Maggie West

Me And My Shadow

"You can't stick it on with soap, Peter. It needs sewing. That's the proper way to do it. Although, come to think of it, I've never thought about it before... um... sewing shadows, I mean."

~ Wendy Darling

Ever since I can remember, shadows have fascinated me – particularly my own. Evening walks under starlit skies were routine for me after the age of eight. For one thing, it got me out of the house (out of my father's reach and away from his wrath). Plus, the coupling of a moonlit sky and the street lamps' glows cast unusual silhouettes across the landscape stimulating the budding writer I hoped to be. These haunting, yet pleasing, shapes mesmerized me for hours. The distance I walked was inconsequential: I was engrossed in the dark formations waving on lawns, in streets, and the one that lay at my feet. Everything else around me seemed trivial. I spent hours weaving in and out of the assorted Avenues, Circles, and Terraces that labeled the neighborhood: No mapped out routes or counted paces (as I do now).

In the years that followed, my interest in dark rooms, shadowy shapes, and dim lit spaces intensified. To me, the obscure images and hidden entities were more real than their day lit counterparts.

Black is defined as that which does not emit or reflect light. In actuality, it is the absence of color. No greens, reds, or yellows to dress up the scenery – only darkness (black) – our surroundings' naked state.

Crazy, huh?

Well then, the next part will surely get me into Bellevue.

I lost my shadow roughly two years ago.

I could no longer see "me." The part of me to which I had become so accustomed over the years. The one that springs forth once the light is gone; after the bobbles are removed; behind the fancy colors; and the face paint wears off: The true me, the "naked" me.

Rather than the comforting exposed image that absorbs light for me, I was left with a mere shell of what used to be. And with my shadow's disappearance came an emptiness that internally spread out of control. Its "vanishing act" left a conscious stain of uneasiness: Ensnaring the most soothing thoughts; stifling the playful child; and eliminating most of my cheerfulness.

It's as if someone or something baits me away from, well, being me.

Is it possible to "sew" one's shadow back on? Can I retrieve its essence somehow and repair it?

One might be tempted to say "no."

But as it so happens, I can and have begun to do just that…

…But not alone.

Such a task is too complex to undertake alone. I could miss a "stitch" after improperly aligning the "fabric." I might over sew certain areas or tear it in haste. Ah, perhaps, this is why Peter Pan needed Wendy?

Before everyone begins to believe I've totally lost my mind, let me interject a thought or two…

Most of the time, it's the unseen, the unknown, and/or the unfathomable that frightens us. Is it not? If we are able to see more clearly; adjust our eyes in the dark – if our shadows remain visible – in other words understand ourselves and our surroundings, we tend to remain composed and mollified. Do we not?

The loss of my shadow puts me in the "worried" category – it's pretty scary. Would it return? Can I find my way back?

The steps to remedy my situation (or anyone else in a similar state) are far from easy, but doable, nonetheless. First, and foremost, a self-analysis of sorts is necessary. Am I causing some of my troubles or are there external forces at work – or both?

In my case, the latter is true. I did not, however, understand this on my own. My need for faith and guidance – a helping hand – was clearly evident.

Truth be told, my stubborn streak surfaces most when I'm confronted with insurmountable odds – or at least, my perception of impossibility. I become overly independent, when I should be more dependent. I have all the answers, when I should be asking more questions. I engage my fast-forward gear, when slowing down is more appropriate.

It's exasperating – to others as well as myself.

I'm happy to announce that my education in these matters is slow, but forthcoming.

The significance of recognizing the need to further one's knowledge or improve upon one's character is paramount to my mind. And I believe I'm achieving this in small doses. One of my greatest accomplishments is realizing that there's always room for improvement. And this breakthrough is the first step.

Secondly, my pinpointing the unconstructive outer influences are essential "needles and threads." And with a little help (Well, quite a bit really) in doing so, I begin the process of "sewing" my shadow back on. Parts of it are now visible. It is no longer a coagulated mass bunched up – stuck – inside. Via the assistance of another, my inner "cloth" emerges and the mending begins. A newly found awareness of the many potential threats that can cut rather than heal, take away rather than give, and stunt rather than cultivate continue my lessons in managing the light – the dark – once more.

The more I learn, the more I ask myself, "How the hell did I cope with my non-self for so long?"

I have a theory: just a calculated guess – nothing more.

My illustrious better half often says that repetition reinforces certain behaviors, certain mindsets. If one is told "You're a bad boy" enough, a bad boy is exactly what he becomes. If one is told "you can't do that" enough, it never gets done. And if one is told "you're not smart enough for that," then, the less likely he or she is to learn. Negative reinforcement is just the "tip of the iceberg" as the saying goes. Other people can inhibit one's intellectual growth and maturity; instill bad behaviors; and weaken a person's perceived worth.

And all the while, the real "you" is begging to be let out.

The mind is a very powerful tool. A tool one can utilize to reach his or her full potential, or (and this is a big "or.") one can allow other people to employ its functions on their behalf. The latter, in case anyone is interested, takes "two to tango." And I'm living proof of this: My shadow was taken from me and locked away behind a door for which someone else held one or more of the keys – I knew this and did nothing. A more sensible approach is the former. It's a much healthier and wiser route to take. And as long as we cautiously select our guides, the "keys" are always within reach.

I must pass through many doors before my journey comes to an end…

But as I step outside to enjoy the evening air, I look down and smile. Me and my shadow now walk together.

