In my defense, they still taste delicious. I’ve been working on this recipe, trying to figure out how to get them to hold their shape and not collapse. They’re like a Caribbean flavored popover. Honestly, I’ve never been able to get a regular popover to hold its dome either. I’ve tried preheating the pans, pre-cooling the pans, increasing/decreasing salt, warming the milk–but not totally hot, I don’t understand how people do that without immediately cooking the eggs before the batter is mixed. Nothing has made a difference. One day I’ll find actual popover pans in one of the discount places and see if the shape make a difference. I suspect it won’t.
Here we are, a new year. Once again I considered making resolutions, but didn’t. Funny, I don’t think I ever really considered making New Year’s resolutions until I began blogging. Something about it makes me feel like I should be making grand-yet-attainable declarations of intent. Hmmm. I’m still doing my yoga, albeit less frequently, with shortened sessions. I could make a resolution to blog more regularly, but that would suck the joy out of blogging for me. I’m perfectly content with my sporadic blogging non-schedule. I could resolve to get back to fiction, open that file I started and work on it, but I’m still not sure I want to. I’m a regular cranky old gal living a regular cranky old life. I could resolve to be less cranky, but less cranky = less snarky, where’s the fun in that?
I know! I resolve to figure out how to access and re-import the thousands of photographs that were on my laptop until three days ago, but are now trapped in this little silver rectangular thing that I’m told is an external hard drive. For some bizarre reason, I’m supposed to be happy about this–my laptop is now faster than a speeding bullet! more powerful than a locomotive! able to leap tall buildings in a single bound! well, maybe not that last one. Very nice and all, but I want my pictures back.
For now I offer this Gary Clark Jr video, because we all need great blues to ring in the new year.
Maybe the bones aren’t as strong as they once were, but it’s still standing.
Over the summer I posted about an idea I had for a novel. Not exactly a new idea, it would involve a complete revamp/rewrite of a manuscript I wrote a few years ago. I lamented in advance about all the work that would entail, the time, the energy, the damned hope. I didn’t know if I wanted to. I decided to put the idea to the side and see if both the idea and the urge faded away or took root. It’s taken root, but I still haven’t decided if I’m going to do the work. A couple of weeks ago I wrote an opening, a few hundred words. Not enough for me to call it a WIP (work in progress). The night before Thanksgiving, I decided I absolutely needed to go right then to the neighborhood where it’s set to take some photos, so I can decide exactly where my imaginary house will be in my imaginary manuscript. Just in case, you understand.
While I haven’t been working on anything, I still go on the writer’s forum. I’ve got several friends on there, I’ve been a member for a long time, and there’s a healthy amount of silliness that takes place in the off topic sections. I still read all the threads directly related to writing, though I rarely post on them. So the other morning I was having my second cup of pre-dawn espresso and surfing the writing threads in an attempt to take a break from political overload, and I saw a doozy of a post. Actually, it was a few posts, and I don’t even remember what the thread was supposed to be about in the first place. Someone referenced a sad blog post they had read, about a woman who had been trying to get published for twenty years and was giving up. No other details given, I have no idea who the blogger referenced is, or any of the details of her story.
Imagine my surprise to see a response that said something to the effect of, perhaps readers are lucky she’s giving up, if she couldn’t get anywhere with all that time. Hmmm. Someone else wanting to know what she was doing for all that time. Someone else assuming her work must be poor. And someone else referencing that she’d been failing longer than they’d been alive, and she should try something else. Well, let me just say Mrs Fringe had quite a difficult time restraining herself from sending them to their rooms. (no, I’m not a mod there and have 0 authority) Maybe the time out corner, for 7 or 12 or 17 years. Or as I like to call the time-out corner, life. Again, I have no idea what else was going on in that woman’s life over the course of those twenty years, how much time was spent actually writing, or submitting. It doesn’t matter, because one thing I’m sure of is that writing wasn’t the only thing she was doing. Because life does happen, to all of us, whether we’re creative geniuses, no talent hacks, prim and proper accountants or women of a certain age.
