Have a safe one!

(Source:  Photobucket)

I wish I could live here all the time

Photo Source:  maldivesresortislands

All you have to do is believe

(Photo Source:  IMDB)

“The thing about trains… it doesn’t matter where they’re going. What matters is deciding to get on.”
~ The Conductor

_____________________________

Every holiday season, I watch The Polar Express to remind me how important it is to believe and to have a  childish delight for life.  The older I get, I find it harder and harder to do this.  In these times, it is easy to lose faith, no matter the religion, and hope, for a better future.  It is easy to settle for things as they are, rather than try to make a difference for ourselves and others. We start thinking, "What's the point?"

The point is that it really is never too late to make a change in your life.  If you're unhappy, take a chance and go the path you never planned.  Who knows what amazing things will come into your life, and what you might bring to others. 

And even it doesn't work out, at least you tried.  In the end, knowing you had the courage to try, that will mean something.

Baby, it's cold outside...

I'm starting to think about where I want to go for vacation this coming year:

(Photo Source:  Hilton Nui Resort and Spa)

Seafood Night

Even on Christmas night, while most people are enjoying the traditional fare consisting of poultry, ham, or beef, I opt for seafood.  Tonight it's snow crab legs cooked to perfection.  Nothing beats the sound of cracking the legs open, carefully pulling out a perfect piece of crab meat, dipping it in melted butter, and savoring every juicy morsel that goes down.  I really can't get enough of it.

Maybe I should consider moving to Alaska.  I hear that they hold a yearly Crab Fest in Kodiak.  Hmmm. 

Merry Christmas to All!!

(courtesy of Photobucket)

Wishing everyone a happy Christmas and blessed New Year!

Blow out the candles and make a wish

It's my birthday, and I'll cry if I want to..

I will not say how old I am.  I'm not vain (mostly), but I can't believe that I'm this old.  The years go by faster each year.  But, I've never felt so content and comfortable in my own skin.  I won't deny that some nights,  I look wistfully back at my youth and wish that I could change many things--choices that weren't the best ones, wishing I'd taken the other fork in the road...  But then if I did, I wouldn't be where I am and who I am at this moment.  And I am thankful for the things I have and the people I've been surrounded with. 

I don't regret anything, everything I've experienced is a life lesson learned in full.

Flowers for me, thanks lover

Las Vegas, Baby!  The beautiful hand blown glass ceiling at the Bellagio Hotel.

Home

I miss you...

I took this picture a week after I moved to Hawaii, when I was exploring the island by myself. The sun was setting with breathtaking hues of purple, pink, and bright orange. I immediately pulled over to Ala Moana Beach Park. The last surfers were reluctantly dragging themselves out the the deep blue water. I didn’t blame them, I wouldn’t want to leave either.

I sat, marveling at this glorious scene, so grateful that I actually lived in a place like this. This was the view that greeted me for 365 days a year for 5 years. They don’t call it “paradise” for nothing. Now that I’ve been away for 5 years, all I can think about is finding my way back to Hawaii’s shores. It was the only place I was truly happy. It was the place where I found the peace that I’ve been searching for all my life.

One day, I will return. I will sit on that beach again, I will breathe in the salty air of the Pacific, I will gaze at the sky with colors that could only have been painted by God, and I will smile because I am home.

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

~	Mark Twain

"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware."


~ Henry Miller

(photo source:  fanpop.com)

“There are two basic motivating forces: fear and love. When we are afraid, we pull back from life. When we are in love, we open to all that life has to offer with passion, excitement, and acceptance. We need to learn to love ourselves first, in all our glory and our imperfections. If we cannot love ourselves, we cannot fully open to our ability to love others or our potential to create. Evolution and all hopes for a better world rest in the fearlessness and open-hearted vision of people who embrace life.”
—John Lennon

Christmas Lights and Hot Coco

(Photo Source:  souvlakiforthesoul)

It’s cold outside.  I not a winter person and constantly miss the 75 degree weather of Hawaii when I lived there.  But, I admit sometimes it is nice to slip into a thick, fleece jacket, brave the brisk wind, and venture outside, where my cheeks turn pink in seconds.

Tonight, I strolled up the sidewalk and looked at the Christmas lights that all of my neighbors put up, so diligently, this past weekend.   It reminded me of when I was little, walking with my grandmother, marveling at the beautiful colors of red, green, blue, and white. Then, when we were almost frozen to death, we’d go inside and warm up next to a warm fire, and enjoy that special hot chocolate she’d whip up like magic.  She’d always put in extra marshmallows for me.

Now, as I sit with my hot chocolate in hand, I’ll add some extra marshmallows, for grandma.  I wish you were here sitting next to me, instead of two states away. The lights were beautiful.