Human Nature

As a child, I got into numerous altercations, mainly with all the know-it-all boys in my neighborhood. It’s difficult for a girl to maintain her “tomboy” image when some kid down the street sees her playing with Barbie dolls. The best way to solve this problem: Pound his ass into the pavement; then no one will ever hear of the incident. I did just this, on many occasions.

The truth of the matter is that this is only one of my many youthful “wrongdoings.”

I built countless tree forts and threw rocks at those who braved the bombardment in an attempt to scale the walls and conquer my stronghold, thereby making it their fort (Oh hell no, not on my watch).  One such kid (boy) was hit so hard with one of my rocks; that he wore a bandage to school for weeks. I can still remember the pleasure I derived from the sight of his grimace as he went from class to class. Hell, that single act doubled my “troops” in one day: Every boy within a three-block radius wanted to join my army. I won every battle that year.

Then there was high school…

The list of bad behavior and disobedience is endless: Drag racing, skipping school, sneaking out after dark (from my bedroom window -- on the second floor, no less), arrested for disturbing the peace, smoking pot, drinking at bars (since the age of fourteen), and on, and on, and on.

There were repercussions, to be sure. But, I believe I faced every one of them with fortitude. Looking back on those days, I can’t help but think that it must have been someone else doing those things. It couldn’t have been me (I pray that my kids aren’t reading this post – they’re adults, now, but I wouldn’t want them to know that their mother’s behavior was ten times worse than their own).

I remember those days with fondness, fright, and total one-sidedness: The “I can do that, but you can’t” mentality. I’m lucky to be alive. That’s more than a few of my friends, from those days can say.

I look around me nowadays, though, and see our children living in a world that is significantly inferior to that of my youth. To my mind, the reason is painstakingly clear. Parents.

“If my parents will stick up for me, why should I?”

“If my parents sue the pants off of so-and-so’s parents for hitting me, that will take care of it.”

“If my parents get assistance from the government, for everything in their lives, why can’t 1?”

I went to my father, once, for being hit by a boy. His reply?

“Why the hell are you hangin’ around boys? You’re a girl. Stay away from them and that’s an order.”

When I went to my parents for help solving any of my childhood woes, I heard about my actions being their cause. I learned, and quickly at that, to unravel my own predicaments. I’d like to think this bred my independence.

My motto thirty-some years ago: “When someone hurts you, you stay away from him (her), or get your buddies together and kick his (her) ass the next day – no more problem.”

Useful talents for adulthood, doesn’t one think?

If one is stepped on as a child, one is stepped on as an adult. Get some backbone, youngsters, before it’s too late.

If one receives handouts as a child, one expects them as an adult, and the sad truth is: It ain’t always there. Deal with it. Would one rather pout about it, kill because of it, commit suicide, or injure others? Come on. Damn it all to hell, already.

Learn a trade, go to school (and excel at the courses offered – it’s called studying), save money, start a business, learn to use some imagination and ingenuity for a prosperous future. There is no “easy life dispensary” somewhere down the road. It must be earned.

Just when I’m happily wallowing in my own disgruntlement, I receive a message from a friend on MySpace.

Kid Rockin’ Mama writes:

WTF? This is absolutely ridiculous! So candy sales falls under the “no tolerance” policy?
Student suspended for buying Skittles at school

NEW HAVEN, Connecticut (AP) -- Contraband candy has led to big trouble for an eighth-grade honors student in Connecticut.

Michael Sheridan was stripped of his title as class vice president, barred from attending an honors student dinner and suspended for a day after buying a bag of Skittles from a classmate.

School spokeswoman Catherine Sullivan-DeCarlo says the New Haven school system banned candy sales in 2003 as part of a district wide school wellness policy.

Michael's suspension has been reduced from three days to one, but he has not been reinstated as class vice president.

He says he didn't realize his candy purchase was against the rules -- although he did notice the student selling the Skittles on February 26 was being secretive.

Am I crazy (don’t answer that) or is what a child eats or doesn’t eat the responsibility of his or her parents? Parents should be handing out punishments for such things, not schools.

My parents forbade us to eat certain things before meals. They also tried to limit our consumption of sweets. Notice, I said "tried." In retrospect, I believe I would have eaten more of these tooth-decaying treats without their intervention.

In those days, school is where we could cheat. Hell, I had stashes of junk food in my locker (along with a pair of ratty looking jeans and torn t-shirt for a quit change). It’s one of the joys of being a kid: Going against one’s parents instructions or wishes is an unwritten childhood rule. Is it not?

It’s human nature.

My father often said, “If your friends jumped off the cliff would you jump off the cliff too?” I'm sure many children, back then, heard that one. My parents thought this question instilled thought. I, however, thought it utterly ridiculous. My friends weren't jumping off cliffs (Who thinks this shit up, anyway?).

I answered, “yep” once, only once; I felt it for a week.

But now, apparently, the schools are becoming parents. Schools have the right to suspend our kids for eating candy? Why? Again, I find myself thinking: Who thinks this utterly ridiculous “law” (shit) up? More often than not, children do the exact opposite of what they're told? This “theory” is as old as time itself. So, why not leave the parenting to parents and the learning to schools. I know, I know, what a novel idea. Huh? Call me Einstein.

It’s a good thing my children are adults. If the school called to tell me that he or she was getting suspended because they bought candy, I’d be down there in a New York Minute saying, “What the fuck is your problem. That’s for me to decide – not you.”

