Memoirous

3 Janes Go To See Hamilton Dedicated to Jane McSweeney and her niece Jane A confluence of Janes in the play-going stream, pushed upstairs to the first balcony. We take our seats but not without discussion and shuffling. At this height I feel my vulnerability: I need eyeglasses to read the Playbill. Don’t stand up— for fear of being pitched forward. The curtain rises and immediately the audience begins to sing, clap and cheer. It’s hard to hear the actors, and history passes at a two-act clip. Nevertheless, I am in the midst of a phenomena a country struggling, a diverse cast/audience taking shots. We all want liberty, happiness, power, prestige a chance. What’s playing out two stories below me on the stage reflects the story playing out on the streets behind me. Duels=gun violence War=gangs Adultery/blackmail=how things get done The finale and we rise (in retrospect there is no curtain). We s

When I first came to Chicago in the early 80s I volunteered at a city mission. It was fairly disorganized and chaotic. I never knew from one day to the next what my assignment would be. Often the mission got requests from the elderly for help with household chores. Some of this was ridiculous—they didn’t need help, they needed a bulldozer. I got used to heading out with an address in my pocket expecting anything. I remember wading through an apartment filled thigh-high with trash. Mixed in were bags of money, just randomly tossed about. I wrote about visiting Ida and her vermin-filled apartment. Later she was found dead beneath a blanket of newspapers. ( see "That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do", Spring 2012, Adroit Journal) The point is you didn’t know what you’d get. In these current unsettling times I’ve been having déjà vu. My mind keeps flashing back to past visitation ladies. Back then Ronald Reagan had been elected on a wave of populism. Supposed

Because I’m trying to read authors from Maine see Artweek, I stumbled upon an old copy of Country Byways by Sarah Orne Jewett published 1881. I’d read a long time ago Country of the Pointed Firs so I was familiar with Jewett. She has a very interesting personal history and is recognized as an outstanding regional writer, though lately her work has not received a lot of interest. Byways according to Wiki is described as “sketches.” Again, I was familiar with this term. Louisa May Alcott wrote Hospital Sketches (1863) about her experience working as a Union nurse during the Civil War. Her literary hero, Charles Dickens wrote Sketches by Boz (1839). Sketches to me seem like an early form of blog posts. From Wiki: A   sketch story,   literary sketch   or simply   sketch , is a piece of writing that is generally shorter than a   short story , and contains very little, if any,   plot . The genre was invented in the   16th century   in England, as a result of increasing public inte

I’d met Alex in Fort Augustus after ascending the Suidhe Viewpoint  on the south side of Loch Ness. He looked terrible. I was no masterpiece either. I’d spent the night in a field behind a pub near Whitebridge as I had no more energy to tackle another climb. At one point I was tempted to throw my bike on the ground and give up. I was defeated by rain, wind, and relentless steep climbs. I learned Alex had gone ahead and tackled the climb and spent the night stealth camping in a clump of trees beside the road. No wonder he looked a wreck. We hooked up and rode together to Fort Williams. Together we followed the Caledonian Canal or the Great Glen Way, essentially a forest track for 30 miles. Alex had promised himself this trip after passing his bar exam in Montreal. (He seemed so young!) He’d rented the bike in Inverness and was planning a bike tour of the Outer Hebrides. I of course was hoping to complete a JOGLE. We decided to ride together at least to Oban. At Fort Williams

Once Upon a Time: Siena, Italy We had just arrived in Siena and spent the day checking out the candy-cane striped cathedral, duomo, in the historic city center. As evening settled a light rain began to fall. We passed restaurants and read the chalkboard signs out front. We observed diners cozy and warm in their familiar setting, talking and laughing in their native language, while outside, we felt outside. Strangers wanting nothing more than to be inside somewhere, part of this wonderful place. Which seemed impossible. Around us residents hurried carrying groceries, crusty bread, wine for their dinner. We were like a rock in a stream as they flowed by. The drizzle added to the incongruity we felt, blurring street lamps, creating glowing arcs that radiated out to us. Then out of the darkness came a little old lady in a trim-fitting coat navigating the steep cobbled streets. We ran over to her. I extended an arm for her to lean on while my husband lifted an umbrella ove

Once Upon a Time: Tranås, Sweden I blindly followed Lotta. We were on a bike ride around Lake Sommen. The roads reminded me of driveways, tiny little lanes, some dirt-packed. I couldn’t imagine cars navigating these narrow byways. At some point even Lotta was lost; she stopped to consult with a farmer. Of course I didn’t know what they were saying. Sometimes when traveling I’d often feel an out-of-body experience, as if I was observing myself reacting. This is just one example of how travel transports us out of comfort zones; everything is new and slightly off-kilter. We continued on, pumping up a sudden, steep rise where we entered an emerald forest. Earth and sky were this amazing mossy green. Spongy moss carpeted the forest floor while the tree canopy sheltered us, Only patches of blue sky showed through. Even the tinkling stream nearby gleamed green. Eerily dark, fecund, musky—all my senses were attuned. Lotta explained to me that we were in a mushroom forest and that th

