Domestic Vision Quest

A big PSHAW to those of you who think you need the great outdoors and bright sun and bugs and no indoor plumbing or showers to have a vision quest. Pshaw. You can do it in your very own home! All the elements are there, and you can go to the bathroom indoors and take a shower whenever you get too icki-fied.

Here's how it starts. You go to see your teacher and friend (you remember the one -- the one who somehow convinced you to eat quinoa and barley and swing a 27 pound iron kettle bell around your house) to talk about bizarre happenings in your body. Turns out, all you needed was to get more white fish to balance out the orange fish in your living room. :-)

Seriously, your teacher comes over to your house and politely doesn't mention the pile of shoes in the living room (there was nowhere else for them to go!). He spends several hours in deep contemplation at the state of your house. You suddenly see your house as someone else might (as opposed to the "well, it was so much WORSE when you lived in Phoenix" lens.) You realize that indeed your house is choking, and that's really a shame because you love your house, and it probably doesn't know how much you love it since, well, you've been strangling it.

He tells you that you've lost 30% of your body mass in the past two years. Your house needs to lose at least that much. He tells you to imagine that the house is shaking. What would it get rid of? He tells you to look at each space in the house (yes, corners, drawers, and that Dark Place Where No One Knows What Lives There) and ask it if it can breathe. Take out what needs to go for that space to breathe. He leaves you with incense and a promise that he and his wife will come back and help you create a space outside the house as well. (You are She Who Kills All Things Green and know you can't manage that part alone).

You, being you, having remained stuck, suddenly erupt with a fire in the belly and spew out everything that's clogging the pathways. You work for 4-1/2 days straight. You haul car load after car load off to the dump or Goodwill or the battered women's shelter. You make piles of things for friends. You give things to Keith's children. You burn burn burn for three hours in your backyard chiminea journals from high school and college. You burn your therapy notes. Your therapy art work. Your notes and letters and pictures from things that don't matter. You find bank statements from banks that don't exist (and didn't exist long before this year of The Dead Bank). You find mortgage papers from a house you actually never owned (this one's a mystery still).

You touch every book. Every article of clothing. You try on every garment you own. If it doesn't fit, it goes in the bag. If it's too big it goes away (you're not going to be that size again). If it's too small, it goes away (you were actually never that size). You sort your jewelry by color and pass on what others might like. You pare down your scarf collection from oh, say, a hundred, to thirty.

Time loses meaning. You don't know if it's Friday or Sunday. You eat when you're hungry. You take a shower when the dirt and old energy is too much to keep holding. You become loopy from lack of sleep and your internal censor vanishes as you babble. You wonder who will emerge from this journey.

You hit the proverbial wall on Saturday when you enter your office. This room has (had) things in boxes you just carried from apartment to apartment in Phoenix, to your house in Phoenix, and then to your house in Prescott without opening them. You know (or you think you know) what's in them. You open them and you find something different from what you expected. You thought you'd find your younger self and that you'd want to keep her. Instead, you found the baggage of your younger self, and you realize you don't need that. Your younger self is not in the boxes. She is inside you, and she whispers, "Yeah, it's been 25 years. It's done." And you know it's done, and though you cry, you also dance. You give thanks.

You find pictures of yourself looking like you never remembered you looked. You find transcripts and letters of recommendation and handouts from every class you ever taught before everything went electronic. You find expired medications and cosmetics.

Empty space used to scare you before you felt what space felt like in your body. An empty wall used to feel like fingers scratching on a chalkboard. This is not true anymore. You now know every single thing that's in your house. Down to the silverware and socks.

You call your teacher and tell him to bring it on. There's room for the next thing.

(Side Note on Soundtracks: I chose a pandora.com station I created called "I Will Survive". It played disco hits from the 70s and 80s. The thump thump and familiarity of the songs helped keep me moving. Do NOT choose a soundtrack of, say, Leonard Cohen. You'll end up drinking yourself to death and pushing everything back in the closet.)

Some sample pictures:

The living room.




The corner of the living room towards the kitchen.





The corner of the living room going up the stairs.




The bedroom closet!!




My desk with my fabulous Mac.




The corner of my office.





And finally, the bottle of wine Keith and I will share tonight at the Thai House.

Natural Talent

It happens every semester. The student creeps up to you in the very last breath of your office hour. Or she waits until the rest of the class has gathered up their backpacks and water bottles. Sometimes he's shy. Sometimes she's bold. Sometimes he poses it as a challenge. Sometimes more of a prayer.

