Trixie Archer's Blog, page 12

Pats or Punches

One of the toughest aspects of being an artist is when the “proof is in the pudding,” so to say.  I’m talking about what follows after… After many hours of effort, of taking a rough sketch, shaping, reshaping, erasing, moving…leaning closer in, taking a step back…re-thinking the composition…making the lines permanent, adding shade, smears and highlights…all leading to that one moment of truth.  In the moment after, “it” happens…thumbs up or thumbs down…a pat on the back or a punch in the gut.  I’m speaking of course about the critique.

Maybe I was born with an extra dose of sensitivity, maybe I just poured too much of myself into everything that leans in the direction of self expression, but standing in front of a classroom of colleagues for that “naked truth” can be a bit overwhelming.  Like many I’ve been known to hold my breath and duck around opinions as they swirl about.

I drew a picture back in the day, my absolute best attempt.  The drawing was of a haunted house, not really haunted, but since it was taken from an eerie black and white photograph, I dared to imagine. 

On Friday, as was the tradition every other week, we had to face the line of fire in the form of a student led critique.  I enjoyed art.  I may not have been the best artist, but I was learning.  Isn’t learning what art class is all about?

Anyway, as I stood before my peers, sweat beaded on my forehead, dry throat and tears welling up in my eyes…everyone that spoke about the finished house of spirits cited kind things.  Was it that great of a drawing?  At the time and my beginning level of skill, it was barely okay.  Could the others sense that I was beyond nervous?  I must admit that most were rather pleasant with their reviews leaning in a more favorable direction…until, until…well, you can probably guess…the instructor stood up to offer his voice on my project.

He was absolutely brutal.  My shading, choices in line, composition, paper grade…heck I think he even commented about the ink I chose for the signature at the bottom.  Air…I needed air!  My ears were ringing, my heart was pounding and if I had a paper bag, I’d have tossed it over my head to spare myself from the embarrassment that arose as my feelings betrayed me through many shades of red. 

Talk about an uncomfortable experience.  You could have heard a pin drop in that classroom too.  As I was ready to snatch my work and slither off, an older student, one with brass and courage stood up.  She peered into the eyes of the devil and simply said, “I don’t care what YOU think, I like it!”

Standing up to him took great moxie for the instructor was a bit of a negative Nell.  He’d hammer on class after class whining about whiners.  His ears were always flushed and the reality was he was teaching art because he couldn’t make a living from his art.  He was unhappy, annoyed with life and he wanted nothing more than to spread his doom and gloom to all of us. 

At the time I didn’t know the young woman who was not afraid to speak her mind.  Her courage pulled me through a very tough moment and helped me to better understand that it’s the journey that matters…and that art is subjective.  No matter what we are talking about, writing, drawing, photography, singing, dancing…to some it may be sunshine, to others it may be rain.  So what?  If we enjoy creating then we must take our lumps as they come, brush the dust from our clothes and awaken for another day of “doing it all over again.” 

By the way, I met up with “Moxie” years later.  When I told her that she was my hero back in the day, she chuckled.

 

“By the way, did you ever see his work?” She asked. 

“No, I can’t say that I ever did,” I admitted.

She nodded then simply replied, “Exactly.” 

Her message to me was how for most it’s easy to criticize others especially when their work is not out there for judgment.  She was right.  It would have leveled the playing field a bit if our instructor would have shared that part of himself for us to comment on.  Who knows; maybe he would have learned a thing or two from our perspectives, maybe it would have made him a better artist and taught him humility.  That lesson…although learned late in the game has helped me take a leap, to press “submit,” and to let the chips fall where they may.

The bottom line is that some will enjoy my style of artistic expression, others will perceive it as nails on the chalk board, but in the end if the “doing” makes me happy, who cares what the critics say?  Everyone is a critic too, ask my family about the dinner I flubbed last week…I think I burned the pudding.  I was awarded two thumbs down.  Now, what did I do with the recipe cards for Thanksgiving dinner?      

***Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!~  

Rosie's Colored Glasses

Hi and welcome to my blog!  This week we’re traveling to an alternate reality.  I awoke this morning with a rather original idea as I reached over for my glasses and they fell onto the floor below.  I thought about how we begin our day…how environment, attitude, organizational skills, time management and luck are all relevant to what lies ahead.  As a result, I came up with “Rosie’s Colored Glasses.”  (Same person; a mirrored fate.)  Enjoy!~

 

 

Rosie’s Colored Glasses

With only three beeps of the alarm, I reached my hand and tapped the button.  Silence.  I fumbled for a moment until I located my eyeglasses.  I slid them on.  The dim lighting through the cracks in the draperies illuminated the outline of my room.  I pulled the cord opening the view above my bed.  I took a moment for a deep cleansing breath.

The sunrise was amazing.  The greenery of the trees added the perfect contrast as majestic rays of light spread throughout.  I swear it was a slice of heaven on earth.  If ever there was a theme set in music for the day, Rossini’s famous beginning of “The William Tell Overture” was sure to be it.  In my mind, I heard it, I felt it…as the many possibilities spread before me were sure to be paved in gold.