Oh, Nancy Drew, How I Love You

(photo source: thersic)

I went to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving weekend.  I spent more of my childhood there than at my own parent’s house.  Truthfully, she was more of parent to me that my own. I am thankful for having such a caring individual in my life.  Too bad her own daughter couldn’t have learned to be more like her.

I went my old “room” which still looks the same as it did when I left for college ten years ago.  Grandma says that she keeps it that way to remind her of our days together. Sometimes, I wish I were that young girl again.
The white bookshelf still sits in the corner of the room  It’s big and the shelves strain from the weight of books I amassed during my childhood.  The first shelf holds those books that were most dear to me.  I thought they’d be damaged or at least extremely dusty.

To my surprise there they were, still in pristine condition: Nancy Drew, my old friend.  I missed her more than I realized.  Each book, with their yellow spines and beautiful covers, still fill me with anticipation of all the adventures they contain.   Grandma dusted them regularly; she knew I’d want them someday.

She was right.  I always be grateful to Nancy Drew, she taught me to love reading and the magic of opening a book.  They were a gateway to a world beyond my small town, where I could go anywhere and be anybody.  I learned so many things about myself, others, and the world.

And I always be grateful to my grandmother, who taught me how to love.

(photo source:  moviemobsters)

Happy Thanksgiving to All!!!

Me: Hey, honey, are you finished up delivering today?


Adam: Yep, my last delivery was at the camp where they filmed “Halloween.”


Me: “Halloween”?


Adam: Yeah, you know, the one with Freddy Krueger.


Me: No, that’s “Nightmare on Elm Street.” “Halloween” is the one with Michael Myers. You mean where they filmed “Friday the 13th” with Jason.


Adam: I knew it was one of those

(photo source:  thethinkingtank)

 

 A Birthday Present

 By:  Sylvia Plath

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

The Chosen

To carve or not to carve.....

Autumn Blooms

It's here again--the vibrant reds, golds, and oranges.  How I love this time of year.  I find as I get older that time passes much too quickly.  I really need to stop and cherish these moments: the vibrant yellow sunrise caressing my skin with its warmth for a brief moment, while the soft, gentle breeze greets me as I retrieve my print copy of The New York Times.  There is nothing like doing the crossword puzzle, with a red pen, by the enormous picture window in the kitchen.

The flowers are still blooming despite the falling temperatures each night.  Nothing can be better than seeing trees turning into such rich colors and flowers determined to grace the world with their delicate beauty, all the while enjoying down-comforter-cold-nights.

One of the many NJ fields still in bloom in October

These small moments, can be so profound on the soul.  It is easy to overlook the small miracles that still exists in this crazy world.  I am glad I'm guilty of that more than I would like to admit. 

It's nice to know that I can still be surprised.  Thank God for that.

"The impulse to put everything down immediately is a weakness—a neurotic fear of losing something. You should know by now that the memory is an immense steel reservoir—nothing escapes it. Write immediately, yes! But as an artist." ~Henry Miller

“The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all to get the book written."

~William Faulkner, 1956

Spring...

why are you talking so long to come?

"A thousand words will not leave so deep an impression as one deed." Henrik Ibsen

As I get older, I realize truer words were never spoken. 

"If you're going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty."

~Marilyn Monroe

Shades of Death: A Road Not Dead?

Photo Source:  Wikipedia

New Jersey is a haunted state.  Public buildings, houses, even roads have been trampled upon or lived in for over 200 years and most are still standing or in use.  Unexplained phenomena and ghost activities have been investigated and documented by a variety of groups:  ghost hunters, amateurs, publications such as “Weird NJ” magazine and television shows like MTV’s “Fear” and Syfy’s “Ghost Hunters.”

Living in New Jersey, I embrace these fascinating stories and legends.  I want to see if there is any truth to it first hand.  It would be impossible to visit every location, so I focus on a local road known to be haunted.  I am not a ghost hunter, thrill seeker, or crazy for that matter.  Skepticism is a natural tendency in my makeup, but I am open-minded and believe there are things in life that sometimes cannot be explained.

A half a mile away from my home runs Shades of Death Road in the village of Great Meadows.  The road’s long, macabre history stretches back to the mid-18th century. Surround by rural farmlands, picturesque vistas of the Kittatiny Valley and the Pequest River, its pristine landscape veils the dark reputation of the road as it prominently sits in the center of it all.

Because the road is well documented in ghost activity, with strange occurrences the norm, visitors are common to the area.  To curb the flow of unwanted visitors, or even thieves, residents often smear oil or mud on the sign to obscure the name of the road to turn on hoping to deter them.  Many of these road signs have disappeared over the years.

