beauty shop wisdom

Posted on September 30, 2011 by Cynthia G.

JOURNAL THAT

a guide to writing

cynthia gregory

Have you ever been to the inner sanctum of a beauty salon? I mean, seriously in? The beauty salon is the modern equivalent of the Acropolis, a center of culture in ancient Greece. A symbol of the formerly glorious apex that still stands is the temple dedicated to Athena, warrior goddess, who is said to have been born fully formed from her daddy’s head. That would be Zeus, propagating some kind of mad magic, birthing an idea like that femme fatale.

Beauty is its own wisdom, and to enter the beauty salon is to enter as a clean vessel and to leave equipped with what a warrior goddess needs: beauty and a dose of attitude. What goes on in there, you wonder? Here’s a clue: it isn’t about hair. A salon is where women share their magic. It is the adult version of the Saturday night sleepover, where we braided each others’ locks and dreamed of traveling to exotic places. It is a church where wisdom is currency, and where every woman is a goddess.

My friend Sedona is a hair styling genius. She’s also a princess, as in “I don’t do windows, and I don’t do floors” kind of girl. She is exceptional at the art of alchemical science, and she allows other people to be good at what they do, too, especially if those things hold no appeal for her. Sedona is a big believer in the service trade. “Just let them in,” she advises. “You contract with a helper, and then when you need them, they have permission to enter.” Just let them in, she says, and they fix what needs fixin’.

The idea of ‘permission to enter’ also lives behind the idea of setting up a special place in your home to write. It is also behind the discipline of setting aside a certain amount of time each day, ideally at the same hour, to do nothing but write. By doing this, you give your subconscious ‘permission to enter’ – and then you stand back and let the gods whisper in your ear, give you enough luscious lexicon to fill pages and pages.

You can go so far as to set aside an entire room, decorate it with art that you love, art that inspires you to write. Fill it with flowers and music and artifacts like an ancient Remington typewriter, and fountain pens, and framed manuscripts, first edition books. And then when you enter that room, that sacred space, that temple of contextual creation, you have given yourself permission to enter. It’s just a logical next step to open your journal, gaze out the window, allow your thoughts to unfocus for a minute, fire up your unconscious, give your creative self permission to enter.

Or not. Not everyone has a whole room that has no other purpose than to provide a gorgeous backdrop for journaling. An entire room isn’t necessary. Sit on the bed or an old wooden bench at on the back porch. Write with pencil, write with crayon, an old eyeliner stick. It doesn’t matter. What is significant is that you make an appointment with yourself, and you do your best to show up. Reliability doesn’t guarantee genius, but it doesn’t diminish it, either. It isn’t your job to judge your work to be genius or whatev. Your job is to show up and write. Really, it’s that simple. You just show up and write and let the gods take care of the rest.

This is the best advice I can offer: show up, pay attention, and give your highest creative self permission to enter. See what kinds of ideas your head can give birth to. Find out how many kinds of love your heart knows how to express. Write with your body, write from your soul. Make a date with your highest, deepest self, and see what kinds of genies spring fully formed from your godhead. Give genius permission to enter and then sit down and get ready to write. You may not get thunder bolts and crashing seas, but you might get shopping lists, thank you notes, rampages of appreciation. It’s a good start.

The creative gods are unpredictable, but one thing is for sure. If you show up, they will too. Give them permission to enter.

to be continued. . .

honor among thieves

Posted on September 28, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bicky rustled through stacks of reports, shoving things around his desk in haphazard fashion. He picked up the receiver and buzzed Phyllis.

“I still can’t find the yearly report.” he snapped.

“Did you look on your desk?” she asked.

Bicky snorted. “Would you come here and lay hands on it please?”

He was still holding the receiver when Phyllis materialized. He pushed his chair back, making room while the flurry of Phyllis’s hands restored order to his finite universe.

“It’s not here,” she said, straightening.

“I know that. I’m thinking that eventually you’ll tell me what you did with it.” Phyllis raised an eyebrow in response, the equivalent of a shove.

Bicky rolled back an imperceptible inch. “Well, it didn’t walk out of here by itself,” he mumbled.

Phyllis shot him another arrow which he dodged by walking to the window.

“Did you stick it in your briefcase?”

Bicky’s briefcase sat perched on the mocha leather couch, the two leathers barely distinguishable. Bicky watched Phyllis peripherally, pretending to gaze out the window as she rifled through the bag.

“If I had put it in my briefcase, I wouldn’t need you to look for it now, would I?” Bicky turned and met her gaze with the temerity of a spoiled child.

Phyllis addressed him as one: “You can get your own report if you use that tone with me again.”

He turned back to the window. From this angle, Phyllis’s slate blue eyes would do less harm, only able to bore holes into the back of his goddamn skull as opposed to his own eyes, risking his soul. He watched her reflection in the window and she watched him watching her. She snorted and he sighed, looking down at his feet, battle lost. After all these years, Phyllis Steinman had no trouble handling Bicky Coleman.

“Get me my calendar at least,” he half-pleaded.

Phyllis turned and walked out the door returning moments later with the calendar.

“Who was here today?” Phyllis scanned the calendar entries.

“Every meeting you had today was either in the conference room or away from the office. Except for the one with Graighton which was here and which you were present for, I presume.” She scanned the pages again nodding her head once to confirm.

“Graighton didn’t take the report. He’s got his own,” Bicky barked. “Nobody else was in here?”

Phyllis scanned the pages again and stopped. Her face contorted slightly and she slammed the book, regaining her composure.

“What?” Bicky asked.

“Nothing.”

Bicky opened the book and checked the entries. It was all as Phyllis had said. He sat mulling over the days events then narrowed his eyes at her. “Sonia.”

