Invitations

Posted by: TMTW in Non-Fiction, Sunday Scribblings

She sat quietly in the playground and watched the other girls playing with their Strawberry Shortcake dolls. They laughed and combed the pink plastic hair, pausing to sniff the chemically infused scent of each doll. The boys raced around the blacktop in an impromptu game of tag, sweat making their faces glisten in the California sunshine.

There were only five other girls in her class, eleven students total. Simi Valley Christian Day School was a tiny private academy nestled in an equally tiny valley. The year was 1979. The Pol Pot regime fell earlier that year, Jimmy Carter pardoned Patty Hearst, San Francisco had endured a riot and American Airlines Flight 191 was going to crash that very day. None of this mattered to the girl. Her eyes saw only the corners of the white envelopes peeking from Stacy Patterson’s lunch bag.

The girl wasn’t very popular. She was neither lithe nor longhaired. This set her apart from other girls immediately. She was extremely shy and kept to her own. Most importantly, she had developed early and was teased mercilessly by the boys; the girls envied her.

None of this was important to the girl either. She only knew that she wanted desperately to feel one of those envelopes in her hands. Would it be heavy? Would the card inside feel smooth to the touch or would it be embossed so that the image, perhaps Strawberry Shortcake or Barbie, would be raised? The inside would surely contain an address, date and time written carefully in Stacy’s handwriting (or perhaps her mom’s? It was hard to imagine Stacy’s mother but surely the woman would be as beautiful and popular as Stacy!)

Time dwindled down and the dolls were put away. The paper bag opened and those white envelopes came out. The first invitation was bestowed to Stacy’s best friend, followed by each of the girls in her circle. The boys stopped their game of tag and looked on, anticipating their own invites which were promptly delivered. The girl rose from her spot and ventured closer.

The bell rang and all dashed back to the classroom. The children chatted excitedly about Stacy’s birthday party. The girl waited expectantly for the white envelope as they lined up at the door. She waited all during the remainder of the afternoon. There was an implicit consensus between all the students and it become more and more palpable as the clock hands neared 3 PM; the girl was not invited. It was a creeping dread for the girl and she felt her ears reddening, pinprick tingles on her cheeks and the back of her neck.

I’m not invited? I’m not invited. No, she forgot. I am invited because it would be cruel to not invite everyone. The boys were invited, so I’ll be, too. Please God, let me be invited. Please God, I want to go to a real party. Please, if it’s not too much trouble?

She dawdled after school let out, risking ire from her mother. She stood near the sidewalk and offered Stacy a smile as the pretty girl walked past but Stacy merely pretended to be engrossed in her best friend’s chatter.

The girl would shed silent tears later that day and act as if she were holding one of those envelopes. She would imagine choosing an outfit to wear for the party and then arriving at the party and allowing the girls to pull her over to the piñata or cake. It was all futility. An extremely dreadful knowledge held her heart captive; she was not wanted. It was a bit of emotional baggage that she would carry with her for a very long time.

5 comments

A Look at Willa Cather

Posted by: TMTW in GLBT, Transgender

WARNING: Controversial Material

Pulitzer Prize winning Willa Cather has been regulated to a “Quote of the Day”. Imagine that.

I first discovered this writer through her novel, “My Antonia”, which was an assigned reading project in my junior high English literature class. Cather’s writing style and attitude absolutely captivated me. Our school library did not provide other works by this remarkable woman and only the Encyclopedia Britannica offered any (woefully lacking) information. It would be many years before I could read her other works; almost a decade and a half before I could learn about Willa the writer.

Willa, who often referred to herself as William, was transgender in my opinion. Lesbians and women’s rights activists would disagree with me (go right ahead, it’s my damned blog!) She behaved boyishly and often dressed in a masculine fashion during a period of time when women of her social status were the epitome of grace and fluff. This was “just not done” during the Victorian era. She was managing editor of McClure’s Magazine prior to NYC suffragette parade in 1912 before women had the right to vote. It was she who saved McClure’s from financial ruin. “The mind of a man, the creativity of a poet of old”, Willa balked at society and took her place amid other male writers. She did not do this for women’s rights; she did it because she saw herself doing something perfectly normal for her inner gender: she failed to see herself as female.

