Tag Archives: Metaphorland

Tiny Reminders

August 16, 2010

MIsunriseMoving on is simple, it’s what you leave behind that makes it so difficult.
~Anonymous

Sunrise on the Mackinaw Bridge… one of the few things on the 19-hour road trip that I enjoy. Others include cherry coffee, 4am boat counts, and of course, the two dead hookers. But I digress.

The sunrise made me sad this time. I almost drove off the bridge staring at it. I nudged a snoring hippie, “Look, it’s beautiful!” watched his blank stare scan the horizon and then one half-open eye turned toward me and I smile-sighed, “Yes, you may go back to sleep now.” He wasn’t awake. But even if he had been, I’m not sure he would have understood completely. Not completely.

When my childhood sweetheart and I broke up, I lost a friend. When my ex and I divorced, I lost the big screen TV. When Wisconsin and I broke up, I lost the entire chain of Great Lakes. I lost my water.

Breaking up hurts. Even after the hurt is healed, the memory can sting. Seeing the water at sunrise, the reflections, the tiny white caps and the boats gliding across it, made me yearn to dip my feet. I wanted to pick rocks and find shells. I wanted to dig my toes in the sand at the edge of the surf and wait for them to be engulfed in a wet mire of tiny crystals. I get giddy when I see the water. I’ve stopped before and taken a twenty minute break from the drive-from-hell to run along her shores, kids and hippie in tow. But I couldn’t stop this time. There was a family wedding to get to and we were late. I swallowed back a tear and kept driving, window down so I could smell the water and relive a thousand memories.

Even though breaking up hurts, it’s those little things you hold on to that make the occasional twinge of pain easier to bear—the good memories you fall back on, the ones that drown out the bad. Yes I miss my water, but there’s water here. It’s just different water. And I have memories, lots and lots and lots of them—from childhood through teenage years and on into adulthood. Lots.

And I have physical reminders.

Because when you break up, you always take something with you. You hold onto some little physical reminder. When my childhood sweetheart and I broke up, I wrapped the love letters in ribbon and tucked them into my babybox. I still have them, and the half-heart necklace is in a jewelry box. When my ex and I broke up, I put away specific jewelry to be handed down someday. And when Wisconsin and I broke up, I took her rocks. I have stones around the house and several pebbles I keep in my purse. They’ve lost their smell (yes, rocks have a smell) but just the sight of them is enough to allow me to let go of the hurt of the break up. To remember the good times.

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Treading Water

June 28, 2010

drowning2And the sea grows
I close my eyes
Move slowly through drowning waves
Going away on a strange day
“A Strange Day” by The Cure

I had a dream yesterday. A strange dream. I was deep in clear blue water, swimming for the surface with everything I was worth. My lungs hurt. My eyes burned. And as I kicked and kicked, I seemed to be getting no closer to the elusive surface. I remember the thin trail of bubbles I tried to hold in. I remember a poetic reflection of the sun, broken, bent, as it sparkled through the blue around me. My arms felt like lead, my legs tingled. And then the reflection seemed to pull away from me. I wanted that ray of sunshine. I wanted to follow those bubbles. But I realized I was sinking. I had given up the fight. I was succumbing to the depths around me.

And then I gasped fresh air, sputtered and spit chlorine.

I was sitting in a bamboo lounge chair at the edge of a bottomless pool. In the water, I could see myself sinking. The fight gone. Deeper and deeper. I wanted to jump in and save myself, but before I could a hand grabbed my wrist.

“Sit.”

A man sat sipping an umbrella drink in a chair next to me. He had calm eyes and a soothing voice.

“But I need to save myself.” I couldn’t hear my words. I do not think I spoke out loud, but he answered me. Answered my thoughts, my unspoken questions.

“That is not you. You’re not drowning.” He took a long sip and stared at me, as if waiting for me to get it. “You’re right here.”

I looked at the pool. The figure was all but out of sight in the depths. Only the wrist reaching upward was still distinguishable in the light ripples of the chlorinated water. I could clearly see my dragonfly tattoo.

“No.” He turned my arm over so I could see my wrist. The tattoo in the water looked like the one I currently have in real life. But in my dream, the one on my wrist was different. The colors were swirled, highlights had been added, and tiny white flairs were scattered around the twin insects like cartoon fireflies.

“That was you.” He released my arm. “Now this is you.”

I was abruptly awoken with the feeling that I was babysitting, because the television had crying children on it. You gotta love what the mind does when you’re asleep. Changing scenes by outside influence. Waking you when you just want to sleep. When you want to finish the dream.

But I didn’t need to finish it.

I get it.