Even though I wasn’t actually a part of the conversation, and no one was actually speaking to me, I was annoyed. Feeling sensitive, because they’re asking the same questions and making the same deprecating comments I’ve been making about myself. Some of it has to do with the writing, yes, questioning the value of my words and stories. How do you measure the value of these things, anyway? Because that, I think, is the crux of it for me. What is the value? If there is no measurable value without success, what is my value? Being a woman of a certain age without clear markers of success, feeling the negative pressure, maybe I’m supposed to just fade out quietly; stop making a fuss, stop dreaming, move out of the way of the younger generations, and for God’s sake stop cursing so much. Well, that last part is never going to fucking happen.
I don’t know if I’m going to write that manuscript. But if I don’t, it won’t be because of how many years have or have not passed since I first said hey, I’d like to see my words in a book, on a shelf, and be paid a dollar for them. I’ve been busy.
The internet is aflame with gun arguments right now, impassioned and extreme on both sides. On one site I’m a member of, I read a comment in defense of private citizens keeping themselves armed (without stricter regulations) to the effect of for those of us who don’t live in ivory towers…live in the real world…danger…needing a weapon…and a few cities were named, to make the point that (s)he was not referencing bucolic pastures or suburban houses made of ticky-tacky. That specific comment really struck me, because as a city dweller I’ve always thought of this as an issue for those who don’t live in cities. People living in wide open spaces who don’t have police and police stations within spitting distance, and of course, visions (fed by the media, no personal experience) of compounds populated by paranoid folks who don’t trust the commie gubmint. Obviously there are criminals with guns here in the city, law enforcement officers, and those who work in the Diamond District, but nope, I don’t know of any neighbors who are campaigning to keep legal arsenals.
Several of my online friends who aren’t American have been asking me questions, all pretty much boiling down to a blend of what-the-fuck? why? guns? and America?
I touched on this in my last post, but I want to talk about this a bit more, and hope readers will join the conversation. You’re welcome to agree or disagree with me, but no personal attacks or blanket slurs. While Americans have a common bond by definition, our experiences of life in America–what constitutes the “real world,” varies greatly, and that plays a huge part in individual stances.
Maybe you grew up with inappropriate jokes about those who lived in the Bronx. Or Detroit, or Chicago. I grew up with inappropriate jokes about places in big sky country (is that a nickname for an actual place or an idea?), where the men were men and the sheep were nervous. Shouldn’t we be past all that now?
You all know Mrs Fringe is a New Yawkah; born here, raised here, guessing I’ll collect social security here too. I ride the subways every day. I’m not wealthy, never have been. When I was younger, I worked in downtown Brooklyn, when it was very, very different from the artsy, hipster paradise it is today. Our office was next to the Brooklyn Arms Hotel, and every day on my way from the subway station, I’d feel the crack vials crunch under my feet while I rushed past the Brooklyn Arms Hotel (a particularly notorious welfare hotel) and hoped I didn’t get clipped in the head by something flying out a window–’cause that happened regularly. Of course, I wasn’t first starting my day when I went into the office, that was after three hours of “field work,” which involved walking through neighborhoods that weren’t part of any tourist attractions, and visiting clients who weren’t particularly happy to see my smiling face at 7am. Sometimes I was walking those streets at 1am, because of a late shift or an emergency–and trust me, this was long before New York was spit shined and spiffed up. I’m not trying to glorify life in the city or America, there’s crime, there are problems, and yes, I’ve had a moment or ten where I’ve been frightened.
I don’t live in the roughest neighborhood, it’s one that’s been “gentrified.” I’m not young, I remember when it wasn’t. Gentrified in (most of) NY means there’s still a good mix of everyone–race, culture, and economics–sharing the same block and the same public schools. Three kids, three elementary schools, and two of those elementary schools were classified as Title I schools. Title I means there’s a high percentage of children who come from low-income families who qualify for free/reduced lunch. If you’re unfamiliar, trust me, your income has to be pretty damned low for your kids to qualify for free lunch, and yes, here in Fringeland, we’ve had many years where our kiddos qualified because life.