I do grow weary of pointing this out: transgender people are not “cross-dressers” or “transvestites” from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They are people who do not identify with their birth gender. They spend their whole lives feeling that they are in the wrong body. Some have surgeries to assume the gender that they identify with (replete with private parts.) Some are gay: a man that becomes a woman but still is attracted to women would be an example. Some are straight: a woman who becomes a man and is attracted to women would be an example. Before you whack me with your cross and bible, please consider that hermaphrodites (those born with both sex organs) are permitted to choose their gender now. If you are still confused, feel free to e-mail me: autricedeldrago@aol.com subject heading: Transgender.

Willa never put her gender or orientation into writing (or perhaps she did. Willa did fastidiously burn her notes; she was a very private person.) Very few transgender writers have the talent needed to explain the frustrations encountered daily. One sophisticated essay entitled My Life as a Girl comes to mind. I have encountered little else.

What if? What if Willa had been born a century later? She would currently be two years younger than me. Her novels would not have had the same impact. Her accomplishments would have been mundane considering that women’s rights

have allowed all of us the ability to follow our dreams.

All that withstanding, what would she have to say about who she is and how she sees herself fitting into the world around her? How would she view the current political war raging between two parties? What would she think about gay marriage? Would her heart quicken upon learning that she could leave her old body behind and physically assume the gender that she identifies with? Would she shed tears over Matthew Shepard? I would like to think that she would use her talents to speak out about such senseless violence and death.

2 comments

Frustration

Posted by: TMTW in writing

I am stuck. I have a sort of writer’s block for an unscripted story that wanders around inside my head, never having been mapped out properly and never fleshed out completely. It has always been there haunting, tormenting, morphing, an idle flight of the imagination. I have always known that I should write about it but have never been able to pin down a single plotline.

I began a story at Sequoia Junior High with my friend Sandra Irene Martinez (whom I miss terribly.) We were both writing the same story but from different angles; our inspiration stemmed in part from Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time while the rest was a jumble of Robotech and other far-fetched things.

I incorporated certain elements from this “wishful story” into a full-length novel when I was in my late teens/early twenties. The person I was collaborating with turned out to be an alcoholic twit – a genius, but a twit nevertheless. I scrapped it for US publication.

The work has been laid to rest (or so I thought), a bundle of files transferred from typewriter to WordStar, to WordPerfect, to MS Word. It twists and stretches, bereft of any bones. I have over thirty-two “design” files that contain mockups of creature development (there is an entire world and an entirely new civilized if “alien” species replete with social, political and religious nuances.)

There are days that I ask myself a simple question: WTF?

I have no idea why I am drawn to this endeavor. It is as if this book was born of my childhood imagination. I had already had a basic idea of the evolutionary process of these “creatures” by the time I was ten. My junior high experience was the motivation to put things down on paper; tell the story. My early adult years were the refinement. It’s all tucked away in my spongy grey matter and I, in complete frustration, can not figure out where I want to go with it. I have an entire world to play with and to manipulate, and a species to rule. I am a god of sorts and yet I sit at my monitor and I hear the monotone emergency broadcast signal played out, mocking me: “This is a test of your writer’s network. You have no idea how to proceed. Had you been an actual writer, the book that are trying to create would have been done ten years ago. This concludes this test of your writer’s network.”

I am also in the midst of collaborating (read Editing, capital E) with my Mum on her book. I won’t go into details on it except to say that I made several suggestions months back (which she balked at) and now, in a bit of her own inspiration, she calls to say that the gentleman that she spoke with had (the same damned) wonderful suggestions (that I had previously.) I love my parental unit, truly, however my hair did not begin to twinkle into silver tones until I started this project.

Did I mention that I also have another project: turning a three act play into a novel (again, her work. It is extraordinarily potent and I believe that it would impact readers in a very thought-provoking way.)

