It’s that time of year. Giving and receiving. Returning and repurchasing. Finding time to get together with family and friends. Spreading good cheer and love…And STRESS! This week, I’m pondering the phrase, “Merry Christmas,” which as we all know has caused a lot of controversy in schools, in our everyday interactions, and Starbucks coffee cups! Oh, the horror. But seriously, I ask you, and I don’t mean this to turn contentious, what is your feeling on using the phrase? Do you still use it? Do you feel political correctness has gone too far? Or are many of us being short-sighted and not empathetic enough, thinking only of our narrow existence? Is changing, “Merry Christmas” to “Happy Holidays” really that strenuous? If it includes more people in this feeling of good cheer and love I mention above, is there harm in changing a few words with the same message? I’ve thought about this myself. Being an educator, I must continually think about the words I use. How I make people feel. I care about that stuff. I want every student sitting in my classroom to feel accepted. To feel understood. To not feel ostracized to the best of my ability. That they matter. That their voices matter. I have differing races, sexual orientations, socio-economic backgrounds, learning levels…in short, I have a cross-section of America and an international world. It is a microcosm of the world we live in. It extends well outside of my classroom. It extends to all of us, in the US or globally at large. Over the course of several years, I’ve used both phrases. I used to be very careful to only use “Happy Holidays.” I felt it was important. Not everyone is Christian or celebrates Christmas. Many of my colleagues are Jewish or hold other beliefs, and I’ve been schooled one too many times not to realize I’m assuming a helluva lot when I say: “Merry Christmas.” But here’s the thing for me. And I may change my mind again. Who knows! But to me, the phrase isn’t about Christ at all, believe it or not, even though that’s the root of the word. Let’s face it. Christmas has become less and less about “Jesus,” the figure and person, than it is about a “feeling” and a state of mind in its purest sense. (And to some, it’s only about presents and that’ the most troubling of all.) Most of us realize the date has nothing to do with any real birthday, that it fit the timeline of the clashing paganism of the time. The whole thing is fabricated. Come on! Right? For those who still believe, that is fine and wonderful too. Let it be. I have Christian values in my heart but without the institution of religion. In fact, I don’t believe in a traditional god in any way. (You should all know that by now!). And I am not offended when someone says, “Merry Christmas” to me, even though I am not a practicing “Christian.” I understand that isn’t the issue anyway. That what offends me isn’t in question necessarily, but that it MAY offend someone else. And if I care about other people, I should care about whether or not I offend them. It’s that simple for me. Just because it doesn’t offend me, doesn’t mean that is the end of it. That, frankly, is selfish and egocentric. So when I continue with my thoughts below, I’m not being insensitive to the reasons behind the controversy. I have come to take a side on this, even if not popular. When I say, “Merry Christmas,” I look at it as my language of saying: Goodness to you. Happiness to you and your family. Prosperity and luck and love. It means all those things to me. If someone says a phrase in their language to me, a simple hello or thank you or best to you or anything that is a term of good will, I accept it as just that. Their way of saying: “I wish you well” or “I want happiness for you.”
There are many languages and many ways to speak to people. Just because I may not practice or know their language, I gladly accept and understand it’s simply an extension of who they are. Therefore, while I do understand where the animosity stems from, I have chosen to bring Merry Christmas back into my lexicon. Because to me, I wish nothing but the best, heartfelt wishes of health and happiness to those around me, and that is the way I choose to say it to people this time of year. Any phrase that is a term of good will and love, shouldn’t be censored. Christmas should not be about presents. Or commercialization. Or greed. And sadly, it seems that is all it has become for many. And that is the only offensive part. So to you all, I say, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and I hope you understand, that when I say it, I am simply wishing you a season filled with love, that feeling of giving and filling our souls with that which is not about us. And I do hope, you won’t be offended by that. xo
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~Robert Frost We talk of New Year resolutions this time of year, something we use for fresh starts, new outlooks, and perhaps ways to organize our lives, reflect on what is working and what isn’t. No life is perfect, and sometimes it can feel as if it’s spinning out of control. The start of a new year gives us hope. Hope to right the rails, hope to plod through the storm, hope that we will take our lives back. I’m fortunate that I get a long vacation this time of year after the madness peaks and explodes. I am never a rash person. And I never make decisions under duress. Ever. When things settle, so do I, and I think. And this year will be a particularly pensive one, especially when it comes to writing. This year I will rethink my journey. I’ve traveled near and far all at the same time. I’ve written my dark fantasies far removed from my world and I’ve written my autobiographical truths into them. I’ve written sweet romance in distant tales and turbulent ones that mirrored my own past. I’ve taken leaps I never thought I would into new writing territory, some long, some short, and I’ve stayed in the same place with dear friends and goals, honing my skills to be better. And I’ve bled my soul into verse, reaching new depths, publishing a collection, and continually doing so every day, challenging myself to grow, steady on the course. I write because I have to. Make no mistake there. And I’ve said it a million times. But what got