On my block there are a mix of residences. Google tells me one brownstone is on the market for $6 million dollars, average for the block and neighborhood. Next to it is a housing project (yanno, the projects), there’s a small building that I think is a co-op (a very NY thing, you buy your apartment, but technically you own shares in the building, not your apartment, so everything you want or do–including the purchase of the place–has to be approved by the co-op board, generally a bunch of residents who take pleasure in agonizing over awning colors and making residents jump through as many hoops as possible), and there’s my building, which is part of a program from the 60’s/70’s designed to keep working class people in the city. One block over starts the SROs and a couple of shelters. Wikipedia says SROs are for one or two people, but I know plenty of families that live in those one room dwellings. Regardless of which address they live in, I recognize most of the long term faces on the block and immediate neighborhood, and they recognize me, too. We smile, nod, maybe say Happy Holidays. My family’s experience of America is quite different than that of the family in a brownstone up the street, and different again than that of a family in the projects.
Even if I only look within my building, there’s a mix of skin colors, ethnicities and cultural backgrounds; I know of at least ten different languages spoken within these bricks, twelve different religions, atheists–likely more, this is NY, we don’t talk personal religion all that much. Multicultural is a fact of life here, not a talking point, and definitely not something that strikes fear in my heart. So what’s my point?
We’ve got a lot of questions that need to be discussed and examined, but more guns can’t possibly be the answer. If your experience of America is different than mine, that’s part of what makes America what it is. It doesn’t invalidate my experience any more than mine invalidates yours. Let’s talk about what’s real, what it is to live in x city, x suburb, x town; talk about it based on real life experiences, not phantoms of what could happen based on shadows and misdirection. Maybe you’d be afraid if you found yourself on a subway platform at 1am and saw a few of my neighbors waiting for the 2 train. I’m pretty sure I’d piss my pants if I found myself faced with a bear in the woods. Hell, I run into the house when I’m visiting friends in New Jersey and a deer steps into their backyard. But my world is still real, thankyouverymuch. Real city, real New Yawk, real America. There have been quite a few times where I wished I had cab fare, but I never wished for a gun.
Today is Thanksgiving here in the US. I was going to muse on why we still celebrate this holiday–a holiday that continues to glamorize Native American genocide, food waste, shopping for shit we don’t need, and canned cream of mushroom soup. I’ve posted about being tired of the tremendous amount of work to prepare and cook for this holiday for the past few years. I’ve said how much I used to love this day, but haven’t in a while. Yes, every year I swear never again, and yet here I am, one eye on the clock because the shelves in my fridge are warping under the weight of foods waiting to be cooked.
I was going to muse about what America means. President Obama tells us these hideous pronouncements of wall building and turning our backs on refugees aren’t what we stand for. I like Obama, I like what he stands for, and I agree that it shouldn’t be. But let’s be honest, America has a long history of fighting to reject immigrants and refugees, an even longer history of racism.
If you are someone who believes “freedom of religion” includes all religions, if you believe “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses…” is still valid today, this is an exhausting and often disheartening time. I still hear people moaning that only English should be spoken in America. Sigh. English is the language of the US, and it doesn’t take a damned thing away from anyone when other languages are also spoken. Not only doesn’t it take anything away, it’s a bonus. “Global community” isn’t just a phrase for Facebook and college admissions essays.
The thing is, sappy as it might sound, I still love the idea of Thanksgiving. The sentiment of it, anyway. I like the idea of a day to stop and pay attention to the privilege of enough to eat, having people in our lives whom we love and love us. Should having enough to eat be a privilege? I don’t think so, but it is. I know it is when I look at the photos of the Syrian refugee camps. I know it is when I walk down the streets and through the subways, seeing those who are homeless and hungry. My children have attended schools with classmates who live in mansions, brownstones, projects, and shelters. When you know this, when you know the kiddo waiting for their turn with the brown crayon right next to your kiddo, sharing Saltines and apple juice with your kiddo, isn’t going home to a full table, it isn’t theoretical. Yes, yes, we should all give thanks every day for what we have, but really, many of us don’t.
