Memoirous

Things I miss seeing in Uptown: Rows of posters for upcoming concerts plastered along gray, grimy walls Patients from Wilson Care spilling out in the morning in their pajamas to buy cigarettes The lady in leotards standing at the corner with her boom box, jiggling defiantly The escapee from Weiss Hospital with IV tubing poking out of his hand, his blue gown open in the back for all to see Now add to that list: The Wilson Men's Club The last of the old pay-by the night/week hotels that cater to the down-and-outers. This type of facility is by no stretch of the imagination a hotel or even a club, but offered a bed. I’ve never been inside the Wilson Men’s Club but I heard that men sleep in cages made of chicken wire. That is before there were improvements. Now I’ve heard there are walls—they just don’t go all the way down to the floor. Cubicles. I suppose it’s strange to miss seeing these things. I mean shouldn’t I be glad it’s cleaner, safer (comparably

Summer of 2011 I received a grant from the Illinois Arts council to attend a writer’s conference called A Room of Her Own ( AROHO ) at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. It was a very, very encouraging time. The group of women I met with in the afternoons gave me the confidence to go bold. The group was led by Mary Johnson author of An Unquenchable Thirst now out in paperback. Also in the group was Renny Golden whose latest poetry collection Blood Desert won the WILLA Literary Award by Women Writing the West. One afternoon I sat in on a breakout session led by Kate Gale of Red Hen Press where she extolled us to go bold. What do you really want? It’s not that no one has ever asked me that—just not lately. One of the things I wrote down as a goal was : Win a prize. So far in 2013 I’ve had 4 pieces accepted and been paid for 2 of them. In addition I’ve been shortlisted at The Red Line . Next month at OCWW I am schedule to teach a course on The Art of Writing Small (flas

The Red Line: Writing for Citizens of the Global City Please check out my story here at The Red Line an on-line journal for international writers and readers. A journal without borders. And, oddly enough, their first call of submissions had to do with the theme: Borders. And, oddly enough, your truly has been shortlisted. You cannot “vote” for me, but check out my story (Vigeland Park) here . Hint.  It is about Norway, life, death, and the human condition, told in that wry way I have. *On a personal note I have been trying to place this story for over a year. I never lost faith that it would find its audience. ALSO read the fabulous others on the list. Designated Staircase Number Two by Sophie Monatte The Gold Mountain by Jay Merill The Odyssey of Marius Kolgar by Graeme Lottering First Memories by Nena Callaghan Fuel for the Fire by Geraldine Creed Aubergine by Steve Thompson Comment below and tell me what you think. I love being short!

In reading Aleksander Hemon’s collection of short stories (linked?) Love & Obstacles I am at once struck by the similarities of his bio and the presumed narrator of his stories. It is also hard to write this review without unintentionally applying the weird angles with which Hemon comes to the English language; I keep wanting to write in choppy tourist-ese, a beguiling translation from an original language into what is English but without the usual syntax and adjectives a person who has spoken English all their life would never employ. I saved as a souvenir some tour notes a guide handed to me before I boarded a bus in Montenegro to go to Albania. My husband and I in a desperate attempt to get to Albania booked a tour from a kiosk along the beach promenade in Budva. “What do you mean you don’t want return ticket? No one stays in Albania!” We also declined the “adequate lunch” as we wanted to save a few Euros. Hemon’s stories are a feast. But never too far behind the romper

I woke up today to hear about a meteor hitting the earth. Actually somewhere in northern Russia. Why is it that they usually hit Siberia? Good thing, eh. Anyway, I wasted the better part of this morning looking at YouTube clips of the bright streak in the sky and the sonic boom or “blast wave” that rocked nearby towns and blew out windows. I’ve always been interested in nightsky phenomena. Is it good luck or bad luck to see a comet? I guess it depends on the society. Halley’s comet—the most predictable, coming every 75-76 years and the easiest to observe with the naked eye—throughout recorded history was either a sign the world was ending or a time of cyclic uniqueness. In his autobiography, published in 1909, Mark Twain wrote, “I came in with Halley’s comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don't go out with Halley’s comet.” Twain died on 21 April 1910, the day following the comet’s

  TEAM CCO. COM RUN FOR SHELTER The deadline to register for the Chicago Marathon is Monday, February 19th and usually it sells out in a couple of hours (I know crazy) but what ' s even crazier is that once it is sold out people will PAY ANYTHING to get a number and so they end up paying anywhere from $500 to $1000 for an entry number. W hat we're hoping is that people will: Step one, go to www.teamcco.com read it over and fill out the Team CCO 2013 Early Contact form, and we will contact you within 24 hours. Step two will be to sign-up for your individual Team CCO page on CrowdRise.com/teamcco2013. Step three will be for you, on February 19th at 12pm Central, to register yourself for the 2013 Bank of America Chicago Marathon. Prior to the registration date, Team CCO will send you your own registration redemption code and unique URL. Step four is run, raise and be proud of the work you are doing! Join TEAM CCO and receive these benefits

Lately I’ve taken to staying up late watching tsunami footage on YouTube. I’m sure there’s an explanation for this. It’s been almost 10 years since that infamous Boxing Day tsunami in 2004, and it’s been about 1 year since the passing of both my parents. What do these two separate events have to do with each other? Nothing, except loss, and trying to understand the universe. I sit in the dark, in my cave of sorrow, waiting for that fatal wave to wash over me. And there is nothing I can do about it. Not a single thing can change what happened. The carnage and broken lives left behind after the water receded is not quite the same as the betrayal I’ve encountered in the wake of Mom and Dad’s death. Yet here I am, asking myself why. Just like a tsunami, I was caught unaware. I didn’t see it coming—just like those unsuspecting tourists gatheried on the beaches of Phuket in Thailand. They came out to see a phenomena, the bay suddenly emptied of water. They had no way of knowing

I think many of you, dear Reader(s) by now have figured out that I adore James Schuyler's poetry. For Christmas I got two copies of his Selected Poems--long story. Blizzard Tearing and tearing ripped-up bits of paper,  no, it's not paper it's snow. Blown side- ways in the wind, coming in my window wetting stacked books. "Mr. Park called. He can't come visiting today." Of course not, in this driving icy weather. How I wish  I were out in it! A figure like an ex- clamation point seen through driving snow. This was from Mr. Schuyler's Payne Whitney series--Payne Whitney being a psychiatric facility on the lower East Side of Manhattan. Reading this poem I feel claustrophobic, as if I'm locked in (as James probably was when he wrote this)--probably tearing up (as in tears running down his cheeks) wishing, so wishing for a visit from an old friend, but he understands. The weather is terrible. Good luck Northeast.

The Windy Corner February rooftops on a Friday afternoon Covered in snow and all-types of white I sit and contemplate, looking out my office window Watching wisps of smoke from the stacks Bend and blow in the wind, the wind that Shakes and rattles the panes, trying to get inside. Christ Died for Our Sins. While beneath Folks clutch their coat collar to their throat, Traversing Sheridan and Wilson, Fighting to get home.