me publishing? That. That is what I need to ponder. And I need to ponder it deeply. With Amazon as seemingly the only real avenue these days (yes there are others, less lucrative ways), I must ask myself: Do I want to continue to support a company that puts everyone else out of business? That has arbitrary whims that can destroy years of work in one fell swoop of a sword? That hasn’t just slashed the little man but has slashed large corporations, toy stores and craft stores, leaving only one option: them. We live in a world of greed and instant gratification. Of a I-want-it-now-or-at-least-no-later-than-tomorrow world, and I want it at the cheapest price. And we indies rarely can make it, not truly, not the way we hoped, not the way we need to make it a dream realized. Is it worth it anymore? As many of you know, a tale I’ve cultivated for a couple years now come to fruition, and it was arbitrarily and swiftly torn down. There was a time when I shared my writing for free, where it was read copiously, where I didn’t worry about my “rank” or if it sold, where I actually placed my head on my pillow at night and slept, and where the only reason I wrote was to exorcise my demons, to cut open wounds to bleed to heal. The wounds now almost never stop bleeding. The Band-Aids I’ve used no longer work. So I end this year with some questions to answer, ones only I can do. It’s true. We can only travel one path at a time; we are but one traveler. If I choose to take the one less traveled this time, I, like Frost, doubt I should I ever come back to the other. But as I write this, I ponder that, perhaps, there are more than only two roads, that I just need to see them in the yellow wood. And maybe, just maybe, knowing that, will make all the difference. We live in an age that contradicts itself. Do you notice that? Recycle but not plastic bags. Open your mind but not when it disagrees with my politics. Don't pirate my work but, here, it's all free. And buy books, but save trees. It's a polarizing time to live, and it's also a confusing time. And what is happening to the poet in all of this? Is there any such thing anymore? Has the internet killed the poet? Does anyone BUY poetry? Or are they just cruising the internet, reading what snippets come their way? This discussion has been on my mind lately. and I asked if people still bought poetry books. Do you? Or are poetry books a bit of a thing of the past, that the internet is littered with poetry if you want it, so why buy a damn thing? I buy books. Oh do I buy books. Not like the ones I write much, but nonetheless, I'm constantly reading before I fall asleep at night. Many of my newer books are on my kindle now, yes, because of the environment, but also for its convenience. I used to be against the kindle, until, of course, I actually owned one and could take and read as many books as I wanted at once. But poetry books are the one thing, besides my own, I do not have on my kindle. I own Dickinson and Shakespeare and Cummings and Plath and Whitman and...and...and...all in paperback or hardcover. I read them over and over. Paper books, somehow, are just perfect to plop down in a chair with by the fire to read. One poem or two at a sitting, sipping wine or drinking tea, god, I want to be doing it right now! I have no idea what it is about it that needs to be paper for me when it comes to poetry. Maybe it's because somehow poetry carries with an antiquated sense of romance, perhaps one we fear we are losing with the ubiquitous presence of the internet and technology and the constant barrage of poetry in bite-sizes, quick candies, not to be savored and marked and shared as we once did, but now to be shared in a sentence or two on those damn squares I've bitched about before (and won't do it again. You can read it here: BLOG) as if bumper stickers are poetry. Grab a coffee. Read a line. Breathe out the hot steam of coffee and call yourself a poetry lover. I'm not sure if the internet has killed or is killing the poet or not. There are certainly no shortages of poets out there. I, myself, call myself a poet, never said a great one, but I am a poet nonetheless. Hell, I think everyone has a poet in him/her if I'm being honest, so who I am to say what is and what isn't great poetry. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Instagram squares are the best invention ever made for the writer. I will say this. I think really great poetry gets overshadowed by what has become standard poetry. People want their quick fixes. They don't often want to think or reread poetry or read it aloud. Today, if it's not understood on the first read, someone shouts: "I hate poetry. I don't understand it. I don't get poetry," unless, of course, they find it on Instagram. And the moon is mentioned. Next to the sun. :) Maybe I'm not young anymore. Maybe I need to get with the times. Or maybe, I'll just sit down here at work for a few moments, savor a poem or two, and shut off the internet for a little longer than a flash of a disappearing tweet. Today I ask about vaping, the ever-growing trend that has risen over the last few years to a ridiculously high rate. What say you on this issue? We glamorize or romanticize photography where people smoke. Guys covered in tats smoking on bikes, chicks scantily clad on their backs, puffing out beautiful white images against black backgrounds. The old pictures of movie stars, using cigarettes as props. Sexy. Alluring. The old movies themselves. The artistry smoke makes in a darkly-lit world of cinematography. But that’s art, right? More fantasy. Not real. Not happening in front of us, our lungs, and our environment. Maybe we can argue that. But in real life, smoking is just…well...not only deadly, but nasty. It smells. Kissing someone after smoking is…not sexy. Walking into a room where someone has been smoking makes those of us, who don’t smoke, ill. Renting a car where someone has been smoking cannot be erased with a spray of the bottle. It seeps into fabric. It stays in the air, stale and unappetizing. The verdict is out. Smoking traditional cigs kills us, first-hand, second-hand, and third-hand. But what of vaping? Well…it’s a constant battle in my world, where fighting the vapers on a tobacco-free campus becomes quite contentious, and they make valid points. It doesn’t smell. I’m not ingesting it myself the way I would be forced to do so with regular cigarettes. And it harms (maybe) only the vaper. And this debate isn’t going to get easier as more and more people choose to vape. While traditional smoking has decreased exponentially, the surgeon general states that”e -cigarettes are very popular with young people” and that their use is “higher…than adults.” And it’s even increasing in middle school and especially high school students. 