I have all this. Lovely to-do list, isn’t it? What am I doing to remedy any of it? I’m Blitching (blog bitching) instead of focusing on any of these projects.

1 comments

AnnieElf's Work

Posted by: TMTW in AnnieElf

I have finally updated my links for Annie.

The Annie Collection

AnnieElf's The Benedict Notes

In My Dreams

Scenes From A Slow Moving Train

0 comments

Tomatoes

Posted by: TMTW in Fiction, Sunday Scribblings

The sticky summer air gave way to hazy sunset as a lone figure trudges down the hill towards heavily laden Roma tomato bushes. Swollen red fruits dangle heavily upon their vines, their mass causing some to break away and tumble further down the slope. A wayward firefly trudges over a soft leaf, eager for the sunset.

In the yard next door, a winsome giggle floats alongside birdsong as a small body tumbles down a grassy slope. The child, a girl no older than five, rolls along with eyes squeezed shut. Pink shorts and a yellow tee-shirt, already streaked with grass stains, flashes in perfect alternating colors as she somersaults like a rolly polly bug. Messy braids whip about her angelic face; somewhere in the grass is her glittery star barrette and the shiny quarter grandma gave her only that morning. She reaches bottom with an audible “hoof!” of air, then sucks in healthy lungful before allowing herself to explode into a fit of laughter.

She pauses to watch Mrs. Next Door picking tomatoes before racing back up the hill again. Another somersault pass ends and she scores herself well for her efforts, just like those real Olympic gymnasts on the television last night, then catches sight of her neighbor again.

“Tomatoes are good, especially when they are still warm from the sun,” Grandpa always says. She reflects on her Grandpa’s favorite tomato recipe, remembering how he loves sitting on the porch, eating them after Grandma marinates them in some salt and balsamic vinegar. This has always been her special time with Grandpa.

Her small hands reach out to the chain link fence and she pulls herself upright. Mrs. Next Door has picked nearly all of the bright red tomatoes by now, filling a large pot to the brim. Mrs. Next Door’s dog, an old mutt with late summer shed fur sticking out at odd angles, ambles over and licks her face through the links.

“Good dog,” she says. Her hand fits neatly through the fence and, as is their custom, dog and girl engage in a little bit of fur plucking, distributing a soft flurry of hair into the summer breeze.

The dog seems to almost smile, turning from side to side as the loose tufts slide out of the coat. The fur seems to take on a life of its own, drifting in the air or slinking along the ground. The girl hopes that Mrs. Next Door doesn’t mind the fur that’s come to rest on the squash plant leaves close by.

Her neighbor makes her way up the slope of the yard and waves. “My, but you’ve all but picked off every last clump of hair,” Mrs. Next Door smiles. “That deserves a reward!”

The girl’s eyes grow larger as Mrs. Next Door lowers the large pot to within her reach. This, too, is a summer ritual. She is permitted to choose as many tomatoes as she can carry. It isn’t much, considering her size, but it is just enough to make Grandpa smile. She selects five very juicy ones, and thanks her neighbor before racing back up the slope.

The last bit of sun begins to fade as the woman climbs the back porch steps. A lightening bug casts off from a tomato bush, lazily dancing in-flight as it prepares for the evening. The garden is bathed in an amber glow, birdsong still rippling upon the humid air.

See more observant scribblings at Sunday Scribblings

The picture below is in answer to one of my friend's questions. She asked, "Exactly what does an Italian refrigerator look like?" Both pictures are of our current crop.

5 comments

The Price of Betrayal?

Posted by: TMTW

I have always wondered what sort of people would allow themselves to be sexually promoted online, and what sort of fool would take their bait. Is it some new form of prostitution, where one avoids disease by stroking off using their wife’s hand lotion as some bored frump types naughty things into an IM box? Do men pay a small fee (“we take Masterbaiter Card and IwishIhadaVisa”) or are these women simply so desperate and disease ridden that they would market themselves as sweet school girls that everyone absolutely loves and adores. What of those too good to be true men? You know the ones: they steal a friend’s picture and assume their roll, only it goes too far – they actually present themselves as that person during an affair that can last weeks or even months. Bob the Tubby just became Brock the Olympian. Such popular people; wherever do they find the time to break away from all those popular real-life friends in order to engage in a little online smut-o-rama? (I won’t touch upon the gold diggers or rapists who are looking to take more than they will give back.)

