Dialogue

In response to the prompt 'Dialogue' for {W}rite of Passage, a group of writers taking the challenge to write well. (Started and facilitated by Mrs. Flinger.)

What follows are my attempts at three fictional conversations, written for the sole purpose of attempting a writing challenge (and possibly entertaining myself).

#1 Teamwork

"You can't do that!" Mike said.

"Why not?" asked Brett. "I've tried it your way, and it's not working. Just let me try this."

"You're holding it wrong. You have to grab it from the top."

"Do I look like an idiot? I know what I'm doing!"

"You're going to drop it."

"I've got it!" said Brett, swiping his hair out of his eyes with the back of his forearm.

"It's slipping on that end..."

"Back off! Shit!"

Glass shattered upon impact, shards firing through air, skidding across linoleum.

"I told you it wouldn't work."

###

#2 Palettes

"Which one looks better? Pink or grey?" Claire asked.

He glanced up from his phone.

"They're both fine, Babe," he said.

"Well which one do you like better?" she insisted.

"Pink."

"I don't know," she mused. "I think I like the grey one."

"That's fine, too."

"But you like the pink. And I want you to like it."

"It's fine," he said. "Either one. They both look great."

"You never give your opinion! You don't care about anything I ask you. I'm just asking for one little opinion about a stupid color and you can't even tell me which one looks best!"

"Honey. I am sorry. But I do not give a shit whether you go with the pink. Or the grey. I don't care. I'm sorry, but I don't care."

"Fine," she pouted. "I'll get them both."

###

#3 Analysis

"So what is this?" she asked.

"What do you want it to be?" he asked, straightening in his seat.

"I don't know. I didn't think I wanted anything. I wasn't looking," she trailed off. "But then we started hanging out."

"I know," he said. "Me either. But this is something, don't you think? I mean, I think it is. It feels like something."

"Do we have to name it? Can we just let it be what it is without analyzing it? And labeling it?"

"Cool with me. If you're sure you're Ok with that."

"I can't deal with figuring it all out right now," she said. "I know how I feel and it's working right now. Maybe we can just see where things go?"

He draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

"We can just see where it goes," he said. "We'll just start going and we'll see where we end up."

He turned his face towards hers, looking her in the eye.

"Sound good?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said, nestling in against his chest. "Sounds good."

###

Visit the links below to read dialouge from the other participating writers.

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News, Big News, and Bigger News!

Remember when I said I had a few writing projects in the works? Here's an update on a few of them.

News

1. The current issue of Hip Mama (Issue #45: Humor) is running one of my essays, "Minivan Convert." Hip Mama is a parenting zine that focuses on art and activism, it's inclusive of parents from all walks of life, and is a fun and feisty alternative to the mainstream glossies out there. I'm pleased as punch to have an essay in this issue, and was pleasantly surprised to find my piece featured on the cover. (WHO ARE YOU CALLIN' SOCCER MOM?) For you who have been reading Boy Crazy since it's inception, you have probably read an earlier version of this post before. But check it out! You can order single issues here or check your local newstand or bookstore. (The Willy St. Coop sells Hip Mama here in Madison, FYI.)

Big News

2. I have finally submitted my children's book proposal! Most publishing houses only consider work that comes in via a literary agent, but there are some that will work with un-agented authors. I found them, crafted a personalized pitch to each editor, and sent off my manuscript along with the gorgeous illustrations drawn by my talented friend, Jason. So now I sit and wait...three months to six months, they said. And I may not hear anything. But I took the first step, which feels pretty good. We may end up looking for an agent or considering the self-publishing route, but I'm glad we're giving the children's publishing houses our best effort.

Bigger News

3. I got a new job! As you may know, I have picked up the pace of my freelance career over the last several months, and I plan to stay that course. But a couple of weeks ago, I was surprised and delighted to be asked to interview for a position for the state of Wisconsin. I am now the primary author and editor for the Wisconsin Initiative on Climate Change Impacts, and I couldn't be more excited about it. I will be joining the project from now through October to produce a Big Fat Publication on the impacts of climate change in Wisconsin. I'm so proud of my state for being on the forefront of environmental science and policy, as Wisconsin is one of the first states to conduct an assessment like this. I am beyond thrilled to be a part of this project.

But -- I will probably be here a bit less. I'm starting out part-time, but as working groups wrap up their reports and deadlines approach, I will be working full time on this project. I'm fearful the old blog will be the first casualty, but I will do my best to keep her ol' heart thumping. At least sporadically.

