Hardscrabble

Hardscrabble

They call me Hardscrabble.  I have absolutely no idea why other than maybe it was someone else’s inside joke but I figured people saw me as marked by poverty because my eighth birthday party was in a church basement and my mother served us kids a melted birthday cake and sent us outside to play in a half deflated bouncy castle, on concrete.  The nickname just stuck I guess.  It’s quite the opposite really; I enjoy the full embrace of a charmed life.  Well, according to my standards that is, and you can judge for yourself whether or not my standards are acceptable or even applicable.   Doesn’t matter much to me though, it’s none of my beeswax what other people think of me.  To put it mildly, I’m living the dream, one slow nightmare at a time. They call me Hardscrabble but my name is Myrtle Yootha Mumford; don’t even get me started on my middle name.  Please, call me Hardscrabble.

Don’t let my birth name fool you.  I’m not old, I’m a mere thirty-something twerp, born to parents who either have a really sick sense of humor or who don’t fully understand the concept of irony.  And while it’s true that I didn’t have friends called Allegra or Cassandra who said words like contrived and audacity, I did okay for a girl whose name could easily be mistaken for a cantankerous old bitty on Coronation Street.  I made friends with the kids called Clarence (not to be confused with the awesome saxophone stylings of the late Clarence Clemons), Pearl (don’t tangle that one up with Nashville’s Minnie Pearl but now that I think of it, she did wear a green John Deere bucket hat everyday), Bart (no relation to the animated Simpson’s family) and Clarice (if I never hear the phrase ‘Hellllo Clarice’ again it would be too soon).  I also had a friend, Gertrude, Grody Gertie.  She had a grotesque hook nose and a zero scruples.  Once, a boy in school tried to grope her boob and she whopped him so hard his glasses flew two rows over and he suffered a bloody gash on his bottom lip from his braces.  She always called everyone a poop sock. I don’t really know what kind of insult it’s supposed to be but it was her number one smash hit.  Gert was a touch grody though.  She was prone to digging wax out of her weird little ears and rolling it all up into a ball between her finger and thumb.  Blarf. I suppose though at the end of the day, it doesn’t bode well for me having parents called Hilda and Clifton.  I was doomed from the start.  You can’t blame me for the idiocy, I didn’t invent the wheel.  In case you were wondering, I just gave my shoulders a lazy little shrug.

I am about to impart on you an extraordinary amount of information in a remarkably short period of time.  For the next several minutes I will be your resourceful narrator.  I promise I’ll refrain as much as I can from being pleading and mournful so your empathy doesn’t betray you and I’ll try not to linger too long on a phrase or curse like a sailor.  Actually, I don’t even know why I said that last bit.  I rarely cuss unless I stub my toe and then every dirty word I know rolls off my tongue.  I use my words.  Creatively.  At least I think so.  Please note, as a reward for not bailing on me, you’ll be entered into a draw for your chance to win a whatchamacallit, you know, one of those thingamajigs, that doohickey.  You know what I’m talking about, right?  Or a Kit Kat.  The chunky variety.  Or, whichever is readily available at the time of our parting. It probably won’t be the chocolate though; I’ll have snacked on it by then.  Good luck.

In most cases, I am very discreet about my life.  I pay attention to signs but often misinterpret them, read my horrorscope just to guffaw and dabble in the trusted Magic Eight Ball but it always stalls before telling me I’m an idiot.  I’m a dimpled brunette, an under-employed freelance writer who works a pair of well -worn sweat pants and writes drivel until it’s a pile of nonsense.  I’m the kind of slugabed to abandon said pile of nonsense for other in-house entertainment such as playing solitaire with a real deck of cards as opposed to the fake one on my computer, braiding my own hair or eating gobs of Fluff right out of the jar.  Short attention span?  Guilty.  I was once really good at expressing the inexpressible, words shot out of my fingers like lightning bolts but I’ve been tapped out ever since the expiration of my brief wild-flower and mason jar wedding and quickie rained out honeymoon at an all-inclusive roadside motel.  It was ‘paradise’ themed, complete with a round coin operated bed and a heart-shaped bathtub big enough to sponge bath my big toe in. Let’s not forget the leaky ceiling and shag carpet.  A woman scorned?  You bet.  I know, you’re probably thinking another man-hating troll but it shot through the heart.  That, by the way, is in no way a direct reference to Bon Jovi’s ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’.  I hate hair bands; they are so awesome.  I won’t offer you a delicate charcoal sketch of our loving footprints together but I will be sure to spill my guts on the gory details of our swift demise.  All I know is that from the stress and shock I sprouted a giant cold-sore dangerously resembling a second head and developed an itchy yeast infection that all but killed me and I didn’t even do anything fun to inherit them.

As I was saying, I’m a pretty private person but after being sequestered in my half empty two-bedroom apartment paralyzed by dejection and nursing swollen ankles from a potato chip and Mr. Noodles diet for five months I’ve decided to go public.  I drank too many beers the other night while half folding a week old basket of clean laundry then moved on to a sink full of cruddy dishes.  I was standing there with my hands in greasy sludge scrubbing a stubborn film of dried egg from a frying pan and it came to me, the hell with this emotional regression, suck it up you dummy and write it allll out.  Of the tens of people who will experience this tirade, someone is at least bound to pretend to listen and if I can save one woman from taking an unlucky plunge with a philandering poop sock then so be it.  I may as well have married a potato.  Now that I am thinking about it, he cheated on a girl when he first met me.  I wasn’t aware there was someone else until after the fact so you know the rule of thumb, if he cheats with you it’s highly likely he’ll cheat on you.  Leopards seldom change their spots.  That’s Bernie’s theory anyway but more on her later.  I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

Forging ahead on my own has been thorny.  Up until this moment, I’ve felt like nothing more than a bag of teeth.  In other words, insignificant.  I went from someone whose eyes danced with delight every single time he walked into the room to a hypnotized mademoiselle bereft of consciousness and self-awareness, in other words, a grotesque disemboweled zombie.  You know that saying if it seems too good to be true it probably is? It applies to my ex-husband, Anthony Trooper.  He is definitely worth a phrase denoting pessimism.  I mean I caught him ker-plunking a co-ed in our bed and he had the nerve to blame me.  Our quarrel went something like this and I am paraphrasing here so try a little tenderness:

Him:  “This is your fault!”  (Imagine a man with a scruffy GQ face and a golfer’s body bolting up off of a messy bed, wrapping a sheet around his waist in complete shock while the bimbo with the sweaty hair squeals in embarrassment trying to hide her bits and bobbles.  Just like those cliché movie scenes.  Yes, ladies and germs, they really happen.)

Me:  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shove you head first into her VAGINA.”  (Imagine me indignant, head snapping in anger, talking with my hands while trying not to cry and looking for something out of the corner of my eye to pick up and brain him with.)

Him:  “Well if you would get dressed once in a while, stop wearing those Jesus shoes and pry your fat ass off the couch and get shit done around here and be present things like this wouldn’t happen.”  (Imagine the cheater gathering the sheet up more in the front as if to protect his person.  No movement from the cream puff.)

Me:  “I AM PRESENT EVERY DAMN DAY!”  (Imagine me exclaiming.)  “I am a WRITER.  I work from HOME, I don’t HAVE to get dressed if I don’t want to.  And when I’m not writing I’m cleaning your house and cooking your meals and being your WIFE. I beg your pardon if I missed the part in our vows that we took TWO months ago that stated you were free to Christian Mingle jail bait!!  Let’s just go ahead and build you a monument for HUSBAND of the year!!”  (Imagine the vein in my neck growing to Incredible Hulk proportions.  And yes, I used Christian Mingle as a verb.  Political correctness be damned.)

Him:  (Imagine him stammering.)  “I … you … fuck you, Hardscrabble.”

Me:  “Real mature.  I hope you get wiener-rot and it falls off.  That’s what you deserve.”  (I get the upper hand here and I apologize for my choice of words but I was married to a man who sometimes jokingly referred to himself as The Jizz Infidel post coitus.  It was amusing when I was into him but all of those little things soured the second he cheated.  Other details best left unsaid for now.)  “Whatever, Trooper.  Get your hunk of hole and your stuff and get OUT.”

He didn’t protest.  And naturally, I fell apart.  We two, divorcees.

The fact that I married a man who calls flip flops Jesus shoes should have been my first indicator that a) I was insane and 2) he was too good to be true as well a comprehensive list of antonyms to imply good but just in the looks department.  After months of not shaving my legs, brushing my teeth with chardonnay and blaming myself for not being a Barbie Doll, I decided never again would I put my mouth on a man.  No man, no matter how much charm he radiates or how many stupid promises he makes, this blithering idiot was done like dinner.  It doesn’t matter that I’m sexually valuable, in my prime and it doesn’t make any difference how unaccountably loyal he is or that he loves his Mama and doesn’t care when I pee with the bathroom door open.  Hardscrabble is done.  Myrtle Mumford is out of the man loop.  Incidentally, our break up coincided with my discovering Adele’s heartbreak record, 21.  Adele came to me in one of my long gin-soaked crying jags; waded through the mountain of Kleenex to find me curled up in a fetal position and told me her record would be my summer wasted if I didn’t smarten up and straighten out, to quit being a whingey twat and get on with it.  I love her for telling me like it is, you know?  I think that was also the night I had a dream I was responsible for telling all of the small children of the world there was no such thing as Santa Claus and was jolted out of my coma by bawling littles pitching sharp pieces of candy cane at my face.  Your erroneous heroine has a slurry mind when she is knocked down.  Don’t judge me.