'How? Isn’t that illegal?' I ask myself. But I suppose it’s no different than how we all got our underage drinking gems, right? We were that young once. And these taboo things are still cool. Smoking “real” cigs isn’t anymore. Not by a long shot. But this? Cool AND seemingly harmless. The problem is that the verdict is still out on the health risks. It’s too soon for anything conclusive. Still, early reports are coming out. And it couldn’t be more contradictory. No one can deny that nicotine is addictive though. And so, “no matter how it's delivered, nicotine is harmful for youth and young adults” in regards to addiction. But, further, the surgeon general goes on to say that “e-cigarettes typically contain [chemicals]…that are known to damage health.” In addition, “Some initial research shows it may hurt…arteries. Some brands contain chemicals including formaldehyde -- often used in building materials -- and another ingredient used in antifreeze that can cause cancer.” But even then, there is more conflicting information. And no one can deny that if you’re going to choose to do one over the other, e-cigs are clearly not as harmful. In a 2015 expert review from Public Health England regarding smoking, it states, “Most of the harm comes from the thousands of chemicals that are burned and inhaled in the smoke…E-cigs don't burn, so people aren't as exposed to those toxins.” The study’s conclusion? “E-cigs are 95% less harmful than the real thing.” So I don’t know about you. Have you tried it? Are you a former smoker who quit traditionally smoking as a result? And all these reports I’m reading only mention young people. Does that mean it’s not harmful to adults? And why shouldn’t someone who wants to smoke not be able to do so wherever they are? They are not polluting the air in which I breathe. It doesn’t affect me. In fact, when I teach in long blocks, a student who vapes comes back calm, refreshed, and often able to concentrate again. Common sense tells us that anything foreign we ingest into our bodies that way can’t be good. We know better. But is it any worse than anything else we do to our bodies, both deliberately and by no choice of our own? Bad food filled with chemicals? Pollution we breathe every day? Taking over-the-counter meds to cure ailments and headaches? Milk filled with injected hormones? If e-cigs are legal, who am I to say? I’m on the fence on this one. I, myself, may not choose to do it, but if it doesn’t harm me, personally, who am I to judge? Would I encourage my students to start? Of course not. Would I encourage them to NOT pick up a bad habit? Yes, just as I might other healthy habits they don’t have. But will I NOT allow the donuts they eat on campus daily that we sell? Nope. Are e-cigs any different?
Like all bad habits, it seems by the time they get to me, it’s too late to change, not without them really wanting to. If we’re going to combat addiction, we have to start younger. But there’s the rub, the companies know that and have always targeted the young, from traditional cigs to e-cigs to sugary cereals, it’s the youth that always suffers. And that--THAT is the problem we should be addressing... Today I ponder Thanksgiving. How many of you celebrate? Or something similar? And do you love it? Or do you loathe it, the holiday of American gluttony? I know many of my American friends love it: Football, feasting, family, and all that jazz. But for me, it’s hard to pinpoint when I started to hate it so much, this obligatory holiday, where we celebrate things we really shouldn’t be (I won’t go all politically correct on you, but you have seen Peter Pan, right?), and where most have come to celebrate it as just a simple time to be with family and friends and pause and breathe and reflect on the gratefulness of our cornucopias aplenty. I think I can pinpoint it a few things. One was the realization of what a turkey is. Interesting, the birds are still called what they are whereas beef and pork are not. I get it, you can’t lie down and snuggle with a pecking chicken, but you sure can with a baby calf, and even the most enthusiastic meat-eater agrees. There’s something unethical about that eating that with which you can love so tenderly. Still, friends of mine who own farms now will tell you that you can, in fact, hang and enjoy the company of our feathered-friends, even the ones you choose to eat. Either way, it’s a very difficult time in most children’s lives when they learn the truth. Most can get over it, having been raised to enjoy its flavor and not having to do the deed him or herself. I just couldn’t seem to. Of course, no one says you have to eat any meat. There are plenty of options, make no mistake, from gourds to cranberry sauce to pies, no one is forcing us to wear sweatpants and unbutton our pants. And I do have very fond memories of being with my Nana, the woman I derived my name from, my tea-drinking buddy, the woman who introduced me to Twinings and Darjeeling and quiet moments where we’d go sit alone out on her enclosed porch and just talk and sip and where she told me I was beautiful, and I almost believed her. So I think I’ve pinpointed it to being an adult. There is something "unmagical" about Thanksgiving for me. It screams time-honored tradition of stereotypical roles, where the women cook and the men watch football, and where the main chef doesn’t rest, rising at 4:00 am to stuff and cook a bird so everyone can gorge and complain later about how full they are, and where she must clean up the mess everyone has made afterwards, barely having a moment to eat herself, all her hard work, cold and dry, by the turn of the setting sun as everyone leaves ‘grateful’ to be full.