"Do I have any talent?"

For a writing teacher, this question is the equivalent of being asked to reveal state secrets to the Taliban. And, fortunately, I've honed my Special Forces resistance skills over the years to where I can keep a poker face and provide the only answer that is ethical. "I can't answer that."

The reason the poker face is needed is because I'm still a human being. The students I work with present a wide range of abilities. I have personal tastes that I try to keep out of the classroom, but are still a part of how I see literature.

I'm convinced people ask the question because they want to be validated. My job is not to validate. My job is to help my students grow as writers. Think about it. The last time you asked someone if your butt looked fat in those jeans, did you really want them to say "actually, yes it does." Likely not.

I am not the Talent Police, nor am I the Talent Judge. I don't think anyone can be. Relax, though. Talent isn't the crystal ball of writing. Perseverance, a commitment to learning the craft, writing writing writing writing writing, studying grammar, reading reading reading reading reading -- these things can make a writer successful. I can't even tell you with certainty whether or not a piece can be published. So much of publishing is changing and out of our control that we can't possibly say with definitive authority -- no, it'll never make it. Or, yes! It's a bestseller. No one knows these things. Please don't ask us. Ask questions such as, "Who can I read more of to learn more about plot?" or "What are some of the different ways I could have approached that character conflict?" or "Where do you think the work fell into cliche?" Ask concrete developmental questions about your work. We can answer those. The work will improve. And the rest will go where it will go.

I think of talent as the magic bean. All of us got a handful of magic beans, but none of us got the same assortment of magic beans. All of these magic beans were not programmed to sprout at the same time. Sometimes they lie dormant until the circumstances arise for them to bloom. Sometimes they are nurtured from early childhood. Some people publish a book in their early twenties. Others not until their eighties. Everyone didn't get the same set of circumstances, so talent cannot be measured in an Excel spreadsheet. Talent can't be ranked, quantified, or implanted.

I also know that since all people are not given equal gifts that all people cannot accomplish the exact same things. No matter how much I want to be a blues singer, it just ain't happening in this life. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy music and singing, but it means the open mic or karaoke night is as far as I'm going to get with my musical ability.

Some people do have more writing talent than others. (Dare I say it? It's like porn -- you can't define it but you know it when you see it.) If you're in my class, I'll never ever tell you whether I think you're talented enough because I only see part of the picture. I can't know enough to tell you what you want (or don't want) to hear. I don't know how badly you want it. I will tell you if individual sentences, or stories, or poems sing. I will tell you how to make a piece stronger.

But only you know when the door of your reality opens and you realize that you can enjoy singing (or writing, or dancing, or swimming) your entire life, but you'll never be a professional. Remember the joy comes in the value of the relationship you have with your art form. Don't lose sight of that joy comparing yourself to the writing of others.

Do your own writing. Study. Read. Read. Read. Write. Read. Push yourself. Don't get complacent (oh, I already know how to write dialogue) -- I'll bet there's something new you could learn. There's something new all of us can learn. Be a constant student whether you're in class or not. Be in service to your art. Listen to it. Walk with it. That's the relationship that will get you wherever you and your writing are supposed to end up in this crazy world.

But talent? Don't worry about it. Your job is to use the magic beans you've been given to the best of your ability. Don't waste them comparing your beans to everyone else's beans. Your commitment is to your growth with your art. Nothing more and nothing less is required of you.

You may never be able to string together clauses like Faulkner, but that's OK. We've had one Faulkner. What is it that you can do?

Attachment and Aversion

My natural tendency is to avoid change. If left to my own devices, I will find ways to work within situations that are blatantly unworkable (like 25 years of living in Phoenix) rather than run the risk of doing something different. I want friendships to stay the same. I want the places where I lived to stay the same. I want my job to stay the same. I even want my phone number to stay the same. My dad wrote birthday letters to us every year, and in one of mine he wrote that I resisted change more than anyone he'd ever known. I was eleven.

It seems also that my natural tendency is toward worst-case scenario. Yes, today's situation might be less than ideal, but we better not do anything about it because it could be much much worse. When we first moved to Phoenix, our family attended a free program at the Glendale library about personalities. I was a melancholic. Yes. At twelve. (Many fine writers, I went on to research, were also melancholic. So there.)

I am working on the "attachment and aversion" chapter in The Writing Warrior, and my first thought about those concepts is, yeah, well, so? Although I know they're the twin sisters of suffering, I still stomp my feet in defiance of the reality of change.