Obviously, being a writer type, I am prone to being insular so Spinsterhood seemed fitting.  I write almost full time for Travel Quest magazine so I spend a lot of time online and researching, nestled quietly in my space where I make things happen.  When Trooper and I were just cohabitating, he thought it was sexy to wander in and find me fashionably unkempt, working away with the window wide open, the stereo pumping and half empty cups of caffeinated beverages littering my desk.  He incorporated a little poem with his nickname for me, “Frowsy Wifty, kiss me, kiss me.”  (Side note:  Just to clarify, frowsy means habitually unkempt and wifty means silly and/or dizzy.)  Of course the second I find him berries deep in someone else it all suddenly becomes slovenly sloth behavior and I’m deduced to being a giant cow out in a pasture.  Figures, doesn’t?  Double standards are a shady business boys and girls club.  A confrère asked me if I could ever forgive Trooper for his indiscretion, the fancy word we’re apparently using now for betrayal.  I bristled at the suggestion.  Cheating on your wife isn’t a little whoopsie daisy it’s certifiably VERBOTEN.  You get my meaning.   To answer my social contact’s question I simply replied like a goofy nobble, “When pigs sprout angel wings and fly.”

I want to tell you about my novel but maybe I should tell you about Bernie Blixen first.  She’s my neighbor across the hall and at this moment in time, my only friend and ally.  Trooper got all of our friends in the divorce and the comfy couch.  Bernie, short for Bernadette, is what you might imagine a Grand Madame of cougars might be like if there ever was such a thing.  And by cougar I mean that crass word coined for women who are too old to be dressing too young and slobbering over twenty-something boys.  Believe it or not, she’s a dead ringer for Mrs. Roper, the randy landlady on Three’s Company minus the muumuus. For an older broad, her skin is flawless; it makes me hate her just a little bit. Often times she’ll be slinking around in Lulu Lemon yoga attire adorned with chunky gold jewelry and whatever bright lipstick is in for the season.  Sounds gauche I know but the dame can really pull it off.  She and I became friends the afternoon I heaved all of Trooper’s things out in the hallway while he was still scrambling around for his duplicitous drawers.  A few hours later there was a faint rap on my door.  I reluctantly opened it, my eyes all puffy like I just went a few rounds with an irate Mike Tyson.  She was standing there holding a bottle of Skinny Girl vodka. I’m guessing it was her brave attempt to ferret me out.  I however, was in no shape for the tsunami of attention.  Our first encounter went a little like this:

Me:  “Yeah?”  (Imagine me with a gray sickly hue, striped pajama pants tucked into thick wool work socks and a faded Doors t-shirt.)

Her:   (Imagine her just as I described except a great enunciator.)  “Baby girl, if we have learned anything valuable at all from those crazy Mayans, it would be if you don’t finish something it isn’t the end of the world.   In other words, Sugar, don’t cry over a man who doesn’t deserve your tears.  He isn’t worth a damn to walk away from a good woman.  I saw you kids when you moved in, you, you were sharp but I never liked the look of him.  Too suspect for my taste, he looked like he always had something to hide.  I am guessing now he did.  Looks like you could use a friend.  Here’s a little support from Bernie in 4B. Anything you need, kiddo …” (Imagine her handing me the bottle and winking supportively, if that’s even a thing, a supportive wink.)

Me:  “Thanks.”  (Imagine me closing the door, sinking into the over-sized arm chair that matched the comfy couch now missing from my spacious living area, cracking the bottle then cracking up.)

I didn’t invite her in that first time but I took the hooch.  Don’t’ give me that look, she insisted.  I know it was mean to not reciprocate when someone showed me a kindness but my husband of mere months, the human I spent three years with planning out an entire future just walked out on me in favor of buffing tweens.  Well, technically I told him to get out but under the circumstances … geez.  Bernie understood though and didn’t expect much in return anyway.  She hovered and kept an eye out.  She’s been my cheerleader, my mentor and the biggest pain in the patootie I’ve ever known.  I did briefly consider reaching out to Trooper to maybe work things out but Bernie reminded me that our conscience is what hurts when all the other parts of us are pleasured.  It wasn’t so for dear old Trooper, he clearly crapped out the last shred of decency he had in him.  I changed my mind after sleeping on that little nugget.  I’m glad now that I did or else I’d have just looked like daft ninny. And you know, he still hasn’t apologized for any of it and Bernie says strength comes from accepting the apology you never get.  Personally, I think that’s a crock of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter but hey, it happened to me so I’m entitled to my opinion.  Considering going backwards is like being homesick for a place you’ve never been before, nutty.  I confess that I do have jiffies where I miss him frantically but then I snap out of it and reward myself with a two-liter of root-beer and a pint of dulce de leche Haagen Dazs.  Most of the time I waffle over the decision to eat or to nap, I often find myself too tired to cook but too hungry to sleep.  I decided the best of both worlds would work, lazing and munching, a Monsanto-approved diet.  Believe it or not, I actually did attempt a balanced food regime once I started to pull my flaky cake head out of my derrière.  This one night I made myself a salad for dinner.  I stabbed together a hunk of herbed Havarti cheese, an aged organic grape tomato with a leaf of baby romaine and when I started to chew it up it tasted like Trooper’s semen.  That was the end of that.  Blerg.  I traded in my dandelion greens and kale for big ol’ messy Betty Crocker cupcakes.  I still work a Thigh Master though, God bless Suzanne Somers.  I may be a garbage disposal but I’m not that irresponsible that I’ll let myself go.  Don’t get me wrong, I have the potential to be Gilbert Grape’s mother, make no mistake but I like to move it move it.  As in dance, when the mood strikes.  Throw a little old rock southern boogie on and both of my left feet are aflutter.  I do like to cut a rug and when I do good things tend to happen but more on that later.

In a twisted way, I was glad to be unhappy for a little bit.  Being idyllically exultant all the time is bloody exhausting.  Obviously I’d prefer to still have my marriage intact and my life on track but because it isn’t I am afforded the small luxury of being an insufferable tyrant.  Hooliganism is a pungent tonic and I indulged.  My malaise told me to listen to all my Smiths records back to back and think deeply about all the things I wanted to do with my life but never did.  (Side note: Today I considered moving on to Morrissey’s solo efforts but opted for Air Supply’s power ballads on repeat instead.) For example, when I was a kid I wanted to be one of two things; a drummer or a fancy soap opera actress.  I was fanatical about music videos and always honed in on the drummer.  I wanted to be as hot as Sheila E and as epic as Phil Collins.  The trouble is I lack any kind of coordination and rhythm.  I can barely clap so there you go.  I also grew up watching daytime soaps with my mom in the early 80s.  I would crawl in my Smurf sheets at night, turn my pillow sideways and pretend I was a glamorous actress with an older salt and pepper-haired lover, an oil baron or a billionaire.  I’d gently stroke my fingers in slow deliberate circles pretending it was chest hair, give it suggestive glances, laugh flirtatiously and throw my hair-spray hard hair back while he whispered sweet nothings.  My dreams were lofty.  Hell, they still are.

It has long been my ambition to write a novel.  Now that am sans husband and a fertile future you would think I’d be up for the long arduous task of selfishly devoting my spare time to creative writing.  You know what they say, the sooner you fall behind the longer you’ll have to catch up.  Procrastinate, it’s now or never.  Don’t put it off.  Believe me, I’m trying.  My efforts to date are boldly going nowhere, it may as well be written in crayon. The project, tentatively titled ‘Sugar Rush’ is my creative attempt at collecting a slew of meandering thoughts and molding them into a story.  It’s bloated with clichés and one-dimensional characters who say things like whoop de do and whodunit.  Additionally, I also employ heavy use of ellipsis; suspension points, points of ellipsis or more commonly and colloquially known as dot dot dot.  I use them to build tension but truthfully it’s more because I am unable to finish my sentence and I get stuck, I feel like they make me look artsy and smart.  I don’t want to be one of those novelists who is cynical and believes writing is ten percent inspiration, fifteen percent perspiration and seventy-five percent desperation.  I am a solid achiever, gosh dammit it.  I can do crossword puzzles with my bleeding eyes closed.  The sad limitations of my pea brain, short attention span, a penchant for daydreaming and zest for goofing off all contribute to my raging writer’s block.  And, no matter how much I tell myself I do, I don’t have enough time to waste.

I’ve read a boat load of articles online on how to alleviate the writer’s block.  I’ve tried exercise, hitting the treadmill in my building’s gym but there’s always a group of creepy little kids in the daycare across the hall that stare at me through the glass walls.  It is suggested to schedule a time to write every day.  I could do that but then it would cut into my daily Desperate Housewives DVD marathon.  And believe me, after all that high drama and intrigue, I’m spent.  They always talk about setting deadlines, I assure you, I will be late to my own funeral and I don’t work well under pressure.  I buckle like a pilgrim.  They also say if all else fails, see a shrink.  Negative.  I should be checked for OCD or something though; I am so precious about the smallest things.  My distractions range from fussing with the dish towels hanging on the stove when they are uneven, playing with the small skin tag on my side just under my bra in the hopes that it’ll eventually just fall off, counting the same jar of pennies just because it’s soothing and hiding Grumpy Cat memes on my Facebook newsfeed because it honestly isn’t funny anymore and makes me want to pop a screw.  My new favorite thing lately, to combat both boredom and the creative crud is to watch the goings on in the hallway out of my peephole.  Mine has one of those nifty fisheye lenses so that you can see a wider view from inside but no one can see a thing from the outside.  And thank God for that.  I’d hate to know someone had their face pressed to my front door trying to catch a glimpse of me licking the beaters but its ok for me to monitor my hall as I see fit.  I’m a home-owner.  I’m authorized.

