HAPPY NEW YEAR

FROM SUGAR AND THE WOLF

Contemplation for the New Year

Contemplation takes what most of us do not have or will not give.

Time and attention!

It is long enough to engage all of your senses if you totally allow it. It takes your eyes, ears, interest, intellect away from all else.

Your body must stay in a small space as you sit at you pc. It is a unique experience. Don't pay attention to outside noises. Don't answer the phone.

It might turn out to be a love gift to yourself for the New Year.

You might finally find out the name of a painting that you saw many years ago but have foegotten.

Happy New Year-Here is to the beauty of women and the soothing effect we have on our universe. For without us-all ends!

Enjoy!

I Can’t Spell You Can't Make Me

It was the fourth grade. A day in early October. I remember we were making a list for my birthday party the day before and my sister laughed at me because I could not spell my friend’s name. I came home and as usual gave my mother my homework assignment.

These are the memories that stay with a kid forever.

She looked at it and then she looked at me. She had what I can now describe as a thoroughly perplexed look on her face. “Mommy,” I said, “ what’s the matter?” I felt fear in my throat and then in my stomach. She smiled gently and said, “What does it say honey?”

“What do you mean Mommy?”

She looked down at the paper on the kitchen table and attempted to stretch it with her left hand smoothing the wrinkles at the top and the right hand doing the same at the bottom. She blinked and smiled again then rose from the table looked out the window at the kids playing in the cement backyard and then turned to me, “Well, I really can't read it. You see, well, can you tell me what it says? Something about, well, does this say chapter?”

"Of course Mommy, it says chapter.”

“And does this say revolutionary?”

“Yes Mommy.”

Then, smiling brightly while caressing my shoulder she said, “Ok, now we have a start then!”

I spent my childhood daydreaming about a magical machine that would spell for me because I wanted to write stories and of course you can’t write stories if you can’t spell.

The world now has such a magical toy!



Fast forward to the present. I live with a dictionary by my computer and am rather fastidious when spelling even though I have a colorful ABC genie that lives in the upper right corner of my document . I am so obsessed that I look up words just for fun!

As in most cases, when you are engaged in an intimate relationship, you let your hair down. With me, implicit in that is not bothering to review my spelling. For the last four years you-know -who and I have shared thousands of emails, poetry, stories and because of my trust in said person and my assurance that said person understood my very being I believed that all was sacrosanct, and I let my defenses down.

On Dec 6th, in her last blog, http://theunfoldingenigma.blogspot.com/ she alluded to my zero spelling skills. I guess she still has a problem when I text her something like. “cal b4 wen u r hom. it mite b 2 late 4 me 2 gab.”

I am quite well versed in the machinations of the mind having practiced this art for many a year, yet, said womans' remark cut me to the very core. Suddenly, I find myself encumbered with fourth grade spelling woes:constantly making mistakes. My fingers are going for the wrong keys. Typing has never been my forte' either but this is ridiculous!

What a miserable vicious cycle !

Yet, the cats are somewhat culpable as they are always tramping across the keyboard!

I know what is going on. I say to myself, “now look Sugar you know how to spell and even if you do not you have a program that will do it for you.” Things got better until I found another way to sabotage myself.

Oh, the power of suggestion is a merciless trap.

The other day while reading one of my pieces I noticed that I had written that I was greatful for something. Greatful? I went back a couple of times because the damn thing just did not look right, yea right? Then I reviewed things I had written in the last few days and found faux pas such as, here for hear, there for their, now for know. Me the college professor!

I went wild and took out everything I had written or edited since the beginning of December. You guessed it, all the mistakes started after Dec 7 when Margo Moon alluded to said woman and the trouble she would be in for mocking my spelling skills.

I have recovered, no self-respecting shrink would allow herself to be victimized by her own impressionable brain and the arrogance of a partner who says women for woman because that is how they say it in South Africa!

I have gone back to my nonchalant whhay of speling . It is ok because she understands me no matter how I right. When I publish somethin I take a minute and hit my magic buttom which has yet to flail me.

There are too many important ings to tink about such as the creative thrust of a story or, riting it in the correct poison. Should you leave such and such an idea in ore take it ouch?

Life is so serious. Too much energee goz into twivia! I thought I wood leaf you with a few chuckles four the haliday sesson.



"My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places." A.A. Milne

"It's a damn poor mind that can think of only one way to spell a word!" -- Andrew Jackson

I have a spelling checker
It came with my PC
It plainly marks for my revue
Mistakes I cannot sea
I've run this piece threw it
I'm sure your please to no,
It's letter perfect in it's weigh
My checker tolled me sew

anonymous

Can you find yourself?

Create A day of Joy and Peace and Love
Put the Past Behind and Look to the Future

A leave taking

I am at my computer in the upstairs office. The light is off. I often write just by screen light. The room, which is about 14 by 17, is lined with bookcases, a couple of cat towers, printer, you know this kind of room.

There is a window to my back right, I face the door in proper Feng Shui positioning, and there is a window to my far right across the room. I am actually in the cubby of two bookcases one at my left shoulder against which I occasionally lean and the other, a few feet behind me. A quick push and I am jettisoned to the back shelves.

I feel safe. The rolodex, thesaurus, dictionary and reference books are on the left. My favorites are behind me: women’s issues, death and dying, I Ching, myths, religions, world history and a shelf of endless vitamin bottles through which I rummage on Sunday morning while organizing the weeks supply of pseudo health and vitality.

The curtains are drawn apart at the far right window. A tall votive candle stands in the middle of the windowsill. Obviously, I don’t want to set the house on fire. Nevertheless, I do want to leave it. It is a St. Joseph candle, the patron of carpenters. There is a belief that if you bury a statue of St. Joseph head down in the ground that a house will sell immediately.

We know that nothing is selling here on Long Island. I need all the help I can get to sell this place in which I have lived since 1972 but, I will not risk the indignation of St. Joe by putting him head down in the frozen earth of my front yard. Personally, it would not be my choice. Therefore, it is a candle bearing his image which burns against the windowpane creating it's own aura. I believe that he is pleased with me for attempting to preserve his dignity.

He is facing south out to the frozen tundra. Whenever I walk into the room or glimpse over to the infinitesimal flame I say, "the perfect buyer comes to me now under grace in a perfect way." That’s how I approach things. Hey, it takes all kinds.

