dots make diamonds...

Found Photo Stories

I have an idea to try my hand at writing fiction... I'd like to start a collection of short stories based on found photographs. 

Found Photo Story #1:

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Thelma wears her pearl necklace everywhere– to the beach, on her way to the post office, and even while playing a game of tennis.  These pearls are her most cherished memento left to her by her late mother.  Wearing them makes Thelma feel connected to a mother she wishes she’d been closer to in life.  So it’s not unusual on this occasion that Thelma’s pearls effortlessly waterfall down and around her neck.  It is strange, however, that she is sporting the “Island Chef” apron that her husband Theo brought back for her from his business trip to Hawaii.  She’s not known to make use of presents that she doesn’t fancy to be her style.  Thelma in fact has a closet full of unwanted gifts that she hopes to one day re-gift to unsuspecting friends and family.  In any case, tonight is a special night– Thelma wears the tacky apron to show Theo that she is proud of the promotion he received today at the advertising agency he works for.  He’s hardworking, comes up with most of the greatest ideas, and receives zero credit for his efforts.  However, as of today, he will make $40 more per week and he thinks this raise will help him sleep at night.

 The better half of Thelma’s day was spent making herself presentable for the evening’s dinner party.  She had nails to polish, hair to curl, and an outfit to construct.  Luckily, she was inclined to vacuum last Sunday before her French tutor came for their monthly lessons; and the tulips that Theo gave her for her birthday (a few days earlier) looked like they had just enough life in them to last through the party.  Thelma had also managed to lovingly set the table a week prior in attempt to appear relaxed and prepared when her dinner guests arrived, however, upon realizing she had not a drop of lime juice to serve up their favorite gimlets, she had to run to the corner store (curlers in hair) to fetch some just in time to return and find the first guest waiting on her doorstep.

Once hugs, kisses, hellos, and how-are-you’s are exchanged, Thelma encourages her friend to,

“Help yourself to a cocktail and fix me one while you’re at it.  I’ve just got to put dinner on the stove!”

As the rest of the guests arrive, Thelma (still in curlers) shouts greetings at them from the smoke filled kitchen while juggling mini quiches and casseroles.

future stew

I stumbled upon this poem I wrote last year.  Recent events seem to have added weight to it:

Future Stew

My backburner is turned on high
boiling thoughts--
of Cancer genes and
hereditary fatty cells.
Allowing these ingredients to surface
would be enough to boil me over.
So instead, I bring
the pot to a simmer.

Christine (Mama) Courtney 1/19/49 - 12/1/07

This fall it became evident that it was time for my mother's cancer to take her and she wanted to transition out of this world at home.  My family and I helped her do just that this week- we saw her through until she took her last breath in her own bed.  It was probably the most profound experience any of us will ever encounter.  We have all embraced that experience as if it was the best gift she could ever give us.  Naturally, I'll be faced with a heavy sadness, but all-in-all I'm happy that her suffering has ceased to burden her spirit.  And I have the great honor of carrying her memory onward and outward.

All goes onward and outward,  Nothing collapses.  And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier.                                                                                                                                                                                                

From Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"                                                                                                                                                         

happiness = a room with a minibar

Let me first express my love of oxymorons... small but mighty...happy dagger... violently happy... then let me share a wonderful passage from a book I'm reading called Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides– it's a concept that I've always cherished but could never find the right words to describe it. I think he hits the mark:

::Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling. I'd like to have at my disposal complicated hybrid emotions, Germanic traincar constructions like, say, "the happiness that attends disaster." Or: "the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy." I'd like to show how "intimations of mortality brought on by aging family members: connects with "the hatred of mirrors that begins in middle age." I'd like to have a word for "the sadness inspired by failing restaurants" as well as for "the excitement of getting a room with a minibar." I've never had the right words to describe my life, and now that I've entered my story, I need them more than ever::

Fridge-Worthy

My family dubbed me a “writer” long before I could come to appreciate the title. I spent most of my after-school hours, alone compiling books of poems and stories complete with dedications, table of contents, and “notes from the ten year old author.” Once my mother got a hold of my work, she would make tons of photocopies and send them off to live on relatives’ and friends’ refrigerator doors. It was embarrassing to see my most intimate thoughts magnetized to distant cousins’ appliances. In time, however, I developed a great sense of achievement in the whole writing process.

