Rain is Not

This list was started on Wednesday afternoon, December 7, 2011, in the periodicals room at the New York Public Library, 5th Avenue at 42nd Street. I finished it on Saturday morning, December 10, at Emma's Writing Center in Ithaca, New York. My inspiration was Lynne Tillman's poem, "Flowers," which was part of the Library's exhibit "Celebrating 100 Years."

Rain is not curious, romantic, mischievous, insolent. Rain is not a locked door. Rain is not worried, twitchy, literate, bossy, funny. Rain is not a good correspondent. Rain is not tiresome, egotistical, hungry, itchy, bored. Rain is not a cheerleader. Rain is not abusive, late, cheeky, polite, intolerant. Rain is not a gift giver. Rain is not impatient, neat, over caffeinated, artsy fartsy, giggly. Rain is not a picky eater. Rain is not frugal, discouraged, cramped, whistling, whispering. Rain is not running away from home. Rain is not doodling, dreaming, reliable, paranoid, grumpy. Rain is not a fan of garden gnomes. Rain is not blameless, dishonest, indiscreet, thirsty, forgiving. Rain is not a Scrabble player. Rain is not chocolatey, smarmy, chatty, vague, particular. Rain is not holding on by a thread. Rain is not surprised, near-sighted, calm, confused, lost. Rain is not taking violin lessons. Rain is not ambidextrous, rich, embroidering, zany, accessorizing. Rain is not concerned with moral ambiguity. Rain is not sloppy, arrogant, wasteful, alphabetical, licorice. Rain is not ignoring library overdue notices. Rain is not gossipy, absent-minded, tap dancing, accident prone, rude. Rain is not blowing out the candles. Rain is not well-coiffed, clumsy, sneaky, childish, fidgety. Rain is not able to count backwards by seven. Rain is not nosey, anonymous, self-conscious, coughing, warmongering. Rain is not the next Fred Astaire (or Ginger Rogers, either). Rain is not shy, cuddly, old fashioned, tantrumy, irrelevant. Rain is not a role model. Rain is not sleepy, entertaining, disappointing, clingy, stubborn. Rain is not living in the past. Rain is not superstitious, proud, pushy, verbose, jumpy. Rain is not a team player. Rain is not grammatical, political, phony, laced up, vain. Rain is not saving up to buy anything. Rain is not solitary, cluttered, forever, melodramatic, docile. Rain is not afraid to mix plaids and polka dots. Rain is not photogenic, permissive, trendy, embarrassed, confiding. Rain is not listening to a word you say. Rain is not lonely, social climbing, dieting, regretful, spiteful. Rain is not good at meeting deadlines. Rain is not vacuuming, preaching, cheating, pregnant, butterscotch. Rain is not looking to start a revolution. Rain is not fantasizing, plotting, star gazing, anticipating, sentimental. Rain is not searching for the final piece of the jig-saw puzzle. Rain is not cranky, nervous, mealy-mouthed, broken, knotted. Rain is not refusing to ask for directions. Rain is not dithering, queasy, undernourished, victorious, distracted. Rain is not teetering around in high-heeled shoes. Rain is not introspective, brassy, lazy, plastic, married. Rain is not a rock star. Rain is not mathematical, grieving, bruised, constipated, matchy-matchy. Rain is not a bargain hunter. Rain is not innocent, moody, telepathic, bleeding, breathless. Rain is not trying to make a good impression. Rain is not religious, crafty, shedding, fashionable, careful. Rain is not a floozy. Rain is not athletic, multi-lingual, stoical, rebellious. Rain is not tall or short. Rain is not lipsticky, squinty, observant, secretive, studious. Rain is not hiding from anything. Rain is not waffly, conforming, attentive, paisley, gnarled. Rain is not a good luck charm. Rain is not envious, reactionary, fickle, complaining, higgledy-piggledy. Rain is not a distant cousin. Rain is not timid, quarrelsome, allergic, young, apologetic. Rain is not the one who walks off in a huff. Rain is not polyester, tomorrow, finger paint, quotable, Xeroxed. Rain is not always losing a mitten. Rain is not inappropriate, hypnotized, zaftig, stalking, undressed. Rain is not a gargoyle. Rain is not diplomatic, gambling, pierced, disappearing, calligraphy. Rain is not trying to make a good impression. Rain is not masquerading, punctuated, poetic, grateful, over. Rain is not another way of saying something else.

