Filters

Filters are good, right. For example, tobacco filters protect smokers from inhaling some of the toxic chemicals found in cigarettes and furnace filters prevent the dust and mold and pollen from blowing into our homes. There are coffee filters, water filters, ultra-violet ray filters, lint filters, charcoal filters, camera filters, e-mail filters, and the list goes on. So, filters are good. Right?

Well, I have a box of filters . . . writing filters. And I really don't like to use them, but I feel I have to. I have father filters, sister filters, general family filters, 'ex' filters, lover filters, friend filters, co-worker filters, moral filters . . .

Ideally, I would love to write with NO filters at all. As a writer, I want to be as honest and as open as possible. I want to write from the truth whether I am writing fiction or non-fiction, for even non-fiction has elements of personal experience, real people, and honest emotions.

But, I feel I need to choose my filters wisely and use them as one uses manners and tactfulness in verbal conversation. I don't speak to my father in the same way I speak to my friend or lover, etc. so I feel I need to adjust the content and context and details to fit accordingly.

This whole process wastes energy, steals from the truth and destroys a lot of creativity . . . but saves a lot of relationships (I suspect).

I think that is why I grew up writing poetry . . . I could express my feelings openly and honestly by using verbiage in unorthodox ways . . . a sort of private code that almost no one understood, but me. I had poetic license.

I don’t know . . . maybe it gets easier with each unedited truth that escapes the tap of my delete button.

Does anyone have any comments or suggestions?

Ghosts and Memories

About a month or so ago, I had a dream I was sitting at a table for two on the veranda of a cafe. The table next to me was empty, but two tables over sat a person from my past. Then, that person vanished and another person from my past sat in that same chair. This kept going on. More and more people from my past sat in that chair. I began to wonder, am I dying? Is this how my life is going to flash before me - in a coffee house?

The dream stuck with me and I began thinking about the mother of my first love. She was the last person to sit in that chair. In the dream, I walked up to her and hugged her. Then, she handed me her toddler boy, Steve, who grew up right in my arms. Well, dreams are that way . . . strange.

Within a few days, guess what? Steve had looked me up and sent me an e-mail. Now, I almost fell over when I saw the e-mail, for I had not seen nor heard from him in twenty-five years. Even with the world getting smaller and smaller as global networking grows bigger, I never once ran into him. But, I often thought of him throughout my life.

Steve and I have a lot of history between us. We were basically inseparable for over three years while in our late teens and early twenties. Really, inseparable. I don't remember doing anything unless it was with Steve. And our entire world revolved around dancing (and eating his mom's homemade Italian food). The Disco era was in full groove and we were the King and the Queen. From dance contests and exhibitions to fashion shows to television and newspaper interviews, to The Auto Show, to Hollywood and Dance Fever . . . we did it all. We had it all. Or so it seemed to a couple of twenty-year-olds at the time.

Since that time, Steve and I have been catching up through a series of phone calls. It was weird how, until I heard his voice a few times and it became familiar to me again, I could not find it in my memory. I was trying to remember certain things about him, like his voice, his touch, his smell. But, after all of those years and so much happening in between, I mostly remembered the sparkle in his eyes, his genuine smile and his contagious laughter. I remembered his quirky ways and silly sense of humor, and how we both liked to have the best of everything. I remembered the good times.

This got me thinking about memories in general. Do we, can we really remember the details? Was I going to forget all those little everyday things about my mother too. And, were they important anyway? Maybe it is the way one feels when in the company of another . . . those feelings are the only memories one really needs.

Talking to Steve has been good medicine for my soul. He knew me when . . . He knew the girl before she became a women . . . like a parent knows things about his or her child. Those little remember whens. He connected me to my past in a healthy way and I am so grateful. I look forward to more catching up with him.

One of my favorite quotes comes from the Beatles and it sings true to my heart:
And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take.

PS Hi Speavy.

Comment Masturbation

Just a quick thought here . . . is there a line between friendly, constructive back-and-forth commenting and comment masturbation? And if there is . . . at what point is it considered crossed?
To be continued . . .

Insignificant Insanities

Well, I made it through Phase I of the holiday season - Thanksgiving - without any noticeable hitches. Could it be that as a family we have learned how to do this stuff better through years of practice, or have I become blinded by large quantities of spiked punch and my own dysfunction so much so that the small insanities now go unnoticed . . . or worse . . . they have become a normal part of the celebration?