The aroma from coffee filled the air.  I was glad to have remembered to set the timer for my morning brew before turning in.  I slept particularly well.  The quiet of the neighborhood along with a slight opening in the window to allow “fresh air” aided in a restful sleep.

On my walk to the bus stop, my neighbor Mabel opened her door to fetch the paper; “Good Morning!” was exchanged with a “happy neighbor” sort of attitude.  I didn’t need to stand very long for the bus was on time.  A seat was available which was rare for everyone was heading to work at that hour.  It really was my day!  I just knew that after my presentation not only would I land the new account; I would be offered the promotion that I had been vying for. 

The temperature was pleasant, not too hot and not too cold…no rain and no worries.

I was glad to have my hair trimmed, highlighted and styled over the past weekend and the new designer “power suit” with matching accessories was sure to help.

The adjoining train seemed to be waiting for me as I walked at a normal pace to jump on.  In a few short blinks we were heading towards the city.  This was my day, I just knew it.

 

“Good morning….Good morning, Morning…” I said to my co-workers with a friendly smile as I headed down the hallway towards my office.  With a bit of luck and with all of the hard work that I had put forth, I just knew the large corner office with the amazing view would be mine!  This is it!   I thought with great confidence…bring it on.


An Alternate Reality

I didn’t hear the alarm.  When I went to bed, my mind was working on overdrive as I replayed the many aspects of the Whistle-man Presentation.  I’d been so worried about what was before me that I couldn’t relax.  The last I recalled the red glow of my alarm clock was at three fifteen.  The L shook the apartment as it passed near my window and jolted me awake.  “No!” I screamed as I hopped from bed and plowed face first into the wall.  I had overslept.

The water in the shower was freezing cold.  The manager of the flat had failed to have a look at it for three months running.  Dealing with an ice shower each day was unacceptable.  I felt my disposition sour as I rushed through.  “Not this, not today,” I muttered.

I stood at my closet grumbling because I couldn’t figure out what to wear.  There were clothes inside sure, but most were outdated; too small, too large or just too.  I finally decided on the lesser of the many evils.  The shoes that matched the outfit were scuffed and weathered.  I didn’t have the time to polish them and I hoped that no one would notice.

I decided to take a few minutes for some coffee.  As I opened the cabinet, I remembered that I had meant to stop on my way home from work, but forgot.  I had been so tired and stressed.  “This is NOT good.”  I moaned.

I noticed the time.  Jogging now, I hurried to the door and made certain to throw the bottom lock before stepping through.  Fortunately, I had my purse in hand and I wondered if I’d replaced the entrance key to the outer pocket.  There was no time to worry about it now.

The bus that carried me several blocks to the L entrance was filled to capacity.  People stood at the center and I was reminded of a sardine can.  By the time I crossed the street to push myself through, the bus had pulled away leaving me behind.  “Grrr,” I mumbled under my breath.  The smell of rotten and trouble arose from the sewer grates around me.   A fellow commuter stormed by and he was cussing to himself because he too had missed the bus.  I could feel his negative energy and it was contagious. 

This was a not a good beginning to my day.  The presentation that I worked so hard on…well, I might as well just give up.  The boss had her favorites and I was not on that list.  My future seemed glum. 

I pulled my Smartphone from the side of my purse and placed the buds in my ears.  The Rolling Stones “Doom and Gloom” began to play from a local radio station.  It seemed to be dedicated to me.  I took a deep breath and I accepted my fate.  This was it and not in a good way.

The promotion was sure to go to Charles. 

As I entered the office late, everyone peered up as I hurried along.  I nodded at my coworkers for there was no time to say a proper hello.  I had some last minute touches on my presentation and I needed to be quick about it for I was slotted to be first. 

Charles appeared before me extending his hand.  “I just want to wish you well today.  I know that you worked hard, so good luck.” 

I shook his hand and smiled, knowing there was a great difference between “I might” and “I will.” 

I opened my purse and fetched my reading glasses.  I wondered where I could find a pair of the rose colored variety.  If ever a person needed a better perspective; that would most certainly be me, Rosie Thorndale…who often seemed to be a day late and a dollar short.   

Lost and Found

I found myself lost this week.  As I began typing my blog in word on Sunday night, I took an unexpected turn and landed in a rather intriguing story-line.  It happens like that sometimes, circumstances arise out of the blue…and then I’m riding a wave.  I never carry a writer’s compass and I toss the clock along with all concept of time out the window.  It’s the moment that I live for, when my imagination is sparked alive.

Yesterday I had trees falling around me…large limbs, horrible saws and a wood chipper…and yet I didn’t notice any of it.  My fingers flew across the keyboard as I sipped on a cup of inspiration.  The fellows were working just ten feet away outside of my office window.  The tree service was doing their best to make our tall maples safe for next year’s storm season.  Bang, crash and the occasional cuss word…and although present in body, I was someplace else within my own mind.

Although I intended to continue the “Falling Whispers” story-line surrounding Laura, this new story…well, I guess it just needed to be told.  It was all so unexpected too.  Twelve pages materialized in a blink.  Midnight, two a.m., ten o’clock…it’s all simmering on low…and I’m stirring to keep the contents from caking to the bottom of the pan.