Anyway, I just wanted to share my news because this seems as good a way as any to spread the word. Wish me luck. This will be a big transition for our family, but an exciting one. And I'm really looking forward to it.

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Cold blasts and heavy rocks

I'm alright with winter. I actually find it invigorating. The cold blast on my face, the frigid wind forcing itself right through my layers, biting the skin beneath.

Walking in the coldest of colds energizes me like nothing else. I love it; the work of it, the bite, the blast, that visible puff of breath -reminding me I'm still alive.

Last night I left the car parked and hoofed it from one stop to the next. Cold on my face, body warm in my coat, I felt it --that things are gonna be alright.

The stories on my heart sit heavy and dense, a weight on my chest, like a wet pack of snow. But these stories aren't only mine to share, so I hold them close for now, turning them over in my hands, looking close and rubbing fingers over textures. I hide them away, letting go but then reaching for them again, tightening my grip, making sense of what I feel.

I love Lake Michigan in the wintertime. There's a different energy to the crashing and breaking, to the winter sky. My last visit home, I stood on the shore alone, letting it blast right through me. It came at me hard, hitting all of my senses. The roar of the wind, the smell of the lake, the bite of the air, the sight of those waves, that sky.

The clouds stretched like cotton, drawn out into wisps so thin, layer over layer, back as far as the horizon, as high above as I could see. And where those clouds met water, there was no flat line, no edge of the earth. Those breaking waves rolled back through the deep, as far as the eye could carry, to a jagged line where waves met clouds stretched thin.

I stood there, alone. Prayers seeping out my skin, not having to say a word because the power on that rocky shore blasted those cries to God right out my pores, leaving me red faced and breathless, wind and water raging in my ears, standing amid the stones.

I walk around with rocks in my pockets. It's been almost a year, but I can't bring myself to empty them.

Collecting them one by one, layered against the winter wind, we walked the shore gathering rocks, tucking them into coat pockets, the weight a heavy reminder of how much we choose to carry with us on our way.

And later, on our drive back home when the top of the luggage box blew off on the highway, flying out behind me and crashing down on the road in front of semis and cars cruising at seventy, our coats stayed put in that box atop the car. They didn't fly out, shredding beneath tires. They were weighed down, held in place by the rocks in our pockets.

Sometimes these burdens we carry can save us. At least that's what I choose to believe -- that we walk around, heaviness hidden in our pockets, and the weight may just slow us down or hold us in one place long enough to think, to feel, or see, or hear, or experience whatever it is that in the long run moves us a little closer to making it out of here alright. That there's a saving grace in having rocks in your pockets, of planting feet on stones on a windy day, the blast of winter air knocking the prayers right out of you; in a red face and a warm heart and a walk so cold it clears your head.

I'm alright with winter. It's invigorating, blasting through my layers and biting my skin.

***

This post featured on Five Star Friday Edition #88. Thanks for the honor.

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unedited

Today was a work day for me - I have some exciting writing projects I've been working on, plugging away behind the scenes over here. I'll share when I can, but you know, with this blog-thing being on the internet and all, I like to watch what I say until it's time to say it. You know.

Anyway, I cut out early, and I'm so glad I did. Because that meant I got to join John and the boys on a late afternoon trip to the dog park, followed by a swing past the lake for the sunset. And the view? Was fantastic.

(These photos are completely unedited - I promise it was just this pretty.)

Ice fishing shanties on a frozen lake at sunset. I've never been, but the view from shore sure is nice.

Speaking of writing, it probably wouldn't hurt for me to put a little bug in your ear - especially the ears of those of you who don't write yourselves.

I just updated my professional website, VerbalMedium.com, I'm accepting new clients, and I would so love it if you popped over to check it out. If you or anyone you know has a writing or editing project - big or small, personal or professional, please send them my way. Thanks -- I do appreciate the referral!

::

I'm hoping for another foggy, frosty morning tomorrow, because today I couldn't get myself outside with my camera before the sun burned the silver coating off the branches.

But Tomorrow? Consider yourself captured. (I've got a camera and I know how to use it....)

***

Tuesdays Unwrapped are back after the holiday break, and so I'm linking up today. Unwrapping this sunset with my boys, because really? Anytime you cut out of work and wind up at a snowy dog park with a bunch of cute boys, followed by some oranges and purples -- it's a gift, for certain.