Maybe my sisters and I have finally come to realize that we are essentially all we have, and in doing so, we have let go of the small and insignificant things? Perhaps we have grown up and into the fine women we dreamed we could be. But honestly speaking, we were pushed to the front of the line.

This was our third Thanksgiving since our young mother passed away, and things have never felt the same. We are now the elder women of our tribe. I did not want that title for many more moons, but things had already been written . . . and therefore . . . done. We are the mothers and the aunts whom I remember looking to for comfort during my childhood years. Whether we are ready for that role yet does not matter. We are it.

I know I do not have all the answers like I thought my mother to have all my growing days - she did a flawless job of pretending things would always be alright. Things are never always alright. Things are as they are. There are no rites of passage into this role of female elder, aside from promotion by death. There are no guidelines or rules. There is no help.

This is difficult in the sense that I do not come from the generation of women who believed Betty Crocker was creating recipes from her shiny kitchen with chrome appliances; that there was no such thing as pre-marital sex (to speak of); that dirty laundry was never to be aired and linoleum floors shined with polyurethane wax while dust bunnies grew ferociously under the furniture.

I come from the generation where Martha Stewart, as close to perfection as a woman can get on one hand while the other was slapped for five months for fooling us all. (Was she punished for deceiving her shareholders or for deceiving those who held her in perfect woman status?) In other words, I am not good at pretending things will always be alright. I am not the kind of a bosomy role model that can squeeze demons out with a tight hug. I am an imperfect woman fighting off demons daily and praying to be better tomorrow.

So, as a family elder, role model and mentor I have this to say to the youth of my tribe . . . I love you. Maybe that is really all it takes.

On a quirky note . . . while my sisters and I cleared the table after Thanksgiving dinner and began rationing off the leftovers into Ziplock bags and Chinet paper plates, we came upon a bag of empty containers. Apparently, my father was prepared having labeled, with mini post-its, each individual container with its desired contents. (An engineer always) We each grabbed a container and began filling: sweet potatoes, turkey, stuffing . . . I grabbed the one labeled: Misc. Was this a test, dad? Damn it! Ah, maybe pie! No, my niece had the one labeled pie. We all laughed. The only thing left was mashed potatoes. That was our one missing miscellaneous dish. That puzzle solved. We all felt wiser.

Something . . . Anything

"You happy now?" Todd toyed with the audience after he played one of his old songs, "I Saw the Light."

"Me happy now, Todd!" my voice still able to scream at that time.

Since I was twelve, I have had a mad crush on Todd Rundgren. I imagined that one day we would be married (couldn't he feel that this was so right?), so I practiced (over and over again) writing my first name in front of his last name, just in case.

When I was seventeen, I saw him in concert for the first time. Towards the end of the concert I made a mad dash for the stage (storming the stage as we called it back in the day before so much visible brute security). There I was running down the main isle like a teenage bride in blue jeans and a T-shirt. I made it all the way and managed to grab his extended hand. I held Todd's hand. I could live with that if nothing else.

The years went by - boyfriends, husbands, children, life in general - but no signs of Todd. Oh well, I knew I couldn't have everything I ever wanted. Still, deep inside was that teenage girl with a crush and a dream that lived on, and no one could deny me that painful pleasure.

Now, some thirty years later I am sitting a few rows away from the stage at the State Theater and on the stage Todd is playing guitar and singing lead vocals for The New Cars. I am thrilled; a giddy teenager all over again. I look at the aisle. I try to cast the thought from my mind. I am an adult woman now. I can't go screaming down that isle. Stop it.

In the end, I didn't do it. I kept my composure and God rewarded my newfound mature behavior. After the concert, as I walked along the outside of the building towards to parking lot, Todd exited the stage door to get into his tour bus. There were only about five or six of us (fans) around and we called for him to come over. He did, ever so graciously. And in that moment, my teenager with a crush became a woman filled with respect for this man who has gifted the world with his musical and songwriting talents, his creativity, innovativeness and genius mind. And with that, I shook his hand and had him autograph my ticket stub (thanks to a man who had a pen). I met Todd Rundgren. I could live with that if nothing else.

Now, with an hour and a half into the official day of giving thanks, I can add to my long list of things for which I am grateful to God: Todd Rundgren, the end of a very long teenage crush, and, oh yeah, the man with the pen.

So, back to life. Ah, but what a sweet slice of the pie that was, and before dinner. (That's not cheating, that's called living!)