Here I Am: a story inspired by a Grace Paley poem

I was just pulling myself out of bed when Garrison Keillor’s voice floated by. “And now a poem by Grace Paley,” he crooned, in that overly familiar tone of his. But still, I sank back into the mattress, my ears stretching closer to the radio, and the man I sometimes call “Mr. Smarmy” (though, to be fair, who else reads us poetry in the  morning ) began to recite the poem “Here.” Of course I’d rather have heard it in Grace’s voice, the opening words, “Here I am,” spoken around a white sugared square of Chicklet, or a smooth mentholated cough drop. She doesn’t stand on ceremony, I’ve been told.

“Here I am in the garden laughing...” the poem begins, and then goes on, how she sits there with her “heavy breasts” and her “nicely mapped face,” with her “stout thighs,” and her little grandson sliding on/off her lap. Not “on and off” but “on/off” — and I see that squirming boy in my sleep-fogged brain, wriggling all over his grandmother. 

She tells us more, this aging woman, this poet gardener, about her husband, over there, on the other side of the yard, talking with the meter reader, explaining how it’s not a good thing, our dependency on oil, talking and teaching, while the poet watches, listens, patient and bemused. 

She says to her grandson, “Run over to the fence and get Grandpa, tell him I’m too tired to come myself, tell him I’m tired but still I long to kiss his sweet explaining lips.” Not in those exact words, but something very similar. 

And then it’s over, there is no more poem, and while the words are still lingering in my ears I begin to cry. I lie against my warm pillow and let the tears come, not so much for the last words as for the first: “Here I am.” It is a perfect opening, isn’t it? Three words that are themselves a prayer, an invocation. “Here I am” she says, “Here I am — in the garden — laughing.” 

She is so clear in my mind, in her loose, generous skirt. I imagine her not-quite-clean feet pushed into worn-down sandals. A white cotton peasant blouse, or some other nice blouse, definitely not a T-shirt. This is before her grandson comes to join her, before her husband sees the meter reader and calls out “Wait, I have something to tell you.” This is earlier in the morning, while there is still some trace of a breeze, while the dew dampens the tomato vine, and she is up to her wrists in dirt, the dirt working its way under her fingernails. 

A smudge settles on the bridge of her nose where she rubs her finger against her slipping-down glasses, the same finger that has pressed down on so many pens and pencils over the years, the finger that hits the “H” key on the keyboard. (Years ago, she might have used a Smith Corona Selectric. Today, the “H” of her iMac, the “H” of “Here I am.”) 

She is in the garden, making things right, and later, when her son calls on the phone to ask after the boy, perhaps she’ll tell him “I was out puttering today, I was laughing, it was good.”

And I’m crying because I know that even if some day I grow up to be a woman who can say “I’m happy with my heavy breasts and my stout thighs and my nicely mapped face,” I will never be able to begin a poem “Here I am,  in the garden,  laughing.” I see no gardens in my future. I can picture Grace, patting a seed into place, pulling up handfuls of weeds. But not me.

My poem would start like this: “Here I am, in the window, watching.” That is where I place myself, an old woman framed by a rectangle of dark wood.

Like my great-grandmother, Ethel. Every day, all day, she sat at her window, pillows propped behind and under her. Her thin, tired old face breaking into a smile as my mother and grandmother approach, waving, calling out “hello, hello” while lifting me from my carriage. 

