Wendy Thornton

We had a great writers' meeting today.  The library was packed, the readings from our new literary magazine were phenomenal and it was nice to see something so successful that I'm involved in.  (I'm president of the group and the literary magazine was my idea - www.writersalliance.org ).  It's so nice to see something come to fruition that you've worked hard for.

One of our very famous local poets, who has published fifteen books of poetry, came to the meeting today and later sent me an e-mail congratulating me on the organization. She has spoken twice for our group and she was very complimentary about how well everything is going.

Still, there are some issues.  I'm done with the presidency at the end of this year and boy am I glad.  It was so much work, so many difficult personalities (including mine - hey, I ain't totally clueless!).  I'll be glad to have some spare time again.  But to see that many people show up, to listen to those readings, to know that the list of speakers we have coming in for the rest of the year is so impressive, to see how this organization has grown and prospered, makes me feel like I've accomplished something.

But not enough.  Oh, no, I'm not done yet.  Somehow, I want to get the kids involved.  There has to be a way.  Ken and I are batting around an idea.  We want to start an on-line literary magazine that would include videotaped productions of the kids doing spoken word poetry.  We'd like to get some of that incredible talent that the young folks are displaying and throwing away without a backward glance into some sort of permanent form.  We want it to be edgy and fun, but well done, too.  (Believe me, there are lots of edgy, fun, CRAPPY journals out there.  You'd think the F word was THE.

But for now, I sit here relaxing in my new swivel rocker chair outside at my new glass table.  I'm turning into my grandmother.  Nana could sit outside for hours, just listening to the birds.  I'm watching them fly all around me, cardinals and sparrows and crows fighting with everybody and swallows, wrens, all of them trilling and squawking around me.  I have a million things to do, but I can't tear myself away.  The sun is getting lower, the air is cooling, there's a wonderful breeze blowing and it's so quiet and peaceful out here, except for the birds.  I'm sure the cats are sitting inside going, "If you don't feed us soon, we're going to eat the damn dogs."  But it's just so hard to go inside on such a beautiful day. There's a psalm that contains the line, "This is a day the lord has made/let us rejoice and be glad in it."  I'm not a big Bible verse quoter but on a day like this, it's easy to see why people believe.

There's a great old song by Danny O'Keefe, Good Time Charlie's Got the Blues. 

Everybody's going away/Said they're moving to LA/There's not a soul I know around. Everybody's leavin' town/Some gotta win, some gotta lose/Good time Charlie's got the blues.

(Lyrics© Warner/Chappel Music, Inc.  Danny O'Keefe). 

Last night I said goodbye to a couple of people who have been real inspirations to me, Jimmy Fishhawke and Johnny Rocket.  Jimmy is a radical, revolutionary, who ran the poetry jam at the Civic Media Center for 18 years.  He's leaving with his girlfriend who got a job in another city.  Says he'll be back in a year or so.

Johnny Rocket, a transgendered girl who wants to be a man, is going with her love, a woman getting her PhD, to Costa Rica.  Says she'll be back in a couple of years.  Over the years, I've watched Rocket fall in an out of love with a variety of women, get hurt and bounce back.  I'm so happy she has finally found someone who really seems to be the love of her life.

I don't know if they'll make it back or not - some people do, some people don't.  When you live in a college town, you get used to the transient nature of friendships.  It used to bother me when people moved on.  In many cases they invited me to go with them, but I'm stuck like glue to this place that has become my home.  I might move to St. Augustine if I can ever afford a house directly on the beach, but otherwise, I'm planted right here.  But I always miss the people who leave.

Jimmy was so kind to me - I was such a nervous wreck when I first came to the CMC.  Some nights, I just couldn't do it - couldn't read at all.  He never tried to force me to get up.  He'd call on me and if I just couldn't work up the courage, he'd move on to the next person without making a big deal about my freeze up.  And Rocket, she would bring in these beautiful romantic poems in about the women she was dating, or wild, romantic poems about religion or nature.  Last night someone made jokes about how her poems could not be understood.  Ahh, but they can be!

