Living Aloud 23 February 2008

After reading to my writing group last week, I got the message I most needed to hear: human hearts yearn for more than just sweet sounds. This one woke us all up so have a little listen & I hope you dig it too.

farewell.mp3

Farewell

I came to break up with my doctor, two years to the day since we met. My friends got houses, married, pregnant. I got cancer. Kicking its ass took nine months from my life. And convinced me to live it. Surgeons scooped lymph nodes like seeds from under my arm, taking my cancer away. I show the doctor the swollen hand souvenir they left behind. She suggests physical therapy, says, “Sometimes these signs shake us up, remind us to keep dreams alive.” I announce I’m moving to New York, to ride passion, write real and banter with beautiful boys. To bask in bustle, soar in stale subway air and evolve ever more. To find. The life. I want. I say I’m going in May, spring forward, hope not to fall back. She hands me a new oncologist’s name. “See him in six months,” she says, “Make sure you see him in six months.” Flat fingers circle my breasts, one slightly smaller than the other now. I breathe shallow, insides screaming “no lumps, no lumps, don’t find any fucking lumps.” She doesn’t. And I get dressed, one more hurdle cleared for take-off. I hug the doctor and wonder what it’ll be like to not know her. The doctor tells me to send a post-card then heads away. I call after her. “You want me to use your real name or an alias in my book?” Dr. Ellis turns, grins again, and says, “Oh, use my real name.”

Poet Tree Pixie 11 October 2007

The Urban Pixie’s poised to wax poetic this coming Saturday, 10/13/07, & I’d love it if you could make it. Rocking the mic at the Ear Inn again, I promise to debut new material & use bad language as per usual.

Thanks to my fab teacher, Jason, & his hubby, Michael, for making the magic happen!

Here’s the scoop:

Ear Inn

Saturday, 10/13/07, @ 3:00
326 Spring Street (west of Greenwich Street)
New York City
FREE

Subway: C/E to Spring Street; 1/9 to Canal Street; N/R to Prince Street

http://www.mbroder.com/ear_inn/10-oct07.htm

With love & sporting the sass,

Jennifer

buy bOObs now! 29 September 2007

It’s official: my writing partner & dear friend, Elisabeth Squires, a.k.a. “The Boob Lady,” has taken off on tour!

Her book, bOObs: A Guide to Your Girls, is available now through her website, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Borders & Portland’s own Powells. To kick things off, she started in Seattle at one of my old favorites, the Elliot Bay Book Company. I couldn’t be there myself but sure am happy Pixiesis showed up in my stead. Way to rack up (pun intended) big points!

bOObs: A Guide to Your Girls (Seal), is a humorous yet informative look at breast health, lingerie fitting, self-breast exams, breastfeeding, and much more. Having learned & laughed along with Elisabeth as she wrote, I highly recommend the book to anyone who has or loves boobs. It makes a great gift for girlfriends & is chalk full of titastic tips, many of which address issues near and dear to my heart. Look closely, as the Urban Pixie made it into the acknowledgments. How cool is that?

Mostly, I’m spending Saturday sporting one proud pair over here, amazed at all Elisabeth has accomplished in her journey to authordom. She’s proof positive (& gorgeous) that dreams can come true & a shining example of building it so they can come.

Be breastaular & buy bOObs now!!

Farewell 29 July 2007

Something told me to post this poem today, another extraordinary one spent loving my NYC life…

I came to break up with my doctor, two years to the day since we met. My friends got houses, married, pregnant. I got cancer. Kicking its ass took nine months from my life. And convinced me to live it. Surgeons scooped lymph nodes like seeds from under my arm, taking my cancer away. I show the doctor the swollen hand souvenir they left behind. She suggests physical therapy, says, “Sometimes these signs shake us up, remind us to keep dreams alive.” I announce I’m moving to New York, to ride passion, write real and banter with beautiful boys. To bask in bustle, soar in stale subway air and evolve ever more. To find. The life. I want. I say I’m going in May, spring forward, hope not to fall back. She hands me a new oncologist’s name. “See him in six months,” she says, “Make sure you see him in six months.” Flat fingers circle my breasts, one slightly smaller than the other now. I breathe shallow, insides screaming “no lumps, no lumps, don’t find any fucking lumps.” She doesn’t. And I get dressed, one more hurdle cleared for take-off. I hug the doctor and wonder what it’ll be like to not know her. The doctor tells me to send a post-card then heads away. I call after her. “You want me to use your real name or an alias in my book?” Dr. Ellis turns, grins again, and says, “Oh, use my real name.”