“Make a kiss for Great-Grandma,” they coo at me. And I make a kiss, the first actual bit of body coordination I learn. A slight puckering of my lips, fingers lifted to mouth, then pulled away in a reckless arc. And that sound, like the ocean separating from sand, “mmmmmwhaaaaaa,” so that every one laughs, even the shrunken old woman in the window. A silent laugh, her yawning, toothless mouth cavernous as any baby’s.

That’s what I picture for myself: “Here I am, in the window, watching.” Watching it all pass by— cars, bicycles, skateboards, young mothers pushing baby carriages, young fathers hoisting their infants onto their hips, carrying them around like big fat footballs. Teenagers, in packs, laughing and cursing, exhaling smoke. The boys trying to keep their pants from slipping down their narrow hips, acting like they don’t care, either way. The girls, skinny or plump, a bit on edge, nervous, just that much louder than they really want to be, putting on a brave front. And all the while there I am, invisible, in my window. 

My great-grandmother was not invisible. The whole neighborhood saw her — strangers and friends alike — they’d wave and call “good morning,”  “good evening.” An Italian neighbor had a special greeting; one day she told my mother it meant “old grandmother, who sits all day in the window.” There isn’t a pretty phrase for that these days. More likely I’d be called “snoop,” “busy body,” “bitch.” So I’ll hang back, won’t lean over the ledge, won’t catch the sun’s rays on my upturned wrinkled face.

But still, I can see myself there, in the shadows, giving a silent “right on” to the loud-mouthed girls, blowing kisses to their big-eyed babies from behind the half-opened shades, sinking back into the embracing darkness. 

I’m waiting for that day. I’ll be older, grayer, sagging in even more places. And if I’m lucky I’ll be able to begin my poem: “Here I am, in the window . . .  laughing.”

True Stories and Other Lies

TRUE STORIES AND OTHER LIES

a benefit reading by Zee Zahava

for

Tikkun v'Or (The Ithaca Reform Temple)

Sunday, December 11, 2011

3:00 - 4:30

location:

Tikkun v'Or

2550 N. Triphammer Road

Ithaca NY

I'll be reading many of the stories I've posted on my blog this autumn, plus a few new ones. It will be a FUN event: I guarantee!

Refreshments will be served.

Suggested donation: $10

Everyone is welcome. Please come. Bring your friends, too.

Thanksgiving Letter

Thanksgiving Day, 9 a.m.

Dear Ava,

I’ve been up since six, bet you were too, and I wish I could have come over but Daddy says it’s slutty the way I run over to your house all the time and I told him it’s not slutty when it’s two girls but he said he’s speaking metaphorically and anyway this is Thanksgiving (like I didn’t know that) and it’s meant for families to be with families, which is just plain stupid, but anyway that’s why I’m writing to you and not talking to you in person and as soon as I can get out the front door without being caught I’ll run this over and put it in your mailbox. I hope you look there. Try to read my mind this second: 
M-A-I-L  B-O-X. 

Do you like this paper? It’s not really purple. I know it looks purple but it’s called mauve and no I didn’t spell it wrong, my grandma sent it with a note telling me the color because she’s always trying to improve my mind, so get used to this mauve, you’ll be seeing a lot of it, who else would I write to?

She also sent me a book, "A Child’s Garden of Verses," she is so two centuries ago, but I don’t want to be mad at her because the reason she’s sending me this stuff instead of waiting until Hanukkah is she thinks she might be dead by then which is really sad. But on the other hand it’s not sad because there’s nothing wrong with her, she just gets seasonal dread she calls it, but if she’s still alive on New Year’s Day then I’m really going to be mad at her for being so negative about life.

There was a lot of activity in the kitchen this morning, Dad and his new live-in girlfriend playing around with the turkey, giggle, giggle, giggle. I stayed up in my room because watching them make out over a naked animal would turn my stomach, but now they’ve gone back to bed and it’s quiet as the grave though any second I expect to hear her panting and oh-my-god-ing and I'm sure this is not good for me, mental health-wise, but Dad, being a psychologist, would probably say “Facts of life, Dorrie, get used to it.” 