Would you like a taste?  Let me find my absolute favorite line.  I told my daughter when she called yesterday that I wrote a great sentence.  Twelve pages and I have a decent sentence!  I had a favorite too in “Falling Whispers.”  In that book it was, “Dora enveloped me in love’s generosity.”   As I wrote it, I literally sighed.  Yes, I felt it.  The characters moved me.  Dora and Carmen were about everything that we all should have…no matter who we are or how we see it…we all should have that remarkable connection, that passion, that mutual respect in a relationship…that playfulness and yes, love based on trust.

Okay so my favorite line from this week’s writing…are you ready?  Here it goes:  “A moment later we were sitting in the ornate seats on her deck, passing the moment back and forth.”  It may not seem like much, but in the context that it was written, it was one of those sentences that I strive for.

Can you sense that I’m excited about this?  I feel it with this story…maybe someday soon, you’ll see why.  Maybe within the next few months, with a lot of work; a little luck and of course help from my editor.  

Are you ready for another story?  Monkeyshine told me she is!  Of course if I handed her the manuscript I have no doubt it would end up buried in our backyard next to her stash of carrots.

Well, it’s time to get back to “doing my thing.”  If I’m writing this blog, I’m not immersed in the story.  So I guess I’ll get to it then!

Remember to spread the word about the “Whine Bottle Giveaway.”  Post where you believe the bottle landed and the most creative answer with the most “likes” on my Facebook page by December 6th will be mailed an autographed page from the original manuscript, “Falling Whispers, Love & Curses” housed in a personally designed bottle!  You can’t go wrong with that deal for the value is sure to increase.

Well I must change direction now and re-read everything I penned this week.  I’ll see you at the finish line.

~Trixie

Soup Or Power?

Almost everyone I know holds a super-power…at least in my opinion, they do.  I bet you’re thinking ol’ Trixie has finally lost it or that I wrote this blog while under the influence of something stronger than green tea.  Well…this is simply how I see it.  Thank goodness, no one sports leotards or wears the hero cape.  If they are in costume, I’m guessing most follow the guide lines for keeping their garb concealed under their street clothes.

Costume aside, let me begin by telling you about my older sister Lydia.  She has the patience to cut vegetables into perfect little chunks when she’s preparing a salad.  You might think; “What’s so special about that?”  While on the surface, being offered the world’s most perfectly carved salad for lunch may not seem like a big deal, but if you apply her meticulous eye for detail towards creating scenes in miniature…well, wa-la, super-power!  She combines patience with carving skill and during her spare time, creates ornate scenes in shadow box displays that are so impressive, they should be hanging in an art gallery or museum somewhere.  Her tiny world by design is truly a one-of-a-kind super-ability. 

An older brother of mine holds the power of being “ Fix-It-Man.”  No, he’s not someone to call for advice or to lean on for fixing your problems, but instead he was born with an incredible aptitude for repairing just about anything mechanical or electronic.  Imagine, having the power that no matter where you are or what you are doing, if something goes “kaput,” a bit of glue, a paperclip and know-how saves the day.  At one time, I believed the show “MacGyver” was written all about him.

My daughter has x-ray vision.  Unfortunately, she can’t see through walls or into handbags, but instead she has the ability to read people.  She has remarkable BS meter and after just a few short minutes, “knows the score.”  I've probably driven her bonkers throughout her lifetime asking, “What were your impressions of _____?”  She happens to be right on the mark, just about each and every time.  It’s no surprise that she is a psychology major and I believe her super-hero abilities will help many people sometime in near the future. 

My son JD…well, he was born with the power of luck.  We discovered his “ability” when he was five years old and begged for his name to be entered into a drawing for a basketball hoop.  “I’m going to win mommy,” he insisted.  Of course I extended a mother’s caution, “I’m glad you are confident in your chances, but sometimes in life we win and other times we lose.” Imagine my surprise to receive a phone call later that day to make arrangements for picking up the basketball hoop that he had won.  One entry is all he has ever needed!

Throughout his young life he has won many times over from cash to a huge stocking full of toys at Christmas…but the strangest thing is how his presence changes the luck of those around him.  We once put his “gift” to the test with a slot machine and realized the one armed bandit would only pay off when JD stood nearby and then time after time, it stubbornly refused after he had walked away.  Coincidence…maybe, but then again, maybe not…

A friend I had years ago had the gift of being an animal charmer.  No matter where she was, animals seemed to be drawn to her.  Stray dogs would shadow her as she walked through our neighborhood.  I seem to recall a Tom Turkey once that followed her around a farm we were visiting and how a baby squirrel became convinced that she was mom.  Her “animal charmer” abilities remains a great mystery to me.  Does this friend of mine put off a sort of aura that animals respond to?  Does she relate or speak to critters on a whole other level?  I may never know the answer to that one…which leads me to always question.   

As for me I think I was born with the ability to draw or paint a seemingly clean line.  To most this skill may seem a bit understated, but in the grander scheme of life, it is quite the opposite.  Shades and tones would just be a puddle of nothing without definition to offer structure and form.  It isn't exactly the line itself, but this power carries over into the many avenues of perspective.  While writing plot, story-line, and character development…without the ability to draw a clean line everything would just mesh together into one great pool of confusion.