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My Saturday Morning

Their ingenuity is impressive, don't you think?

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Winter (in photos)

through the window

street view

V

branches

tree

breaking

wind

red

walking

rosy

discovery

fort

***

Late to the party, but linking up to this week's You Capture at Beth's.

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Pouring

I feel guarded, I told her.

I'm not sure why, but I do.

We encircled the room, a couple dozen women sitting side by side. They went around and shared their stories, and I wondered what I would say when my turn came. Why do I do this? What brought me here? What do I gain from it all?

I wasn't sure, but I wanted to listen to the others so I pushed my thoughts aside.

Their stories were touching. Each and every one - I could have listened to them all night. The creative outlet, the validation of experience, the therapy of purging thoughts and being heard, of putting feelings into words, the creation and discovery of community.

There it was - the theme that rose to the surface again and again.

But not for me.

Is that why I feel guarded? I didn't feel it, I didn't want it?

The beauty of it, the power of it was palpable. But I held myself close. Not opening to receive or to give.

I feel like an outsider, I confessed, scanning faces for judgment or hurt, seeing nothing but open minds. It's not that I don't feel welcome or comfortable. I just feel like an observer, detached almost. Getting it with my head, but peeling my throbbing heart of my sleeve and tucking it close, hiding it tight against my chest.

I didn't know what I was getting into when I started this thing. I didn't know about the community. I just wanted to write, to share my creative ideas somewhere, to make someone laugh or think or feel.

But I wasn't expecting to get anything back. I wasn't expecting to be touched in return, to form real friendships, to meet kindred spirits.

I'm a lover, I always have been. I pour myself in -- all of myself. Immersing me in you - in your hearts, your lives, your fears, pains, struggles, joys.

But I can't pour myself into every vessel I encounter or I will wind up empty.

My family - these little people, and the big ones, too -- it's all I can do to give myself to them. I can't spread myself thin, can't dole out small portions in order to make it around the room. They need my everything. They need to be full.

They need me full.

I used to give it out so freely. My love, care, thoughts and energy - pouring it into every soul that touched my heart. But little by little, I've held it closer, this love. Stopped giving it out because my family needs deep, not wide. And these boys, oh these boys of mine - there's no bottom to their vessels, only ground. And when I pour into them, the earth beneath just soaks, soaks, soaks it all in, never saturated, absorbing all I give, always thirsting for more. And in the pouring I am filled right back up.

I give it, my love, thoughts, care.

But I guard it close.

Apathy's the new empathy, I joked. And they laughed, and I laughed. But I wasn't really joking. I had just met these women and they tugged at my heart, but I held out my arm, keeping them at bay. I squelched the pull to nurture the needy, to open my heart to their joys and sorrows, to let them know my heart. I tried to detach, to be selfish for once.

I did it to protect myself, but I lost myself in the process. In trying to hide me from them, I hid me from me.

And now I'm worried I can't find myself again.

Because, really? Who am I without empathy? Who am I without love? I want to give it freely. I want to care. But I fear I can't give enough. That I'll fail at meeting your needs. Fail at friendship.

Because really? This community you speak of - that's what it is. Authentic friendship. And this is one route in finding that, for certain. This venue, through words and screens is a fast track to friendship because we pour out our hearts, at the very least spilling them inadvertently all over the backdrop of our stories.

And when we read, we soak it in, digesting in a way that doesn't happen talking face to face. Reading with a focus that doesn't often come with listening, with the back and forth of conversation amid coffee or playdates or wine at the table.

So I here I sit with no ending to the story. Sipping on a lukewarm mug of regret for holding back, for shutting doors and sealing windows to my heart and soul, keeping in what's in and out what's out.

Because the thing is, I want to believe that if I can just let myself open to the pouring and the filling, that all will balance out. That I can fill and be filled. Because really? Isn't that what community is all about?

***

This is written to my Cupcakes - you know who you are. I loved meeting all of you, but that gathering held up a mirror I wasn't expecting to look at. So while I'm speaking in regards to these authentic friendships and support systems that we form online, I'm also reflecting on how I have pulled away from many friendships since having children, sacrificing wide for deep.

I don't think I'm done processing this yet, and I'd love to hear from you either in comments or via email because I don't know how to do it. How I can be the mother and wife I want to be, the sister and daughter I want to be, while still giving to my friends, remaining open to forming new friendships without skimping on the relationships I'm already trying to maintain.