There are no historical documents or records explaining the origin of the road’s grim name.  Without this information all theories are guesses.  Some theories focus on the lower end of the road where highway men and bandits would hide in the shade waiting for victims to steal their valuables, then murder them as they passed by.  Another theory states that the highway men would engage in fights to the death, among themselves, over women.  Some say the locals took revenge on the highway men by capturing and lynching them in the same area as their victims, and the angry spirits of the victims continue to mourn their untimely death.  Others say it was more of a natural reason: the malaria outbreak of 1850, that claimed many lives due to lack of medical treatment in such a remote location.  These theories only add to the mystery.

“Shades,” as the locals call it, is a rural two-lane road running seven miles long.  Old farmhouses dot both sides of the road and are separated by clusters of trees so thick that light disappears even in bright sunshine.  Residents cope with the road’s dark past by simply ignoring it.  “It’s just a road, I try not to read too much in the weirdness and all, I think it’s more in the minds of people that don’t live here, than anything,”  Phillip Bright says, with a hint of annoyance when I ask about living on Shades.  “I’ve lived on it all my life and nothing out of the ordinary has happened to me.”

Luckily for Phillip, that is the case.  The road’s extreme curves and lack of guard rails have caused a number of fatal car accidents, most recently ten years ago when three teenagers crashed into a tree and all died.  People believe the high number of deaths create the perfect environment for ghost sightings and paranormal activity. 

A number of people mention feeling a heavy sensation in the air once they go down the road. “Some people feel such dread that they turn right around and never go back, that happened to me,” Evie Castle-White, my neighbor and Great Meadows native confirms, shivering slightly at the memory.  “If you really want to see something interesting, check out Ghost Lake, especially at night,” adds husband, Ben.  “My buddies and I used to fish there, but it’s kinda weird down around the lake.” 

Legend has it that if you go to Ghost Lake at night, darkness shrouds the road, except at the lake, where the sky above is still bright as twilight .  An old abandoned cabin stands along banks where people report seeing apparitions at night during a full moon. People say the apparitions are the ghosts of campers murdered at the lake years ago, which was never solved.

I decide to see the lake for myself one evening in April when the full moon is high in the sky. I surmise that the apparitions are most likely a figment of overactive imaginations, maybe caused by the fog rolling off the lake.  The road is eerie and quiet with the sounds of crickets.  There are no street lamps and the night sky is black as tar as a gray cloud covers the moon temporarily.  Little dots of light can be seen from windows of the few residents that are still awake and knowing they are there comforts me.

As I round the bend, Ghost Lake appears suddenly in the darkness.  Looking up, I am shocked to see that the sky over the lake is bright.  The oddity of this should not surprise me, having been told by many that this occurs, but seeing it for myself is quite another thing.  There is nothing around the lake that could attribute to the brightness.

Feeling slightly scared, I force myself to stay and find the old cabin.  The dark roof is barely visible through the trees as it looms over the water.  Luckily for my nerves, apparitions, of any sort, do not appear.  Relief is short lived as the crickets go quiet and a heavy feeling takes hold of me.  The air becomes chilly as I start the car and leave, forcing myself to look back in the rear view mirror, turning slowly on Shades.  I swear I see something moving, but decide it's my imagination.  But just in case, I will give up looking for ghosts, at least for the time being.

May You Rest In Peace...

1932-2011

I cried yesterday at the passing of Dame Elizabeth Taylor.  Known for her breathtaking beauty, her enormous talent, and, of course, her extensive love life, she was also a mother, grandmother, faithful friend, and activist.  There will never be and could never be anyone so remarkable in this lifetime again.

It really is an end of of an era.  Goodbye...you will be truly missed.

Marilyn

Fragments:  Poems, Intimate Notes, and Letters by Marilyn Monroe

I've always been a Marilyn Monroe fan.  The myth of Marilyn Monroe as the quintessential "blond bombshell" lives on today. With her child-like voice and dumb blond persona, it is easy to overlook who Marilyn really was.  She was a woman who survived a unhappy childhood fraught with isolation and abuse.  Marilyn rose above it with inner strength, courage, and determination to reinvent herself into a successful movie star and sex symbol.

(Photo Source:  Sam Rose)

But that was only one side to this complex woman.  She loved reading great works literature, wrote stories and poems; a genus in her own right who always sought ways to improve herself and her mind.

The world loss a truly talented woman, too soon.  If she had lived longer who knows what she would and could have achieved.  How sad for her...and for us.

The same blood running through your veins doesn't make you family.  It is what you do and how you treat each other that makes you family.

And all my family are the friends I've cultivated in my lifetime, my husband, and children to come.
 
I'm lucky.

"The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved."

Victor Hugo

Time for a new bed...

The hubby likes this:

But I like this:

Two things:

I still like pink.
I don't live in Muir Woods.

But with marriage comes compromise so, dearest, how about this:

 (All Photos:  Apartment Therapy)

On the list of things to see in Costa Rica

Poas Volcano, Costa Rica

Always

I am not jealous
of what came before me.

Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!

Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life! 