Apparently, I understood it subconsciously before I did consciously. Though even then, someone else had to say it out loud. I’m still me. But I’m a different me. I’m not drowning.

But I am treading water.

Beyond the metaphor that some of you may recognize, and the one that only I can see in that dream, there’s the reality of today. The drowning feeling. I just finished edits on one thing and got it turned in. I have to finish edits on the novel, write an article, write & polish a short, and finish another novel by the end of summer. It feels like a lot. It feels like too much when the words are working. I can understand that metaphorical drowning feeling as well. And I’m reminded of how my mother taught me to swim…

Mom carried me out to the ropes at the lake by my Nana’s old house. It was over my head, but she could stand just fine. She smiled at me. She kissed my forehead. And she dropped me. “Sink or swim.” I gulped water. I cried. But I didn’t sink. She didn’t drown me. She taught me to tread water.

My to-do list is not a bottomless pool. I will not sink. I will swim. I’ve been good at treading water since I was five years old—even though that’s not me any more. And by the end of summer, I’ll be a swimmer of Olympic caliber… regarding all the waterlogged metaphors in that dream.

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Waiting to Exhale

June 15, 2010

exhale1 It started with a phone call. There was fish and a sea and a pep talk and eventually some giggling. There were highs and lows that equaled each other, balanced each other, and occasionally tossed a left hook. But there was also some valid points that we agreed just might be blog material, so here you go…

“Good things come to those that wait” (1)

Sometimes.

Some things that we wait for are a sure thing on a timer (like Christmas), others are nothing more than hope (Lottery). Deep down, we know some things are just hope, but we cling to them as if they were a sure thing. Why? For the same reason some people believe in a purple elephant in the sky… Faith.

Hope. Faith. Both require waiting on some level. Both require a little fire walking and occasional pep talks, whether from others or internally. And both mean holding your breath.

But how do we know when to wait? When to stop all action or words and just pause, turn blue, and wait for the universe to deliver it’s happy little Christmas packages? And how long do we wait? When do we exhale if the universe doesn’t deliver? And when do we step in and say enough of the waiting? It depends on the person doing the waiting and their patience level. It depends on the circumstance and consequences. It depends on what the present under the Christmas tree is promised to be. Batteries in your stocking could mean the remote control car you were hoping for, but it could also just be a silly flashlight. Still fun, still appreciated in the dark, but not what you were truly waiting for.

I never thought that I was one to hold my breath. I’ve always been a “now or never” kinda girl. If I’m not going to get it now, I accept that I won’t get it ever, and there’s no need to hold my breath. Yet, on occasion, I catch the little voice in my head reminding me to breathe, so I must be holding it. And I’m always telling others to breathe. Recently, it was because they were holding batteries for a flashlight. But sometimes breathing isn’t because you were holding your breath. Sometimes, unfortunately, it’s realizing the ‘never’ is the reality. Breathing becomes quick and shallow. Hyperventilation of the heart, or mind, messes with our breathing, but not because we’ve inhaled and haven’t let it go. Sometimes, just sometimes, we’re breathing too much, when all we need to do is take a deep breath and wait to exhale…

I have one friend holding a flashlight and learning how to breathe again. I have another holding the batteries and hoping the lumpy package is the remote control car. Me? I’m not breathing too much, I’m thinking too much, and waiting to exhale. I know it’s a toy car. I can see a tire poking through a tear in the wrapping paper. I just don’t know what color it is.

And while I’m holding my breathe, turning blue, and hoping waiting, think on this opposing quote I found: “If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.” (2)
 Because sometimes… just sometimes… we’ll hold our breath forever.

(1) Proverb & bastardization of Longfellow’s “all things come round to him who will but wait” (2) Oscar Wilde

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Medium Rare

June 1, 2010

happymealRemember when Happy Meal’s® came in a box? Yeah, this blog has nothing to do with that, or Happy Meals, or even McDonald’s. Just the Big Mac.

Or rather, what the Big Mac signifies.

The Big Mac is the best (while your mileage may vary™  just play along) of the junk food available. I think we can agree that it’s basically the polar opposite of a Filet Mignon. And thus we enter metaphorland!

You see, a certain Hippie I know what going off on a rant when I got home yesterday, regarding the industry and it’s love of everything written horribly. A friend of ours was told to “dummy down” a manuscript because, while it was great, it wouldn’t sell like this. Between that and an article he read, he went on and on about bad paranormal romance doing better than well written fiction, fifth grade reading level writing, talentless schmucks getting book deals, etc. He spoke of selling out to the buyers and tossing art to the side.

I was crushed.