I’m not going to post a million Thanksgiving food pictures. Have faith, Fringelings, my cranberries are glistening in their zinfandel bath and the skin on my pernìl is crisped just so. I will post a few pics from the past weeks that make me smile, and hope they do the same for you.
Love when I luck into a decent shot of the moon.
This guy comes to visit me regularly, but I suspect he’s going to fly south soon.
zoanthid colony in the tank.
Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate, and if not, happy Thursday.
Look up, look down, but whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.
In case you’re an American who doesn’t know because you’re oh…dead and buried in a hidden cave, Pope Francis is in town. Now, I like this pope, I like the things he says, I like the things he does even more, and I think he’ll make great strides worldwide with his emphasis on humanity, compassion, and service. I’m happy for those who are thrilled for the opportunity to see him and hear him speak.
But for the love of all, could you learn how to train before you walk into the subway? The stations and the train lines are all packed, overflowing with papal tourists and delays. This morning I think I saw every outer borough character I’ve ever written.
On the Shuttle:
“Mary, there’s a seat, go sit down.”
Mary clamps her lips together and shakes her head so hard her pin curls are quivering.
“You don’t like that seat? I’ll sit instead of you.”
“I don’t want any seat, Timothy, not just that seat.”
Timothy turns to the man in the seat next to him. “I only ride the train once every ten years or so, what about you?”
Man next to him lifts one side of his headphones, “Every day.”
“You must have a lot of extra time on your hands. What does it take you, hours to do your hair like that every day?”
Man touches his dreadlocks, looks across at me (guess I’ve got the stamp of a regular subway rider tattooed on my face), and laughs. “I do it while I’m on the trains.”
***
On the platform:
“Steven!! Get away from the edge, you’re going to fall in!”
***
“Oh my GAWD, is that a rat?”
***
“Is it always so hot in here?”
***
On the 2:
Group of senior women in their very best rhinestone studded Juicy Couture, talking at a young man in workout gear. “I’m tellin ya, they’ve got the best pizza on 18th Avenue, you’ve gotta go to Brooklyn.”
“Uh, ok, thanks.”
“Whaddya telling him that for, Rosemary? Don’t listen to her, honey, you’ve gotta go for the clams at Campagnoli’s.”
Pained nod from the young man.
All four lean in to him before they get off the train. “With spaghetti!”
***
There’re two things regular NYC subway riders get every day, and one of those is religion. Jehovah’s Witnesses seem to be the most organized, tables set up and staffed at many stations, 3 in Grand Central, politely waiting for those who appear interested. Many different Christian denominations can be found with signs and pamphlets. Every so often, outside the stations there’ll be a group of Orthodox Jewish men, offering…baptisms? conversions? in trailers. Last week there was a group of off-key Hare Krishnas singing and soliciting donations, bright marigold robes practically glowing in the tunnels. Then of course there are those there to alert us to Armageddon.
What exactly is a whoremonger, anyway?
The other thing you get in the subways daily? Music. Often great music. I’ll admit, I’m not into the guys who’ve made instruments out of saws and violin bows, but they have their followers. And it would be fine if the trumpets would hold off until, say, 10am. But yeah, music is the perk of a sizable commute on and around the trains.
I love when these guys pop in.
Yes indeed, that’s the back of a one-man-band. An optimistic one, with a 5-gallon Home Depot bucket for a tip jar.
I know, I know, for most visiting today it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, an honor. Couldn’t they have scheduled this for one of the two days off the public schools had this week?
I think it’s just an empty bed, because the nest surrounding it is filled with the laundry that gets washed but doesn’t go in the dryer, so there’s a forest of detergent-scented shirts and undies to hack through. And of course, I still have one child at home.
But let’s go ahead and talk about the empty nest thing. The other day on Facebook, I saw a short video meant to tug at the heartstrings and tear ducts of women my age and up (all with gray or white hair, yes!!) giving individual answers to what they’d have done differently. All said some variation of they’d have slowed down, appreciated the small moments, snuggles, hugs, bedtime delays, etc more than they did. Ok, fair enough, and it was a nice little video, but my immediate thought was, I did all that. I did all that, and I wish I had done a little (not a lot, but a little) less of that.