Phyllis shrugged.

“How long was she waiting?”

“I don’t know. I was away from my desk when she got here.”

“Well, find out.”

“What does it matter? You know Sonia. She probably thought she’d use it as ammunition to get her husband out of Iraq.”

“Her husband is out of Iraq.”

“He’s not home yet.”

“I need that report.”

“I’ll order another one.”

“They’re $32,000 a copy.”

“You just gave yourself a $4 million bonus. What’d you do? Spend it all?”

“Very funny, Phyllis.”

“What is it exactly, that you would like me to do?”

He turned back from the window to face her. “I want you to get the first one back. It’s dangerous for her to have it. You know that.”

“Why? Because only a select few are privy? Besides, how do you know she has it?”

“Oh, for God sakes, woman, don’t act stupid. It doesn’t suit you,” Bicky said. “Sonia was the only one in here today.”

“That fact alone does not unequivocally prove that Sonia nicked your report,” Phyllis said wryly. “For all we know, somebody off the street could’ve marched in and grabbed it.”

“Well, unless Jerry’s lying dead in the lobby, how do you think that would be possible?”

“Maybe we have poltergeist,” Phyllis sniggered.

Bicky sighed. “Just call her…please.” He said the word please under his breath.

Phyllis shook her head. “Forget it. I’m not getting involved. This is between you and your daughter,” she bristled, “and if she’s got a bone to pick, it’s with you, not me. She probably wants a little attention. Maybe she’s trying to get you to make up for the last thirty years.”

“Spare me the armchair psychology.”

“It’s tough to swallow so much crow.” Phyllis patted his hand. “But you’re a tough guy.” She said, closing the door behind her. Bicky snorted as he watched her go.

to be continued. . .

mother love

Posted on September 17, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SIX(b)

“I don’t care how you do it. I just want it done.” Bicky’s anger was distinct even through a closed door. “And don’t come back to me until it’s finished. Capice?”

Sonia heard a muffled assent and, without even thinking, shoved the report in her brown leather backpack, knocking a cup of water across the desk in the process.

“Damn.” She grabbed a bunch of tissues and was mopping up when Bicky burst through the door.

Sonia smiled.

“Sorry. I hope it doesn’t leave a mark.”

Bicky stared at his daughter as if he couldn’t place the face before bewilderment gave way to annoyance.

Sonia jumped to her feet. “Oh, sorry, I . . . was tired. Your seat is the most comfortable.” She stood, draped her backpack over her shoulder, and exchanged places with her father.

“How long have you been here?” he barked, and with a gentle touch antithetical to his tone, moved his mother’s picture out of the water’s trajectory and onto the windowsill.

“I don’t know. Half an hour,” Sonia said, clearing her throat. “I see you got a new Dickinson.” She nodded in the direction of Bicky’s rare book collection. “Nice catch.”

“It came at quite a price, let me tell you.” He smiled and Sonia regained her composure, relieved to be on neutral territory. Bicky took his seat behind the desk, a reigning monarch, and pressed the intercom.

“Phyllis, some paper towels, please.” Bicky released the intercom before Phyllis could answer, snapped open the humidor and pulled out a cigar. Sonia cleared her throat. He shut it with a muttered apology.

“So. What can I do for you, babe?” Bicky asked, adopting an air of lightheartedness. Sonia responded by shoving clammy hands into the wide pockets of her maternity dress and wrapped them around the baby.

“It’s about David. I just wanted to know – when is he coming back?” She squared her shoulders as if getting out the words freed her to stand straighter, and thrust her belly forward, marking her question with an additional exclamation point. Bicky stared at her and she held his eye, trying to remember if growing up had always been this emotionally draining. She remembered so little of her father’s presence from childhood that it couldn’t have been the case.

“I already dispatched a guy. Your husband’ll be on the next plane home.”

“Really? Oh, Dad, thanks!” She ran around the desk and threw her arms around Bicky’s neck, a move instigated by relief and unbridled hormones. Bicky shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked to Sonia like he might run.

“Sorry,” Sonia said, stepping back.

“That’s all right,” Bicky said. He rubbed his neck gingerly, feeling for the welt.

Sonia hadn’t touched her father in so long, hadn’t wanted or needed to, and so had forgotten his adversity toward the simple act of it. She rarely saw her parents touch, much less kiss. It didn’t bother her, but under the circumstances, she never understood how she’d been conceived. She slumped in the closest armchair with relief. “So what changed your mind?”

Bicky waved his hand. “Your mother . . . she didn’t want you to be upset.”

So there it was. Kitty had trumped him. Sonia tried to summon some love for the stranger that sat across the desk sorting wet mail. Feeling none flow, she stood to leave.

“Thanks,” she said, grateful no matter what the circumstances that forced her father’s hand. Bicky dismissed the gesture with another wave and smiled, a cross between an impatient grin and a grimace. The phone buzzed and relief washed Bicky’s face clean.

“Where are the paper towels?” he barked into the intercom.

“Try the bottom drawer of your desk,” Phyllis responded, her tone syrupy sweet.

Sonia bit her lower lip. Phyllis had put up with Bicky since he came to Akanabi over thirty years ago and showed no signs of relenting. For reasons Sonia couldn’t decipher, Bicky attracted and held people in his life, quality people, like flies to the spider’s web.

The phone buzzed and Bicky checked the caller ID. “I gotta take this,” he said. He tried another unsuccessful smile as Sonia turned to go.

“Your mother wants you to come to dinner tonight,” Bicky said, reaching for the receiver. Sonia waited for any additional proclamations, but Bicky grunted and jerked his head toward the door. Sonia took this as her unmistakable cue to leave.