It is 9 PM, quite windy, 20 degrees. Outside the trees are knocking against the window, and the streetlamps, candle light and lights of the homes across the street are all in concert flickering into the crystals of ice, which coat the window. It has snowed and rained for a couple of days and the roads have been rather iffy. There has been great discontent. I had to break into my car yesterday when it was 15 degrees. Ah! Winter!

I have the heat down like everyone else-we are all still attempting to negotiate our fuel contracts from nearly 5 dollars a gallon down to something respectable like 2 bucks. I am chilly so I go downstairs for a bourbon.

The house is old and squeaks and creaks. There are four, five and six story oaks around this house. One hovers directly over the roof above this room. As I hear the tinkle of the glistening bourbon over the ice the swish of the wind around the entire house makes me quake with trepidation. Every so often, I look at the walls around me and shout out loud, "I fear that I will die in this house." At times, I believe that I am married to this structure and that one night in a bazaar secret ceremony of which I was not privy, it grew limbs and entwined its branches into the cerebral hemispheres of my brain as well as the ventricles of my heart.

I will only leave it when I am supine, ashen, and without breath.

One does not take this wind lightly. When six story trees are stirred by such high winds, well what can I say-it is impressive. The sound is such that you can easily envision Father Death whipping his cloak off with a bullfighter’s flare, ensconcing you in it, thus forcing you to collapse into his irresistible grasp.

The girl cat is sitting at my feet as I sip my Jack Daniel’s. Now and again she gets up, extends her paws up on my knees and yawns to signify that it is time for a treat. She gets too many treats when I ‘m in this room.

She is slight and wiry, and though remote, is simultaneously needy.

This has been bummer of a year financially and rocky with a couple of relationships. I have not been writing, I purport to be a writer. Joke! Everyone I know is in crisis. Thankfully, we have not had a major terrorist event here. In addition, maybe our new president will be the key to positive change as he promised. At least the present administration will be put to rest.

I have mortal decisions to make. I am a senior citizen, there I’ve said it. It scares the hell out of me. Yet, when I speak to the dead at night I call them mommy and daddy.

Truth be told!

The bourbon feels good coursing through me. I can feel the vessels and muscles of my circulatory system open wide rushing the delivery of blood to my head. Almost immediately I feel my face flush then my chest and arms warm, placing me in a soothing state, my eyes want to close and I begin to drift away. "Just put yourself down for a respite." I leave the computer headed for the good night.

The votive candle has finally gone out. Three days.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

The tree of life is bound.

Even the tree of life is bound. Though it desperately reaches beyond the barrier, apparently so thin and harmless, it is still confined.

One would ask, "A tree is a mighty thing indeed. Why can it not just leap over the fence and drop it's seedlings on the other side?"

It has. With this pouring forth of a blanket of new consciousness, it is rendered barren.

Yet, the sign of woman is evidently drawn.

The seedlings will take with strong root.

The moon waits in it's indifference. The colors of movement, the world, the mind, and the imagination take their places in the orderly scheme of life.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

St. Ninian's Cave, Scotland

Etty Hillesum

"I do believe it is possible to create, even without ever writing a word or painting a picture, by simply molding one's inner life. And that too is a deed."

Etty Hillesum, less famous than her contemporary, Anne Frank, lived a short life of great courage. She was born in 1914 in the Netherlands to a Dutch father and a Russian mother. She studied law, Slavic languages, and psychology. Hungry for knowledge, she cut down on food in order to buy books. She went voluntarily to the Westerbork camp to help fellow Jews interned by the Nazis. Her letters detail her experiences; her more meditative diary focuses on issues of faith. She died at Auschwitz in 1943.

DESIDERATA

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive God to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.


Found in old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore; Dated 1693

Gee, I thought it was so nice of a certain seadyke promising to keep an eye out for the captain's lass! Didn't you?

"The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision.”

Maimonides

Sunday Offering

the first snow

One AM, I could not sleep. I miss her. She loves snow but we have never been able to conjure up a snowfall when she comes to America.


I walked through the house. The boy cat, a huge hulking black tuxedo was flopped over the edge of the bed, his head and arms in a diving pose. His little sister had managed to wrap herself up in a jacket that I had left on the back of a chair. She had tumbled it down and rolled into it. She is a rather intelligent meow.


These cats have eschewed the laps and bellies of even my kids, yet, they find her more than acceptable. Animals know!

I used to absolutely love snow. My former husband took great delight is lighting up a cigar and spending hours shoveling the stuff with our kids helping on occasion.

For the last 20 years I have been dealing with the snow. Whenever I hear of a coming snow I automatically rise several times in the night and shovel a couple of inches at a time. Some people think that I am nuts. Yet, if you think about it it is the easier way to do it. And, I actually do enjoy it.

There is a sense of wonder being alone in the snow in the middle of the night. My street is countrified with giant oaks and lovely homes. The street lights cast a gentle light that exhibits the beauty. Each home becomes a christmas card.

I am aware of the sound of the shovel and just graze the snow leaving a thin layer thus protecting those who are in slumber.

As the years have passed so has my enthusiasm for shoveling. However, one can never come to discount the beauty of the first encounter, it is almost a shame to shovel it and disrupt the first blanketing.

I wish she were here to look at the wonder with me. We are like two peas in a pod. When we are together the minutes, hours, days pass in simplicity.

She is across the pond. Our reunion is thought to be a long way off . The disquietude I suffer is unsettling, there are more obstacles this time.

Some part of me is missing. I have a great deal to be grateful for and though I make an effort to remember that.............

I do what must be done, the way it must be done, when it must be done

We do not understand:

Joy.....until we face sorrow
Faith.....until it is tested
Peace....until faced with conflict
Trust....until we are betrayed
Love....until it is lost
Hope...until confronted with doubts

-Unknown


Every experience adds to our life. We may be aware of each of the above many times in the course of a day.
Yet, we are not overcome. We must endure.

Though some pain, be it physical or emotional, be a prominent factor in our life, no choice exists but to give it our best shot.

To luxuriate in any pain is the sign of a marked person: one marked for cultivating a mountain of the misery, that, though he may start at the bottom to sort things out and dispose of, he will continue to reap.

Life is beautiful. We must become aware of all its beauty.

It is helpful to understand that there is joy in overcoming any obstacle that is thrown in our path. Also, it is helpful to refrain from taking things personally.

Life is an equal opportunity giver and taker of both joy and sorrow.

To ask "why me?" is not the proper question. Instead ask, "Why not me!", as we are all of the same ilk.

If some sorrow has taken hold of us such as missing a loved one, well, we must just go on.