I truly believe everyone carries a special quality or a unique “gift” to some degree.  Imagine how dull the world would be if we were designed from a standard template…in a “one size fits all” with equal abilities and talents.  There’d only be one shade of gray because nothing more would ever be necessary. 

I’m so grateful for the variety of powers we all have…strengths that make us who we are and quirks that keep us humble.  Yes, I do feel we all hold super-power abilities…that is, if we choose to see it that way.  

With that said, maybe it’s time to consider bringing the cape and leotards back into fashion.  By the way, does anyone know of a reputable cape flying instructor?  

**Have a great week and please enter the Great Whine Bottle Giveaway!  ~Trixie   

A Giveaway

It’s time for a “giveaway,” with a spin. 

Since “Falling Whispers, Love & Curses” is only available as an electronic download on Amazon, I was posed with a bit of a marketing challenge.  The industry standard typically offers free (paper) books to promote an author’s work.  However, without having a hard copy of my book available…the question remained; “how do I promote this book without having printed copies to give away?”

The answer:  I autographed a page from the original (working copy) manuscript and placed it into a bottle.  I dated the page and applied a unique earmark making it impossible to replicate. 

The label(s) on the glass were designed, printed, pasted, and sealed personally by me as well.  (Hopefully, adding to the “one of a kind” value of this giveaway.)

So, how on earth does this “Whine bottle” end up in your possession? 

Well if you live in the continental United States or Canada, simply post (on Trixie Archer’s (Author) Facebook Page) the most creative idea as to where the “Whine Bottle” from the story ended up.  Of course it would be helpful to know the story line and how Carmen Davis disposed of the bottle.  Such information may be useful in order to build on the unlimited possibilities. 

Try to keep your post as one (easy to read) paragraph for the person with the most “likes” on Facebook by December 6th  at 8 p.m. Central Standard time, will be mailed the bottle.  

At this moment the bottle, the autographed page, the string, the cork, the labels may only have the worth of the materials used, BUT who is to say that in a few years…and a bit of luck it may greatly appreciate in value.

Ready?  Let’s spin the bottle~  



copyright 2014 Trixie Archer

Just Me & My Shadow

Hi all!  This week my blog is slanted towards the darker side…it is Halloween after all.  In the spirit of ghosts, ghouls, vampires, and zombies I decided to write a tribute.  I concocted a recipe, combining life experience and creativity.  With that said, I hope you enjoy this week’s blog.  Um, by the way, you might wish to keep the lights on…

The shadow man is real; at least when I was a little girl I used to believe it was so.  He used the mask of night to impose his own brand of terror.  He thrived on the moment it was “lights out…” and he loved my neighborhood.  We lived in the county with street lamps few and far between.  A moonless sky often left me vulnerable.  When it was pitch black, with the only illumination being an occasional passing car…my eyes would adjust to the dim and that is when I’d see him there…the shadowed figure that I nicknamed “Mr. Ugly.”

Mr. U always seemed to be tucked in the corner, lurking in wait.  I could feel my heart beating; I could hear the thump-thumping in my ears.  I’d hold my breath because I just knew he was there waiting for me, waiting for me to let my guard down and then he would pounce. 

I imagined gnarling teeth, fierce claws and everything hideous.  Green puss would ooze from the many open pores lining his disproportionate face.  Long braids tiny and thin were woven throughout his jet black hair.  At the tail end of those weaves he kept a variety of children’s teeth that he had collected from beneath many pillows throughout the years.  Some had mistaken him for the tooth fairy but there was no magic wand, no lighthearted spirit and NO silver coin from Mr. Ugly…no.  He had stolen hundreds of teeth as souvenirs and drilled holes in them to sport as badges of honor.  Instead of a coin, Mr. Ugly often left toe nail clippings or anything repulsive that he could imagine.  He despised children and yet he needed their youth in order to survive.

His eyes were bulging and his nose appeared huge with over-sized nostrils that could sniff out the weak.  With a simple glance, his kind of fright would render all victims frozen.  I dared not look at him directly and yet I was drawn to.  I remember chanting over and over again throughout my childhood, “don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.”  Sometimes I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror when I believed he wasn't paying attention.  His appearance was so hideous that I thought I’d pass out.

I always knew when he was there for I could hear the impending doom of a musical score…soft at first but it would build up to the moment where Mr. Ugly was certain to swoop in. 

The most troubling fact was that no one else knew he existed but me.  If my family suspected, they surely wouldn't say. 

I did my best to survive the nightly attack.  I’d pull the covers up over my face as my reality became blanketed.  Beneath the sheet, I’d click on my flashlight.  With a bit of light I was safe and I’d do my best to calm down. 

On most nights my teen-aged sister was in the next bed snoring.  I ignored her though…I was secure in the light, in the warmth of the comforters.  I lifted my legs as they became support beams for the sheeted tent.  With extra space beneath the blankets I could breathe a bit easier.  I’d keep my human tent posts extended as long as I could, except my legs became heavy as if I had bricks shackled to my feet.  Sooner rather than later, they dropped….and then my flashlight would be the next to fizzle out.  The batteries or bulb, bulb or batteries; loose or weak, either way I was sacrificed to the darkness. 