So I'm just wondering about something: “quiet as the grave,” what do you think? Is it quiet in the grave? I doubt it. Gross. Hold on a sec, I’m going to change the channel in my mind. Okay, I’m back.

My ex-step-mother and her two gnomes will be here at one. Is this the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard of? My father is like one of those men with a harem, he gets his ex and his current to come and fuss over him with their cranberry sauces and we’re all supposed to act like it’s normal. He says “We make the rules, not society” but by "we" he means "he" because if I made the rules I’d be at your house right now and we’d have mac-and-cheese from the microwave and we'd play with the Ouija board until our finger tips fell off.

One of the things I’d really like to know is how a woman who is old enough to drive still can’t figure out the meaning of the word vegetarian. When Dad’s live-in realizes I’m not going to eat a single ounce of that 300 pound turkey there’s going to be World War 4 in the dining room. My ex-step-mother might even start crying. She’ll be sad because now that she’s a guest in the house she won’t get to call me names and throw fits. But you never know, anything can happen, I’m sort of hoping for a food fight with the two gnomes, for old time’s sake. 

So now it is so much later, how did this happen? 

You might have noticed I still haven’t managed to get this letter into your mailbox,  hope you haven’t been waiting there, that is if you read my mind in the first place. Did you? 

There’s something of a scene going on downstairs, I’ll tell you every single detail when I see you tomorrow, but for now just try to picture this: After the so-called feast my ex-step-mother stood up and recited a poem she wrote especially for the occasion. I thought she would have outgrown that sensitive phase of hers, but apparently not. It was a very long poem, seemed like 3 hours, and I didn’t understand all of it, but I think it was supposed to be erotic, and it kind of upset the live-in who might be living out soon. Hallelujah.

This is the last letter you’ll get from me on this mauve paper. You remember Jeffrey, one of my former step-gnomes, well he was hanging out in my room — don’t ask me how he got through the barricade — and it turns out mauve is his favorite color, which was something of a shocker but not in a totally bad way, so he’s taking the whole box of stationery off my hands except for one sheet which I’ll use to write a thank you note to my grandmother. I couldn’t get him to take "A Child’s Garden of Verses," though. What did I expect? It’s only Thanksgiving. They don’t promise you miracles on Thanksgiving. 

Look for me early in the morning, I’ll be right there on your doorstep. You'll know it's me because in spite of everything that happened today I still look the same. On the outside.

Love, Dorrie

11/11/11: a diary project

62 people from all over the country, ranging in age from 9 to 80+, contributed to this collective diary that describes one particular day: November 11, 2011. 

Sometimes I call this kind of flowing list a text mosaic, or an assemblage, or a glimpse into group consciousness. One of the contributors referred to it as a zippy goulash. That's a good description, too! 

Whatever you call it, I hope you'll enjoy reading this account of a day, arranged simply in the order in which the entries were received.

THANK YOU to everyone who participated. All the contributors' names are listed at the end.