~Pablo Neruda

Je t'aime

The wind has changed and I long to move somewhere again.  I am a gypsy at heart; a nomad that can never really settle in one place for long.  I need change, to see the world even though it it's smaller than it once was in the days of old where travel was really an adventure.  The unpredictability of life is what makes me feel alive.

Where would I go?  Belize?  Costa Rica?  Australia?  Thailand?  No. Argentina? Martinique? Maybe later.  Despite the fact that an exotic location would be exciting, I want to got in the other direction...to Europe.  I have family in England.  My mother's English genes course through my veins beckoning me home all the time.  But still, it's not enough.  It's not really home.  Truthfully, the urge to leave hits me all the time because I haven't found the place I want to be...meant to be.  Maybe it's because I haven't found my home yet.  It's that feeling that is missing and has been missing my entire life.  Is there a place that I've been to that evokes the feeling of contentment?  One. The country that most inspires me with its people, culture, and beauty is France.

Ahh...Paris
(Photo Source:  The Brooklyn Nomad)

I went to Paris the first time when I was 13 years old.  The hustle of the city did not distract me from observing the breathtaking beauty of it's architecture and the thrill of discovering quaint cafes, shops and more on side streets only traveled by true Parisians.  Even at 13, I didn't complain of foot burn as I walked miles and miles taking in everything I could see in that short week.  I cried when I left.

I returned years later at 25 and still felt the absolute thrill when I set foot on French soil again.  I stayed in Montmarte, in the 18th arrondissement, in a small hotel right next a restaurant that served the best oysters.  I still enjoyed the feeling of not knowing where I would end up as I walked Rue after Rue.  The people I encountered were quite friendly to me, even with my elementary French skills.  Maybe they could tell I was sincere in my endeavor.  Numerous artists dotted the streets and I longed to be 18 again, more carefree and not afraid of devoting myself to the arts, capturing the images before me with deft strokes.  The talent- the fearlessness of true artists are an inspiration for us all that are afraid to live.

And then the grandest vision of all:  the Sacré Coeur.

(Photo Source:  Wikipedia)

The hours I spent sitting there writing everything down that I laid my eyes on:  the mother, smothering her angelic baby with loving kisses, the old man, sitting alone, sadly gazing up at the basilica holding a yellow rose, and the lovers, arms intertwined, caressing, rubbing places I would be afraid to do in public, but not them.  Heavy petting aside in the open public, it's nice to be in love...and to be in love in Paris. There is so much more, so many things to see and take in.  It is unending and the richness of this place seeps into your soul.

I miss Montmarte.  Most of all, I miss that small cafe, whose name I've unfortunately forgotten, but serves the best Cafe Au Lait I ever had...not to mention the scrumptious, melt-in-your mouth, better than sex (okay, almost better) desserts that cause my mouth to water, even now. 

Street in Montmarte
(Photo Source:  www.photoparis.com)

After all that, I still wanted to satisfy my desire to see more of France and ventured on a train to the city of Lourdes at the foothills of the Pyrenees.  I walked the cobble streets that Bernadette walked two centuries ago. I engaged in imaginary conversations with her.  To have experienced what she did at such a young age.  Remarkable, really.  Even if you don't believe, I do.  I took in the peace and security of the grotto, and stood in awe Rosary Square, and prayed in reverence at the Rosary Basilica.  Even in a small french town, the Byzantine architecture of the basilica is magnificent.

(Photo Source:  Famous Wonders)

I would miss that small little town.  A piece of my heart still resides there.

Someday, I hope to return again.  To Lourdes.  To Paris.  To France.  Someday, I hope to come back to a place I consider a home.

Oh....Writing

(Photo Source:  www.outofmargins.com)

“Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.”

Virginia Woolf

Rememberance

Photo Source:  Tom Davidson

In my dreams, she stands with her back to me. Her caramel hair reaches her lower back in cascading waves. As the wind blows, the scent of lavender permeates the air. Her scent. She turns and smiles–teeth gleaming white, perfect. It is her eyes that command attention: aqua blue with flecks of gold. I’ve seen colors like that once after a storm in the Caribbean Sea; standing on the Seven Mile Beach in Grand Cayman with my husband on our honeymoon, I broke down in tears, then, when memories fluttered into my mind for a moment before I pushed them away. Not because I wanted to, but because it was too hard to remember...her.

Her name was Julia and she was my sister. When I am asked if I have any brothers or sisters, my answer is, “Yes, a brother–John.” It’s not the whole truth, but I do not lie to be deceitful. I lie to protect my heart. For years after her death, I couldn’t even say her name. Sometimes, it’s just easier to live in denial.

Julia was eight years older than me. Growing up next to perfection would make others resentful or jealous, but not me. I felt blessed to have Julia as a sister. She never failed in making me feel loved beyond anything or anyone. Despite the age difference, she would come into my room at bedtime and share the adventures of her day and involve herself in mine. When I was sad or hurt, she lent an understanding ear and comforted me until my tears were replaced with a smile.