Sonia leaned against the smooth, polished walnut, fingering the clasp on her backpack and listening to Bicky’s imperial tone through the lavish doors. She reached in and touched the edges of the envelope. She could drop it on Phyllis’s desk, no questions asked, and walk out. Or…

“Hey there, girly. Where’ve you been?”

Sonia stumbled and Phyllis was at her side in an instant, directing her to a chair.

“I remember these days,” Phyllis said. “All top heavy and off-balance. Like one of those Weeble-Wobble toys. You remember them?”

“Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” Sonia sang.

“Isn’t it amazing how you can forget your kid’s birthday, but remember ads from twenty-five years ago,” Phyllis said. Phyllis was a lithe figure, still beautiful well into her sixtieth year, all grace and high cheekbones. She pushed an ottoman in front of Sonia’s chair.

“Feet up,” Phyllis said with the authority of a drill sergeant. She smiled and squeezed Sonia’s shoulder. Bicky’s personal line rang and Phyllis put him on speaker phone.

“Where the hell’s my report?”

“Try looking on your desk.”

Bicky ended the conversation with a dial tone. Phyllis rolled her eyes at Sonia.

“Your father,” Phyllis started, “is not big on patience.”

“Or much anything else unless there are dollar signs attached. Really, Phyllis. How do you stand it? You couldn’t pay me enough.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad. He was so green when I first got him. All eager to prove himself to your grandfather. Who knew he’d grow to be the pompous ass he is today. I think a part of him died with your grandmother and it’s been rotting inside him ever since. And between you and me, I feel a little sorry for him. He’s just a kid who really misses his mother.”

Sonia considered this a possible reason for Bicky’s strong gravitational pull: memory and pity. Memory of what the man was; pity for who he’d become. And a desire to help him crawl out of the quagmire. Sonia had made the same mistake many times, thinking that her father would then include her as a relevant part of his life only to find that Bicky considered himself a single planetary solar system, a man who shared the cosmos with no one.

From the wet bar, Phyllis grabbed a bottle of chilled Evian and handed it to Sonia.

“When my son was born, my husband was in Vietnam. I thought I would lose my mind. I got through it, though. You always do.” She smiled and stroked Sonia’s hair. “We’re tougher than they are. That’s why we bear the babies.” Phyllis strode across the room, grabbed something off her desk and handed it to Sonia.

“I printed out a copy of his itinerary. He’ll be in about the middle of the night so don’t wait up,” Phyllis admonished. She smiled, revealing a lovely set of pearly white teeth.

“Thanks, Phyllis,” Sonia said, standing. She gave the older woman a hug. “I’ll call you as soon as something happens,” she said, a hand on either side of her belly. “They have these websites now, where you can log on and see the newborns just a couple days after they’re born. You won’t even have to go to the hospital.”

“Bye love,” Phyllis said, throwing a kiss to the air. Sonia watched Phyllis bound toward her desk before turning to the elevator.

&&&

The elevator opened in the lobby and Jerry stood waiting as if summoned.

“How do you always know?” Sonia teased. Jerry tapped his chest and smiled.

“My heart beats a little more quickly when you’re around,” he said. “You let us know the minute our baby pokes its head into this world.” He smiled, dazzling her.

Sonia kissed him on the cheek and turned to leave. “I will, Uncle Jerry.”

He opened the door and watched as she walked away, their usual ritual. At the moment before Sonia rounded the corner, she turned and blew him a kiss as she’d done a million times before. His turned his cheek to catch it, reeling backwards, holding one hand on his heart and the other over the newly planted kiss so as not to let it slip away. She smiled and disappeared around the corner; the smile did not leave Jerry’s face.

&&&

Dave Hartos knelt inside the base of an oil rig, fiddling with a stalled pump. He whacked his wrench against the pipe and the wrench clanged to the ground. Even in the bowels of the derrick, the sand writhed and swirled, infesting the machinery. With a heavy sigh, he lifted himself out of the hole and climbed the metal rungs of the ladder back up to ground level.

An open-air jeep approached, a dust bowl swirling behind. Andrew Mahajan, second-in-command to Hart and his best friend, got out grinning.

“Good news. You’ve been sprung.” Mahajan handed Hart a telegram. “Go home and help your wife pop that baby out.” Mahajan clapped Hart on the back with one hand and handed him a box of Cuban cigars with the other. “For when the baby comes.”

“Hey, I don’t need to get arrested on the way home.”

“Customs won’t bother if you have less than a box,” said Mahajan. He opened the lid and removed two cigars, clipping the ends. “Now there’s less than a box.” Mahajan produced a lighter from his pocket, but desert winds foiled attempts to light it. He shrugged and pulled a bottle of Jamieson and two whiskey glasses from the jeep.

“Let’s celebrate.” He wiped his brow with a bandana and motioned toward the trailer.

“Isn’t it bad luck to toast before the baby’s born?” Hart asked.

Mahajan shook his head. “Only thing bad is not taking advantage of an opportunity when it bites you in the ass. C’mon. A driver’s coming for you soon.”

Hart grabbed the glasses out of Mahajan’s hand. “You gonna be all right here?”

“Right as rain, buddy. Right as rain.” Mahajan wrapped an arm around Hart’s shoulders and pushed him to the trailer.

to be continued. . .

pretty deceptions

Posted on September 3, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SIX(a)

A week later, Sonia strolled into the lavish offices of Akanabi Oil.

“Hey, Jerry. How’s it going?” She extended a gloved hand to Jerry who sat behind the security desk.