Sipping sweet coffee as the babies sleep in. I will go out soon and pick some oranges off the branch of my neighbor's tree, that hangs on my side of the fence. Got the last 9 posts pounded for my 5 wire high-tensile fence while the snow came down; women farmers are tough! I'm so glad to walk to work in daylight now. During lunch hour, I pass by a group of veterans gathered in Dewitt Park; is my dad there? Today would have been my mother's 93rd birthday. A few mallards swim along the shore, dipping their bills into the cold water, searching for an unsuspecting meal. Like our house, my body enters its November with more systems failing more often, costing time, pain and money. I stand perfectly still in the middle of the street so hundreds of dry yellow leaves can swirl around my feet and fly all the way up to land on top of my head. For no special reason I decided to count all of my books and the total number seems both high and low to me: 306, and each one is beloved. Realized, not for the first time, what a sappy sentimental fool I can be, but I don't mind. Walked a few blocks over, to stand in front of a stranger's porch and listen to my favorite wind chimes. Continued my ongoing quest to be more like Mary Poppins. The numbers 11 11 11 look like bars, or the continuous parallel lines that can only meet up in space. I hear all the lonely people. Eleven is one of several numbers that are referred to as “master numbers” in numerology, a bit of esoteric knowledge I learned through the hippie grapevine in my early teens. Arriving at a playground, bright sun & bright wind & bright November thoughts about a different kind of future. Joyful chaos, macaroni & cheese, girl scout songs, early bedtime, exhausted dogs at the end of the day. Wake, wash, crack the windows open, strip the beds, free the germs from my head. I read (by the fire — always the fire) poetry to the kids: Wordsworth, Dickinson, Frost, William Carlos Williams, Langston Hughes, and Poe. I re-wrote "The Raven," calling my version of the poem "The Chicken." Wrote a long funny morbid dream poem. Sat down at my spinning wheel to ply alpaca rovings into yarn; peddled my wheel until my mind stopped racing. Washed dishes and looked out my kitchen window to see red swiss chard, arugula and parsley in my garden bed, unfazed by November. My eyes roll across the words from left to right and the lines scroll down swiftly on the screen while I process text into meaning. I send up a prayer to the patron saint of parking meters, Saint Agnes, that I’ll find a spot on the street on Friday afternoon in downtown Ithaca. I mostly talk and my therapist listens. Read more of Eudora Welty’s "The Optimist’s Daughter" and am awed by the durability of good literature. Horse manure, covering our garden, smells fresh. Dreamed of missing appointments. Bought a pair of pink and turquoise sneakers. Called up my son who is an Iraq War veteran. Wrote a haiku about bare sycamores in the November sun. When I came back from my Hard of Hearing Support Group, the moon was rising. Began the day by calling my favorite veteran, my 91-year-old father, to thank him for his service to our country during WW II. Ended the day sipping Bad Ass Organics Berry Kombucha while knitting place mat number 13 of the 15 I'm hoping to have completed by Thanksgiving Day. At 1 a.m. I cannot tear myself away from my new picture puzzle and wonder if I am addicted. The power went off in the basement and we smelled a strong acrid odor. The seafood cake at Moosewood tasted extra delicious because I was so hungry. Ran into Zee in front of the State Theater and she asked how my 11/11/11 day was going; I screamed and pointed at the storefront next to us: "OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE ADDRESS!" — it was 111. My first and last thought every day, including today: Where will I begin my new life? Why do I always put too much jelly on my PB&J sandwich? The older I get, the more I love bathing; feeling warm water on my skin is one of life's little luxuries. Watched a "Star Trek" episode from the original series, which I've loved since I was a kid, when I wanted to be a Vulcan; specifically, I wanted to be Spock. Breakfast was oatmeal with 11 raisins, 11 slices of banana and 11 blueberries, at 11 a.m. I stuffed a pumpkin (bread, gruyere, garlic, and cream), put the top back on, baked it for two hours, and carried it to the potluck lunch. Installed a new doorbell that plays either the "Hallelujah Chorus," "Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here," or "Auld Lang Syne," each time someone presses the giant red button. Had successful laser eye surgery. Watched the clock, will I miss it, oh there it goes, it will never come again: that particular moment on this particular morning. Sun streaks burned white hot against a crystalline sky of blue, grazed by a buffalo herd of fast-moving clouds. Rendered fruitless and naked by my own two hands, spindly apple trees now surrendered their leaves to a stiff north wind. In the barn, I traded my slip-ons for work boots, gathered my rake and greeted the crew. My mind — to speak of it seems almost perverse — was sour with rotten apples. While sipping hard cider and imbibing wine pressed from grapes grown from our vines, we celebrated our harvest and our veterans. I miss my sister. Finished sewing the backing for a quilt, for a school project. Read about the Corduroy Appreciation Club; 11/11/11 is one of their  most sacred days. Looked up the meaning behind the nursery rhyme "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and discovered it is "a child's guide to taxation." Getting ready for tonight's swim meet, my suit is falling apart at the seams and my back-up one is see-through. Woke up and promptly had a bad hair day. Fed the neighbor's chickens and found feathers, iridescent and mottled in black and white. I remembered something that I'd forgotten to do. I procrastinated. I saw birches that had been bent and twisted by a snowstorm, their white branches spindly like so many bare bones. The realtor called to say people are coming tomorrow to take a second look