I asked, “Do you write for the story or the money, and don’t lie because I know the answer.” He didn’t lie. He said story, “But what good is the story if it’s never sold to be read?”

Oh yes, this spun us off into a whole rant/debate thing. A part of me giggled. Ahhh the good old days—when we were just friends arguing over industry and other nonsense at cons and such. It was playful banter. It was venting frustrations. It was… it was anything but a serious argument.

Then it turned serious.

Not in that we were actually arguing. Oddly, we don’t do that, or at least haven’t yet. This turned serious in that it wasn’t playful. The glint in his eye became an angry monkey that threatened to throttle the muse and force it to kick out crap just to get published.

Yeah, you read that right. “Just to get published.” Which of course, turned into me having a fit about not giving your stuff away, not self-publishing, and asking how purposely writing crap wasn’t just as bad as those two evils.

If you follow my twitter, you may have seen me post what he said next,. “It’s the difference between Big Macs and Filet Mignon… but the ones writing Big Macs can afford the filet, on an island somewhere.” I tried to come back with something snappy—how you want to be remembered for art and craft and all that silliness. (See, now you know I was hot, because I actually used the word “craft”). His response, also on twitter, was low… because it was true, “We’ve been to Poe’s house… have you seen Dan Brown’s?”

Of course, as our house is not just a family but a tribe, and several of the natives were watching the festivities, I turned to them with hope. One is in 8th grade, the other in 11th. “What was the last book you read?” First they answered with books they had to read for school. “No, no… the last book you read for fun.” I was met with blank stares. Then they finally piped up with titles and the following clarifiers which broke my soul. “In 5th grade.” “In 8th grade.”

Does anyone read anymore?!! My mother does. I’m betting most people reading this blog do. But what happened to the reading public? Not only have they been drastically reduced to the minority over the years, but they’re accepting crappy Big Macs instead of requesting, nay demanding, Filet mignon.

I will not sell out. I will not sell out. I will not sell out. I will not give my stuff away, because my mentors told me not to. I will not self-publish, because my mentors told me not to. And I will not write Big Macs.

I like my Filet mignon. Medium rare please.

So tell me, oh loyal audience of mine. What were the last 3 books you read? Genre only? Nonfiction? Do you read the paper? What do you read and how do you like it served—with a side of fries, or garlic mashed potatoes?

Sure, a beach book has it’s place and time, but all the time? Replacing the fireplace cuddle books? No, I just can’t accept that! And this debate is far from over… throughout the rest of the night it came up, at random, with venom, and is sure to be fueled by a dueling blog and more banter today. So help me, kind audience. Help me help the Hippie remember. Listen to the mentors. Do as they say, not as they do. Don’t give your stuff away. Don’t self-publish. And for the love of all things holy, don’t write garbage on purpose! Write good fiction… and if the editor is willing to pay you money to “dummy it down,” deal with it then.

Down with Big Mac writing! Long live beautiful meat™!

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Life’s Hangovers

May 21, 2010

hangover1226533276I’ve never actually had a hangover from drinking, but I know plenty of people that have, and a few times that I truly deserved to get one. Over the years, I have seen some awfully strange remedies for them. I’ve witnessed everything from frozen concentrate OJ straight from the container with a spoon to sugared bread dipped in milk. But nothing is going to fix a hangover other than time.

Which is a beautiful bridge into Metaphorland, where we are gently reminded that not all hangovers are caused by alcohol. There are love hangovers (when you break up and just can’t let go), argument hangovers (fights done, move on!), migraine hangover (as in, dear heachache, you left, take your friends with you), injury hangover (the cast is off, the stitches are out, whadda mean physical therapy is gonna last for 12 weeks?!!), and the stupid hangover (you did it, stop whining and just own it). And that’s just a few…

The point is, sometimes the headache lingers. Sometimes, the aching muscles linger. Sometimes, you’re still tired… even though you slept for 17 hours!! So how exactly, does one get rid of the hangover?

Well, in lucid dreaming we learned to stop eating pizza…. and I have no idea what today’s lesson is or where I was going. I remember that it was supposed to be a blog full of metaphors, some thinly veiled others mimicking brick walls of mightiness. So instead, let’s just make it a game… see that lovely snarky paragraph above? Let’s move the happy snark down here and you guys can add to the list.

love hangovers — when you break up and just can’t let go
argument hangovers — fights done, move on!
migraine hangover — dear heachache, you left, take your friends with you
injury hangover — the cast is off, the stitches are out, whadda mean physical therapy is gonna last for 12 weeks?!!
stupid hangover — you did it, stop whining and just own it

What other kinds of hangovers are there, besides alcohol induced?

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