Make a list. Do what must be done the way it must be done, when it must be done.

Feel the joy in the simple accomplishment of crossing it off when achieved.

We must recognize our inner beauty, our ability to be alone, our creativity, and ability to laugh in the face of adversity.



Don't add to the heavy stuff. Lighten up a bit. Lets look on the bright side.

There is almost always another day. And if there isn't?

Well then, our troubles are really over!

They are so mean to me!

“We teach people how to treat us.” - Phillip C. McGraw



Bewildered?

Once they hurt you, shame on them.

Second time, shame on you.

Don't let others put you down.

Don't allow others to put you in a position where you must justify your actions, words and ESPECIALLY your existence!

Insecure people like to test others to see how far they can go. If someone gets you to defend yourself in any way, it gives them a feeling of superiority.

Asking them, "why are you saying that me?" put the onus on them. This will give them a bit of a surprise as their intent was to put YOU on the spot!

Where do they get off with their superior attitude?

It came from you in previous exchanges when you allowed such disrespect.

There is no one to change but yourself!

Once you clarify what you are willing to accept and not willing to accept, the exchanges become healthy.

Though we must accept the responsibility for allowing others to previously disrespect us we must also take the responsibility to establish a change to respectful mutuality.

Only we can do that, no one else can.

Think, "I am present, self-respecting, worthy and self-loving."

Everyone will sense it and especially become attuned after you prove it by some simple statement, such as, "I am uncomfortable with what you have just said".

Take your power back!

Don't ever give it away again!

follow your bliss today

"Follow your bliss and the universe will open doors where there were only walls."

Joseph Campbell

listen to the whisperings of the gods

"None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone."

Ralph Waldo Emerson


We all have moments in our lives, turning points. A memory flash, a chance meeting, an aha! moment, which might be so illusive that we almost have to physically grasp after it.

We must align ourselves with that essence within us whether it is a god, Buddha, bliss, the universe, etc. From this communion emanates our unique powers of self-reliance and our distinctive gifts, which are myriad.

These are the moments in which we create our own destiny. In the acknowledgment and reconciliation of this illumination, we are in awe and spontaneously become driven to undertake life whether it is a new venture or the slaying of an old dragon.

December is the beginning of outer coldness when the trees shed their leaves and make themselves bare to the elements. They have proven their greatness by their ability to repeatedly triumph.

We too can prove our strength. We all have different arenas in life in which we must prevail. Nevertheless, prevail we must.

Perhaps it is time to return to our inner self, close off for a few moments as a flower is embraced by its petals at night and listen to the whisperings of the gods.



Surrounded by the universe he immerses, naked, into self-abandonment. What might he find within himself? Leaving the scrolls of world knowledge, sense of time and structure behind: with this act, he becomes the child again, innocent and educable, able to partake of the all Seeing Eye and hear what must be heard.

Unless he is given to folly!

apart again

She is home safe: Happy as a lark after being embraced by children and grandchildren.

The pond stands. It is not still, yet, it is mighty in it's power to keep us apart.

Today, I clean, make things orderly. I'll put away the scrabble board which remained on the table in constant use. The battles we waged! The laughter! The flight to the dictionary to disapprove of a Latin word which Webster ultimately allowed.

I slept soundly.

We don't know when we will be together again. It was a month of bliss, humor, ordinary life, shopping. Hugging..........

I feel renewed, yet, I look around me.........there is too much space.

alone again

She thinks upon
the memory
of the warm
enclosure

the chasm
of
perpetual
regeneration

the velvet
mantled
tree
of life

though
possessed of
honored years
she remains
the neophyte

resigned to
the task
of waiting
for transition

yet
waiting
is not death
but a time
of self-renewal

Copyright © m.m. sugar 2008

tempus fugit-the last night together

The one looks up
listens to the sound
of the other

all sounds
sounds that are silent
sounds that echo
to and beyond
the hills
to the far side

she is prone
speared
by the flame
of awareness

the other
in matchless poise
who sees
without eyes
and makes music
without strokes
while receiving
all from
the magic spring
of life

the totem
stands guard
to the west
the place
from whence
might the
enemies come

they do not exist
only to harm
these two

they exist
in nature
time
space
the breaking down
of flesh
the robber
of speech
the stiller of breath

yet
the totem
guards
as the distance
is great
the journey
treacherous
but hope
is held
for these two
on this
their last night

Copyright © m.m.sugar 2008

Happy Thanksgiving to All

Happy Birthday Mom

Am sure that you are haunting all the old fabric and jewelry stores.

Strong, powerful, determined, regal, intelligent, proud, reticent, creative.........

Not enough words, rather never the right words.........

A force of nature........

Love you, miss you.

Am at the age of wisdom to also say......sorry

Your loving daughter.........

miss m

three weeks and one day with reef

this is the night of stillness

bodies naked
sticky
heat formerly forgotten
has returned
holding one
without permission
in an airless
embrace
no movement
no flutter of papers
at the window desk
candles
alive with flame
stand still
they
cast no shadows
on the walls
the trees
at the doors edge
stand drawn
simply
renditions
of natures hand
animals
sprawled
eyes open
without seeing
taking in and releasing
sans the movement
of lungs
tis a night of stillness

copyright © m.m. sugar 2006

after three weeks with reef

Please Help

Do you have friends or relatives in Sacramento?

How much freedom do we really have here on the east coast?

Don't want to rock the boat?

Maybe it's time?

simply good manners

My mother was quite concerned about good manners.

As a result, my sister and I grew up occasionally perusing the Emily Post Book of Etiquette.

No elbows on the table.

Patting you mouth with your napkin as opposed to wiping it. It helps to keep your lipstick in place.

No chipped nail polish.

A nod and a slight smile if not familiar with the artist or composer who is the current topic of conversation.

Standing tall, no slouched shoulders.

Never refuse a host’s offer.

Never waste food but leave just a drop on your dish.

Therefore, when in unknown territory I would ask myself, “What would my mother do?"

She remained sharp as a tack but in her last year of 87, her habits changed a bit, she became, let us say, a little eccentric.

Each week I would take her shopping and out to lunch.

My sister and I simultaneously shared that mom was acting strangely.

While in the restaurant, with sparkling eyes, she would cheerfully take extra napkins and put them in her bag. My sister revealed that mom was taking sugar packets and she did not even drink coffee!

When she started shoveling napkins, sugar and mayo packs into her pocketbook I would simply sit and smile and bring up a subject of interest to sway her attention from the new found hobby in which she took such glee. It became a game. The name of the game was: how to preserve mom’s dignity whilst preserving the inventory of the diner in which we were currently eating.