When people used to leave, I would get so miserable.  I dated a man once, the youngest Chemistry professor in the history of UF.  When he left for California, he invited me to go with him and I said no.  For years I wondered if I'd made a mistake.  Of course, if I'd gone with him, I wouldn't have met George, wouldn't have my daughter Jessica, wouldn't have met Ken, or had Bryan.

When Marilyn went away, I thought we'd never see each other again.  And we didn't for years.  We completely lost touch and I was so upset.  But now, here we are, all these later, best friends again, planning our golden years :).  Change is good sometimes.  Change is necessary frequently.  I guess since Johnny and Jimmy have left the CMC, I'm going to have to find a new place to read.  Maybe I'll even have to set up my own venue somewhere to encourage all those anti-social poets to get out there in public.  But I'm going to miss their inspiration. 

 

 

I didn't do any of the things I had on my list this weekend.  But it was a spectacularly productive weekend anyway.  Yesterday I went to a movie with Ken and Marilyn, the Avengers.  The thing is, Marilyn just lost her old dog of 13 years a couple of days ago and she was totally devastated. She picked the movie, a totally enjoyable moment of light entertainment.  She picked us to go with, because she knew we'd understand.  She knew if she broke down in the middle of the movie, it would be okay. 

I get this knowledge from my mother.  She always knew when other people needed something.  She wasn't the type of person to push herself into the lives of others.  It's just that everyone knew she'd be there when they needed her.  That they could call and she'd be there. There was something very satisfying about that.  If you needed something, she'd just be available.  For both my parents, the old saying was true, they would literally give you the shirt off their backs.  But my mom always knew when you needed more, when no material thing factor was sufficient to ease your pain.  Time and compassion, even when she had no time.  Everything would stop while your problems were dealt with.

And of course, both my parents passed along to their kids the knowledge that every pet is a family member.  My dad used to rescue animals all the time and bring them home.  We once had a cat he swore was an ocellot.  Right.  Whatever.  There's a story that he once saw some friends throwing another car around when he was a boy.  They were using the cat as a football.  "Throw it to me, throw it to me," he shouted.  They threw it to him - and he ran home with it.  My grandmother told me that story.

I had a dog when I was born.  My mother heard a friend of hers was going to put the dog to death because it was vicious.  She brought it home.  That vicious dog, Lassie, was my dearest companion for 12 years.

So I understand when someone says, as Marilyn did, that she's not doing so good, and then suddenly is hysterical on the phone and can't talk for a few minutes and then tells me her dog had to be put to sleep and did I want to go to a movie.  Hell, yeah, I'll be there.

When we got home, I was going to work on some things on my - wait for it - six page list.  But I started reading an article in a magazine and then, all of a sudden. I'd read the whole magazine, half a book, and it was one o'clock in the morning.  I get that from my mother.  The ability to lose myself in a book or a magazine, the ability to entertain myself without any help from anyone else.  To be without boredom - oh, God, if I only had enough time to read all the books I want to read!  What a joy to have such a problem.

This morning, we went kayaking on Lake Melrose.  We're not very good at it yet - I had to be pushed off by Ken - I couldn't get my feet and my boatin the water at the same time.  Ken stopped to talk to some guy who was out canoing and I continued on from the inlet into the lake. For a moment, I was all alone, watching a blue heron fly over the edge of the mangrove trees, enjoying the bath a very fearless cardinal took right next to me, catching a glimpse of an anhinga as he dried his wings.  A breeze blew across the water, ruffling the surface ever so slightly, blowing across my cheeks like a soft touch.  Total silence except the birds and the crickets and the sound of that breeze.  My father taught me this - to stop for a moment and catch your breath and see everything around you and appreciate what is real.  And my mother, with all the beauty of the poetry she taught me, showed me how to capture it.

And then of course, there's family.  We can never forget that - that the most important thing is family.  I go out to eat with my daughter, son-in-law and new grandchild.  They give me gifts - a photo of all of them in a silver frame, a water bottle, a lunch holder.  And a CD with dozens of beautiful photos.  This too is what I learned from my parents, that nothing you have, nothing you do can match the joy of a child's smile.