The police department would have to be called on a weekly basis to escort my ass out of the school official's presence.

Well, perhaps, today, home schooling may be a better avenue for me to take.

Uh Oh, there’s goes that independent thinkin’ I cultivated as a child. I better hide that somewhere.

Come on, people. It’s all human nature: Nothing more, nothing less.

I guess I’ll go pick a fight somewhere else now.

Valentine's Day Massacre

Within one week, we will all find ourselves immersed in the day of the year set aside for lovers – Valentine’s Day. Through the centuries, this particular holiday has become the over-publicized and over-commercialized event we see today.

Some of us may not realize that the Catholic Church began the commemoration of February 14th as St. Valentine’s Day in order to eradicate a pagan festival that was celebrated on February 15th. In the fourteenth century, a poem written by Chaucer associated the day with choosing a mate, and thus with romance. By the eighteenth century, the English were celebrating this holiday by exchanging elaborate, handmade gift cards, expressing love and devotion. This heart-warming tradition made its way to the American colonies and has evolved into what we have today.

High-priced roses, machine printed cards, and almost anything that can be shaped into a heart – is. The guilt-inducing reminders started this year in January. I have noticed that they are mostly targeting men. Things like: “Have you told your sweetheart that you love her lately? Tell her with flowers. Nothing says love like a diamond from… If you really want to catch her heart, do it with a gift from…” are expressed in every medium.

Man. If nothing else, we have become great at the perpetration of guilt. Forget about being the loving, understanding, and affectionate mate that a man or a woman would be more than happy or proud to purchase a trinket for – we have to be coerced into it.

We can be as mean and nasty as we want and on this “Day of Hearts” (My own name for it), each one of us can redeem ourselves with one well-timed swoop (When one doesn’t have a mile and half of people in front of him or her at the checkout.) in which we purchase goodies at our favorite stores.

Come on people; wake up.

This day, in no way, measures the degree of one’s affection. Oh sure, it’s significant to the superficial; to those who believe money speaks the language of love; or to those who are easily swayed by bright, shiny objects.

I, for one, would rather feel the real thing.

And I don’t want my partner to express his love once or twice a year. I want it every day. What’s wrong with demonstrating affection every day through admiration, kindness, and understanding?

“That’s too difficult for me,” one might say, “I’m too busy.” Believe me, I’ve heard a lot of excuses for lack of affection or attention. Is it that difficult?

Is that complicated to wake each morning with a peck on the cheek and/or some polite conversation? Is it that tough, at workday’s end, for one to run to the door and greet one’s partner with a hug and a kiss (whether one feels like it or not)? Is that difficult to set aside an hour or two in the evening for some stimulating and relationship-enriching conversation? How about just sharing a hobby or two?

It has taken many, many, many years (more than I care to count) to figure out what matters most in my life. Being able to buy fancy things, live in a huge house, and/or increase my tax rate status didn’t bring any of my personal goals to fruition. If they could, my travels and discussions of relationship issues with the “rich and famous” would have shown me otherwise. Were they happier? I think not. Ah, the old cliché still rings true: “Money can’t buy you love.”

Therefore, as we approach another February 14th and all its promises (As referenced by radio and television), I can’t help but want to abolish this particular holiday. No more over-priced-heart-shaped cookies, cakes, candies, balloons, stuffed objects, jewelry, or cards; and for Pete’s sake, no more spending a whole day’s pay on roses. By not spending our hard earned money on such insignificant things, we induce retailers – Any guesses? – to lower the price permanently or stop selling them. Capitalism: What a novel concept…

How about we all attempt to experience love’s wonders on a daily basis? How about we spend every day telling our mates how important they are, how much they mean to us, and passionately embracing every moment we spend by their sides? Then, and only then, will these annual shams (like Valentine’s Day) no longer have meaning – will no longer exist.

That being said, does one still feel the need to have once a year set aside for “love?”

In that case, here are some ideas for how to spend Valentine’s Day:

Take a picture out of the photo album, (preferably a happy one) a wedding or a vacation picture and glue it inside a piece of folded cardstock. Write a short, but sweet, message on the inside and decorate the front with cut lace, ribbon, and candy hearts – anything one wishes. Yes, men too – especially men. This sort of thing means more because one has taken the time and used his or her ingenuity to complete such a gift.

A handmade card means much more than the high-dollar ones that are written by those who have no real talent for expressing their sentiments.

Still want to give that special person flowers? Then, purchase one rose. High tail it to the nearest fabric or craft store and purchase about 18 inches of ribbon and a piece of really nice paper. Start by filling the paper up with loving thoughts, a poem, or the remembrance of a special event spent together. Do this even if one believes he or she cannot properly express one’s feelings in writing; it’s the thought that counts (And who knows? One might get pretty good at doing so, with sufficient practice). Roll the sheet of paper up, tie it closed with the ribbon, and then tie it to the rose. Deliver it with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Spend the rest of the evening in each other’s arms.

Another idea may be to purchase flowers that look like wild flowers instead of roses. Attach a note signifying the “wild” aspects of one’s relationship; i.e. wild hearts, wild love, or wild sex – it all works, believe me.

Perhaps, one still wishes to purchase a piece of jewelry for his or her significant other. In this case, go to any small, local retailer that specializes in one-of-a-kind, handmade trinkets. Purchase an item one feels will appeal to one’s lover and, same as above, play on the “unique” features of one’s mate with an attached handmade card or note.

I’ll end with a gift that has become a favorite among my readers:

Cut out strips of parchment paper about three inches wide and six inches long. On each piece make a hand-printed coupon. Suggestions are: This coupon good for one backrub, winning one argument, doing the dishes, cooking dinner, a kiss, or any other similar “chores.” Use crayons, colored pencils or markers, stickers, and scraps of fabric or lace; get creative. Once you have made about ten, punch two holes through all the coupons and tie them together by slipping a ribbon through the holes. Upon presenting this popular gift, inform one’s mate that whenever he or she redeems any of the coupons – they will be carried out without delay -- or disgruntled looks. A promise one must follow through in order to make this the best gift one has ever received.

Examples of the aforementioned I have seen – made by the hands of men – have touched my heart. Surely, their girlfriends or wives were overwhelmed with emotion upon receiving their handiwork – even more so than I, from the mere sight of them.

Isn’t it time for us to start our own time-honored traditions? There is no need for spending more than a few dollars on any gift for the one who has captured one’s heart. With a true love the one thing that may make a world of difference is one’s time. Therefore, take the time. Make this non-monetary investment into the future and reap its rewards.

Let us stamp out the guilt-inducing ads, the ridiculously priced merchandise, and celebrate our love each day. Or if we would rather celebrate Valentine’s Day, then let us do so in our own ways. Our own, unique ways -- and be the better for it.

The Scene Of The Crime

Back at the scene of the crime, where it all began.

Sitting and wondering.

I wonder about the course of events that brought me to this place. What telltale signs had I overlooked that fateful day; the day I embarked on this journey – down this path?

How did I get here? My mind is playing tricks on me again. Or is it my heart? I am no longer able to distinguish one from the other.

The marred trail of loves lost and found is but a mist, obscuring my vision – so fully, at times; it becomes difficult to see if I have taken a wrong turn or merely strayed off the beaten path for a spell.

Perhaps, the fault is mine. Never before have I entertained such a notion. I like myself – I always have, really. There was a time, in my younger days – between the ages of 5 and 13, perhaps – when I fancied myself the Ugly Duckling; the Emperor With No Clothes. Surely, I have outgrown those thoughts by now.

I’m old enough to tell sincerity from deceit, fabrications from the truth – am I not?

In a trance…

I watch the water rush over the rocks in this serene place – one big rock, to be exact. The sight mimics my life, somehow. The force of the current causes part of the water to rush off the opposite side; yet, on other areas of the rock’s surface, I see the water slowly pass through every nook and cranny until it finds its way back into the current once more.

For many years, I have stolen the moments that have comprised my existence. The ways of my youth should long since have paved the road to another place – a better place – one not of this earth.

Yet, still I wait.

Perhaps, no pearly gates await me: No St. Peter readying himself for my atonement, granting me an opportunity simply to explain, or anticipating a heartfelt apology for the way in which I have lived my life.

I believe I have changed: Changed substantially as the years have come and gone. I believed that the actions of the present would somehow – someday – erase those of my past. I have wrestled the memories; fought for and dreamed of mending these wrongs with each breath.

I remember when…

I was accustomed to carefully weighing life’s alternatives before asserting a response, making a choice, or taking an action. I have sensibly chosen most of it – have I not?

I no longer take the time to weigh the odds or calculate the consequences. My perceptions automatically send a message to every muscle, every bone, and every neuron obscuring any negativity that may occur in my life. The part of me that wishes no harm – and that reaches out without warning in the hopes of receiving a kind smile or a roaring laugh – has engulfed the person I am today. The idea of becoming a person others may someday look up to or admire is carved deeply within the very core of my being. These do not erode; they have not disappeared or worn away like the stone beneath my feet.

So, again, I ask…

How did I get here?

I imagine that, possibly, no one will ever take me exactly as I am. Ego qua ego. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Perhaps, more changing on my part?

Where does it stop, then? When can one say, “This is me. This is as good as it gets. For better or for worse…” and walk side by side, hand in hand down the road to “happily ever after?”

Has the chance for such a dream to come true long since passed? Is it lying in the debris of what was molded years ago by my arch nemesis – Time? Was it forged somewhere in the past and now stands worn – broken – ready to “throw in the towel?” Is it lying in the waste of some desolate path taken long ago?

So then...

Will these waters ever subside? Or will they forever push and pull from sources unknown? Am I forever doomed to brave the rapids – alone?

How much time is left?

So many questions: No answers.

As I turn to leave this place...

I spy a tree; most of its limbs are dried up – lifeless. A few branches, however, are still holding on; flourishing and blossoming. Perhaps, an attempt to convince the tree that life is not over? "There’s still time," the branches seem to whisper in the wind: Time to bask in the warmth of the sun, to be refreshed by Spring’s showers, and to glisten by the light of many an evening’s moon.

Perhaps.

A couple walks by, hand in hand, breaking the silence. I no longer hear the leaves rustling among the trees, the roar of the waterfall a few yards away, or the water rushing beneath the bridge. Here I stand, reminded of the walk I took across this same bridge almost a year ago.

It's time to go home.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

What I did on my summer vacation…

Oddly enough, the opening phrase comes from a conversation that took place with the proprietor of Green Hell.