at the house we rent; this is not good news. Today I struggled. Reminded myself: when the path I’m on seems overwhelming, there are always options. Brought out the arsenal of cleaning supplies and scrubbed the bathroom to within an inch of its life. Sat on my living room floor sipping peppermint tea and chatting with a friend as she sewed the arm back on a favorite old sweater. My twin nieces, daughters of my own twin sister, celebrated their 2nd birthdays today. Stopped at the grocery store for ice cream and a few other things, but forgot the ice cream. My children played with a friend's pet squirrel, vehemently defending it as gentle even after it scratched both of their faces. Packed a red pepper in my purse for a snack to eat on the bus. Yelled into a piece of art that is meant to just be looked at. Decided to one day live in a large, industrial building. Comforter smells like laundry soap; the smell of comfort. Forgot to make a wish at 11:11 on 11-11-11, but I figure the whole day must have been lucky. Productivity was beyond my reach. The only thing I have now is clean laundry. The day was less about others and more about myself. I'm knitting a blanket. I drew circles on a canvas in cadmium yellow light and filled them in while listening to Leonard Cohen singing, “So Long, Marianne.” I got so sleepy I just had to lie down and close my eyes for a little while. I coughed on and off all day, a cough I can’t seem to get rid of. I wrote about this day in my journal so that I’ll be able to go back and find out what happened to my life. Woke to the realization that pregnancy has completely wiped out the part of my brain that knows about the appropriate use of commas. Heavy lunch: cheese, bread, potatoes, family. Ate last night’s stir-fry leftovers for breakfast. Toilet plugged up; is this going to be a cursed day? I got stoned and realized I should have done it much earlier. Enjoyed an episode of the BBC series, "Cranford," where one of the characters writes in her diary each morning about what she thinks will happen, and then writes again at night about what actually did happen. Observed a large flock of crows that landed in my yard, then discussed their habits with friends who were visiting. Woke from a dream in which I was like Odysseus. Last minute packing: "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle," an umbrella, and a green bag full of goodies — yogurt lassi, apples, hummus, rice cakes and dark chocolate. Through the moonlight, the gnome statue welcomes me to the Bed & Breakfast where I'll be staying tonight. Took my not-quite-dry jeans off the line because it started to snow. Picked up seven books at the library. Juncos, chickadees, and titmice go wild when I fill the bird feeder. I check over and over again for the mail, until I remember there is no delivery because of Veterans Day. I climbed a tree and watched the village kids play. I decided not to cut my hair. I had this thought: Our Planet is Gold and We are Stars. First decision of the day: should I use spicy mustard or yellow mustard on the sandwich? In this crisp air, I wear my friend’s vest, my friend who has moved away. V’s of geese veer low over the inlet, flashing black, white, black, white. On this "11" day the classical DJ plays Saint-Saens’ "Carnival of the Animals," because it requires a hendectet, an 11 piece ensemble. Finished reading "The Little Book," by Selden Edwards, about a time traveler to 1897 Vienna who falls in love with his 20-year-old grandmother, and hoped this would never happen to me. Topped off the day with a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, and drank a lot of water to make myself feel healthy afterward. As I walked to work I realized I had put on a lot of pink, for some reason: pink underwear, mauve turtleneck, raspberry fleece vest, bright magenta shoes, and, as I was contemplating the essence of pinkness, a very tall woman in a very short skirt walked toward me wearing hot pink stockings! Trying to look cool in my dad's Buick. Remembered that I want to be a writer and said it out loud. Called contra dances to the sweet, driving music of mandolin, fiddle, and guitar. Carefully reviewed the latest catalog from L.L. Bean and thought about buying a pair of cross country skis, as I imagined myself moving gracefully and smoothly through winter snow. Watched one episode of "The Dick Van Dyke Show," allowing me to retreat to a less stressful (but totally imaginary) time in my life, and fell asleep knowing that I laughed at least once today. Ate breakfast with my sister at a French cafe on 1st Avenue, then paid $55 to get my car out of a parking garage on 23rd Street. Meditated with a group of friends, in an attempt to communicate with people on the other side. Wrote eleven rhyming couplets, all on the theme of oranges. Two dozen gourds in a basket greeted me on my friend's porch: gifts from her compost pile. Much drama when I thought my cats were lost, but they weren't; spent the rest of the day squeezing and hugging and loving them. Even in my red sweater I was cold all day, indoors and outdoors. I worked on my novel but my mind kept flying off to Occupy Oakland, where my son is deeply involved. Listened to a program on the BBC in the wee hours of the morning: an interview with a numerologist. How can there be Christmas lights up already? Wanted to get to bed early, but was having too much fun. Just wondering: how have we humans been influenced by pandas, turtles, deer and other animals? I went ice skating and only fell once. Practiced "March of the Belgian Paratroopers" on my tuba while my sister played "Dory's Waltz" on her violin. Cuddled with my cat, Mischief Marvel Miracle Max Mezuzah. Watched willow branches swirl like seaweed in a cold wind, beneath an alternately gray and sunny sky. Received a belated happy-birthday phone call from a lifelong friend in New Mexico. Played Scrabble with my mom; my words included bream, cornea, facile, jasper, salvo, and vixen. Woke up in Tokyo, went to bed and to sleep in Oak Park, Illinois, adding 15 hours to make a 39-hour day. Goodnight you perfectly symmetrical day. 