Wow, I don't know what's going on but everyone seems to be having a creative passage right now.  Maybe it's the beautiful spring weather.  One of my pod members wants me to review a synopsis for him - an agent has requested his novel - very exciting!  One of our grad students in Digital Worlds wants me to review her the written portion of a digital program she's submitting in Paris next week.  One of my old editing clients wants me to help her submit a book to a contest.  And my friend Marilyn wants me to write a book with her about her specialty.

Now, I will grant you, none of these things is for pay.  But maybe if I help them for free now, someday I can do this to make some extra money.  Marilyn and I, of course, would split any profits on her book.  I thought we were going to write a children's book together - now all of a sudden, we're writing a formal psychology book on birth order and relationships.  In my spare time :).  And I have three dissertations to edit this summer.  Good bye, beach.

One nice thing, though, a faculty member just told me that the book I bought for his daughter, Goodnight Moon, is her favorite book.  He told me she can't go to sleep without it.  Boy do I remember those days.  Bryan had it memorized - I couldn't even skip a page!

And I got to spend this past weekend doing a coast to coast trip.  Saturday I went with Marilyn to St. Augustine and we just hung out in our usual places talking about our potential book.  Sunday we took the kids and Jackson to the Cedar Key Art Festival.  It's a good thing I got something fun in this weekend, because I have a feeling, judging from how work is going so far, that this is goin to be the week from hell.  Oh well, never a dull moment!

This morning, on Good Morning, America, we were introduced to Florence Colgate, the girl who beat out 8,000 other women to become the ultimate natural beauty in Britain.  This girl is so gorgeous it’s staggering.  She looks like she has makeup on, blushing cheeks, perfectly colored lips, eyes so blue they surely should be contact lenses, and hair the ultimate light blonde every blonde is seeking when they go for the bottle.  (Hey, I used to have that hair color naturally.)

Florence is truly a lovely girl and she seems very sweet and down-to-earth.  She comes by it honestly – her mother is also beautiful.  But she says in the GMA clip, “Fruit is really good for your skin, and also water, like drinking lots of water.”  Oh, come on.  Really?  Florence could eat cake all day and drink simple syrup and she’d still look like that.  Why – genes!  She has fantastic genes.

And why is this so important?  Because men look for beautiful women to procreate.  It’s survival of the species, Baby!  And frankly, attractiveness doesn’t have to be natural.  There was a commercial that used to run – I think it was for beer, but can’t remember – where one beautiful snarky girl said to another, “Yeah, like you’re a real blonde, and the other replied, “Yeah, like men care.”

I’ve been lucky – I have some good genes.  I have some bad ones, too.  Let’s talk about my mother’s skin.  Because, Mom, I don’t want to talk about our teeth!  I never wore cosmetics when I was in high school or college.  I came up during the feminist rise, so just on general principles, we didn’t wear make-up.  We weren’t about to cater to those silly men who thought artificially blushed cheeks would make you look better.  My southern grandmother once said to me, “You’d be kind of pretty (she said ‘purty’) if you’d put on a little lipstick.”  Hmmph.

Besides, I preferred the natural look.  Along with all my friends, I went for the golden glow, that naturally attractive appearance that came from – wait for it – a drop-dead tan.  Most of my friends are now suffering from that all-natural glow, just as I am.  I now have to wear make-up to cover the sun spots left over from all that natural glowing.

In college, people used to say to me, “You must not be getting enough sleep.”  Read, you have big purple rings under your eyes.  Hey, my northern grandma, the one who used to start and end the day with a pot of coffee, had purple rings under her eyes.  It’s a sign of accomplishment in my book – it means you’re not wasting time sleeping!

Of course, I’m still lucky.  I’ve held up okay over the years – again, good genes.  It would be nice if my thighs were thinner.  It would be nice if my tummy was tighter.  So, should I get plastic surgery for this?  Not bloody likely – I don’t even have pierced ears.  And you have no idea how many of my friends have volunteered to pierce them for me.  To me there is nothing natural about going under the knife or putting poison IN your face to eliminate wrinkles.  But if it works for others, more power to them.