When I was very young, I had a baby blanket that I loved. I slept with it. Carried it around the house. I had planned to take it to school when I started kindergarten, and I remember telling mom I was going to have it at my wedding. What I loved most about the blanket was its smell. I don't remember that it smelled dirty -- it just smelled like me -- which likely was dirty if I'd had the blanket four years.

One day, mom told me she was going to wash the blanket and she gave me a new blanket. The new blanket wasn't the same as the old blanket. It was thicker, a different shade of white, and it didn't have the fraying ribbon edge that I loved to rub between my fingers. It turned out mom hadn't planned to wash the blanket. She threw it away and I guess hoped I wouldn't notice. To be fair, mom and I hadn't known each other long enough for her to know I noticed everything -- but more importantly, she couldn't have known yet that once I loved something, I loved it forever. One blanket can't be replaced with another blanket. Not no way. Not no how.

I don't remember how I found out, but I know she ended up getting my blanket back out of the trash. I'm sure there was loud screaming and stomping of feet. I'm sure she thought it was time I got rid of the baby blanket. I'm sure she was right.

But I'm sure of this too. At 40 and ten months, I've still got that blanket in my nightstand.

Transparency

Ever catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and not recognize who is looking back? Ever wander through the halls of an old school you attended, or an old neighborhood and felt familiar eyes hanging out in the trees, only when you turned to look, there was nothing but a breeze and a blue jay? Or how about this one -- you walk into a room or into a different city and you know that you could have been here if you'd made other choices. You don't know if the end result would have been more pleasant or less pleasant, you just know that the road you travel could have brought you here.

I think sometimes that I spend a good portion of my psychic energy chasing the illusions of myself. I love all these ghosts hanging around me, so they hang all around me. I love imagining what could have been, and so I do. I love, perhaps most of all, the idea that possibilities are limitless -- that all I have to do is step one foot in a different direction and everything will be different.

Except there'll still be that transparent Laraine hanging out. The one who is always just a finger's length away. The one who whispers things and hides things, only to reveal them at the most inopportune times. Transparent Laraine won't be my friend. That's not her job. Transparent Laraine just reflects. I'm the one who chooses what I see -- gosh, is that another wrinkle under my eye -- gosh, my butt really does look fat in those jeans -- or gosh, those eyes are the same eyes I looked at when I first held up a mirror. My soul is untouched by sagging skin or tired joints. My soul, my truth, has nothing to do with the image. How hard to remember that!

Perhaps the practice is to see what is unchanging in the reflection, not what is changing. Through that which is unchanged, perhaps change can be accepted with a bit more grace. By touching the part that doesn't move, the hub of the wheel, then one can move freely with the spokes.

I want Transparent Laraine to be my friend. I want her to show me in her image that nothing is changing, that I'm 18 again, that I'm not aging. I want Transparent Laraine to reach her hand through the window and be with me all the way through to whatever happens at the end.

But I get this sneaking suspicion that when I reach the end of the line, she'll turn and walk away, and I'll be left to move forward with all I ever had that was real -- the first thing I ever saw when I looked in a mirror, long before I attached a storyline to the rest of my reflection.

I see you, Transparent Laraine, and I guess when the day comes that I don't, I'll put on my traveling shoes (which will be fabulous and sparkly) and move along.

A Heart is a Terrible Thing to Waste

Dear San Francisco,

One day, you're going to write a post card to me. I'm going to be opening my mailbox and in between the offers for a free dinner at Outback and a fabulous deal on any GMC car of my choice, there'll be a note from you.

Dear Laraine,

It's time. I've got a place for you to live and a job for you.

Love,
San Francisco

And I'll look around for hidden film crews, but they won't be there. I'll go back to my house, clean out the cat carriers, pack the cats, the clothes, the computers, and say good-bye at last to Arizona.

It's not the right time yet, but it will be one day. I will call from the corner of Castro and Market and say, "Yeah, Prescott? I'm not coming back. Thanks for it all. But you know, the sky in Arizona has always scared me. And you know, the lack of a true urban center in Phoenix has always disappointed me. And you know, my artistic soul languishes in a land of cheap Kokopelli charms and turquoise coyote statues and cowboy poetry. Thanks, though. See ya next time around."

It's not the right time yet. But it will be one day.


Me at Union Square



Keith, me, and our "son" Keezel the Green Monkey God at Ocean Beach



Keith and I at Yerba Buena Gardens before we visited MOMA



Fan-tabulous Victorians on Haight & Masonic




My friend from a zillion years ago, Dex, who is happy and fabulous in the Castro



Me in front of, dare I say it, the 6 FLOOR MACY'S in Union Square




And, who we didn't get to see, my friend Jeffrey, who I hope was watching us from that great gay bar in the sky. We drank a toast to you, and honey, I shopped! Keep the light on for me.