Ann Wexler, Anne Killian-Russo, Antonia Matthew, Ava Mailloux, Barbara L. Heller, Barbara West, Bill Holcombe, Bridie Alano, Cady Fontana, Carol Miller, Cassandra Shortle, Chris Bankert-Wray, Christine Garrett Lyng, Cindy Golos, Dylan Matthew Pakkala, Elizabeth Sharp, Ellie Detert, Erica Hostetler, Greta Singer, Gwen Glazer, Jack Alano, Jacqueline Treml Gottlieb, Janet Steiner, Jennifer Jones, Jill D. Swenson, Joan Victoria, Judy Kugelmass, Julie Clougherty, June Wolfman, Kathleen Galland-Bennett, Kylie Spooner, Laura Gates-Lupton, Laura LaRosa, Laurel Detert, Laurie Petersen, Lisa Todzia, Lourdes Brache, Lynne Taetzsch, Maggie Goldsmith, Marty Blue Waters, Mary Peck, Miriam Frischer, Misha Foote, Noemi Kraut, Pamela Goddard, Patty Flannery, Peggy Adams, Peggy Conolly, Phoebe Lakin, Rachel J. Siegel, Ray Petersen Sally Kamerling Sally McConnell-Ginet, Sasha Paris, Sharon K. Yntema, Sheila Dean, Sue Heavenrich, Summer Killian, Susan Dixon, Susan Luther Koon, Tiger Ramanujan, Zee Zahava.