Because of my new favorite pastime I made a discovery.  Get this.  Every Wednesday at 9:30pm, a young buck emerges from Bernie’s apartment.  I have watched now for three weeks and it’s like bloody clockwork.  I know she canoodles with younger stuff and I know she and I are buddies but the thought of them horizontally bopping is horrifyingly offensive, a complete waste.  Strong irrational reaction?  I agree.  I’ve seen her scoop up and throw away some of the finest young male specimens I’ve ever seen.  Why should this dingle dork be any different?  Confession time.  The first time I laid my single eye on him through the peeper I went weak in the knees.   He has a little something something that revs my lady engine.  I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers, that’s for sure.  After the third sighting I had daydreams about doing night things with him, his rushing hands and roaming fingers.  Week four, against my better judgment, I bypass the peeper, follow him down the hall and stand with him to wait for the elevator.  I didn’t plan it or else I wouldn’t have been wearing my fuzzy slippers and a rogue scrunchie I found in a drawer while binge cleaning and blasting Duran Duran.  Kids, I am hungry like a wolf for this guy.  A total shock.  I did not see that coming, it blindsided me just like Trooper’s groupie. The only con is that Bernie has already had her way with him and her joints don’t lock so in that regard I am screwed but the need to encounter him is penetrating.  Our introduction went something like this:

Me: (Imagine me sashaying up beside him looking like the black sheep of The Bangles with a goofy Saturday Night Live smirk on my dimpled face.)  “How’s it going?”  (Imagine me how, with my fidgety hands at my sides, flirtatiously rocking back and forth on my slippered heels.)

Him:  (Imagine a young Brad Pitt circa Thelma and Louise with bright blue eyes and a smile that would curl Helen Keller’s toes.)  “It’s going.  You?” 

Me:  (Imagine me dying to reenact the most manic moments of Beatlemania in two point five seconds when his eyes casually meet mine.)  “You must be a friend of Bernie’s, I’m her neighbor and best bud from across the hall.”  (Imagine me beating myself up inside for the shrill tone of my swoony voice.)

Him:  (Imagine him casually slipping his meaty hands into his jacket pockets and grinning at me.)  “Something like that.”  (Imagine the elevator dinging and the doors sliding open.)  “Going down?”

Me:  (Imagine Madonna’s ‘Like A Virgin’ video, that was the inside of my head.)  “Going down?  What?  Oh!  No.  I was going down to the lobby to check my mail.  I forgot my key.”  (Imagine me patting my non-existent pocket on my pajama pants.)  “I guess I’ll have to go back and get it.  Nice meeting you …”

Him:  (Imagine him stepping into the elevator in slow motion.)  “Hugh Suggs.”  (Oh, that smile.)

Me:  (Imagine me leaning forward on my tippy toes to answer and then hesitate.  Imagine the internal tug of war, me not wanting to reveal my name.)  “They call me Hardscrabble.”

Him:  (Imagine him chuckling.)  “Pleasure.”  (Imagine the elevator doors closing.)

Me:  (Imagine me talking to the closed elevator doors.)  “All mine, Romero.”

I turn to go back to my apartment, my spank bank fully loaded and I come face to face with Bernie, standing at her door, arms folded, patent-leather toe tapping.  I stop dead in my tracks, like a deer caught in the headlights.

Her:  (Imagine her in tight black capris pants and a silky sleeveless blouse giving me the stink eye.)  “What exactly is it you were doing out here, Sugar?”

Me:  (Imagine my face tomato red.)  “Ohhh … I was just … running to check my mail.  Yeah, mail.”

Her:  (Imagine the look on her face suggesting she believes me to be full of beans.)  “Is that right?  And it didn’t have anything to do with the young man that just got on the elevator?”

Me:  (Imagine me trying to buy into my own lie that I’ve told twice now to an untrusting audience.)  “Who?  What young man?  There isn’t anyone out here.”

Her:  (Imagine her shaking her head, her bold fuchsia earrings clacking as they sway.)  “You are a terrible liar.  Baby girl, you are busted. “

Me:  (Imagine me caught and flustered, sighing.)  “Fine, I saw that guy come out of your apartment a few times.  I think he’s … you know … kinda wow.  Doesn’t matter anyway, you’ve already had your way with him but I just wanted to see him up close, that’s all.  I swear.”

Her:  (Imagine her curling her lips into a devilish grin, perfectly lined with clear gloss.)  “Honey, having my way with him would make me a vile despicable woman, I’m adventurous but I draw the line at incest.  He’s my nephew.  Comes over every Wednesday for dinner and a game of crib.”

Me:  (Imagine me speechless.  I know, almost impossible.)  “Oh my God Bernie, I’m sorry.  I just assumed … “

Her:  (Imagine her giving me a touch more stink eye.)  “Never make assumptions, Pussy Cat.  They’ll get you into trouble.”  

Me:  (Imagine me firmly put in my place and then finding my nerve.)  “Got it. So, can you maybe introduce me?”

Her:  (Imagine her lips pursing.)  “Absolutely not.”

It turns out that my delicious crush on Hugh Suggs, Bernie’s hot tamale of a nephew or Suggsy as I have affectionately nicknamed him, lit a wild spark in my imagination and my writing is reaching unexplainable heights in leaps and bounds, completely undermining my persuasive passive aggressive penchant to wallow and stay still in the aforementioned resounding sadness.  I don’t know if it’s because for the first time since my honeymoon I felt a tingle in my triangle or because my tarantism has flared up.  Remember my love of dance?  Definition: tarantism – a disorder characterized by the uncontrollable urge to dance.  Old Word Italians attribute it to the bite of a tarantula.  Suggsy symbolizes my spider, his bite, the catalyst for overcoming my melancholy through the delightful movement of dance, which I love.  And when I feel like dancing, the words do willfully follow.  I scrapped the whole first novel.  Put it in the trash and took a stab at something new.  I it call ‘Project Suggsy’, tenderly.  Bernie refuses to introduce me every single time I ask because she thinks it’s a rebound reaction to my divorce grief.  You can bet your wallet my eye is pressed tight to the peeper every Wednesday night on his arrival and departure.  Beautiful Suggsy.  I also confess that my lust for him ended my new craze of creeping Trooper’s Facebook page.  We aren’t friends or anything anymore but sometimes things show up, mostly profile photos of him with the toothy roller derby blonde or his half-witted overweight best friend who insists everyone call him Meat Loaf, total spaz.  This activity was no more than a weekly installment plan to certain insanity, being privy to bits and pieces of the pointless schemes my ex was caught up in was not good for my mental health but just like a car crash, you can’t help but look.  Rumor has it he’s engaged to the half-wit he cheated on me with, he hasn’t even known his bride a full year yet.  That’s bound to work.  People are inherently stupid, what can I say.  At arm’s length and with total oblivion, Suggsy helps me eulogize my dilapidated marriage and diffuse my need to continually punch myself in my soul.  I also spent a large unredeemed balance on a Victoria Secret gift card Trooper gave to me for our last Valentine’s Day to clothe my beautiful forevers, just in case there’s ever the slight chance Suggsy sees me out of my sweats.  I live for that day.  Oh yes Sir I do.

Yes, when it comes to Suggsy, I am magniloquent.  I can’t help it.  I just know his neck sweat tastes like honey and I will find a way to sneak in a butt-pat when we pass each other by accident in the hall on a random Wednesday night.  I will be discreet.  Bernie will never know.  Although, I would feel guilty for doing something so clandestine behind her back with someone she holds in such high esteem by someone she holds in such high esteem, which would be me by the way.  I know if Suggs could just get to know me, he’d love me.  I’m witty and smart and cute.  Don’t’ forget single.  I could charm him out of his Ray Ban’s in two seconds flat.  No doubt.  But, alas I won’t.  For Bernie.  I’ll respect her wishes and salivate from afar.  Maybe this whole Muse thing real writers talk about is real.  Who woulda thunk? I could have been your girl, Hugh Suggsy Suggs.  Oh, what might have been.  What still could be.  In case you were wondering I just breathed a lengthy longing sigh.

All pursuits are trivial. This much I know is true.

I don’t know guys; I just want to be a woman footnoted by decent writing, strong bones, good teeth and hair that’s less frizzy and more manageable.  It’s true; I am trucking on through some pretty gross stuff; love, betrayal, divorce, demise, malnutrition, alcoholism, and depression to name a few.  I don’t want to be remembered or talked about as the woman who fell apart because she wasn’t smart enough to realize that what doesn’t kill you makes you better.  I deactivated my Facebook account, stopped tweeting and started breathing, well in short little huffs for now until I learn to steady myself a little bit better.  I will still strain for a glimpse at Suggsy on Wednesdays but I won’t go so far as to tattoo his name on my body in Stella lettering but because things happen for a reason, because of the sequence of events that followed my crippling blow to the heart, my existence is no longer debatable.  I get knocked down but I get up again or so the song goes.  (Imagine me planting that cheesy Len song in your ear on purpose. Neener neener.)  I suppose that’s the moral of the story, isn’t it?  Flourishing in the face of adversity. 