Hot Child in the City 10 July 2007

As I’m too toasty to type, here’s a poem to make you (& me) a little less sweaty:

Snow

Metal shovels scrape a city’s
sidewalks, toss salt rocks in my path.
Gray boots hit concrete, cold,
hard, yearning for the life tossed
in little loads, to the curb.

To Grandmother’s House We Go 12 June 2007

Up on the Farm

Grey gravel dust

powdered up in a puff.

Tires tore through truck tracks,

finding their way back

home away from

not-quite-home.

 

Purple pop sipped from bendy straws

that fall into tall glass bottles.

Lids peeled back

on chocolaty snack packs.

Pea pods picked

in the time of their prime.

Carrots pulled fresh

from the soil,

all that toil

worth whatever it takes

to grow Grandma’s farm taste.

 

On hay freshly bailed,

eight pig tails giggled,

a wagon wiggled,

behind the John Deere,

bright yellow,

grass green,

high as the corn

of summer.

 

Grey marbled mush

puddled up in thick bits.

Tires trudged through plow tracks,

finding their way back

home away from

not-quite-home.

 

Matched plaid pajamas

told tales of dream weddings

to sweet crushes,

Oh what blushes,

under quilts on bouncy beds.

Festive felt stockings

stuck with thumb tacks

into red burnt bricks,

cardboard cut-out,

fake fireplace mantle warmth.

On candy cane posts,

orange-glow torches

danced light across porches,

slightly slanted

calling Santa to come. Home.

SoHo Sunrise 9 June 2007

“Write as if you are dying,” said Anne Dillard. This quote came in the opening words at The Sun (http://www.thesunmagazine.org/) workshop I attended last weekend at SoHo’s Open Center (http://www.opencenter.org/). An independent, ad-free magazine, The Sun gives honest, illuminated writing, poetry & photography a place to shine. Sun contributors come from all walks of life in honesty, heartache & personal truth to connect in a human, fundamental way with others who may have felt something similar. The program’s official title was this: Into the Fire: The Alchemy of Personal Writing. Making the promise to take us to the places we most fear, for the words we most need, the weekend delivered.

In the first workshop I attended, author/poet Chris Bursk pulled us open by playing with pronouns. Chris gave us rubber duckies & other appropriate props throughout the retreat but more importantly, he showed up from his soul. & therefore so did we. Poems I’d been afraid of leapt easily to the page & out of my mouth as I shared, not at all scared, with the tribe around me. From Friday’s opening on, all of us were in unspoken agreement that we’d created a safe space to explore ourselves authentically – good, bad & oftentimes ugly. I’m polishing up a few pieces I started & shall share soon. The proof is in the poetry!

Later that day, I had the pleasure & privilege of meeting one-on-one with Sy Safransky, The Sun’s founder & Editor. In our free-flowing conversation, Sy & I talked about my work, life as the Urban Pixie & what it is I hope most to say. There was no pretension nor agenda, for Sy came as the wise, witty (in an understated way) person I imagine he always is. He looked like I pictured him, although not as many readers do, he confided in me. (I’ll leave an air of mystery here for the man & withhold the physical description. Suffice it to say, he’s so not fat). In a mere 15 minutes, Sy showed me something I’d known intuitively but been unable to see: The Pixie I’ve become, is me.

Now, having been through a life-altering ordeal several years ago & making self-awareness & improvement my full time job since, I knew that I’d veered off the path. I’d been depressed, despaired & quite frankly left myself for dead, both inside & out. Lucky (yes, I said lucky) for me, I got the mother of all wake-up calls & here I am. But what Sy saw when he looked at me & asked about my childhood was this: the Jennifer that got lost, was the Pixie part. Sporting short hair for much of my earlier life, I’d tried on other hair-do’s, outfits, personalities, approaches. But at the heart of it all, today’s me is the real deal. So here I am with biz cards, blog & pic to prove it.