“Great now.” Jerry Dixon, Akanabi’s head of security had been hired by Sonia’s father, Bicky Coleman, over thirty years ago, primarily because of Jerry’s former incarnation as a Navy Seal. Jerry’s rugged good lucks and natty dress didn’t hurt either. He made an excellent first impression on anyone looking to retain Akanabi’s services. Now that handsome and hard face bent to kiss Sonia’s hand. “I miss you coming around.”

“Jerry, I haven’t been coming around for years.”

“That’s how long I’ve missed you.”

Sonia blushed. In the early years, before Sonia’s relationship with her father completely rutted out, Bicky would bring her into the office on Saturday mornings. But instead of spending some quality time with his daughter, Bicky would leave Sonia with Jerry to monitor hallways and closed circuit cameras, push phone buttons. They got on well – better than Sonia did with Bicky – as if their connection preceded the arrangement, while Bicky felt his paternal duty fulfilled, simply because his daughter was in the same building. Sonia’s mother, Kitty, had wanted Jerry to be Sonia’s godfather, and Bicky found that in addition to being a sharpshooter, Jerry was an excellent babysitter.

Jerry released Sonia’s hand, reached behind the counter and held his hand behind his back. Sonia smiled broadly, knowing full well what was coming next. She closed her eyes and opened her palm into which Jerry deposited a red lollipop. Sonia planted a kiss on his cheek.

“You never forget, do you?” she asked.

“Can’t say as I do, my dear.” He wrapped an avuncular arm around her shoulder and steered her to the elevator. He looked at her belly and raised his eyebrows. “That husband of yours better get back PDQ.”

“Talk to my father,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“Aawww, geez, I’m sorry. We’ll get him back in time, don’t you worry. Even if I have to fly him back myself.”

“I wish Bicky were more like you,” Sonia said. “You missed your calling, Jerry. You really should have had kids.”

Jerry smiled, but it was a sad one, and Sonia thought she’d said something wrong.

He turned a key, calling a special elevator, and waited until it arrived. He held the door for Sonia as she got in, turned the key in the lock once more.

“I’ll call Phyllis and tell her you’re on your way up,” he said, all traces of melancholy gone. “Can’t wait to see that little guy,” he added with a huge smile. Sonia blew him a kiss as the elevator doors glided to a close.

&&&

Sonia got off the elevator at the 45^th floor, the doors opening with an imperceptible swish into the reception area of Akanabi Oil’s penthouse suite. As CEO, Bicky Coleman claimed the entire floor for himself. And what a floor it was, affording spectacular views over all of downtown Houston. Although Sonia despised her father’s pretensions, she had to admit he had a great eye for stunning details. Bicky not only participated in the architectural reconstruction of the building, but hand-picked the decor, right down to the ancient Chinese vases displayed prominently in niches and tastefully interspersed among the ceiling to floor French tapestries. Walking these halls gave Sonia the distinct impression that she was inside a well-endowed museum.

Phyllis was away from her desk so Sonia walked down the hall and let herself into Bicky’s prodigious office. Beyond the floor to ceiling windows, the city glittered and glistened, all glass and mirrors, in a blaze of afternoon sun. Houston’s story as an American city began in the early party of the 19^th century after the founding fathers wrested control from Mexico. Although the city predated the discovery of oil, the town flourished during the boom and bust days of early oil when fortunes were made and lost on the turn of a drill bit. The first inhabitants of old Houston, the ones who built the city, combined the rugged individualism of the west with the genteel manners of the South. Walking its streets, you could almost feel the pride and bravado mixed with courtesy and goodwill that brought the city to life. But Sonia thought the newer part of Houston, where Akanabi’s offices were located, lacked the charm and distinction of old Houston with its ethnic diversity, grand architecture and historic flare.

Sonia busied herself with Bicky’s vintage book collection, rare and exquisite gems, many of which had historical significance beyond anything that Bicky Coleman would ever do with his life. Maybe it was Bicky’s subconscious desire to tame his own demons, but for whatever reason, his taste leaned toward the psychological and philosophical, original printings of Freud, Jung, and Nietzsche. He didn’t pass up an opportunity when it was offered. It was the acquisition that drove him, the thrill of the chase. Once his, he placed the item neatly on the shelf, or under glass, where he could watch without interacting.

Bicky had placed Sonia on a shelf soon after she was born and she’d spent the better part of childhood trying to get down. By thirteen, she’d given up, and now, at thirty, she was fully resigned: the man whose offices she perused with more than a hint of disdain was more fake than father. Their vibrations were at opposite ends of the light spectrum and Sonia felt she had nothing in common with the man other than the X chromosome he’d provided for her DNA to replicate itself.

Sonia sat down behind Bicky’s desk and leaned into the plush leather. Nine months of pregnancy had taken a toll on her arches. She stretched her back, cat-like, and yawned as the massive grandfather clock in the corner chimed five o’clock. Exhaustion snuck up behind her and held a gun to her head so she laid her head on her arms and would have fallen asleep, but for a piece of mail sticking into the soft, fleshy part of her arm. She dug it out for inspection.

It was a thick brown envelope marked “Urgent and Confidential. To Be Opened By Addressee Only.” The seal had already been broken and Sonia helped herself to a peek. Inside was a report with curled corners, folded pages, and a big coffee stain on the cover, all indicating heavy use. The title looked simple, and boring, enough: “World Oil Report”.

Sonia skimmed the pages, looking for something of interest before settling on a page with a folded corner.

CHAPTER 3. STATE OF THE WORLD’S OIL RESERVES.

The world’s oil reserves peaked in the mid-1970’s. All previously undiscovered oil reserves have been marked and estimated. At the current rate of usage and barring the discovery of oil reserves on other planets, the earth’s oil reserves will be depleted by the year 2025.