When I was a kid I swore that when I grew up, I was going to have children, keep them, let them feel how loved they were, know they came first, devote my everything to them while encouraging independence. Check. I’m glad I’m a mom, glad I spent the time, feel somewhat confident that I’ve done and continue to do the best I can. Mistakes made? Check. Decisions I regret? Check. But I not only adore my kiddos, I like them, like spending time with them, love hearing the laughter, and feel like the most miserable, useless human being on the face of the earth when they cry. When they were little, Husband and I practiced attachment parenting; holding them until they fell asleep–in our room–, I breastfed for a combined total of 8000 years, and agonized over which toy, what rules, which foods, and on and on.
I thought, because I was aware and making a conscious choice to center my world around them, I wouldn’t lose myself. To some degree, that’s been true. I wouldn’t resent them. That’s certainly true. I remembered to maintain my friendships and get “grown-up” time. I didn’t stop listening to the music I loved, didn’t stop reading anything other than the Scholastic Book catalogue, didn’t let my life be ruled by playdates and mommy and me classes. Still, looking back, I wish I had nudged myself and my writing just a little higher on the to-do list.
During those early years, I heard a fair amount of backlash. “you’re pregnant again?” “you’re still nursing?” And of course the whispers I wasn’t meant to hear but did, “those kids are never going to be independent.” “never going to wean.” Yawn. The same whisperers who swore my kids would never be able to fall asleep without me let alone become functioning adults, murmured again when each boy left for boarding school. “I can’t believe she’s sending her kids away!” Yawn. For the 492nd time, I didn’t send them away, I allowed them to go. Not just semantics. Boarding school isn’t the best choice for every kid for many different reasons, but it was for two of mine.
So this video has stayed on my mind. This morning I saw a link and discussion about another video. I didn’t click the link, just read the discussion, about a commercial being aired (in Asia, maybe?) about a mom sitting alone, miserable because her nest is empty and the kid(s) hasn’t called, even though she devoted her every everything to this ingrate. Call your muthah. The discussion was all about how terrible it is for women to center their lives around their children, it’s their own fault, unrealistic expectations, excessive guilt trips, and a few posts about this-is-why-I-choose-not-to-have-children. Fair enough. There are many reasons to choose not to have children, and I believe all should be accepted. #1, it’s nobody else’s fucking business and #2, parenting is long and hard no matter what parenting philosophy you subscribe to, with absolutely no guarantees about anything; not whether you’ll enjoy it, feel good about it, have a good relationship when all is said and done, or whether or not those kiddos will be healthy and sound enough to grow up and become independent.
The other day was my birthday, and I have to say, it was an excellent day. I woke to flowers from Husband, Art Child made me a fantastic card, Man Child messaged me from Italy (unexpected, I figured he’d still be jet lagged and getting his legs under him), Nerd Child not only called me, but happened to be with someone I’m a big, long time fan of, and the man got on the phone and wished me a happy birthday! I stayed in my pajamas until the afternoon, got several texts and phone calls from friends, and my buddy El Fab came over for dinner. Would I have been angry if the boys hadn’t remembered and contacted me? Given them lectures, guilt trips, and slide shows about why they should have? Nope, but it sure was beautiful that each remembered me.
It seems natural, logical to me that at the other end of this parenting gig (sure, you’re a parent forever, but there is usually a point where the kiddo develops their own life, be it from the basement apartment, across state lines, or on another continent) and there’s a period of, dare I say it? Wondering what’s next. Maybe even feeling a bit of emptiness. When someone spends years building a career and then stops working, it’s the subject of good natured teasing, maybe even compassion, “(s)he doesn’t know what to do with himself.” I don’t hear a whole lot of “I told her not to make so much damned money…be such a dedicated worker…if he had put more into it, he wouldn’t be miserable now…eventually she had to retire!” I definitely haven’t seen any videos floating around chastising retirees.