I knew that mom would turn a blind eye if a friend exhibited such behavior.

Simply good manners!

This Sunday my partner and I went out for breakfast. I have one cup of coffee each day with a little rice dream. However, it was such a celebratory morning that I ordered coffee with Half-and-Half.

When the waiter brought the coffee there was only one tiny creamer cup, you know, the kind that hardly holds a teaspoon? I asked for another.

When I returned from the ladies’ room, he had left three more on the table. Gee, what a waste, I thought, knowing that our state forbids anything to be returned to the kitchen if it had been served at the table.

The coffee was so good that I ordered another. However, I had neglected to tell him that I had enough Half-and-Half. It was a busy morning and the server was on the fly so now I was stuck with eight creamers!

We had a great meal and were about to leave. Yet, I felt guilty about wasting the creamers.

We had been talking about mom and her senior antics. I asked my partner, “What do you think mom would do?”

We caught each other's eye and simultaneously laughed.

I took the creamers, dumped them in my pocketbook, and am enjoying them in my coffee each morning along with a good laugh and memories of mom.

just because

Will the real Bill O'Reilly please stand up?

Last night Bill O'Reilly from Fox news reported that Scott Eckern had been forced to resign from the California Musical Theatre. In addition, he said that if gay marriage is allowed to be revisited that the law would be forced to address polygamy and the legitimization of marijuana as though they were issues that should be addressed in the same breath.

There are many ways to address the enemy camp. In this case, this man is an institution unto himself. He wields a great deal of power, simply by the spoken word. Though he thinks that he attempts to be fair, his prejudice is so deep that his contempt is visible on his face.

He is condescending and disrespectful. We on the east coast in New York cannot help but wonder what will occur when our chance for equality comes around.

We have many open churches here that serve the gay community. However, my concern is that once our chance comes up that O'Reilly and other staunch conservatives will put their noses to the task and implement the ringing of the death knoll for our cause.

Our Governor has said that New York will recognize all marriages from other states.

However, I want to know that when we get our right to marry that our community will have a full knowledge of O'Reilly's power and the forked tongue with which he speaks.

He continually espouses the rights of gays yet manages to be snide and falsely tolerant of our rights.

I am interested in any activity that is occurring in New York re this issue and would appreciate hearing from any and all with ideas.

The prevailing thought is that homosexuality is a CHOICE!

This, of course, means that we are all masochistic as well as certifiably insane to have chosen such a difficult life.

Last night he called homosexuality an action. Implicit in this is conscious thought contingent upon choice.

Now I am mad. Like a dog!

Veteran's Day

How important it is for us to recognize and celebrate our heroes and she-roes!

~Maya Angelou

together again

We have probably spent many lifetimes together.

We both agree on old Russia and Colonial times.

So here we are back together again.

We are both rather mouthy and quite bossy: Cut out of the same stone in many ways and totally dissimilar in others.

She arrived on October 30. For an hour and a half we stood thirty feet apart, back to back.

When we finally greeted each other she said that there must have been some reason. "Perhaps we missed an accident, something like that."

It didn't matter.

We have been together since. We do not do much. There is the cooking, we like to cook for each other, and the cleaning, she likes it, I don't.

Then there is all the wonderful stuff like silence and holding and a smile of recognition that we are sleeping in the same bed. And, the renewal of passion that is only real when we are together.

I am always amazed that she is actually in the house with me.

When she is across the pond, I envision her doing the things I presently witness like her sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night for a smoke, petting the cats, and pacing while that wonderful brain of hers is churning.

We flow so calmly together. We fit in so many beautiful ways!

There is nothing comparable to being with her in the simple day to day.

Songs My Mother Taught Me

Last night I saw a program about the great opera singers of the world. It stirred memories that had not been acknowledged in many years.

My mother had a magnificent voice. She was a true diva. She had the flare, voice, beauty, and temperament of a diva. She was tall 5’7 and svelte with rich black curly hair, black eyes and porcelain skin. However, she was also possessed by an inability to break from an oppressive home life in which she was forced to give her wages as a seamstress to her parents. It was from her I inherited my gift.

At three, she was adopted from the Foundling Home in New York City. Unfortunately, when her new parents, who had dressed her in a white satin dress and a big white bow, brought her back to Ohio she was used as a slave child. They were immigrants from Italy.

Italy is a place of sun, warmth, and supposedly love. The thought of these people farming this child out for such work and her suffering even greater abuses at home brings me an unfathomable despair even now. I learned of this misery only upon the birth of my first child when mom thought that I was mature enough to hear of such things.

When her parents prevented her from receiving singing lessons from a well-known teacher, she settled for the boy next door, the ditch digger. However, only after she lied about a nonexistent pregnancy, which allowed for such a marriage in the thirties, was she allowed to marry my father.

Seldom, did she sing for others. Nevertheless, we went to the Metropolitan Opera often. We ate very poorly, but we went to the Met. Though the three of us sat in the highest tier of the old Met, just envision the stage being the size of a small matchbox, my sister, mother and I were always dressed in lace and satin, as she had become a seamstress of the finest caliber.

I spent many hours being dragged in tow traveling the Bronx from fabric store to fabric store looking for the perfect pieces for outfits for the next opera season.

When she was not sewing, she was at a local school for the blind where she worked in the laundry. I remember watching the churning washing machines after school while sitting on a stool in a corner. It was actually a child’s chair.

In retrospect, I realize that it was the only place she could sit in that room.

Even as a child I wondered how the loud plop plop of those huge machines affected one whose soul was anchored in melody.

I do not know how she did it, but she managed to teach some of the blind nuns how to mend their cloths. It was the early fifties and credentials were not as important as they are today. Ultimately, she was allowed to teach the children, branched out to all areas of activities of daily living, and ended up on the President’s Council for the Blind in Washington taking part in writing the original curriculum for home economics for blind children.

However, she never did what was dearest to her heart. She never sang. Instead, she cried. She cried when I sang, when my sister sang, when Beverly Sill’s sang and when Joan Sutherland sang.

I don’t sing anymore. Unlike my mother I was allowed to attend Julliard. I have had my time on the stage. Not long, successful on a small scale, but I at least had my chance.

Strangely, I never had a great desire to sing. However, that is another story. I had some fun, some recognition, and some challenges. Like anything in life, things loose importance. Friends ask me to sing. Ego prevents the sharing. The notes are not as powerful, the breath is weak. I am lazy and have found other ways of expression. In truth, some of the words to arias I learned as a child have tiptoed out of memory.