Sonia put the report down and stared at the cover. Could this be true? Her grandfather’s empire, her father’s world, would it soon collapse? Would they be wiped out? Her hands shook, her breath grew shallow and she could hear her heart pumping in her ears.

to be continued. . .

the idealist, revisited

Posted on August 22, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER FIVE

Dave Hartos scrambled eggs over a low flame, his broad shoulders leaning into the alchemical task as the runny, yellow liquid sizzled into tangible shape. Satisfied with their consistency, he scooped two heaping portions onto plates and flushed the pan with water, scaring the steam out of it.

Sonia found him at the sink, still holding the pan, staring out the window. She approached on silent feet, wrapping her arms around his waist, a difficult task given her considerable girth around the mid-section. Even at 5’8′, her lips reached only as high as his shoulder blades so she planted a kiss between them. Hart set the pan down and scooped her up.

“Soon my fingers won’t touch back here.” He laughed.

Sonia smacked him, then sniffed the air. “Mmmmm. Lightly scrambled with cheese.” She flopped down at the table and pulled the heaping plate to her. “Besides. You can’t care that much if you’re serving me portions like this.” She spread blackberry preserves on toast and bit into it with unbridled delight.

Hart rubbed her belly, the size of a bowling ball, in slow, concentric circles, then stopped.

“Felt that, did ya’?” She moved his hand to the side and he felt the baby kick again.

“Stronger every day.” He kissed the spot and was rewarded with a light jab to the face.

“Ow.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” she said, shoveling a forkful of egg into her mouth. “So. Tell me. What strange and dangerous task awaits you? Where’s he sending you?” Sonia’s eyes watered and she became preoccupied with her juice.

Hart set her glass down and took both her hands. “Iraq. I’m off to Iraq. It should only take two weeks, less if things go well, and then I swear I won’t leave your side for a second until the baby’s in college. Not even when you have to go to the bathroom.” He managed a weak smile.

“David. . . I was kidding. I knew you were going away, but. . . .” Her eyes turned hard. “Bicky’s idea, I presume?”

“Desert life’s tough on machinery. Some of the older rigs have problems. Akanabi volunteered to help get the equipment up to speed.”

“Volunteered? Since when does a corporation volunteer to do anything?” She spat out the words, sat back and folded her hands over her belly. Dark circles hung beneath Sonia’s hazel eyes, clutching weariness to them like a baby blanket.

Hart said, “What’s good for Akanabi is good for the country. The money they make will help them build their infrastructure.”

“You’ve been brainwashed,” Sonia huffed. “Likely in response to toiling under the close tutelage of my father for the last seven years.”

Hart stood and refilled his coffee. “I’ve got to assess the rigs and decide what needs to be torn down. I can’t do it from here, Sonia. I have to see them for myself.”

“And I guess Akanabi’s going to do the rebuilding, right?” She wiped her mouth with a napkin, stood, and stretched her back. “You know what I find so repugnant? The war had barely begun when American contractors were staking their claims to rebuilding the country. Don’t you find that attitude a bit imperialistic. I mean, shouldn’t the Iraqis make those kind of decisions?”

“Sonia. Please. It’s not that simple. If that country is ever going to get on its feet, it needs outside assistance.”

“Assistance. Here’s how we assisted. We bombed them into infancy in the first Gulf War, took out their power stations and hospitals, bombed the crap out of their water supply stations. Their barely crawling because of our assistance.

Hart leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. “Two weeks and I’ll be back. I promise.” “Somebody else can go. Someone who’s not about to have a baby.” She wrapped a hand around her throat to stall the inner turmoil threatening to jump her voice.

“There is nobody else.”

“David…”

“Sonia. No more.”

He brushed the hair back from her long, angular face and kissed her open mouth. She pulled back to speak, but he shushed her as one does with an agitated child, then kissed her again. She broke free and sat down.

“What happened to the idealist I fell in love with?” she asked.

“Baby, you fell in love with a chemical engineer. This is what we do.”

“It’s not all you do.”

“No, but it makes way more money than most things.” Hart said. “What if I couldn’t afford to buy you the things you’re used to? What then?”

“Money is not something we need, David. Time is.” She took her plate to the counter, dumping the eggs in the sink.

“I don’t want to leave you. I just don’t have a choice.”

“All we have are choices,” she murmured, but the hostility was gone from her voice. She rinsed her plate and ran the garbage disposal. He came up behind her and massaged her neck, lightly at first, and then with more pressure. Sonia leaned against the sink and gave over to his healing hands, allowing her neck to fall to the side.

His nimble fingers poked and prodded, kneading the muscles, banishing the knots. “I promise when I get back we’ll talk about this until you can’t stand it anymore.”

“You could be a healer, David, with hands like those. You don’t have to work in oil.”

Hart leaned into Sonia’s hair and kissed her ear. “Friends?” She tried to say something but he had moved to her lower back, rubbing with great care. Sonia moaned.

“David, what if…”

“When I come back, we’ll talk to your father. Maybe there’s something else I can do. Who knows? I may have to give him another year, but we’ll set a definite date. I promise.” He turned her face to him and kissed her nose. “The best part of my job was always the field work, but I’m less inclined to go tearing around the world now,” he said, moving his hands down to her belly.

Hart pulled Sonia over to a chair and sat her gently on his knees. She put her arm around his shoulders and rested her head in the crook of his neck, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He smiled and whispered in her ear.

“I’m still the same idealist I was when you met me. I just got sidetracked is all.”

to be continued. . .

empty your mind

Posted on August 17, 2011 by Cynthia G.