Built like an Olympian, Julia’s thirst for adventure was undeniable. Much to my mother’s constant worry, Julia also lacked fear, particularly when it came to physical activities. She would try anything once: snow skiing, water skiing, ice skating; you name it, she would try it. But her true love was the water. “I feel such peace when I am in the water. There is nothing more beautiful,” she would always say to me.

During the summer months, we would spend it at my Aunt Kitty’s house in Ft. Lauderdale. There, Julia would live in her bathing suit until it became a second skin. I imagined that she was a water creature doomed to be on dry land and always longing to be home again, feeling its dark blue call. “Please be careful.” My aunt would beg to deaf ears whenever she and our cousins would go swimming. I never worried because I trusted her strength; she was an amazing swimmer, and an amazing teacher. With great patience, she taught me to swim, and to do it well.

I relish those memories when I have the courage to play them in my mind. I can hear her sweet sing-song voice, “I’m going to live right on the ocean when I’m older, Katie. You can live with me too and we’ll lie under the sun and swim all day.” Sometimes in my dreams, we do just that.

When she was seventeen, Julia begged my mother to let her learn to scuba dive. “Absolutely NOT!” My mother was horrified at the notion. I now realize it was fear that something bad would happen. “It is far too dangerous, people die all the time from doing that.”

“That’s because they weren’t careful,” Julia said, knowingly. “I’m a good swimmer and I’m careful, please.”

“No.” Mother refused to budge. Julia didn’t quit–nagging, pestering–really whatever she could do to make my mother reconsider, Julia would do it. The draw was too much for her, Julia would say to me. Being nine years old, I didn’t quite understand why this was so important to her. I knew she loved the water, but the idea of being underneath for so long was quite scary. I mean wasn’t swimming enough? “It’s not the same.” she would say.

At 18, mother relented, begrudgingly, after all, Julia would be heading off to college in the fall, and she was “almost an adult,” Dad would gently remind her. “No little girl anymore, Nora.”

We spent that summer at Aunt Kitty’s again, and Julia got her wish. John and I didn’t see Julia much that summer. Her days were spent with daily lessons at the pool, hours of lectures, breathing practices with her best friend Cayla as her partner, trips on the dive boat, and the ultimate: five open water dives.

Julia was ecstatic when she became PADI certified. It was a badge of honor for her. The prize at the end of a long journey. “I did it, Katie!” She picked me and spun me around. I laughed, still not understanding its importance, but nonetheless happy for my sister. Julia stayed behind three extra weeks after John and I left for home. I wished I stayed with her.

*******

It was August 25, 1995, 5:10 pm. I heard my mother wailing downstairs. John rushed past my room, but I didn’t move. I stayed there frozen. Did I know that my life, our lives, were about irrevocably change? Did I know at that moment that I would never be truly happy ever again? Did I know that I would never see Julia’s face again? I must have known something as sorrow filled my soul; I couldn’t breathe, I stumbled to the door calling out to my mother, who couldn’t hear my cry over hers. I lay there on the floor until John came to get me. “Something happened, Katie.” John’s face was red, tears filled his eyes. That alone, scared me, because John, in his 13 years, never cried.

Dad told me a while later the “how.” He was the only one who could still form words. It was their last trip out to celebrate the end of summer and the start of their new lives–Julia, Cayla, our cousins Randall, and Eric; all young, healthy, everything to live for, and they would do just that. Except Julia. My Julia, my sister, my best friend, my everything; nothing left but emptiness and despair.

The currents were strong that day. Julia said she was always careful, but I guess she wasn’t on that day. They were fine at first, paired up as they should be; Julia was with Randall, Cayla with Eric. After a short time in the water, Randall indicated they should return to the boat, he knew that it wasn’t safe. An avid diver for four years, he knew that currents could be tricky. They all ascended, but not Julia. Randall went down to find her, but it was too late. Two weeks, later she came home.

*******

I grew up that summer, way beyond my years. My childhood stripped away in a phone call. I couldn’t fathom a life without Julia. I loved her so much and I also hated her for leaving me. Why did my mother relent? Why did Julia have to go out one more time? Why? Why? Why?

Our family moved on in different ways: Mom became harder, distant from all of us; Dad aged twenty years and I never saw the twinkle in his eyes again; John and I became closer, desperate to hold onto any piece of that once close-knit family we remember. We never wanted to admit that without Julia, it would never be that way again. I wished I could see her one last time. Her smiling face...her eyes...especially her eyes. None of us had her astonishing eyes and I missed them terribly–they exuded love and kindness whenever they looked at you.

*******

It’s my niece’s fifth birthday. She squeals as she opens my present: a large Victorian dollhouse. She runs into my waiting arms and give me a tight hug. “I love you, Aunt Kate!” I look down, my brown eyes meet her aqua ones, and I smile. “I love you too, Julia.”