I signed up for a creative writing class in my senior year of high school. Looking back, I thank my lucky stars for that course because without it I think “Senioritis” could have gotten the best of me. The teacher was passionate and therefore a super inspiration. It was then I realized that writing pieces that made people laugh equaled happiness. I was unstoppable that year! One humorous poem led to another. I’m most proud of a children’s book I created that told a story of friendship through letters.

My writing, however, isn’t always puns and giggles. Once in awhile it’s laced with cynicism and reeks of the bittersweet. At the start of college, I was enrolled in an English Composition course. There I wrote “My Defective Superhero” which is a memoir of how my mother and I laughed our way through the scary stages of her breast cancer. “Eccentricity,” is a descriptive journey through my loony Aunt Marilyn’s claustrophobic brownstone. I find pleasure (not to mention therapy) in writing about the dysfunctions of life, which might be why I enjoy reading authors such as Simon Doonan, Augusten Burroughs, and Amy Sedaris.

Hiccups in everyday routine also leave me inspired. The introduction of a refreshing individual, unusual antics on the commuter bus, or stepping in unidentifiable slime all qualify as interruptions in life that might encourage me to write a poem or story.

As a recent college graduate, working towards a profession in Packaging Design (or something like it), I express myself through creative copy on the backs and sides of boxes. All that I can hope for is that in searching for a sandwich, someone might stumble upon my words on a freezer door (or a box inside the freezer) and laugh until they cry or cry until they laugh.

Recipe for Success? No, for PMS!

_ Good portion of Irritability
_ A bag of migraines
_ Bottle of pain reliever
_ Flurry of hot flashes
_ Truckload of emotions
_ Pinch of drowsiness
_ 2 sore breasts
_ Desired amount of
chocolate

1. Marinate sore breasts in a fair
amount of irritability.
2. Empty migraines into large bowl
and immediately add entire
bottle of Midol.
3. Stir in hot flashes and add a
couple pinches of drowsiness.
4. Mix, beat, toss and turn all of
the emotions.
5. Top with as much chocolate as
possible.
6. For best results, chill for 5-7 days.

Boys Leave Your Wallets Home!

Boyfriend Wanted! Must be dashingly handsome, sensitive, witty, and fun. Must also be able to reach things in high places, open tight jars, and fix most everything! Now all clichés aside, notice my boyfriend want want-ad doesn’t call for a man with a bulging wallet. When searching for a potential date, I ask “Is he fun to talk to? Is he cute? Does he shower regularly?” I almost never wonder, “Does he have a ton of cash?” He’s a man, not an ATM machine! However, I find that even in today’s modern society, girls all over the country expect men to shell out all kinds of cash on dates. Is it wrong if I feel the need to whip out my wallet and pay for my own hamburger and romantic comedy?

I recently went to see a movie with a guy and the most awkward part of the date came when it was time to pay for the tickets. We both exchanged bills with the cashier: that was that. I was so relieved. There was no “Put your money away… I’ll get this one… No, really let me.” Thank God. Some women act like the sun won’t come out tomorrow after a man doesn’t insist on forking over the green for her chicken Caesar salad. Personally, I’d gladly pay for myself and my date if he’d have it. I once dated a guy who was in between jobs at the time. If I hadn’t been willing to fund our Friday nights out, we might have sat home and engaged in some enthralling games of Monopoly. And I know if the situation were flipped, he would happily treat me to a night out. So you see, I feel if one person is more financially able to pay for a date, more power to ‘em; whether it be he or she.

Some might argue that men should pay because it’s been an age-old tradition forever and ever and ever; but hey, people thought the world was flat for the longest time, and we’ve made some realizations since then. Column writer, Glenn Sacks knows how it should be:

Enough! The obligation of a man to pay can wound a budding relationship by placing money and one-sided expectations where love and honesty should be. In addition, its innate unfairness hinders the uneasy rapprochement men and women are currently negotiating after three decades of gender conflict. In the long run, abolishing this outmoded social convention will benefit both men and women. And what’s fair is fair. (Sacks)

You tell them Glenn! Old habits die hard, I know, but it’s about time we make a change here.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no he-woman-man-hater. I enjoy the Cinderella story just as much as the next princess. I believe in chivalry and some form of courtship, but I don’t expect my knight in shining armor to wine me, dine me, and buy me diamonds. It seems like a lot of men feel like 24 carat gold is the only way to a girl’s heart. In “Girl’s Best Friend,” rapper, Jay-Z professes:

“Soon I spent every dollar/ You became my habit… In the hands of goldiggas you’re never enough/ Rings, things, just never enough.”
(Jay-Z)

I certainly don’t want to be anybody’s habit! Hey Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, whatever, I don’t care how may benjamins you’ve got. You had just better treat me nice!