My make-up routine is amazingly sparse.  It takes me ten minutes, if that.  My make-up is so organic you could eat it.  I’ll admit I’m a bit of a clothes horse, but I’m also heavily into recycling so I hardly ever buy anything new, except shoes.  When you wear a size 11 shoe, consignment stores are not really an option.

Living in a college town, I see natural beauties all around me.  Yesterday a girl flew by on her skate board and she was absolutely breathtaking.  She had beautiful long blond hair, a nice tan, gorgeous features, a sea-blue t-shirt and tiny white shorts on, and because it was very cold, white bobby socks.  I kid you not – she looked like some guy’s dream of the perfect avatar in a video game.

In the evening, things are a bit different.  Girls walk around in heels so high it makes me hurt just to look at them.  And skirts so short it makes the men hurt just to look at them – and that’s because they’re straining their necks to stare as they drive by.

Beauty is not only in the eye of the beholder – sometimes it’s in the eye of the locals.  Southern Angola is famous for unique hand-made headdresses that are so elaborate the wearer needs assistance holding her neck up.  And should you think such fashion bizarre, check out the hats worn to the recent royal wedding: http://images.search.yahoo.com/search/images?_adv_prop=image&fr=yfp-t-701&va=Hats+at+the+royal+wedding .  This is what it takes to propagate the species?  Go for it, guys!

So cheers to the beautiful Florence and to the 8,000 other natural British beauties who competed against her. She is a stunning example of Mother Nature at her most artistic.  I love the very idea of this contest.  Next, I’d like to see a celebration of natural nature, i.e., just a celebration of plain old, purple ringed, pale-faced, flat-footed, heavy-thighed, everyday women.

I thought about all this as I drove to work this morning.  I was so frustrated.  I knew I was going to look bad the first few minutes at work.  I couldn’t put my make-up on because there was a Sheriff’s deputy driving along beside me!

 

 

 

 

Over the weekend, I got a lot of bare bones writing work done.  I submitted some new materials to various markets, and I plotted out the graphic novel I've been talking about doing forever.  To me, that's almost a sidelight, not something I would spend a lot of time on.  Like writing a short story.

But I entered my new short story, Preoccupied, into a contest and blocked out my family novel.  Then something weird happened.  As I was walking through the basement of the education building yesterday, i realized what a perfect hiding place that would be for a homeless person.  People forget to lock the doors all the time, so there's always a way in, and hardly anyone goes down there.  There are old bus benches that the kids use for seating, but they'd work equally well as a bed, and there is a defunct elevator where a homeless person could store their stuff.

And then suddenly, there it was, a whole new book, plotting itself out from beginning to end.  The homeless woman who loves music and sings old songs, scaring the bejesus out of the college kids so they never come near her, hanging out on campus, living off the throw-aways from the kids.  The whole thing, a murder, a stalking, justice, unfolded like a living graphic novel in my mind, and ta dum, The Music Lover, was born.  Superceding all my carefully planned next writing.  Screwing up my plans.  Kit Parker, where'd you come from, girl?

We bought these great kayaks last week - they're small, sit-upons, with a sail.  Thought we'd take them over to the lake on campus, Lake Wauberg and try them out.  We imagined careening around the lake, carefree and happy in the beautiful sun.  Instead, what we found was gale force winds, a cloudy day and a full chop on the lake.  Ken got in the kayak and promptly tipped over.  I got in and my legs started to cramp.  It took me a while to get comfortable, but finally I was able to maneuver around the kids in their canoes, kayaks and rented pedal pushers (I don't know what those boats are called - you pedal to get them moving and they're slow and painful to get around in).