All in all, I attended several powerful sessions, bonded with lots of lovely souls & written things raw & racy I’d been unable to unearth prior to the fire. I even wrote & read aloud a rap which, to my delight, was greeted with not only enthusiasm but encouragement to go on. Thanks, Mary J, for lighting the way for females to flow with their positive words in this world.” No more drama in my life…”

When I heard the words, ” Write as if you are dying,” Friday night, what I said to myself was this. “Remember, my dear, live as if you are dying.” Because, like it or not, we all are. Isn’t it better to feel the fire?

Here’s a sneaky-peek & link to The Sun. Subscribe now & you shall not be disappointed: http://www.thesunmagazine.org/

P.S. Thanks to Angela for organizing such a sensational event. In lieu of completing my official evaluation, I offer you the above.

On the Chuck Wagon 30 May 2007

I played the game again today. Setting out to walk somewhere in the city, fairly far away, knowing I could take any number of Pixie Path’s to get there, I let the traffic gods guide me. Sure, I have the way I generally go & the way that’s probably the most direct – filled with the fewest construction sites, vagabond vendors, tacky tourists (give that there Empire State building a wide, wide berth, matey) – & would result in a timely arrival at said destination. But, I find it much more fun to force myself to follow the cross walk signals in a slightly Seattle fashion but with the speed & determination of a native NYer. Even if I feel compelled to assert my GPS will another way, I say (hopefully inaudibly) that there must be “something down there” that I’m “supposed to see.” And let me tell you, there always is.

I’ll save one “sign, signs, everywhere signs” story for the next “Sacred Action Item,” for tonight, I must talk about Chuck. There’s usually something special for me at W. 31st & Broadway. Once & only once (& believe me, I’ve looked) there appeared an adorable African with whom I had the most innocent, 8th grade moment over the kebab cart. So shy was I that I lost him to the city streets. So moved was I that I penned a poem about it. & what the hell, maybe I’ll even post it for your entertainment. I do owe you a poem, I know. What kind of person puts that they’re a poet then fails to deliver. It’s not as if that claim to unfame boosts you in anyone’s book, is it, Jason?

Anyway, today I looked up as I rounded my magical W. 31st corner to see a huge sign from good old Charles Schwab, that’s “Chuck” to you & me, “Feel valued no matter what you’re worth.” In recent days, months, years, (lifetimes?), I’ve been working on not attaching the old ego & it’s evil twin, self-esteem, to others’ opinion of me. I try hard, too hard at times, to be perfect & somehow can’t quite shake the old Iowan inside that believe mistakes, misdemeanors, melodrama & even being mad are things we ______________s just don’t do.

But today I was feeling fairly good about myself on my own. And then mere moments before, I’d even gotten a gratis, spontaneous “nice outfit” from a man who seemed highly unlikely to notice and or care about female fashion selection. I’m chalking it up to my new over-sized, retro, pale green, $10 shades & the $5 bright yellow flip-flops I wear for my commute. (Yes, all shopping-freeze bets are OFF when guests hit town or I travel. It’s my favorite & most deadly loophole!) But, more likely than not the man on the street liked the look of my rack, right? It was completely & oh-so-appropriately covered (it’s a work day!) but finely flattered by the springy shirt I scored at the Salvation Army a few weeks ago if I do say so myself.

For more on this see the bOOb Lady’s piece from GMA today. Such the hot button indeed…

http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/OnCall/story?id=3221538&page=1

(Seamless seque or gratuitous chest chat?)

But back to my somewhat lost point. Oh yeah, so while I was already feeling oh-so-fine about myself today, Chuck’s reminder was a good one. We should all strive to be alive in our inherent value every day, from the inside out, regardless of outfit, hair-do, possible accounting entry error, lapse in good judgement of the unmentionable (who me?) kind or anything else that might make a person cringe in the rear-view mirror. I’ve heard it another way too. “You can be broke without being poor.” It’s entirely up to you.

That’s it for me as I’ve got some massive meditation to do tonight, complete with a wee bit of “cord cutting.” More on that one later…

Sleep tight & buck up with Chuck! Your stock is ALWAYS soaring!

p.s. one for the lost boy…

 

You were Z. and I was me, wrapped up

arm and sandwiching small talk between big

looks today, where west thirty-first meets Broadway.

Kebab-cart line moved too fast for us. Shy then

but now so brave from behind my screen, I see

your sweet smile and wonder which restaurant

you work in and why I went home without an answer.