JOURNAL THAT

a guide to writing

cynthia gregory

Sometimes, it feels like that are too many words in the wide world to squeeze down to the size of a journal page. At other times, it feels as if all of the words have turned to smoke and there is literally nothing left to say. The universe is eternally creative; you just have to remember that when you approach the blaring, blazing, empty white page of your journal. Emptiness is an illusion. This is always more.

There is a wonderful parable that I think about when the emptiness arrives. This is a story of a teacher and a student. A new student comes to a teacher one day and begins to tell the teacher all the places he has studied, and all the wonderful teachers he has had. The master listens patiently and then begins to make tea. When the tea is ready, she pours the tea into the student’s cup until it begins to overflow and run across the floor. The student watches the chaos of the overflowing teacup and shouts, “Stop, stop! The cup is full; you can’t get any more in.”

The teacher stops pouring and says very calmly, “You are like this cup; you are full of ideas about knowledge and skill. You come and ask for teaching, but your cup is full; I can’t put anything in. Before I can teach you, you’ll have to empty your cup.”

Periodically, you have to forget everything you know about a subject. You may have studied writing for years. Or, maybe not. At the very least, you were forced to sit through years of grammar and composition training in school where you were taught how to spell, craft a sentence. As a writing teacher, I’ve often told my students to quit trying so hard to sound like a smarty pants. Somewhere along the line, we developed the idea that to write well, we must adopt the voice of an expert with a PhD in microeconomics or some such thing. In fact, the opposite is true.

Have you ever read A. A. Milne? He is best known for his books about a bear named Pooh who is much beloved by a boy called Christopher Robbin. Milne also wrote some astonishing poetry, and he had a penchant for writing everything in lowercase. Sometimes without punctuation. The trick to his writing is that it seems so simply and elementary. In fact, its complexity is brilliant. His work seems to be written for an audience of five year olds, but if you look closely, the beauty of his prose staggers.

Pablo Picasso said that every child is an artist. It’s true, isn’t it? A child is completely open to the creative process, she resides wholly and completely in the Now moment. She does not project her thoughts to tomorrow, or think critically about how to shape a hand or what color to paint the sun. She lives completely and utterly Now, and is willing to put it all out there without filters, without revisions, without guile. You must approach your journal with the same integrity.

Empty your mind and release all expectations. Forget what you wrote yesterday, don’t give a nanosecond of thought about what you might fill your page with tomorrow. Just show up and use whatever material is at hand. Look at it, find the shape of it, bounce it around in your mind for a moment and then put it on the page. Don’t think about what it means about you; that is none of your business. Don’t worry about what someone might think if they snoop in your very private, very personal journal. Don’t wonder if the Nobel Prize committee will publish your journals in their entirety when you are dead and gone, dazzled by your genius.

Empty your mind, pour every drop out of your cup. What is your cup so full of that it crowds out the possibility of an original thought?

We all have incredibly complex lives. Sometimes it is astonishing when you consider what it requires to navigate through a single day. All of our busy lives and the lives of those we love requires thinking, and organizing and planning. Add to the responsibilities of a single day, a lifetime of memories, or worries great and small, anticipation of future events, future plans, all the might-haves and could-be’s. There is so much crowded in our cups!

But then, we have moments of clarity. We empty our cups and we just are. Have you noticed that when you’re completely absorbed by a project, whether its painting the fence or writing a letter or playing a Bach prelude, that time falls away? That you are no longer aware of sounds outside of the room, of the pattern of your breathing in and breathing out, of anything but the melody? You can lose hours and gain lifetimes of pleasure by simply being present to the creative process. This is the paradox: only when you empty your cup, are you open to the possibility of filling it.

Each time you approach your journal take a moment to empty your mind to all but the intention to write. Let the words come. Trust that they will. A bit like magic, it works.

to be continued. . .

summer reading: the girl in the garden

Posted on August 8, 2011 by Cynthia G.

To really earn its cred as a good summer read, a book has to perform several functions at one time. First, it must amuse. Second, it must spin a tale of adventure without veering into territory that requires too much thinking while the reader flips pages poolside. Finally, a good summer read must linger like a mouthful of sweet-tart sorbet, dissolving slowly, giving you something to think about. The Girl in the Garden, by Kamala Nair is such a novel.

Nair’s first novel is part coming of age story, part fairytale. The story begins in the present as twenty-something Rakhee is about to leave her fiancé with a note promising she will return when she has taken care of the one shameful thing from her past that she has hidden from him. Who can’t love a beginning like that? From the start, Rakhee is on the run and the reader must follow or be left wobbling in the young woman’s wake.

The narrative of the story quickly shifts from adult Rakhee to ten-year-old Rakhee, whose parents are from India but meet by mutual acquaintance once both are in America. The tale begins to spin during the summer that Rakhee’s parent’s shaky marriage threatens to fall apart and divorce lurks in the shadows of every room, tormenting the girl who prays for nothing more than her family to remain together. Rakhee’s Amma is emotionally unstable and grows increasingly agitated until just as school lets out for the summer, her Amma decides to flee middle America and incidentally, her husband, to travel to her ancestral home in India, taking her daughter with her. It’s just a vacation, she insists, but we never quite believe her promises.

An American girl from the get, Rakhee’s initial experience at the extended family’s compound is a shock. There are suspicious cousins, scary aunts, a harmlessly alcoholic uncle, a semi-lucid grandmother, and a sinister near-relative, all of whom are insane or unhappy or both, and nearly all are guarding family secrets. There are also ghosts, and a jungle that looms at the edge of the family property that harbors the biggest secret of all. There is a girl in the garden, but her existence is wrapped in lies and Rakhee is told to never venture to the garden because it is dangerous, but Rakhee ignores that lie too, and befriends the girl.