How does Prince Charming feel about all this? I asked a couple male friends if they would feel less of a man in the event of a lady paying her own (and maybe his) way. Most agreed it’s tough [in] deciding whether or not they should pay, but would not mind if a woman offered to go Dutch. One friend said he “would be flattered” if she took care of the bill. Another claimed that when he doesn’t offer to pay, the woman should take that as a sign that he’s not into her and shouldn’t expect a second date.

Another reason for my paying is I don’t want the man to feel I owe him anything. The following excerpt is from a book collective for women by women:

The tradition that men pay for meals and tickets on dates feels comfortable to some women but not to others. Sometimes a man uses this tradition as a way to make a woman feel indebted to him, implying that she would ‘repay’ him with sex. (Pincus 189)

I am in no way “indebted” to anyone if he picks up the tab. Back when cavemen did their thing, testosterone driven males hunted and offered meat to the women as a sort of payment. I’m no cavewoman! Before women’s lib, females vacuumed, bathed babies, and cooked tuna casseroles for their male counterparts. I’m no housewife! I work hard for the money and Boston Market can have dinner ready in five.

The bottom line is I think it’s mighty courteous to open doors, pull out chairs, and cover puddles; however, let it be known that I’m perfectly capable of these things. I’m quick to the draw when it comes to paying for eats and entertainment on dates, but I won’t start a riot if a man insists on treating moi. I don’t require a tennis bracelet and dozens of roses to keep me content; good conversation and the occasional complement will tide me over. So ladies, let’s not be bought by men, and remember, if Mr. McHandsome forgets his wallet, it’s nothing to get all crazy about.

Works Cited

Jay-Z. “Girl’s Best Friend”. Vol. 3: Life and Times of S. Carter. Def Jams. 1999.

Pincus, Jane. Our Bodies, Ourselves: For the New Century, The Boston’s Women’s Health Book Collective. “Working Toward Mutuality: Our Relationships with Men”. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1998.

Sacks, Glenn. “Should Men Still Be Expected to Pay for Dates?” 16 Nov. 2003, 14 Feb. 2002.
http://www.glennsacks.com/should_men_still.htm.

Black Smile

I had bad luck with teeth as a kid. By my second birthday I had already had one too many run-ins with my mustachioed dentist. I guess my mother let me suck on my bottle too long so I developed something referred to as “milk mouth” and had to undergo a procedure to put caps on my front teeth. All I remember from that ordeal is being wheeled into recovery in what felt like a circus animal cage. Sometimes I’m not sure if that memory is real or a fragment from a nightmare.

Anyway, the real “teeth” tale to be told happened when I was in kindergarten. My closest friend at the time was a smart, quiet girl named Raven Lauro. I spent hundreds of afternoons over at her house since my mom worked full time and there was nobody to eat after-school grilled cheeses with at my house. Thankfully, the Lauro home had Fred, who was always there to offer a ferocious welcome. Fred was a six-foot, taxidermied, grizzly bear that Mr. Lauro brought home from one of his hunting excursions. Whether it was a Santa hat at Christmastime, shamrock shorts for St. Patty’s, or jeans on casual Fridays, Fred was decked out for every occasion.

Despite the quirky grizzly in the living room, the Lauros were perfectly disciplined like a family in an after-school special. It was always, “homework before playtime” with delicious, home-cooked snacks in between. It was only after all schoolwork had been reviewed, that we could head out to their fenced-in, suburban back yard. Raven and her sister, Georgi, had everything a six-year-old wished for on his/her Christmas list. The scene was furnished with an above-ground pool, trampoline, and of course, a sparkling, aluminum swing-set. The set was complete with a clubhouse, slide, two regular swings, and one two-seater teeter-totter swing. The teeter-totter swing transported us to the planet Pluto, planted us on many a pirate ship, and ultimately landed me in the emergency room!

Even though Raven’s sister was younger than us, we sometimes let her join in on our games- if only so it looked like we were making an effort to include her when Mrs. Lauro peeked out at us from the kitchen window. In reality, our kindergarten attitudes made it so we never let her be a captain or a princess. The roles of deckhand and pauper were reserved for Georgi if and when we paid her any attention at all. You’re probably asking yourself, “What does any of this have to do with bad luck and teeth?” Bear with me, I’m working towards that.