I went into the wind and in spite of the chop, I was able to keep the kayak afloat and get around the dock, into open water.  They're remarkably stable.  It's amazing how something so small can be so easy to manipulate.  I felt much more secure in the kayak than I did the last time we went out in our bulky canoe.  In fact, that's when I told Ken he was officially banned from the beach.  He put the canoe in for ten minutes, decided it wasn't stable enough, and made us drive back home.  If I'd been with "the girls," (Marilyn, Sue, Jodi, Linda, Laurie, et al., we would have said, oh well, canoeing didn't work out but now we can have lunch, go shopping and spend the afternoon on the beach). 

One other thing I hadn't anticipated - how stiff and sore we'd be the next day.  My idea was that we'd go to Lake Melrose or Oange Lake today and try a real lake, but we hurt so bad we decided to wait a while.  It's amazing how a new enterprise exposes a whole new set of muscles.  Owww.

So, I spent the day plotting my next novel and my little graphic novel.  The graphic novel, called Quantum Attraction, is completely plotted out now, with a kicker at the end that allows me to write more if I want to.  Ken is storyboarding it.  We talked to some of the grad students at UF about doing the art and though they were interested, frankly, I'm hoping that if I can present a finished piecce to Bryan and Lisa, that they will agree to do the art for us!  (For half the profits, of course.)  They're both such talented artists.

Plotting it was great fun.  I got to pull in all the reading I've been doing lately about physics, plus an anti-bullying plot-line that I think will work well.  And of course, my main characters are a bitchy young girl and a nerdy teenage boy.  Easy to write those characters.  I wonder why?

 

I recently read an essay in The Journal, the literary magazine at Ohio State University, and it set off a tirade of my own: 

http://thejournalmag.org/archives/1280

I am an award winning essayist, and I have a lot of problems with the way Mike Daisey presented not only his facts, but his excuses for changing them.  I think there's a big difference between changing a line of dialogue because you don't remember EXACTLY what a person says and absolutely flat out lying.  Mr. Daisey didn't want NPR to know who his Chinese interpreter was so he lied about her name and cell phone number.  He lied about how many factories he visited, how many people he interviewed.  He made up a man with a mangled hand.  He made up underage workers.  (http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2012/03/16/148761812/this-american-life-retracts-mike-daiseys-apple-factory-story)

I think his attempt to improve the working conditions of Chinese workers in Apple factories was noble.  But why not just tell the truth about the problems there?  Why embellish?  Could it be because he is an actor and lost sight of the fact that his reporting would be identified with real people?   Could it be that he was trying to make HIMSELF stand out?  Oh, look at me, noble one, interviewing these wronged people.  Well, you got our attention, Mr. Daisey and you made creative non-fiction writers look bad again.  Thanks a lot, pal. 

We're back to the James Frey garbage - you can say you were high, got held by the police, and you can even probably get away with imagining the dialogue your crack-addled brain missed.  But you can't say you hit a police officer, and spent 87 days in jail when you got held for 5 hours.

My husband accuses me of remembering big.  My kids say I exaggerate.  My friends laugh hysterically at my stories.  But there is a difference between being creative and lying.  It's not the difference between a little lie and a big lie - it's the difference between the truth and a lie.

I don't think it's that difficult to figure out.  Making up a line of dialogue that is similar to what was probably said, and even maybe possibly um could be uh taking out some of the uh, extra stuff in it is, you know, creative non-fiction.  Pretending you were involved in a train accident in which two high school students died when you weren't on the train (Frey) is sleazy.  Claiming you were fed by a young girl while you were in a concentration camp and then you later married that girl (Herman Rosenblat) is corrupt.  Making up a man with a mangled hand who petted your Ipad is downright immoral.

If you want to be that "creative," call it fiction and be done with it!

Tomorrow I have to get a tooth out.  Now, I'm sure when most people get a tooth out, they just go to the oral surgeon, relax, get knocked out, and then go about their business.  Me, I'm so allergic to anesthetic, I go into total panic mode.  I also have these very crappy veins - thanks Ma! - so I will come out of the experience looking like a junky!  I am absolutely terrified.