I really want to tell you more, about things like my extensive t-shirt collection, my thoughts on God and some other interesting tidbits but I’ve run out of time.  We still have to do the draw for that gizmo, the doodad I promised.  Unfortunately, I broke it.  Sorry.  And I ate the Kit Kat.  However, because I’m progressing so quickly on my novel, lickety split fast, I promise you, lucky wiener, you will receive one of the first edition hardcover copies, signed of course.  I will not sign it, Mrs. Hugh Suggs, cross my heart.  You’ll know it’s from me because it’ll have Hardscrabble scrawled on the inside.  You won’t recognize my pseudonym on the cover.  It’ll either be something like Brandi Swann or Howard Lively.  I haven’t decided if I’m going yin or yang yet, I guess it depends on which direction the story takes me and that is entirely up to the characters.  There is no way Myrtle Mumford will grace the front of my masterpiece.  If the story advances with a muscular tone I’m definitely publishing as Howard but if it takes on a more portentous and self-conscious cool I’ll be Brandi.  It’s as simple as that.  Anyway, I hope you’ll like it.

Thanks for hanging out with me.  You are the bees knees.  They call me Hardscrabble but now you can call me friend.

**

Here it is, my latest.  I still feel like it's a bit of a hot mess but maybe it's because she is. Having said that, I had fun hanging out with her because she's funny, scorned, ambitious and lazy all at once and she possesses the ability to know that despite hardships, we all prevail. I know there are still some edits needed but I thought I would test her in the wind and see how she does.  As with all of my prose pieces, I've said I'm the writer but I'm horrible at being my own editor.  After I read something back a thousand times I am blind to the mistakes etc.  I do enjoy editing to a degree but I don't know I'd quit my day job to do it.

It's FRIDAY!!  I'm going tonight to see Old Crow Medicine Show at the Dirty O with my friends. Should be a great time.  A little bit of rambunctious bluegrass never hurt no one.  I do look forward to sleeping in a little tomorrow though, I'm beat this week. When I do wake up, the warm weather we are experiencing today will move into Saturday making for a perfect summerish day.  I will be stepping out tomorrow night to see The Stanfields at Casino NS. I may even take in the matinee at The Lower Deck. Mmm a cold beer might just be the real ticket.

However you spend your weekend, I hope it's with a happy heart and a smiling face.

In propinquity,

Nic

 

SoCal Rescue

SoCal Rescue

a house in Laurel Canynon

full of Joni Mitchell records

walls lined with used books

hazy artists roaming the halls

&

the smell of slow burning incense

saved my life

**

Poopy Monday.  I'm still tuckered out from staying up too late on Saturday night.  3am is waaaaay too late for me anymore.  I've ceased being a party animal and while I still love to have fun and enjoy myself, late nights destroy me now.  I spent most of yesterday yawning and fighting to stay awake so I would actually sleep through the night.  I settled in really early, watched 'The Dark Knight' and passed out cold.  I'm still a bit loafy tonight but it was worth it being able to help dear friends celebrate their engagement.  I am going to treat myself to a few new episodes of 'Arrested Development' after I finish a second stream of Matt Epp's new record 'Learning To Lose Control'.  It's MASTERFUL.  I am FULL of goosebumps.  I can't WAIT for his show in June.  His work is so beautiful and soulful, he always inspires me.  I always like to think of my heart was made of music it might sound like his work.

Just a wee poem today.  To the point.  Simple yet heavy.  If you feel this poem, you know exactly what it means.

In propinquity,

Nic

PS - I didn't write much else today.  I opened 'Hardscrabble' to correct a few typos and add a few bits just before my day ended.  It's still in the front of my mind.  I can't wait to write more!

Creativity Takes No Excuses

Sometimes when I am in need of writing inspiration or just want to fill my eyes with lovely things as a mental break from life, I browse Pinterest.  It’s rare that I fawn over a current fashion or save a recipe or ogle wedding/baby garb.  When I visit the time sucking website, the second worst time sucker next to Facebook, I look at artsy photos, portraits and things that take my breath and imagination away.  Sometimes I enjoy reading the quotes and browsing the funnies and on one such day stumbled on the enclosed photo, rules for creativity if you will.  These six basic principles are ones that think of often when I’m writing and at some point I’m sure most scribes do.  The following are my thoughts on each of them:

IF IT’S IMPORTANT ENOUGH, YOU’LL MAKE TIME FOR IT.

Any time I start a new poem or meet a new character I regard it with the utmost importance.  And, because it is my art, my passion, when something springs up before me I make sure to make time to do my work.  Whether it’s during a busy work day during the lulls, a quiet Saturday afternoon in a café or those few precious moments before bed, I make time.  I am just as guilty as the next guy of letting the real world and resistance get the best of me sometimes but because writing is my first love I always make the time to tend my wares.  Writing and exercise provide me with similar sensations in that while I’m flexing my physical or creative muscles and for a glorious spell after, I feel like a million bucks.  Other than a long slow meaningful kiss, little compares to the high.  In short, do your work.

IF YOU DON’T KNOWWHERE TO START, START ANYWHERE.

This was true of ‘Mute’. I mentioned before how the ending of the story, the visual came to me first, even before I knew Augustus at all.  It was a fascinating experience to essentially work backwards.  At first I was confounded by the idea that I knew how the story ended without even knowing the story or being acquainted with the characters.  It was fun, puzzling it all together, listening and building it paragraph by paragraph.  Often times I’d handwrite bits and then type them into the document in order.  So, if you have a flash, an idea, the end, the middle or anything else in between, hash it out and the rest will come.  Now that I’ve actually had that experience it won’t intimidate me like it has in the past.  Imagine all the stories I missed being able to tell because I ignored this rule.  Bummer.  Start anywhere, it will come.

IF YOU FEEL STUCK, ASK SOMEONE TO HELP YOU OUT.

I do this ALL the time.  If I’m stuck on a word or a phrase or a detail etc., I turn to my friends, my family and sometimes even strangers.  I’m sure folks are tired of my ‘writing question’ texts and Facebook status updates but their input and suggestions are invaluable especially when you are in a cerebral jam.  There have even been instances where I’ve been stuck and someone says a word or laughs a certain way and it opens the floodgates.  I don’t even have to ask for assistance, sometimes it’s just there, even before I need it.  Use your people; they are a wealth of knowledge, emotion, experience and persona.  Eavesdrop, observe and absorb.  They matter.

IF YOU’RE TIRED, TAKE A TIMED BREAK.

Stretching is vital to a writer’s health and well-being.  I know for me, I tend to get blocked when I’m working and I’m tired or agitated or have been sitting too long.  Get up from your workspace, stretch, yawn, make tea, take a walk, dance around to whatever music you have on if you’re like me and need music to write, take a cat nap, daydream, make a phone call.  Clearing the cobwebs is important and helps you to focus on the work you’re doing.  My writing space at home is jam packed with things to look at and I designed it that way on purpose.  When I need a pause or I’m stuck I’ll pace or dance around and browse the walls and shelves.  You’d be surprised what can come if you just shift your efforts for a few minutes and breathe.  I’ve done those manic writing sessions where I’ve started at say noon and looked up at 8pm and don’t remember a thing but I’ve got all this writing done.  They are wild and exhilarating but sometimes there’s something to be said for just going easy and taking your time and when you feel like you need a break, take one.  It’s good for your soul.  Writing is hard work.

IF YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO IT, TRY DOING WHAT YOU CAN.

I can apply this to so many things, grammar, structure, presenting details or historical facts, dates, times, eras.  If something comes to you and it’s not an area you are strong in or you know nothing about, do what you can keep typing or scribbling then go back and fill it in later.  Do what you can.  Whatever you do don’t stop, keep writing.  I do it all the time.  If I get stuck on a name or a phrase I’ll literally type name and bold it (name) so when I go back and start my edits, I know what I am missing.  I used to waste so much time hovering over the details but now I bold and keep on trucking.  I do what I can until I can do better.  It’s a tough thing to learn to do but I am doing much better with this principle now.  My ultimate goal is to tell the story, everything else can be tightened afterward.

IF YOU BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN DO IT, YOU WILL.

I’ve always been a poet.  Prose was daunting.  I actually believe it was daunting because I believed I couldn’t do it.  I’d tried in the past and failed miserably.  It wasn’t because I was incapable of it; it was the belief, the self-talk that I couldn’t do it.  I know this to be true because when I started to believe I had the ability to relay a story they started coming so fast I could barely keep up.  Perhaps it came with age and maturity on my part.  Perhaps it came from experiencing heartbreak and in turn inheriting a new way to look at myself and listen to myself.  When your self-worth is tested you can learn a great deal about yourself and if you use pain as a positive, you can achieve anything.  I’m patient with myself now, I quell my creative fears with a calming voice, I feel differently, listen closer, see things I’ve never seen before.  Because my world is different, I am different, I am better and stronger.  When all of these things are in place and you believe in what you are doing, what you can do, amazing things happen.

Just believe.  Believe in yourself.  Believe in creativity.  Believe in the movement of inspiration and pay attention to the world around you.  You are capable of greatness.  We all are.  Do your work.  Love yourself and your fellow man.  Believe.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sophrosyne

Sophrosyne

be of good human spirit

mens sana in corpore sano

be of sound mind

be of sound body

be guided by knowledge

be fulfilled by steadiness

value your virtues

evade extravagances

display self-control

insightful awareness

exercise a healthy mind

express a strong heart

live by clear illustration

to realize true happiness

triumph trying obstacles

through deep awareness

practice goodness

temperance

generosity

confidence

harmony

humility

                wisdom

be of good cheer

be a good influence

live happy

live free

and love 

**

According to Aristotle’s sensibilities, virtue is excellence at being human.  Virtue, aids in basic human survival, to thrive successfully, form spirited and meaningful relationships with others and to achieve true happiness.  I came across the word Sophrosyne on Facebook one afternoon.  Someone posted it as an image, its definition.  I jotted it down for safe keeping and further reading and stumbled across my scribble this morning; the kind of day where I needed a bit of reminding to live by virtue, with the goal of happiness in mind, not only for me but for my people and fellow man.  Christians believe that virtue is a substance that acts on faith, capable of manifesting miracles.  I like that idea and I also buy into Aristotle’s ideas.  Melded together, it all makes for a beautiful human belief.  I buy it.  I must, I wrote this poem.

It’s still miserable and rainy.  They are calling for 55+ millimeters of rain tomorrow.  Saturday.  It’ll be a good day if you’re a duck.  The good news is, we’re not made of sugar so we won’t melt.  However you spend your weekend I hope you’re warm, loved and happy.

In propinquity,

Nic

Stay Rudimentary

Stay Rudimentary

it is absolute truth

my pause is permanent

by my own choosing

I create superfluously

my tiny indolent poems

defy the fictitious ideal

that stringent commands

must always be adhered to

my divergent impure art

always void of rigid edifice

no hendecasyllables

no quantitative meter

no iambic pentameter

all experimental theatre

all art exhibits tentative

all lectures inarticulate

my engaged credence is

to contrast the full latitude

of stiff rules against instinct

by my own selection

I create disproportionately

to expectations

no shrewdness

no discernments

all temperament

all rebelliousness

no rules

stay rudimentary, kids

**

Greetings from the great Canadian North East!  And it’s raining.  It’s been raining for days and will continue to rain for days.  What is this, England!?  As you can probably tell, I’m none too thrilled with this spring weather.  It was cold enough yesterday for the heat to cut, who has time for that!?  Perhaps I’m just grumpy cat and ranty in part from the weather and equal parts PMS and real life, you know, the usual.  Of course the grass needs the rain but I am in desperate need of a sunny day, both literally and metaphorically.  At least I’ve been writing when time allows.

So yeah, ‘Hardscrabble’ is my current writing venture.  The story of a woman scorned with a colorful vocabulary and a fair bit to say.  That’s all I’ve learned so far.  I’m still listening and getting to know her.  She tends to reveal herself little spurts at a time, either while I’m trying to sleep or too busy at work to give her my undivided attention.  I think she understands though, she’s a writer too and she doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to go anywhere and for that I’m grateful.  The process is a total departure from ‘Mute’ where I built the story out of order.  This is more free-flowing and nonsensical which makes sense given her life experiences.  I look forward to see where she’ll take me.  And you.

Simply put, this current poem is an ode to writing sans rules.  You know me, rebel rebel.  Enough said.

While I’m grateful to have had a long weekend last weekend this short work week seems to be inching by at a very slow painful pace.  Not that I want to wish the time away but I so enjoyed not having to wake up to an alarm for three glorious days that I can’t wait to do it again on Saturday morning.  Saturday will be a good day/night.  Dear friends of mine got engaged a little while back and Saturday is their engagement party which means a nip of something alcoholic will be enjoyed along with a good dose of laughter which I always welcome.  A night with friends is never a bad thing.  I look forward to it.  And then next weekend starts the streak of a few really awesome weekends of music with my people!  I’ve got Old Crow Medicine Show and the The Stanfields back to back and Matt Mays on the Halifax waterfront complete with a visit with my buddy from Cape Breton.  Gonna be gooders, all of them. I can’t wait. 

For today, it’s just a poem about writing and rain.  And with any luck a few keystrokes on ‘Hardscrabble’.  I long for a quiet café, a steamy cuppa and my pen.  Maybe one night next week or Sunday.  It’s just one more thing to look forward to.

Enough from me.  Enjoy your Thursday!  Do one nice thing for yourself today, no matter how small.  For my thing, I think it’ll be a long hot bath after an unkind water-logged day. 

In propinquity,

Nic

White Falcon

White Falcon

a guitar gradually moans

until it hollers and howls

under the spell of a man

discreet about his survival

postured

confessional

under an unforgiving light

in stacked heel cowboy boots

resourceful narrator

ingenious raconteur

deploys the white falcon

a propulsive amalgam of

succinct winsome dialect

impulsive rash upsurges

arresting patent passion

meticulous marauding

striking five hoary strings

on a wide hollow body

solid spruce arch-top

and laminated maple

strong back curved sides

burnished laced in gold

white layered binding

ebony neck pearl inlay

clean white lustrous form

sleek golden pick-guard

illustrious gold engraving

the falcon

mid-flight

                symbolic

sonic

sensual

symbiotic

rock ‘n’ roll

hierarchy and a hat

jeans and leather coat

and a guitar

too imperial to ignore

**

The anniversary show at The Carleton last night was fantastic.  I really enjoyed listening to two Canadian bands I'd never heard of before.  It's such an intimate atmosphere in there too which adds to the stellar groove of any evening spent there.  I had a good time with my new friend, Heather, discussing writing, music, Jim Morrison, Halifax vs Moncton and various other topics, all accompanied by good music and a nip of wine.  

The subject of Billy Duffy, The Cult and his signature guitar, a Gretsch White Falcon came up.  We discussed the awesomeness of the instrument at great length and mused on its beauty and its place in the rock 'n' roll spectrum.  

I kept thinking about the cover of The Cult's Sonic Temple tour program cover and who woulda thunk a poem would formulate.  

In other writing news, I started a new short story.  EEP!  I thought I'd take a wee breather and stretch my creative muscles but I guess if poems are still coming and I'm still getting the whispers all is right with the world.  This current story, title already firmly in place, 'Hardscrabble', has had me giggling up a storm.  I wonder if my rampant viewing of 30 Rock has anything to do with the fact there's a comedic element to it?  I look forward to see where it goes.  Going easy with this one, letting it unfold as it will, the same as I did with 'Mute' which people really seem to love much to my delight.

Long weekend is looming!  One more work day and I'll have three glorious days to myself.  With any luck I'll get an artist date in this weekend and see where 'Hardscrabble' takes me.

Hug your people today!  Just because you should.

In propinquity,

Nic

Mute

I’ve been working on ‘Mute’ for a really long time now, dribs and drabs, out of sequence and in all different locations.  It’s been akin to what I imagine making a patchwork quilt to be like, one square at a time, a puzzle, a great task.  I have taken such a long time to complete the story that in some ways to me if feels incomplete.  Could also be that Augustus has been with me for an extended period of time and I’ll miss him.  As with my other stories, ‘Mute’ is a snapshot, a small slice of the bigger picture.  I wonder if somewhere in my subconscious I write them in such a way in the event I want to revisit them?  I’d be ok with spending more time with any of the characters I’ve written about if they so choose to elaborate.

I’ve been tinkering with ‘Mute’ a good while now and confess I can’t see the mistakes anymore so it’s time to at least share it and take a breather from editing.  After a while your eyes miss typos and omissions, bad grammar and tense problems.  But I have never pretended to be a good editor, I just write the stories down.

Make no mistake, I’ve had a great time writing this story but I wish I would have had the discipline and the time to devote to its creation.  I write a great deal at work in my down time and it’s been fairly busy and when real life gets in the way too, as a writer, you start battling resistance, the folly Stephen Pressfield discusses in some of his writing manifesto-style books.  That is why my artist dates are so important to me.  I’m not isolating or choosing to be anti-social but to be a writer you actually have to write.  You need to make time for your work, your passion.

I hope that you will absorb some of Augustus when you read.  I realize now, reading back, he and I are a lot alike.  Maybe that’s why he settled on me to tell his story.  He knew I’d regard it with tenderness and care.  I’m pleased to share him here now.

Enjoy.

Mute

mute  adj :

refraining from producing speech or vocal sound

to express without the aid of speech, unspoken

Augustus Cade lives alone in a two bedroom bungalow on a street called Bullfrog Lane nestled in a well-manicured suburb.  Augustus doesn’t talk.  He is able to speak but he refuses to.  Instead, he communicates by writing everything down with a hard black Ticonderoga erasable pencil on the pages of a classic striped Moleskine notebook complete with an elastic closure and a ribbon bookmark to keep his place.  It is an offense to those who are truly impotent of speech that he refers to himself as mute but by his calculations, he is.  Augustus is physically capable of producing sounds.  All of the parts of him that allow him to orate, his throat, his vocal cords, his lungs, his mouth and his tongue, all function perfectly .  He is not deaf, he has never been injured but his vow of silence, his selective muteness is often regarded as an obstinate introversion or insufferable insolence by others, especially his family.  He doesn’t intend it as an affront but rather a guileless refusal of discourse for fear of exposing his cluttered speech.