That's a big YES to "do you write letters?"  I also love receiving letters.  A rare experience nowadays.  I wish others engaged in this act more.

So want to go here...

The Promise

“Do you promise that we’ll best friends forever?”  I turned to look at Helena surprised at the concern in her voice.  Ten minutes earlier we were trying on the new clothes we’d bought at the mall and talked of our long awaited trip to Florida at the end of our junior year in a couple of months.

“Sure, forever,” I said, assuring her.  Her whole constitution seemed changed in a matter of nanoseconds.  Of course that was an ordinary occurrence with Helena.

“What’s up with you?  You seem upset.” I sat next to her.

“I am just glad we’re best friends.  Sometimes I worry that something will happen and we won’t be that anymore.”  She turned her emerald eyes on me.  I loved looking at her eyes, they just took your breath away at how stunningly green they were, but, at the same time, I also envied her for them because my brown eyes seemed so dull in comparison.  

“That could never happen, you’re like my sister,” I said, hugging her.  “We’re sisters,” she repeated, as if she were trying to convince herself that I meant it.  I did.

I tried on my newly bought sapphire blue bikini.  “So what do you think?” I asked, spinning around waiting for Helena’s approval. “Stephen loves blue.”

Stephen Farris.  His name alone sent pleasant shivers down my spine.  Butterflies began their flight again in the pit of my stomach as I thought of the picnic planned the next day to celebrate the return of warm weather.  If truth be told, none of us needed an excuse to head to the water and bare ourselves to the sun gods.  Despite it being early April, it was hot as summer outside.   Living near the coast in Brunswick, Georgia afforded us many opportunities to enjoy the beach early.  But this was my excuse to show my new bikini and, hopefully, snag an invitation to the prom the following month from my dream guy. 

“I know.”  Helena smirked at me.  “You got it bad for him, but I can understand why, he is totally hot!” 

“Hot” was an understatement, too unrefined of a word, I thought to myself.   Stephen was like a Nordic God who was cursed to walk among us mortals was what I felt every time he graced us with his presence at our lunch table or sat behind me in French class.  I loved the way his thick, blond hair curled at his neck, the way his aquamarine eyes crinkled up when he laughed, most of the time, I felt like I was drowning those eyes; blue as the Caribbean Sea.  But most especially, I relished those moments when he would come up and grab my hand when we’d walk down the hall together.  People kidded that we were secretly a couple, but really, we were just good friends.  Not that I would be opposed to a change in our status.

“Well, when you go off and marry him, don’t forget about me,” Helena said, smiling at me.

“Never!  Remember nothing comes between us, especially not a guy,” I said. We had promised each other that we wouldn’t fall victim to the common pitfall upsetting best friendships the world over, namely men.  Too bad promises are hard to keep.

The next day, the gods graced us with a cloudless sky.  The sun warmed our bodies as we laughed and played under its 78 degree rays.  The Atlantic was still cold and nipped at my toes ensuring only the brave among us would venture into the rolling waves.  Stephen and I, not being one of them, sat on the sand and talked about everything that came to our minds.

“Love days like this,” Stephen said, laying back on the sand, looking over at me.  Please let this be it, I silently prayed.  “Man, I was thinking about prom,” he began.  Wow, that was fast.  I held my breath.  “I should have got on this earlier, but you know me,” he said laughing.

His laugh was infectious, a disease I wanted to catch and never get better.  “Does Helena have a date yet?”  I was amazed that the strength it took to keep the smile plastered on my face.  “No, not yet.” I answered, my teeth clenched so hard that at any moment my jaw would break. 

Helena told me earlier that she didn’t want to go, but I always knew she really did and was just waiting to be asked.  Most males, old and young alike, were intimidated by Helena and her goddess beauty.  I suppose it was only fitting that Stephen would be attracted to her, I thought bitterly.

“Good.  Now I just have to work up the nerve to do it.” he laughed again at me and took my hand. I seemed to have been miraculously cured of the disease.   Now the laugh left my bikini-clad body cold.  “I am so glad that I can talk to you about stuff. You’re like my sister.”  Sister, I guess that was my lot in life.  One I used to want, but not this way, not with him.

Later, Helena came to find me.  “So, I guess you’re going to the prom.”  I said quietly, turning to look at her, I saw tears in her eyes.  “I’m so sorry,” she said, softly. 

“Yeah...well...”  I started to walk away. 
                           
“Wait, let me finish.  I am not going to the prom.  Unless you want to be my date.”  She came over to hug me.  “No guy comes between us...ever.” 

We kept that promise to each other.  Until she broke my brother’s heart.

Confessional Poetry

I am obsessed with confessional poetry, as of late.  Right now I am spending the day with the most famous of them all, Sylvia Plath.