I have a good and happy life. However, last night I cried: For myself, my mother, lost dreams, relief from the responsibility of natural gifts. I was alone-it was a low cry-steady-with the measured breath of the past. It was almost as if it was another person. It came out of my mouth but emanated in my heart. It was my mother.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar






Songs my mother taught me!

Songs my mother taught me
In the days long vanish'd
Seldom from her eyelids
Were the teardrops banish'd

Now I teach my children
Each melodious measure
oft the tears are flowing
oft they flow from my mem'ry treasure

ANTONIN DVORAK

I like a man who knows what he is up against!

"Woman is at once the serpent, the apple-and the bellyache."

H.L. Mencken

"I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man."

G. Meredith

"Are you visiting women? Do not forget your whip!"

F. Nietzsche

Prejudice is like charity!

The KKK has returned to Long Island. No great conspiracy is suspected. However, how can we be sure that the person who is leaving KKK flyers on windshields is a lone bigot without a support system? We cannot be sure.

Hundreds of flyers have been found in several parking lots: perhaps just a hand full of bigots. Does it matter?

“Join the Klan and save our land” is the message. ”We of the United Northern & Southern Knights of the Ku Klux Klan are unapologetically committed to the interest and values of the white race!”

Veterans of the Confederacy established the Klan in 1865 to guarantee white Southern supremacy.

Long Island evidenced it’s particular brand of bigotry in the early 20’s when the white robed bigots burned crosses in villages throughout the counties. This movement was overt. It is estimated that close to 25,000 men and women were members in good standing attending meetings and even parades without shame.

African –Americans, Catholics, Jews and foreign-born Americans were all targeted.

Long Island was a place of equal opportunity discrimination.

There has been relative calm since then with the occasional bigot who can be found in line at the movies, at the coffee shop or gas station.

So what is happening? Fear of a black president is thought to be the driving force behind this resurgence.

Catholics and Jews are relatively safe these days though those from Mexico are certainly experiencing the sting of discrimination as our job ratio has proportionately grown in their favor.

However, African- Americans have continued to be burdened with the biggest slice of the prejudice pie.


This country was founded on the premise of equality.


Where did the baby boomers learn their prejudice? From whence came the newest generation's prejudice?

It’s like charity folks-it begins at home!

Fight For Freedom

An old war is being fought in California. It is about Civil Rights. This is supposedly the most liberal and conscious country in the world. Yet, not every person has equal rights. Lack of knowledge, old belief systems, religion, .........

We are not there yet. Fear is a great enemy. People fear things that they do not understand and thus it is branded as bad/unacceptable.

Freedom is a given in this country. You are not supposed to have you fight for it. Yet, the battle goes on for the sick, poor, elderly, gays, women, and all minorities.

It starts in our own small corner. It starts with acts of kindness and attempted acts of understanding. It starts with accepting people as they are. Unfortunately, not everyone is capable of such magnanimous purity of spirit.

Those of us who do understand can attempt to be a bit more understanding while we are being teachers, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce. Nevertheless, we must simultaneously fight the good fight!

For “The superior virtue is not to be free but to fight for freedom”

Nikos Kazantzakis

copy cat

This is how I felt before I read and watched The Wishful Writer's last blog.







This is how I felt after reading, and watching The Wishful Writer's last blog.

Change Happens?

Yesterday it was hot and muggy. The windows were wide open and my cats sat on the windowsills basking in the sun. Today I attended a seminar wearing two shirts, a turtle neck and a jacket of significant weight.

So what's going on? It's change, one of the things we can depend on when it comes to weather.

Alas, some things never change, they are a given, such as death and taxes and the extant prejudice against we who love others of the same sex.

I know that I am preaching to the choir, so accept my apologies. I am just so fed up. It's the old choice argument.

Why do people say that we choose this lifestyle? Surely they don't believe it, no one is that stupid, are they?

Today, at the university, I sat with two women in their forties who shared that they were returning to college. During the break, a mere 20 minutes while I was desperately scoffing down my lunch, I witnessed this conversation.

"What do you think?"
"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure"
"He's good looking, he could probably get a good looking girl, that is if he bothered to try!"
"Well you know, they don't even bother. I think that at some point at least, well don't you think they get tired of the experimentation?

One turned to me. "What do you think?" she asked.
"What? I 'm sorry I guessed I missed it."
"The lecturer. Do you think he's gay?"
"Probably." I said with a broad smile. "We gay folk make the best lecturers. I always get excellent evals from my own students. We have a flare for it I guess."

I am hoping that I have at least one of them as a student in the Spring semester!

Sugar, sugar, everywhere!

Today I found the ultimate in debauchery, bubblegum flavored toothpaste!

Candy really is my favorite poison. I bet you thought that it was the other thing. I can eat candy just about any time anywhere. Not just any candy however, I have my favorites and sometimes it is by season. Take Halloween for instance. Though Halloween lends itself to diversity, I do favor candy corn. You can find most any candy on the shelves in October except one, my most beloved candy of all, Nicco's, I love you hearts that come out for Valentine’s Day. Pure unadulterated sugaaarrrrrah!

At Easter, it’s the marshmallow peeps, and raspberry chocolate covered eggs and at Christmas, it’s the entire box of chocolates that people bring instead of fruitcake. Thank the goddess.

When I was a kid I used to steal candy from my sister’s Halloween and Easter baskets and I was accused of biting the head off her chocolate Santa’s at Christmas. I never confessed to that!

With both my pregnancies came threats of hospitalization. I ate, now I guess you will doubt this, at least three candy bars at night and sometimes many more. Scouts honor! I could not help myself. Just think of it, one Baby Ruth then a Fifth Avenue bar then a Milky Way followed by a Three Musketeers. Love those Musketeers!

My husband had to hide the stuff. There were threats of passing out, diabetes, harming the baby. Nothing worked. I had a stash everywhere in the house. Food, sex, socialization, writing and even reading baby books were passé. I had a mission, not purposeful but unconquerable, to consume as much as the white stuff I could in the shortest amount of time.

To this day, I have been known to go out in heavy rains at midnight if I really want a piece of candy. By the way, I don’t keep it in the house. The temptation is too great.

I am an equal opportunity sugar consumer. Pie is last on the list; Key Lime is ok as long as it is smothered in whip cream. There are two preferable ice creams, pistachio and butter crunch both of which must be heavily laden with caramel syrup and marshmallow whip and whipped cream. I can be quite appreciative of the right cake; tiramisu has been the pick for at least ten years.

