The Lake

Snow sweeps across the yard. It's not the kind that
lingers on your doorstep and collects into a big glob of wet mess.
It's the kind that disintegrates, each drop closer to
the earth. My mother is still eating. She likes to take her time,
peeling the skin off individual grapes. Chewing and counting until 10.
She says eating like this brings a person much more closer to being
civilized. My father has already gobbled up his food and has left the
table for the much more exciting world of World Wrestling
Entertainment.

I wonder if she knows that I'm only half-listening to her recount her
day gossiping with and consoling Aunt M. whose husband left to marry an
18-year-old girl who barely knows English? I think she knows, but she
enjoys it too much. The sound of her own voice. My eyes glaze and I
nod and say, Uh huh, or Oh, really, or feign, no! Why is she still
with him?

Sometimes, I am captured by that same voice, at times pleasing and
teasing, at times annoying and boring. Like the stories that erupt
once in a while. The fables. The cautionary tales. Like that of the
pristine lake. There was once a lake. While other lakes collected
leaves, sticks and bugs in its wavy hair, there was a lake, near the
top of the mountain, that always remained pristine. Nothings ever
touched the calmness of the lake. Not even the wind. My mother used to
tell us never to go near there. You'll be taken, she says. The Dragon
lives there and no one ever escapes. If he should find you pleasing,
you're gone. Like the girl whose parents made her wear enchanting
amulets to rid her of the Dragon who fell in love with her. Her neck,
wrists, ankles, bound by red copper jewelry. Once, in the dawn of the
morning, her lover called to her and she followed his voice, his
presence. She walked into the lake. Her mother awoke, realized the
daughter gone. They followed the daughter's distant voice.
Waist-deep in the lake, her father struggled to pull his daughter out
of the chilled water. She fought and cried. Her right arm extended.
Her fingers stretched out. Reaching out for her lover. A snake
swimming a couple of feet away from her. They saved her. They left
town. But he still followed her. My mother remembers seeing the
beautiful girl. Her sad eyes. The weight on her small body. The war
came. Whatever became of her?

Don't believe everything I write...

Princess Tutu. The writer as the magician. That’s what I thought. He dies before finishing his story about the evil crow and the handsome, kindly prince, leaving the two locked forever in battle. Itching to be released from the bounds of an unfinished tale, the crow escapes from the book and in order to chase after the evil crow, the prince shatters his own heart into a million pieces.

This brings us to the yellow duck, who sees the empty prince dancing beautifully by the lakeshore. She makes a wish and the writer hears her, granting her wish. She becomes a young girl, on a quest to retrieve the empty prince’s heart pieces. From an awkward duck she becomes Princess Tutu – who in another story, chases after her prince, but never gets to be with him.

I’m not truly a writer. I’m a wannabe writer. Long seasons can pass before I think of writing again. The thoughts flow through my head. But I don’t write them down. At least not on paper. I write them in my heart.

Like Amy Tan’s character in “Woman Warrior,” I live among ghosts. In the midst of sewing the hem for my jeans, I turn to the sound of my name whispered in the dark. I peer in vain and shake the fear out. My mind is playing tricks again. I have an imaginary friend who has been with me since childhood. I don’t know where he goes – sometimes he leaves days, months at a time. But he always comes back to me, filled with stories and sometimes with treats. I know his name, but can never say his name. It’s forbidden.

I am neither 6 nor 60 years old. Time ebbs and I watch it drain away. I am neither morose nor chirpy. The ways of men do not hold much interest for me. I am a liar and I am a truth seeker. The words are mine, and the words aren’t mine.

Falsehoods and Truths

It's never easy being the one whose feet ache after walking all day in
3-inch heels shopping for shoes. But the necessity to look good in the
shiny black boots overrides any pain I might be feeling. I'm not
exactly vain. I like to walk past mirrors and windows and sneak a peek
at my appearance. Is my hair windblown? Does my peacoat drape
elegantly over my lush curves? Do my sunglasses give me the air of a
haughty city girl?

Some days, I don't feel like slipping into my pink polka dot dress and
the pink heels that match. The monotony of putting on the verdent rose
colored lipstick and shaping my eyelashes with black mascara and my
eyes lids with eyeliner becomes unbearable. I sit on my bed
contemplating the silence of my gym clothes. Grabbing my grey sweat
pants and the mismatched purple shirt that says "New Kids on the
Block" on the back, I tie my scraggly hair back into a simple pony
tail and head out for coffee. It isn't long before I notice that few
pay attention to me. Few men or women. I have become invisible.
Blending in with the bituminous roads and the others who dress with
little care.

Writing

I looked around me. Faces of girls all anxious to tell their story. To write their stories onto paper. To make it known that their lives mattered. I was among them. Not necessarily to make meaning of my life. I didn't really think I had a story to tell. My own need to finish my last term in college in an easy fashion proved to be the most difficult task of all. My stories began, halted in the processing and sometimes never reached the departure point. The Writer enjoyed the Memoirs class. Of course she did. She's the Writer. I was most painfully aware that my story didn't want to be shared - at least not creatively.

There's no greater pleasure for me than to listen attentively to my mother's storytelling. I didn't care if she chose to stretch truth or mold it with fiction. I never tired of her lilting voice, the brilliant pictures her words painted in my head, the pauses exacted with noted effectiveness, the breath I hold in anticipation of an ending that may not exactly end happily ever after. I admire her greatly, though I dare not tell her. I want to emulate her - minus her not so attractive qualities. I should tell her. As cliche as it sounds, life's too short to be a coward and to have too much pride.

Schedule-maniac

The other day I had lunch with the Writer and the Lawyer. I always enjoy our outings together. It's fun, lighthearted and I smile and laugh. It's more carefree. I informed Writer and Lawyer that I had taken on a part-time job at my old establishment from way-back during my college years. Writer was surprised and not-so-surprised. Writer said, "As long as I've known you, you've always had the need to over-schedule."

In many respects, I suppose there is truth to Writer's statement. I feel a need to fill a void in my life -- to have every single aspect of my time scheduled to feel busy - to feel as though I have a life beyond my nucleus.

Is it so wrong to feel smothered by one's family? I love my family. No doubt about that. But the lack of companionship beyond that is noted.

Yesterday I got all excited to meet ex-banking Lawyer Friend for dinner. It's been a long time since we last got together and I was looking forward to seeing Friend again. Excited also that I was having a "life." How lame is that? So I got all dressed up, a dark, blue jean skirt with belted waist that made me look slim. Curled my hair. Put on perfume and the 3-inch heels for a night on the town. I waited for one-hour. No friend. I called and got friend on phone, who apologized and said a message had been left for me since 2 pm about canceling the dinner outing. I was of course, unhappy, but happily told friend to get better. Walked to car. Fumed. "What a loser," I thought. I sat in my car. Looking at my cell phone. I'm not going to let this get to me. So I called my Sis and we went out for sushi. It was good. I was glad to go. But it was still lame.