During one of our little weekend jaunts, which took us through the Carolinas to my hometown of Winston-Salem, the opportunity to discuss the days of our youth presented itself. If one ever wonders about how Jeff and I stumble upon what to include in our little tête-à-têtes – the answer is simple. We are never at a loss for words or conversations. Everything under the sun, and then some, is included in our canvas of thought. Some things even surprise me from time to time. And that’s saying a lot – surprise is not a common occurrence in “my world.”

Getting back to my original thought…

We’re downing a few beers at a Halloween party hosted by my best friend, Gina Marie. It might help to mention that we are sitting in a small field that consists of a wooded perimeter. Here is where our lodging for the night had, so kindly, been readied for our arrival. Since Gina’s parties tend to go “off the scale” every now and then, Jeff and I thought it best to stay the night – in style – of course. A small two-man tent was erected for us in the field next to her house. Now that I think about it, we never took a picture of it – damn. We did, however, take pictures of Jeff and myself. Some of which may go up on Green Hell, but that’s neither here nor there.

There we were drinking and laughing, drinking some more and laughing some more, when Jeff says, “Remember what summers were like as a kid?” “Of course, I remember,” I answered matter-of-factly. “Who doesn’t?” Then I realize, perhaps, far too many people have a problem with “looking back.” I can’t help but think if we all reminisced a little more, on the pleasurable aspects of our youth, our current lives could be the better for it.

Remember…

How one couldn’t wait for summer to arrive? No more school. NO MORE SCHOOL: Three months of play time; getting in trouble time; making a nuisance of yourself time.

How one’s mother would not let them stay in the house? She didn’t want to be driven batty by the ranting of children in the house. Hmmm…no wonder my mother never came looking for me when I threatened with, “I’m running away” as I slammed the front door and started down the street.

How one’s friends gave the ultimate, “I dare you to …” and one did it! Or was that just me? Jumping trains, hanging from cliffs, finding the biggest trees to climb, leaping from the garage roof, constructing the best and fastest go-carts (lawn mower engine’s worked great) on the block, it’s a wonder I’m still here.

How playing “Cowboys and Indians” made the neighbors run after you with the nearest broom or handled implement? Perhaps, it was the arrows made out of tree limbs, when aimed badly, striking certain parts of their body. Naw, that couldn’t have been it. Perhaps, the fact that one has tied up their friends and left them to fen for themselves in the backyard (for hours), kicking and screaming their Asses off. Naw, that couldn’t have been it either. No way was it the sound of our cap guns – no way.

How the “my tree house is better than your tree house” squabbles started a kid’s war? What fun that was. A slingshot was my weapon of choice. I usually won.

Above all, I remember that each morning was filled with endless imagination and an assortment of dreamed-up pleasures. The “thrill” each day brought was the epitome of my small world. What adventures we all had on my block – hell, in the whole neighborhood.

What new adventures I have awaiting…

Green Hell has brought similar experiences into my life. After a summer of planting, building, fighting, and teasing – I find myself looking forward to the warmer seasons again.

The approaching cold weather is like saying “good-bye” to an old friend – again.

As an adult, my somewhat-mature mindset and myriad responsibilities kept the inner child in check.

Until now…

Do Actions Speak Louder Than Words?

Undoubtedly, the person who coined the phrase, “Actions speak louder than words” was a man.

Consider its incompletion. Women would have plenty to say after making such a statement.

As it sits, without context, the generalization presumed in this adage is that it holds true in all areas, all things.

Not true. Not in my opinion.

Women need “words.”

We need to be praised when we’ve accomplished something wonderful. We need to be told we’re beautiful, whether or not we are (waking up in the morning is a perfect example – no one looks good – but it’s nice to hear we do). We need to hear “I love you” (with meaning) every now and then, even though our man’s actions display affection. We need to be comforted and cared for through verbal acknowledgements and caresses.

I could replace all the “needs” in the previous paragraph to “wants” and it should still hold true. But it would not erase the necessity. Women are verbal creatures by nature. Men with any experience in dealing with the opposite sex can attest to the validity of the benefits gained from positive oral sentiments.

This does not mean that the value of a man’s actions is lost on a woman. On the contrary, they are extremely important. Coupled with oral adorations, however, their power is endless.

Take this into consideration…

A man’s looks and conversation during a first encounter with a woman show whether or not he merits a second glance. The first one is significant, to be sure. But, in my opinion, the latter holds the key to the next step. A man’s looks can be – and have in my case, often – overlooked if the conversation is stimulating, enticing, and mysterious enough. A man could get better looking with every syllable uttered, as long as he’s schooled in how to properly use the English language and in talking to women.

Frequently, a man considers the “battle” won once he begins dating a woman and/or after marriage. As a relationship develops, the need to impress through verbalized sentiments and stimulating discussions wanes.

Mistakenly, a man assumes that working to put bread on the table, accomplishing assorted tasks around the house, and the occasional sexual interactions will suffice. To some extent and for a short period of time it might. A woman wants (needs) to hear about her worth in a relationship. She wants to know that her choice of “standing by your side” has value.

So many times women have told me, “He’s not the man I met.” After digging a little deeper into their thoughts, the next expression usually is, “He doesn’t talk to me anymore. He doesn’t tell me how much I mean to him.”

These thoughts have been of particular interest to me lately. For the last two days, rummaging through all my files pertaining to this matter, I realize – dare I say it – my feelings mirror these sentiments. Most people who know me will tell you I do not act like other women; I particularly detest being told I do.

Here lately, my feminine side has been more apparent than ever before – mainly – the evil-eyed-you-better-not-cross-me part.