I kind of rotate through the year and right now, it is red Twizzlers, Ju Ju Bes and Reisens.

I have met people who have no tolerance for the stuff. They abhor the taste of sweetness on the tongue. What is the matter with these people?




Sugar is addictive. Comfort food? I know the score, the symptoms. Before I got this addiction under control, I would walk around in a daze. Sugar is just like cocaine and opium. They are all natural substances, cocaine is the refined product of cocoa leaves, and opium comes from poppies and sugar from the cane.

Distinct from the others like alcohol etc., if you are savvy enough you can enjoy a bit of a sugar without going off the deep end. I have a rule: two a day. Whatever they are is just fine as it still beats the days when I was chemically compelled to consume an entire bag of miniature tootsie rolls and a bag of chuckles at one sitting.

No, I am not kidding!

Sugar, like any other addiction is an escape! Sometimes I will go for days without any simply to prove that I can. Remember what Benjamin Franklin said!

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar



“Thou hadst better eat salt with the Philosophers of Greece, than sugar with the Courtiers of Italy.”

Choice

It’s Africa hot. I know Africa. I have slept during the night in 30-degree weather and begged for air and shade by the next noon. Wearing layers of clothing, as instructed, I peeled each layer off in frenzied delirium as I marked the passing of every morning hour.

Ah! Sweltering here on Long Island in the middle of October? The sun has come and gone throughout the day. It is dreary and virtually menacing. There is no breeze so the ginger tinged leaves hesitate, waiting for permission to descend to the steamy ground. The majestic oaks still secreted under the sprigs are anxious to flaunt their bark, their armor, ready for the winter confrontation. Everything awaits the natural progression of life.

I need the sun. When the winter comes, anything is bearable as long as there is sun.

The east coast seldom disappoints me. Most days are favored with bright light. During the coldest record breaking snowstorms the sun has brilliantly shown, indifferent to the other forces of nature and the expectations of mortals. Such sovereignty!

It is different where she lives. In Scotland, the rain comes on most days of the year, blessing the earth, keeping it fertile and green for the sheep and cows that graze across the road from our home.

The days are short. When I fly in it is dark with the sunrise coming two hours after landing. As we drive over hilltops on the west, it is a roller coaster ride along the sea, first steeply up and falling quickly into the cavernous valleys. The surf crashes briskly against the rocks and then again slides down into the oblivion of the Firth of Clyde.

In winter, dark cloaks the town by 5 pm. One is suddenly embraced by this nightfall prompting thoughts of mortality and extinction. It is a primitive place with a church whose dead have rested there for hundreds of years. Evenings are spent with a gas stove rendering one grateful as the hardships of past inhabitants are considered.

Two worlds, one bright, the other either coming out of the darkness or into it.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

"The difficulty in life is the choice."
George A. Moore



"Between two stools one sits on the ground."
Francois Rabelais


“I’ll have that one, please”
H.B. Tree

When love comes late Part II

Love came to me late in life or perhaps I finally came to love.

We both wish we had known each other in the bud of youth. She has a picture of me in my early twenties with long flowing hair. She has confessed that that is with whom she makes love to on occasion. I have a picture of her with a wide-open face revealing the totality of her character through pervasive blue eyes.

Yet, we know each other in the glow of maturity, motherhood, warmth, compassion and passion of pure glee mixed in with the frantic grasp of those drowning at the side of the Titanic, so we know love. It is richness like that of the gems that come from her native South Africa and broadness like that of the ocean standing like a forbidding parent between us.

We have been on different wavelengths since we first spoke. Different: cultures, humor, spiritual belief systems, I could fill up the page.

It has been a difficult time. Yet, from the beginning, I had a sense of her. At first, there was observation, which slowly brought me into an unconscious meeting of her half way. I assert unconscious because I thought that I was still on the observation deck.

She is quite the charmer. Those of you who read her, well need I say more?

Though she calls me the impossible American, I tend to give people space. However, she is as demanding as she is a smoker, unrelenting, constant, resolute; gives no space “just do as I say sweetheart”.

I am called impossible because I say, “yeah right?”

Somehow, in the last year the observation deck became a vague memory and I quickly, but I must admit wholeheartedly, slipped into conscious awareness that I was in love.

Scary, I had been so well protected. Armed, I had worn the psychological chastity belt of the Crusades my entire adult life. Intimacy was not my forte. Playing with impossible relationships always followed by the predictable lamentations was my custom.

We are finally on the same page. Upon rising, I check in, her day is well into the afternoon. We speak many times during the day: Common things, life things, just to exchange, nothing of great import.

Yet, it is a connection. We speak of holding each other on a rainy night. The simplicity is undeniable and incomprehensible.

She will be on my side of the Atlantic in two weeks. There will be twenty-nine days of tenderness, hilarity, ardor, arguments, and then the trip back to the airport.

One wonders what side of the pond each one of us will die upon!

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

When love comes late

"Love's like the measles-all the worse when it comes late in life."


Douglas Jerrold

An Essay on Criticism

"Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or judging ill"

Alexander Pope

Take a second look!

We have lived across the street from each other for over 30 years. Several years ago, her husband had a stroke. Her six kids have been quite attentive to their father’s needs. They take turns keeping him in their homes for weeks at a time. They take him to the doctor, physical therapy and they have all changed their families eating habits to accommodate his health needs.

Yet, they have forgotten about their mother. I began to see changes in her about a year after his stroke. At first, I thought that it was stress. A woman who took her appearance seriously was wearing slippers to the store. Our past exchanges were seldom lengthy as she was always in a rush with such a huge family. However, during the last two years she has ignored my hellos, walking past me as though she didn’t know me, left in the middle of her own sentence, or left without answering my question about her husband’s health.

I became somewhat suspicious. Last week I spoke with her eldest daughter who accused her mother of jealousy and anger due to the families concern about their father. “Mom has become rude. I cannot believe it. She doesn’t return calls. She hasn’t come to appointments. She’s even claimed that she’s unaware that she promised she would take Dad for the day or baby sit with one of the preschoolers. We all angry with her, for goodness sake we are taking care of Dad to make it easier for her. She disappears for an entire day and she’s not keeping the house in order. My god she’s rebelling like a teenager!”

I asked a few questions. My neighbor's dismissiveness of me was simply coincidental with her husband’s illness. Her entire family was so focused on their father that they had been overlooking the fact that their mom was suffering some form of dementia.