And no matter what happens from this point on . . . wherever life takes me . . . I will still remain hopeful in some quiet way because as Todd once wrote . . . A Dream Goes on Forever.

An old friend all shiney and new

We knew each other back in those unspeakable days of Salem (or maybe it was Warren?). Anyway, I knew her then and I ran into her again, only her clothing was far sexier than in the old days - a lot more red than black. She is still casting spells but with a bit more irony, humor, and sadness and a whole lot more paper, ink and truth. This time, her cauldron is filled with the power of words.
Children gather at her hem hungry for the words to express the emotions she stirs up within them. And she graciously gifts them. She is truly magical . . . a gift to the planet.
Check her out at Michelle's Spell

Today's blah, blah, blahs and yada yadas: Lions and turkeys and yams oh my!

Ok, when I can't be clever, creative or anything in between, I will blah and yada.
So, today is Monday, November 20, already! Thanksgiving is three days away.

Last night I watched a program on the History Channel about the history of Thanksgiving Day. I found it to be quite interesting - most things I did not know. One fact surprised me (though, it shouldn't have): back in the 1920's when football was gaining popularity, it was the good ole Detroit Lion's who combined Thanksgiving Day with the game and made it the big event that it has become. I know that the Lions play every year on Thanksgiving Day, because, coming from a family where football ranks higher than almost anything, our turkey dinner is always after my brother-in-laws return from the game . . . pissed off and hungry.

I am fortunate this year, since I had the big Halloween bash, my sister is preparing Thanksgiving dinner at her home and all I have to do is show up. Sweet!

Poetry, spirituality, and otherworldly experiences

My friend, mentor (I hope you don't mind, Stu) fellow writer and member of the Chesterfield Group; Stewart Sternberg http://house-of-sternberg.blogspot.com/ e-mailed me with some suggestions on blogging. I think they are helpful to all bloggers, especially newbies like me.

Stewart wrote:

I have a recommendation. You are probably getting more hits on your blog than your realize, but people are coming away discouraged because there are so few updates. My recommendation is this: Post to your blog at least two or three times a week. Narrow your topics...so far you have writing...maybe alternate this with personal experiences...and maybe add a pic or two.

Me? My postings are kept to the following subjects: writings (samples and discussion); my school and counseling experiences; things relating to the supernatural and horror; and the Tigers. These help define my blog. People know what to expect and come back with those expectations.

Peace

I realize that, although I write, journal, doodle, and blah, blah, blah . . . I simply don't post all of it because of the wide range of topics. I have no real sense of direction for my Cave of Pythia blog site. So, I birthed another blog site - Sacred Footing - to post my poetry, my spiritual journey, my intimate feelings and otherworldy experiences. Cave of Pythia will be dedicated to some poetry and some daily entries and my attempts at fiction writing.

So, if you are one who rolls your eyes at the idea of a madwoman's journey into madness, the unexplainable creative process, the ideals of love, ancient poetry, automatic writing, extra-terrestrial friendships, conversations with Saints and Holy Masters . . . Sacred Footing is not for you. Stay with Cave of Pythia . . . or not.

Seduction (in Advertising)

To: Michael @ Creativenet. com.
Hello! I am inquiring about the part-time job. I am a free lance writer and I live in Birmingham. I am interested in learning more about the position. Thank you, Samantha Edwards.

To: SMEdwards @ Yahoo. com.
Hey Samantha, thanks for your response to my ad. I run a small, busy, full service ad agency in California. Most of my business is in San Diego but my hometown is Birmingham. As my Michigan business grows, I need an Account Manager to research local prospects; meet with clients; brainstorm ideas; and join me for killer dinners and live music when I’m in town. Now, a bit about me . . . hmm, eclectic, fun, surfer, athlete, arts and music lover, writer, food freak - dining out and cooking . . . kind of hard to label. I like to work with the same kind of people. Did I mention the extra bonus if you know of a good massage therapist or how to give a good massage. The stress of running a business and being an athlete make them one of my regular indulgences. Hey, do have an AIM name? Mine is MKB425. Michael

Hello Michael, thank you for your quick, detailed and energetic reply. After what you have shared with me, my interest has definitely peaked. I have held a few executive positions – my attached resume has the details. As for personal interests: I practice Tai Chi and I have recently taken up Belly Dancing and the Tango. I used to dance and model professionally. I ski and enjoy ccuba diving. I love to travel - I lived in Athens, Greece for a while. And yes, I love food: both cooking in and dining out. Oh, I almost forgot - I am not a massage therapist (though, I know some) but I did apprentice under a shaman for years. My AIM name is "Only1Sammy2." Hope to hear from you, Samantha

Hey Only1Sammy2, I like your eclectic style. You must be quite attractive given your dancing and modeling history. Send me a photo if you have one, I’m curious. So, is your husband Greek? Michael

My ex-husband.