He hasn’t uttered a word since he was twelve years old, he’s thirty two now.  Augustus has what the doctors call pressured speech.  When he used to speak, he conversed in a rapid, accelerated, frenzied manner.  The kids at school teased him relentlessly for the irregularities in his talk.  Spit it out, retard.  Shut up, marble mouth.  Inbred.  Dummy. The more they badgered him the worse it became.  His responses would come out in hurried, nervous, broken sentences, often times stuttering and stammering.   In his rebuttals, Augustus had false starts, thoughts abruptly cut off in mid-utterance, repeated phrases over and over, even certain syllables, all non-lexical.  His speech disfluencies, the maddening impediment debilitated him, unfurled him and isolated him from his peers.  It mattered very little to the other kids that he possessed above average intelligence, was highly perceptive, uniquely creative, and deeply empathetic to the plights of others as well as having a profound sense of right and wrong.  One day, he just stopped talking and slowly devolved from an exceptionally passionate young boy to a sullen introvert.  He traded his bright smile for a blank expression, robbed those around him of any direct contact with his big brown eyes and grew to rely on routine rather than his natural penchant for veering off course.  Augustus developed sensitivity to noise and crowds, he took on a moody disposition relinquishing the summit of all joys, until he saw Libby Nickle.

Augustus works a small but modest job.  His father, Solomon Greer Cade is editor-in-chief of The Granville Standard, the town’s newspaper.  His silence didn’t prevent him from remaining astute and academic, rather the opposite.  He devoted all of his time to his studies, focusing on journalistic type endeavors, primarily because of his father’s position and insistence that he do something productive if he was hell bent on never speaking again.  To Augustus’ delight, he actually enjoyed writing and spent hours researching and writing short stories, historical pieces about Granville and Lawrence, the neighboring town.  He chips away at his work in a tidy little office tucked between the lunchroom and the janitor’s closet.  Solomon urged him to take the sunny corner office but Augustus felt it would be better suited for someone who earned their stripes at The Standard instead of someone who inherited employment through the family tree with no formal training or degree.  All of the study Augustus did was independent and supported by his doting mother Portia who still brings him an occasional brown bag lunch even at thirty two years.

In his small unassertive office he writes the paper’s obituaries.  He really hoped to be given the wedding announcements but the powers that be deemed him too old-fashioned when he handed in his first sample. It read:

MISS BETSY IKEN BETROTHED TO NAVAL OFFICER

Betsy Iken and Lt. David Warburton of Granville were quietly married at the home of the bride’s parents Tuesday evening at five o’clock.  An intimate gathering of family and friends stood witness; Minister Paul Barry of St. Mark’s United presided.  An elegant dinner was enjoyed after the ceremony and a little light dancing.  The couple will honeymoon in Paris for a short spell and return to live together in Lawrence Heights.  We wish them unbounded happiness.

And so, obituaries it was.  He didn’t really care what he did after Libby Nickle caught his eye; she consumed his every waking thought and captured his heart with one glance at Café Calla.  He’d sooner trail off in a daze daydreaming about her than work.

Needing a break from typing in lieu of flowers Augustus tucked his notebook and pencil in his trusty messenger bag, donned his tweed flat cap and ducked out of the office for a little bit of sunlight and to stretch his legs.  He walked the two and a half blocks to Café Calla, most noted for their chocolate croissants and favored because he doesn’t have to write anything down to order.  They know him well enough to know he’ll take a large hot chocolate with an extra cloud of whipped cream on top. 

He bought a sugary delight and took up residence at his usual table smack dab in the middle of the dining area.  The small café was always bustling with activity, students with their heads down and ear-buds shoved in their ears clacking away on their laptops, professionals meeting to discuss the day’s business, girlfriends gossiping over café mochas and the skilled baristas just as dexterous as flaring bartenders flipping their bottles and cocktail shakers.  Augustus loved the ambience and they always played light jazz overhead, the kind he liked, with no lyrics that you can snap your fingers to.  Scanning the room, he gouged out a generous heap of the fluffy cream with his spoon and popped it into his mouth.  He eyed her as the creamy bite filled his cheeks and sweetened his tongue.  Libby Nickle was perched gracefully at a window seat in the café sipping a cup of chamomile tea; both hands wrapped around the heavy ceramic mug, the string of the teabag fell over her tiny fingers.  Augustus’ heart skipped a beat.  He drank in her honey blonde hair, cut in a textured pixie style that barely tucked behind ears, short hair that perfectly accented her lovely features, pale green eyes, pretty pink lips, flushed cheeks and graceful neck.  He noticed everything about her, like now a lazy curl of fog rose up from her drink and kissed her soft skin and how a stray thread hung haphazardly from the scalloped hem of her embroidered chambray dress and clung to her leg just below her knee.  He swallowed the dollop of whipped topping in one big gulp and on instinct looked down to remind himself of what his appearance was like.  To his chagrin he realized there was a liberal stain on the oatmeal hue of his favorite cardigan sweater with the knitted elbow patches.  Earlier he had sullied it while eating frozen waffles he toasted himself for breakfast in the lunchroom, the maple syrup dripped and seeped into the cotton.   

Drat. 

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, dusted himself off and tried to steady his hurried breath from the vision of her.  He was certain she would never notice he was alive but when their eyes met they held contact a little longer than strangers would, she smiled.  He nodded.  And then, in one swift fluid movement, Libby abandoned her tea after noticing the time on the wall clock, collected her things and was gone before Augustus could exhale.   Through the window he watched her spill onto the sidewalk, check both ways for traffic and scurry across the street disappearing into the bright yellow door of Chartreuse Boutique, a ladies shoppe whose name mirrors its lively exterior décor.  Augustus felt akin to a balloon and someone had let all of the air out.  Surely he had encountered other young women in his lifetime but none had enflamed such a strong visceral attraction.  One look from Libby turned his whole life upside down and inside out respectively.  He knew her name was Libby because as she exited Café Calla the barista, a dead ringer for Joan Jett, called after her, “Look both ways before you cross the street, Libby Nickle!”  Libby laughed, threw up a weak but objectionable hand gesture and bolted out the door.

 O Libby Nickle. The things I would say if I could.

Augustus made another discovery while sitting there in the sweet aftermath of Libby’s presence.  He sat in the café daydreaming about her honey blonde beauty, the boutique she walked into as a backdrop, far longer than he should have.  In doing so, he noticed a curious sight.  Libby appeared in the large bay window of Chartreuse.  She had a measuring tape draped over her shoulder and a sewing needle firmly placed between her teeth adorning a mannequin with a peach and cream colored blouse embellished with a pearl collar.  It appeared she was securing a pearl that had loosened.  She performed the delicate task with an expert hand.  Joan Jett came to collect his empty cup and noticed him watching Libby.  She said, “That girly girl knows how to dress a window up!” 

I bet she’s the best at everything. She is the kind of girl who could probably peel an orange in one long easy curl.

Café Calla became Augustus’ home-based.  He started dropping by for breakfast in the morning which required writing down his order. 

Whole wheat bagel lightly toasted w/ plain cream cheese, one large glass of chocolate milk, for here. 

Then he started to lunch there daily. 

16oz bowl of Corn Chowder with a scone w/ ice water, for here. 

And soon, supper. 

The daily special w/ a pot of tea, for here. 

He scribbled his requests down, reserving special pages in the back of his notebook for his menu choices and in most cases Augustus wouldn’t erase but rather just pointed as he wasn’t likely to change his order very often.  Joan Jett always shook her head, “Coming right up, Gus.” 

All this time spent, just for a glimpse of Libby. It isn’t like he had better things to do except go home to his little house, putter around and watch TV.  He found it a better use of his time, being in the same room as Libby even if he couldn’t befriend her, was a much better option.

Haunting Café Calla proved beneficial to his objective.  Libby spent just as much time there as he did.  He came to discover that she and Joan Jett were best friends and often eavesdropped in on their conversations becoming privy to a fair bit of personal information overhearing many discussions between the barista and the object of his unrequited affection.

One such day, Joan Jett planted herself down at Libby’s table to gossip during a lull after the lunch rush.  Augustus sat close by doodling in his notebook with his ears wide open.  Libby, pastel and feminine leaned into her tattoo laden friend and said, “So, how was your date?”

Joan Jett leaned back in her chair, crossed her right foot heavy in a Doc Martin boot over her left thread bare faded jean covered knee, “You know how it is.  I wanted to behave but there were just so many other options.”

“You are incorrigible,” Libby squealed.

Even in all that heavy black make-up, Joan’s eyes twinkled, “He’s a bit of a dick but a hell of a kisser.  How was the symphony?  Did you take numb nuts to meet your Ma?”

Symphony?  Numb nuts?

Libby sipped her tea steeping languidly in front of her and shook her head, “Yes, Clancy came with me but he didn’t have the chance to meet Mom.  She wasn’t feeling well so someone sat in for her.”

Clancy?  Who in fresh hell is Clancy?