As the summer treads on, Rakhee grows accustomed to India and begins to love her cousins. She pulls at threads of the tattered family secret until it begins to unravel and she comes to know more than a child should of the family shame. She secretly befriends the girl in the garden, and makes plans to help her escape. But then everything begins to spin out of control and her cousin is forced into a marriage to save the family’s fortune, her mother plans to run away with a man from her past, and tries to persuade Rakhee that living in India would be more fun that returning to Minnesota for school in the fall.

Sometimes exotic, sometimes sentimental, The Girl in the Garden is a story of love and survival. What more could you want for a good summer read?

Review by Cynthia Gregory/ceegregory@aol.com

and then it begins

Posted on August 4, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER THREE (b)

Marty drove slowly down Market Street and took the on ramp for I-95 South. The lights of the Walt Whitman Bridge did little to illuminate the ghostly night sky which had assumed the pallor of the thick, stratus clouds, hovering close to the city. Pockets of swollen cumulo-nimbus clouds floated below the tight formation of stratus’ looking as if they might kiss the Delaware River.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Ruth said. She leaned back against the headrest as the car glided onto the highway.

Traffic was light. Ruth watched out the passenger window long after the city, vague and foggy with the inclement weather, disappeared from view. Marty pulled his wife in closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, moving over to the slow lane. Three cars back, a pickup did the same.

“First rate party, Ruthie.” He gave her arm a squeeze.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Ruth nuzzled into Marty’s shoulder.

“Remember when we were first married?” he asked. “I had that little English Ford. That thing took every bump like it was its last. Why did we get rid of it?”

“We had Kori. The car barely had room for two, let alone three,” Ruth laughed. “I really loved that car.”

“I wish I could have kept it for you.”

“We couldn’t afford it, remember?”

“Do you regret all the years you’ve spent with me, Ruthie. I mean, you could have married someone that had more ambition, money-wise.” Marty stroked his wife’s hair.

“We have plenty of money. We own our house, our cars….”

“I’m talking big money. The kind that lives longer than you do.”

“Marty, you’ve been married to me for twenty-five years and you still don’t know me, do you?” Ruth squeezed Marty’s thigh, sitting up to her full height. “Silly man.” She kissed him on the cheek and he turned to wrangle a full-blown kiss on the lips. She unbuckled her seat belt, and shifted to wrap her arms around his neck. Just as she kissed him, the pick up rear-ended them.

“What the….” Marty yelped.

The impact and sudden change of trajectory sent Ruth sprawling. Marty cut the wheel hard to the left to avoid driving off the road and after a few squeals, set the car right as Ruth crawled back up onto the seat. Marty checked the rear view mirror.

“Are you alright?” he barked. Ruth nodded and rubbed her arm which had taken a beating against the dash on the way down.

“Did you hit something?” Ruth asked. Marty pulled over to the side, but before he reached the shoulder, the pickup nicked them. Ruth screamed and turned in her seat to see two giant headlights barreling toward them.

“Oh my God,” Ruth yelled. The pickup made contact and Marty hit the accelerator. Ruth flew back and forward, banging her head on the dash as Marty cut the wheel.

“Get down.” Marty said. He tugged at her arm, but Ruth remained steadfast, watching as the pickup dropped back and began weaving back and forth.

“It’s a drunk driver!” Ruth said as the pickup began an erratic, dance between the lanes.

“Marty, he’s coming again!

“You bastard,” he mumbled. “What the hell does he want?”

“Ruth, get down and hold on,” Marty yelled, and pushed his wife to the floor; he veered back and forth across the lanes, trying to lose the pickup.

Ruth crawled onto the seat to look out the back window. “Marty, he must be drunk. Stop the car. Get the hell out of his way,” said Ruth. Marty checked his rearview mirror, sped up.

“Ruth,” Marty boomed. “Get down!” He shoved her onto the seat as the pickup side-swiped them. “This son-of-a-bitch doesn’t know who he’s dealing with,” Marty said through gritted teeth. He slammed down on the accelerator the pickup dropped back. Ruth peeked at the speedometer. It read ninety-two miles per hour.

“Marty, slow down. You’re going to kill us.”

“Better me than him.”

As they rounded the curve, the pickup accelerated and rammed into the back end on the driver’s side. The impact hurtled Marty’s car, already approaching 100 mph, off the road and through space. The car flew at first, then hung there for a moment, suspended between the finite and the infinite, between the possible and the impossible, between life and death, and at the exact moment when it seemed that Ruth and Marty Tirabi might float away, gravity reached out and throttled them to the ground. The car landed with an ear-splitting crash, a cacophony of steel and glass and metal. A loud hiss emanated from the interior as the air bags expanded.

The pickup switched on its turn signal and pulled to the side of the road behind the Tirabis’ car, but no one emerged from the wreckage. The driver opened a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, unscrewed the cap and took a long draw on the bottle. He burped, said “excuse me” to himself, and sucked down another quarter. He rubbed the raspberry-colored liquid in his hair, poured some in his hand and flicked it with his fingers at his pants and shirt. He drained the bottle and threw the empty on the passenger’s side; the last few drops, like Chinese water torture, dripped with excruciating slowness onto the seat.