We are all individuals, same as our children are. I know parents with adult children who speak to their children every single day, see them twice a week, and live within spitting distance of each other, can’t conceive of going a month without seeing each other. They’re living their lives, and happy. I know parents with adult children who speak once a week, see each other once every month or two, live a couple of hours away from each other, living their lives, and happy. Some live in different countries, speak when they can, and are thrilled if they see each other every year or two. Others live around the corner from each other, or thousands of miles away, and don’t speak at all, too many years of anger and resentment. And then there are some who have experienced the terrible, unimaginable heartbreak of losing a child to illness, drugs, or violent crime. Yes, we can (do?) all look back and see moments where we wish we had made different choices. For ourselves, for our families. I sure as hell can’t look back at someone else’s life from my living room and my perspective and tell them what they should have done. Does this make me a bad feminist as well as a bad mama?
After all these years of mama-ing, hindsight leads me to this one question: When are we going to stop with the judgmental bullshit? Call me crazy, but I don’t think there’s one right way to parent, one right way to live, one right way to be independent.
The purpose of art is washing the daily dust off of our souls~Pablo Picasso
After the fiasco of our adventures on Friday I was more than ready for a good day. So, on Sunday afternoon, Husband’s cousin, Miss Sweet Heart, met Man Child, Art Child and I at our apartment and we headed downtown to the Washington Square Outdoor Art Exhibit. Yes, Art Child and I went a few months ago (the show is put on twice a year, Memorial Day weekend and Labor Day weekend) but it’s well worth revisiting. Some of the artists are the same (new work and old) and others were new to us.
Man Child and Miss Sweet Heart haven’t seen each other in a couple of years, so that alone made the day beautiful. Add in a day trip, trains that ran on time, art that is exciting and inspiring, generous artists, and it was damn near perfect. One of the things that made it so special was that several of the artists we chatted with last time remembered Art Child. Made her day, and mine. I’m continually impressed by how many in the art community are willing to take and make time for a young artist, offer ideas and encouragement.
Remember the artist with the amazing tree-woman sculpture last time? Anthony Santella was back with new work. I didn’t think anything could be more perfect than the last bust I posted photos of, but I was mistaken. Last time we saw him at the WSAOE, he gifted Art Child with a nail-studded heart he had carved, it holds a place of honor on her desk. Turns out he blogged about meeting her. Hmm, for some reason the link doesn’t take you directly to the post. From the about page, click on his blog, and then May 2015 in his archives, Sunday, May 24th, Day #144 of #MakeArt365. (Spend time checking out his site, well worth it.) Me, blabberfingers extraordinaire, can’t find the words for how beautiful it is to see my girl in this setting, with adult artists taking her and her work seriously, no one caring (in a good way) about academics, neurological status, sluggish reflexes, size, blah, blah, blah.
Isn’t she wonderful?
Out of budget for us, but oh how I wish.
Looking at the sculpture above got my mind racing, how could I write her into Wanna-Bees, change a character? add a new one? I was about to ask Mr. Santella if he would mind if I “wrote her,” but then I didn’t. I’m just not ready to write.
Besides the wood sculptures, he has paintings and smaller sculptures made from 3-D printing. Art Child purchased one of his paintings from a group he had tucked away, older works. Funny enough, she was drawn to those he made when not much older than she, and still in high school. I bought a little 3D printed woman, maybe 2 1/2 inches with the base. She’s looking down at me from the shelf over my desk now.
The lighting is too harsh in this photo, but it highlights the details.
Tomorrow the craziness of a new school year for the girl will begin. Thank you for letting us wash the dust off, and start fresh.
How does he manage to end the bottle of shampoo exactly when he’s leaving?
Oh Summer, why do you always end so quickly? Not quite over yet, but Nerd Child goes back to school tomorrow. At this point I’ll be lucky to squeeze in one more beach day. This is our ninth year of watching at least one of the boys pack for the beginning of the school year, and yet it never, ever gets easier. And this is a big year. Art Child is going into high school, Nerd Child is in his last year of high school, and Man Child won’t be in school at all. Almost three months past and still a huge thought, that my oldest is a college graduate.