Twenty days and counting.

This relationship, this insanity has been going on and off for four years. Long distance relationships are a horror except when you are together. The only time we get along is when we are cohabiting-wait-isn’t that the way it is supposed to be?

We flow, we are yin and yang, soft and hard, male and female, master and what? We share some characteristics of the roles we are, not play. Within our individual persona, there is a deep river of character, an intransigence that bows to no other’s laws whether written or assumed.

I have always known my essence. A formidable, yet feminine woman, my Italian heritage and theatre background supported my eccentricities allowing for their acceptance as my norm. As a young woman, I pranced around in spiked heels, and depending on the occasion, smooth white plumps, in the most devious manner, climbed their way out of whatever taffeta or silk I was wearing at the time.

Men fell at my feet.

She was the antithesis. The boy is extant- has always been there-will die there. Yet, it was only upon our meeting did he step out, however cautiously, at my behest. Then there was a proclamation.

This will be the first time we are actually together on our anniversary. I am virtually childlike in enthusiasm yet calculatingly mature but corrupt in my plans. I have planned this and that and THAT and THIS!

We resemble dolphins, gliding through the water together, close, no space for bubbles. Where we are is an ocean of silent exclusivity. The world goes on without us; we have little need of it. Wordless, neither of us can aptly describe our togetherness. If you have loved, you have experienced its simplicity. Not physical passion: the clutching of hearts, so engaged, rendering them unavailable to acknowledge even the existence of others.

Twenty days to go. There will undoubtedly be a couple of brawls before then, even a breakup. Neither of us has ever been accused of being possessed of calm temperament or mental stability.

Yet, we do have a rule, no matter what, no matter what side of the pond, when the plane lands, somebody’s waiting.

The child is gone!

The following is a repeat of an earlier blog(different blog, those who know me)and the following are comments after the event.

Repeat after me, “I will never never never,” now finish the sentence with a deep breath and a loud shout, “let my adult child come home”. Now beat your chest repeatedly with your fists!

The Chinese say, “Whenever there is something to be said or done say and do the kind thing.”

No! Stop! That most assuredly does not apply to grown children. Do you know why? Because no matter how old they are.

They remain children. They act like children, they whine, leave lights on, leave their wet towel s hung over the door after a shower, leave coffee cups all over the house and leave oatmeal bowls that are so old that the spoon has permanently cemented to the bottom of the dish thus qualifying it as a piece of modern art. They leave their opened attaché cases sprawled on the dining room table, a no-no since they were ten when school bags turned into the size of carry on luggage. They park their cars behind you even after taking a blood oath to refrain from committing such an atrocity. They disavow using the last piece of tofu even after being informed that it would constitute your last meal of the day and the worst of all is the look of incredulity on their faces when they are confronted!

And, still no vegetables!

Well after five months of cohabiting-the child is gone!
Virtually nothing is in the way. There are no dishes in the sink and the avocado I was watching with an expert eye strangely remains in place. No towels are sprawled on the bathroom tile and the dining room table suffers only an occasional paw print on the newly polish wood.

I held my breath the day the child moved out. Bookcases careened down the stairs of the almost century old house leaving track marks and a few chips on the thick swirls of white paint that brightened the way. The journalist's multipurpose desk, a half moon measuring a good fourteen feet has left a vacancy in my formerly crowded upper office. There are no wires, except my paltry few, to trip over. I had moved my writer's wares and professorial junk into a corner of the room.

How did I do that? I never had enough room in the upper office. Now it is a sports stadium without a game.

I miss the unconscious bursts into my room and the commandeering of my 10 magnification mirror that holds center stage on my vanity.

The force to be reckoned with will occasionally pop in to sit endlessly at that mirror lamenting the tortures of TV journalism on the skin. I will hear what is going on in the studio-but now second hand. While the child was here I overheard calls from all over the world at all times of the day and night.

Margo Moon had said that she was sure I would miss the child when gone. I said no.

So I can be wrong sometimes!

And then there is love

This was our third or fourth transatlantic call. Thus far our rapport was incredible. We were speaking about our marriages, kids, hobbies, dislikes, health, homes, music, books, language, fidelity and then about the pets we have had.

I told her about Felix sleeping on my bed all these years. There was a brief silence on the other side of the Atlantic and then a jaunty. "Ah, you sleep with a dead cat? Surely you are joking!"

"Well, he is safely ensconced in his little white kitten who is rather gray by now. But, yes. I was so distressed at his passing that it took me nine years before I was able to adopt the twins. So we all sleep together now. I introduced them when I brought the twins home. I told them that this was their eldest brother and they had to give him respect."

Silence!

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Why I sleep with a dead cat-the end

In the next fifteen years Felix and I went through graduate school, divorce, major family battles, kids off to college, the dawn of brilliant physical and mental health, psychotherapy and a couple of unsuccessful love affairs (with the male type).

Through it all, Felix slept with me, all he ever wanted to do was lie next to his mommy. He slept on my feet or on top of my head. We read together and listened to the downpour of rain on the flat roof of my office. We played with the wire of my cell phone, I flipped to him and he flipped it back and then tried to eat the plug. I ate the cheese on the pizza and he ate the crust. I rubbed his belly and he slept on mine.

Upon my return from a brief vacation in September 94, I observed the little fellow slowing down. Well he was 15 so I guessed it was normal. However, he did not want to go out! “What’s the matter with you?” I asked him repeatedly. “Don’t you want to go out and play? Don’t you want to go out and bully some unsuspecting little feral creature?" I was angry! How dare he change his ways! How dare he change my life, my dependency, my security!

No response!

At his October appointment, I was told that he was in kidney failure. We tried medicine. Nothing worked. His decline was rapid. “Put him down now,” said the Vet.

I didn't listen, I never listen.

I watched him sit day after day while I attempted to live and work in the world. I came home hoping that he would be better. However, he would just sit. After a while I moved him to the window as he could no longer jump. Then he stopped eating; he sat there: a ghost. I begged him to get better, “just a little better please.” Then my plea changed to, “die, please die. I don’t want to have to do this. I don't know how to do this.”

I was a coward. He no longer looked my way. He was like a clay figure, where I put him; he stayed, whether on his side or on his hunches. His eyes stared ahead. He had left long ago. I needed one more night with him.

I held him, sang to him, put ice chips on his lips, and wiped his eyes with cool wet cotton swabs. I combed him and begged forgiveness, not for what would occur the next day, but for having failed to have acted earlier. We sat on our bed all night.