In my defense, a great conversation is a form of foreplay in my mind. Yeah, there are those other things too. To be sure, these things, properly done, could make a magnitude 8 earthquake seem like a pin drop compared to my body’s reaction. It’s delightful.

Okay back on track…

Conversations, however, are the source of my erotic desires, which brings me closer to those other things, and in turn closer to having sex.

Okay so, I like sex. Is there anybody who doesn’t?

But, there is always a time when a little enticement never hurt.

A little coercing.

A little affection.

A little attention.

Let’s take sex completely out of the picture for a moment.

The verbal aspects of any encounter are very significant in many of my daily routines.

If I meet someone on the street and he or she expresses the desire to have a little tête-à-tête, he or she needs to demonstrate a little initiative. Fumbling around with words like a blind man in a coat closet and verbalizing I’m no different than anyone else gets them zero points – nowhere.

A mouth isn’t just an ornament on one's face. It was put there for a reason (besides stuffing food down your craw). One should learn how to use it properly. An array of awkward, troubled, even volatile situations has been slaked with understanding brought about through well-thought-out speech.

Next, the dreaded relationship portion…

If I’m dating someone, I want to know he is aware of my existence, through more than mere actions. Through more than just daily, mundane, idle rhetoric as well. One should attempt to make me feel a little intriguing, or exciting, or – God forbid – even attractive in order to keep my interest. Short term, blowing smoke up my ass is perfectly acceptable. Is this the case for all or most women? I believe so – at least the ones that have joined me in conversations regarding these issues.

So, do actions speak louder than words?

Sometimes – but not always.

Time to get dressed up and paint the town – red!

Anger Management

No so long ago, rage consumed nearly all of my makeup. I couldn’t go one day – hell, most of the time – eight hours without spewing obscenities at someone or grabbing the nearest object and hurling it across the room.

I used to think it was an inherent “gene” that led me through this primrose path. My father and his father before him displayed the same uncontrollable mannerisms. Likening this behavior to Pot Luck Soup – this is what was tossed in, this is what you’re stuck with attitude – attempting any means of evasion from its vice-like grip proved to be futile.

Until seventeen years ago…

In those days, everyone I knew would try to describe my actions to me in excruciating detail. My guess is in hopes that it would curtail some of the misbehavior that manifested itself at the drop of a hat. Alas, all they managed to accomplish was getting a large dose of self-absorbing justification from yours truly.

“But Maggie, your head spun around three times, fire came shooting out of your nostrils, smoke filled the room, and your face turned beet red.”

Yeah, sure it did.

Blaming this rage on anyone or anything other than myself seemed appropriate at the time. Shooting off charges in different directions, attempting to vindicate my actions, was only a Band-Aid adhered to an open wound. It would fall off, sometimes only hours later, and let the anger run free once more.

Even the men in my life insisted that these episodes were horrific and I needed to change. Change? Change what? I wasn’t seeing myself do these things, so the damage was minimal – to me.

A boyfriend, all those years ago, took the first steps towards aiding me in extinguishing this fire.

One night after returning home from having my usual fifty beers or so and twenty tequila shots, he pulled out the trusty video cam. After about ten minutes of footage, he had the good sense to shut the damn thing off. Not soon after, I found myself hurdling furniture in order to make it to the “john” for a meeting with the porcelain gods. I was told my prayers were heard all the way down the street that evening. The usual “please, please make it stop, I’ll never drink again” appeals rang out with such sincerity and genuineness; one may have thought them believable – unless, of course, they had the “pleasure” of knowing me for any length of time.  Analogous accounts emerged almost daily.

I passed out.

Wakening the next morning in a fetal position at the base of the toilet, the man I had been seeing for only two months, joins me in the bathroom and says, “There’s something I want to show you.”

And show me he did.

As I stared intently at the screen, I couldn’t believe my own eyes.

That couldn’t be me?

I would never say those things – do those things. But, there it was – proof positive.

I apologized for months after viewing my “other self” that day. And the promises I made are still embedded to memory. Each day since has been spent trying to improve upon the person I had become – the person I no longer wanted to be – the person I saw in that video.

My anger had built up over the years to such a level that climbing Mt. Everest might have been an easier task. Brick by brick, day by day, that maddening intrinsic wall was taken down.

I don’t know exactly when it changed, but it did. It was not an overnight process – believe me. It took years of biting my tongue, beating a heavy bag, scowling in private, and coming up with cute idioms for swear words; Jiminy Cricket, fudge, dickweed, sheet (from my mother), and “is it the Chad?” (Taken from Charlie’s Angels) just to name a few.

Making it from one end of the spectrum to the other, an overcompensation of sorts exists today. I am able to overlook most all transgressions made by others. My behavior has become jovial, considerate, selfless, and respectful. Even though I have found myself immersed in the pit of hell during the last three years, the “demon” in me has not reared its ugly head.

I am proud of this fact.

These traits are far better than those of my past. No matter what the situation is, no matter whose path I cross, this is the way I wish it to be.

Each morning the beauty of every sunrise captivates me. Each night the glow of the moon soothes me. Each person I meet in between has merit (until they show me otherwise). Every thought revolves around the good in people, places, circumstance, and nature.

The demon still exists. Buried perhaps, but we know each other well. Some things I do notice and take great measures to avoid.

One should never, however, take my actions or me for granted. Knowing me means knowing there is a limit. When reached, I tend to try and reason with myself (and others) – somehow, someway, anyway – in hopes of finding the mediator within.