I couldn't breathe as the air beneath the blankets became stuffy again; the air became thick with panic.  At the foot of my bed, the eyes of the beast were glowing.  I could hear the rapid of his breath and the musical score was building…the sound was a duel of shrill violins clanking notes against each other.  I just knew any minute now, any minute…I think I screamed “help me” except my plea was stifled and my voice was just a hint above a whisper.

“Just go to sleep,” my sister begged half awake, half asleep. 

How could I tell her that Mr. Ugly was in the shadows ready to harm?   Ugly was a relentless beast too, a thief of rest, a terror of the night.  My sister would have teased me; she would have told everyone what a baby I was. 

“I’m not tired,” I said.  No, I wasn't tired, I was exhausted….and he was in the room with us…hovering above to absorb our youth…catching and collecting.  Would she really want to know?  Would she be able to handle how Mr. Ugly was now standing above her capturing her breaths?  If he took too many, she would cough.  “Bad sinus’,” sis would say but I knew the truth.

Mr. U realized I was onto his game.  Sis was too old to hear him, too old to see him…and what was most troubling was how she didn't pick up on his scent.  The stench was rotten potatoes, sour milk, broccoli and sweat lingering in the stuffiness of our room. 

I wanted to shout, “Open your eyes, take a deep breath would you?  Wake up!”  I knew somehow she wouldn't understand, she lived in her own world of boys, make-up and cheer-leading.       

“I’m going to tell mom,” sis threatened.  “Just go to sleep!”  “We have school tomorrow.”  She tossed her extra pillow at me and I jumped, startled by the impact. 

The shadow man didn't care that I had class in the morning; he only wanted to feed off of my adrenaline.  If I slept, he would staple my lips closed and there would be no scream left to save my life.    

I pulled the top sheet, twisted it around and positioned the material over my eyes. 

The corner of soft became Batman’s mask minus the eye cutouts.  I could finally breathe as my eyes were shielded.  The fangs, claws, gigantic nostrils, piercing red eyes, and his horrid breath…I was protected for he could not penetrate my makeshift mask.  It was a kid’s logic:  if I couldn't see him, he couldn't have me.  Taking comfort in this mindset, I finally allowed myself to drift off.

I was sleeping so soundly that I didn't hear the commotion, nor did I realize that my dad had been startled awake and felt the need to check our basement.  The cellar door slammed awakening the house.  No one could figure out how it happened.  My brothers joined him to check the perimeter.  There were no windows open to cause a cross current, there were no robbers…but what there was no one ever dared to admit, it was the shadow monster, my Mr. Ugly. 

Mr. Ugly was returning to his bed after his attempts at tormenting me had failed.  I had fallen asleep and he simply lost his power.  My rest forced slumber on him except he was angry…angry enough to slam the cellar door closed in his wake. 

I knew which shelf Mr. U slept on.  I had proof by how the dust held an imprint of his body.   It was the only cubby open, the one next to the many jars of wild mushrooms that my mother kept neatly stacked.      

When my dad would ask me to fetch him a soda from the cellar, I’d imagine seeing the shadow-man sometimes.  He was reclined on the plank and would extend his razor sharp claw in my direction as if marking his prey.  I’d run from that cellar, a bottle of RC in hand, feet scurrying up the stairway only touching every three steps.  I’d envision his grip scratching at my ankles, ready to break the rule and claim me regardless of the daylight. 

My dad without looking up from the newspaper would mumble “thank you” nonchalant, never realizing the peril he put me in all for a good deed.  I worked really hard to erase it from my mind, to keep the reality of what was sure to happen the next time it was “lights out” at bay.

Many years later as my kids faced the offspring of Mr. Ugly; I certainly understood how they felt.  I knew all about the shadow man and he was terrifying.  I recalled how only children under the age of 10 are faced with this truth…I think the age limit was cited on page 4 of the shadow-man rule book that I found long ago at the public library.  My friends made light of me for taking a humorous book so seriously…but I was a believer.  I lived that nightmare each and every moonless night.

I made certain I would remember Mr. Ugly.  I kept a detailed journal that included rough drawings and strategies for survival…I knew that someday I would need to be one step ahead by arming my children with nightlights, flashlights and a proper mask that only night-time warriors sport.  My strategy seemed to bring on a peaceful rest forcing everyone, kids, shadow-men, and all to surrender to a much deserved sleep.  Lights out, worries abandoned…that is, until the next sunset… and if one was not readily prepared for the blackness of night, the ugliness of shadow-man would be revisited all over again.

Happy Halloween~ flashlight anyone?  

A Deep Seated Love

Well, hello there!  I’m so glad you could stop by…

This week I’m leaning in a more whimsical direction for my blog.  I figured it’d be a good idea to shake it up a bit.  So…“shake, shake” here it goes~

About a month ago, I found a bit of inspiration while driving to my sister’s for lunch.  On the map, her home is located just inside the upper fold of farm country.  As a change of pace, I chose to explore the back roads so as to take advantage of the beautiful day.  The sky was crystal clear as the cows were grazing in the fields.  The autumn leaves were just beginning to paint a hint of color to the surrounding landscape.  It was the sort of day that I found myself breathing happy breaths, content with life.