And really, it reminds me of my mother. My poor mother, the cook, the forever-traditionalist who refused paper plates or plastic, slaving for the happiness of everyone else around her. And then I begin to miss her and lament at all the times I stayed at my high school football game with friends, procrastinating, not grateful at all for what she was doing, but complaining with my friends, and doing things I shouldn’t have been doing. Then comes the guilt, at not only that, but at the fact of how much I had to be grateful for in her when she was alive. And then I just get sad…because I miss her. And though I respected her greatly, I didn’t appreciate a lot of things she did. Sigh… I cooked Thanksgiving dinner once. After that, I refused. I won’t do it again. If someone else doesn’t host it, my brother and some family and close friends go out to a restaurant, come back somewhere to play games, and to have desserts only. But we don’t need a made-up holiday to do it. Or to say what we’re thankful for. Or to drive or fly on the busiest, most inane holiday there is. And so, we don’t. Often. And I? I--am thankful for that. And I wonder if someday, I realize how much I wish I had the people I love surrounding me on the Thanksgiving I once loathed. Every so often, I think about when I started writing. And why I write. And I’m not talking about fiction; I’m talking about this type of writing. The autobiographical. The non-fiction. The sort of “essay” writing. Or the stream-of-consciousness therapy that gets applied to paper (or screen nowadays). I’ve always had what I called: A diary. Why boys had to call it something else is beyond me. But whatever you call it, the diary, or journal, is sold starting very young, almost like a rite of passage into puberty, that little book with a lock and key that anyone, who really wanted to, could break into at any moment, and yet, somehow, we viewed it as safe. And today I ponder why I kept one and why I continue to, though it’s morphed onto laptop. Do you keep one? Have you ever? Did you grow up writing in one? Have you ever asked yourself why? I wonder if it comes from my childhood and my close relationship with my brother. When I was younger, my brother and I used to write letters to each other and hide them in our adjoining closet. It was such a fun thing to do. Sometimes, we’d write them with “little trinkets” or gifts to one another: a silly owl eraser, some stickers, or some kind of weird thing we found in a closet—a photograph, a fishing lure, some weird decoration or knick-knack. I remember sharing a Hummel with him, and he exclaimed: “Put that back. Mom will kill you!” Who knew those ugly little things were worth money? Nothing was about money back then, not to us. It makes me think when I teach first-year writing to my students. When I tell them to just WRITE, they say: “But I’m not a writer.” And I answer that of course they are writers. Anyone with a thought or an experience is a writer. Anyone living is a writer. Anyone who breathes air is a writer. They shake their heads.
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe everyone isn’t a writer, just as not everyone is an artist or an athlete. Maybe I’m just a weirdo, an anomaly. Maybe there is a simple biology to it. Maybe what we find beautiful or what music we love or what art resonates with us, is a nature thing that just is and has nothing to do with anything we can learn. I’m still trying to figure that out. Why do I love the subtle sound of an acoustic guitar over any other instrument, and why does my brother love the dissonant sounds of heavy metal that actually make me want to punch someone in the face it irritates me so much? And so, maybe, it follows, that not everyone is a writer… Every week, I have a million things on my mind I want to discuss, and I never know which one I want to write about to share. So I start (writing) and see what happens. Sometimes an idea comes to me while I’m driving, and I start talking into my phone; other times, I just wake and look outside my window and see what happens when I start to write. But I feel like, regardless of whether I scribe it or not, I’m always ‘writing’--The coffee check-out, the school where I teach, the gym, the grocery store, a walk outside, the night sky, prepping dinner. Wherever I am, I’m mentally ‘writing.’ At times, it’s poetry. Other times, it’s a ramble that later gets turned into a blog for you all to suffer through. And sometimes, it just stays right here, my own journal, my own diary, my space to be free to share whatever I want without the pressure of eyes or critics or know-it-alls or haters or sycophants. It’s funny that way. For as much as I write, I’ll never, ever, be comfortable with it. And perhaps, that is more of who I am than anything. You’d know what I mean if I’d only share my diary. ;) I love Halloween. Do you? What has made you love or hate it? I seem to hear a lot of mixed feelings about this “holiday.” And it makes me reflect on what is it that makes me adore it so much. I’m not sure when my love for it began. Perhaps it was when, early on, it was an excuse to bob for apples and have parties with my school-age friends, eating and drinking whatever we wanted for once. Perhaps it was being raised Catholic, and the spectacle of Halloween was somehow a bit of accepted sin and mystery, wrapped in fiction and stories and movies and tall tales spun by bonfire and candlelight, one where being safely scared was highly guarded. Perhaps it was because it hearkens back to the night I lost my virginity on a porch in our neighborhood, both thrilling and taboo, where he quoted: “If the stars refuse to shine. I would still be loving you. When mountains crumble to the sea. There would still...be you and me.” Perhaps it was because my brother always had the best ideas for costumes and executed them with such aplomb for the both of us my whole life, even in college, that it sealed the everlasting awe I still have of him to this day. But perhaps, it is truly because it happens to fall in the month of change, where we watch each leaf take its leap into the unknown of this thing called death, and we see ourselves in each one of them. One by one, they each fall, some gracefully, accepting the inevitable respectfully, maybe even hopefully; and others, fighting to hang on long after their time is up, not going “gentle into that good night,” forcing us to ask ourselves if they’re fighting on purpose or if they simply don’t know what’s in store for them until they sit on the earth to be taken away with the wind to who knows where, they, our mirror image. And it makes us ponder why some people fight and grow and rise