I usually triumph over these deeply seeded, caustic tendencies – so bear with me.

I Want My Mommy

As a child, pretty much everyone goes to his or her mother for comfort – for the most part – regardless of the pickle we’re in. At times we’ll fabricate a problem just to hear her say, “Everything is going to be alright,” or stroke the side of our heads while whispering those loving words of encouragement (Perhaps, I’m the only one who did that – but, it felt great).

My mother used to take on my issues as if they were her own. She’d stomp up to anyone that caused me grief, wave her finger a few times while casting Omen-istic “you’ll be sorry” phrases in their direction. Hell, they’d run for the hills. It was great.

She was my best defense in those days.

"Yeah, wait ‘til I tell my mom. Then we’ll see how much laughing and snickering comes out of that trap. She’ll kick your ass down the street and wipe that grin clean off your face.”

I wish I had a dime for every time those scary admonitions blurted out in the face of humiliation or the numerous occasions when hair pulling, nudging, creepy, little boys put their paws on me. No one wanted to mess with my Ma. It was great.

When trouble followed me around at school, who do you think was there to clean up the mess? My mother, of course. Who told those bobbing penguins, at the catholic concentration camp I attended, a thing or two in my defense? Yeah, that’s right – my mommy.

But now, I’m all grown-up. We’re all grown-up.

Many a time during my adult life, looking back at those times with longing and an aching heart, I’ve wanted mom by my side. Ah, to be home again – worries, what worries – with parents (or at least one parent in my case) who care for you, love you unconditionally, fight for you, think for you. Damn, it does sound nice. Alas, there’s no going back. Sweet memories, what would we do without them?

Perhaps, you’re asking yourselves, “What prompted all this snorting and jabbering about days long since past?”

Well, I’ll tell you.

An email did.

From another writer – imagine that.

I have been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of many very talented and helpful authors. From time to time, we chew the fat about – oh, any ol’ thing – mainly, the dreaded publishing monster. This particular message had me smiling for days.

The names have been changed to protect the innocent. No really – no names – just a wee bit of what amused me:

“Well, there’s still this part of me that wants mommy to take my hand and lead me down to the publisher, give them a wag of the finger [and say], “Now you publish my baby’s book, or I’ll give you such a scolding! (Publisher takes book and compliantly obeys. I sit back as [my] books go sailing off the shelves of Barnes and Nobles.) It’s that simple.”

The tormented publisher at his desk forced into submission by any mother – especially one of a grown man – had me in tears. The mental image was menacingly glorious.

This man is – oh, maybe in his forties – an adult. Yet, yesterday's-parental-redeemer is making the rounds in his mind during times of trouble or trauma.

And he’s not alone.

Making it a point to hunt down unsuspecting victims in my home town, at least thirty-some times, I posed this question: “As an adult, have you ever wanted your mommy to come rescue you from any situation?”

Not one person said “no.”

Through stories of racecar drivers plowing into walls, others getting arrested, more feeling the pains of lost loves, even the tough he-man types battling something as small as a cold or flu; all irrefutably thought, “I want my mommy.”

Now, I don’t feel so bad.

My mother always used to say: “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. It will come soon enough.”

Boy, was she ever right.

Pit of Despair

Relationship issues, mainly, they are what interests me. Everything and anything about them tend to fascinate me just enough to forego any other thoughts or actions needing my attention. I relish the juiciest details and even enjoy the occasional witty one-liners (that are typically spoken by men – btw).

When the time comes to pay attention to my own life, however, I may fall short a time or two.

Like now, I fear.

A relationship occurs between parents and children as well as between men and women, husbands and wives. How I managed to attain any type of relationship with my children is one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Okay, maybe not, but it should have been.

I held down three jobs when my daughter was born. She was a toddler by the time I dropped one of the jobs and attended night classes at a very prominent (if I may say so myself) college. Four years later, I received my BSBA with honors – something I’ve really not ever had to mention in the past. Don’t know why I am now. A sense of pride, I guess.

All of the companies that employed my sorry ass, after graduation, did so solely on reputation – mine was one to be proud of – and I excelled in every position. I’ve not ever been known to “throw in the towel” very easily. Climbing my way up the corporate ladder, I made many friends as well as enemies. Life was tough, but never too tough.

To say the least, I have lived a very colorful life. I have made many mistakes, including my share in the “men department.” So you might ask, “Why the hell do you write about relationships then?” Because I can – no really – because of my history, they have fascinated me to the extent of conducting many little research projects of my own. But that’s neither or nor there, I’ll write more about that later.

Right now, my children are the issue.

My son met with me this morning for breakfast. Both of my children live in Charlotte, North Carolina; any chance I get to see them is a treat. Of course, except for today.

Breakfast started out pleasant enough, then the bomb hit. Our topic turned to my “ridiculous relationship with Jeff” as my son put it. Apparently the verdict has been handed down without my presence – I’m nuts. Of course, all of you know that already. I haven’t tried to hide this fact in any way, shape, or form.

My children are angry – very angry. My happiness for the last few months has meant very little to them – if anything at all.

So, this was my ultimatum as of this morning; if Jeff and I decide to get married, then I will have to do without my children in my life. How does one make such a decision? What manner of alienism is this? These can’t be my children.

The same adorable infants that sprang from my womb and filled my younger years with joy, excitement, and pride are now asking the impossible of me. How do I begin to even fathom the concept that these two, products of my very being, are now attempting to scar the amazing relationship that exists between myself and the most exceptional human being I have ever met.

