Vulnerabilities...

I read mostly fiction as a steady diet. I read into the wee hours of the morning, or while I should be writing. While I indulge in this reading spree to research factual characteristics for my fictional characters, an important realization was taking place, even fictional characters are vulnerable, and for me, it’s the essence behind writing my novel.

I mused about this concept while I read, walked, pulled weeds, and cleaned house. I kept thinking about the idea of vulnerability how it applied to my life, my relationships, and my sorrows. I cannot speak for your vulnerabilities, but I’ve been ripped off, lied to, slandered, gossiped about, slapped, falsely accused and had my truths not believed. I’ve had my heart broken, my pride stomped on, witnessed unforgivable acts, and heard words that hurt so much I wish they didn’t keep replaying in my mind—but they did and still do. In all these moments, some tear soaked, some life defining, but all of them character building moments…I have felt vulnerable.

I believe when a person feels scared, and alone, and overwhelmed, and pissed off, when the sting of unfairness sinks its teeth in, bites deep and makes you miserable, it makes for a great story. We don’t—well let me clarify that—I don’t, read fiction to follow the perfect lives of perfect people who float through blissful days filled with sunshine and baby bunnies. Instead, I/we want to wallow in a character’s misery and struggles, to plunge into his or her emotional depths, to experience the doubts, worries, and pains of someone else to lessen my own vulnerabilities.

Doing everyday tasks and when I write, memories of my childhood vulnerabilities would strike with another vivid snapshot. One of the first was down in our basement, which was set up as our family room. It’s where we all watched television, of the black and white variety. It was a dark, stormy Saturday afternoon; my brother had a friend over and we watched The House on Haunted Hill. Out went the lights—naturally, the only way to watch that type of movie—I thought it was big stuff to be watching a scary movie with my older brother. But the boys decided to tease me and as a joke, for the duration of the movie they grabbed me from behind, screeching and imitating the witch. I sat there terrified, unable to move, with my heart beating out of my chest. For years, I envisioned, whenever I walked into a dark room, a bony claw would clamp down on my arm. Because of many more incidents like this, it’s no wonder Halloween was never a favorite holiday.

In our childhood, we also first meet real life bad guys. These cruel lessons come in the form of a classroom bully, a sadistic cousin (yes, I had one of the worst), a teacher who has it in for you, (I had a couple of those too), or just a creepy stranger. At an early age, we learn distrust and unease, and because life holds dangers, we discover that it takes resilience and courage to navigate through our days; sometimes doing things, we’re not very proud of. These are the type of incidents that make up the heart of tantalizing fiction. And, these are the type of memories I touch on when I write. We all can relate to vulnerable characters in precarious situations, because we’re well acquainted with our own fears and feelings of vulnerability.

Peace everyone...

Everything...but nothing at all...

The old man absorbed with alcohol huddles under the overpass trying to keep warm in the frigid night. I know he was absorbed with the drink because as we approached him you could smell the stagnant odor of wine mixed with the exhaust fumes from the cars overhead. His body occupies a space with its own boundaries, separate from others and alone with what’s stirring inside of him.

You could see his breath as we walked towards him. Shallow inhalation with long pauses between each exhalation not wanting any more cold air to invade his body, the outside temperatures were bad enough.
We found out that his name was Jim and he was hoping to make it to Naples, Florida before the first of the year. We asked if he had family there and he said, “No, I heard there is a community near the beach.” Jim had a strong New Jersey accent and mentioned this was just a layover until he got on his feet again.

Jim was withdrawn from the rest of the homeless “community” and appeared to be undergoing a painful inner process, a decaying and destruction of an old way of being. He didn’t volunteer anything about himself and we didn’t ask. We told him of the various shelters nearby and he was resistant in accepting any help, from anyone. We asked if he was hungry and offered him some food and a few personal grooming commodities, then poured him a cup of hot chocolate and gave him a blanket. That was the last time we saw him, in December 2010.