Of course, none of this would happen if certain men did not possess the brain capacity equivalent to a gnat. The average American male will allow himself to be ripped off and lied to all for the sake of cyber eye candy. I find it humorous. Perhaps a bit too humorous considering that one of my close online friends is a large gay male who poses as a delicate Asian girl. He freely admits that he masturbates as he types, knowing that the clueless straight man on the other side of the screen is doing likewise. (Oh ICKKK!)

Where does that leave us as a society? Technology is allowing us to become more and more connected but it also seems to destroy more and more lives.

90 percent of Americans believe adultery is morally wrong. (MSNBC straw poll)

17 percent of divorces in the United States are caused by infidelity. (AP)

Only 46% of men believe that online affairs are adultery. (Divorce Magazine)

One-third of divorce litigation is caused by online affairs. (This Is An Internet E-Mergency, The Fortino Group)

Approximately 70% of time on-line is spent in chat rooms or sending e-mail; of these interactions, the vast majority are romantic in nature. (Dr. Michael Adamse, PhD., co-author of Affairs of the Net: The Cybershrinks' Guide to Online Relationships)

Because of the anonymity, affordability, and accessibility of Internet sexual resources, the computer can accelerate the transition from "at risk" to "addicted," as well as the progression of sex addiction in those with a history of prior sexual compulsivity. (Cooper et al Survey)

8-10 percent of Internet users become hooked on cybersex. (Dr. Bob Lanier, askbob.com)

Spouses who get hooked on Internet porn are a growing complaint among spouses filing for divorce, according to a survey of 350 divorce attorneys. "If there's dissatisfaction in the existing relationship, the Internet is an easy way for people to scratch the itch," said lawyer J. Lindsey Short, Jr., president of the American Academy of Matrimonial Lawyers, which conducted the study.

Evidence proves there is a high correlation between on-line infidelity and subsequent real-time sexual affairs.

Evidence supports the existence of disinhibition, accelerated intimacy, and hyper-sexual online behavior that can easily lead to real-time infidelity

31% of people have had an online conversation that has led to real-time sex.

According to MenStuff:

57% of people have used the Internet to flirt.

38% of people have engaged in explicit online sexual conversation and 50% of people have made phone contact with someone they chatted with online.

It begs to be asked: why do people stay with spouses who are caught cheating? I don’t know. Online relationships are a strange thing.

I have two sweet friends who have a casual online-only relationship. There is nothing sexual involved and they are not seeking to replace their spouses. In fact, they are friends first and flirty second. Their priority is not in ego or sexual gratification; rather it is that their families come first. They do not run around seeking partners to add to the cyber harem.

My second set of close friends are both female and they, too, have a relationship. They do not have spouses or significant others. They live in different countries. Their love for their work is first and foremost. They meet up every so often for a night of fun, pledge to continue to love each other and they go about their days. Neither worries that her lover will cheat on her with a person in their respective home countries.

My other friend faced a far more cruel life. She was a nice woman that used the Internet to expand her mind through college courses. She refrained from any sexual advances and vociferously pointed out that she was married. She was not happily married, however. Her husband is a cyber-addict who seems to spend his days looking at hot Asian woman and pursing relationships with other cheaters. I should point out that my friend had turned into a frump herself; she simply grew tired of his ways and she knew he would still run around behind her back no matter how sexy she was. She gave up on life. My circle of friends was stunned to learn that she had taken her own life this morning.

That brings me back to my initial thought: "at what cost...". What do we as people give up when we engage in frivolous cheating. How much dignity to we throw away when we broadcast ourselves in a way that depreciates us as a human being? Will the ultimate price be paid - the cost of the injured spouse's sanity and their own feelings of self-worth?

Dedicated to LlimaBeans (Cheryl Fergusan)

1967 - 2008

1 comments