And I promised that he would sleep there forever.

The next morning I placed him in his padded bed on the passenger seat of the car. Tearfully, I said. “ You and mommy are going for a ride, so hold on.” On the way, I told him of all the wonderful sights. The gas stations and stores and, the motorcycles parked outside of local delis and when we got closer to that place, the wonderful expanse of land on either side of the road; the visible mirages up ahead which looked cool on this day. As we approached our destination, I felt as though I was entering another zone of existence.

After searching for weeks I found a little white stuffed kitten. I placed his ashes, wrapped in foil and plastic with his significant dates in the belly of the stuffed animal. It's almost fifteen years later: Felix still sleeps with me.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Why I sleep with a dead cat-continued

The rest was a blur. We had a barbecue. The kids toasted marshmallows. I loved to see the sparks of burnt offerings flit into the air and extinguish into nothingness. Each time a spark began to die, I followed it until it was carried by the wind, even into the blindness of nightfall. I know I tried breathing in the sweetness of the cool air but it was contaminated by the smoke emanating from the cigar languidly hanging from his fingers.

We got the kids into bed after the usual battle to get them to brush their teeth and settled in front of the TV. I alternately smiled and nodded my head and rhythmically commented to prove my presence-to myself.

Zeitgeist! I knew I was not alone. I was a member of the Stepford Club: unwilling, but finally cognizant!

The next morning I opened the side door to feel the sun on my face. The kids were off to their last school day and he was off to work. I knew that the kitten would be somewhere for me to discover. It was a little girls ballerina shoebox and there he lie in a minute bundle smaller than I recalled from the previous day.

When I decided to name him after my dad, I researched it’s origin. I had not known that Felix was Latin for happy or fortunate. Then I remembered a phrase from my Latin studies at the girls’ academy. Fortuna sequatur, let fortune follow.

It was then that I designated tiny Felix as my lodestar.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Why I sleep with a dead cat-To Be Continued

Just love meows! I sleep with two breathing creatures and one who has been in the "other" world since Nov 4, 1994. I have written about it in one of my books. However, it bears repeating-well-just because.

His name was Felix. He was named after my deceased father. He sauntered. He was the neighborhood tough guy. Yet, I was allowed to rub his belly. He knew his mommy. The kids would dare their friends, unbeknownst to me of course, to rub his belly. Just imagine the hell that that caused me!

One day in 1979 I lay in a deep depression. I had everything a girl could ask for, a great husband, wonderful kids and a lovely home. I was a hypochondriacal mess who at one point firmly believed that I had contracted typhoid fever. Along with that, the muscles in my legs noticeably danced and I somehow, overnight had developed deformed arthritic fingers.

Let's just say I was a little self-referential. What I was was fucking bored out of my mind, out of love, never had been, and working real hard at keeping my husband, a good but exceedingly boring man, the head of the family in the best christian tradition.

May the christian south forgive me!

Came a knock at the door. "Lo, the dawn cometh!" A scrawny kid stood shaking at the door holding an equally scrawny kitten.

"My, my mother's gonna kill it and if my mother doesn't, my father's gonna kill my mother!" he breathlessly screeched.

I was so upset that I forgot about my arthritic fingers and grabbed the little boy. "Are you OK?" I asked. He gave me this incredulous look.

"Yea!" he said. "They're gonna kill the cat not me!"

Well I was gonna kill the little bastard-fucking big time-for scaring the shit out of me. "Please, please will you take him? Everybody says you feed all the animals. That's why they call you the cat lady."

"What?" I hushed in an almost soundless delirium. "They call me what?"

"Yea, didn't you know? That's why I knew you would take him."

"I'm not taking any cat little boy. Are you OK? Are you afraid that your father is going to hurt you in some way?"

Repeated look of incredulity!

"Lady," he said with the right corner of his mouth skewed up and his eyes squinting in fear, while attempting to liberate himself from my claws. "Can I please go now?"

His body fell away from my hold. As I looked first up the block and then down, I did not say a word. I was not breathing. He shook his head, turned and ran down the path. The kitten's head was visibly bobbing from side to side. The sun was dimming. It was a June night. My heart had stopped. The kids were playing in front of the house. The knots in my fingers were systematically unwinding before my eyes. A disembodied spirit, I walked into the den. My husband was sitting in his favorite chair puffing on a cigar with his left hand while he was beginning to conduct music with a glass of bourbon in his right hand. He was listening to the pianissimo lamentation of Beethoven's Sonata Quasi Fantasia. He was listening to my life.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Spit out that candy!

Love is a pain in the ass. Erudite n'est-ce pas? Who cares. There is so much to do: Stay healthy, pay bills, take care of friends who need an ear. Today I bought a 69 cent loaf of bread. I didn't even know you could find something that cheap. I am highly educated, taught at a high level, own my own home and am practically destitute.

And then there is love.

The school called today. "Want to teach a couple of courses in the spring?" No! I don't want to fucking teach in the spring. I want to sit at the beach and read and write and live in a fantasy land. I want to eat as much as I want without getting on the frigging scale in the morning. I want to fill up my car without driving to a particular station. Yet, if I get those courses I will be grateful. As well off as I am. And I am not! I am one of the nouveau poor!

And then there is love.

Love is sweet-observe blog title please. But, love can kill you. Be careful. Stay away. Are you sure that you want that little tidbit? Are you sure that you want to give up those restful nights, those freedom graced moments when you look around and ala Scarlet O'Hara say "I'll think about it in the morning", when you get in the car in your sweats and go to the drive through and order onion rings, when you ...........

And then there is love.

When, even at this age, BTW, if I tell you my age you won't read me anymore. You are not supposed to be in such a STATE re love at my age. You are also not supposed to fucking curse! When, at the age of 50 I informed my mother that the woman I was visiting with that day was gay, my mother, quite an astute lady said, "Oh, you always did anything you wanted to do anyway!"

Not true. That's only when I really started. That's when I started sleeping with women and started to sleep with my dead cat. Some people think one is worse than the other. I am cool with both. WTF!

So there is love. Oh! my dear just the tip of the iceberg to be sure! Moi? Winsome as a lark!


"We are born crying, live complaining, and die disappointed."

Thomas Fuller

Acrimonious?
Moi?
Nay!
Winsome! Says I!

Make it a good one guys. No one can do it for you.
and as Charles Schultz said

"Happiness is a warm puppy"

or did he say

"meowmeow"

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar