Rebecca's Life Prompts

In the Back Seat

2009-06-05T05:55:00.000-07:00

In the back seat, a lot can happen. I can take crackers from the baby and no one can stop me. I can touch my little sister last and taunt her as I squish my body against the car door. And because her arms are short and her hands are small, she can't reach me over the baby seat and I win. I only have to brush a touch on her shirt sleeve or the hem of her jumper. She doesn't even have to feel it, but if she sees me do it and I stake claim to the touch, I prevail.

It all happens in the backseat. Buckled in. Car seat between us. Baby crying because I stole his box of animal crackers. Everything's going my way. I've won the touch game. I've been fed. And then, suddenly, the car screeches to a stop because my mother has had enough. Enough of the baby crying, my sister whining and me snickering. So she stops. I hear metal twist as her door flies open. She charges to my side of the car and whips open the door. She grabs my right arm and yanks. My neck catches in the shoulder strap and I begin to choke. I spit out monkey and elephant parts, the evidence.

My mother yells. My sister laughs. The baby tips his head. Cracker crumbs shoot out my nose and still, my mother's trying to drag me out of the car. Finally, horns honk - the grip eases. The light turns green. I begin to regain consciousness and cough up an unchewed donkey head. My mother slams my door and I barely escape an amputation.

I wipe my face and try to regain some of my birth order dignity. I turn to my siblings expecting some kind of triumphant gloat but they are still. My sister faces forward, hands folded in her lap. The baby reaches out and pats my shoulder. And for the rest of the ride home from the grocery store, there's only silence from the back seat.

Madness as a Descent

2009-05-30T17:53:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking madness is a slow process like going down teeny tiny stairs in really high heels. Some people get really good at it because they've had lots of free time to descend to it. Pick it up. Work it in their hands. Mold the madness to perfection. Anyone moving into madness too quickly is bound to mess it up and just thought of as weird - not mad- which sounds much better. Plays out in other people's minds as something that can be forgiven. "She's mad, you know." As if there's nothing that can be done about it and she should not be pitied or ridiculed.

Madness is eccentric and interesting.

Weird is something people ignore or avoid.

Don't send party invitations to the weird ones. But the ones who are mad- they're the reason to have the party. No one's ever sure when the mad one will appear or what clothes she'll be modeling. The mad ones give people something to discuss. The weird ones to easily dismissed.

Makes me want to try out the madness, but I'm not that fond of parties and my clothes need some pizazz. They are not really my clothes anymore. People have given me so many different shirts and skirts and pants and dresses, I have no style of my own. Not to say these clothes are unfashionable or hideous to wear. These clothes have kept me from being arrested for indecent exposure, I've never had frost bite or a sunburn, but they are not me. I would not chose these clothes from a sale rack or a yard sale. Too many browns. Not enough purple or flow around my ankles. I don't want to appear ungrateful, but I want my own style back so I bagged them up and sent them away.

So I ordered a blue skirt and a purple skirt and a fairy skirt and a dress with suns and moons all over it. I have to pull up the edges of these clothes when I walk up and down stairs but my shoes are flat or my feet are bare - just to keep the madness away a little longer.

Existential Angst

2009-05-27T19:19:00.000-07:00

When was the moment I stopped believing in endless possibilities? What was I doing and who was I talking to? How was I dressed and were my teeth brushed? Was I driving through a blur of weeping while a song pounded tears? Did I miss my chance at the possibilities? The ones that seemed endless. I'm living the dreams of others. My dreams...buried beneath my sunflowers under gravel and I can't find my shovel because I never put my tools away. I wouldn't even if I had a tool shed. I never put the vacuum away either but that's easier to find. Sometimes I shove it into the corner of the living room as opposed to the middle.

The Disposal of Draperies

2009-05-27T18:21:00.000-07:00

Draperies, for whatever reason, became a defining moment in my adult life. When I moved into my gray house sixteen years ago, beige draperies hung in every room which made the exterior gray appear exotic.

The draperies weighed me down. Their thick, pleatedness trapped dust. Their hooks never stayed attached even though the manufacturers were nice enough to give them each their own little cubby. Light barely penetrated even when the draperies were opened.

So I disposed of my draperies. Right after I washed them, in cold water, and they shrunk. I felt I now had an excuse to rid myself of them and be free from their oppressive nature. My friends feared for my safety without draperies to protect my privacy.

"Your neighbors will be able to see you walk around your house naked."

"The UPS driver will see you dancing in your living room."

"Passers by will know you never put your vacuum away."

When I told my mother i intended to eliminate draperies from my life, she said, "What next? You'll have your phone disconnected?"

I invited my family and friends to the bonfire of my draperies. We drank beer and shared drapery lore. Everyone had a story: small fires erupting from an overturned candle, holes in walls from a child using the drapes as a swing, astronomical dry cleaning bills.

As I gathered the ashes of my draperies a few days later, I came to a deeper understanding of myself. I couldn't live in a world of neutral colors. i needed bold prints off the color wheel chart to surround my life.

So I bought thin tapestries to match the house I painted purple. Orange splashes against a blue background. A red peace sign atop lavender swirls. A green faced sun. I hung them over bamboo poles and tied the ends in knots. I never untie the knots so my tapestries never close me in.

I have lots of privacy. My neighbors all have draperies.

Where are they going?

2009-04-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

Where are they going?These geese above my head. I hear them at night and run out to catch sight of their flight. I heard them early this year and wondered what they were doing here so soon. I ran to look for them but they weren't around. They'd tricked me those geese of winter. Had I dreamt the whole thing?

Where are they going and who are they taking with them? If it's true that geese mate for life, I probably wouldn't be a goose in my next life if being divorced twice has anything to do with the factors of reincarnation. And, if geese do mate for life- which may or may not be true and since I don't watch the Animal Planet or have a background in animal science- they may not mate for life at all- but on the premise that they do- why do I see odd numbers in their flying V's? A goose widow or renegade?

Where do they land when these married and some singles fly over my head? Do they land in the rice fields a few miles from my home? Or do they have little geese condos in between the rice? Do they know to stay away from the wildlife refuge positioned next to the private hunting club because even though I think geese aren't huntable, ducks around here are and someone in a blind could mistake a goose for a duck and shoot one down. Maybe that answers my question about the flying V's.

But what I really want to know is where do the geese go when winter ends? Do Canadian geese ever decide to live in Washington?