above strife in the same exact circumstances while others crumble and lash out and give up, our fates all the same in the end. Halloween is that one time a year, it’s about us. No obligatory presents or killing of perfectly vibrant trees or endless wrapping of paper to waste and clog and destroy our environment after. No obligatory family gatherings or meals or meaningless football games. No obligatory drives far out of the city to sit and gorge on things we hate and conversations we loathe, only to drive home miserable. But instead, perhaps it’s that we get to focus on just ourselves, mostly, selfishly for once, surrounded by like-minded individuals with the sole purpose of levity and kinship, and where we get to put on a mask and be someone we wished we could always be but were too afraid to…and reflect, that maybe, just maybe, this year, spring will be different. It’s that time of year. Halloween is upon us. That mischievous feeling (just how do you pronounce that word anyway?) is in our blood. We remember our childhood antics and everything seems to be in tune with what is about to happen. The wind is cool. The leaves are falling. And the branches brace for the change of time. And so do we. The other night I was driving, and the moon, a rather plump moon, more half than whole (I’m sure someone could tell me its phase), was playing a game of jump rope or hide ‘n’ seek or tag, lighting my way as I sped down the road, first bright on one side, then on the other, and I smiled big as it played its game with me, smiling its big smile back. I have these moments where I want to believe it’s my dad somehow, and it’s impossible not to when I think back to his tale: “Look. The moon is following you,” and for a moment, I remember a simple time, a time of childhood and carefree bliss. No bills. No worries. No fear of acceptance or success. Just simply one goal: To get that moon not to turn its back on me, to keep following me as we bumped along, not understanding how, no matter how far my dad drove, that moon still followed. I would prop my body around as best I could in the back seat the whole drive, craning my neck uncomfortably, to see if the moon was, in fact, still with me, ducking his face occasionally behind a building or a tree, causing my heart to race until Dad would yell: "There it is again." I was amazed by it. Enamored. Mystified. Felt special. And I believed...in magic. Nothing else mattered. Time gets us all to the same place, and the ride best be ridden with bright lights on our sides. A friend keeps telling me to pay attention to events and things that happen around me. That all of it collectively speaks to each one of us. I’m not sure I believe her. I’m a skeptic you know. But it’s hard not to notice when the weight of everything at once all add up, and we feel ourselves drowning; and then something like this happens, impossible to ignore. Perhaps it is simple coincidence. Does it matter? For in that moment, I remembered the feeling of unconditional love in the light of my dad’s memory, and all my troubles faded to jump rope with a moon. How do you feel about bumper stickers? Are they something you own personally? Do you cover your car in them? Have one or a few? If not, do you like reading them? Is there a limit? Are too many too many already? As I was driving this morning, I was running a little late, and of course, there was a car driving on the highway at a ridiculously slow speed, causing all kinds of insane driver responses of weaving and honking and waggling fingers and, I'm sure, huffing of choice obscenities through clenched teeth, trying, desperately, to go from Point A to Point B without getting into accidents. I was slightly furious: "The left lane is for passing! Move over!" I screamed in my head. At long last, the slow driver put on her blinker and slowly moved to the right lane, and we all got ready to finally pass, making it to our destination a whole minute sooner! As I got closer behind the car, I noticed a bumper sticker and around it, smaller, a few others, all related to the same topic, and when I went to pass and make eye contact, the driver was smiling, apparently oblivious, singing whatever was coming from her little Subaru, and for the briefest of moments, I smiled too, and shook my head at myself. Why was I in such a hurry? And I wondered why the driver was so calm and so happy amidst all the aggravated energy. It got me thinking about those bumper stickers on her car. I liked them. And that, too, made me smile. "How can I be mad at someone with the same political views and humor as me?" I thought and forgave her on the spot. But it made me think further: Was there any correlation between her attitude and her bumper stickers? Who puts bumper stickers on their car? Do people with bumper stickers plastered on their car actually worry less? Could it be that people who don't take themselves too seriously also put bumper stickers on their car? It's a strange theory and doubt it will hold up if I were to research it, but it did make me wonder: Is it the the carefree, the angry, the passionate, the crazy, or the every man who puts bumper stickers on his/her cars? I grew up in a family very anti-bumper stickers. It causes fights. It ruins a piece of property we should take pride in. It will hurt the resale. And more times than not, it's political, and with road rage at an all-time high, do we really want to be espousing our political and religious views driving in a congested city, full of angry, late, and impatient people? Would my smile have turned to something a bit more sinister had the bumper sticker said something that infuriated me or disparaged causes I care about? There is one, in particular, that really bothers me. Living in a primarily liberal state, I imagine it pisses off a few people. So do bumper stickers made sense? Is anyone going to change their minds about ANYTHING from a bumper sticker? The government makes lots of laws about driving. Mandatory seatbelts. Speed limits on highways. What we can and can not do while in our own cars (some of which make a helluva lot a sense). Should bumper stickers be put in that category? Are they too distracting, or worse, provokers of anger and road rage? It's their job, isn't it? To get a rise out of someone? A laugh. A clap. A honk of approval. Something to ponder. Think on. Read a few times. And of course, to incite action and in some cases, provoke anger. And to read them takes our attention away from the road, doesn't it? Or are bumper stickers simply an extension, as anything else is, of our personalities just as a t-shirt we wear or sign we put up in our yard or a button on the bag we carry?