Once August begins, posts from friends in other parts of the country begin creeping into my newsfeed, showing me back to school pictures and advertisements. For the first week or so, I resent it–in New York we’re only halfway through. But by the third week, I’m in countdown mode, insomnia increasing even as I remember soon enough sleeping late won’t be an option; knowing it’s only a matter of time before I’m frantically filling out paperwork, asking for the eighth time if he’s sure he packed enough shampoo to last him until Thanksgiving. You’d think he was headed to Antarctica instead of New England, with no readily available drugstores.
I should be happy and excited for all of them. Art Child is going to a school that seems like it will be a good fit for her, a small and welcoming community. Not an art school, but she can and will continue with her Saturday art classes. Man Child will be home for about a week, and then he’s off to Europe for several months, with a job and housing lined up. Nerd Child is poised for an excellent year, and there’s no reason to think he won’t have at least a couple of great options for college once it’s all said and done.
Sure I’ll have a little more room when the amps clear out.
I’d say I won’t find picks underfoot constantly, but that’d be a lie. Those things multiply like Legos.
on the floor
on the table….
He should have begun packing this morning, but instead he headed downtown to the super sekrit, super awesome word-of-mouth-only luthier who made his guitar in order to get it adjusted.
Now he’s home, and should be packing. I should be yelling at him to pack. I should be reminding him to keep working on his application essays. But he’s playing, and I’m listening.
Here, have a café con leche on the terrace with me.
Yesterday was my 3 year blogoversary.
3 years isn’t that long and my number of subscribers isn’t very large in the context of the “big” blogs, but I can say, without reservation, it all feels pretty damned fine to me.
When I began, I didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted Mrs Fringe to look like, or exactly what it would encompass. I said from the beginning (and have continued to say) I wanted a space to be honest, to feel like a whole person, and a spot to prompt myself to write with just enough pressure but no actual, strict obligations. Maybe I thought it would scratch my writing itch. It hasn’t, in terms of fiction; instead, it’s an addition. I didn’t know how much I needed it, or how important this blog would become to me, my sense of self, or the growing number of fabulous people I’d meet through blogging. I didn’t know I’d grow bold enough to post fiction, organized enough to create multiple pages with permanent links under the header in hopes of making navigation easier for readers. I didn’t know if it would attract any readers, let alone regular followers and commenters, but it has, and I thank every one of you for taking the time, making the effort. A huge thank you to WordPress, for offering a platform that even a luddite like myself could navigate.
It’s funny how blogging has become such a part of my world. As I go about my days in real time/space, each experience becomes a possible post, every oddity that catches my eye something that has me reaching for the camera.
The other day I took Art Child downtown, for a free workshop for teen artists, sponsored/presented by Sprite and Complex, hosted by Pen & Pixel.
While we were on line waiting to meet Art Child’s friend and her mom, I thought this is what life on the economic fringe in New York means, this is what Mrs Fringe is about.
Sprite Corner: Obey Your Thirst, yes
Life on the fringe has its own set of stresses and stressors. There are so many, many opportunities here in New York, often closed to those of us on strict budgets. But sometimes you fall into something that’s cool, and free, and you actually get your shit together and register early enough to get your kiddo into this cool, free opportunity, and haul yourself on the 2 train to the N train to the J train, to a neighborhood that can’t quite decide if it’s going to gentrify or remain industrial, and it’s worth it. They’re running several events out of this pop-up storefront this summer, this one was a Photoshop/Design workshop, but they’re sponsoring others in music, comedy, cooking, and film. It’s about supporting and enabling creativity in young people.
Tattoo while I wait?
Free (good!) pizza offered for the kids before entering.
I thought there would be a spot where I could sit out of the way, or go in for coffee, while the girl was in the workshop. Hmm, my choice seemed to be browsing industrial-sized cooking appliances or blowing a week’s budget in a chi-chi juice bar. But then one of the execs came over to my friend and I as we were saying goodbye to the girls (I get it, parents hovering over the kids at the computers isn’t exactly the photo ops they’re looking for, plus he wanted to confirm Art Child was within the age group they’re insured for, she looks younger) and offered to buy us coffee. Nice.
