? Unfortunately, I’d also love to live somewhere I could afford a little house and groceries, with a good school system for Flower Child, so Hawaii isn’t a likely scenario.

So many beautiful places to fantasize about, even limiting my game of “let’s pretend” to America. Sometimes I think about going north, have you been to Vermont? Awesome sharp cheddar, real maple syrup, elderberry wine! It’s stunning; peaceful, sunny, and many parts are affordable.

Vermont (Photo credit: Dougtone)

I love to read the descriptions and study the photographs posted by my online friends who live in various parts of the country. I envy their gardens, their scenery, their reasonable cost of living, and their space. Then I keep reading. And hear about raccoons and deer and bear, and beavers and possums and snakes. *** I had to pause here, because my shudders made it impossible to work the keyboard.

Yes, it’s true, Mrs Fringe is a weenie. I’m willing to brave underwater creepy crawlies, willing to brave the subways, I’ll even, on occasion if need be, brave the tourists in Times Square. But rabies and lyme disease and giardia? Oh my!

When I was a kid, I thought I was an animal lover. I loved dogs, I even the loved the gazillion stray cats that lived in the neighborhood. My parents told me I was an animal lover. There were plenty of breadcrumbs, if I had thought to follow the trail. I hated the chickens at the live poultry place on McDonald Ave. But they were there to be killed, plucked, and taken home for Sunday dinner, the F train roaring and clanking above, so I didn’t think of them as nature. I also didn’t think of them as dinner, I think I stopped eating chicken by the time I was eight. I hated the zoo. But this was before the days when zoos became humane, who could love the scrawny, flea bitten lion tearing into a hunk of bloody raw meat in his cage? I loved the track. I loved Black Beauty. Very exciting. Beautiful animals, those thoroughbred horses. From a distance. Up close, they’re really, really big. Scary. I was an adult before I found myself next to a cow. They’re huge! And they stink. I know how to hold my breath on a steamy day in August when walking down the subway steps, so the waves of funk and urine don’t penetrate. But farm animals? There is no holding your breath for that stench. Pfft, clean smell of manure…I don’t think so.

Thinking back, again, they weren’t so much breadcrumbs on a trail as bright yellow strips of divider on an interstate highway.

Are you living where you want? If you could move, where would you go?

For all my fantasy time, I’m not sure where I want to end up. But I don’t want to be here.

Theater District/Times Square

(Wo)Man Behind The Curtain

Veiled Turkish Woman (1878) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Recently I’ve had a couple of excellent conversations about writing , and a couple more specifically looking at the border between truth and fiction.

Pablo Picasso said art is the lie that tells the truth. Sounds right to me. Sounds true to a lot of writers. Off the top of my head, I can think of at least two books on writing that have a spinoff of that phrase in the title.

If the goal of fiction is to have the reader suspend disbelief, there has to be enough the reader can understand and relate to in order to do so. In walks truth. How much? That’s the $60 question, isn’t it? Personally, I think that’s where the lesson from Greek dramas walks in, it’s all about moderation. Enough reality to make the work relatable, enough fiction to make it an enjoyable read.

Unless, of course, you’re writing a roman a clef (a tell all, a “novel” that shares actual people or events overlaid with a thin veil of fiction). Most of these are interesting only because the protagonist or main event is extraordinary. I don’t know about you, but I can’t think of any event or time period in my life that was so exciting, I could carry a reader through four or five hundred manuscript pages with my daily happenings. Certainly not more than one manuscript, and as a writer, I don’t want to stop at one.

Popcorn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a kid and went to the movies, I would get a popcorn, heavily salted, and a box of Sno-Caps (nonpareils). I would proceed to dump the chocolates into the popcorn, and shake them up. I think writing is that treat. Popcorn is the kernels of truth, chocolate the fiction. Closing your eyes and taking a handful of fiction, mostly chocolate, with varying bursts of salted corn breaking through. Enough to enrich the experience, but not so much that the reader risks cracking a tooth on an unpopped kernel. Blogging, for me, is the opposite; mostly popcorn, just enough chocolate sprinkled in to make it interesting to someone besides myself. Yanno, all six of my readers.

I think this is the real difference between genre fiction, mainstream or contemporary, and literary fiction. Genre having the most chocolate, the balance shifting as you get into longer and or headier novels.