Her talent is absolutely astounding.  It is a pity that we only had her on earth for only a little while.  I think of how much more poetry, stories, maybe even novels she could have produced had she not chosen to take her life.  But then that is what happens to all the ones touched by the Gods- they only stay for a little while.

I remember I had the pleasure of being introduced to Sylvia, ironically enough, when I was going through a severe depression.  I suppose not the best choice of poetry at the time.  But her voice spoke to me through those cleverly, crafted words.  Suffering is universal and unavoidable.  One has to go through it, like childbirth without the meds.  If we are strong enough, maybe we can beat it, if only for a little while.

Ultimately, it beat Sylvia.  I can only hope it won't beat me if and when it decides to come back.

 (Photo Source:  Brooklyn Art Project)

"Life can’t ever really defeat a writer who is in love with writing, for life itself is a writer’s lover until death — fascinating, cruel, lavish, warm, cold, treacherous, constant."

Edna Faber

My Future Home...I Wish

I am still drowning in "things."  The things have a life of their own and refuse to disappear or die no matter how much I give away or throw away (shhhh! sometimes it's easier) or give away.  I am determined to win this battle of "stuff."  No, I am not some over-zealous minimalist (and no, I am not knocking you guys) it's just I like to take my life on a more "middle of the road" journey. 

Still...if my place can look like this, all would be right with the world.

Robbie Williams - Angels [HQ] [Official Music-Video]

Best Friends Carry The Sharpest Knives

“I can’t go through with it, Kate.” 

I looked at my best friend Helena, not quite understanding her.  There was no way that Helena was referring to not going through walking down the aisle in an hour, standing next to my brother, John, and pledging her devotion, fidelity, and love until death do they part. 

“I just think this wedding is a mistake.  It just doesn’t feel right.”  Helena looked down waiting for the explosion that was sure to come.  I stared at her–my closest friend and confidant for over 15 years, and finally saw the person I was always warned about. 

“Kate, say something,” she pleaded, knowing that we were close to destroying a friendship that took most of our lives to build.  Slowly I turned to face her, anger rising up inside me like fire, burning away all the love I felt for her.

“Helena, I know you aren’t pulling this shit again.” I said quietly, staring hard at her until she looked away and sighed.  “And I know you aren’t doing this to my family...to John,”  The crying came next, which I could have predicted for one of her great talents was producing tears in tough situations.  It usually got her out of most things, but it wouldn’t this time, and most certainly, not with me.  I knew her too well.  She forgot that I knew her better than myself. 

“You know that was a different situation with Stephen.” Helena spoke so quietly, I almost didn’t hear her. “I just realized that Stephen and I were better as just friends, I wasn’t in love with him, certainly not enough to marry him.”

“How is this different?  You are most certainly doing the same thing!”  My voice rose, to high pitch.

Two years before, Helena told me she was marrying Stephen Farris and with those words, a little part of my heart died.  I had been secretly in love with Stephen for most of high school and my college years. To my dismay, his love for me was equivalent to that of a little sister.  No one knew of my feelings except Helena. 

To Helena’s credit, she asked my permission to date Stephen when they fell back in touch after a brief run in at friend’s wedding.  I gave my blessing as I was rational enough to realize that he and I would never be.  Their romance was passionate and intense, with daily phone calls from Helena filling me on every detail.  The few who knew my true feelings towards Stephen were surprised that I could maintain any kind of relationship with either of them.  Though difficult, I valued both friendships more that my infatuation with Stephen. The day of wedding, I knew I could finally move on and put the hope of any romance with Stephen behind me, wish them the best, and live my life.   Getting ready for the ceremony, Helena turned to me with tears.  “I can’t go through with it, Kate.” 

The same words, the same reasons, callously uttered from her lips, destroying Stephen were now going to destroy my brother.  I took her side then, this time, I would take my brother’s.

“Couldn’t you come up with a better excuse?”  I asked, disgusted by my stupidity for falling under Helena’s spell for so many  years.  Now John would suffer for it.

“I am not trying to make an excuse.  It’s just what I feel, Kate.  I love you all too much to go through with it, because in the long run we’ll all be unhappy.  Especially John.  We’re better off as friends.”  Helena came towards me, expecting me to embrace her as I always did when we fought.  I turned away flabbergasted that she thought things would still be the same after this.

People were always amazed that we were friends.  They warned me that after I got to know Helena, I would realize that she could be dangerous to my health, mostly, my mental health.  I never realized that it would take as long as it did to learn that lesson.   I met Helena when I was 13 as I sat in my backyard having only moved in a week before.  Panic filled me as thoughts of being the new girl in school flooded my brain, when suddenly, an ethereal creature walked towards me across the uncut grass, her hands extended as she introduced herself, in her soft voice.