I’m not sure what imaginary world we were frolicking in on the day of the incident- the whole thing is sort of a blur. I think the “kindergarten trauma” and “childhood nightmares” files are catalogued in the same folder in my memory bank so sometimes they seem one in the same. Anyway, the bulk of what I do remember goes something like this:

Raven and I were doing our thing on the regular swings unaware that her sister was picking up speed on the teeter-totter swing. I guess at some point I gracefully ejected myself from my swing and backed up towards Georgi on the two-seater. She must have gained some serious momentum because before I knew what hit me (the empty end of the teeter totter), I was down on the ground with a numb mouth and the Lauro girls were screaming. Mrs. Lauro came out in a panic and by the horrified look on her face I could have swore my face fell off. From here the memory becomes incoherent- bloody hands, nervous faces, and a rocking embrace. I thank my brain’s stenographer for not engraving the pain in full detail on the walls of my memory.

My mother arrived on the scene, oblivious to the accident, “Hi Fred, cool sunglasses!” After greeting the stuffed grizzly, she noticed Raven’s mom was cradling me on the couch.

“What’s going on here?”

“There’s been a mishap. I think it’s pretty serious…”

“Valerie what happened?”

Raven’s mom cupped my mouth. I think she came to the conclusion that if I tried to answer myself, the strings my teeth were hanging on would snap. Raven relived the whole thing for my mother who was already on the phone with Dr. Hilasfky, my dentist who eerily resembled Geraldo Rivera (but even creepier.) Supposedly, he had just closed the office and was half way home for the day but he considered my bloody mess to be enough of an emergency to turn around and meet us immediately.
As creepy as he was (I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a convicted pervert), Dr. Hilasfky was a miracle worker when it came to kids’ damaged chompers. He also had an awesome “prize drawer” for drooling kids to rummage through while they were coming off of Novocain and laughing gas. This is where I attained my “Toothy Treasure” box that housed my four front teeth after he yanked ‘em out.

“Mom, you fink the toof fairy will know what happened to my teef?”

“Of course, I called her personally. She’s going to take extra special care of you.”

Miss Tooth Fairy must have felt really bad about my experience because a flip of my pillow revealed a crisp twenty-dollar bill (either that or she didn’t have anything smaller in her purse.) She also left the treasure chest of teeth for me to show off to all my friends at school. While most kids of my caliber were still tugging at their first loose baby tooth, I’d knocked out four at a time. This phenomenon gained me new status on the playground. I went from playing the wimpy “damsel in distress” to lurking around in the “bad-ass vampire” role. I hissed at bullies- my black smile haunted them on their nap mats. My new set of teeth must have grown in just in time for picture day because there proves to be no evidence of this toothless tale. All that remains of my teeth trauma is fragmented memories of teeter-totter swings, blood in hands, accessorized taxidermy, and kindergarten politics.

by heart

She reads his face as clearly
As she can recite the alphabet.
Finds his hand as practiced
As she can reach the street she grew up on.
She knows his voice as though it were
A song she remembers all the words to.
Figures out his humor like it were math
Upon her fingers.
She’s accustomed herself with his laugh
Just as she’s adapted to the airplanes’ rumble.
His vows stand as tall as she did
In pledging allegiance all those mornings.
She knows his face, his voice, his hands,
Like anything else worth knowing-
By heart.

safety

Why am I always haphazardly thrown about?
Left cold in bed until the nightly flash of the digital box.
For years, I rode sidecar on many a trip to Tara Park.
I housed grilled cheese remnants.
Served as cape to a queen.
These days I’m tied up in knots-
Seldom touched.
Am I an embarrassment?
Do I cause shame?
I was held in high regard, once upon a time.
Have I worn out my welcome?
Why keep me around?
I’m only paid attention when the day overwhelms her.
And even then she just twists and squeezes my dying parts.
I’m tender in my old age-
Withered and shrunken.
There was a time when I was a world traveler.
I’ve seen the insides of churches, shopping malls, and dentists’ offices.
Nowadays I’m lucky if I make it out to the living room.
I still crave adventure-
Can still smell tomato soup!
Never again will I see the likes of a sleepover.
Is it my fate to be trimmed and framed?
She’s left me to die for so long.