Invitation to be part of the Collective Diary Project on 11/11/11

11/11/11, a day to keep track of!

Dear friends,  

I’d like to invite you to participate in an online literary collaboration: “11/11/11: A Diary Project.” 

This "Text Mosaic" will illustrate the different ways dozens of people of all ages experience a single day in November. Selected entries will appear as a continuous anonymous list, published on my blog, with contributors’ names noted at the end.

Feel free to share this invitation with others, of all ages.

You’ll find submission guidelines below. Please follow them carefully to ensure that your contribution will be considered. I may not be able to include work by everyone who sends me something but I will try my best. 

I’m looking forward to reading about your “11/11/11” day!

Warmly,  

Irene (Zee) Zahava

------

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

“11/11/11:  A Diary Project”

1. On Friday, November 11, keep a record of what you do, say, hear, observe, eat, think about, dream about, read, ETC.

2. Type your entry as a VERTICAL list in chronological order, but don't include specific references to times. You might write entries that take you through the entire day, or just focus on one small part. You can submit one sentence only, or a whole lot more. 

The important thing is that each sentence must be able to stand on its own, without anything coming before or after it to give it context. Your sentences will be "deconstructed" to fit in with dozens of others. Please note: I may edit, condense, combine, etc.

I am most interested in reading about the things you do that are unique to you.

3. Send your entry to: 

zee@twcny.rr.com

Paste your text directly into the email; no attachments.

DEADLINE: Saturday, November 12, 5 p.m. I’ve intentionally imposed a very short time-frame. The sooner you send me your entry, the fresher it will be, and the less chance there is that you’ll forget to do it.

4. Be sure to include your name exactly as you would like it to appear at the end, on the contributors’ list. Names don’t always correspond to e-mail addresses, so this is important. 

I hope to have the collective diary published on my blog some time during the week of November 13.

Be sure to check in:

http://www.zeezahava.blogspot.com/

From the Private and Personal Diary of Lotus Louise Klapper

Entry #9

National Take to the Hills Day

I’ve decided to run away. I don't have any choice, now that Mr. and Mrs. Klapper have become totally unbearable.  No blue hair, no navel ring, no sleepovers on school nights, no purple walls, no HBO, no Girl Goddess Jamboree at Fiona Feingold’s house. The Klappers are acting like parents, not subjects, and I’ve had it with them. 

I will run away to Grandma Iris’s and transform her house into my Castle-Away-from-Home. If Lotus Nation is a state of mind (which is what Mrs. Sheridan told Godiva, and I’m sure she meant it in a very positive way) then any place I go my Sovereignty will come with me.

I feel 99.9% certain that Grandma Iris will take me in. But that one little tenth of a percentage point (or is it 1/100th?) is what’s keeping me from calling her in advance and telling her to expect a Royal Visitation. I think if I just show up on her doorstep it will be more effective. That’s what they call “the element of surprise.” 

The fact that I am a monarch on the run should count for something, sympathy-wise. Plus, Grandma Iris is my Jewish grandmother. I’m sure she knows the story of Anne Frank. Though I won’t be living in her attic. Grandma Iris has a nice guest room, with its own TV, and HBO. I expect to be quite happy there until Mr. and Mrs. Klapper come to their senses. 

I decided not to pack a suitcase. It is undignified for me, as the Queen of All, to schlep luggage around town. Everything I need is in my backpack, except  for my diary which, naturally, is in my lap. But now I will pack her (you) away — temporarily — to make a safe journey across the ocean. 

Okay, I'm only going eight streets away. Still, it’s like another universe over there. But as soon as I walk through Grandma Iris’s door I will establish Lotus Nation in Exile. 

I hope Becky and Avis and Godiva can come over tonight and help me map out my bloody revenge against the Klappers and Mr. Harold P. Loomis and Fiona Feingold, who stole my idea for Girl Goddess Jamboree (I didn’t want to go to her stupid party anyway) and Kenny Bergermeister, who is not the gentleman I thought he was. 

I know what I know and some day everything will be revealed.

The end (for now).