Joan ripped a corner off of a croissant and popped it in her mouth chewing noisily as she talked, “Your Ma is the best cellist ever.  I am so pumped she donated her piano to the café.  My mind is certifiably blown by the fact she just gave it to me.”

Her boyfriend.  Of course.  How could I expect such a stunning girl to be single?  Drat.

Both of them looked over to the far back corner of the café where a vintage Ivers & Pond Victorian upright piano now lived.  Libby’s mother donated the heavily carved mahogany parlor upright to the café after Joan Jett accompanied Libby to her house for dinner one evening and the two girls, one sitting and one standing, regaled the cellist with an impromptu serenade, Cole Porter standards and a rendition of Amazing Grace that Joan sang so sweetly Libby’s mother was reduced to tears.  She couldn’t believe that the sound coming out of the punk rock café owner was that of an angel and Joan gushed about the warm and soothing tone of the piano and teased she was going to steal it next time she was out of town, carry it right out the front door on her back.  Two weeks later, it was delivered to the doors of the café.  Augustus studied the piano.  It was smaller than most uprights but it tucked in perfectly with the décor of the café.  Curious why someone would just give her piano away and Libby offered no clues.  “My mother tends to do things just because she can sometimes.  I suppose we chalk it up to kindness.”

Gosh, you’re so pretty, Libby.

“Speaking of kindness, maybe one of these days you’ll regale us with a piano rendition of Open Arms.  I still can’t believe that your favorite song is by Journey,” Joan ribbed.

Note to self, download Journey. What was the song title? Wide Arms?

Libby balked, “How can you not love Journey?  They are miraculous.”

I will love this band because she does.

Joan got up from her chair and jokingly threw a wadded up napkin at her friend, “Journey sucks, even worse than disco.”

Just by eavesdropping, Augustus learned a lot about Libby.  She has a boy cat named Jack Kerouac and an eclectic teapot collection, she hates the smell of sauerkraut and loves the first scoop of peanut butter out of a new jar.  She’s allergic to hay-fever medicine, has never broken a bone, figures she’s the last person on the planet who doesn’t own a cell phone and her guilty pleasure is watching reruns of Anne of Green Gables.  But the most disarming fact about Libby was that she loves a boy named Clancy, a scruffy bespectacled frat boy hipster posing as a jazz percussionist.  Some days he would share Libby’s table, the two leaning in to each other on their elbows, touching hands and wrists intimately; their body language heartfelt, their expressions soft and loving.  Augustus envies Clancy, to be so close to Libby, to have her look at him the way she does, to be able to spend time with her, hold her hand.  It eats him up inside.

The honeymoon phase doesn’t last forever, dumb drummer. 

It was a complete accident that Augustus found himself walking through the lime green door of Chartreuse.  But then, maybe it was on purpose.  He intended for his destination to be the post office three doors down but he veered off course instinctively until he heard the chipper ding of the doorbell announcing his entrance.  Libby was tinkering with an artful display of accessories, shiny bracelets, chunky rings, burnished necklaces.  At the sound of the chime, she looked up from her task at hand and spoke surely, “Hi there, welcome to Chartreuse.”

Augustus smiled bashfully, doffed his flat cap, realizing that on direct contact this encounter would be hazardous to his mental health.  Why did he put himself in a position where she would speak to him when he knew he couldn’t reciprocate, except on the pages of his notebook?  She’d regard him as a freak for sure now.

Drat. What am I doing here?

Libby approached him, “Is there anything I can help you with today?”

Think!  Think!  Think!

Augustus panicked and scribbled something down on a clean page and showed it to her.  All he really wanted was to see her but it wasn’t something he could articulate so he fibbed.  Libby, taken aback, watched the familiar face from the café jot something down and turn the page for her to read. 

A gift for my mother’s birthday.  Something pretty?

He looked to her for approval.

I can tell by the look on your face that you think I’m a creep.  I probably am for being here.

Still confused she says tentatively, “We just got in a new collection of silk scarves that are very pretty.  Let me show you.”

Libby started to lead Augustus over to the display of silken scarves in every vibrant color of the rainbow.  His instinct was to turn and run but he followed the fresh scent of her trail, content just to be in her company.  A gaggle of energetic teenage girls spilled into to the store just as she was about to do her sales pitch.  They were loud and shrill with their chatter and giggles, snapping bubblegum and railing through the racks one after the other.  Libby excused herself to corral the perky mob and ask that they please keep their noise to a minimum as to not disturb the other customers.  Aside from Augustus, there were a few ladies browsing leisurely and started to scowl at the adolescent disruption.  Augustus took advantage of the ruckus and slipped out the front door unnoticed.  He crossed the street and threw himself into his chair at the café.  He was sweating and breathless.  Joan Jett appeared at his table, startling him, “What is it, shark week?  You’re a ball of sweat.  Clean yourself up and I’ll bring you some lunch.  Irish stew today, that cool?”

He held out his book for Joan Jett. 

To go, please.

“You got it, Sweat Pants.”

Augustus wiped his brow reliving the moment of Libby addressing him personally and how painful it was to not be able to reply to her in kind.  And properly.  He ate his lunch at his desk and worked non-stop through the afternoon to distract himself from thinking about their encounter and how ridiculous he was feeling about it.  What’s the point of being fond of a girl when you can’t even talk to her?  The afternoon away from the café gave him a little bit of perspective and he knew he was making a mountain out of a molehill.  Libby wasn’t even giving him a second thought so what was his issue?  He made his way back for supper, his usual routine.  When he ordered Joan she said, “OH shit, I almost forgot.  Libby left this for you.  You’re the only regular who talks with paper and pencil.  Has to be yours.” 

It was a decorative gift bag from Chartreuse with pale yellow tissue paper peeking out of the top.  There was also a card.  It read:

Dear friend,

I wanted to offer my earnest apologies for the mass confusion this afternoon while you were in looking for a gift for your mother.  I hope my gesture isn’t presumptuous in the event you’ve already found her the perfect gift.  Perhaps the enclosed item will be a suitable choice for her.

Regards,

Libby Nickle

Agog, he pressed the card to his chest.  Libby did this for him.  For him!  And what’s more, she knew who he was.  Libby Nickle took the time to do a good deed for him, for no other reason than to be kind.  Augustus was dumbfounded and felt what he could only imagine was a form of happiness. 

Days passed and there was no sign of Libby, no chance to thank her for the lovely gift.  He was agitated and he’d been at the café every day and there was no sign of her anywhere.  Joan Jett seemed more mournful than usual, less outgoing and both variables caused him to worry.  It isn’t like he could just ask if Libby was ok but in his gut he knew something wasn’t right.

His suspicions were confirmed reading through the obit forms on his desk.  Three for today but one caught his eye and packed a wallop.

It is with great sadness we announce the passing of a dear sweet woman, Esther Haley Eldridge-Nickle.  Esther passed away peacefully on April 12^th at Granville Mercy Hospital after a brief and courageous battle with breast cancer surrounded by her loving daughter and dearest friends.

Born in West Lawrence’s Admiral Estates, Esther studied music theory and performance arts at the Lawrence Conservatory of Music and went on to become a revered music teacher and critically acclaimed cellist who toured extensively with the Granville Royal Symphony Orchestra.

In her spare time, Esther enjoyed quilting, writing letters and vegetable gardening.  Always smiling, always helping others, she will be deeply missed.

Visitations will take place Tuesday at 7 to 9pm only at Granville Heights Funeral Home.  Funeral mass will be held Wednesday at Holy Family Catholic Church, Father Maurice Purchase presiding.  Interment will follow in the parish cemetery.

Regards to Dr. Catherine Hale for her kind care and the nurses on the palliative care unit for all their help.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to the Lawrence Conservatory of Music.

Libby’s mother passed away.  It made perfect sense to him how, why she was absent from the café.  She lost her a parent, her mother.  He doesn’t know what he’ll do when the day comes and he loses one of his own.  Augustus, in all of his idiosyncrasies would be terribly lost without his parents.  Imagining Libby dealing with her sorrow and loss broke his heart.

Rest in heavenly peace, Mrs. Nickle.

He had an opportunity now to do good by Libby, to do a good deed in kind.  Even though she only knew him as the weird guy in the café with the notebook, he came to care deeply for her at a distance.  He would re-write her mother’s obituary into a highlighted feature of an important member of the community, compose something splendid for her send-off.  He missed lunch and dinner at the café opting instead to write the perfect homage to Libby’s mother for the Grandville Standard.

The research he did for the obituary led Augustus to a delightful discovery about Libby, she was a published and well respected poet.  He all but ran from his desk to Damhnait’s Bookstore pillaging the poetry shelves until he found two slim volumes with the covers baring Libby’s name, one called ‘In The Palm Of Your Hand’, the other ‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’.  He paid for the books and ran as fast as he could back to his desk to read them.  There were ninety two poems in total between the two volumes, ninety two exquisite verses.

Announcing Mangoes

in defense of the art of poetry

w/ my imposter’s heart bleeding

I renounce

rattling teacups

strained oak trees

& vapor trails

for

muted keyboards

                tough sweetness

                                & unfinished echoes

on guard for the pages of poems

w/ my canons reshuffled to shoot

I accommodate

somber hues

                traversed contours

                                & a single sentence

to

announce mangoes

                slant the sun                     

                                & sing in peace

in defense of the art of poetry

w/ my charlatan heart beating

I write

**

 I adore this girl.  I have no idea what she’s talking about but she’s brilliant! I hope she’ll write more of her exquisite verses and publish them soon.