So please, I want to hear your stories.

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Late

The bus was late today.

At first, I didn't worry. I watched out the window, eyes darting to the clock as the minutes ticked by. I reasoned with myself, squelching the worry that crept up my neck, threatening to grab hold of my throat. Nine minutes, ten minutes late.

Where is that bus?

He's dropped off like clockwork, day after day. I look to the window before I hear it coming, I see the wide orange bus round the bend, and my little backpack-toting kindergartener skipping around the corner, proud to walk the half-block home all by himself.

But today, the digits flipped to silence. No diesel engine rumbling closer.

He's never this late.

I got the office voicemail when I tried calling school, so I hung up and waited, telling myself it's nothing. They were probably just running late.

But the school bus doesn't run late. Something is wrong. My child was supposed to be home and he wasn't.

I called again, this time getting through. And when that secretary took me seriously, when she told me she'd get right on it, withholding reassurances and platitudes, I felt the choke.

Where is my child.

I hung up and stationed myself at the window, as if my vigilance could bring him home. If only I kept watching, eyes on that corner, the bus would surely round the bend, he'd come walking in the door, all smiles and hugs for his little brothers.

Instead I hear sirens. I call John, but can't get through, my message catching in my throat as I tell them, It's kind of important. Tears welling at the articulation of my fears.

The phone rings, and the secretary is on the line. An accident, but no one is hurt. They're waiting for the police to show up and then they'll be on their way.

A relief, but still I pace, watch, wait. Glued to that window.

And when that yellow school bus rumbles by 45 minutes past due, I fly out the door to meet him at the corner. I can't reach my baby fast enough.

He was fine. Unfazed by the delay, oblivious to my dismay.

It was my first taste of that fear, a recognition that I live with the illusion of control. That I send him off and believe he'll always come home.

And he did. And he's fine.

But I don't know if I am.

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Hmmm...is anyone reading this?

(tap tap tap)

*screechy feedback*

This thing on?

Hi. In light of the new year, I decided to shed some extra weight, drop the baggage, you know...trim up the old URL.

So from here on out, I've dropped the '.blogspot' and will be now and forever be addressed as

www.clarity-chaos.com

Yeah. I know. Woo to the Hoo.

As of tonight, the address only takes you to a blank google page, so I'm hoping the DNS servers update by morning and you can all actually read this post. Will you do me a favor and let me know?

And while we're talking favors, will you PRETTY PLEASE with sugar on top take a quick second to edit my web address in your bookmarks or blogrolls? My old .blogspot.com address should forward to the new site, but making a quick change will save everyone the hassle of slow or broken links.

Thanks! And why yes, I am feeling slimmer already.

*edited to add: I also had to add a word verification feature for comments because I was starting to get some spam. Sorry!

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current

I stand in the middle of the kitchen, surveying the wreckage from the day.

He peers through my lens, he sees

the shade

that I've colored the evening,

so he wraps his arms around me tight.

And we plant feet on tiles,

security and empathy

flow like current

filling me up,

swallowing me whole

while the refrigerator hums

and three little chests

keep the rhythm

of sleep.

The evening sent me spinning.

Dizzy from the nonstop

narration,

instruction,

prevention

that I holler out, like a caller at a square dance

for feral cats.

There's wailing and yelling

and pounding and hugging.

There's towing and pushing and tying and falling.

There's chopping

and cooking

and lifting

and kissing

and feeding

and wiping

and holding

and sighing.

They're tired little boys, by the evening hours.

So when he screams that

he's mad!

and he's so mad that he wants

everyone else to be mad, too!

I nod,

and I tell him

I get it.

That a lot of people feel that way

a lot of the time.

But that really?

Making everyone else mad

doesn't

really

make you

feel

better.

And I ask him

wouldn't it feel a lot nicer

if we just let the happy people help us

let go

of our mad?

And while he sees that's a good idea, he still needs to hang on to the mad for a little bit longer,

and I get it.

There are days I buzz.

Days I sing.

When I'm grabbing and kissing and laughing

And the hours slide off the day

Like icecream

next to warm apple pie.

But when they don't,

When I've crash-landed into

Mess and mayhem,

When I'm crumbling and painting the day with broad strokes of a color

that doesn't really match,

I find relief

in releasing.

In planting feet and wrapping arms.

In filling up and letting go.

In swaying to the sound

of sleep and electricity.

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