Our tastes change as we age and mature, tastes change with different eras. Classics are classics because there’s enough truth within them to be timeless, but the fiction they’re dressed in might not be accepted in today’s market. Or tomorrow’s.

I wonder what Ernest Hemingway would make of The Real Housewives. How thick do you like your veil of fiction; gauze, lace, brocade?

It takes a huge loom and two people running it to weave these fabric patterns. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brocade (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Splitting Hairs

I need a haircut. In my mind, I look like this:

Nichols as Lieutenant Uhura. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But the mirror shows more like this:

The famous tongue image (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been thinking (read, moaning and groaning to Husband) I need a haircut for about a month now. I know it’s true, because when I walked into Mother-In-Law’s apartment yesterday afternoon, she asked if Flower Child had done my hair for me.

I like to look presentable but I run into several obstacles. 1) I hate looking in the mirror. Truly, I’d rather have the Evil Queen’s mirror (Snow White) than the bitch harping on me from mine.

2) I don’t enjoy going for haircuts, or anything else that involves strangers touching me. Yes, I’m uptight. Accept it, I have.

3) The ever-looming budget. I can get my hair cut next week, but that means I have to skip Friday Night Madness this week. Not a tragedy or a hardship, but a bummer. Even in my broke and Fringe life, I recognize this as a first world obstacle.

4) I haven’t had a haircut in five years that wasn’t interrupted by the school nurse, calling to tell me Flower Child was sick or seizing or both. I haven’t received a phone call from the nurse yet this year, I’d like to stretch this as long as I can.

I don’t dye my hair, it’s salt and pepper and yes, I like it this way. But thanks for giving your best guesstimate on how much younger I’d look and you’d feel if I dyed it. I spend about two weeks googling hairstyles for gray hair before I go. Why? I see the same three images, regardless of year, season, or current styles.

English: Actress Jamie Lee Curtis autographs her books for children in Building 150 at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, Hawaii, April 1, 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Paula Deen holds court (Photo credit: Bristol Motor Speedway & Dragway)

Cruella (Photo credit: KerriNikolePhotography)

Ok, I made up the Cruella one, Emmylou Harris is usually the third photo to pop up. Maybe I should go for Cruella this year. It might just satisfy Mirror.

A Sign

French Press Frieling Ultimo (Photo credit: doubleshot_cz)

This morning, I made coffee using a new French press and an incredible private blend of coffee; both gifted to me yesterday by a friend. I don’t own an American coffee maker. The first time in many years I’ve made coffee using anything other than my old and trusted stovetop espresso maker. Like so many others, coffee is the start to my day. Don’t even say good morning to me until I’ve got the first cup in hand. God forbid the beasts are off schedule and need to be walked before the second. I like the ritual of making that morning pot. I’m not a coffee connoisseur, but I have specific likes and dislikes; the brown dishwater served in most diners is unpalatable.

Sitting here with my second cup, realizing just how long it’s been since I used a French press, and why it feels like the second part of a sign.

English: Divided Road sign used in Australia. Used when road divides to two. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The first part of the sign came last night, in a conversation with another friend. She’s having some health issues, female troubles for polite company. Brought me back almost 20 years, when I hemorrhaged two weeks after the birth of my first son. For anyone who’s never had or witnessed this special experience, there’s no mistaking it. A good thing, because there’s a very, very short window of opportunity to call 911 before you lose consciousness.

I was making an evening pot of coffee with my then loved French Press when I began to hemorrhage. Certainly, depressing the plunger didn’t cause it, but in my overactive mind, there’s such ritual in using a press, the events became connected.

Pretty deep in my universe, to have two moments in one day directly connected to one significant event that took place so long ago. Not a repressed memory, not a hidden memory, but surely not something I think about during morning coffee. Blog? Check. Shower? Check. Walk Dogs? Check. Meds for Flower Child? Check. Hemorrhage? Umm, no.

So, what’s the sign I’m blathering about? In my last post, I wrote about feeling torn as to which WIP (work in progress) I should be tackling. Well, boys and girls, in the first chapter of the hybrid, I used my experience of hemorrhaging. I’m not running out to get my tarot cards read, but I have relatives who “read” coffee grinds. I think I can read the bottom of this cup myself.