I love them.

I love Jeff.

All of whom I want in my life until I take my very last breath.

I provided the answer to my children this morning – one I guess, they didn’t expect. Yet, I feel forlorn, lost, and desperate beyond measure. I can not – sorry Jeff, I know how you hate that phrase – but, I can not say “yes” to their demands. They are asking the impossible.

My life has totally changed by way of this one man. He has given me more than any man I have ever known. This is not a material statement – it is a matter of mind, body, and soul. Is either of us perfect – hell no, not in any sense of the word – but, we fit and fit well together I might add.

I keep hoping that this is all a dream. That I will wake up and my children will be who I thought they were, who I brought them up to be. To be sure, they are strong, intelligent, and caring individuals – I know this for a fact. Yet, they appear to have lost those qualities, to some extent, in the last few months.

They may be blinded by the past. They may be hurt or wish me to remain unscathed for the rest of my life. These are taken into account as I attempt to understand their misgivings.

Whatever the reason…

There is a great hole – deeper than ever imagined – in my heart. I have been haunted by its menacing shadow all day. The pain is undeniably a test of some kind – it has to be – otherwise, the task of conquering it could be near impossible. Its hold on me is strong and shows no mercy.

I miss my children.

I miss Jeff.

It is lonely in this place I call home.

To Be Or Not To Be

With a million things to write about – okay maybe not a million, but quite a few – I sit here with my mind wandering in total disarray. Only crazed thoughts enter my head as I gaze at the “in progress” material that clutters my files.

No sleep.

Quiet – but no peace.

The words to a song sung by Sister Hazel keep making their way through the fog: “You should see the world inside my head.” This musical biography of mine is taunting at best, mainly, because no one will ever be able to see what’s inside my or your head, not really. Attempting to explain bits and pieces of it might comfort the need for understanding, but it still leaves so many rooms dark and other doors shut.

Unexplained situations are a habit. Chaos is my way of life. It hasn’t always been that way – or has it?

Referencing the past has always been a way to ground the present. But, what happens if the shadows begin to shroud it as well. An impulse to focus on some of the “normal” events in my life initiated this post, so let’s start – at least take a stab at it – what do you think?

My first recollections are of kindergarten. At the age of four, this educational wasteland couldn’t have been more bizarre. I still remember the exact route, the names of the streets and how far I had to travel. Yet, the precise location escapes me. Embedded to memory are the afternoon naps on a purple rug after milk and cookies, the bully who always stood at the corner where I turned to go home each afternoon, and my first physical altercation with someone other than family members.

First to eighth grade in a catholic school could also be categorized as atypical. I was not one to conform readily even in those days. Mother Superior had the joy of wielding her power just about every morning as I knelt on the hard wood floors to prove the length of my plaid was satisfactory. The makeshift wooden implement used to instill authority and I became best buddies and visits to the confessional developed into a “multi-daily” task in the hopes of restoring my soul. The school authorities accredited my misconduct and mischief to a high IQ. My father blamed my mother, my mother blamed my father, and I didn’t see the error in my ways.

Piano lessons, the glee club, and drama classes were all part my parent’s retribution. Their grand expectations were set on converting me from the hoodlum before them into your average “run of the mill” youth. By eighth grade when an unsuccessful prank hurled me out of the Tilt-a-Whirl at a school carnival (that's a another story in itself), they realized their dreams for me might have been set a tad too high (no pun intended).

During the summer before ninth grade, my world changed. The move from my hometown, which my parents insisted would be for the best, only gave me more ammunition. Apparently, “going quietly” was not in my vocabulary, even then. I changed my whole wardrobe, exchanged the horn-rimmed glasses for contacts, and was hell-bent on leaving the person “dear old dad” had attempted to mold behind.

I met the man that summer that shaped most of the person you see before you. We became close friends – very close – family. He remained in my life and by my side for the next six years (his influence is explained better in an earlier post).

I also met and dated the captain of the football team during these trying years. Poor Harry. It couldn’t have been easy dating a blue jean, t-shirted, tomboy when mealy-mouthed cheerleaders accompanied most of his friends. The fact that my invariable pastimes consisted of working on cars, drinking beer, and racing didn’t help matters much either.

High school graduation and leaving home occurred within the same year at the ripe old age of seventeen. My only option, at the time, was to move in with a friend until I could afford my own apartment. Four months later, I joined the ranks of full-time employees and received the keys to my new place of residence. I never returned home and rarely spoke to my father after my independence came into full bloom – and bloom it did. Some might say it took on the attributes of a weed rather than the beautiful transitions of roses or daisies. I reveled in it just the same.

Living on my own had so many advantages in those days. Defiantly, staying up all night watching television with every room as bright as day; something unheard of back at the ranch. “Lights out by nine o’clock” were the words I had heard every night, all my life – until now. And television – what television? I was allowed one program a night and even that was not a matter of choice. It had to be something my father enjoyed viewing or nothing at all.

Beer and cigarettes became staples. Pizza was eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Staggering home during early morning hours was commonplace. The sun was there to greet me on many occasions after the evening’s festivities had come to an end.

As I look back now, I guess I’ve never been what you would call “normal.” There has always been an imp in me. Still is, I guess.

Will I ever change?

Maybe not.

Once again, the sun welcomes me. Still no sleep. Still quiet. Still no peace.