The driver unbuckled his seat belt, checked himself in the rearview mirror, took a deep breath, and floored it. There followed a spine-chilling scrunch of metal as the front of the pickup crumpled upon impact with Marty’s bumper. The Tirabi car lurched forward, condensing further like one last push on the accordion. The pickup’s air bag sprang to life, engulfing the driver who passed out. The right tail light of the pickup blinked inexorably in keeping with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

to be continued. . .

fading away

Posted on July 28, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER THREE (a)

The fund raiser for Governor Jackson Randall was in full swing. White-gloved butlers circled the Philadelphia Visitor’s Center with delicacy-laden trays. Champagne flowed. Marty exchanged his empty glass for a full one and Ruth, declining her own, took a sip of Marty’s. The orchestra began a swing tune.

“Wanna dance?” Marty asked.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.” Marty rolled his champagne around on his tongue and puckered.

“You know I have terrible night vision,” Ruth said.

“Duly noted. I will be clean and sober by the stroke of midnight. Now, please. Dance with me.”

Ruth basked in Marty’s adoring eyes. Resplendent in her slightly risque gown, the vigor of her convictions adding a blush to her cheeks, she looked to be a woman ten years younger. If Ruth Eugenia Tirabi missed the earlier version of herself, she never showed it. A brilliant strategist and a great campaign manager, she was courted by many a politician, even those whose social agenda ran far afield from her own. Had she been a man, she could have been governor. But soon after marriage, she got pregnant with Kori and four children and twenty-four years later, was still working politics into the peripheries. She was in no rush. Statistically speaking, Ruth had a fifteen to twenty-year greater life expectancy than her male counterparts; she could jump start her career at any time.

Ruth kissed Marty on the lips, slipping him a bit of tongue. It wasn’t lost on him.

“Let’s blow this clam bake,” Marty whispered. “I got somethin’ to show ya’.” He dipped her, and rolled his eyebrows up and down, a lewd gesture. Ruth laughed out loud as he set her upright.

“A little while longer. C’mon. Let’s dance.” Ruth grabbed Marty’s arm. Marty set his champagne down and twirled Ruth onto the dance floor, sidling up next to the Governor and his wife. Mrs. Randall laughed as if her husband had just said something supremely funny.

“Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Randall?” asked Marty.

“Immensely, Mr. Tirabi.” She looked at Ruth. “I can’t thank you enough.” Mrs. Randall whirled around so the women could dance shoulder to shoulder. “You gave him back his idealism.”

“Hey, Ruth. Sure I can’t convince you to hit the campaign trail with us tomorrow?”

“Thanks, Governor. But I must respectfully decline.” Ruth said.

“Well, aren’t you going to give me a pep talk or something?” the Governor asked.

“Give the people more than they ask for.”

Governor Randall gave Ruth a peck on the cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I’m just a phone call away if you need me,” she said. Ruth squeezed the Governor’s arm, then looked at the watch on her gloved wrist.

“We gotta go. Not only am I dying to get these gloves off, but we need to get home and make sure the kids haven’t blown up the place,” said Ruth.

“Sometimes I close my eyes going down our street,” Mrs. Randall said. “Our 16-year old loves to host some wild parties.”

“Good luck, Governor,” Marty said and escorted Ruth off the dance floor. Ruth blew the Governor and his wife a kiss before fading away.

to be continued. . .

write, writer, written

Posted on July 23, 2011 by Cynthia G.

JOURNAL THAT

a guide to writing

cynthia gregory

A journal is not a diary. Well, it can be, but at its best, it is not. It is not about recording your deepest, darkest fears; the ones you don’t want anyone (especially that one you love) to read. It is not about judgment in the sense of “am I a good writer?” or “what does it say about me if I can’t put a few scribbles on a blasted sheet of paper?” kind of judgment. It is, in part, killing the editor in your head. You know, the one who says, “who cares what you think? You know you’re never going to write anything worth reading anyway, why bother?”

Kill the editor. The editor is only your insecurities with carte blanche and the power to stop you in your tracks before you uncap your pen. This is what you do: write. Write for fifteen minutes every day, no matter what. Even if you just write “I have nothing to say today.” Even if you just fill the page with gibberish. Write knowing that our journal is not about you. Do you get that?

Your journal isn’t about you, sweetheart.

No offense, and as important as you are, your journal is not an extension of you. Rather, it is like a Polaroid camera that you aim at everything around you and with which you snap a photo. This café. That conversation. That wide, beautiful coastline with clouds hovering over the water like cottoncandy and the smell of the surf pushing spring toward the desert on a mission from God.

It is a recording. It is a gift from the universe. How is it a gift? It is a gift because no one, not one soul who has ever been or will be, has the power of observation from your perspective, with your history, with your love of crossword puzzles or majong or Thai noodles with peanut sauce. You are a dazzling flower on the furthest branch of the tree of life and what you see around you is a devotion in the truest sense.

So write about the hamburger you ate for lunch. Write about the girl who brought it to you, whose shoes seemed unnaturally worn maybe because she’s working her way through art school and she deserves a little extra tip so maybe she can sleep in tomorrow and dream of a watercolor that will turn the world on its collective ear. Your journal is not about you. It is a gift to the world.

My ex-husband’s grandmother kept a journal every day of her married life. When Grandma died at 96, my father-in-law gave a journal of the year they were born to each of the grand kids. You could say that there was nothing extraordinary about it, but there was something precious in the grocery lists she made in her spidery hand. There was a door into the life of a woman who made a family so big that galaxies were created just to contain the love she had for them.

The laundry lists, the shoes to be taken to the repair man, the small concerns, were a door into a world we none of us had seen before. This was a picture of a woman not as we knew her, but a woman who when she wrote the journal, was younger than we who were reading it, and it was astonishing.

So write your journal, and don’t worry about being brilliant. Just write. Just do it, knowing whatever you say is sacred, in a context you can’t even imagine. Or not.

Hallelujah, amen, and wahoo!

to be continued. . .