Once Upon a Time: Goreme, Turkey One time we took a night bus from Selçuk to Goreme, better known as Cappadocia. Just like nomads traveling by night we’d come upon an oasis in the darkness where a squadron of attendants ran out to gas and wash down the exterior of the bus before we moved on into a vacuum. Eventually we arrived in town before sun up. We still didn’t know exactly where we were. That’s how it is with travel—especially in places with little doodley hooks on their letters; I was continually lost, unsure how to pronounce words, what to order to eat, afraid I wouldn’t see the right stuff. Somehow we managed to make it to our hostel . It was early; not a thing was stirring except a cat lounging on a cushion in the unlocked reception office. There was a computer there and I checked my email—though once again I was flummoxed by the foreign keyboard. Nothing was where it should be. I wandered outside. The sky was beginning to lighten, stars were growing dim. Slowly I

Over the weekend I read about a new genealogy website, actually a controversy brewing over a genealogy website that spends time analyzing the present—and perhaps, eerily, revealing too much information, about you. In the the article a woman did a people search and her name popped up, not unusual as she was an author, but the troubling part was that at this website the names of her children and their ages was listed. So this wasn’t so much about researching the past, but the present. She didn’t want that info out there. I’ve been off and on conducting research into my family. What I find on the web is both interesting and confusing. For example one bit of misinformation about my dad has snowballed into all the websites that collect and generate genealogical information. It started with a misprint in an on-line newspaper obituary and spread from there. He did not die in 2001, but in December of 2011. Yet, now and forever on the WWW he will have died in 2001. That date will carry

In  places to submit on Wednesday I gave the link to: Flash mystery http://flashbangmysteries.com/submissions/ Flash bangs are a type of contusion grenade meant to flush an assailant out of hiding or from shelter. They startle. Right now write a sudden mystery, a flash bang that will leave the reader startled. Flash is typically anything under 1000 words. Start small, the hardest challenge, by attempting a tweet mystery of 140 characters, and grow it, adding different word counts, 50, 100, etc The above is looking for: We want stories that feature believable characters who speak naturally, realistic situations that bleed conflict, and surprise endings that stay with us long after we reach the final period.

PLACES TO SUBMIT Splicikty, post complete http://splickety.com/submission-guidelines/upcoming-themes/ The Bumblebee Flash Fiction Contest The Bumblebee looks soft and cuddly but hides a venomous sting.  Entice us with your inviting prose that serves up a pointed ending in 750 words or fewer.  Want feedback on your story?  Get a professional critique from one of the Pulp Literature editors for only $15 more. Contest opens:  1 January 2017 Deadline:  15  February 2017 Winner notified:  15 March 2017 Winner published in:  Issue 15, Summer 2017 Prize:  $300 Entry fee: $15 Earlybird fee (before 15 January): $10 Entry fees include a 1-year digital subscription to Pulp Literature. This contest is for previously unpublished works of fiction up to 750 words in length.  Total entries limited to 300. Flash mystery http://flashbangmysteries.com/submissions/ https://freezeframefiction.submittable.com/submit 1000 or less

Book Review Innocents and Others Dana Spiotta To be honest I was tempted NOT to finish reading. Then I had to ask myself—is it that I’m hating this book or is it making me feel uncomfortable. The latter, so I returned to finish it. So glad. This is a book about disturbing self-realization, about loneliness, and the hunger for intimacy—our fantasies and fears about it. Nothing sends me into a spiral as much as loneliness. Just saying the word is enough to bring tears to my eyes. They’re there, just below the surface. Fame is one of the underlying messages of the plot: what’s it good for, where does it get us? Andy Warhol once said: Everyone will be famous for 15 minutes. The novel works through a process of confession, small incremental revelations. In the end all we can sometimes manage is a bit of good . Not always redemption but a similitude of absolution.

Hot Flash Friday=Centerville, Ohio Check out my latest appearance in 50-word Stories , literally stories that are 50 words. You try it; write your own flash memory based upon a place you used to live. A once upon a time, and go from there. Right now: write!

Waiting for Christmas At Christmas every light comes on, in the basement where my daughter home from college retrieves ice cream, in the dining room a lamp illuminates the abandoned puzzle, the laundry nook dazzles, while the back porch radiates a smoky incandescence, the TV flickers a blue twilight, in the middle of the night my heart pulses as I reflect. Soon the house will be silent, the only light the bulb above my reading chair. I'm lonely and miss you