At the far edge of a corn field sat a dilapidated love seat.  It was so out of place that I glanced about half expecting to find a logical reason.  Was there a hidden camera for a social experiment or perhaps a pickup truck would be seen circling back to reclaim the dropped load.  There was no clue as to “why” so it remained a mystery. 

The legs of the miniature sofa were submerged in the thick of clay. The contrast of light and the backdrop of empty field presented a most appealing photo opportunity.  Normally I would have clicked a few shots, except I didn't have my camera with me.  Interesting, I thought.  I found it coincidental how that love seat was not only stuck in the mud, but that it also became stuck in my mind. 

The manner for which it was dumped seemed tragic.  Remove the frustration I felt surrounding the former owner failing to dispose of it properly…well, it seemed as if it were suddenly plucked away from the life that it once had known.  I thought, if only that old thing could speak, I bet there was a story behind it…an abandoned love seat left in the middle of nowhere…an abandoned love left to haunt me.

So, I returned home after a pleasant visit with my sister and began to mull over the idea.  I set out to compose verse intermingling love with all that was left behind.  On the surface it was simply yesterday’s furniture, but if one were to dig deeper…I imagined the people, their life experiences and their feelings stranded in that field as well.

Writing is all about perspective.  It’s the process of taking a sliver of… or a whole piece…a bite of… or the entire pie.

After some word play I was satisfied with the shape as it twisted into form.

So, this week for my blog, I’m leaving you with the tale I found along the way to my sister’s house.  The words had fallen into a crevice right along with a handful of pocket change…just waiting for discovery along Highway 6; three blocks south of the Piggott Girl’s Roadside Produce Stand. 

So here it goes…    

Love Abandoned
by Trixie Archer

 

We used to own a love seat
Though it wasn't much to share
Aunt Maggie sent it our way
Along with spills, stains and wear.

Textured fibers, pebbled and rough
Backrest dipped, cushions sagged
Wooden legs, scratched and scuffed
Shabby appearance, nothing to brag.

We accepted that old piece,
A place to sit, to hold hands,
At the end of a long summer’s day
Passions explored beneath the fan.

She’d whisper sweet into my ear
About promises and future plans
We’d build this, buy that, make a wish
Always coaxed into believing, how we can.

That old love seat that we sat upon
Knew more than it could say
It held me close on stormy nights
Brought much comfort through the day.

Midnight babies nestled in my arms
Dirty nappies kept at bay
Stories told with love and charm
Gathered from here and far away.

The marriage fell down, the seat maintained
A solid frame, though an ugly sight
When she shrugged and left me alone
It cradled me through much fright.

It heard our shouts, felt our tears
But still maintained a loyal stance.
The battered fabric from yesterday’s storm
hemmed together by luck and chance.

When the movers came to divide our things
Half to her and half to me
The torn seat of love now abandoned
The only drawback of comforting for free.

I dragged it to the curb and bid farewell
To the broken-down eyesore it became
On second thought, I wouldn't turn my back,
from the great heart beneath plaid’s shame.

You've Got My Number

I’ve never been much good with numbers.  As a kid I suffered from a syndrome called “daydreaming to escape school.”  I suppose while the teacher was speaking in the most basic terms of 2 + 2, I was off on an adventure somewhere, swinging from limb to limb, the wild child …with vines being the only transport to my rather large house at the top of a giant Redwood.  Oh and did I mention how that tree house had all sorts of innovative features?  I honestly spent months constructing every posh detail. 

There were other escapades too.  I traveled to the old west riding on horseback, sporting a rather fashionable outfit of white faux leather as a rootin’ tootin’ cowgirl…and the way I handled a gun was legendary.  In fact, I single handedly saved the innocent on more than one occasion and out of appreciation a town was renamed after me.  You should have seen that gold plaque and the way it glistened at daybreak!

The truth is I took the time that I should have dedicated to math and instead feasted on a sugar coated imagination.  It was no surprise how I was never on good terms with my teachers or those pesky numbers.

In all honesty, if I’m really interested in something, I’m locked on to the task at hand…but unfortunately, when it came to learning what I was supposed to, my mind drifted to everywhere but.

Did you know that there are some rather abstract pictures that can be drawn by using numbers?  They can be flipped, turned, enlarged and shrunken to where they all sort of disappear within themselves.  I remember in the 7th grade using the number three in repetition to draw a mountainous landscape.  It was all quite intriguing until Sister Mary caught me and I was sent to the principal’s office.  Believe me, there was some explaining to do.

Anyway, numbers…yeah, aside from them being the ideal medium to create some pretty fantastic artwork, let’s just not and say that we did.

There have been many phone numbers to memorize throughout my lifetime…and even some that I didn't care to know were tossed in for good measure.  Since they were strategically placed in a jingle for television, blared repeatedly on the radio or flashed on a billboard, those blasted digits were burned into my mind.  In the dead of night, I’d awaken and that commercial would come to me…and then I found myself singing the phone number while fighting off the sudden urge to have my carpet replaced, to consult a psychic or to hire a lawyer.

The government only recognizes me as a number; my locker needed a sequence of numbers to let me inside.  My car has a plate on the back with yes…as you know, numbers…my address, shoe size, the serial numbers on the back of all electronics…even the darned box of cereal in the morning…but would you like to know the worst of it?  After I published my book on Amazon, there was a horrible number at the center of the page that revealed my sales and my best sellers rank in comparison to all the other books sold there!

