Memoirs & More

Foreplay

2008-02-11T09:54:00.000-08:00

At one of my recent dinner parties, (and I’ve been told no one gives dinner parties anymore—except I still do) after serving dessert, I overheard one of my guests say to his spouse of sixty years,
“You look especially lovely this evening.”
She was lovely, however, it was her reply that impressed me.
“Thank you for the verbal foreplay,” she said, as she smiled and gazed into his eyes.
They were seated on either side of me and I could feel the energy crossing the table and connecting their twinkling eyes.

Wow! Verbal foreplay, for them, is sexual foreplay. And then I realized, they’re both the same thing. By titillating one other, as they frequently did, they kept their sexual spark alive; their relationship energized. William Blake said, “Energy is eternal delight.”

Sexuality, (a delightful topic) isn’t merely a genital act that takes place; it is a power, a force that is with us all the time. It involves the whole body, mind, heart and spirit. Most profoundly, it’s an act of opening up to one another, a sharing of energies. Nature doesn’t ask you to be a certain way: it shows you how you are. Verbal foreplay consists of overlooking the down-side and finding something really uplifting to say to a significant other. It often doesn’t matter if what you say is an outrageous lie, the receiver will believe and cherish it.

Verbal foreplay is one way that sexual energy is endlessly available wherever you are, whatever you’re doing and whoever you enjoy being with.

To Lose One's Soul

2007-10-04T09:57:00.000-07:00

Separated by introspection
Uncertain relationships
Disconnection and inaccessibility
Sensibility sparking scores of parodies
No escape Silent spaces
Uneasy encounters Long shadows
Mirrors revealing a corpse
A thousand daily deaths

Blackbirds

2007-09-30T08:18:00.000-07:00

What ominous presence this: three, then five, then seven
large grackles perched at the birdbath; pecking at the water,
then at each other.
The sun reflecting the beauty of their iridescent feathers, somewhat relieving my dread.
Suddenly, a flock of hundreds hovered a few feet off the grass
and flew by.

52 words

The Meaning of Fiction

2007-09-30T08:16:00.000-07:00

Most people do some kind of writing—a memo, a report, a letter. Some people; write articles, opinions, reviews and journals.
You will agree with me, writing is a form of thinking. Clear writing is the logical arrangement of thought.
Libraries prove that every subject, every discipline, has been written about by someone, at some point, in time. This brings me to a dilemma—the meaning of fiction?
My trusted Webster’s 5th Edition tells me the meaning of fiction is, “To form, invent, feign, imagine, fashion with or without intent to deceive; it is opposed to fact, truth and reality.”
Okay, a writer of fiction is a storyteller.
You will agree that many stories have been told countless times. Were some of them true once and have since become fashioned with imagination? Or were some of them imagined first and then became true?
We make words beginning with an alphabet. Are the words we form from our imagination? Is the alphabet?
Storytelling has been divided into several categories; fiction, creative fiction, autobiographical fiction, science fiction, nonfiction and metafiction. If a piece of writing be viewed as a constantly evolving organism; a visualization, a creative puzzle, what is the nature of truth?
Don’t poets transcend the language; the words carrying the emotional weight of music?
Don’t writers of nonfiction leave out facts that would kill the readers' enjoyment of the adventure itself? And who was actually present to verify the dialogue, the antidotes? Are not the results of history rewritten many times in different ways? Have not some actual accounts in journals, ledgers and letters been destroyed for all time?
Is there a writer who isn’t biased?
Is it not a parody that nonfiction is fiction; fiction is nonfiction?
The only truth being, everyone loves a story.

300 words

Born Jewish

2007-09-30T08:11:00.000-07:00

As I came into the world, Jewish millionaires were jumping from windows.
While I clung to my cradle, Jews scurried across the earth seeking safety from oppression.
By the time I was ten, millions in Europe, died in death camps.
Jews became Christians; traded their names and compromised their traditions.
The US armed forces assimilated the men; factory employment, the women.
America became a “brave new world.”
After a lifetime of religious neglect, I wonder how I can still be Jewish?
Born Jewish is like being left-handed; you just are, no matter what.

105 words

THE VIOLIN

2007-09-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

As I passed my neighbors porches carrying my violin case, every school day of the fifth grade, I was tormented by the catcalls and squeaking sounds the children, and even some of their mothers made.
Head bowed, concentrating on the glisten of the pavements, the shadows of the creepy sycamores, and my own shoes, I trudged along never looking at my tormentors.
In 1946, I didn’t understand about poverty or ignorance. Nor did I realize the value of a musical education which separated me from those who teased me.
As the case grew heavy, I regretted begging my mother for my own violin. Relentlessly, I had nagged her while she ran her sewing machine in order to support herself and her children. Most of her customers only had their clothes mended or altered, but a few came to our parlor for fittings. My mother enjoyed sewing for my teachers; she respected and admired them. When the music teacher told her I should have my own violin, she began to save for one.

It was a nasty late winter afternoon when we took three trolleys downtown to South Street, headed for a pawn shop located two blocks from the last trolley stop.
As my mother lumbered along the icy patches on the pavements, her thin gray hair blew in her face: the wet wind exposed her scalp, and her ears turned blue. Afraid of slipping on the ice, she guarded each footstep as if it were her last, while her heavy breath clouded her glasses. At forty-nine, she felt too old for this trip. She often told me how she worried about living long enough to see me grown up and happily married. It worried me, too.
We reached the shop and it was open. A violin, bow and case were displayed in the window!
A whiskered little man, with glasses down on his long nose took the violin from the window and told me to play something. I stroked the bow over the four strings. He looked disappointed and sighed. The violin looked shabby. I whispered to my mother to ask if he had any others. She repeated my request and he came out of the back room with a very shiny golden-orange violin and handed it to me. It had a woodsy scent and it glowed, as I did when I held it.
“How much,” my mother asked with tight lips.
He peered at us sideways, “Ten dollars—that doesn’t include the case—the case is extra.” After looking in her purse she told him ten dollars was all she could afford to spend. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll wrap it in brown paper.” I glared at my mother and she understood.
“No thank you, Mister, we can’t take a violin without a case.”
“Let’s go,” she said while pushing me toward the front door. I cringed at going home empty-handed. Her hand was turning the door-knob when he grunted, “Okay, okay, take the case, too. I want to close and go home to supper.”
I was radiantly warm as we smiled and snuggled close to each other on the trip home. She was glad to have accomplished this dangerous mission for me; now my nagging would cease.
As I lugged my books and violin case home each day, the teasing and squeaking noises continued, but I hardly heard them.
I was thinking about a shiny red two-wheeler bike that she already told me she couldn’t afford.

590 words

Welcome to my new Writer's Blog

2007-09-29T09:26:00.001-07:00

Hello Everyone,

I'm "writing!"

I'd like to share some of my efforts with you,
and will be looking forward to your comments.

Best wishes,
Janice