Today was the first day it was cool enough in months to open the windows here in South Carolina. It was good to smell the fresh air. Soon the nights will be colder and staying warm will be harder for those on the streets. Thoughts of Jim filled my mind. I wondered how he was doing when I saw several of the homeless waiting, for maybe their only hot meal in a couple days at one of the many missions in our area.

I may have crossed paths many times and looked into the eyes of some, whom I’m sure walked a better path of life a few years ago. The Homeless population across the country is nearly epidemic and is not only in states with warmer climates. While many think these are just "bums" who drink and use drugs, it is a hard life or misfortune that has led them to this. They have lost everything and have once led normal lives, living in normal homes and many even have children. A bout of bad luck has forced many to live on the street with no one to help. With the times becoming harder for many people due to the housing mortgage crisis and the bad economy there may soon be many more people one paycheck away from being forced to be without a home.

I don’t know what the answer is or how it can be turned around. We cannot turn our backs and pretend we don’t see them…the men, the women, and the children of the streets, many who were our neighbors. But I do know, generosity and kindness is always appreciated...

Peace...

Another Vivid Snapshot...

I was going to start organizing a collection of poems I wrote as a teenager. I was looking for one particular one. It was an assignment for, of all classes, the Glee Club. Our Glee Club wasn’t anything like the modern Glee Club featured on prime time television. No, a stocky young woman who wore dated dresses and very little makeup taught our class. She had very rosy cheeks, a warm welcoming smile, and she cared about her students. Back in 1969, it wasn’t all about showmanship; we wore choir robes (in our school colors of emerald green and white), we stood very still, we were focused, and we sang. Period. Today, I don’t remember if it was her first year teaching at the high school I attended, only because, it happened to be my first year at a new school too.

The reason I was looking for this particular poem is because it was the first poem I read that evoked physical emotion as I read it. I barely could finish the last few lines. In between, the black mascara streaking down my face and trying to get a grip on my runny nose, I looked up to see tears welling up in several of the other girl’s eyes, including my instructor’s. It was a lengthily poem with two voices, one of a son, the other was his mother. It was written in letter form, the gist of the poem goes like this…the son joins the service, Viet Nam was the senseless war going on, the son asked his mother if…I lost a leg/legs…if I lost an arm/arms…her reply was, “I will always love you.” The poem ended with the loss of the son’s life and the mother’s mournful words.

If I hadn’t lost someone I loved, and another I cared for, to the meaningless and pointless Viet Nam War, maybe it wouldn’t have affected me so much and read the poem without a hitch. On the other hand, I was always terrified about being in front of the class…no, I’m sure the reason was the latter. I never did find the poem and I don’t know why I felt like I needed to find it today; I haven’t thought about it in years. But, the vivid snapshot of that memory was with me today, I only wanted to validate it.

Each, and every time I sit down to write, I discover something new about myself, and about others. Some days, I get off track like I did today. The story I am writing features a character that came back from Nam and hurt someone he loves horrifically, it triggered the memory of my choir class being in the school library…the nervous me standing in front of the class behind a podium, my sweaty, shaking hands holding my handwritten poem, all eyes upon me.

My mind works like this all the time. It gets me from sunrise to sunset every day. The unconscious part of me knows more about me than the conscious mind will ever admit. Writing for me, is like dreaming, then, I start thinking. What if I suddenly saw my life from a different perspective? What if I had a real glimpse of the face behind the mask? What if I really saw the one I may have forgotten, the one I have lost, or the one that made me afraid? Would I still like me?

Writing has become an adventure into the unknown, like opening Pandora’s Box. It stirs up old forgotten memories, sometimes making me feel anxious or exposed. Other memories, the pleasant ones, the snapshots of wonderful moments, those are the ones I sometime carry through my written words. Something important lies hidden—something that matters inside that my pen must unleash—something that will be revealed, on another day…

Peace...