The Mistress

Stolen moments are all she has

whispered secrets she guards with her life

he does not belong to her -

he is married to his pain
his fear
his anger

She is jealous of his hatred - it is closer to love than lust.

She struggles to find the nobility in her role

broken by its solitude

he merely comes to her for shelter
for strength
for protection

She will never be more than his whore.

Random Quotations

The following are clips, observations, connections...most of which are a compilation of other people's thoughts, ideas, and musings. This is in NO WAY an effort to claim them for my own. They are all part of the rich tapestry that make up my life. I just wish I could give them proper credit. Thank you.

What society does to its children-
Children will eventually do to society.
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Life often teaches us valuable lessons at the expense of others.
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You don't have to have a set of balls to have a backbone.
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Go visit a zoo. It's an analogy for stereotyping in our society. We divide each other up into our own cages/false habitats and say, "Look how happy everyone is! Aren't they interesting?" But we never study them in the real world, their own environment; with it's danger, texture, culture all its own. We will never understand each other by simply buying a ticket.
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There is only one person a little girl wants to please,
One pair of arms sweet sixteen will accept,
One man a woman can depend on -
Daddy
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Youth is wasted on the young.

Romance and Cigarettes

First off, I have to start with a short monologue about how our tastes change through our life. I think it goes hand in hand with the stages we go through as people...and how that fact changes how our relationships evolve, start, and end. I use to HATE vegetables. I mean would NOT eat a vegetable to save my life. Then I met my husband. He could (can) cook. He should...he learned from some of the best...but that's a post for another time. Anyway-he introduced me to vegetables that were fresh, steamed, and seasoned just perfectly. There are now vegetables that I have had rivaling a thick, juicy steak in the world of satisfaction, texture, and craving. Brussels spouts. No one likes brussels sprouts. But, you have never had brussels sprouts the way "he" could prepare them. It was always my favorite vegetable after that.



Now, to the point of this rambling. I hate musicals. Well, I THOUGHT I hated musicals. Then I fell in love with an actor. One of our very first dates was at his parents' house cuddled up in an over sized chair watching "The Music Man". He was completely taken with Robert Preston's performance...and boyfully chatted through most of the movie...it was adorable. I will always love that musical because HE loved it...because I fell in love with it and him at the same time.



Wait, that still wasn't the point...so I STILL think that I dislike musicals...until I look at something for the first time...in a different way...imagining that I'm watching it with a man that loves musicals/music/me in a different way. It's campy. It's star-studded. It's dark and bitter. It's flawed with lip-syncing music. It's everything that I love. So, now I love musicals? Well, no. But, I'm willing to taste something prepared a different way. Romance and cigarettes.

My Mother's Hands

From the outside, I must seem unemotional; stoic, unflappable, strong...I could list a string of words that people use to describe me. Wow. Do I really do THAT good of a job putting up a fortress around my heart? I can be moved...soft...vulnerable...

well, not in public

until now

The following is writing from an unpublished author with little to no talent, but tons of heart and soul. Every time I re-read them, I learn more about myself. I celebrate all that is the complexity of life. I get angry, I weep, I curse the darkness, I crawl into myself and drown.

I remember falling
I must have fallen a lot
but something always picked me up
My mother's hands

What they don't know is that I was (am) an anxious child
frightened to move forward
but something always gave me a gentle shove
My mother's hands

I needed guidance
boundaries
a line draw in the sand
My mother's hands

I wiped a child's nose today,
cut his meat,
tied her shoe-
That's strange - I could have sworn I saw...

We stand in the kitchen
side by side
mother and daughter
sisters in womanhood

We reach for the same towel to dry them
"Look! See? I have my mother's hands."
"Yes, so do I."

-piedra de toque

In the Eye of the Beholder

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. In our culture, it is one of the tri-fecta. The three major holidays that we have made into the holy trinity; Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's. What of the other cultures/ethnicity's that don't believe in these WASPy holiday traditions? Well, you will be seen as second-class citizens; not celebrated for your diversity or for the rich tapestry that you bring to our country.

"You HAVE to have turkey on Thanksgiving! Everyone eats turkey!" "You don't like pumpkin pie?? EVERYONE likes pumpkin pie!" "Where is your family going for Thanksgiving?"

Sheep. All sheep. God forbid we deviate from traditions...even if they are forced upon us.

My Thanksgiving was definitely far from traditional. No football, no turkey. I took my children to visit their father who is currently serving an 8-12 year sentence for two (yes, two) bank robberies. http://www.fairfaxcounty.gov/police/news-releases/2008/031808arrestinrobbery.htm Not exactly a Hallmark Card moment...but it's our life.

The high points: the visiting room was less crowded than usual, so we could visit for several hours. The guards were in a "holiday" mood (ie. pitied us/couldn't wait to get home to their own families so they were relaxed). And there were other "broken" families there, so my girls could see that there are other children who have to see their father in this way. Maybe not your idea of "high" points...but this is the point of my article.

There were, of course, low points, too. The three hour drive to the prison (out in the middle of rural VA in Powhatan County) was tedious and tiring. And, of course, we had to drive back, too. Passing house after house-knowing that they were full of food, fun and love... And having to leave: J. broke down into tears at the mention of the word "good-bye". I would rather have physical torture than to see my baby put through so much anguish.

There are at least half a dozen friends who asked or would have asked us to dinner. But there is nothing more painful than to be at someone else's table. Be part of someone else's family traditions. My little band of three (women) is the family that we are, now. It is important that we have our own time, our own conversations, our own traditions; however non-traditional they may be. I carry a planet's load of guilt on my back for making the decisions that I have. I take complete responsibility for the damage that my children's psyche will suffer for such realism in their life. But I make no apologies (except to them). I've done the best that I could. I've been the loving supportive wife even when I shouldn't. I could lie to my children about their father (and yes, some have suggested this) and let them live in some fantasy world of blissful ignorance, but my integrity will not allow it. They will continue to face our life/reality as I do: practically, realistically, stoically, resolutely. We do not want to be victims. We do not want pity. We just want to be. And maybe our holidays won't be traditional or Norman Rockwell approved, but they're ours.

Music = my church

The first time I heard this song, there was an immediate connection. I love when this happens; and it often happens with me and music, movies, and occasionally with books. It is the whole reason people write/create: to have an outlit for their joy or pain with the hopes that someone else in this vast isolated world GETS IT, HEARS IT and CONNECTS. You see, we are all the same. We love, hope, fear, work, worry, die. The same. Yet, we spend most of our time feeling alone, isolated, misunderstood.


The Ballad of Lucy Jordan

The morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of Lucy Jordan
In a white suburban bedroom in a white suburban town
As she lay there 'neath the covers dreaming of a thousand lovers
Till the world turned to orange and the room went spinning round.

At the age of thirty-seven she realised she'd never
Ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing and she sat there softly singing
Little nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair.

Her husband, he's off to work and the kids are off to school,
And there are, oh, so many ways for her to spend the day.
She could clean the house for hours or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked through the shady street screaming all the way.

At the age of thirty-seven she realised she'd never
Ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair
So she let the phone keep ringing as she sat there softly singing
Pretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair.

The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of Lucy Jordan
On the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtsied to the man who reached and offered her his hand,
And he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd.

At the age of thirty-seven she knew she'd found forever
As she rode along through Paris with the warm wind in her hair ...

Lyrics by by Marianne Faithfull