The one time I had to have surgery, I woke up in a morphine-induced haze to find a big sign over my bed, VIP.  I said to my nurse daughter, "Look, Jessica, they made me a Very Important Patient." Sadly, she shook her head.  "Mom, that stands for Veinous Impaired Patient."  Duh...

When my dentist found the bad tooth, he was quite shocked.  It's the tooth furthest back in my mouth and it is totally decayed.  He said, "When can you get this out?"  "Well, the break between classes is the first week in May - " "Hold it, hold it.  I mean, when next week?"  Huh?

So, I am due to get the tooth out tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.  I'll only be a block from my house so I hope to be able to walk home afterwards.  Because I don't want my husband to be inconvenienced by having to come all the way across town to drive me a block. 

Tonight I will do all the things I need to do just in case I die from anesthesia.  I will clean my house, leave extra food for the pets, write to Jodi, print out my tax forms, download the procedures manual I created at work...  BUT on the off chance that I survive, I am also booking up every minute of this weekend so I can force myself to get out there and forget about the pain.

Let's see, all day concert Saturday in the country outside Ginny Springs with some of my favorite bands, Nook and Cranny, Daryl Brewer, Heavy Petty and de Lions of Jah.  I told Ken if I was still sick from the anesthesia he had to go without me.  "Yes," he said, "I promise I will abandon you in your hour of need to go to a concert and play my saxophone and take some other woman so we don't waste the tickets."  Smart ass.

Sunday is an all-day extravaganza - church with Marilyn's family, breakfast at Cracker Barrel with the Arvins and my kids, including the new grandchild, dinner with my friend Sue and the girls, with a late birthday celebration - their idea, not mine!  I loved my mother's comment the other day, "You can celebrate my 100th birthday," let's skip all the rest.  But Sue is determined...

The trick is to have so many fun things to look forward to that my unconscious brain says, "No, you can't die.  You have to get up so you can go to all these fun things coming up this weekend." Don't laugh - it's worked so far!

So you think all that working out has helped you get in better shape, eh?  Take THAT, says the lawn.  Muscles you haven't felt since last spring, muscles no amount of weight lifting ever change, protest as you pull weeds, dig, mow, carry, burrow.  Heat you didn't notice in your air-conditioned office flattens you.  Branches slap you in the eye.  Spanish moss blisters you, invasives smack you in the face. And all the while you're thinking, this is my version of FUN?  Am I crazy?

I work on the yard for hours, planting all the flowers I bought yesterday at the local plant sale at Morningside.  I listen to a memoir by Andre Dubus Junior, about growing up in the sixties the son of a very talented father and a very poor mother. The story makes me appreciate the way my parents brought me up - how tough my mother was and how hard-working my dad was.  It also makes me appreciate survivors.  Jodi is a survivor.

Sue, my gardening expert, picked out plants yesterday that theoretically can survive my haphazard gardening style.  She even bought me a beautiful verbena bush for my birthday.  After I went with her to the plant sale, I took Jodi to an assisted living facility on the border of Florida by Georgia.  She cried all the way up - I cried all the way back.

Today is the first day in six months I haven't had Jodi here, or had to worry about her.  I guess I didn't realize how much that anxiety was dragging on me.  She's in Hidden Oaks in Jennings, Florida.  I wrote an essay about the trip last night and sent it to my memoir pod while Ken played with his band. I'm so glad I had a way to get it out of my system.  But it's not really out - just waylayed by killer yard work.  Nothing like beating yourself half to death physically to make you feel better mentally.  Uh, hmmmm. Well, maybe it's the butterflies already buzzing around that make me feel better.

But even though I miss Jodi, there are some nice things about having my house back.  It's nice to be able to make mad, passionate love to my husband in the morning without worrying about whether someone will come in and say, "When are we having breakfast?"  It's nice to buy groceries without worrying whether someone else will like what I buy.  It's nice playing with my pets without worrying whether they will knock someone down.  I liked having Jodi here.  I liked knowing what was going on in her life, knowing she was okay, and trying to be responsible for her happiness.  But there's nothing like lazing around on a sunny afternoon with nothing to do - I don't get to enjoy that feeling very often.