So profound was her beauty it evoked feelings of both jealousy that I would never look that way no matter how hard I tried and fascination at who this creature was standing before me.  In two weeks, we were inseparable and I found the sister I had always longed for.  She taught me to love life, be strong, and believe in myself.  Those qualities didn’t come naturally for me as I struggled with insecurities; she gave me the balance I needed as Helena didn’t seem to have any.  For her endless devotion to me, she was repaid with my unquestionable loyalty. 

As much as people liked to judge me for being her friend, I found it amusing how their tunes changed when she turned her attention on them.  Suddenly, their walls of dislike and distrust crumbled when she fastened her green eyes on them or flipped her platinum blond hair; engaging them in meaningful conversations and stroking their egos with affirmations that their words meant something to her. 

They didn’t.  They didn’t mean a damn thing to her.  She may have been a lot things, but stupid was not one of them.  She knew what they thought of her, what they felt about her, and how they loved to hate her.  Helena brought that out in people she’d known all her life in our tiny Georgia town.  She was too beautiful for some, not good enough for others; really you almost felt sorry for her for being damned on both ends.   

Trying most of her life to be loved and failing took its cruel toll on her.  The fates weren’t kind to her; she was doomed at birth, I secretly believed when she told me her story.  Her father died when she was three and her mother resented being tied down to a child as she was a child herself. That left her grandparents, who did their duty to provide a home for her, if you could call it a “home” due to them unfairly and irrationally blaming her for their son’s untimely death. 

People who have love don’t realize the damage it does to those you never had it.  They are the ones who seek it desperately as if they need it to breathe.  I swam in love, Helena was not so fortunate.  Helena  needed it to breathe and clung  desperately to me and my family, and over the years she became apart of it.  But because of that, I was blind to her dark side-- the need to control people, test them over and over, and manipulate them until their mental exhaustion was too much, pushing them to do the one thing she feared most:  leave her.  Her mother did it, her father too, everyone except me, she would say on days she felt sorry for herself, which were few. 

In my eyes, Helena strove to be better than she really was, but unfortunately she was her own worst enemy.  On some level I could excuse her behavior, believing that she had no guidance, no role model in those important, formative years to show her how to form and maintain healthy relationships, whether friend or lover.  Helena’s extreme nature either led her to smother those who loved her to death with her neediness or push them away with her lack of empathy. 

When she turned her attention to John, the part of me that knew her frailties wanted John to run and not look back.  But the bigger part of me, the one that treasured Helena’s presence in our lives, embraced the union.  It was a symbol that we would truly be a family.

“I know you’ll forgive me, Kate.  You always do.”  The desperation in her voice betrayed her overconfident exterior.  Deep down Helena knew she wasn’t just walking out on John, but on all of us.  The people she considered her family; the people who had loved her when others wouldn’t.  Her destructive nature wouldn’t allow her to stop until there was nothing or no one left in her life. 

“You’re wrong,”  I said, and walked out first.   I could hear her wails when the realization of what she’d done to us penetrated her selfish mind.  She destroyed my brother.  She destroyed our friendship.  But really, she destroyed herself most of all.  To me, that was the day I saw who she really was– that beautiful mask ripped off to reveal her true ugliness. 

Distance and time are wonderful cures.  I am happy now...so is John.

Annette

She left today without any warning.  She told me that she'd be back as soon as she could.  She needed to go for a little while to get better, to fix what was wrong with her - inside her heart and mind.  I waited patiently for her to return.  I kept waiting, when so many of us who loved her didn't, because they knew better than me.  I waited so we could be friends again, and it would be just as it was before, maybe even better.  After all, she promised to get better.

Promises are so fragile these days.  They break so easily and the result is so much pain.  Broken, sharpened - a blade that slices so clean. The wound can be fatal if you're not careful.

And lies, oh the lies that fall so easily, without care, out of her cavernous mouth.  I'm bleeding, but breathing.  But she - she's not coming back. Ever.

I would have accepted her decision, no really.  Sometimes you can't save people.  Fuck, sometimes you can barely save yourself.  And sometimes we just have to say goodbye so that we can heal ourselves.
So...goodbye.

The Talented Miss Highsmith

There is no one like Patricia Highsmith.

I read all her books by the time I was 15.  Truly a gifted writer.  There is a darkness in her that certainly cannot be denied.  Tapping into it gave birth to Tom Ripley and gave us a glimpse into the amoral psyche of humanity.  Enough said.

Your lips move, but it is your heart that lies…

You want my love to be unconditional.  I guess you mean you want me to let you get away with whatever you want and be fine with that.  Can your love for me be unconditional too?

"My closely guarded solitude causes some hurt feelings now and then. But how to explain, without wounding someone, that you want to be wholly in the world you are writing about, that it would take two days to get the visitor's voice out of the house so that you could listen to your own characters again?"

                               Margaret Bourke-White