School's Out!

Shhh! Thanks, America for not telling anyone that the academic semester-system is obsolete. Thanks for not noticing that the vast majority of America's school children no longer need summers off to help with the harvest. We, the humble employees of the educational system, salute you.

Friday, the day before Yavapai College's graduation, I went down to Phoenix. I got there a little early and thought I'd just walk through Metro Center, which is the shopping mall near where we lived when I was in high school. (Can't walk outside anymore -- it's already well over 100 degrees there.)Metro Center was a new mall then (in the ancient 70s), and the Metro Center area was still a vital area. My first two jobs were in Metro Center. The summer between my junior and senior years I worked at a place called Choo-Choo Charlie's. I had to wear a goofy hat and a blue apron and stand in the middle of the mall with a plate of sample choo-choos. Choo-choos are basically fried dough dipped in cinnamon. Choo-Choo Charlie's was next to Orange Julius, and the whole set up was next to Sears and an area of shops made to look like a town square. Needless to say, Choo-Choo Charlie's has been gone a long time. I made $3.15/hour there, and I must admit, it was cool to be in the mall before it opened and after it closed. Perhaps this is where my shopping addiction began. Hmmm...

The next job I had was at Blaire Metro Park 8 Cinemas, which was right outside the mall on the outer loop. I worked there in 1986, right after high school graduation until I moved to Tucson to go to U of A. Working in the movie theatre was the best job I have ever had. I was the assistant manager, and I got paid the enormous (to me at the time) sum of $225/week. Golden! I got to start the films, count the money, stay out late, and in general, deal with very few people and avoid having to serve food or work outside where it's hot and sunny. If I didn't need to actually earn enough money to pay for everything, I'd still be at the movie theatre. Seriously. Best job ever. Free films. No one complaining about their grades. No papers to grade. No e-mail concerning the academic year 09-10's assessment plans. No responsibility except to make sure the films started on time, didn't break, and no one stole the popcorn. Best job ever.

When I moved to Tucson to go to U of A, I also got a job at a movie theatre -- the AMC El Con 6 Cinemas at El Con Mall. (Yes, there's a mall-theme to my employment). El Con Mall is gone too, with the theatre only a memory. I worked there when the first Batman opened. Lines stretched throughout the parking lot. Who Framed Roger Rabbit came out while I worked there, along with She's Having a Baby (shudder!) and The Last Temptation of Christ. Protesters for The Last Temptation of Christ hung themselves on wooden crosses placed up against the side of Dillard's. We had more than a chuckle when a monsoon storm hit and the faux Jesuses had to climb down lest they be struck by very real lighting.

El Con Mall is gone now and of course, the movie theatre along with it. The part of Tucson where I lived in the late 80s is also very different. I don't know why I expect things to stay the same -- expect the same people to be living in the same places, the same stores to be in the same malls, the same conversations to be going on just as they were when I left.

In Phoenix, the place where the theatre once was is an empty lot, as is most of the Metro Center area. Restaurant after restaurant has closed. Even Trader Joe's has moved out. Inside the mall, every other store front was empty, with the just-as-empty sign promise on the window of "Another Great Retailer Coming Soon." There are not going to be any great retailers coming any time soon to Metro Center. Phoenix was hit very hard by the housing crash. When I drove into town, the billboard announced that I could buy a new home at "foreclosure prices" up in Anthem (an area north of Phoenix). On virtually every corner, a wooden sign had an 800# with the "We Buy Houses" pronouncement, or, the equally prominent "We fix foreclosures."

I left Phoenix in the middle of its denial of everything -- denial of the inflated value of its homes, denial of the absurdity of building suburbs 50 miles out in all directions from the city's center, denial of the high price of gasoline, denial of the absence of ...um, yeah... water. When I drove south on I-17 into Phoenix Friday morning, I thought Phoenix looked like the world would look if anyone came out alive after the apocalypse. Dirty, dusty, and desperate. Most times when I go to Phoenix, I can't wait to get back out and shake it off, but this trip, I was just left sad. Sad for what is happening to it. Sad for the people who are suffering because the city is unsustainable. Sad for all of us crazy humans who keep wanting more than we need.