Oh my goodness, talk about a nightmare.  It was an unforgiving sort of number that taunted me.  Every sequence that appeared carried a different voice too…“Good job,” “nice try,” “better luck the next time,” “tilt,” and of course when things were really, really bad, “what were you thinking?”

Remember how some cartoon characters were depicted with spirals swirling in their eye sockets?  Well, that describes it best.  At two in the morning, at six in the evening…that number goes up or that number goes down.  I’m in the top 100 or I’m at the bottom of the stack.  Oh Amazon, what have you done to me?  …and I’ve been agonizing over this since June wondering; “what does it mean, what does it mean?”

Okay, so this blog may seem a bit out there, but so are numbers.  We are controlled by them.  Our weight, our IQ’s, SAT scores, the speed limit, our income, our height when we are little and wish to go on a ride at the amusement park…and let’s not forget our household budget and what we may owe to the IRS.  The year we were born, 50% off, 25% more and the pressure in our tires…and the most difficult of all; our daily caloric intake when we’re on a diet.

What would life be like without them?  Imagine standing in line at the grocery store as the checkout clerk would say:  “That’ll be a pinch of gold dust please.”  Or what about when a crowd of people forms at the deli and a “please take this tag” is in hand?  A, B, C would simply not work on busy Saturday morning.  In that, I suppose a person can see the efficiency of the numerical system.

People would be forced to drive their cars with the speed determined by a windsock that dangled from the antenna.  The angle of air flow would correspond with symbols of momentum resulting in much chaos for sure.  I know I’m confused just from writing about it.  “I’m sorry for speeding officer; I lost my wind sock between Elm and Main Street.” 

Our health depends on numbers…medical tests, blood work…everything and everyone survives based on a number.  The odds of making it through a surgery, yes an average number.  I feel my blood pressure rise just from considering it.  150/95… Oh and let’s not forget to mention the number value on my pulse when I've eaten too much chocolate. 

If only it were a bit easier, if only I hadn't drifted off when I should have been paying closer attention in school.  The first time around, I eventually surrendered and learned the language of math because I had to.  Fast forward to present day…30 years or better into the future, to the “after dinner as I sit with my son at the dining room table event.”  There’s an Algebra book open to page 157 as I struggle to make sense of those horrible digits all over again. 

I see the distance in my son’s eyes and I understand “that look.”  He has traveled to a galaxy far, far, away…if only I could join him and leave all of those disheartening numbers behind.  I’d go after him too…except, I wonder how much it would cost for the return tickets back to our home planet?  I imagine the amount would probably be yet another number set higher than I would ever wish to count.    

 

The Sound Surround

My name is Trixie Archer and I’m an electronics junkie.  My attachment to gadgetry began back in 1980 when I was given my first Walkman for Christmas.  Placing those small headphones onto my ears and clicking the “on” button for the first time, transported me to another dimension.  The music was rich, clear and distinct, which fueled my life-long want to find the ultimate listening experience.

I remember gazing about the room towards my loud and boisterous siblings…well, tune them out and I had a music video playing “live” long before MTV debuted “A Flock of Seagull’s” in 1981.  Even still, as I’m listening to tunes, if I close my eyes while using quality headphones, I am lifted to a better place.  Depending on the era of music, I float back in time...for better or worse reliving “what was” and better understanding how it all fits into “what is.”

Rewind even further still, to the years before the technology of Sony, to when I toted a bulky AM radio along with me everywhere.  Through crackles and scratches in sound, I listened to WLS 89 Chicago with the Larry Lujack Show, lil’ Tommy and their animal stories.  Such antics served with toast and coffee helped to lighten the mood every morning for most of the region.  Even still, I feel great nostalgia when I think of that AM radio and will always associate Paul McCartney & Wings with my childhood, for it seemed no matter where I was or what I was doing, “Band on the Run” would find me.

Gizmos and gadgets have come a long way since that point.  From cell phones that were the size of half of a cinder block to a compact phone that is now wise and “smart.”

GPS, a touch screen, voice controls, an MP3 player, a camera, video recording capabilities, text messaging, internet and I think it’ll even do the dishes if you find the right app for it.

If one were to carry all of those items individually with old technology, a wheelbarrow would be necessary, but for all of those wonderful features compacted into a smart phone there seems to be a missing element...peace and quiet.

Last week I rewarded myself by taking Monkeyshine to the park for a walk around the lake.  It was a beautiful day; the sun was shining, geese were flying overhead.  The temperature was just about perfect.  It was about two in the afternoon and not many other people were around…it was just me and Monkeyshine enjoying our time together…sharing exercise, companionship and tranquility. 

When we reached the southern edge of the lake, I took a moment to ponder.  The park bench was positioned at an ideal angle so as to appreciate the shimmering and calm of the water.  I snapped a picture in my mind’s eye, took a deep breath as a smile pursed my lips.  “Life is good,” I thought….but soon after, as if such appreciation was an invitation to be soiled “it” happened, my cell phone rang.