By the time we were seated and our orders were taken, coffee became wine and a lovely food plate, and I had put in a plug for Mrs Fringe–I really need to get better at this, if I’m ever going to truly grow this blog–and we spent an hour talking about parenting, cyberbullying, encouraging teens and young adults, raising girls, and S&M.
Sometimes life in Fringeland leads me to some pretty interesting moments and people; thank you for sharing them with me.
The no current project desk, much messier than the working desk.
It’s a thinking out loud post today, Fringelings, because yesterday, this thing, this moment, this feeling happened.
This is the feeling I get with certain story ideas. It’s an all-in-one jumble of a dangerous high; excitement, nerves, stomach flipping, blood pressure rising, false clarity–the lie of meeting someone in a bar and being certain this is the one.
Not everyone who writes gets this feeling, I’m told. That said, I’m not special, because I know a few others who do.
Why is this a problem? Because this isn’t a short story idea. If you’re a regular follower/reader, you know I don’t want to write any more full length manuscripts. I’ve spent the last how-many-months trying to make peace with acceptance, with the need to accept that it is never going to happen. Too many dreams, too much want, these things make it so damned hard to accept now, to accept what it is. Even the ideal is nonsensical, “I don’t want to want.”
One way or the other, writing is hard work, and it’s all about want. For me. Yes, I know, there are those who are completely content writing for themselves, don’t care if they ever get published, but as I’ve said many times before, that isn’t me. I write to be read. Which is why I don’t want to write any more full length manuscripts. It’s a huge investment. I don’t have the means to make huge investments. I haven’t been putting any effort into thinking of novel ideas, I don’t want them.
But I have this idea, and it’s giving me the feeling. So here’s where I have to decide, do I take yet another chance, sink months, maybe years, fucking hope! into yet another manuscript that will ultimately be another fun house mirror reflecting my delusions of people-will-want-to-read-my-words? More significantly, the delusion that a publishing professional will believe my words can earn them money? I’m sorry, but yes, I care about that end of writing. I’m not pure, haven’t discovered and embraced the Tao of the words themselves. I would like to be that evolved, but I’m not. And I’m exhausted thinking about this, putting these thoughts into a blog post.
Just in case having this idea giving me this feeling isn’t shit enough, the idea isn’t even original. It would be taking the manuscript I wrote before Astonishing and ripping it apart, removing the romance, keeping the bits I like and then completely rewriting and restructuring it. I’m not sure I have the skill to do such a thing.
Remember those tomato seeds I planted in my little terrace garden? Two types, Roma and Cherries. They didn’t turn out as expected. The ones that grow to full size have blossom end rot. I get all excited, seeing those full green fruits as they turn red, and then, when I pick them, the undersides are clearly too damaged to eat. But most aren’t reaching their full size, they stop growing when they’re about the size of blueberries. I’ve been picking and eating a few every morning, right off the plants, with my coffee on the terrace. They’re sweet, tiny but lush.
Art Child and I have taken to calling them tomato berries.
If I allow this seed of an idea to germinate, give it time, water, sun, and sweat into my keyboard until it bears fruit, what will I get? One of the tomatoes that looks perfect until you get close, see the results of calcium deficient soil, bones that aren’t strong enough to support a full manuscript? Or will I get that little pop of warm perfection, not what’s expected but right in and of itself. Is it worth trying?
At the moment, I just don’t know. Every brain cell is telling me not to do this, swallow the idea and push it further down my digestive tract.
For the moment, I’ll do nothing. I’ll leave it alone, see if not feeding it makes this idea disappear, lets my guts return to a normal pace. A week, two weeks, a few months, a year. If it stays, though, well, maybe I’ll open that old file, see what does or doesn’t come to mind when I reread, if I find myself reaching for the composition book with the original notes for the story (oddly enough, it isn’t packed away, but still in a top cubby of my desk), writing a few new ones.
mrsfringe 