Last night was the graduation ceremony. As faculty, it's our last hurdle before the freedom of summer. The graduates are forced to sit on the stage and look out at the audience. They're forced to listen to speeches, and then, after a photo op and a handshake, they are free. And we are free.

To do what? Prescott's economy, even in the best of times, isn't strong. If I were in school now, I'd stay forever, taking out student loan after student loan until I had a string of PhDs. Several students came by my office this semester to ask about what they should do. They're afraid of the empty job market. They're afraid of their student debt (even from attending a community college). I didn't know what to tell them, except stay in school. Somehow, some way, an education has to help dig us all out of whatever this is we're in, right? Somehow, learning about the history of other civilizations, learning about science, math, literature -- somehow, all of that has to matter, right?

Sometimes I don't know. And that's why I'm most grateful for this strange but wonderful academic-agrarian calendar. During these three months off, I'll re-believe in what I do. I'll recommit to teaching. I'll dig back out my hope. But this semester, at the end of it all, I find myself doubting that it matters. Doubting that we do any good. Wondering if, especially in these times of uncertainty and fear, if there isn't something else I could be doing with my own education that would somehow matter more, help the world more.

But then I read the cards and letters I have pinned up to my wall at work from students. I remember each of them and the work we did together. I remember my own favorite teachers from school, and how each of them in their own ways, showed me how to look at the world differently. Each one opened a door that I hadn't seen before. Do these women and men from my own educational experience know they did these things? Were they frustrated with outcomes assessment and NCAA self-study plans and curriculum and meeting upon meeting upon meeting? Probably. But they still gave us stories, and projects, and additional resources, and extra time. And then they set us free, never to know what we'd do with ourselves.

Thanks for the summer break, Education System. Thanks for the time to recharge and remember why we teach. It's too easy to lose sight of it with all the hoops and forms and paperwork. Thanks for the chance to breathe. When I go back to teach in August, I'll be back in love with it and with my students. But right now, I'm tired and I want to hear, no matter how faintly, what my own voice might have to say.

Happy Summer, ya'll!



Old PS 186 building in Harlem




Moon Valley High School, where I graduated in 1986



Yavapai College commencement

Home

New Brunswick County, North Carolina

Tonight's A Prairie Home Companion is in Durham, North Carolina. Last summer, Keith and I took a trip back to my home in North Carolina. We re-remembered to pray before meals when with family. We touched the sand on the Atlantic coast. We ate barbecue with vinegar and Keith learned the default way to make tea is with sugar.

Summer's almost here again. I have two more classes to meet. The happy Snoopy dance has begun inside. I've graded all my papers. I've basically just got to attend graduation next Saturday and then empty out my brain from run-on sentences, improbable plots, poor dialogue punctuation, and my favorite "WhatcanIdotogetanAeventhoughIknowInevercametoclass?" question. I've also got to empty out from the sincere work and authenticity and beauty my students have given me. I love them, but I have to separate from them to hear myself again.

There's a light smell of honeysuckle in Prescott. There's a full moon tonight and there's the possibility of sitting outside on the porch and enjoying a glass of wine without mosquitoes and sand fleas. But still.

I tell Keith -- we can just go up to Flagstaff and turn right on I-40. We'll be home. Home. Home. Just go 90 miles north and turn right. How easy is that.

I've just about accepted that I'm stuck in a longing for North Carolina, no matter how many yoga trainings I take, no matter how many qi gong trainings I take, no matter how much I work with detachment, I find I'm programmed for gospel music, azaleas, and oaks. I find I'm programmed for a religion I don't believe in. The other week Keith and I were browsing books and I found 23 Minutes in Hell: One Man's Journey and I was freaked out for days. No amount of education can seem to erase that basic fear that religion brings up in me. What if they're right? What if? Better get saved just in case. No amount of critical thinking and rational thought and downright disgust with religion can erase those very first years that have conditioned me, apparently for the rest of my life, to long for that Sweet By and By that I know isn't there -- though God and Jesus know I want to believe it is.

Just like home. I want to go to Flagstaff and head east. I want to go home, even as I know, with all my rational thoughts, my critical thinking, my years of education and therapy, that home is not what I will find. My dad won't be there drinking sweet tea. Our neighbors won't have not built the fence between our houses because we sold our home to a black couple. My best friend Donna and I won't still be playing kickball in her front yard before her house caught fire. I won't still be believing body, mind, and spirit that it's as simple as saying "yes, Jesus, yes, I believe."

I don't believe. And I don't believe that heading east for three days will bring me back my family.

But dear Jesus, the longing for it sure feels sweet.


Prescott, Arizona