The moment became an old vinyl record on life’s turntable that someone dragged the needle across…you know the sound, the noise-slap that interrupts a soft instrumental and pulls us back to reality.  My daughter said, “Hi mom,” in a cheerful manner.

She often phones me from college during her between “here and there” moments.  While in transit to her friend Reggie’s house, she was telling me about her day….but then as fate would have it, the engine on her car died.  She had her foot on the gas pedal and the car said, “NO.” Fortunately, she was able to coast to the side of the road and click on the emergency flashers.

There were many phone calls that followed…finding her a tow truck, a mechanic, a car to borrow…all of which was happening as Monkeyshine carried an expression of “really?”

Mind you my daughter needed me and I was happy to support her during the whole “my car just died on me” experience, but still…the point is, a simple walk around the lake while carrying a smart phone has some apparent drawbacks.  There is no real disconnection, no true escaping into thought, no actual living in the moment or embracing thirty minutes free and clear of responsibility. 

Even when we take that walk, unless we put out the “do not disturb” sign by turning off our phones, there is no hope for peace.  The truth is, I wouldn't feel right pulling the plug for even a simple walk.  I am a mom and even though my kids are older, they may need me…a tow truck, a missing ingredient in the recipe they are following, financial help, or extending humor to pull them past a difficult day…  It’s what mom’s do sometimes…we sacrifice our walks, warm meals, sleep, wallets, and sanity.  It all goes along with the territory.

Sometimes I miss that old AM radio, static and all… for life was less complicated back then.  It was all about living in the moment…swimming, fishing, bike riding and hanging out with my pals.  The sun warmed my skin and laughter filled my heart and the phone was attached to the wall and left behind at home.  We survived adversity somehow together…connected through eye to eye contact and honest conversation…and if we were left stranded at the side of the road somewhere, we simply got by with a little help from our friends.

 

 

A Train of Thought

My thoughts often spill, fanning out in many directions.  It seems as if I should be able to tack them down, to sew them to the hem, to figure out the proper sequence of self expression so as to transform “ordinary” into something that I’d be proud enough to serve as a main dish.

In the past when I’ve faced such uncertainty, I’ve considered packing a small bag and locating a remote spot along the tracks to where the freight train pauses long enough to jump on board.  There has been much reckoning about where fate might carry me if I did. 

That particular fantasy has occurred as a release valve many times throughout my life.  When my teenaged children were testing their boundaries, when an intimidating boss set unrealistic demands…or when there was a tree that had fallen onto our roof during the worst of storms. 

I would never recommend anyone break the law and jump on board a freight train, but on occasion, it brings me great comfort to just imagine.  Escape, however I saw it, however I wrote it…good fortune, hard knocks, the roll of the dice while click, click, clicking my keyboard…was a much needed pause from reality.    

What would I pack?  No electronics…nope, not a one.  A sketch pad, my journal, money, jewelry to pawn if need be; my favorite book, toothpaste/toothbrush, breakfast bars, water, drawing pencils, a flashlight ...my camera with a 300mm zoom lens for those interesting pictures that I’d be certain to find somewhere off the beaten path.  Oh wait, does my digital camera go against the no electronics rule?  Well, maybe that item should be allowed after all.

One consideration though; the train must be headed in a southerly direction…towards warmth and good weather…to enable me to see the great expanse of stars overhead at night and allow me to dip my toes into the ocean mid winter.  By just speaking about it, I feel the de-cluttering of my mind all ready.  I feel the lifting of stress, the abandonment of responsibility.

I can breathe, I can think, I can imagine…except what I didn’t notice at first when jumping on board; the floor of the train is filthy…and as much as I’d like to ignore it, I smell something foul.  I never considered that rotten would be transported in that boxcar right along with me.  I can breathe, but do I really want to?  I didn’t think to pack a clothes pin or a can of air freshener.  Oh the frustration!

The train is moving faster now and I’m in for a bumpy ride.  Are there shocks on this thing?  It feels rather chilly and my stomach is turning in circles.  The movement, the nasty smell, the noise, the filth…I’m whining now.  I sound like my kids when they were little… “Mom, are we there yet?” 

What about the thrill of adventure?  What about the chance at landing somewhere peaceful and exotic?

Was there ever something you always wanted to try and then when it happened, you wondered, “What was I thinking?”  This must be one of those occasions.

It’s official, I’ve changed my mind.  I want to go home now…except the train is gaining momentum and traveling in the wrong direction.  The cityscape has transformed into many rows of corn ready for harvest.  I’m at the center of farm country.  This is not my idea of bettering my situation.  Mind you all of the original stress has lifted, but has now been replaced with a whole new kind of worry.  I imagine I’ll be caught at the end of the line and be placed into custody.  I just know that this journey will not end well.  There are no “free rides” and I’ll have to make it right.  For as much as I wanted to avoid it, responsibility haunts me even while penning this blog. 

The great thing about running away from home with words or imagining without actually going anywhere is that I can simply close the screen and take a walk with my dog Monkeyshine.  I think I’ll do that now and if I hear a freight train approach and you happen to be driving down Main Street, I’m guessing you’ll recognize me right off.  I’ll be the frazzled lady with her wiry haired pooch running scared in the opposite direction of the approaching train.  You’ll know the train too…it’s the one that seems to be heading nowhere fast.