In immediate support of her work, Augustus logged onto Amazon and wrote a favorable review for ‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’, the only one of her two books to be found on the online shopping site.  He knew himself enough to know that even if her writing had been terrible and un-inspired, he still would have given it five gold stars.  The hearts of the pensive and pure are employed by loyalty and fondness to do such things.

‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’ is a slim volume of exquisite poetry by Libby Nickle.

While I am not an avid reader of verse, her poetry captivated my imagination, my heart and my intellect all at the same time.

This collection covers a broad sweep of subjects, love, spirituality, sex, existence, the art of writing and the art of living creatively.  I confess, I don’t fully understand every poem with their cryptic undertones, inside admissions and personal angles but the writing is so fluid and beautiful and sometimes heartbreaking.  I found myself finishing one poem eagerly turning the page to devour the next.  I read the whole volume in one sitting and was sad when I reached the end and there were no more poems into which I could leap.  In turn, I read them over and over and each time, found something new and delightful in each verse.

‘Passion, Wit & Good Common Sense’ may be small in size but the vast scope of emotion and literary skill is astounding.  Libby Nickle has proved herself to be a splendid poet, fastidious with her words and generous with her spirit and her talent.

I highly recommend this book to those in search of literary enlightenment.

After he submitted the review he wondered if she would ever read it and in the event that she did see it, he prayed it would be on a day when she needed something positive.

Augustus was at the café earlier than usual the next morning.  To his delight, Libby was too, sitting at the piano.  She looked sad and unraveled, like she hadn’t had much rest.  He wished with all of his might that he could give her a hug, assure her everything would be ok but that was out of the question given the circumstances.

Joan Jett walked over to her friend at the Victorian upright with her nose in the newspaper, “Lib, that was a far out obit you wrote for your Ma. Even tooted your own horn a bit.  Way to go.”

Libby shrugged only half listening, “Wasn’t anything special.  I threw it together in a hurry, short and sweet.  I was disappointed in it myself.  I just didn’t have the time or the energy.”

Joan handed her the paper donning Esther’s smiling face, taking up three quarters of the page, “Well someone wrote a kick ass tribute.  Look.”

Libby’s expression went from mournful to confounded, her eyes pouring all over the page, “Did you do this?”

Joan leaned over Libby’s shoulder and looked with her, “Do I look like Shakespeare to you?  I can’t write my way out of a paper bag.” 

Libby read the homage out loud,

REMEMBERING ESTHER ELDRIDGE-NICKLE, SYMPHONY SWEETHEART

Esther Eldridge-Nickle, celebrated cellist, was Granville Royal Symphony Orchestra’s sweetheart.  More than most, she understood the tenderness, the urgency, the splendor and the authority of musical composition.  A flawless instrumentalist, her personality, renowned for her peasant-like earthiness and high artistic ideals, merged seamlessly with the music she made, the music she believed in.  Esther passed away this week at Granville Mercy Hospital after a brave battle with breast cancer, surrounded by those who loved her.

It is an easy task to paint an intimate, flawless and rounded portrait of Mrs. Eldridge-Nickle.  She was so well respected and admired by her peers and closely emulated by those she instructed.  She regarded music to be as vital as oxygen to live and instilled the same values her teachings.

After her studies at the Lawrence Conservatory of Music and establishing an illustrious career as an impeccable performer, she returned to the lecture hall.  She referred to herself not as a teacher but as an ‘artistic counselor’.  It was her opinion that she wasn’t there to teach music but rather escort those with malleable gifts in the proper direction.  “I believe very much in fostering the gifts of young budding talents.  I believe profoundly in their unbridled abilities and am pleased to be chosen to help navigate them into greatness where they’ll discover they can be lifted to exalted planes of excellence.  I don’t like to call myself a teacher.  You can’t teach someone heart or inspiration or instinct, the bare bones yes, the chords and notes and what-have-you, but you cannot teach someone greatness, they must employ that themselves.  I like to think of myself as an artistic tour guide.”

Esther was a world renowned cellist, senior lecturer in music, artistic counselor, an authority on Mozart and Tchaikovsky but she was also a wife and mother.  Her late husband, Carson Nickle, also a classically trained musician, met on tour in the late 1970’s married soon after and had a daughter, Libby.  While her parents enjoyed world class success with their music careers, Libby immersed herself in other creative endeavors, the world of poetry and window dressing.  Libby Nickle is a published poet and the 2010 winner of the Oscar Kenny Poetry Prize.  In an interview with Esther upon retiring from touring, just after Libby received her award she said this about her daughter, “Libby is a miracle, and have you read her poetry?  She has such a beautiful command of the English language.  She makes beautiful melodic music on paper.  I love that all of the music she’s heard throughout her lifetime has transformed into words for her and have fastened themselves into the printed page.  She’s a joy and I’m so proud of her.  The Oscar Kenny Poetry Prize is a prestigious award, most deserving, not because she’s my daughter but because she is an exquisite artist in her own right.”

Esther Haley Eldridge-Nickle was an avid quilter, she loved writing long handwritten letters and tending her abundant vegetable garden.  She was never without a serene smile on her face, always willing to lend a hand to others, appreciative of life.

If you would like to pay your respects, visitations are scheduled for Tuesday evening, 7pm to 9pm at the Granville Heights Funeral Home, funeral mass will be at Holy Family Catholic Church Wednesday morning at 9am, Father Maurice Purchase presiding.  Interment will follow in the parish cemetery.

The Nickel family would like to express their heartfelt gratitude to Dr. Katherine Hull for her exceptional attention and diligent dedication during Esther’s time of need.  A special thank you also goes out to the outstanding nursing staff of the Granville Mercy Palliative Care Unit for their kindness and care.

In lieu of flowers, you may make donations in the memory of Esther Haley Eldridge-Nickle to the Lawrence Conservatory of Music.”

As Libby read aloud, tears streamed down her cheeks.  And as she read, Augustus was paralyzed with fear.  After the last line she looked up at her friend, “Who … who wrote this?”

“I don’t know chicken butt.  When I called the paper, they weren’t sure who it was.  Associated press maybe.  Seems a little fishy to me.  Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.  I’m just … just flabbergasted.  It’s … beautiful.”

Augustus thought he might throw up, worried that she may have felt it was overstepping boundaries but his anxiety eased at her admission that the piece was beautiful.  To keep his name anonymous he used a pseudonym, Phil Harmonic.  The tribute was printed without an authoring credit.  He didn’t mind.  He wasn’t sure he’d get away with it but it went to press without question.

Joan piped up, “I still wonder who wrote it?  It was pretty rad.  Nice things were said, choked me up a little and I never cry.”

Libby replied in a soft sad voice, “I know, me too.  I’d like to say thank you.”

You’re welcome.

Libby sat at the Victorian upright, pecking softly at the keys, the newspaper with the photo of her mother’s joyful face looking up at her from the beautiful article anonymously written.  The tender sound of her favorite song filled the room.  Augustus immediately recognized it, ‘Open Arms’ by Journey.  Since discovering how much she loves it, he plays the power ballad several times a day, an act of solidarity and secret devotion.  Listening to the song that she holds so close to her heart made him feel like he was close to heart, the only way he ever could be.  As she ticked the ivories, Augustus filled up with tears and an overwhelming urge to sing at the top of his lungs, to her.  He wanted so desperately to go to her and tell her that to him, she was a miracle, the most beautiful thing in the entire history of human kind.  For the first time since he was twelve years old, he wanted to speak.  In all these years, Augustus had never met anyone who inspired him to attempt sound.  There was something marvelous about Libby that touched him in a place he didn’t know existed.  He knew his infirmity would ultimately be his demise but he didn’t expect Libby.  He didn’t expect a fair female to ever incapacitate his taciturn heart.  Something about her made him feel brave and although she belonged to another, she awakened a desire in him.  She stirred the desire to live, to be alive in the world instead of blending into the background.

Augustus rose out of his chair, palms sweating, heart pounding and approached Libby at the piano.  In one hand he had his notebook, his pencil in the other.  When he reached her Libby looked up at him, her slim fingers slowing across the piano until the music faded.  He took a deep breath and pursed his lips and attempted to speak but he started to hyperventilate.  Libby gently rested her hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him.  He managed to slow his breath down and try again but he stammered, “ … I … lu …”

Libby stood up in front of him and spoke quietly, “What are you trying to tell me?  It’s ok, take your time.”

Flustered, he tried again but failed miserably.  He opened his book and scribbled something down and showed her.

I love that song.

She smiled to him and nodded, “Me too.”

**

Phew!

Even though it’s the middle of the week, I am going out tonight.  I was invited to one of The Carleton’s anniversary shows by a new friend who loves writing and music.  We met because of the Jay Smith benefit and I look forward to stepping out tonight, expanding my world just a little bit and taking in some live music from bands I’ve never heard before. I mentioned to her the other day how special I believe it to be that a friendship could result from a sorrowful event.  I like to think that Jay’s goodness and his humanness is still working in the places he frequented and through the sounds he put into the universe.  I am sure I’ll regret staying up past my bed time tonight but it’ll be fun and I could use a little bit of it right now.

Happy Wednesday!

In propinquity,

Nic