I'm all for free expression, but should bumper stickers be relegated to places where safety and accidents and poor driving won't be compromised? I'm not sure of the answer...but I do know this. Today, I was grateful for one, because it taught me to remember that all the things I needed to get to would still be there when I arrived; and in fact, they are now over. Every moment is that way...so take your time. Are people moving too fast? Is no one having a real conversation anymore as a result? Is there any way to turn back? Or are you happy this way? Is this fast-paced world causing more and more disorders of anxiety and panic attacks and even agoraphobia? In one of my classes the other day, a student lamented that she was “docked” at work for not getting the customer’s order to him in a timely 60-second fashion and that if it continued to happen, down would the ax come, clean and swift. After all, the customer shouldn’t have to wait. It’s “fast” food for a reason. And heaven forbid, we can’t stuff our faces or slurp our drinks the moment we order them the way we can find out every ingredient that went into that drink within a 10-second swipe of our fingers across our phones. Weather today? One second. Top celebrity break up? Two seconds. Country with the lowest population? Maybe you’ll have to wait three whole seconds for your answer, but it certainly isn’t close to sixty. Slow Wi-Fi? Call in the National Guard! It’s a crisis! I thought about that today getting my coffee through the drive-thru and how recently I’ve been stressed out about finding my credit card or cash fast enough, wondering if the 18-year-old under the gun to get my order out in the fastest time possible, not bothering to make eye contact with me, would actually drop it onto my lap, thinking I’m holding it already when I’m not, and me making excuses to her (Oh, forgive me, I just need to find my credit card), because I can’t seem to get my act together fast enough! Worse, even, I begin to panic that the car behind me will start to honk its horn, forcing my credit card to sprout wings, fly into the air and onto the car’s floor, where I feel around to, desperately, find it in time all the while looking in my rear view mirror to make sure no one behind me is uttering obscenities at how slow I’m being! (And breathe.) It’s absurd. I, myself, will pull over to make sure I have everything ready to go, lest I be penalized for taking more than the allotted minute and hold up the line. Clearly, I’m not just discussing fast food. I’m discussing that we are now a society of fast food. We want it. We want it now. We don’t want to wait. We don’t want to take our time to enjoy things or learn. And we hardly want to think. We want our news in 280 characters of fewer, our poetry to fit on Instagram squares, and our god-damned purchases the next day damn it. Amazon is kicking everyone to the curb. I hear it everywhere. Well, Amazon can get it to me in two days. Why would I wait for the same thing elsewhere? Yup. Why wait when you don’t have to? The problem is…some things take the wait. Some things only happen with perseverance. And some things need tilling and nurturing to be the best they can be. Not everything can be "got" through a fast-food window. Some things are actually better when done a bit slowly. Love. The perfect apple. A sandcastle. A friendship. Music. Walks. A great play. And some things worthwhile only happen with hard work. We learn by going a bit more slowly. We make lots of mistakes when we rush things. And I’m seeing every facet of life hurt by our fast-food culture. Student writing. My writing. Conversations between people. Patience. Debate. So much thinking is regurgitation. Repeats of tweets. Black and white ideas vs. discussing the grey areas, seeing other point of views, that old thing of the past called listening. I’m not sure what we do about it. And it scares me. It actually scares me. And I wonder if we just need to blow ourselves up like the dystopian tales of the past to start over. But would anything change or are we cursed to suffer the same fate into infinity? I don’t have answers and perhaps that’s what scares me so much. So. I sit, cross my legs, take a sip of my maple pecan coffee, slowly, making that ‘ahhhh’ sound after I swallow, and I write an expanded moment, like the ones I try to teach my students…and I take my time... Has a favorite place of yours ever closed? Has it ever felt like much more than that? Almost like a turning point in your life? The way, maybe your parents or grandparents always talked about? "Things just aren't the way you used to be... " I hear "the end of a an era" in my head...so cliche...and yet--it's how I feel. I’m sitting in one of my favorite cafes where I often go to grade papers or write. The food is healthy and varied, and I dig the Jazz playing right now, 1920s Great Gatsby stuff, that will soon shift into Frank, the click of the CD changer almost audible. It’s hard not to snap my fingers, but I tap my feet conspiratorily instead. The local art on the wall above my head is so expensive and you’d almost want to blow your money on it if it weren’t so damn ugly! But the sun is so warm through the huge ceiling to floor ceilings that everything seems beautiful. I love this place. I’ve been coming here for years. The owner himself works behind the counter. You’ve got to be in the mood, because if you want to be left alone, it’s not happening until the hugs are doled out and the ‘how-have-you beens’ are answered to satisfaction and you finally find a perfect spot to yourself and wonder why you’ve gone so long between visits. I think I’ll continue to stay here a while, even if the couple next to me hasn't learned to find their ‘inside voices.’ I chose to write here today, because I’m not sure how much longer I will be able to. Word is: It’s closing—can’t compete. I didn’t have the heart to ask. I hear a couple people whispering, but I’m not sure if it’s grumblings or rumors. I hear: “I think they’re getting their liquor license,” perhaps as a wishful hope that something will keep it open. I’m not quite sure how I will get through fall, it’s been my place for so long to come after school. But as I look around to a pretty packed room, sipping a smoothie and savoring each bite of my hummus platter, I see the laptops and phones filled with noses while cups are empty. I want to say—buy another coffee! Grab a snack! And it dons on me why such a bustling place, alive with all walks of life and topics, mostly politics (it’s hard not to eavesdrop), may not last. People come in to de-socialize, sink into virtual reality, and shut off to turn on. And a cup of Joe under $5 isn’t going to sustain a place like this. Neither is this pumpkin latte I was just given "on the house" with a wave of the hand that tells me the discussion is over. . “You’re too nice,” I say. And it hurts to know how true that truly is. Maybe nice guys do finish last. But I’d choose the nice guy every damn time. Today I ask: Would you rather be with your best friend and have adequate sex for a lifetime or be with a passionate lover filled with angst and torment but incredible sex? You can’t have both! Of course we’d all say we want both, that we’d choose our best friend and exquisite lover, but how many of us actually can find that? How many of you have? Is that an allusion fed to us? Is it really possible to have the lover of our dreams AND our best friend? What if we find it but only after we’ve already made a commitment to someone else? How many of us settle, picking the easier life, the life that keeps us from possibly being alone? Why? Why do we do this? Are we that afraid we can’t “have it all” and so follow like sheep and do what society expects of us? Is it really the best we think we can get? It makes wonder if that is why so many couples cheat on one another. Sit here and say how wrong it is all you want, but it is as common as breathing. And we all know it. Just look around. And so this leads me to my real question of the day and my #ThursdayThoughts. Are open relationships something we should all be striving for? Is that possible? I have mixed feelings on this issue and I realize as I ponder this how very selfish it is. I think about myself. And I think about how truly spectacular it could be to have the liberty to have the best of both worlds, openly. No lying. No cheating. No deceit. No hurt feelings. Just an open understanding that monogamy is a bit far-fetched perhaps. That we find our needs fulfilled by different people at different times, much like friendships. Some days I need a break from say, my childhood best friend, and need to be with my best friend from work, who understands me now, not the Rosemary of middle school or high school. And other times, I want to revisit an ex-boyfriend, now friend, because he may understand things about me without me having to spell everything out, because he was a part of making me who I am. I wonder if this is a topic that can be discussed AFTER the commitment or if it would destroy it if the other person isn’t on board. What is wrong with me? Aren’t I enough? What is missing? And so on…I think someone who has a need for BDSM elements who chooses a vanilla partner might struggle with this…and chooses, chooses to decide on that first question I posed—best friend or best lover. But would an open relationship keep the trust in loyalty intact? Is it healthier? Or would it destroy it? When I think of the idea for myself, I like it. But when I think about those I love or have loved doing it, it makes me feel insecure, inadequate, even jealous. And so, is it fair that I should lust after something that I wouldn’t want done on the other side? Double standard much? Yup. It sure is. And I think I’d be very happy that way. :)
I often wonder about my writing. Where it came from. Why. I particularly wonder about why I feel compelled to write erotica and erotic romance with BDSM. Why it has dark themes. Sometimes dub-con. Why alpha males? Why damaged males? Why happy endings? What is it that turns me on about such themes? Have you thought about this if you write? How about what you read? Have you ever been judged because of it? And if so, do you hide it? Behind kindles? Or behind pseudonyms? Do you ask yourself why you’re drawn to what you’re drawn to when it comes to the erotic? Or romance? Is there a formative experience you can pinpoint it to? More importantly, have you been able to answer it? I think I can understand it for myself…somewhat. My formative years. The boyfriends I had and the age. The poet with tough family life whose middle name was "Angst," who was sent away, later joined the military, and went AWOL. Perhaps, because I wanted to help him, “save” him from his past disappointments and couldn’t. Perhaps I like to see those happy endings in my romance books that may reflect what I wish I could have done. Keep the juicy angst but be able to fix it all in the end. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about that. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t much care about the whys anymore. It just “is.” A few have criticized my choices in my “fiction" as a result. Recently, a “friend” who claims not be judgmental in any form (let me clear my throat), stormed “off the set” because of some of the contents on my books, unfriending, saying nasty things about MY 'character' because of the “characters” in my “fictional” books. Did I say “fiction”? Good thing she’s not judgmental, huh? And I see it happen to a lot of authors. It's not just me. There’s so many varying forms and levels of sexuality from heterosexual to bisexual to pansexual to homosexual and everything in between. I’m heterosexual. And yes, this may sound silly, but sometimes, I almost feel like THAT is a bad thing to be writing about these days. I certainly felt that way with my previous publisher. I couldn’t care less which way you wave your flag. Love. Lust. Fuck. Kiss. Sleep with whomever you want. But how come traditional roles of love and relationships, conflict and resolution, falling in love and marriage is somehow bad, uninteresting, not important anymore? Says who? It’s what I, personally, enjoy reading in this genre. And it’s what I enjoy writing. I won’t apologize for it. Just as someone who wants to write about transgender relationships or gay sex or bisexual untraditional tropes. Go for it. What's more, and maybe this is the rub, this genre, this trope, this story, is STILL quite popular among many romance readers, readers in general, that even in our changing world of more and more acceptance of non-traditional roles, the majority still like the trope of boy meets girl, they fall in love, and live happily ever after but not until there is a helluva lot of angst and conflict first. So what? Live and let live. I wish the judging would stop. On both sides of this coin. What difference does it make if it’s well-written and makes a reader feel? Find your audience. And keep producing what both you and they are looking for. It’s really that simple. Add a few more ingredients to this madness, and it might make a little more sense where her anger comes from. Take someone who is insecure, sexually confused (which can do a number on anyone’s self-esteem), a not-so-pleasant introduction to sex (not cool by anyone’s standards), and then consider the effects of dealing with all that mentally. Therein comes the trigger "effect." And then, the lashing out occurs. And bam. Some of us land right in the firing line, because partially, it gets her goat that people are not only reading it but really liking that which she detests. In this light, it becomes a little more understandable, but in a rational mind, we can see how flawed that is.
I write more than alpha male erotic romance. If you don’t know that by now, I question why you’re even reading this. There are pieces of me in my characters. Some more than others. But I am not my characters and my characters are not me. I think the best thing we can do is write if we’re writers; read if we’re readers; and make no apologies for what we want to read and write. If people continue to read my work, I’ll keep writing them. When they stop, I’ll probably stop publishing too. But I’ll never stop writing. And I will not apologize to anyone who can’t differentiate between fiction and the author of said fiction. Experience Informs Our Writing But It Doesn't Define Us. Today I ponder happiness. Is true happiness attainable? If I were to ask you this very moment, “Are you happy?” What would be your answer? Sometimes I wonder if happiness exists, wholly or truly. Many will say that in order to feel happiness, we must feel the pain of its opposite. That THAT is one of life’s great paradoxes. The myriad colors of emotion. I hear that sort of reasoning often. But I can honestly say that I know feelings without their opposites, love without hate, for instance. And so, that theory doesn’t often hold up, even though it’s comforting and makes perfect sense to me. Is it just a way we keep ourselves from going rogue or crazy or off the deep end? That we must always come up with plausible explanations for things that often can’t be explained. I can’t think of a time I’ve ever “hated.” I’m being quite sincere here. Maybe it is because our parents always told us NEVER to use that word: “Rosemary. You may dislike something but you never say you hate.” Sound familiar? I’m starting to think there is no lasting happiness, that maybe from a young age, we've been sold a bill of goods, and maybe that’s the thing. Maybe nothing lasts but we have glimpses of it. Does it mean I’m unhappy? Or is it just another word. Sad. Disappointed. Unfulfilled. Bored. And are they only moments, like every moment is? No moment lasts, and therefore, no feeling lasts? Like this one, right now, already gone with each stroke of my keyboard. Poof. Like childhood, gone. Maybe it’s just about change. And maybe change is a form a happiness. And maybe without change, we feel ‘unhappiness.’ Maybe it’s time I think about a change. Or perhaps we’re always chasing happiness. Maybe happiness is nothing but a hollow, chocolate bunny. There’s nothing inside happiness. It tastes sweet, but maybe it’s just…boring. Empty. Superficial. You know?
I think a better word or phrase might be peace or peace of mind. Contentedness. But then does that mean we become complacent? Perhaps that’s just it. We want the chocolate. It tastes good, but after we have a taste or worse, become satiated, we ‘feel’ the most unhappy? Are feelings even real? And so, I circle back. Maybe happiness is just an illusion. Maybe happiness doesn’t exist. Maybe we don’t want it to, because maybe, just maybe, happiness means we’re dead. "I was deceiving Scott, I was deceiving Michael, and I was deceiving myself if I didn’t think they were both going to find out the truth about each other eventually." |
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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November 2022
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