I’m going through a divorce myself. To change the subject: I surfed last night and a big pod of dolphins swam by. I’ve seen them hundreds of times but their fins still startle me. Got to go cook breakfast . . . I make a mean quiche.
By the way, you are by far the most interesting of all the applicants. I’m looking forward to meeting you as it sounds like we share a lot in common. Michael.

I love quiche. I’m getting hungry. Surfing with dolphins . . . how beautiful! Sounds so romantic. I am looking forward to meeting you too. Sam

Hey . . . so maybe we can whip up a delicious meal together when I’m in town? How about penne pasta with goat cheese and pesto Toscana . . . and anything with artichokes!

Ok, so you are trying to drive me crazy with hunger. I am having lunch in an hour. I brought some fresh figs.

Fresh figs, yum! They are quite the sexy looking fruit. Are they a fruit? You tell me what it looks like . . . and what you look like.

I am told by many people that I look like a certain red-headed actress. Any guesses? And, yes, figs are a fruit.

I’m drawing a blank . . .

Julianne Moore.

Wow . . . she is super sexy. Now you have me distracted. I just did a Google image search on her. You had mentioned something about a shaman and massage? Tell me more. I just purchased a nice massage table. Too bad I can’t bring it. I guess I could check it.

The Shaman story is a long one. About massages: I have no formal training, but I have "healing" hands.

Good to know. Hey, I just tried calling you. I left a message with your son?

Yeah, that was my son. I’m at work now. I’ll e-mail you a photo when I get home.

Hey Sam . . . thanks for sharing the photo . . . just as I thought, you are quite stunning. I could use your healing hands today - the surf was big last night and I twisted around in the waves. My back is sore. So what kind of music are you listening to these days? Michael

I’m listening to some old Todd Rundgren right now. What about you? Sam

Marvin Gaye - “Let’s get it on.”

Do you tell all your applicants that?

Depends what they’re applying for. No, really, you’re my first.

Well, I have a few things to do around here, including preparing for a job interview, before I take a long soak in a hot bath. I love water too . . . I love baths.

I love baths as well . . . I need to take them more often. I just had a nice visual of you in yours though . . . OK, with that I’m off to um, yeah, take a cool shower.

Ok, I got a visual. And with that . . .

So, how was your bath?

Only if you tell me how your shower was.

Let’s just say it was therapeutic. How is your interview preparation going?

Got any tips?

You’ve already got the hometown advantage.

What about attire?

I can tell you what not to wear. So, tell me about some things that turn you on.

Like you said, I’ve got the hometown advantage, let’s keep it that way.

Ok, you already have me way too distracted and I still have to get some work done.

Pardon me sir . . . I am an innocent.

Ah yes, oh so innocent . . . So how did this job reply turn into this? Not that I have a problem with it. Let’s meet Monday when I get in . . . I guess I still have to interview you. That is how this all started, right?

Commitment

Beginnings are a constant . . . and they require no real commitment. There he was, my new beginning and I was his. Easy. I did not know at that time that he walked freely from beginning to beginning. He could not commit . . . not to relationships . . . not to their endings. I read between his lines (and his linens)

He told me in the beginning that he would not marry (anyone) and he also said, "I'm an asshole and you'll find out soon enough and go running for the door." I thought I could rescue him . . . me, the filtered ear that I am . . . the wanting heart that I am . . . the student of Jung that I am . . . the mother archetype that I am . . . I heard, “Please love me for what I am.” And I opened wider, and invited him in . . . deeper. So loving am I . . . so God-like am I . . . so, “I know what’s best for you and for me,” am I . . . so arrogant I can be.

It was simple and I complicated it. Things are far simpler and closer than they apear.

I wanted more and he knew it. I wanted more and he could not give it to me. So, I ended it and he agreed. I let go and breathed a sigh of relief . . . he called three times that week. I phoned him back . . . scratched open the scab (hoping he was going to heal me afterall) . . . and I bled for three more days. No word from him.

Now, all I want is his commitment to this ending . . . or mine.